#i thought of more tags i can tack onto this

[fifty-ten]

ten years ago, three intrepid explorers set out to an unknown planet to retrieve fruit seeds to cultivate on their starving planet...

[d3arapril]

ᡣ𐭩 about time | p.b

part of the invisible string series but can be read as a standalone fic; get up to date here.

paige bueckers x reader word count: 3.9k warnings/tags: 18+ content ahead, one bed trope, friends to lurrverrs, swearing, paige the eater, confessions, paige is down BAD, fingering (r!receiving), tribbing requests welcome and reblogs & feedback appreciated! :*

Paige was a lot of things to you.

A best friend, a teammate, a person to laugh with, a shoulder to cry on. She was probably also the love of your life.

You’d known for the past five years that it was more than friendship for you—how you’d look for her in every room, and how she’d always look for you. That invisible string between you two always seemed to pull you together.

Paige had texted you to ask if you were still planning on coming to camp, to which you swiftly replied with a yes. She mentioned that the two of you would be sharing a bed, a detail that didn't bother you in the slightest. The thought of it filled you with a sense of eager anticipation. Sharing a bed with Paige wasn't a new experience whatsoever, but lately, something had shifted between you.

Every time your eyes met, there was a lingering connection that felt stronger than ever before. Whenever you were around each other, it was as though you were both gradually becoming aware of each other's unspoken feelings bubbling up to the surface.

Now it’s 9 p.m. and you’re in Azzi’s spare room, bag slung over your shoulder as you stare at the single bed you and Paige are supposed to share. The room is small, the kind of room you'd treat more like a storage cupboard than an actual bedroom. The white walls are littered with blue tack stains and faint outlines of long-removed posters, likely from a younger Azzi. A singular desk sits against the wall to the right of you, matching wooden chair tucked neatly underneath it.

The single bed is question is pushed against the left wall, foot of the bed a couple of inches from the small window, cream curtains framing it nicely. The mattress is covered in crisp white sheets that you don't doubt Azzi washed and ironed before you both arrived. Always the good host.

“It’s...” Paige starts from beside you, glancing from you to the bed. “Cozy, I guess?”

“No kidding,” you scoff, pulling out the chair by the desk and dropping your bag onto it. You bend down to undo your laces, “We’re not going to sleep, and we’ll suffer the consequences at Azzi’s camp tomorrow.”

Paige laughs, her smooth legs brushing past you as she sits on the edge of the bed, the white sheets soft against her thighs. “If it bothers you that much, I can sleep on the c—”

“No!” The word bursts out of you, more keen than you intended. Focused on kicking off your shoes, you miss the small, knowing smile tugging at Paige’s lips. She knows you’d never let her do that.

“It’ll be fine. We’ll make it work.”

If making it work meant draping your entire left side over Paige while she was squished against the wall, then sure, it worked out fine. The warmth of her body against yours was almost too much to handle. She didn’t seem to mind, not that she ever would.

“Can I ask you something?” Paige’s voice cuts through the silence, the only light in the room coming from the small desk lamp on the desk across the room, orange light filling the room just enough for you to make out the features on Paige's face you've grown so fond of.

“You just did,” you reply, fingers tapping a random rhythm on your stomach to distract yourself from the feeling of her heartbeat against your bicep.

You can almost hear her roll her eyes as she ungracefully manoeuvres onto her side, propping her head up with an arm. “You’re not funny.”

Part of you wants to turn and tell her that your love for her is all-consuming, but the other part of you knows you need to sleep. You opt for the latter.

“What are we doing?” Paige opts for the former.

You frown, still lying flat on your back, breath hitching in your throat. “What?”

“C’mon, you know what.”

You turn to face her, mirroring her position. She casts a glance at your form covered by the white duvet. Both her gaze and proximity put you on edge, your knees knocking together underneath the covers as you get comfortable on your left side.

You’ve been this close before, several times, but it’s never felt like this—like there’s an electric current flowing between you, ready to spark if you get any closer.

She studies your lips, then meets your eyes. “We’ve known each other for how long?”

“Seven years, maybe?” Your voice is barely a whisper.

“And you think I can’t read you like a book?” She’s smiling now, that stupid look on her face you’ve seen one too many times.

You roll your eyes, avoiding her gaze and looking down at the now wrinkled sheets. Warm fingertips press against your chin, tipping your head up so Paige can look you in the eyes.

“When can we stop faking this?” Your eyes widen at her question, bottom lip pulled between your teeth. “How much longer do we have to pretend we don’t feel”—she gestures between you, hand slicing through the small space separating you—“this?”

A smile cracks across your face, a breathy laugh escaping you. Her fingertips slide across your face until your cheek rests in her palm. Her thumb brushes gently across the apple of your cheek, bringing heat to your face despite the cool air in the room.

“Paige,” you breathe out, eyes fluttering closed as you lean into her touch. “We shouldn’t do this now.”

“You don’t want to talk about it?” Her head tilts as if to say, Really?

“Yeah, but ideally not in Azzi’s spare room?” You laugh, trying to lighten the mood. She pulls her hand away and flops onto her back, but before you can react, she tugs you with her and you land across her chest with your chin resting awkwardly in her armpit. The swell of her breasts against yours is all you can feel and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to calm your nerves.

“I think you do want to talk about it,” she says, looking down at you now, chin tucked into her neck as she stares at your unmoving form on her chest. “You’re just chicken.”

That gets a reaction from you. You turn your head to her, scowling. “You know I’m not chicken.”

“Prove it.”

Before you can overthink it, your body reacts instinctively. You shift on top of her until you’re straddling her hips, your face inches from hers, noses practically touching. The heat radiating from her skin envelops you, your breaths mingling.

“Oh, hello,” she teases, nose scrunching.

“Just kiss me,” you breathe out, tone desperate. “Please.”

Paige pauses, heart skipping in her chest. "I've been tryna hear you say that for so long."

You swallow hard, hand that was holding you up lifting from beside her head to push back the blonde strands across her face. It all feels too intimate too quickly, yet you crave more.

"Wish I said it sooner," your voice trembles as you speak.

Without wasting any more time, Paige leans up and presses her lips against yours. She kisses you with a purpose, head tilting and bottom lip dragging against yours like she'd been practicing for this exact moment. When her tongue prods at your bottom lip, you welcome it, deepening the kiss. You bring a hand up to rest on the crown of her head, fingernails lightly scratching at her scalp.

Paige’s hands find home on your hips, squeezing gently. When you experimentally pull at her roots, she whines in the back of her throat, fingers pressing deeper into your skin.

You both stay like that for a while, lost in each other as you messily kiss, tongues and teeth clashing. Paige pulls back first to catch her breath, a delicate string of saliva connecting you. She darts her tongue out to lick it away, panting into the cool air of the room. The sight sends a shiver down your spine.

“Knew you’d be good,” she says to herself more than anything, cheeks flushed. “Will you let me do something?”

You’re struggling to catch your breath, chest heaving as your hands flatten across her own to push yourself upright.

“Whatever you want, please.”

Her hands slide down your hips to the waistband of your pajama shorts, toying with the blue frills. “Cute,” she teases as she tugs them down, impatient as always.

You place a hand on the cool wall to help keep your balance as you ungracefully shuffle your shorts down and off your legs until they’re hanging around your right ankle. You hurriedly bring a trembling hand to the waistband of your underwear, eager to finally see her put that tongue she can’t ever seem to keep in her mouth to use, but she stops you with a click of it.

“You’re shaking,” she observes, eyebrow raised as she studies your digits. “Relax, it’s me.”

A frown graces your features as you realize how much you’re shaking. You nod, forcing yourself to let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Yeah, sorry.”

“You want this?” She’s looking up at you again, blonde locks splayed around her head on the white sheets. She looks like an angel, fitting because you think she might actually send you to heaven in the next ten minutes.

“Please,” the word comes out as a pathetic whimper, and it’s all Paige needs to hear before she shuffles up the bed and gestures for you to lay down. You do exactly as she asks, head half-hanging off the end of the bed, watching as she positions herself flat on her stomach between your legs.

“Been wanting this for so long, you know that, right?” Her breath is hot against your clit, making your thighs jump. “Can’t tell you how bad I need this.”

A slim finger sneaks its way between your legs, the tip tracing the outline of your pussy clinging to the damp cotton.

“Know you need it too, huh?”

Without giving you a second to respond, Paige dips her head down and places a chaste kiss on your clit through the sodden fabric of your underwear. You swear you hear her moan in the back of her throat as her eyes flutter closed, long lashes flickering across the tops of her cheeks.

She does it two, three more times until you’re whimpering, hand reaching down to pet at her head until she gets the idea and holds your panties to the side. She wastes no time, licking your clit into her mouth and sucking with fervor. It knocks you for a loop, legs drawing up to curl in on yourself, but Paige is quick to catch them, keeping you flat to the bed.

She switches between long, drawn-out sucks and skittering her tongue across your clit, the combination making you see stars, eyes fighting to stay open and arms threatening to give way as you hold yourself up to watch her take you apart.

“Please,” you whimper, not sure what you’re asking for, but Paige seems to know exactly what it is.

“Want my fingers?” Her voice is muffled against your pussy, hooded eyes glancing up at you as she takes you all in—nipples hard underneath your tank, a sweating, panting mess. All because of her. “You need 'em, yeah?”

You practically sob out a yes, and Paige is back to it, the hand not holding your panties to the side coming up to rub through the messiness of your pussy.

“Damn, pussy really needed this, huh?” She teases, and normally you'd hit back at her with a smart ass response but the feeling of her tongue peeking out to lick at your clit again keeps you quiet, head tipping to rest on your shoulder as you get lost in the feeling. You feel yourself gush at that, and she does too, the sensation on her fingers making her blush.

She strokes her fingers through your folds before sliding two straight in to the last knuckle, giving you no time to adjust before curving them inward once, twice until you’ve got both hands fisted in her hair and your head falls down to your chest, unable to keep yourself up. The heel of her hand presses into your clit as she finally starts fucking you properly, alternating between curving her fingers and full on fucking them in and out of you, wet noises from your pussy growing louder and sloppier with each thrust of her fingers.

Your panties are still on, pushed to the side and completely soaked from the mess of her and you. They're no issue for Paige though as she leans back in to suck at your clit again, the pleasure building up inside of you until you're gasping, arms giving way as your head tips back over the end of the bed, hips grinding up into her face.

"Fuck," your voice is hoarse, pitch higher than normal as the girl below you devours you. "Paige, fuck- please, you're gonna make me cum."

Paige nods against you, fingers somehow speeding up. She doesn't let up, head shaking against you as she laps against your clit and it all happens at once - you're cumming before you can even warn her.

You're still somewhat aware of your surroundings so you slap a hand over your mouth as you moan and whine into it, unintelligible words and cries of her name. Uncontrollable tears fall from your eyes dripping into your hair from the angle you're currently in because you don't think you've cum that hard- ever.

Paige rides it out with you, slowing her fingers and tongue until you're a writhing mess. She pulls away and sucks your juices off her fingers, and although you don't see it, the sound alone is enough to make you whimper.

"Fuck me," she's panting as she crawls up your body, wet fingers cupping behind your neck to bring you back to reality. She gets a good look at you; eyes red and teary, lips swollen. "That good?"

"That good." you echo, eyes heavy as you try to ignore the dizziness behind your eyes.

She licks into your mouth and you moan into her, tongue tasting of you. "Pussy's good," she murmurs against your lips, eyes heavy as she pulls back from you slightly. "You hiding that from me for this long?"

"It was always yours, Paige."

That's enough to make her moan; it's deep, vibrating in her chest. She moves down to grab your hips and tugs you down the bed, hands slipping under your tank.

"Wanna see."

It's not a question.

You don't think twice as you lift up and tug the thin cotton over your head, tossing it to the floor. When you're busy fighting the fabric off your body, you feel her slide your soaked panties down your legs and chuck them haphazardly onto the floor. You make mental note to ensure you watch her do it next time.

Like it's a reflex, her hands glide up your stomach and squeeze at your tits, rolling your nipples between her fingertips. The sensation makes you whine, hands gripping at her black t-shirt. The feeling of the cotton against your palms makes you frown, "Why are you still wearing this?"

"Take it off me then," she challenges and you pull the material up her torso and she does the rest, shirt joining your tank in a pile on the floor. She's clad in a grey sports bra, Nike boxers riding up her waist.

"These too, P." You tug at the elastic, snapping it back against her skin.

"You tryna get me naked?" she teases, sitting up and tucking her thumbs into the material and pulling them down and off her legs. You'd be surprised if you didn't have actual hearts for pupils from the way you're looking at her. She's a sight for sore eyes, v line on her stomach prominent, leading down to her smooth pussy. Her legs are strong, toned muscles peeking out beneath her skin from where they hold her up above you.

Paige amusedly watches you watching her, hands on her hips as she waits for you to finish whatever inner monologue you had going on.

"You good?" she's laughing, and you can't help but laugh too.

"I just-" you start, covering your eyes in attempt to contain yourself. "You're just so fucking hot."

Paige rolls her eyes and pushes you flat to the bed, settling between your thighs.

"You're so corny."

You shrug, unashamed. Paige smiles down at you, moving so she's slotted between your legs and one of them is hiked up against her, your calf resting against her shoulder.

"This okay?" she asks, hand stroking against your thigh.

"Yeah," you breathe out, eyes trained on her.

She moves forward and the feeling of your pussy against hers makes her suck in a sharp breath between her teeth, eyebrows furrowing as she lowers down and feels how wet you still are against her own pussy.

"Shit," she mumbles, head tilting down so she can watch where your pussies meet, hips shifting. "Feels so good."

She starts a slow roll of her hips, clit bumping against yours. Her mouth hangs open, heavily breathing as she stares down at where you both meet. You're still sensitive from earlier; choked, high pitched whines leave your throat as your toes curl, legs threatening to shut as your thighs shake.

"So wet."

She's dripping too, the both of you sliding against each other, noises echoing throughout the room as she picks up speed.

Paige is a mess above you, blonde hair stuck to her forehead, eyes squeezed shut as she focuses on the feeling. "I think I'm gonna cum," she moans, blunt nails digging into your leg.

"Please," you encourage her, finger nails scratching down her abs as she rocks into you faster.

It's almost embarrassing how quickly she falls apart, her body shaking and jerking as she cums, release leaking out onto your pussy as she ruts into you. "Fuck," she's moaning into your calf, nose squished and forehead pressed against it as she rides it out. "I love you, oh-fuck."

You're not sure if she realises what she's said but it's enough to make you cum shortly after her, clit grinding against yours just enough to take you there again, softly moaning her name as you fight to keep your eyes open to watch her get lost in her own pleasure.

It takes a couple of minutes for her to gather herself, hips slowing and chest heaving as she opens an eye to peek down at you. "Did you-"

"I did," you laugh breathily, shaking hands stroking up and down her tense stomach. "D'you mean it?"

"What?"

"That you love me."

"Oh," she purses her lips as she gently moves your leg from her shoulder, tiredly flopping down onto your chest. "Yeah."

She speaks into your chest, eyes threatening to close. "Think we both knew that though."

You chuckle, shoulders shaking as you stroke a hand across the backs of her shoulders, other hand stroking at the now wild mess of hair on her head. "I think I might love you too, for the record."

You feel her smile against your chest, lifting up slightly to press a kiss to the swell of your breast.

"Think I knew that too."

You both lay in silence for a while, room filled with the sounds of both of your breathing and the odd noise from outside. The house is quiet, thankfully, and you pray you were both quiet enough to not disturb anybody inside. You cast a glance up to the small clock above the bedroom door, eyes widening when you notice the time.

"Paige," you nudge her shoulder and she groans in response, half asleep. "Fucking wake up."

She lifts her head off your chest, one eye open lazily. "What?"

"We've got to be up for camp in four hours."

You're both groggy in the morning, dark circles and slumped shoulders sat at the dining table. Azzi, on the other hand, is a striking opposite to the both of you, well rested and full of energy.

"Sleep well?" she teases, back facing the both of you as she dispenses ice from the freezer.

"Bed's too small," Paige huffs, head slumped against your shoulder. "Couldn't get comfortable."

"Yeah I bet," Azzi spins around and leans her back against the counter, taking a sip from her water. "Did my childhood bedroom bring you guys together then, or...?"

You almost spray your own mouthful of water across the table, Paige laughing as she pats your back whilst you cough and splutter.

"Yeah-" you heave, rubbing at your chest. "You could say that."

Paige shrugs, sliding out of the chair and walking around to stand behind you, chin pressed to the crown of your head. It's something she's done a thousand times, but now it feels more intimate, especially as she places a kiss to the top of your head. A small smile finds its way onto your lips.

"Damn," Azzi raises her eyebrows, bottom lip pulling between her teeth to hide her growing smile. "About time is all I can say."

She slides past the two of you and goes to leave the room, turning back just before she heads towards the stairs. "Be ready in fifteen, guys!"

You crane your neck up to look at Paige who, if you hadn't known better, you would assume she hadn't had a wink of sleep from the state of her.

"What?" she catches you smirking at her, hand coming up to pinch at the apple of your cheek.

"You look like shit." you deadpan, laughing as her hands come up beside her, feigning innocence.

"Not my fault," she leans into your ear, whispering. "Pussy so good it kept me up all night."

You playfully shove her away from you, heat rising up to your cheeks as you watch her bite her tongue between her teeth, teasing.

"None of that today," you laugh, rising from your seat. Your hands run down your shorts, flattening out the creases. "We have to be good role models, plus, we can't let Azzi down."

"Oh I know," she responds, arm looping over your shoulder. "Can't let 'em know my girlfriend has me like this, huh?"

The G word startles you and you turn to look at her. "Girlfriend?"

"Yeah," she shrugs, hand on your shoulder squeezing slightly. "Think it suits you, no?"

You pause, the word reverberating in your mind. "Girlfriend," you repeat, testing it out like you'd just learnt the word. "I like the sound of that."

Paige's eyes soften, turning so she's facing you and she drops her hands to your waist, finding their way underneath your shirt. Her thumbs rubs gentle circles against the bare skin there.

"I meant it, by the way." she's sincere, voice lowering slightly to get away from any possible prying ears around the house. "I do love you. Feels crazy to say but," she pauses, "Yeah. I do."

You feel your heat swell. "I think I love you too, funnily enough."

That gets you a pinch on your side, Paige scoffing at your response. She presses a soft kiss to your forehead, pulling back from you and heading towards the stairs.

"Come on," she calls, skip in her step. "We've got some kids to teach."

You follow after her, tiredness quickly forgotten.

Azzi was right. It was about time.

[puckinghischier]

Crowded

Luke Hughes x fem!reader

summary: reader gets nervous in the crowd, but luke is right there to help her out of it

notes: i’m once again throwing a luke fic out into the world. i saw this request in my inbox and immediately thought of the zach bryan concert the boys just went to. i would literally give anything to attend a concert with them. i just KNOW they’re great concert buddies. sorry it’s kinda short, i just didn’t know how to drag it out any longer. i hope you enjoy!! happy reading!! 🫶🏼

request: from my 400 follower celly - Character A can tell Character B is getting nervous in a big crowd, so A slips their hand into theirs to help them calm down.

[2.8k]

You had been looking forward to tonight for months. From the second Luke surprised you with the tickets for your birthday, you immediately started planning an outfit, making a playlist, and anticipating the trip.

When he told you his brothers and a few friends were tagging along, it only made you more excited, enjoying every moment you got to spend with your boyfriend’s brothers and their hockey friends.

After the concert, everyone was driving over to stay at the lake house for a few weeks, enjoying as much of the summer together as they can before pre-season training starts. You couldn’t wait to have a few weeks of fun on the water, but also wanted tonight to last as long as it could.

Your excitement grew even more when you found the perfect outfit for the occasion, even buying a matching light-up cowboy hat off of Etsy. You were especially excited for the chance to wear your boots again, not having many excuses to wear them in Jersey.

Luke had his hand planted firmly on the small of your back, making sure not to lose you as you weave through the crowd. You had bought Luke a new shirt for tonight, the orange t-shirt matching the burnt orange color of your dress.

He leads you over to the crowded merchandise stand, telling you to pick whatever you wanted. You struggled, loving every item tacked onto the display board. When you told him you couldn’t decided between a t-shirt and a hoodie, he bought you both before you could even open your mouth to protest, buying himself a hat and t-shirt as well.

“Luke, you just spent over $300 without even batting an eye,” you barked at him, crossing your arms to try and look menacing.

You know Luke could’ve afforded to buy you the entire stand and still not make a dent in his bank account, but you don’t like when he spends large amounts on you for no reason.

“Yeah, so?” he shrugs, taking your elbow and leading you away from the cloth covered table, slinging the clear bag of merchandise over his shoulder.

You roll your eyes and huff at him, unfolding your arms and taking his hand, letting him lead you through the sea of bodies.

“’So?’”, you mimicked his response. “You didn’t have to buy half of the merch stand just because it took me more than three seconds to choose which shirt I wanted.”

He glances back at you over his shoulder. “The fact that you didn’t have your mind made up the second you saw the options means you clearly wanted both, so I bought you both.”

You reach over and pinch his side, mildly annoyed with how well he understands the way your brain works.

“Quit pinching me you little gremlin,” Luke hisses out, the nickname being one he uses when you’re being stubborn or annoying.

“Quit spending all of your money on me, you giraffe-man,” you fire back.

You can see his shoulder’s shake, your impromptu nickname for him amusing him.

He doesn’t respond right away, the two of you having made it to the entrance to your seats, walking up to the worker standing under the numbered sign.

The usher instructs you to show your tickets to one of the workers at the bottom of the set of stairs.

When you walk into the arena, you notice how large the space feels, the open floor and mostly empty seats creating the illusion of size.

Luke has to nudge you a bit, reminding you to keep walking, too in awe of the fact you’re actually here.

“Not so unhappy with me spending my money on you now, huh?” he leans down to whisper into your ear, making sure you can hear him over the roaring chatter.

You hit him lightly in the chest, a smirk on his face as the two of you walk down, showing your tickets to the usher once you reach the bottom of the stairs, a bright colored wristband with bold letters spelling out VIP FLOOR printed on each one.

You make your way over to a small, sectioned off area near the main stage, seeing the rest of your group already waiting for the two of you.

Jack is the first one to notice you approaching, his eyes lighting up and arms being slung into the air.

“It’s about time! We were starting to worry the two of you got lost!” he calls out, causing the rest of the group to turn their heads and call out greetings.

You smile, having missed those in the group that didn’t live in New Jersey.

Walking over to Quinn first, you give him a long hug, the last time you saw him being when he played his brothers in Jersey months ago. The frequent facetime calls the two of you share not being enough to scratch your Quinn itch.

“Quinnifer! I missed you!” you squeal as you squeeze him as tight as you can.

You can feel his chuckle as he squeezes you back. “I missed you too, Munchkin” he leans back, ruffling your hair.

Although you see Jack nearly every day back home in Jersey, Quinn is the brother you’re closest to. You and Jack are literally two peas in a pod, but there’s something about Quinn that made you feel comfortable with him from the moment Luke introduced the two of you.

He’s like the big brother you never had, always calling him when you need advice or need to complain to someone about Luke.

Anytime you have a particularly nasty argument with Luke, Quinn is the one you call. He always allows you say whatever you need to get out of your system before breaking the problem down and agreeing that his brother is an idiot, but that he also loves you with everything he has in him.

At first you tried to go to Jack with problems surrounding your relationship with Luke, but he clearly didn’t know how to help you. He either told Luke about your conversations, causing the argument to grow worse because Luke claimed Jack had no business knowing about what’s happening in your relationship, or he would shrug his shoulders and say “just don’t yell at him when I’m trying to sleep. I need my beauty rest.”

You swat Quinn’s hand away, trying to smooth down your now tousled hair.

“I see you dressed the goon, tonight,” he points out Luke’s orange shirt.

You turn your head to see him talking with Cole.

“Believe it or not, it was his idea,” you think back to after you bought your dress, trying it on for Luke once you came home from shopping with your girls. He loved the way you looked in it, his eyes widening the second you emerged from your walk-in closet.

He swallowed thickly, his gravelly voice choking out a “Did they happen to have a matching shirt? Because if you’re wearing that, I’m going to need something to match so everyone knows you’re there with me, not up for grabs.”

You blush at the memory, looking back over to Quinn.

“I always knew he was whipped, but damn you’ve got him down bad, huh?” he shakes his head, smiling in amusement.

“Wrapped around my little finger,” you hold up your pinky, wiggling it at Quinn with a giggle.

You feel a pair of arms snake their way around your waist, a heavy object resting itself on top of your head.

“What’s wrapped around your little finger?” Luke asks, his chin bumping against your scalp as he talks.

“You, duh,” you reply, moving your head forward and craning your neck to look up at him.

He looks between you and his older brother before uttering out a “Oh one hundred percent. Couldn’t unravel myself if I even wanted to,” he lets go of you, stepping up to stand beside you.

Quinn just laughs, bringing Luke in for a hug.

After you make your way around to greet everyone, the lights are dimming and the atmosphere inside of the arena changes.

You love the hum of excitement in the air, finding Luke and standing in front of him. You hear the first notes of Overtime as Zach Bryan comes onto the stage, screaming as loud as you possibly can.

Luke has a content, amused smile on his face as you scream out the lyrics, jumping and dancing around as the beat allows.

As the concert goes on, you make the switch from dancing with Luke to dancing with Jack, attempt to get on Quinn’s shoulders to get Zach’s attention, and slinging your arm over Cole’s shoulder to sway back and forth with him during one of the slower songs.

When it comes time for Zach to sing Revival, your favorite song of his, you beg Luke to leave your secluded area to get closer to the stage, wanting to experience being in the crowd for this one particular song.

He looks at you apprehensively, eyeing the large sea of people on top of one another, barely any room between the bodies pressed together. He worries about losing you in the crowd, your small frame allowing you to get swept away easily.

You tug on his arm like a little kid, repeating “please, please, please,” over and over again, assuring him you’ll be fine.

Luke eventually gives in, letting his brothers know where you two are going, claiming you’ll meet back up with them after the concert.

Grabbing your hand, Luke leads you off of the small platform and into the crowd, pushing his way as far up to the front as his large body will allow him.

You stop just a row or two of people away from the stage where Zach had just climbed onto, adjusting his guitar and microphone before starting the song.

As the song rang out around you, you sang along to every word, joining the rowdy crowd as the chorus starts.

You start to jump around in the small space you have, enjoying every second, until Zach walks his way over to the small portion of stage in front of where you stand.

As soon as his figure stands over the crowd around you, bodies start pushing against one another, everyone trying to get as close to him as they can. You feel yourself being shifted towards the metal barricade, not being able to fight against the rush of people.

You start panicking, whipping your head from side to side to find Luke. All you can see around you are strangers, not being able to move your body to look behind you. You have absolutely no control over your own body anymore, being stuck in-between a girl slightly taller than you and a man that has at least a hundred pounds on you.

Squeaking out a “excuse me,” and “can you let me out please?” you try to make your exit from the suffocating situation. Your eyes turn frantic when you realize that no one can hear you or cares to hear you. Your breath picks up, heart pounding in your chest.

You can feel the tears pricking in your eyes, not being able to regulate your breathing anymore, gasping hot air into your lungs as fast as you can.

You’re about to let out a scream, begging someone to pay attention to you and let you out of the mess you’re in, when you feel a familiar hand slip its way into yours.

Whipping your head around, you catch a glimpse of curly hair behind you, not realizing that the body pressed against your back has been Luke this entire time. You figured you had lost him when you were surged forward, unable to see him anywhere around you.

Your breath starts to slow slightly, knowing you’re not alone in this crowd easing some of your nerves. The feeling of your heart pounding is still present, not wanting to be in this situation one second longer.

Luke attempts to tug your body back towards him, but the impenetrable wall of people around you prevents him from doing so.

You manage to wiggle your way in a circle somehow, now facing Luke.

He takes one look at your frightened face and knows he has to get you out of here, now.

Pulling you towards him, he cages you in with is arms, your cheek pressed to his chest. He starts walking backwards, his hockey roots coming in handy as he all but body checks people out of his way. The two of you finally make it to the back of the large crowd, Luke not letting go of you until you were back over in your original section.

Quinn was watching the whole thing from the small platform he was stood on, about to walk over and fish you out himself before he noticed Luke’s head slowly moving backwards, away from the stage.

He can see you’re still shaken, walking over to meet the two of you at the top of the ramp.

“Is she okay? Is she hurt?” Quinn asks, concerned about how frightened even Luke’s face looks right now.

“No, she’s fine. Just shaken up, I think. She got trapped between a random girl and some dude at least triple her size,” he tells Quinn, running his hand down your hair in soothing motions. Your hands were still clutching his t-shirt, not wanting to let go of him just yet.

Quinn stares at your trembling figure the whole time, knowing you don’t want to leave Luke’s embrace but wishing he could do something to help you.

“Let’s get her out of here and to the car, yeah?” Quinn suggests, picking up yours and Luke’s bag of merchandise off of the floor of the platform.

Luke just nods, leading you back down the ramp.

Quinn steps over and let’s everyone know to just meet them in the parking garage before following yours and Luke’s intertwined bodies towards the nearest exist.

Luke manages to get you up the stairs and out into the outer ring of the arena without letting you go. Both pairs of your feet moving in tandem, not once risking tripping over one another.

He leads you out of the doors and into the cool night air.

You finally allow yourself to leave his embrace, instantly feeling better in the openness of the outdoors. Never letting go of his hand, you continue to let him lead you to the large garage.

Luke’s BMW sits right where he parked it, the loud beep echoing in the dark garage as he unlocks it.

He opens the passenger door, lifting you slightly to sit you down on the leather seat. His hands come up to your cheeks, his thumbs wiping the stray hairs that were sticking to the damp skin under your eyes.

“All good now?” he asks you, the frantic look of your eyes now gone.

You nod, looking into his concerned eyes. “M’alright. Just got scared. Too many people,” you mumble out, leaning into Luke’s palm slightly. “Sorry I made us go out there. Just wanted to have fun.”

Luke leans his forehead against yours, shaking it back and forth slightly. “No, it’s not your fault. Just bad timing is all,” he assures you, knowing how upset you’re going to be when you realized you missed most of the last song.

He pulls his head back, standing back to his full height outside of the SUV.

You notice Quinn standing a few feet away, letting you and Luke have your space.

Frowning, you call out to the eldest Hughes. “You didn’t have to leave early too, Quinny.”

Quinn looks over when he hears you address him, walking closer to the vehicle.

“Ehh, show was almost over anyways,” he waves you off. “Had to make sure my favorite little munchkin was okay,” he shrugs, telling you its no big deal.

You smile at him, thankful you not only have your boyfriend to look out for you, but Quinn as well.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you. Both of you,” you look between the two brothers, only ever seeing how alike they look when they’re standing in front of you.

They both tell you it’s not necessary, the main priority being that you’re safe and sound outside of the arena.

“Fine, I guess that means neither of you want to stop for post-concert pancakes on the way to the lake, then?” you tease, watching both of their heads snap up. All three brothers’ secret love of sweets is something you use to your advantage, only ever having to mention how good ice creams sounds before Luke and Jack are ushering you out of the door and driving you to the nearest ice-cream shop.

“Well, I guess if you really just feel the need to do something nice for us…” Quinn trails off, making a smile break out on your face, unable to hide the laugh at the sudden switch up.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” you continue to laugh at the pair, Luke leaning in to buckle your seatbelt for you as Quinn climbs in the backseat, sending a quick text to the rest of your group, telling them if they want to join in on the pancake outing, they need to be making their way out of the arena, and fast.

[honestsycrets]

omg sex worker miguel o’hara? 🤧🫡

grande | sex worker!miguel o'hara x assistant!reader

❛ pairing | sex worker!miguel o'hara x assistant!reader.

❛ type | extended drabble; 2kish words; explicit

❛ summary | you probably shouldn't tell a man that he's small. even if you've known him a very long time-- and especially if you see him fuck every day.

❛ tags | sex worker au, improper use of belts, male receiving oral, slight disagreements, workplace argument, Spanish is not translated

❛ sy’s notes | ...i now have an escort!miggy x rich girl!reader in my drafts to be finished at some other time because it became a bit depressing and plotty. needed something light to get back into writing for a bit.

He doesn’t play fair. Most women understand that about him. They know Miguel to be the man who bends the delicate boundaries of rules for a good fuck— be it a place, be it a position. Miguel would do what he had to for a better clip. 

“Miggy?” You said, hands behind your hips. He should have known then that you were up to some shit. You hover somewhere in his vision with a sugar-sweet smile. You’ve worked with him alongside him since he chose this profession. Most days, he watched you sit by your favorite window that cast a warm midday sun, tacking away with fingers that flew across the keys. Some days, you’re watching him-- mounted on another woman. He cocked his thick brow at you. 

“What?”

“I… it’s just… fuck. Elena had something come up.” 

“Like I said she would."

Miguel set his fist to his cheek, swirling his protein shake in the other hand. This woman was your idea, not his. There’s a reason your voice choked on the words. You were anxious about your news the way your hands rounded to the front of your body, clammy hands plastered onto your tablet.

“I just thought—“

“I know what you thought. You thought my followers would like her.” He took a swig of his drink. “Not if she’d like me.”

That was exactly the issue. You do too much worrying about what the viewer likes, not enough about what he would like. He was well aware from every ping from Elena and the contorted little face you made that she was scared of him. As to why, he was not certain. He's grumpy, not dangerous.

“She does like you— it’s just your dick,“ you fumbled with your tablet, nearly spilling it over on his lap. “I told her you weren’t that big. She’s just— dramatic.”

“Not that big?” 

You’re not winning this fight. He threw a look at the tablet, finding your suggestion more egregious than your description of it. Too thick! She complained. He’d stretch her out. Or, so she feared. He sincerely doubted that. She took enough dick that if that were the case, she’d have an issue long before now.

He’s not that big in real life. All that big dick crap is just marketing. I see his dick all the time. 

Then you fuck him!

His mouth flattened into an unmoveable line, clearly unappeased with your response. For a moment, he did not move. He did not fidget. Nor respond. He simply stared down at you with those sharp, unhumored eyes. What little security you had in convincing him flitted away. He abandoned his drink on the table and leaned in close. Close enough that his thick strands of dark hair tickle your skin. Enough that you can smell the perfumed oil that lingered on his tanned skin. He always smelled so good.

“Until you’ve fucked me onscreen,” he brushed past. “Don’t tell women who will what I’m like.” 

Oh. You made a mistake.

You don’t like it when Miguel is angry. 

Most days coming to work, Miguel has a hot coffee on the table for you as you edit his finest ball-busting work. When the days stretch a little too long, he tells you when enough is enough. And, if you were lucky, he hovered at the stove and made you something to eat. It gave you a perfect sight of his toned shoulders and the long column of his spine-- which he so graciously allowed you to drool over day by day. Today, there was no half-dressed hunk making your delicious meals in sight. 

He’s still angry. You pulled up his socials, scrolling through the responses to the latest video. A teasing blooper of a clip with a woman with Miguel’s length halfway down her throat, coughing up his seed all over her chest as you mistakingly giggle behind the screen. 

“Keep laughing and see what happens,” Miguel drifted to yours, eyes hazy and soft, chest rising violently with the sundering sensation of his orgasm. He watched for the span of only a few heartbeats, a decadent warning exchanged between the two of you immeasurable before the camera. He reached for a tissue.

“Perdóname, papi.” 

Does anyone know if they’re fucking? A user asked. It’s as if Miguel’s co-star was but a fading character. Any chance of seeing him fuck her?? Whats her @? 

She’s just his employee.

Need this.

Just an employee. The words pulled on a string of connection that could at any time be cut. Miguel had no interest in wielding the scissors to do so, rather, over the past few years the string only became stronger. He’ll get over it. You stared at the reflection of your poorly made cup of cafecito, undrunken because no one made it like Miguel made it. He’s there, hovering around the sink, but you feel all the more alone in the room. Producer, editor, friend-- your eyes fell back to the cup. 

“Are you done?” Miguel hovered by your coffee cup. It was cool to the touch. 

“Ah. Sí.” 

You gazed up at him, regret seeping from your features. If you apologized yet again, he’d simply leave the room. There are no good words. No ones that would make sense, no words that would… be good enough to make him come back when he’s in this mood, unmoveable and distant. You’re so close to him-- but all alone.

He takes the cup away.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

Miguel dropped his phone on your office desk. It thumped over the tablespace, his expression morphing into something wrong. You turn his phone upright, knowing the contents before the information actually registers in your mind. 

“It’s a picture of me,” you closed the top of your laptop and whirled around in the chair, knocking your knees against his. He’s closer than he’s been in days. 

“Yes. But what else?” he rumbled. 

You’re not stupid, remembering the launch of merch that Miguel sincerely doubted anyone would be seriously interested in. How many people wore a male sex worker’s merch? This was all your idea, of course. Your lip is bitten fat, stripped of skin. Your eyes wandered across the table to the cabinet with an array of different cameras. Miguel rapped his scarred knuckles over the table, blocking your desperation for an escape. He wanted a substantial answer.

“You told me to make sure it sold.” 

“And that meant model with your ass out on my page.”

“You don’t like it?” 

"Dios," that’s not the point. He breathed a forceful breath, navigating your rolling chair up against the bed in the room. Typically the bed was used for a late night at the office or one of Miguel’s performances with any number of women you cast him with. Or, as you preferred, when he masturbates by himself-- squeezing his hand along his length as your phantom hand poured more wet lubricant over his cock. The sheets are always stained and consequentially changed.

“I don’t like that they know what you look like,” Miguel supplied, his chest cresting into a fall. His gaze fell to your hands, settled in a clasp over your short skirt. Now he knew what you looked like. “Do you know how many requests I have to…”

“Fuck me.” 

“Sí,” Miguel said, your name dying on his tongue. “To fuck you.” 

“Then do it. You have a camera.”

What-- his gaze read. It’s in the way his brow pushed together, how his lips fell just so lightly apart. He would say something more, but your hands are on his dark slacks, tracking up toward his sturdy leather belt. In only an hour or so, Miguel was meant to record with Elena, who, you convinced. He should be saving his stamina for that, not this. Even so, his hands hovered atop your own, grunting slightly in response, unable to stop what you were doing. 

“Don’t ask me to ruin you.”

“I think you already have,” you murmured, finding his soft cock. You stroked him through his pants, drawing along his length, getting him where you want him. With every scene you recorded, you knew what Miguel liked. You knew he liked scenes where he could take his time, as short and far between as they were. You want that too. You drew the belt loose and unbuttoned the little spry button. So close, you could almost taste him.

“Are you going to record it?” You gestured toward the desk, pulling his cock into the free air. He’s an impressive length, just as you recall, you think he has to be to be an adult actor. The real treat is Miguel’s thick girth, swirled with delicious veins. You had seen his dick at least a hundred times, delighted in watching him meet his orgasm time and time again, and touched yourself to the thought of being just like his many girls. 

“No,” Miguel pulled his belt from the loops and tugged it around his wrist. He let the other hand find the back of your head, weaving through smooth locks of hair, guiding your lush lips to his cock. “This is all for me.” 

When he spoke like that, all you wanted was to make him happy. Your moist mouth separated, warm breath tickling the length that he shoved into your wet mouth. Maybe Elena had a point, you think, suckling around his length once, drawing to his fat tip. He hums in response, bucking back deep into your mouth. Miguel didn't want to wait, causing you to gag over his length, a terrible coughing resonating about his dick. Now that he had you here, he would show you how wrong you were.

“I thought I wasn’t that big,” Miguel’s hand left your head, stretching his belt across the back of your neck. Bucking forward, you gagged around his length, scratching his clothed hip for some mercy. If he wasn’t so big-- you could take it, couldn’t you? “Just like that. Hm? Cómo?” 

He was gracious enough to allow you off his cock, gasping for air as you were, the depth of his plunging cock having pricked a few oversensitized tears on the sides of your eyes. You’re beautiful like that, overwrought and needy. Your heart rattled in the confines of your ribcage, wheezing as you jerked him pathetically. How certain you look now, tugging on him for a moment of relief.

“I’m sorry--” 

“Ya sé.” 

Your eyes fluttered shut, guiding him back into your mouth. Your cheeks hollowed out, drawing him in fast and hard. If not for the belt around the back of your neck, he might have stumbled, stuck between the warmth of your mouth and the pleasured groans tickling his length. You’re well-accustomed to what the girls do, stretching your palm around his dick.

“Harder,” he remarked, throwing a half-chewed-up curse aside. Unlike with the other girls, he’s weak before the pleasure, usually focused and refined, his jaw clenches. He’s gotten weak-- has it been that long since he’s had sex outside of the roll of the camera? 

“Miggy,” you pulled back, your sloppy tongue swirling about his fat tip. He catches the moan in his chest, refusing to let it crest over, not yet. His eyes catch yours, muscular stomach flexing, he’s listening. “I want to taste you. Can I taste you?” 

You’re such a good niña. Miguel forces you back to your rightful place on his cock, the band stretched so tight around his fists that he might break it. Your name becomes an unbearable, pleasurable slur on his tongue. He’s a trained man, knowing to cum when you say to come on each shoot. In many ways, he's your trained dog: cuming when he's told to.

His length pulsed in your mouth for one final thrust before he gave you what you wanted, strands of release spraying the back of your warm little mouth. You suckled him up, even as he tried to pull free. You cleaned his cock, sucking him nice and clean. Miguel brushed off your attempt to zip him away.

“Don’t bother,” Miguel breathed, pulling at the black-tie strapped to his throat. His white dress shirt was soaked, causing him to roll the sleeves up to his elbows. His voice dropped, well-fucked out but nearly ready for another round. “Your cunt is next.” 

“But Elena is on her w--” 

“Fuck her,” Miguel waved his hand, slouching into your chair. “Fix the camera. We have a video to shoot.” 

If nothing else-- now you can tell her how big he really is.

[shiorimakibawrites]

The Accident (Part I of Happy Little Accident)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader Word Count: 7, 368 Summary: You tripped in the elevator and covered your neighbor in paint. Your ridiculously hot neighbor that you have an enormous crush on. Warning(s): Anxiety, Female Gaze, Referenced Sex, Referenced Character Death, Reference to assumed Attempted Murder, Thoughts about sex Happy Little Accident Masterlist My Masterlist Tag List: @loves0phelia Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. EDIT: Cleaned up some typos.

The Accident

You were painting in Central Park when your phone rang. You let out an irritated huff as you fished your phone out of your apron’s pocket and looked at the caller ID. Abby, your boss at the Daily Grind. It was tempting to ignore the call, pretend like you had forgotten your phone. Very tempting. It was a lovely spring day, one you would much rather spend painting than working. But in the end the knowledge that Abby wasn’t prone to bothering her employees during their off hours without a good reason had you accepting the call.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Abby said, sounding apologetic. “Can you cover for the afternoon shift today? Peter is in the hospital.”

“The hospital?!” you repeated, feeling immediately concerned. “What happened? Is he okay?”

Peter was one of the cafe’s newer employees. You didn’t know him very well yet but he seemed like a nice kid. If a little absentminded, given how often he arrived for his shift at a rush. And possibly even more clumsy than you are since you had often seen him with bruises which he claimed were the results of tripping over things.

Assuming he wasn’t lying about how he had gotten hurt. Which you thought that he was . . . some of those injuries didn’t look like they had came from a fall . . . It worried you. It worried others at the cafe too. Abby wasn’t usually so forgiving of such frequent tardiness and absences.

“He got hit by a car. Claims that he’s only got minor injuries but the hospital doesn’t want to discharge him without running some tests first. So can you come in today?”

You suppressed the urge to sigh. You didn’t want to send the wrong message. Because you weren’t actually annoyed with Abby or Peter but the situation. These things happen. Sometimes people got hurt or got sick. And when they did, someone didn’t get their day off. Today was simply your turn.

And well . . . it wasn’t like you couldn’t use the money.

“I’ll be there.”

“Thanks! You’re a lifesaver!”

You ended the call and slipped your phone back into your apron before starting to gather up your things. Your newly acquired shift started at three. It was only a little after noon, plenty of time to get back to your apartment and get ready, but you didn’t like to rush. Rushing tended to make you even more of a klutz.

You swirled the used brushes in the water jar, trying to get as much paint off of your brushes before rolling them in a small towel. A second towel, already stained with old paint, was used to wrap up your palette. The paint was thrown back into their carrying box. Which was technically a small tackle box but you had repurposed it for art supplies. The box went into the bottom of your tote bag along with the water jar, double checking that lid was screwed on tightly. You didn’t need to ruin another sketchbook. You squeezed your current sketchbook behind the tackle box. Next went your pencil case, followed by the towels and their respective cargo. Now the only thing left was your painting and the portable easel.

You removed the painting from the easel, careful to avoid the spots where the paint had spilled over onto the tacking edge. Your fingers already had enough paint on them. The painting was propped against a tree, fingers crossed for two things. One that the wind wouldn’t pick up and send your painting flying. And two, a police officer wouldn’t start yelling at you for it. You didn’t think using the tree as a momentary support while you packed up violated any park rules but you weren’t entirely sure. You had read the park rules but they were written like a legal document . . . which it probably was . . . but that made you feel like you probably weren’t understanding it right. After all, you weren’t a lawyer.

Luck seemed to be with you. You were able to get the easel broken down and put away without incident. You swung your bag into your shoulder before picking up your painting. After making sure you had a good grip on the stretcher and the tacking edge, you took a quick look around to make sure you weren’t forgetting anything. Then you started making your way home.

Your lucky streak continued. You didn’t drop anything. No one dumped into the wet canvas or you while you were walking. The subway was busy as usual but not packed to the gills. Your feet resisted the urge to get tangled up in some random piece of debris. Or your own feet. Or the absolutely nothing that you somehow managed to trip over sometimes . . .

In hindsight, you should have realized that it was too good to last.

Things began to go awry when you were waiting for the elevator to arrive. You looked down and saw a tube of paint in your aprons’ pockets instead of the tackle box where it belonged. Normally, you’d shrug and try to remember to put it away later but it looked like the cap hadn’t been screwed back on correctly. Your frown deepened after you transferred your painting to one hand and realized that the cap was loose. Loose enough that it was a minor miracle that it hadn’t fallen off somewhere between the park and here . . . you hoped the paint hadn’t gotten dried out . . .

You heard the elevator dings its arrival as you pulled the paint out of your pocket. Trying to one-handedly shift the tube so its cap could be gripped between your fingers and twisted close, you didn’t look when you heard the elevator door slide open. You just moved forward. And immediately tripped over . . . something . . . you had no idea what.

You just knew that you were falling, that you had lost your grip on your painting as your hands instinctively rose to protect your head from the oncoming impact. An impact that never came. Someone caught you before you could hit the floor. Unfortunately the hand holding the paint had squeezed down, spraying paint on yourself and the chest of your rescuer.

It was like a train wreck. You didn’t want to look but you also couldn’t tear your eyes away from it. You stared in horror at the giant splash in the middle, the magenta color of the paint shockingly bright against the light gray suit, white dress shirt, and blue tie . . . Your eyes darted to the array of smaller droplets that radiated outward like shrapnel . . . you raised your eyes with the growing dread. Because you recognized that suit and tie, that broad chest . . .

Sure enough, when you looked up, you were greeted with the very surprised face of Matt Murdock. You felt your heart sink. Of course it was Matt. It couldn’t have been someone else. Anyone else. Preferably a random stranger that you would never see again. But no . . . it had to be your neighbor. It had to the man you had developed an enormous crush on.

Your face felt like it was on fire. You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you. You wanted to cry. Matt returning your feelings had always been a long shot . . . but now? There was no chance. You had turned out of his nice suits into a terrible Jackson Pollock . . . you were going to be lucky if he ever talked to you again . . .

You don’t know when you started apologizing. One minute, you were frozen in humiliated shock, the next increasingly frantic words started spilling out of your mouth. What words you couldn’t say. You couldn’t hear anything past your heart pounding in your ears . . .

A hand cupping your cheek was so startling that it immediately pierced the panic clouding your mind. Big, warm hand . . . you blinked and realized that someone was speaking to you. A familiar deep, soft-spoken voice . . .

“. . . shh, shh, sweetheart, it’s okay . . .”

Sweetheart?! You could hardly believe your own ears. But that was definitely Matt’s voice, his face that you were looking at, and those oh-so-kissable lips were moving . . .

This wasn’t the first time that Matt had called you sweetheart. He had been doing that since the first time you meet. If literally running into someone counts as meeting them. You would like to say no but it wasn’t like your second encounter with your then new neighbor had gone much better. You weren’t always a klutz around him but your bouts of clumsiness did occurred around him with embarrassing regularity.

And provided he was nearby when it happened, Matt always caught you when you started falling . . . so finding yourself in his arms also happened on a regular basis.

This had some upsides. For one, it gave you an appreciation for how much muscle must be hiding under those suits of his. Because he never had any trouble catching you or helping you get back onto your own feet. There was something very hot about the way he could lift you up like you weighted nothing. For another, he is very warm. Which had been especially nice during the recent autumn and winter months. And he smelled good. Like plain soap, ink, paper, and something woodsy like sandalwood with fainter notes of leather, cooper, and something else familiar but that you couldn’t quite remember what it was or where you had smelled it.

On the downside, you were never in his arms for very long. Certainly not long enough to really enjoy being held by those strong arms. He’d catch you, make sure you were steady on your feet again, then his arms would slide away and he stepped back. Taking all of his warmth and good smells with him. Which was always a little disappointing even if you did appreciated that he didn’t assume that he had permission to hold you longer than was absolutely necessary. And that he didn’t use those moments as an excuse to get handsy. Which you knew some people would have.

Further on the downside, being in his arms for any length of time made it very hard to pretend that he didn’t get you all hot and bothered. That having his warm breath brush against your neck and ear when he said something like ‘Careful, sweetheart’ didn’t make the skin there prickle and the rest of you shudder. Or, last week, when your shirt had gotten ridden up, that feeling those callused fingers against your bare skin didn’t make you shiver. Or the absolute worst, when you had to act like you hadn’t just been touching yourself while fantasizing about him, that you hadn’t just been moaning his name, that being in his arms hadn’t renewed the heat between your legs . . .

Those moments, it was really difficult to stop yourself from doing something crazy. Like ask him if you can find out if those pouty lips are soft as they looked . . . or if how much of that beautiful ass you could fit in your hands . . .

You suppressed the urge to groan. Serena, your best friend in the world, was right. You needed to get laid. Because even at the most embarrassing moments of your life, when you were half-considering changing your name and moving somewhere far away, you still couldn’t keep your mind out of the gutter.

Your imagination was out of control. It kept trying to convince you of the wildest things. Like that there was something more to the way his fingers had rubbed that little sliver of bare skin last week than just some mild curiosity when his hands didn’t encounter the expected shirt material. Or those tightening grips on your waist was anything other than making sure he wasn’t about to drop you. Those moments when his voice went deeper and huskier weren’t due to attraction but Matt was obviously coming down with a cold or something.

You ignored the grumbling inner voice that pointed out, aside from when he had the misfortune to get stuck in the elevator with that guy from the third floor who smelled like he bathed in cheap cologne, you had yet to see Matt so much as sneeze. Or that none of those moments had overlapped with the times Matt had looked ill – tired and moving like his body ached.

You weren’t going to get your hopes up. Matt was way out of your league. So far out that you weren’t even playing the same sport. He was incredibly good-looking, easily one of the most handsome men you had ever meet. You were the textbook definition of Plain Jane. Not ugly but not beautiful either. He was confident, outgoing, and charming. You were anxious, shy, and awkward. He was a lawyer with a successful law firm. You were an artist whose work didn’t sell well enough to make a living off of it. Hence the waitress/barista job at the Daily Grind.

Maybe not the most sensible job choice for a shy klutz but there were only so many options for someone with an art degree. Plus you had been working there since college and Abby had displayed remarkable patience for your clumsiness (and the periodic broken dishes that went with it). Mostly because you were otherwise reliable. And while you would never enjoy making small talk with strangers, you could do with a smile. It helped the majority of the regulars were nice . . .

“Sweetheart?”

Any blood that managed to drain out of your cheeks immediately flooded back. You were really batting a thousand today. First you spray him with paint, then you babble incoherently at him, then you stand there like a moron ignoring him for god only knew how long. If Matt didn’t already think you were awkward and weird, he certainly did now.

“Sorry,” you said, not sure of what to say.

He smiled at you. That sweet one that seemed . . . .dare you say it? . . . fond? Which did nothing to diminish the flush in your face. Neither did the little circles his thumb was rubbing into your right cheek or the reassuring squeeze from the hand at your waist.

He’s just trying to keep me calm, you told yourself sternly. It didn’t mean anything. He just didn’t need you panicking again. Lawyers are busy people. He probably had things to do and didn’t want to waste anymore time on you.

“And to answer your earlier question, no, I’m not going to sue you.”

You had actually said that? Out loud? You closed your eyes and let out a low groan. Everytime you think this situation couldn’t get more embarrassing . . . that idea of moving some remote mountain which hopefully had no insanely hot lawyers living on it was sounding better and better. The only thing thing that would have been worse was if your word-vomit had decided to detail just how attractive you found him. Then, in addition to everything else today, you’d have to listen to him say ‘I’m flattered but . . .’ while your heart shattered into a million pieces . . .

“Sorry,” you repeated. Because what else you could you say to something like that?

“No need to apologize again, sweetheart,” he said as his hand slide off of your face before joining its fellow in helping you get back on your own feet. Then, as usual, his arms pulled away entirely and he took a small step back. As usual, you told yourself that you weren’t disappointed or felt colder. Both were a lie.

“It was an accident,” he continued. “You said you were sorry. No harm done.”

You couldn’t stop your eyes from flickering around his suit. The mess hadn’t miraculously disappeared. It was still here.

“No harm?” you repeated. “You’ve got magenta splattered all over your suit!”

“Which one is magenta?”

“What?”

“I don’t think I remember what magenta looks like,” Matt said, sounding thoughtful. “Can you describe it for me?”

“Er . . . pink?” you said, trying to think of how to describe it. “This particular shade is darker than bubblegum, more purplish-red? Like some plums just under the skin or a pomegranate?”

“Sounds pretty,” he said. “Foggy has been telling me that I need to wear more color.”

“I think he probably meant new clothes that are different colors, not paint splattered on your existing clothes,” you said slowly, unsure of what to make of this conversation. It was not turning out at all like you would have expected it to.

He grinned. “Most likely but he never actually said clothes. Just more color. He knows better than to leave the terms of a contract that vague.”

While you didn’t know Foggy Nelson very well, you had the feeling he would not be impressed. You had also seem him and Matt needling each other at Josie’s often enough to picture the irritated look he would level at his partner if he returned to work looking like this and tried to make that argument. The image was so absurd that you had to giggle.

“Not sure that is a winning argument, Mr. Murdock,” you said,

“Sure it is,” he said. “Any ambiguity in a contract favors the party that didn’t write it. Foggy wrote the contract without defining his terms. So I am free to interpret those terms as anyone might reasonably expect them to mean.”

Which only made you giggle even harder. He was being so silly. “It’s not very professional?”

“Regretfully, I have to agree,” he said, sounding almost like he genuinely disappointed about that. Provided you couldn’t see the cheeky grin on his face. “Will I need anything special to remove the paint?”

“No,” you said, silently thanking Past You for choosing to work with acrylics today instead of oils. The faded spots the turpentine would leave would be less noticeable than magenta but still probably not something he wanted. Also even the low-odor version didn’t smell good. You didn’t know if there was any truth to that whole ‘blind people’s other senses get stronger’ thing but real or not, Matt seemed to have a pretty sensitive nose. “Acrylics are water-based. As long as it is still wet, warm water and soap is enough.”

“See? No harm done,” he said, giving that flirty smile that always made your heart go pitter-patter. Even when you tried to tell yourself that it didn’t mean anything. Matt was a charming guy who flirted a little with everyone. You had seem him get a little flirty with Mrs. Gonzales, the third resident of the sixth floor. Who was, as she pointedly reminded him, old enough to be his grandmother and scolded him for shameless flattery. She had rolled her eyes a little when he retorted the truth wasn’t flattery but did seem pleased. Pleased enough to make him tamales. Which honestly made you a little jealous. The tamales you had bought from her during the holidays had been really good . . .

Serena thought Matt wasn’t flirting with you just to flirt. That he actually liked you. But she was your best friend. It was her job to believe that you were wonderful and agree that the hot guy you had a crush on was into you. And if it turned out that he wasn’t . . . well, then he was an idiot who wasn’t worth your time. You wanted to believe her . . . you wanted that to true so badly . . .

But you had seen the women Matt used to bring home. And the ones who flirted with him at Josie’s. Beautiful, self-assured women with successful careers. They were everything that you weren’t. Granted, you hadn’t seen one of his paramours leaving or arriving at the building for a while. And the only ones you had seen him leaving Josie’s with lately were his friends.

Or you. Which you refused to read anything into either. Matt just didn’t think you walking home alone at night was safe. And it wasn’t. The Kitchen might have Daredevil, its guardian in red leather, but he couldn’t be everywhere. Couldn’t save everyone through if the rumors were to be believed, it certainly seemed like he tried.

The point was that Matt would the same thing for anyone. Even someone who really didn’t need it. Like Jessica Jones. Through he claimed that was just to save himself or Foggy from needing to make another late-night trip to the police station because she had punched some creep into a wall. While he agreed that yes, they deserved it for treating someone like that but the police didn’t see that way, Jessica . . .

Regardless of his reason, you always ended up agreeing because you were too weak to say no to spending just a little more time with him. And it wasn’t like you were making him go out of his way since you both lived in the same building . . .

“As long as it’s still wet,” you repeated. “It’s harder to remove once its’ dry.”

“How does that take?”

“About half an hour.”

“Good thing I’m so close to home then.” Then he seemed to hesitate. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

“Absolutely,” you said, cringing a little at how eager you sounded. But you had gotten paint all over him. A favor was the least you could do.

“Can you help me get this cleaned up?” he said, gesturing toward the paint. He gave you a self-deprecating smile. “Otherwise I might miss a spot.”

“I can do that,” you said. You had been intending to offer help anyway. You had made the mess. You should help clean it up.

He frowned suddenly, his head tilting to one side. “Are you sure? I’m not keeping you from anything?”

“No,” you said. “I don’t need to be at work until three and it’s . . .”

You tried to check the time on your watch but it had a smear of paint across the face. Unfortunately the hands were hidden by said smear of paint. “Probably not three.”

Matt’s lips twitched. “Problem with your watch?”

“Paint is hiding the hands.”

He gave an amused grin as he ran his fingers around the edge of his watch. “The downside of wearing non-tactile watches. It’s a quarter til one.”

“Plenty of time,” you said. And even if it wasn’t . . . Abby was a reasonable person. She would completely understand not leaving any neighbor, let alone your blind neighbor, to clean this up.

He smiled before reaching down to pick up his fallen cane. You felt your face get warm again. Both because you just realized what you had gotten tripped over (which made you feel like a jerk) and because that action had pulled those trousers taut over his ass (which made you feel . . . other things). But you couldn’t stop yourself from looking. Not when you had a front row seat to one of the best asses in America. Possibly the world.

Matt couldn’t possibly know that you were checking out his ass but that smug little smirk that he flashed in your direction made you feel like he did. You averted your eyes and tried to find a distraction. Before thinking about his ass (or other body parts) got you worked up. More worked up. Which not only would be awkward but make you nervous and prone to say something embarrassing.

Then you remembered your painting. You had dropped it earlier. Where was . . . you let out a distressed groan as you picked it up. The good news was that your painting hadn’t landed paint-side down. Which had saved the mostly dried paint from smearing or chipping. The bad news that hadn’t escaped The Magenta. It didn’t get hit as nearly badly as Matt but there was still a giant splat right in the middle of the lake . . .

“What’s wrong?”

“There is a giant glob of magenta in the middle of the lake,” you said.

“The lake?”

“In my painting,” you said. “I was doing one of the Bow Bridge in Central Park.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Maybe,” you said, looking at the mess and trying to think of how to incorporate the random splatters into the image. You could remove some of it without taking off the underlying layers but not all of it. That would have to be incorporated somehow . . . Maybe a boat? Or a float . . . some of the smaller ones could be turned into leaves if you switched the setting to autumn just as the leaves were turning . . . or a flowering tree with pink blossoms . . .

“We don’t make mistakes, just happy little accidents,” you reminded your inner perfectionist.

“That sounds familiar.”

“It’s something Bob Ross said a lot,” you said. “He was–”

“That guy on PBS who painted the landscapes?” Matt said. “Soft-spoken, sometimes had a squirrel in his pocket and talked about happy trees?”

“That’s the one,” you said. “The Joy of Painting. I watched it religiously as a kid. How about you?”

An odd little smile spread across Matt’s face. “Not often enough to qualify as religious but you could call us regular watchers. My dad wasn’t much of an art guy but he found the show relaxing . . . and it was quiet. I could turn it on in the morning without waking him up after he had worked late.”

He sounded nostalgic, like these were fond memories but also deeply sad. Then you remembered that Matt’s father was dead. Killed when he was a little boy. Which you only knew about because you had once given into temptation and googled Matt Murdock. Most of the search results had been about his law firm and the Castle trial but further down the page, articles about the accident that blinded him and his father’s death had also appeared. But by then, you had felt guilty enough about snooping into his life that you hadn’t read any those of articles beyond their headlines.

“Did you ever try to follow along?” you asked softly.

“A few times with the watercolors from my school supplies,” he said. “I was terrible at it but my dad hung up every picture on the fridge like it was the Mona Lisa.”

“Mine did that too,” you said. “My mom might still have a few of them tucked away with the baby pictures, waiting to embarrass me with them.”

He chuckled. “Did you ever fall asleep watching the show?”

You laughed. “Yes. Usually after I had stayed up too late reading.”

“Same,” he said, then gestured to the control panel. “Shall we go up?”

“Yes, we shall,” you said, a little amazed at how well this was going, despite the mishap. And that the elevator had remained here at the ground floor for this long. Probably it was the middle of the day and therefore most of the other tenants were either at work or school right now. As the elevator rose, you tried to think of something to talk about. You didn’t mind quiet but your earlier anxiety about his reaction had been replaced by your more usual nerves at being around the man you had spent almost half a year pining over.

Nervous You tended to be a chatterbox with chronic foot-in-mouth disease. Nervous You might blurt out that you liked him. Might detail how you wanted to go on dates, snuggle on the couch, hold hands while you took long walks, call each other by cliché nicknames like honey or dear. Basically be one of those disgustingly adorable couples . . . And behind closed doors, mind-blowing sex. The kind of sex that would leave you walking funny with a big smile on your face . . .

That thought alone made your cheeks warm. Among other places. Maybe work? Work should be a safe enough topic. Nothing naughty about work . . .

“What brings you home this early?” you asked, injecting as much cheer as possible in your voice to disguise your nerves. “Does no one need lawyering today?”

He chuckled. “No, we still have plenty of people who needed lawyering. I just forget my phone this morning and this was the first chance I’ve had to retrieve it.”

You hummed in acknowledgment as the elevator dinged your arrival to the sixth floor. The doors slide open and you walked out. Or rather you tried. But apparently you just had no luck with elevators today because you managed to slip on nothing. For the second time today, you started to fall. Only backwards this time.

And despite what happened the last time, Matt still caught you.

“Sorry,” you said, feeling the earlier flush to your cheeks deepen.

“No need to apologize, sweetheart,” he said. “I like having a beautiful girl in my arms.”

Which only made the warmth in your face start to spread down your neck. Even if he didn’t meant it, it was nice to be told that you were beautiful. You couldn’t help liking it. You did your best to ignore the nasty voice in your head – the one that sounded a lot like those awful girls in high school who had bullied you – saying how would Matt even know that you were beautiful or not . . . he was blind . . .

Your more optimistic side – which sounded like Serena – pointed out that for obvious reasons, that Matt was unlikely to find someone attractive based solely on their appearance . . . so maybe he really did find you beautiful . . .

You blamed those pernicious thoughts for making you feel like there was hint of hesitation, of reluctance, in Matt’s hands as they slide back off of your waist once you were standing upright again. But not matter how many times you told yourself that it was just your overactive imagination . . . part of you couldn’t help but hope.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Matt said as you followed him into his apartment. While he disappeared down a hallway, you propped your unfinished painting against a wall before slipping your tote off your shoulder with a sigh of relief. It wasn’t very heavy but those almost falls had jerked it and its contains around, making the straps dig into your shoulder. After sitting down the tote, you prodded the area. It was a little sore but it lacked the tenderness you associated with oncoming bruises.

You walked toward the kitchen and looked around, curious. In some respects, his apartment was a lot like yours. Both displayed the buildings’ previous life as factory in the exposed brick, scuffed hardwood floors, and visible HVAC and pipes. Both had large windows that let in a lot of natural light if even the old glass was a little wavy or different colored. Both had galley-style kitchens and generally open floor plan. Both of you seemed to have opted for a mismatched collection of secondhand furniture in either earth tones or neutral colors. But that was where the similarities ended.

The first and most noticeable difference was size. His was a lot bigger than yours. Which honestly you had expected, knowing very well that your side of the sixth floor had been turned into two units whereas his was left as one. Yours didn’t have access to the roof but in all honesty, you were fine with that. You weren’t afraid of high places in and of themselves but you were afraid of falling from high places. The outside of your windows wasn’t dominated by The Billboard. Which even during the day looked rather bright.

Matt’s apartment struck you as unfinished, like there was something missing but it took you a moment to figure out what. There was nothing decorative. The walls were bare and furniture were bare. It was sharp contrast to your place where the walls had been turned into a gallery for your unsold paintings and the furniture was festooned with the efforts of Serena’s knitting or your embroidery. You wondered if this was due to preference (Matt was simply a minimalist who considered decorative items to be annoying clutter) or to circumstance (Matt hadn’t found anything that he liked yet).

Another difference was the level of tidiness. You weren’t outright messy. You cleaned up after yourself. But there was always a certain amount of controlled chaos. For example, you were just as likely to find your pincushion and scissors on the kitchen table as in the sewing bag where they belonged. Or how your books often ended up stacked on the floor by your reading chair instead of being put back on the bookshelf.

Matt’s place, by contrast, looked very well organized. Everything obviously had a place and was always returned to its spot when not in use. Which made sense when you thought about it. No one wanted to go on a scavenger hunt every time they needed something. And given how busy Matt was, he also didn’t have time to be doing that.

Plus there were things that no one would want to get mixed up. Like grabbing the shampoo bottle when you wanted the mouthwash. Yes, there were other things that would clue him in before he inadvertently washed out his own mouth with soap. But, as your grandmother liked to say, an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure.

“Will any soap work?”

You jumped at a little at Matt’s voice. He sounded close. Much closer than you would have thought he could get to you without you noticing. Especially on these old hardwood floors which had so many places that creaked or groaned when stepped on.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s . . .” you started as you turned toward the sound of his voice. And promptly felt your intended words get tangled up in your throat. Your heart began to race as blood rushed back to your cheeks at the sight before you.

Your eyes greedily took in his broad shoulders, then down arms so thick that you doubted that you would be able to fully wrap your hand around it. Back up and across to the well-defined pectorals, then down through to sculpted abdominals until they disappeared into the waistband of his trousers. All covered in a skin that looked like it was as soft as satin.

You swallowed hard. You had known for a while that Matt had some muscle. He had saved you from your own clumsiness too often for you not to know that. But this . . . you had no idea he was hiding all this under those fancy suits of his . . . It was like someone had brought the statue of a Greek god or Michelangelo’s David to life . . . and then someone had apparently convinced him to put on pants. Whoever that idiot was should be fired . . . because if the rest of him looked this good . . .

“Sweetheart?”

Once again, you jumped at his voice. You raised your eyes up to his face. Your breath caught for the second time. Because Matt wasn’t wearing his dark glasses. You had never seen him without those glasses. Predictably, his eyes were just as pretty as the rest of him. Big, brown eyes sparkling with amusement and confidence. It matched that cocky little smirk he was sporting. The same one he had given you earlier. Only this time, you were positive that he knew that you were staring.

But it was so hard not to . . . he was so beautiful . . . it filled with you competing urges. The artist longed for your drawing pencils and a couple of hours to sketch. You weren’t sure you had the talent to fully capture his beauty but you would love to try. The woman, however, wanted him to fuck you. For him be inside you. Cock, fingers, tongue . . . your cunt didn’t care which. Any or all of them would do.

Watching that pink tongue dart out from between those oh-so-kissable lips before disappearing back inside his mouth did nothing to quell your arousal. Nor did the almost hungry look in his eyes. All it did was make you think about all things a man could do with his tongue if he was so inclined . . .

You dug your hands into your jeans to keep them to yourself. Silently you reminded yourself why you had to control the later impulse. First – Matt wasn’t your boyfriend. He was your neighbor and maybe a friend. Second – even if you were his lover and consented to having sex, neither of you had time today. He needed to go back to his office and you had to be the cafe at three. Abby would understand you being late because you were helping Matt clean up The Magenta. She would be far less sympathetic toward hanky-panky induced tardiness. So as much as you would like him to bend you over his kitchen table, you had to ignore that particular desire.

As for the artistic urge . . . since he didn’t seem to hate you for The Magenta, maybe he would agree to model for you? And you were friends of a sort. Friends could ask friends to model for them, right?

“L-liquid soap,” you said, doing your best to sound normal instead of incredibly turned on. “I-I found it easier to work with when cleaning up paint.”

Matt didn’t look like he was convinced by your non-existent acting skills. But he went along with the change of subject. Then gave you another heart attack by revealing that his shirt and tie were silk while his jacket was wool with a silk lining. You had no idea how to clean paint off of those without damaging them . . . isn’t stuff like that dry clean only?

The answer was yes and no. The shirt was made of a type of washable silk that he could launder at home – on the gentle cycle with mild soap. The suit and the tie, however, were both dry clean only. But Matt knew how to prevent stains from getting set in his fancy clothes and you knew how to handle paint. Between the two of you, you worked a plan that should get the paint off while preventing damage to his clothes.

Using an old gift card that you used as a painting tool as a scrapper, you removed the bulk of the paint from the tie and jacket while Matt used his bottle of liquid dish-soap and water to wash his shirt in the sink. Then, you dampened a white washcloth with lukewarm water, added a tiny amount of the soap, before dabbing the affected areas. Before dabbing again with a separate cloth that was just dampened with water, then carefully blotting with another washcloth that was completely dry.

You tried to keep your mind on the task in front of you but kept getting distracted. By his . . . everything. You wanted to trace every muscle with your fingers. Or your tongue. Either would be enjoyable. Or both. Both was good . . . the only thing that wasn’t making you press your thighs together in an effort to relieve the ache in your cunt were the scars.

Not because you thought his scars were ugly. The scars were like kintsugi. The healed but visible damage made the person more beautiful, not less. But because the scars worried you. It looked like someone had tried very hard to kill Matt.

You hadn’t realized that being a lawyer was so dangerous . . . but then, Nelson & Murdock had gone up against some powerful people. People like Fisk. Had Fisk or someone like him sent someone after Matt? You glanced at his hands. He had the same calluses on his knuckles as your ex who was a boxer. Did Matt know how to box? Was that how he had survived the obvious attempt on his life?

You were curious but realized that some of the answers you wanted might require a lengthy conversation. Which you didn’t have time for. Assuming Matt was even willing to answer those questions. He might not be. Which was fine. Trauma was rather personal and you didn’t really know each other.

You returned to your task. Despite your frequent distraction, soon the clothes were cleaned to the best of your ability. All three items were hung on hangers to dry in the case of the shirt or await a trip to the dry cleaners for the other two. Something that you offered to pay for.

“No need for you to do that, sweetheart. It’s about time for that suit to go to the cleaners anyway.”

“But it’s my mess,” you protested.

You didn’t win the argument. But it wasn’t a fair fight. First, he was a lawyer. He argued with people for a living. You painted or served food and drinks. Second, he still hadn’t put on a shirt. It was very distracting. And he knew it. His opposition in court was so lucky that he had to keep all his clothes on in the courtroom. Otherwise, they’d might never win.

“Stupid, sexy Murdock,” you muttered quietly under your breath as you washed your brushes and palette. Not quietly enough because he laughed.

“I’m sexy?” Matt asked. Warmth flooded your face. Judging by that cocky smirk, he knew the answer to that question. Yes, absolutely yes. But you were absolutely not going to say that.

“I plead the Fifth,” you said. Which only made him laugh harder.

He opened his mouth, probably to tease you some more, when his phone started ringing out, “Foggy, Foggy, Foggy.”

“Sorry, I’ve got to take this,” he said.

“Go ahead,” you said quickly.

He flashed you a smile before answering his phone with a “What’s up, Fogs?”

You put away your things while Matt talked to his partner. From the sound of it, he was explaining why retrieving his phone was taking so long. A check on your watch – now cleaned of paint – warned you that you really needed to leave now if you wanted to be ready for work on time. You swung your tote up onto your shoulder.

Then found yourself in a quandary. It was rude to interrupt someone while they were on the phone but it was also rude to leave without saying good-bye. But it wasn’t like you could go just wave good-bye.

“Matt?” you called out.

“Hang on Foggy,” he said, pulling the phone away from his ear. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“I’ve got to go,” you said. “I’ll see you later?”

“You’ll have to. I can’t.”

For a moment, that answer confused you. But only for a moment. Blind joke. Not the first one he had made around you. It wouldn’t be the last. He seemed rather fond of them. Well, it was his disability. It certainly wasn’t your place to tell him that he couldn’t make jokes about it if he wanted to.

Besides sometimes the looks on people’s faces when he made them were very funny.

“Left myself wide open for that one, didn’t I?” you said.

“Yep,” he said. He looked very pleased with himself. “But yes, I’ll see you later.”

That made you smile. “Bye, Matt.”

“Bye, sweetheart,” he said before returning to his phone call. You closed the door to his apartment as quietly as you could, then made you way across the hall toward your own apartment. Time get for work.

Step one – a cold shower.

Notes

There are portable easels that are designed to be collapsed down and easily carried. I have one. Some of them come with an attached box that is meant to carry paint, brushes, and whatever else you need but that type is more expensive (about 70 dollars on the cheaper end) than one that is just the easel (which is about 20). Reader has a limited art budget and those fifty bucks she didn’t spent on an easel can buy a lot of paint and canvas.

I’ve found that tackle boxes and tool boxes make great carrying cases for arts and crafts supplies. The divided trays are very useful if the creative thing you are doing involves a lot of little pieces or tools like beading or jewelry making.

Reader took the subway for part of her journey because, according to what I could find, getting from Hell’s Kitchen to Central Park via subway takes about 14 minutes while walking that same distance would take about 40 minutes. So the subway it was.

Magenta is, generally speaking, purplish red color. The shades vary between more pink, more red, or more purple. Even paint doesn’t always agree. I have one set on acrylic paints that labels a color as ‘light magenta’ while a different set calls the same color ‘magenta’ and third just says ‘pink.’

Jackson Pollock (1912 – 1956) was an American artist who was part of the abstract expressionist movement. He is best known for his ‘drip’ technique where he would pour or splash liquid house-paint with frenetic movement onto the canvas which was laying flat on the floor. In some ways, his work reminds me of acrylic pouring which looks very cool but also very messy.

I mean no disrespect to those with an art degree. I started off majoring in fine arts and part of me wishes that I had stuck with it despite the challenges. One of my professors recommended getting your masters if you were going to major in art simply because then you could get teaching jobs in many places.

That contract thing is true but I’m not a lawyer and have never taken Contracts 101. Always get your legal advice from actual lawyers.

Turpentine is used to clean paint brushes and other tools when using oil paint. A low odor version is highly recommended but remember to only use it in a well-ventilated place as the fumes are toxic. It is also very flammable. You can use it to get oil paint off of your skin but it is very drying and probably isn’t be safe to use on places like your face. The skin there easily absorbs things (which is the primary reason that make-up has go through FDA approval).

For the record, blind people don’t have better senses than everyone else. They just pay more attention to the information from their other senses provide, things that us sighted people tend to ignore. And arguably have more practice identifying different sounds, smells, etc than someone who largely ignores that input.

While I cannot say that this happens in NYC, as I have never lived there, where I grew up (American southwest) and where I live now (Florida), the grandmas and aunties in the Latin community make and sell tamales during the winter holiday season. Maybe for some extra spending money for said holidays. In my experience, they are always excellent. I almost don’t consider it Christmas without some tamales.

The reason Reader feels like a jerk for tripping over Matt’s cane is that messing with someone’s mobility aid and/or not giving them enough space to use it is a dick move.

The Bow Bridge is a bridge in Central Park. You have probably seen it before since it is pretty popular for movies and television. Probably because it looks perfect for your sappy romantic moments, dramatic love confession, meet-cutes, etc. It also helps that it looks just as nice surrounded by leafy trees as it does covered in snow.

Bob Ross (1942 – 1995) was an American painter who was the host of an instructional art show called The Joy of Painting, which aired from 1983 until 1994, on PBS (public broadcasting station) in the US but also in similar public stations around the world. You can find the episodes on YouTube.

According to the internet, you can spot clean wool, silk, and other such fabrics like how Reader does without damaging the fabric. But it was the internet so take that with a generous portion of salt.

Yes, I do use an old gift card when I paint. To make smallish straight lines, very handy for fences and rain effects. I cannot speak for every artist but my painting tools aren’t limited to brushes and painting knives.

Kintsugi (“golden joinery”) is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer that has been dusted or mixed with gold, silver, or platinum. The point is not to hide the damage but highlight it, to treat the breakage and repair as simply part of the object’s history. And that having such a history makes it more valuable, not less.

[the-fab-fox]

Okay. So Imma just come out and say it.

Y'all who read fanfic. You. Need. To. Start. Commenting. On. Fics.

I have been told I'm a great writer. I've been told I'm spot-on with characterization. I've been told I'm great at making readers feel and experience what the characters are feeling and experiencing. Been told it's like the reader is in the room as everything plays out.

However, when I see that my fics have upwards of 1K hits and maybe 100-300 comments and maybe 40-100 kudos and not even hitting triple digits in the bookmarks/subscriptions to a fic... Well, what would you think in my shoes?

Most likely, if you're like me, you're thinking all kinds of negative things (especially if you have mental illness/ADHD/neurodivergency of some kind). Stuff like... Oh, those other people are just being nice (not fair to them so I try not to think this way but negative self talk doesn't play nice with me).

Or I think... Okay so they checked it out. They had to click on the fic for it to even register the hit, right? So why don't I at the very least have more kudos? That's the easiest option on there (though it's like a like on here; if you are gonna leave kudos please also leave a comment), right? So what was wrong with my fic that I don't have more kudos at least.

But then I get on here and see so many comments and reblogs on FANART (still not enough for them either though lbr). THE POINT IS... If you read a fic. If you read it and liked it, you all really need to start commenting.

It doesn't even have to be long paragraphs or quoting or any of the ✨ big comments ✨ stuff. You could leave an emoji that be showing me what my fic or update got you feeling. You can do keyboard smash. If the author asks for it, you can leave constructive criticism (but only if the author has actively asked for it; if they haven't or given you permission, then don't). You can absolutely do big comment things too.

One of my favorite type of comments to get are the quoting ones. You just copy/paste and then say what you liked about it or what it made you feel or your reaction to it. Things like that. I love when my readers tell me their fave parts in an update. Or quote a line and tell me their thoughts and feels. Just yes.

We are far too advanced in this day and age and fanfiction and fandom are wholly more accepting than it used to be but for some reason, comments and reactions have become almost non-existent compared to when I was 15. And I was... Pretty cringy in my writing back then but I can admit that. But every chapter I'd get at least 8-10 comments. A chapter!

Even earlier in my Twst series I was getting A LOT more comments and with every fic it seems to have dropped significantly.

To me, to my brain, that tells me that my writing is suddenly sucky or I lost my talent or I'm not actually as great a writer as I was told because then why aren't more people commenting.

You might try to argue and say you're shy. Do you comment on order things? Do you tack onto a reblog to put out some addition to the original post? Do you chat with people in the fandom? Do you comment on fanart?

Then what makes a fanfic any different? (This is not including smut fics because I get but necessarily wanting it tied back to you. But if you open ao3 in a browser you aren't logged into ao3 on, you can (as long as the author has allowed it) post a comment anonymously. Yeah!)

You might say oh well I don't have time to comment right now. But you had time to read the fic? You had time to reblog that shit post? You had time to comment on the tags on a fanart you really loved? Thing is, unless you want to write a long one, comments do not take that long to leave. They really don't.

If you're worried the author doesn't want to hear from you—I'll stop you right there. The author ABSOLUTELY wants to hear from you.

So now is the time to stop making excuses to be lazy. You are reading really great fan literature for free. The least you can do as a thank you and to show support is to COMMENT. ON. THE. FIC.

And if you wanna really make an author's day and help support them and their work, REC the fic. REC the Author's work list. You can do that to friends you know would like it or even better, make a post about the fics and link your recs.

It's really not that hard and we should not have to beg. Realize the blessing you have that fics you would enjoy exist for free and do your part. COMMENT.

[where-are-the-spooky-gays-2]

I actually have discovered I lack the motivation for a new fic so here's various blurbs for Punk Remus corrupting Christian Virgil that I like. Insert Blasphemy and Sacrilegious Activities tags here. And there are a few suggestive ones because it's Remus I don't know how else to form it. Basically I'm sorry in advance :3

- Virgil got that purity culture BS from his parents about like being a virgin before marriage. So like. Extra virgin. Remus changes these things. No details because I want to still be welcomed on this blog 🙏

- They actually meet in a church bathroom (it's really awkward Virgil walks out of a stall to wash his hands and Remus is just sitting in the window smoking) (he doesn't want to be there) (went with his parents and then ditched) (this is only like 50% of the time of me thinking about it tho) (didn't go outside bc they thought it was funny to smoke in church) (made a holy shit joke to Virgil. That was his first sentence. If you shit in a church is it holy shit) (somehow it fucking works) (romance is not dead, fellas, its hidden in the shit jokes)

- the first not Christian song Virgil years is Welcome To The Black Parade by MCR. That's why it's really special to him. Inspired the emo.

- I feel like no matter what Remus' bedroom is covered wall to wall in just. Whatever he wants. Pride flags, tapestries, posters, signs he's stolen, random shit he's thumb-tacked onto the wall, LEDs and fairy lights and lamps. There is no open wall space. This is all a bit overwhelming for Virgil at first (remember: sad beige baby) but he comes to love it and all the things he can look at

- every hickey Virgil gets pre-moving in with Remus is hidden underneath a shirt. Remus leaves ONE above his collarbones and Virgil literally has to tell his parents it was a bruise from how he slept. Remus gets HELLA scolded for that

- Virgil does smoke a cigarette with Remus. He does not like it. They also shotgun a cigarette. He has mixed feelings on that. Virgil does the devil's lettuce with Remus. He enjoys this. A lot.

- Virgil's first time drunk on something other than communion wine (half joking) is with Remus. They skip town thrice over in order to go to a bar where Virgil won't be known and tattled on. Remus is surprisingly very protective and good to him. Takes him home, takes off his shoes and coat, tucks him in, puts a trash can next to him for tomorrow.

- A lot of late night drives through the parks. I mean, it's late, Virgil doesn't have a curfew. They drive through the parks and find a cozy corner to talk where nobody will see or hear them. Maybe they smooch a little. A lot.

- SO many religious conversations. So many. Just. So many. Remus wants the communion wine and the little crackers. Virgil has to explain he cannot have the wine and crackers. Remus calls him wine and a cracker. Then asks if eating the wine and cracker is cannibalism. Then talks about cannibalism.

- my favorite one: Virgil asks Remus to come with him to church one time. Just once. Maybe Virgil is having a hard time (not religiously like externally) and wants to go for comfort but can't stand the thought of leaving Remus. So this like total punk walks into a church and sits with Virgil and... knows all of it? The prayers, the statements, the right times for everything. Virgils shocked. They leave the church later and he's like ???. Remus answers "what? Didn't think I was a church kid? Don't I look like a pastor's kid?" Haha yeah plot twist I love this.

- virgils parents want to meet his "new little friend." Remus can't hide all of the punkness but it tries. Virgil is surprised when he shows up with a clean mouth (swearing + brushed his teeth), long sleeves to hide the tattoos, plastic (mostly invisible) piercings to try and hide the ones he can, hair tied back in a respectable position (is a mullet ever respectable? /j /lh) It doesn't make them 100% like him but he tries and he may succeed a little.

There are definitely more but I also have a habit of sending in asks at 1am and it is 12:52 am and I need eep. I looooooove corruption fics where it's totally cool. Like yeah there's some concern but still that's the good shit. Also hi 🐸 anon (or anyone else) if you read this and any of these inspire you, take em :3

— 👑

V A L I D but I fucking L O V E A L L of this!!! Ree W O U L D make a holy shit joke in a church and of course it works on Vee manz is dorksexual XD /light hearted Poor Ree has to get scolded by his boyf for the hickey wear turtlenecks then Emo XD I seriously L O V E their bond and how carefree they are with each other and the fact that the chaotic Punk at least tries to put an effort to look presentable around Vee's parents to make a good impression is really sweet <3 (Also I'm O B S E S S E D with that plot twist of course Ree would know the church like the back of his hand but Vee's confusion makes it more hilarious XD)

[atripandahalf]

Runs in,,

Can you make a barnaby x wally fic ?,, I love them so much they stole my heart ,,

- barnaby fan

Hello!!

Of course - I went a little bit haywire with this one so it's a multi-chapter, and pre-relationship. It's also pretty heavy, but is also hurt/comfort! Hope this is what you were looking for <3

(ao3) (part two) (part three)

more like puppets than hands (part one)

His thoughts were swimming - what was his function? His order? His place? He had thought it had been on the farm, and then he thought it had been in the neighbourhood, and now he wasn't sure. He felt like he was torn between the two places. He was also oddly warm, despite the window across from where he was sat being open. Oh, and the door to his left. The front door.

Hang on.

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Barnaby POV, Parental Grief, Minor horror elements - if there's anything else to tag let me know!

---

The living room was decimated. There were scratch marks all over the couch, with its soft fluff pouring out of each crevice - there was smashed glass on the floor, and the bright moonlight streamed in from the windows. Night-time was a time of peace in the neighbourhood; usually the other neighbours were asleep, or engaging in their more quieter activities. Barnaby was faintly aware this was when Eddie usually drew in his sketchbook, and Frank organised his butterfly collection. "Everything has a place, Barnaby," Frank would say, and Barnaby can almost hear his voice now. Everything had a place, and everything had an order. An order that had just been upturned by Barnaby himself.

He was acutely aware of his own heartbeat, quicker than usual, and his breath was coming in quick pants. His thoughts were swimming - what was his function? His order? His place? He had thought it had been on the farm, and then he thought it had been in the neighbourhood, and now he wasn't sure. He felt like he was torn between the two places. He was also oddly warm, despite the window across from where he was sat being open. Oh, and the door to his left. The front door.

Hang on.

Barnaby was sure he had shut the door earlier. He had been out in the neighbourhood, and then he came back at dusk, as normal, and shut the door. Why would he have left it open?

There was something in front of him; movement? Realistically the thought of danger should have been higher on his mind, but it was also the neighbourhood - who would even want to hurt him?

He focused on the figure, he could really make it out to be another neighbour now, with a blue quaff of hair, and a red handkerchief tied round his neck, and an oddly concerned look on his face. It looked out of place - Wally was normally relaxed, especially when with Barnaby, always laughing at his jokes. He should never look this sad or worried in Barnaby's mind, what he wouldn't give to get rid of that look, to make sure Wally felt nothing but pure joy ever again.

"-aby? Barnaby? Can you hear me, neighbour? Bee!"

Barnaby mumbled something incoherent in response, even to himself, his eyes finally focusing on Wally.

"Wally?" Barnaby looked frazzled, all rough and raggedy, as if he had been playing the anti-gravity game for hours, "Wally... I'm sorry."

Wally deepened his frown, before tutting. It reminded him of Miss Beagle, and he felt that hole in his heart throb hard, "Hush now. What's wrong?"

"M'fine, m'fine, I'm sorry for worrying you! Just needed to let out some steam, you know how it is!" Barnaby tacked a smile onto the end of his sentence, spreading his hands out in front of him, as if to really try to sell the act that he was fine. Wally doesn't have to know everything, I mean what kind of friendship is that? And Barnaby truly was fine - or at least he will be. He always is, after all. Really, if he just told Wally what he was really feeling, it would just worry him more, and Barnaby hated it when Wally worried. He really was so much better happy.

Wally raised an eyebrow, his eyes looking down at Barnaby's hunched over position, before looking back up to his face. He was always so perceptive, so aware of how Barnaby was feeling; could read him like an open a book. "You don't have to tell me what's going on, but please," he paused, and their was a beat, as if Wally was preparing to ask what came next, "let me stay the night with you, hmm? I can make you some tea, take care of you. Let me do that."

"...Can we have courgettes?"

Wally lets out a little smile, "Of course, my darling.”

[snazzyscarf]

happy pride month.  i was watching the video from this post a minute ago and left my own comments & thoughts in the tags about how humans have pushed our own concepts of sex & gender onto other animals in nature and decided to make my own post abt it bc its something that i find really interesting

so i really love Ants, right.  and one of the main things i find interesting is that Sure, most ants in a colony are “technically” female with one (or a few) being able to reproduce.  and Sure, a couple ants in a generation that can mate with them are “technically” male.  but those terms Vastly simplify colony dynamics for the sake of equating them to our own human views on The Sexes TM.

like, there’s already a term for “male ants!!” they’re called Drones! just call them Drones, there’s no need to tack “male” on there.

similarly with Queens vs Workers! they’re both referred to as female despite there being major differences in their biological functions. “reproductive females” and “non-reproductive females” They Already Have Names. its Queens and Workers.

we’re so attached to our human concept of there only being two sexes that we apply it to creatures like ants who arguably have Three!! and even THAT is an oversimplification of colony dynamics! different species have even more niche roles like majors and minors (even repletes in honeypot ants!) and it’s FASCINATING!!

and sure, i understand that gendered terms are used to make the roles of these ants easier to understand colloquially, but i argue that doing this only further prevents people from being open to learning about and understanding the differences between sex & gender as a whole. like!! teaching children and adults about sexual polymorphism could be a GREAT introduction into understanding that biology is incredibly varied and how that is a good thing. it’s an amazing and cool thing, even! and i think that being upfront about it when educating people in layman’s terms would lead people to be much more open to the idea that there is more going on under the surface in Human biology.  and from there—gender!

it’s just like. clinging to what you were taught in Human Bio 101 prevents you from learning about so many of the wonderful and fascinating parts of the world we live in and its honestly really sad. what i’ve said about ants just now is only scratching the surface!! i really and truly believe that binary thinking is one of the most difficult barriers to overcome in our society, but i promise you that once you’re over that wall the world becomes so much more beautiful <3

[darklydeliciousdesires]

London Will Burn - Chapter Six.

Your continued enthusiasm for the story is so exciting for me to read, besties! Thank you so much :)

Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five

Tag list - In the comments, please DM to be added/removed

Words - 3,507

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Minors DNI.

It was the sunshine finally making an appearance across London that awoke Sean the following morning, the bright beams streaming in through the thin fabric of Rin’s curtains. He could hear the bells of Westminster Abbey sounding softly in the distance, birdsong in the nearby trees, and the soft breaths of the girl still sleeping in his arms.  

This posed a dilemma for him. Not because he wasn’t content lying there in a large, soft bed with a beautiful young woman, but more because he had a very full bladder, and didn’t want to disturb her by entangling himself to go and empty it. Two careful manoeuvres to free his arms later, and he was able to slide from the bed, Rin sleeping on.  

Returning to the warm soft of her nudity, he thought he’d gotten away with being stealthy, even heading for the bathroom a little way down the corridor rather than using her ensuite so the flush didn’t wake her.  

“Morning.” That smile, god. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d awoken to a smile so pretty. It was something he could definitely get used to seeing.  

“Shit,” he mumbled, wrapping an arm around her as she turned to him. “I was trying not to wake you.” 

“No matter,” she spoke on a yawn, turning to reach for her watch. “Mm, it’s only ten past eight. We can sleep in, unless you have somewhere to be?” 

He smiled, stroking her hair. “The only place I have to be is right here.” His usual Sunday would involve a trip to the gym, coffee on the way back and then an afternoon working from home. While Rin dozed against his chest, it was work that he had firmly upon his mind; namely how he could wash the amount of cash for the Kurdish and Albanian outfits needed through any other of the Wallace Corporation’s current projects, without having to secure the bid on the new complex.  

Laundering had to be done very, very carefully. There was only so many zeros one could tack onto legitimate expenditures without falling under the ever-watchful eye of accountants and HMRC, who would of course come down hard and involve the police, should anything even look slightly amiss with the company finances.  

He wracked his brains until he felt exhausted by it, eyes growing heavy again. He was stuck. Turning over, he wrapped Rin in a tight embrace, falling back into slumber. It took him by surprise, that he managed to doze for a further hour, finding the girl he had wound himself around so tightly still sleeping. Oh no. That would not do.  

Rin awoke with a bit of a start at feeling her legs splayed wide beneath the bed covers, her sleepy brain wondering what was going on until she felt Sean’s tongue take a slow swipe at her folds, the haze of sleep clearing rapidly. Well, if anything was going to act as an efficient wake up call, it was the sublimity of waking to feel her clit being licked.  

She virtually whimpered, feeling his tongue flatten and drag her again, her hands sinking into his hair and tugging gently. Trembling against each keenly delivered lick, her back arched, her body urging him to press closer. He read her need faultlessly.  

“Fuck, you’re too bloody good!” That firmer contact of wet heat pressed firmly upon her clit sent sparks skittering through her, a warm flush reaching her cheeks as she gasped and cried out softly. She could feel him smile against her, and she wanted to call him out for his smugness, but he had every right to be so. The tip of his tongue traced a series of circles down to her gently fluttering hole, Rin hissing a breath as he pushed within, the honey of her cunt bathing his mouth.   

He grunted against her, hands flexing at her thighs as he felt her streaming against his mouth, licking slowly through her folds again, plump lips wrapping her clit in a warm, sumptuous hug. The pleasure poured over her, like the gild from the sunlight steaming through the curtains, pushing the covers off them to beam a smile at him. His returned it, winking, his pupils lust blown already. 

The steel blue of his irises was only concealed by enviably long, golden eyelashes closing, lips still sucking at her, a little more pressure, the tip of his tongue rolling over her bud adding to the shocks that roared up her spine. Pleasure pooled golden in her very marrow, her hips shaking against his face, thighs closing around his head as she panted hard, feeling the heat begin to swirl and snap.   

Teetering on it, she felt bereft when he suddenly moved, but the slide of his cock arrowing deep into her soaking core as his body pressed to hers took her there, nirvana swirling, her cries of release muted by his mouth. She expected to the pleasure to begin ebbing away, but as she clutched his shoulders, the blaze burned forth again, Rin experiencing her first multiple orgasm as she bloomed beneath him.  

Her shudders reverberated over his muscles, her cries rending the air as he gently laid soft bites along her jaw, looking down at her with a smirk. “You just came again, didn’t you?” 

“Mmhmm.” Her hum was so dreamy and blissed-out, Sean couldn’t help but chuckle softly.  

“Shall we see if we can make that happen a third time?”  

She met his mouth with sweet kisses, her hands smoothing over his scratched-up back. “You’d better.” Something shifted, and they both felt it, Sean laughing softly as he continued to fuck her slow, stroking one another, sharing kisses, the tempo lazy and rolling. “This isn’t just casual anymore, is it?”  

What a question, because no, it wasn’t, but the impossibility of what he had to achieve made it just that. It was impossible for him to attain what he needed to keep his father pleased, while ensuring that hers fell in line, without her becoming hurt in it all.  

 Looking down at her, he stroked her face, his stare unblinking. She felt his heart quickening against her breast, his arms weaving to clasp her tighter, sinking into a long kiss. Therein was her answer. 

And for Sean? He knew that the video was getting deleted. He’d find another way. He had to find another way.  

Rutting into her deeply, he felt the pleasure fizzing over his bones, his release like the gentle patter of warm hail prickling upon his nerves, taking her with him into the blossom of release. They lay breathless and entwined after, Sean eventually moving to lie next to her, his chest fluttering at her smile as he reached to tuck her hair behind her ear.  

“You're bloody lovely, you know." 

That smile did nothing but widen. “I have my moments, when I'm not being a gobby twat." 

Laughing quietly, he pulled her close. “I like the gobby twat in you, though.”  

They lay there talking and dozing until the need for food drove them out of the bed, Rin opening the door to find a fresh pile of laundry that included Sean’s clothes she’d left outside the previous night. Their housekeeper Maisie was nothing if not entirely proficient in the speed she would return clean garments.  

The staff usually had the weekend off, especially if not many of the family were in residence, but that particular Sunday they were bustling around, readying the house for Kevin and Diane’s return.  

“I’m bloody famished, Roger!” Rin called, entering the kitchen to find their chef at the island, peeling potatoes ready for the roast dinner that night. “Would you mind so much if I came in and caused a bit of chaos in cooking?” 

His face pinched, slicing the potato in his grasp before plonking it into the large iron pot in front of him. “Your brand of kitchen chaos is barely tolerable. What would you like? I’ll make it.” 

“Full English, times two please. I’ll make the coffee, though.” She then paused, turning to Sean. “You eat meat, right? I noticed you only ordered fish things last night.” 

“I do, yes.” 

“Thank the lord,” Roger snorted, drying his hands on a tea towel. “I never enjoy trying to make a palatable breakfast for vegetarians. One of her little besties is a vegan, and it always throws me, having to go and order tofu and attempt to bloody scramble it.” 

Sean raised an eyebrow, his mouth thinning. “Scrambled tofu? That sounds utterly dreadful.” 

Oh, how right he was, the chef remembering well how it was perhaps the only thing he’d ever cooked that he did not enjoy trying. “I do not recommend it.” 

Reaching for the cupboard, Rin then quickly found herself knocked out of the way by a hip bump, Roger laughing softly. “Oi! I’m just trying not to be a spoilt little rich girl who can’t do things for herself!” 

“And I like my kitchen to remain tidy, without the bloody coffee grinds going everywhere! You and your chap can go and make yourselves comfortable and I’ll sort it. Go on, shoo!”  

Picking up an orange, she rolled it down her arm and popped it off her inner elbow, catching it neatly. “Fine, we’ll be in the conservatory.” They left the kitchen, taking a long walk down to the centre of the house, turning left at the roped off section, Rin giving a little wave to a few tourists who were being shown around the part open to the public.  

The conservatory itself had been a Victorian era add on. In truth, it had originally intended as a massive greenhouse, and still somewhat served such a purpose. Some botany still existed in there, plants edging the perimeters, comfortable furniture dotted around, she and Sean taking a seat at the table. Looking around, his eye was caught by a set of framed photographs upon a small bookshelf, reaching to grasp it.  

“You’re brave,” he spoke, looking up from the image of Rin sitting in the middle of an arid landscape, with a young lioness lazing on her back before her.  

“Yeah, I can’t act like that with her any longer now she’s grown, we don’t go to the reserve often enough for her to recognise me,” she lamented, looking over at the picture of her and Mya. 

Sean wouldn’t even have trusted her at the size she was, although the beast did look very content, flopped down receiving belly rubs. “Is it one of those places where they allow you to play with the cubs until they reach a certain age? I’ve heard of those holidays, frightfully expensive affairs.” 

“No, the reserve belongs to dad. Animals are where his heart lies, and he fucking hates trophy hunting, so he always said he wanted to do something about it. That something was buying up a gigantic reserve in the middle of nowhere in Kenya and dedicating it to a safe space for them. I bloody love it there. Our closest neighbours are a tribe about eight miles away, it’s so remote.” 

It was a softness Sean didn’t expect to learn about his business nemesis, the man having an obvious affinity for African wildlife – as well as plenty of money to spare in funding the preservation of it. It made a wave of bitter bile roll through his stomach, remembering being haggled with when in truth, Kevin was short of nothing and did not need to whatsoever. He did it purely because he could, and now was going to get away with it, all because Sean had softened towards his target of blackmail.  

It began to gnaw at him again, meaning that once their breakfast arrived, he only managed to successfully eat two thirds of it, pushing the rest around the plate.  

“You’ve got quiet on me,” Rin noted, sipping her coffee. “Is that because I’m likely talking way too much?” 

He shook his head, the corner of his mouth tilting up. “Just tired, darling. I’m listening, so you carry on.” She did, telling him more about their vast African property, how she loved being out there more than anywhere else in the world, purely for how remote it was.  

It was while she was taking the plates back to the kitchen and going upstairs to retrieve her phone that he took his out and checked it, seeing he had an abundance of missed calls from it being on silent mode.  

“Oh, you are alive, then?” His father answered on the fourth ring. “Where’ve you been?” 

“I am,” he confirmed, sweeping toast crumbs into a pile with his index finger. “Just spending a weekend off the grid. Does a man good, to unplug from life for a couple of days.” 

Finn sighed. His son could be very impulsive like that, hence why he hadn’t worried too much about his vanishing act. “Well, you better be plugging yourself back in sharpish, boyo. The deadline for that bid is midnight tonight, unless you’re going to give me the news I’ve been waiting for, that you’ve secured the contract with Kevin?” 

“And if I can’t get it?” he broached, pinching his bridge of his nose. “Is there a way around all of this that would mean we can still invest in another project to facilitate the same long-term goal?”  

“This isn’t about finding other ways around it, Sean.” His tone was stern, biting, leaving his son under no illusion over his feelings, should he not secure the deal. “You either win, or you fail. I want that money, I want that port and I want that fucking bid. If it doesn’t happen then trust me, it’ll reflect upon anything I trust you with, going forward.”  

“Okay, but...” 

“No fucking buts!” Finn was emphatic, Sean closing his eyes as he swallowed back a sigh. “Do whatever the fuck you have to do in order for him to comply. That’s the fucking end of it. Bye.”  

He wanted to pick up the chair he was sitting in and hurl it through the glass of the structure he was presently in, a display of his fiery temper he knew he had to quell again. God, the fucking position he was in.  

The fucking position he’d put himself in.  

Sean realised that truly, he could blame his father all he liked, but it wouldn’t stop this mess from being his problem. If he was a better negotiator, he would have secured the contract already. If he was more like his father, he wouldn’t have faced the disrespect he had in the first place. If he was any less like his father, he wouldn’t have done something duplicitous in order to find a way through this mess, a way he now knew there was a very real chance he actually had to take.  

Or, just admit defeat and tell his father to fuck off. Not because he’d fallen desperately in love or anything, Sean was not that kind of person. It had more to do with his sense of morality, and wondering how little he’d truly have left if he did go ahead as planned. But then, if he didn’t... 

It was no small number, two hundred million. They needed it desperately to keep the money laundering racket continuing, but at what cost to him? He would never again witness Rin looking at him the way she had on that morning, when he’d reached across the bed and tucked her hair behind her ear. He could have something real with her, with perhaps the one person in his world capable of understanding him truly, for her reality near enough matched his own. 

Whatever the path, he knew he couldn’t stay there within the bubble of Mulford Hall with Rin while he came to that decision, though.  

“I’m afraid I have to leave, darling,” he spoke when she entered again. Immediately, she looked disappointed.  

“Oh, okay. Business calling, yeah?” 

He nodded, dropping a kiss atop her head. After grabbing his jacket, she saw him down to the side door, unlocking it, noting how warm the spring sun was as it illuminated that particular patch of the courtyard. “So, I’ll see you soon, yeah? Call me when you’re free and we can try and arrange something.” 

She noticed it right away, the discomfort in him, Sean rolling his shoulders up as he stuffed his hand into his pocket to retrieve his keys. “I’d say yes, but...” He shook his head, reaching to stroke her cheek. “You deserve better than me.”  

“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?” she spluttered, baffled at the sudden frigidness of his cold shoulder.  

“It means exactly what it’s meant to, Catherine.”  

He turned to leave, not uttering another word, and Rin certainly having more pride than to chase after him and demand he give her an explanation. It bothered her for the rest of the day, though, spending a good forty minutes on a FaceTime call to Rashida in order to rant about it.  

The explanation found its way into the ether seven hours later, the chain of events that would lead to her having Sean’s intentions revealed as her mum and dad were whisked from Gatwick in the back of a limousine later that evening.  

“Are you golfing on Thursday, love?” Diane asked, pulling her attention away from her phone. “We’ve received quite the last-minute invite to one of Sissy Hansen – Whiteman's lunches. Why we’re such an afterthought, goodness bloody knows, but I’d like to be politer than she is being in extending the invite so late.” 

“No, babe. I’m playing Wednesday morning before my meetings. Tell her we’ll be there,” he spoke. He could do with bending her husband’s ear about a few business deals, Harry Wiseman being very suggestable to further ways he could coin a profit.  

While his wife went about sending a reply, he heard his own phone beep, pulling it from his pocket to see he had a Whatsapp message from none other than Sean Wallace. A last-ditch attempt to gain his business, he wagered, opening it up to find a video file.  

Waiting for a few moments for the 5G coverage to pick up, the video began to play, Kevin frowning bemusedly before snorting a laugh. “Oh, lad. I don’t think I was the intended recipient of that.” he chuckled, shaking his head as he looked away from the screen, the video playing a filming of Sean going down on who he assumed to be his girlfriend or suchlike.  

“Are you watching porn?” Diane shouted at him from the other side of the car, hearing the moans of a woman in utter ecstasy.  

“Not of my own volition, sweetheart. I think Sean Wallace has got his contacts mixed up.” He was just about send a message back stating such, when the video changed shot. A pit the size of the limo they rode in dropped into his stomach at witnessing the girl whose face had so far been hidden was, Sean yanking her head back by her hair as he railed her from behind. A voice note message then followed. 

“Sign the contract, Kevin, or this gets released to the internet. I am done playing your games, now it’s time for you to bend to my will. Just like your daughter quite literally did. You have until midnight. As soon as the contract is signed and the funds transferred, the video will be deleted. You have my word.”  

Immediately, his phone was hurled in a fit of undiluted rage, the cold discomfort of what he’d just witnessed engulfing him entirely. “You little fucking cunt, Wallace! You fucking...”  

All that followed were growls of agitation, Kevin experiencing the bite of an icy freeze chill his veins, his wife attempting to get what had happened out of him but failing as his verbal tirade of utter fury did nothing but escalate. He was puce and sweating as he reached for his phone again, knowing he had no choice. His daughter’s dignity was non-negotiable. As any father knew, his duty was to protect his children.  

Still, it was with a tidal wave of bile licking his insides, putting his signature to that contract and organising for the release of funds, telephoning Sean as soon as it was done.  

“It’s done. Funds and docks are yours, but I swear to Christ above, if you ever fucking come near my daughter again, I will gut you. Heed my warning, because it’ll fucking happen.”  

Sean hung up, feeling what remained of the glowing buzz his weekend with Rin had left him with die off completely, leaving nothing but a stinging feeling behind that persisted right into the next day.  

Arriving at The Strand a few hours after his meeting, he exited the car to see his father just about to head in through the sleek glass doors, quickening his stride to catch him. He wasn’t the only one to exit a car and stride to catch up, though... 

[faeriekit]

Hiya! For your WIP tag game, I’d love to see 1,2 and/or 8! Love me some dp crossover right now 😍

Tall order! Let me see:

(Drake Manor)

“Oh,” Robin greets, a little of his exuberance…muted. Tim pouts. Danny ruins everything. “I didn’t know you were coming, or else I would have brought another gift! Danny, right? How have you been?” 

Danny rolls his eyes, but comes over to the door. In the same way Robin’s dressed down for the holiday, Danny’s dressed up; instead of his usual tee and hoodie combination, he has on a real sweater on over his jeans. For whatever reason, it has little green ghosts knitted into the repeating pattern. 

“You don’t have to bring anything for me. I’m not even Jewish,” Danny points out. “As long as the squirt gets something, I think you win. Welcome back; I hope you like somewhat burnt brisket. I think his mom got a little too enthusiastic with the oven.” 

“Your disrespect is audible and unwelcome!” Mom calls from somewhere else in the house. Tim isn’t exactly sure where. 

Robin’s face does something where he can’t tell if he thinks the scenario is really funny or super weird. “Joining for the holidays?” 

“Beats watching my Mom and Dad get into a no-holds-barred screaming match about whether or not Santa Claus is real or not,” Danny grumbles, peeved. And then, realizing: “Oh, Tim. Jazz says hi.” 

Oh, that’s nice. Tim hasn’t talked to her since she and Mom got into an argument about whether Tim ‘needed’ a therapist or not. Tim isn’t sure why. He’s pretty sure he’s fine.

2. untitled WIP that I genuinely haven't thought of a working name of yet

“Your you,” the kid continued proudly, pleased beyond measure. “I ate your piece!” 

Tim takes a deep breath. The deep breath will not prevent him from losing his shit, but it will help. 

Okay. A very small child ate his spleen. He will be so normal about that. He will be normal about that if it kills him. 

“Can you explain,” Tim asks, in a tone that’s not not the voice of exaggerated patience Janet Drake used to use on investors who crossed her, “Why you ate my spleen?” 

“It mine now! And now no more…no more new people,” the kid continues, wiping his face on Tim’s former blanket cape. It’s probably a self soothing gesture. It mostly looks like the kid is trying to clean his face off, which is gross. “‘Cause…tube babies. No new babies.” 

…And the solution was somehow eating an internal organ, Tim guessed, failing to understand the logic. But. He had some pretty good guesses about Ra’s favor of him meant when tacked onto this new mention of tube babies. Considering that Damian had been a former occupant of an artificial womb, and Ra’s’d had access to Tim’s genetic material…

“What did it taste like?” Tim dared to ask, having run out of other questions to occupy the boy with. 

“Bad!” Danny chirped. 

Great.

3. At the time you asked this I'm pretty sure it was already Superboy instead of Demon!AU? Anyway, here's some future Blister Pack fic:

Conner hums, pleased. “You’d eat more.”

Is he blushing?? Tim better not be blushing. He’s not thinking about—he’s not thinking about how Conner wants him to eat more. How that means Conner’s been thinking about how much Tim eats. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s just…observational. That he pays attention, when they’re huddled up on Tim’s bed working to enable mass data destruction and corporate warfare.

It’s fine!! It’s so normal. They’re friends, even, apparently! Friends do that! Tim should not be blushing.

“If you were a villain?” Conner asks, and it takes a second for Tim to figure out where they were in a line of conversation.

“Oh!” Tim realizes. “Kon didn’t tell you that? I have, like, a whole future evil timeline and everything. There’s a gun, we take over the world—it’s, like, a whole deal. I had to defeat myself to save the wo—you know what? It’s not important. It was just. Bad.”

Conner looks at him. His head tilts, as if he could get a better measure of him if he just changed the angle. “Hm,” is all he says, blue-green eyes focused.

It is not a disapproving hm. If anything, it sounds…

Tim is going to die of blood loss if all of the hemoglobin in his body keeps shifting up into his face. “Anyway!” he cuts the conversation off brightly. Since we’re not planning corporate sabotage anymore, want to try a movie? You, me, some corn nuts?”

Conner nods. The small smile on his face makes Tim’s stomach flip-flop with emotions he is not going to name.

“Sure.”

[delta-pavonis]

July Kinkfest Days 12, 13, and 14

The Sandman (human A/B/O AU) || Dreamling (Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling) || Rated E || 5.6k words

Prompts: Voyeurism | Pillow Princess | “I know you like it rough but I'm not going to damage you.” | Weapons Kink | Aggressive Omega | “Show me how you like to touch yourself.” | Breeding Kink | Confession | “I want to dress you up.” (The crossed out prompts will be in a later chapter of this insanity.)

Warnings (in addition to the prompts above): (check the AO3 tags)

Author's Notes: This is in the same AU as this kinkfest fill. It explores how alpha Hob and omega Dream got together.

Excerpt below. Read all of Chapter 1 on AO3.

“Hello, gorgeous. Heard you begging to be fucked… any chance I can take you up on that offer?”

Morpheus is consumed by gently inquiring brown eyes. The entire party fades into the background as warmth suffuses through his body. Even the ropes that have him suspended from the ceiling feel like tender caresses when he is looking into those brown eyes. 

This is an alpha, of that Morpheus has no doubt. He cannot scent him, not with the smell of sweat and semen and lube and blood all around him here on this stage, but he knows, in the way that he knows that he has lungs and a heart – it resonates within him.

“Yes.” He whispers, as if he speaks any louder the man in front of him will prove himself a dream. 

His smile is a dawn, something bright and new. “Good. Can I touch you?”

“If you can fuck me without touching me I will be really impressed.” A laugh, warm and rolling and so real. Morpheus can’t help but smirk. “Yes, you can touch me.”

He expects a fist in his hair, or a tug on the ropes. Instead, calloused fingers run over Morpheus’ lips, his cheekbone. “Gorgeous and smart.” Fingertips tilt his chin up. “Oh, I am taking you back to a room. I want this all to myself.”

Morpheus thrills at the possessiveness, wants to moan Yes, please, and take those fingers into his mouth. Instead, he pouts and whines. “But I like an audience.”

The alpha leans forward to whisper in his ear. “Liar.” His voice is heavy enough to cause the omega to shudder in his bonds. “Everyone already knows you are a needy little whore.” A gasp catches in Morpheus’ throat. “But if I take you away, just you and me? Then they all will know you are my needy little whore. And that’s what you really want, isn’t it?”

Fuck. Morpheus can feel himself getting wet at that, he might even be dripping onto the floor. Christ. “Yes. I want that.” He tilts his head in to subtly nuzzle at the other man’s jaw. “Sir.”

The alpha growls in pleasure and Morpheus does moan out loud then, can’t help himself, every instinct in him screaming that he should prostrate himself at the feet of this stranger. Then, in a rush of displaced air, the other man is gone. 

Luckily, he is speaking before Morpheus can cry out looking for him. “Drop him, gently now. I’m taking over this one.” There is an audible chorus of disappointed sounds from people around them, more than Morpheus thought were there, at least before this man showed up. “Jess, get my usual room ready, would you, love?” The clip-clacking sound of high heels fades into the distance. Who is this guy?

“Hey now, I had him first.” That’s the voice of the guy who was flogging him, who tied him up, who put this collar on him. Great hand at shibari, less at the domming. 

An aggressive snarl permeates the air again and Morpheus hears himself whine. There is the faintest rustle of fabric and then murmurs from the crowd. 

There is a tack-thud of the flogger hitting the polished floorboards. “S-s-sorry, Mr. Gadling, uh, Sir. Yeah. I. Ah. Have to. Leave.” 

Morpheus can barely hear the thud-thud-thud of boots running away over the rush of blood in his ears. Gadling. Robert Gadling. The Knight. Consigliere of the Cortesi Family. 

Fuck. This man is here to kill him. Pull him into a private room and either ransom him in pieces to his father or just murder him outright to send a message to the Endless. 

Well, joke's on him because Khronos couldn't give two shits about what happens to his pathetic omega son. Gadling is going to send Morpheus' ear by courier and Khronos will send the poor messenger back with a wad of cash and a request to finish the job. Oh, and a note: please return that ruby necklace, it is a family heirloom. 

The next few minutes pass in a blur as Morpheus is untied and his limbs rubbed back to normal function. Gadling does it all himself, with careful deliberation that, in any other circumstance, would make Morpheus' knees weak. 

"Hey, darling, what's wrong?" A silken robe has been draped over Morpheus' shoulders and Gadling is holding him up by the biceps. "I don't take unwilling partners, so if you have changed your mind, I won’t take offense…"

"Cut the act." Morpheus whispers, monotone, keeping this between them as he threads his arms into the robe. "I know you are here for me. So what is it going to be? Ransom or just plain murder?" His voice is probably more bladed than it needs to be, but he is also furious with himself for not catching it sooner. Epthumia is right, Morpheus is fucking useless.

Gadling looks genuinely confused. "I am sorry, what? Am I supposed to know you? Like, outside of my wildest fantasies?" 

Morpheus tamps down the amused snort that wants to come out – now is not the time to be charmed – crosses his arms over his chest and stares at the man in front of him. He finds nothing but warmth and sincerity. With narrowed eyes he turns slightly and lets the robe drop to reveal the bump of the top of his spine. There, in only about an inch square, is an hourglass with a frame shaped like a Mobius strip. 

What Morpheus doesn't expect is to be grabbed by the wrist and dragged down a hallway, up a flight of stairs, down another hallway he didn't even know existed in this building, and into a luxuriously appointed private room. The door slams, making Morpheus flinch, and he hears the deadbolt lock into place.

"You are one of Khronos’ kids, aren’t you?" Gadling spins him around so they are facing each other, hands on Morpheus' upper arms again. “If you know me, then you know I know Death and Destiny, just by virtue of our positions in our respective organizations. I know that he has more children.”

"Morpheus is what my father named me." He keeps his gaze as even as his tone.

He can see Gadling doing the math. Khronos has a hard-on for Ancient Greece, thinks it the pinnacle of human civilization, so it pays for anyone who interacts with him to know a bit about it too, even his enemies. So deep is his adoration that each of his children has a name right out of some Ancient Greek dictionary, then a nickname to go with it that matches the meaning of the Greek word. The latter is because their mother realized that no one could pronounce any of the given names and she was going to be spending the rest of her natural-born life correcting people when she could actually be drinking more wine. She was the one who came up with the cute alliteration scheme. The biggest rub is that Morpheus had it on good authority that Khronos had named himself, that his whole story of their hereditary line was bullshit, and that the name on that motherfucker’s birth certificate is Tim.

“Okay, you got me. I can’t come up with a word that starts with D-E that means sleep. So what’s your…” Morpheus just keeps staring while Gadling trails off. “You don’t have one. Holy shit, he does have an omega son he is hiding.”

He rolls his eyes. “Hiding is a strong word. More like a lie of omission.” Gadling just blinks at him, some unnamable emotion flittering across those beautiful eyes. “Now are you going to fuck me or what?”

[chrisbitchtree]

Everyone Say Thank You to Daddy Wade!

When Mobius's admittedly pathetic attempts at flirting fail, he resorts to letting Wade trick Loki into making a move!

Lokius - NSFW - 4.5k

***

With one last glance at Loki, Mobius turned the corner onto Wade’s street, picking up his pace, eager to escape the late November cold. It looked like it’d been raining, but it seemed to have stopped, leaving only a bunch of puddles and grey clouds behind. Mobius was thankful, since he couldn’t find his umbrella before leaving, and Loki had started to complain that Mobius was taking too long and was going to make him late to meet up with Thor.

That was one of Mobius’s favourite things about the new chapter of the TVA. The fact that with the newfound freedom to use his magic (by his own decree, his first, as co-director of the TVA with Mobius), he’d been able to use it to locate and reconcile with his brother. It had taken time, a whole lot of it, but now Loki and Thor were closer than they’d ever been before. Just thinking about it brought a smile to Mobius’s face.

Now that the two were thicker than thieves, they were spending a lot of time together, both alone, and frequently with Mobius and Thor’s boyfriend recently turned fiancé, Bruce. Loki had been shocked when Thor had announced that he was dating The Hulk of all people, telling Mobius privately that he couldn’t understand what the two saw in each other, but Mobius thought their relationship was sweet. They really seemed to balance each other out. Just like Mobius and Loki.

Not that Mobius and Loki were a couple, much to Mobius’s dismay. He wanted the man with every fibre of his being, wanted to kiss him and hold him, fuck him, court him, marry him. Not even his desire to own a jet ski outweighed how much he wanted Loki.

He’d tried his best to make his feelings known to the god, but he was a terrible flirt, so usually his come-ons either went unnoticed, or were brushed off as a joke. Mobius sighed, shoving his hands deeper in his pockets and walking the last couple blocks to Wade’s apartment.

Mobius has never actually intended to befriend Wade Wilson, and on paper, they were a bad match. Wade was rude and gross, his home and his life a mess, and the way he flirted with anything on two legs, and honestly, more than once that Mobius had seen, things on four legs, but somehow their friendship worked. They’d met at a party at Thor and Bruce’s, and had gotten to talking, finding common ground in their love of power ballads, video games, and surprisingly enough, tea, and had been meeting up to hang out when they could find the time since.

So, when Loki had told Mobius he was heading to New York to go suit shopping for Thor’s wedding, where Loki would serve as best man, Mobius had decided to tag along and go visit Wade, who’d told Mobius he had a new rooibos tea he wanted him to try.

He rang the buzzer for Wade’s apartment in his new building, and after a minute, the speaker crackled to life.

“What the hell do you want? If you’re selling something, we don’t want it. Unless it’s girl scout cookies, and only if it’s thin mints.”

Mobius smiled at the sound of Blind Al’s voice. “Hi, Al. It’s Mobius. Can I come in? Wade’s expecting me.”

She didn’t reply, but she did buzz him in, so that was something.

As he waited for the elevator, a flyer tacked to the bulletin board next to it caught eye. It advertised the knitting circle that Wade had talked about starting and had apparently finally gotten around to. It was supposed to be for residents only, but he’d invited Mobius, telling him he should bring Loki along. The flyer stated that the first meeting was in two weeks. He opened his phone and as he rode the elevator, he entered the details in his calendar, wondering what it would take to actually get Loki to come with him.

The elevator opened on the 10th floor and Mobius stepped out, knocking on the first door on the right.

“I’m finishing up on the shitter, but it’s open!” shouted Wade, much to the dismay of both Mobius and the woman fumbling with her keys and a bag of groceries three doors down. She gave him a startled look that he pretended not to see, quickly stepping through the door and shutting it behind him.

“There’s my favourite silver fox!” Wade grinned, stepping out of the bathroom and grabbing Mobius’s shoulder’s giving him a big, smacking kiss on the cheek as Mobius slid his coat off his shoulders.

“Wade,” Mobius replied, ducking his head. Feeling a blush beginning to creep its way onto his face, Mobius busied himself with grabbing a hanger from the hall closet and hanging up his coat and scarf. Before he’d made friends with Wade, no one had ever really flirted with Mobius, and all this positive attention still made him slightly uneasy.

Wade would wink, or pinch Mobius’s ass, he’d tell him how hot his moustache, or greying hair, or belly were, but he also knew that Wade was like that with everyone, so even if it did make him blush, he was fine with it, because he knew it was probably just a reflex for the other man at this point. See human, spew flirty comments.

“Make yourself at home, Moby. Preferably in my bed. I’m just putting the water on for the tea. I’ll be back in a minute.” Wade called, as he walked down the short hallway to the kitchen.

Mobius ignored the comment about Wade’s bed and settled into the couch, next to Blind Al, who had a book balanced in her lap as she ran the fingers of one hand over the braille and held a bottle of beer with the other.

They sat in silence as her fingers glided over the bumps so fast that Mobius wasn’t sure how she could even be absorbing the words, until Wade’s shouting broke through.

“Do you want a cup of tea, Al?”

“Do you think this one would taste good with PBR?”

There was a beat of silence, and Al returned to her reading before Wade replied. “I’m not sure. No, time like the present to find out though!”

With that, he re-entered the living room with a tray containing a teapot, three mugs with spoons, cream and sugar, and a platter of assorted cookies, biscuits, and jams. For a guy who Mobius had once seen with his own eyes eat, according to Wade himself, three-day old pizza from a box on his living room floor, he sure put together a nice tea party spread.

Wade set the tray down on the coffee table before turning on his Switch and grabbing the controllers. He walked back over to the couch, wedging himself into the frankly too small space between Mobius and Al, and started to pour the tea into the trio of cups. He slid the can of PBR out of Al’s hand and poured the remainder into her mug along with the tea before handing it back to her and grabbing a biscuit that he proceeded to slather in jam.

“This is awful, Wade,” Al said, a look of disgust on her face, but it didn’t stop her from taking another sip.

Mobius tried a sip of his. He personally thought it was delicious, but he also hadn’t cut his with cheap beer. Grabbing a chocolate dipped cookie, he settled back into the cushions as Wade started up Animal Crossing.

When Loki had once asked what kind of video games he and Wade played together, he mentioned GTA and Call of Duty, but the truth was that while yes, they had played both of those, they spent most of their time together working on Wade’s Animal Crossing island, taking turns planting flowers, redesigning his home, fishing, and trying to get rid of his most hated villagers. It was their (and Al’s) little secret.

They spent the better part of an hour and a half sipping their tea, picking at the cookies, and selling crops at Nook’s Cranny, and were headed to the Able Sisters’ so Mobius could give Wade his opinion on some items that were new to the shop, when Wade brought up his favourite topic of conversation, Mobius and Loki’s relationship, or lack thereof.

“You know that pathetic little meow meow has the hots for you, Moby.”

Now, Mobius knew he could play ignorant, pretend he had no clue what Wade was talking about, but that would only buy him an extra minute or two, so he took the bait.

“Shut up, Wade. We’ve been through this. He’s not into me.”

Wade laughed. “Then why the fuck does everything about him scream otherwise?”

Mobius tried to protest again, but Wade cut him off. “We’ve been through this a million times, so I’ll just cut to the chase this time. The way he clings to you like he’s scared that you’ll disappear. The way that as far as he’s concerned, everyone else ceases to exist the second you walk into a room. That weird, overly large smile that he only whips out for you. The “fuck me” eyes he’s always giving you. The fact that he never laughs at my jokes, but when you say something mildly funny, he acts like it’s the most hilarious thing he’s ever heard. Any of that ring a bell?”

Mobius shook his head. “Have you ever considered that he doesn’t laugh at your jokes because they’re not funny, Wade?” That wasn’t true, and Wade knew it, but he still needed to take the other man down a peg sometimes.

 Wade clutched at his chest, over his heart. “Oh, how you wound me, Moby. And yet, daddy Wade is still willing to help you get yo man.”

“I’ve told you before. I’m not calling you daddy Wade.”

“Fine then, what about daddy Deadpool?”

“Still no.”

“Can I call daddy Moby?”

Mobius sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to shoo away the headache currently brewing behind his eyes. He had no clue why he kept this friendship with Wade up. No, that wasn’t true. He did know. It was the massive collection of teas, and the fact that under his incredibly weird exterior, he actually had a heart of gold and would do anything to help his friends.

“Is daddy Moby staying for dinner? I hope so because I already took out porkchops to defrost.”

Mobius shook his head. “Sorry, but I can’t. Loki wants to make me some kind of pasta dish for dinner.”

“And you say that man doesn’t love you. Cooking for someone is the surest sign of true love!”

“Wade,” Al said, setting down her book. “Don’t forget your matchmaking plan. We worked hard on this. It can’t go to waste.”

Oh, great, apparently Wade was discussing his pathetic, non-existent love life even when Mobius wasn’t around.

“Right!” Wade replied, throwing an arm over Mobius’s shoulder. “So, hottie long legs is the jealous type, right?”

Mobius couldn’t deny that. Loki had a jealous streak three thousand miles long. “Yes? Where is this going?”

“Well, what Al and I were thinking was we just have to get your pal Loki to catch me flirting with you. He won’t be able to resist staking his claim like a cat pissing to mark its territory. Mobius had his doubts, but really, what could it hurt to try?

“Sure,” he said, hesitantly.

They were just finishing up at the Able Sisters’ when Mobius’s phone started to ring. Loki. He accepted the call, and barely had a chance to say hello before Wade was yanking the phone out of his hand.

“Hello, Mr. Laufeyson, Al and I are holding Moby hostage. If you want him back, you’ll have to come get him.”

Mobius could hear shouting from the other end of the line but couldn’t make out Loki’s words.

“Perfect,” Wade replied once there was silence. “Now we wait.”

***

Loki dug his nails into the palms of his hands, stopping just short of having a full on freakout on a street corner in Queens, as he waited for the light to change so he could cross. Before splitting up, the two had decided that they would meet at Thor and Bruce’s since they’d arrived much closer to Mobius’s destination. It had only seemed fair.

But now, Wade Wilson was insisting that Loki fetch Mobius at his apartment, and it’s not like Loki had much choice in the matter, since Mobius had the Tempad. He huffed and grumbled under his breath as he walked to the entrance of Wade’s building. He called Mobius again, and Wade picked up this time.

“Hello,” Loki greeted the other man curtly. “May you please release Mobius so we can return home?”

“Sorry, no can do, Amigo,” Wade replied. “You want him, you’re gonna have to come get him. I’ll buzz you up.”

Resisting the urge to stamp his foot like a child, Loki threw the door open as the buzzer sounded, almost pulling it off it’s hinges, and not caring one single bit.

He tapped his foot in the elevator, ignoring the glances from the woman and her two children who were occupying the space with him. Finally, after what seemed like eons, the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. He rapped loudly on Wade’s door, and soon heard a reply from within.”

“Come in! It’s open!”

Loki pushed through the door, taking in the small space before him. He’d only been once before, and it didn’t look any less like a bomb had gone off in the room than the last time. He’d once asked Mobius what he saw in the other man, and he’d shrugged, telling Loki he was kind and funny, and had good taste in tea. Loki was hilarious, and could be kind if he wanted to, and he personally thought that most tea tasted like leaf juice, but he could get used to it if it meant keeping Mobius to himself.

He zoned back in, his eyes landing first on Wade’s creepy roommate the ridiculously, if aptly named “Blind Al”, and then beyond her, Wade, with Mobius on his other side. There was a loveseat to the right. Why wasn��t one of them sitting on that. And wait, was that Wade’s arm around Mobius’s shoulder? And his other hand on Mobius’s thigh? What on earth was happening here? Why was that human pile of trash flirting with Mobius?

Loki couldn’t have that. Mobius was his. But he wasn’t, not really. Because Loki had been too much of a fool, too wrapped up in his own feelings about not being good enough for Mobius to stake his claim. What if it was too late?

No one seemed to be paying any mind to Loki, Al running her fingers over the pages of a large book, and Wade speaking to Mobius in low tones, whispering in his ear. Loki cleared his throat, and Mobius and Wade turned their heads slowly towards him, as if they’d just realized that he was there.

“Oh hey, baby cakes, come in, make yourself at home. There’s room for a fourth here on the couch, if you want to join us?” There was most certainly not enough room, and Loki was about to say as much when something inside him snapped. He could not lose his precious Mobius to Wade Wilson, of all people.

He stalked over to the couch and yanked Wade’s hand off Mobius’s thigh, his arm from around his shoulder. He then took Mobius’s hand and pulled him free of the saggy cushions.

Mobius moved towards the front door of the apartment, but Loki redirected him, guiding him, with a hand on his back, down the short hallway. One of these doors had to have a bedroom behind it. After two false starts with a linen closet and a bathroom, Loki finally found a bed behind the third door, and shoved Mobius into the room, losing the door behind them.

Turning, he walked towards Mobius, until there was only an inch between their faces. Mobius stared at him as Loki slid one hand into the back of his silver hair, and settled the other onto his hip, and pulled him in for a kiss. It was short and chaste, just their lips briefly pressed together, but it was the best first kiss that Loki had ever had.

Pulling back, Mobius looked at Loki with wide eyes. “What the hell are you doing?”

Loki bridged the gap again, and his face just a quarter inch away from Mobius’s, he whispered “What I should have done a hell of a long time ago.” And with that, he pulled Mobius in for another kiss. Where the last kiss had been brief, just a peck, this kiss was anything but. It took them a moment to get it right, their noses bumping as they met head-on, but then Mobius tilted his head just a little, and everything slotted into place.

Mobius fisted his hands in the front of Loki’s shirt, pulling him impossibly closer as Loki sucked on Mobius’s bottom lip and tugged on his hair. Mobius moaned softly, licking at the seam of Loki’s mouth, seeking entrance that Loki willingly gave. They stayed like that, pressed tight together, for an indeterminate amount of time, before they finally had to come up for air.

In the end, they never even made it to the bed. They panted into the small space between their mouths, and Loki turned them, so Mobius’s back was up against the door. Loki was glad the other man was wearing a button down as he made quick work of the first few buttons, just enough to gain access to the juncture between Mobius’s neck and shoulder. He sucked and bit and nipped and licked all over every inch of skin that he had access to, leaving quickly purpling marks in his wake. Good. He wanted Mobius to think of this every time he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the next few days.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Loki continued open the buttons of Mobius’s shirt, stopping first to suck on his nipples, one by one, deeply pleased with the increasingly loud whines that Mobius was emitting. At some point, he’d weaved his hands into Loki’s curls, and Loki could feel his already half hard cock jump in his slacks when Mobius tugged sharply.

He continued to work on Mobius’s pecs, rolling and pinching his nipples between his fingers as he bent down and sunk his teeth into the soft meat of Mobius’s belly, brain practically melting out of his ears as it quivered under his touch. It was something Loki had wanting since he’d met the man, and it felt like heaven on earth to nuzzle his face against the hair there.

His lips followed the trail of hair to the top of Mobius’s jeans, and he slid down to his knees, and he tilted his head up, meeting Mobius’s molten gaze and giving him a questing look as he slipped his fingers just below the waistline. He stood back up and pressed his lips hot to Mobius’s neck. “Can I? Can I please make you feel good, Mobius?”

He took the answering groan as an affirmative and made quick work of the button and fly on Mobius’s pants, not even bothering to pull them down, instead plunging his hand inside. There as barely enough room, but Loki made it work, circling Mobious’s cock with his fist. He thumbed at the head, already wet with precum, using the slick to ease the way.

Mobius moaned, his eyes squeezing shut momentarily, as if he was overwhelmed by the pleasure, as Loki stroked him fast and hard.

“Is that good?” he asked, continuing his ministrations.

Mobius, who by now had worked open most of the buttons on Loki’s shirt and was sucking marks of his own into Loki’s collarbone, pulled off, panting. “Yes, fuck Loki, it’s so fucking good. You’re so fucking good. I can’t believe this is happening.”

Loki chuckled softly, stroking faster. “You’d better believe it, because it is.” He could feel everything he’d wanted to tell Mobius the whole time they’d known each other about to spill out. He knew the middle of a hand job wasn’t exactly the best time for heartfelt conversation, but he couldn’t hold back. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, Mobius. You’re so beautiful. So kind and smart and patient, so sweet to me, believing in me when no one else did.” Mobius was bucking into his fist, his breath becoming shallower, and Loki knew he should focus his attention on making the man come, but he couldn’t stop now. “I love you, Mobius.”

With that, Mobius was groaning loudly, his head banging on the bedroom door as he came, spilling hot into Loki’s fist. He kept his head tilted back, eyelashes fluttering as he caught his breath, coming down from his high. Maybe, if Loki was lucky, Mobius’s orgasm was so good that he hadn’t even paid attention to what Loki was babbling on about.

“Do think they heard us?” Mobius asked, sounding abashed.

“Who cares,” Loki replied. “Those perverts are probably out there getting off to this.”

Mobius laughed but didn’t disagree. He pulled Loki to him, wrapping his arms around his back and nibbling on his ear lobe. “I love you too, pussycat, for the record. I think a part of me always has.”

Pussycat. Oh gods, Loki was weak for this man. It was a good thing that Mobius was holding Loki to him, because Loki suddenly felt as if his legs were about to give out under him.

“Can I return the favour?” Mobius asked as his hands roamed over Loki’s exposed chest, his eyes reverent.

Loki nodded, unable to form coherent thoughts, let alone words. He expected Mobius to slip his hand into his pants, but instead, he slipped down onto his knees, mouthing at Loki’s cloth covered cock, his breath hot against the fabric.

“Oh Mobius,” Loki breathed, his voice coming out like a whine. “You don’t have to.”

Mobius chuckled. “I’m well aware that I don’t have to, Loki. Have you ever considered that I want to? More than anything?”

Well then. Loki certainly wasn’t going to stop him if it was what he truly wanted. “Be my guest.”

With that, Mobius was quickly divested Loki of his pants briefs and mouthed at the flushed head of his cock. He ran his tongue along the dripping slit, and Loki gasped, sinking his hands into Mobius’s hair, and tugging hard. Mobius groaned at that, taking more of Loki into his mouth as his hands roamed up the back of Loki’s thighs before settling on his ass, which he squeezed, kneading the cheeks in the palm of his hands.

Loki loosened his grip on Mobius’s hair and used his hand to gently guide the man’s head as he took Loki all the way in, until his nose was nestled in the hair at the base of his cock. He bobbed his head a few times, and Loki could feel the coil of heat in his stomach tightening. He could tell this was going to be over embarrassingly fast, but he couldn’t bring himself to care when it felt so fucking good.

Loki tugged on Mobius’s hair in warning, but the other man only took him all the way back in, hollowing out his cheeks like he was trying to suck Loki’s soul out through his cock. He came close, Loki seeing white, going breathless as he came with a loud cry own Mobius’s throat.

In a moment, Mobius was back on his feet, and Loki pulled him into a kiss, licking into his mouth, not caring that he could taste himself on Mobius’s tongue. They stood there, trading lazy kisses, until Mobius finally pulled away.

“I think we should maybe go now, kitten. We’ve been locked in here long enough, and I’d like to get the walk of shame over and done with.”

Reluctantly, Loki agreed, and they got dressed, doing their best to smooth out the wrinkles in their clothes and flatten their hair.

They slipped out the bedroom door quietly, hoping that maybe they could leave the apartment undetected, but no such luck. Wade, who was laying on the couch, reading a magazine, let out a loud wolf whistle. “Hey cuties, glad to see you finally got into each other’s pants. I really fooled you there, didn’t I, Loki? I should receive an Oscar for my acting. Then I’ll be one letter closer to an EGOT. Or at least I’ll have one letter towards an EGOT. Actually, no letters, because I wasn’t acting. You’re hot hot hot, Mobius. It’s not hard to flirt with you at all! Do you two want to give daddy Wade a kiss as a thank you?”

Loki rolled his eyes, taking Mobius’s hand in his own. He had no clue what the man was on about, but he certainly didn’t want to kiss him, that he was sure of. “Thank you, Wade, but no thank you. I believe we’ll only be kissing each other from here on out.”

“Fine,” Wade replied, sticking his tongue out like a child. “I don’t want you anyway. I’ve moved on to daddy Wolvie.” At that, Wolverine appeared, inexplicably wearing a frilly pink apron over his clothes.

Loki’s cheeks burned with shame. It was one thing for Wade and Al to hear them, but quite another for Wolverine to hear. He was a real, distinguished man.

“Hi Mobius, Loki.” He greeted them. “Had fun, I hear?” He winked, and Loki had to turn, no longer able to look him in the eye.

“Uh, I didn’t realize you were having other guests, Wade.” Mobius said, reaching into the hall closet for his coat.

“Well,” Wade replied, not taking his eyes off his magazine, which Loki could now see was pornographic in nature. “When you ditched me for dinner, I had to make other plans. Couldn’t let those pork chops go to waste! How about you take a quick break from making my dinner and come give daddy Wade a kiss, Wolvie?”

“Never going to happen, Wade.”

“But it could!”

“But it won’t! Also, stop trying to make “daddy Wade” happen. It’s not going to happen.”

“If I stop, will you give me a little sugar, sugar?”

Wolverine rolled his eyes. “Maybe. If you’re a good boy for daddy Wolvie.”

Loki and Mobius took that as their cue to leave, and hand in hand, they slipped out the door, ready to head back home, far, far away from here.

[thethistlegirlwrites]

I saw an open tag from @dyrewrites and this looks super fun!

Rules: Pick an OC and post a song you relate to them, an image that represents them in some way (aesthetic, picrew, art, etc), and a quote of dialogue or narration from them. Totally feel free to expand and explain!

Going with Joey Quintero for this one because I want to share her song!

I really like this song for Joey because she's so incredibly unsure of herself when she comes into Chimera's vampire mentorship program. She desperately wants her family back in her life, but she thinks she's likely to be a danger to them. It takes the other people who can see her from the outside, like Shay and Nico, to help convince her this is possible and that there's more to her than the monstrous nature she didn't have a choice in being given.

I love Joey because I was working on some janitorial chores at my job and had the thought that I don't see janitors, cleaning service workers, or other similar characters in many stories, and decided I was going to change it! From there, she just took on a life of her own!

Inside the bag, on top, is the folder that holds her copies of the mentor program agreement, the list of expectations and terms, and her visitation plan. She pulls out the plan and pins it to the corkboard over the head of her bed. The first three weeks are solid red, but there’s a yellow bar halfway through week four. Conditional potential to see family members in a controlled environment.  She’ll take it. Video calls with Mauri and Via are more contact than she thought she’d ever be able to have again, but now that she knows there’s the possibility of more, waiting three weeks’ probation feels like an eternity. She tacks up the stained, creased photo of her family beside it. Over the years and miles, the corners have gotten blunted, the color has flaked away on the fold lines, and the faces have changed. But she’s held onto it this long, and it’s a reminder of what she’s going through all this for. She’s absurdly grateful someone chose to tuck it into her coffin with her.  Everything Josefina Quintero has done for the past six years has been to protect her siblings. Even, if necessary, from her.

Open tag for anyone who wants to participate!

(And if you liked the narration snippet I included, watch for day 14 of my Febuwhump posting because that's the day it's a teaser for!)

Tagging the Compass people for this one! @catwingsathena @nade2308 @the-one-and-only-valkyrie @telltaleclerk @ettawritesnstudies  @writeouswriter @whump-place

[consolecadet]

I was really not prepared to participate in an art show! I didn't have a bad time, I just had no idea what to expect, and also should have worn much more comfortable shoes.

I got there right on time for the members-only hour, earlier than almost anyone else. They gave me a name tag with a photo of my painting printed in the background. While it was still quiet, multiple members of the art org's staff pulled me aside to introduce themselves and...tell me what they thought of my painting, basically? Got some comments like "A lot of us really liked it" (great), "It might make some people uncomfortable, but it's memorable and intense and that's what makes art valuable" (thanks), "I know it's trite to say this but it is very visceral" (yeah!), and "the teens were in here the other day to judge the youth committee prize and you got a lot of sticky notes next to yours" (cool). I was mostly kind of uncomfortable, but I can see how this sort of thing could quickly become a person's personal cocaine.

An upbeat local media producer with deep mauve eye bags interviewed me and the artist whose painting was next to mine (she had painted a beautiful, slightly abstracted forest landscape of Falmouth, Maine). This was the part I was really unprepared for! Fortunately I've had to explain the painting to people a few times, since I worked on it during Open Hacks around other people...but this was a much artier crowd, and despite technically knowing how, I really don't want to talk about it like "I'm juxtaposing familiar objects with a transgressive concept to blah blah blah etc". He was like "man, my insurance won't approve shit, we gotta nationalize healthcare" which, so right.

The gallery quickly got extremely crowded and, because the sun was blasting in through the enormous picture windows, extremely hot. I wandered around looking at everything. My favorite works were "All Bagged Up", a 3d wall piece of pink expanding foam with bags of candy and toys tacked to it, "Self-Discipline #23", a pair of charcoal self-portraits of the artist wearing a bondage mask, and "Resilience", an mixed media painting with mesmerizing swirls of green and blue iridescent paint.

I had to take some daily meds at 6 and -- I swear this was not on purpose -- spilled all the fucking pills from my pill-shaped pill case onto the floor. On brand, I guess?

KC came partway through and brought me a big bundle of sweet-smelling lilacs from his workplace's backyard. <3

I met someone who recognized me from a FB group I'm in for fat people in the Boston area. She'd painted a self-portrait of her squeezing her waist extremely tightly with a leather belt. She asked to hang out (!) and followed me on Instagram. I followed her back. She has 25k followers and I'm a little intimidated.

Several people found me to say they found my painting relatable, which was nice. One woman told me about her chronic pain and told me, sounding a bit constricted in her throat, that she wished more people would talk about and make art about this stuff. I am really used to people oversharing about very personal topics in the tags on my posts, but it's another thing entirely to experience someone's response to your thoughts or art IRL. Unlike Tumblr, though, nobody said anything unkind to my face!

My feet got so sore. I was so sweaty. I got an honorable mention from the Youth Committee of tweens and teens. Fat positive belt lady got the Youth Committee prize. We...hugged about it?

I felt somewhat out of my depth -- some of the artists priced a lot higher than I would be comfortable charging, some of the art was much more technically advanced than mine, and some of the artists' statements were much more, uh, Art School. I feel I did not schmooze very effectively. But I would try doing this again!

[thehuggamugcafe]

Forget Me Not

Summary: Winter. A season believed to be centred around parting; a season of separation.

But losing Ken is the one thing you can’t do.

Characters: Ken Kaneki/Haise Sasaki, Reader, Kishou Arima, Sen Takatsuki/Eto Yoshimura.

Relationships: Ken Kaneki & Reader.

Tags: Reader-Insert, Adoption, Mother!Reader, Black Reaper Kaneki, Forehead Kisses, Winter, Heavily Themed Around The Idea Life Is Like A Play, A Lot of Theatrics In This Scene, I Don't Know Why, It Just Sounded Intriguing To Me

Ao3 Link: Forget Me Not

Words: 4.9k

This winter is particularly cold compared to last year’s, you muse, absentmindedly dragging the tips of your fingers down the glass of the window you’re staring out, feeling the sharp prick of cold kissing the pads of your digits, zigzagging and spreading through your palm like lightning.

You wonder if it will snow.

It’s a thought birthed from idle boredom, but a spontaneous one all the same. You pause, the motion of your arm stilling as it descends to the counter to pick up your cup—white fumes waft up from the hot drink it contains, rising to dance through the air and disappearing quickly, fleeting—before resuming the action with a wry smile flirting at the corners of your mouth.

This isn’t like you at all, to occupy yourself with such trivial thoughts and even more meaningless actions. For as long as you can remember—and you remember a lot, the pain, the heartbreak, and the loneliness that you so desperately wanted to be rid of in your younger days—you’ve always been trying to accomplish something. To know that your life would mean something to somebody.

To your parents, your grandparents, your late husband, Hide, Touka and everyone else associated with Anteiku, with :re—and to Kaneki above everyone else.

“Like mother, like son. Selfish is as selfish does.” That’s what Sen—no, Eto Yoshimura had told you when you visited her in Cochlea. “You’re still trying to fill that lonely void, aren’t you? A feat that no one can accomplish, not even you.” That’s what she had told you through a smile that was as sweet as poison, pausing before tacking on: “Everything you’ve done all this time hasn’t been for anyone else but you; you want to have a feel-good moment. And yet you go around parading the idea that it’s for them, that it’s for your darling son. And maybe it is. But really, all you’ve been wishing for is for this insane circus act you’ve found yourself in to stop. For the pain to stop. To not let the loneliness to return, knowing that it’s never truly left you for a moment. To not feel powerless and weak. To keep dear Haise safe even if it means you die in the process—oh no, silly me, it’s Kaneki now, isn’t it?”

Perhaps, ultimately, it’s all been for you.

Everything you’ve done, every sacrifice you’ve made for the sake of others, it’s all been for you. Because you’re a selfish woman.

Suddenly, the brisk weather is all the more pronounced; the chilly sting of the glass and the way your breath fogs it up as you exhale sharply is more palpable. You hold onto your favourite mug a little tighter and continue staring out at the grey skies, mentally likening the lights of Tokyo to lit candles.

The scar that runs diagonally across your cheek a few inches, just below your right eye, decides to randomly flare up at the memory of how you came to acquire it bulldozes through your mind like a runaway train. And who had given it to you. Strange that that is where your mind chooses to wander. It’s not something you like to think about; it’s a memory you do your best to avoid dwelling on.

Considering how much Kaneki changed back then. How much Haise’s changed now. Did anyone else at the CCG stop and wonder about the recent 180-degree shift to the joke-cracking Dove’s personality?

The doorbell ringing yanks you free of your musings.

The melodic ding makes your lips form a smile, a real and genuine smile, the first sincere one that’s successfully pulled at your mouth in what feels like forever. It’s true that you aren’t expecting any visitors except for one; you just bought this apartment a week and a half ago. Most of your things are still meticulously packed in cardboard boxes. All you’ve felt like putting in place is the coffee machine sitting on the counter adjacent to where you stand, as well as miscellaneous plates and cutlery in the drawers and cupboards, your favourite mug among them.

You haven’t seen much of him since his request to be dismissed as a mentor to the Quinx was granted; it feels like it’s been years, centuries even. His courtesy towards you has been lukewarm compared to others at the CCG, giving practically everybody the cold shoulder, his conversations short and curt.

The incident last week, when a co-worker had accidentally splashed coffee over you during lunch, is still fresh in your mind. So is the way Haise’s eyes reminded you of a knife’s edge, sharp and cold. You remember the way his glasses shimmered beneath the florescent lighting as he glared at the unfortunate man who spluttered apologies at you, at Haise, looking ready to shrivel up and cry like a child.

Haise Sasaki won’t say it, but you know that Shirazu’s death has affected him and Urie’s confrontation hasn’t helped him.

A knock at your apartment door jostles you free of your thoughts, leering at it in your peripheral vision. You bring the mug’s rim up to your lips and partake in one final sip, setting it on the white marbled surface and approaching the door, fully intent on opening it and letting him inside. The closer you get to the door, however, the more a feeling squirms in the pit of your stomach. A feeling of concern. This is the first time in a couple weeks that you’ve asked him to pay you a visit. You didn’t dare ask him until this morning, figuring he must be busy with his duties as an Associate Special Class.

But now…

Smile, smile! If you answer the door and you’re frowning, he’s going to worry!

Yes, it’s good to smile, but don’t go overboard with it!

How can I not be happy seeing him again?

Even if he’s not Haise anymore?

Haise Sasaki, Ken Kaneki—he’s still my son, no matter who he is or isn’t.

What a time for you to question yourself—again—and to have a mental tug-of-war with you flip-flopping between certainty and a shaky confidence. You don’t even bother to look through the peephole. Your hand goes straight for the knob, unfastening the chain and deadbolt before twisting the round knob, pulling the door open to see—

“May I come in?”

Relief floods your face; the one before you is in as much monochrome as you are. You quietly let the tension that possesses you leave bit by bit, dripping out of your system as you open the door a tad wider.

There he is, in all his black-clad glory (inundated by death, you feel), Haise Sasaki.

“You’re early,” you say, stepping to the side and giving him enough room to enter your apartment. “I hope I wasn’t intruding when I asked you to visit tonight?”

“No.” That’s all he says as he removes his shoes, setting them by yours and shrugging off his black coat and hanging it on the wall hook. You breathe a hum and you know he’s taking in the state of your apartment as you shut the door behind you, locking it before following him as he stands in the dead centre of your living room. “You’re still unpacking?”

It sounds more like a statement than a question, but you laugh sheepishly as you rub a hand up and down your arm. “Not everything is out yet; I’ve just been busy.”

“I see.”

Silence is your answer, but he doesn’t press for a reply. Not that you’d expect him to. Ever since Haise “fell asleep” and Ken “woke up”, you’ve felt something was off. It was only after accidentally overhearing Furuta telling Haise that Yotsume’s—Hinami’s disposal date will be coming up soon that you realized what was amiss.

You’ve been caught up in a play all this time. Characters going through the motions when the curtain is drawn up, the audience allowed to watch and speculate what will happen next before the curtain is closed, the first act of many reaching its questionable conclusion.

Charades, theatrical plays, everything and everyone around you moving in such choreographed synchronicity that it feels normal. So disgustingly normal that you can’t question it.

Ui Koori doesn’t know, Special Class Washuu might not know—you’re positive that Akira Mado doesn’t realize it—but you’re certain Kishou Arima knows and has known about it before you picked up on it.

You saw the Death God’s face when Haise—Ken returned from his battle with the One-Eyed Owl, covered in blood like he bathed in it and missing an arm. Saw a flicker of recognition in the White Reaper’s face, in his eyes that set your nerves ablaze more than any of your fights during the Tsukiyama Family Extermination mission did.

You’d been ready, preparing to jump in and go to bat for Kaneki, knowing that you’d fail and fall, slain by Arima, acting on maternal instinct alone, fearing that he might imprison or kill your son then and there. But he didn’t. Kishou did nothing, surprising you.

But even being unable to understand the enigma that the Special Class is wrapped up in, you remember you were still on-edge after returning to HQ, juggling consoling the Quinx Squad (Urie had rebuked you, not that you faulted him for it) and keeping a silent watch on Haise whenever he was around you.

You’d gotten the distinct impression that he wasn’t trying to avoid you, not intentionally, but you quietly respected what he was asking of you.

“Give me some space.”

What could you do then but to abide by the script that was handed to you? You think you’ve performed your part in this maddening play well enough, sticking to the script that’s been drafted for you phenomenally that nobody can question if you’re fit to star in this obscene act or not. It’s for the best that you don’t slip up and you swear you won’t.

And yet you can’t seem to stick to the script when it comes to Haise Sasaki, the old one or the new addition standing before you. You can’t lie to Ken Kaneki, no matter how many fibs he spoon feeds himself, you, or anybody else.

Realizing that you’ve spent the past few minutes in silence, you clear your throat and address him properly, lips quirking at the corners. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

“I can get coffee for—” He falters mid-sentence, watching as your eyes narrow and you shoot him a look. One that you know he knows all too well. It’s the look of a woman who won’t take “no” for an answer.

“You’re a guest. Sit.” Your words are soft but firm. He exhales a silent sigh but he does as you ask. You eye him for a moment, watching as he settles down in an empty chair belonging to the dining table, turning your back to him and facing the coffee machine.

There’s already a black mug sitting innocently on the white marbled surface, a rich brew that you know is piping hot since you prepared it in advance of Ken visiting you tonight. You take the pot of coffee off of the warming plate, pouring the brew into the mug before setting it back where it was.

As you turn to look at him, pausing only to take hold of your mug to carry it and his over to where he sits, you catch him looking away from the window he’d been looking out to look at you, watching as you approach and set the black mug down in front of him before taking the empty seat on his left, setting your white mug down on the polished surface.

Kaneki doesn’t pick up the mug; he stares into the murky blend as if he wishes to be swallowed up in it. For once in the time you’ve been around him, you’re at a loss of what to say. So in place of your voice, you decide to take in the state of him. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced tonight; how many hours of sleep has he lost? Beneath the florescent lighting his complexion seems more pallor than it normally is.

Is it your mind playing tricks on you or is that what you’re actually seeing?

You don’t know. And a part of you doesn’t want to know. It will only make you worry more about him.

Suddenly, the longer you look at him, the more apparent it is to you how the colour black suits the Reaper sitting at your dining table so disturbingly well. You realize that the colour scheme you settled on for your apartment is no coincidence. White walls. White marbled counter tops. White pillows, sheets, curtains and a bookcase that you painted white for your bedroom. Black dining table set. Black couches and chairs for the living room. Black and white dishes fill your cupboards.

White and black are heavily associated with death.

The dance you and Ken have waltzed to all this time is one so woefully nostalgic to you: a dance of death, pain and loss, battling a crippling loneliness all the while. Life isn’t fair; you knew that from an early age. Losing parents you were too young to remember. Losing the grandparents who raised you in your parents’ stead early on in adulthood. Losing your late husband to a terminal illness. Gaining and then losing a child not once, not twice, but three times.

Life has been no kinder to Ken Kaneki. Losing himself in books because books don’t talk down or hit you. Books don’t ostracize you or criticize you because of an inferiority complex. Almost devoured by a binge eater. Getting pinned under steel beams and all he wanted was a nice date night. Becoming Frankenstein’s creation. Kidnapped and tortured only to turn on his tormentor. Tried to get himself killed by Arima’s hands. Woke up in a ghoul prison without remembering who he is, who he used to be. Who you were and are to him, or any of his friends.

“Are you okay?”

The question leaves you before you realize you’ve let it roll off your tongue. It’s a question that comes so natural to you, a born and bred worrywart. You see the hand reaching for the mug freeze, fingers clad in leather halting from taking possession of the black object. His body may as well have been frozen solid by the breath of winter; he’s as still as a statue.

For a moment, you swear you forget to breathe. Did you just say that? Judging by his expression—or lack thereof—you must have said it, even if it was partly an accident and largely because it just comes so naturally to you.

His hand drifts away from the mug of coffee, slowly, keeping his bespectacled leer locked on you. “I’m fine.” No sooner do the words leave him, his gloved fingers reach for the black mug again. A lie if you’ve ever heard one, and you’ve heard plenty of them.

To be fair, you’ve told your fair share of half-truths and fibs.

Deciding it’s best to keep your hands busy, you instinctively reach for the sugar bowl, fingers stopping when you grab air instead of porcelain. Then you remember where it is: on the counter across from the coffee machine. Sighing, you get up, shooting Haise an apologetic smile. But the sound of his own chair scraping as it’s dragged across the floor tells you that he’s already moving.

“Hey, I can get the sug—” Sasaki stops and gives you a look. The same look you gave him when he tried insisting that he could brew his own cup of Joe. But unlike him, you don’t acquiesce. No, you do the exact opposite; you follow him.

He no doubt hears you trailing after him, but he doesn’t tell you to sit down so he can bring the sugar bowl to you. He knows you’re as stubborn as he is. His hand’s just barely touched the sugar bowl when you stand on his right, exhaling a sigh as you shake your head.

“You’re a guest, remember?”

Before you realize it, your hand is raised and placed on top of his. The difference between your bare palm and the smooth leather is obvious, but you ignore it. You don’t know why you did it. Maybe you wanted to gently take his hand off of the sugar bowl, showing that while you appreciate the gesture, you can accomplish this simple task. Maybe you wanted to confirm that he’s here, that the Black Reaper who stands in your apartment isn’t an apparition cooked up by your overactive imagination.

“I can do this.” “For you.”

“I know you can.” “And I appreciate it.”

But then again, that’s how he’s been for the past three years, hasn’t he? Coming and going like a mist rolls onto the shoreline, there one moment and gone again when you blink.

“You…” You hesitate, flicking your tongue out to wet your lower lip, pausing to inhale before continuing. “You are not Haise Sasaki, are you?” 

You know he isn’t. He isn’t the Haise Sasaki that you once knew; he’s just using the name. You know who is standing by your side. But you need to hear it from him.

He says nothing. The only things that answer you is the ticking of the clock hanging above the entry to the adjoined kitchen and dining areas, and the silence that seems almost deafening.

“…Will you care if I’m not?”

A tender squeeze to his leather clad hand answers him, but you tack on: “You’re still my son; that’s never changed.”

“But I have.” Try as he does to hide it, cracks are forming in his voice as it rolls off his tongue.

Your hand gently squeezes his, but you don’t relinquish the soft but firm hold this time. “I won’t deny that you have changed, but you’re here right now. That’s what matters to me.”

The breath he takes in is a shaky one, quivering noticeably as the hand you’re covering with your own trembles before stilling. Your eyes haven’t strayed from Ken’s face for a moment, but he finally is able to meet your stare.

“You’ve been chasing a shadow, a ghost of a man. A living corpse. A memory.”

The smile that curls your lips is a sad one, nodding at the Associate Special Class’s words. “And I’d follow him to the ends of this Earth.”

The florescent lighting overhead makes his glasses glint. “And if something were to befall you?”

A familiar prick of wet warmth stings and fresh tears pour down your face. “Come what may, I’d get up and trail after him.” In a whisper so faint that it may as well be carried upon the wintry air outside, you add: “Beyond the end of this world, if he lets me.”

Your fellow actor has stopped his scripted motions, lines he’s rehearsed over and over freezing in his throat, quietly waiting to see what you’ll do next. So, too, have you turned away from him, turning on your heels so that he’s no longer looking at your tear-speckled face. A foolish attempt, you know this; you know he’s already seen the wetness staining your cheeks.

Because you know as well as Ken does that you can’t perform backstage and onstage. Rather, you know that he’ll keep up with the charade for as long as he desires to keep using it, but you’ve not been abiding by a script that was handed to you for some time now.

And nobody can force an unwilling actor to play their part.

“And if he doesn’t let you?”

For some reason you can tell he knows that you’re still smiling before you turn to properly address him, slowly.

“Then I’ll wait for him.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

You don’t dare speak those words, but you know that he’s read between the lines that you’re unable to utter.

A pause. The stillness that fills your small, shaded sanctuary is all the more noticeable now, so deafening that you’re half-expecting a noise to disrupt the quiet. But nothing happens. Finally, after what seems like an eternity of waiting, he speaks.

“You’ll be waiting a while.”

“A song and dance I’m not unfamiliar with; I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

“My, aren’t you a cruel one?”

You don’t say that either.

“The breath of life is faint in you as well.” Eto’s voice makes you pause, swallowing a gulp that feels like you’re trying to dislodge a wad of cotton balls. “He may have everyone but a certain Death God fooled, but he’s not pulled the wool over your eyes, has he?” A bead of cold sweat drips down your cheek, your eyes wide and wild, gaze affixed to the one standing to your left. To preoccupy yourself, you stroke his leather clad knuckles with the pad of your thumb. “Should he go off into the reaper’s arms, you wouldn’t be long following him, would you?” The laugh that shook the caged One-Eyed Owl’s form made ice kiss the curve of your spine, made your blood freeze solid, made the confinement cell that much more cooler. “You know he wouldn’t survive your passing; it’s why you fight so hard to stay alive. You wouldn’t be able to live with the thought of indirectly killing your beloved child.”

No… You dismiss the thought with a shake of your head, pursing your lips to form a thin line. Ken surely wouldn’t—

He would and will and is going to do it. He’s attempted it before with the White Reaper, but he failed; second time’s the charm, so they say. Despite your silent mental protest, you know what he’s planning. You could ask him what he plans on doing, but you know he’d never tell you. Knowing that you know. Wanting to go through it despite you knowing what he plans on doing. Pining everything on the hope that you, his dear mother, and his friends—humans and ghouls—might remember him fondly.

It’s only now that you see why Ken was such a perfect fit for you all those years ago, when you plucked him from the orphanage and brought him home. Brought him to a real fucking home and nurtured him the way he should have been.

Ken Kaneki is just as selfish as you are.

“Do as you like.” That’s the answer you get after a glimpse of eternity of waiting. Waiting for a sign, for an answer from him. Nothing you haven’t already done before. You weren’t joking when you said you’ll wait for him as long as it takes.

“Insistent and stubborn as always.” Is what you think he’s saying to you.

“I will.” The smile that pulls at your lips widens a tad, betraying a hint of teeth.

“Takes one to know one.”

You wonder if he knows that is what you want to say to him. Is he agreeing because he thinks it’s what you want to hear? Or is it because that’s what he’s actually thinking? Perhaps after all the time you’ve known him, you don’t know your son as well as you like to think you do.

In the end, does it really matter? No, not really. You’re not okay with this just because of your bond with him. Your maternal feelings for Ken Kaneki and Haise Sasaki are both the same. They haven’t changed. But perhaps neither have his. You aren’t sure.

All that you’re sure of is that you wave your hand up and down once you take it off his, signalling for him to stoop down a tad. When he doesn’t do it right away, you tack on: “Please.” Unlike earlier he doesn’t sigh, his shoulders don’t rise and fall as he takes in or expels air from his lungs; he simply does as you ask of him, pulling his gloved hand away from the sugar bowl.

Ken’s tie flutters forward as he stoops down just as your hands are raised, cupping his face in your palms, your thumbs caressing his cheekbones with a touch as light as air. You catch his breath hitching, a noise that you and he both know you’ve heard. You see his lashes fluttering but his eyes don’t slide shut, not fully; you see a sliver of white and grey peeking through his half-lidded gaze.

One hand drops to trace the curve of his jaw, noting that for once, there’s no tension before returning to cup the cheek you neglected in your hand.

“You’ve grown so well.”

A compliment for one who spends his time kicking himself for simply existing, but as far as you’re concerned, you’re holding your dearest treasure.

You pretend not to feel the renewed onslaught of tears budding, pricking at your vision like hot needles. You feign ignorance and deny many things.

You pretend not to notice the sadness in Ken’s gaze as he watches you as you’re watching him.

You pretend not to notice the way his crown wrinkles ever so slightly for a moment, worry lines creasing his skin. There and gone in the blink of an eye, as if they were never there.

You deny that the memory of the same hands that hold his face were crushed by Jason is haunting you, back when Ken still worked at Anteiku.

You deny that you’re touching Ken to familiarize yourself with how he feels, imprinting a memory of him into your mind to keep it behind lock and key.

You deny that you’re worried that he’ll end up doing what you know he’s thinking of doing.

You’ve climbed a rugged, impossibly tall mountain on bloodied hands and feet to stand by Ken’s side; what else is there for you to fear, besides Kishou Arima himself?

You know the answer to that question, of course. You just choose not to acknowledge it.

Still cradling Kaneki’s face in your hands, you press your lips to his forehead. And like the last piece of a puzzle is set into place to complete a picture, it feels like everything makes sense. The violent, thrashing waves of a raging sea are slowly calmed. Everything that’s happened up to now is clear, pristine.

Ken’s first night in your home. The first time you cooked his favourite meal. The first time he called you “mom.” Hide befriending Kaneki. Rize Kamishiro. Dr. Kanou. Touka. Ryoko and Hinami. Nishiki. Tsukiyama. Yomo. Yoshimura. Banjo. When he was taken by Aogiri. His first death. Haise Sasaki. Akira Mado. Kishou Arima. Shirazu. Urie. Saiko. Mutsuki. The CCG. The Washuu. Seidou. Furuta. The organization V. His second death—

“You’re crying.”

Ken’s voice makes you snap back to reality, opening your eyes (you didn’t realize you’d closed them) and his stare locking with yours. You’re smiling as you lean back, even though you don’t want to. You breathe a laugh but there’s nothing to chuckle at. You nod, but you don’t know why. You don’t—can’t—muster up a verbal reply, so non-verbal cues are all that you have to fall back on for now.

Your hands slip away from his face, eyes still leaking tears and a smile still pulling on your mouth. You raise a hand, wiping your wet eyes on the crook of your knuckles. “Oh, I just remembered something!” You spin on your heels, crossing the bare floor and approaching the cabinet where you store miscellaneous items, pulling out the top left-hand drawer. You take out a little box encased in black velvet, shutting the drawer. Turning to face Ken once more, you walk back to him, holding out the small box in both hands.

He looks down at the box, then back up at you, blinking once. “What’s this?”

“You didn’t think I’d forget your birthday, did you?”

Silence is golden, so they say. Silence is what answers you because all Kaneki does is stare at you. “I, ah.” Shifting your feet, flicking your eyes around and looking at nothing in particular before looking back at the black-clad young man standing before you, smiling sheepishly. “I wasn’t sure what to get you, but I heard great things about this jewellery store. And I know you aren’t too hung-up on that sort of thing, so it’s nothing fancy or anything. I just hope you’ll like it.”

Wordlessly, Ken’s leather clad fingers reach up and take possession of the little box, gently plucking it out of your hands, which you drop to hang uselessly at your sides. You watch as he gingerly pries open the box a crack, looking back at you anxiously anticipating his reaction before looking down at the box, opening it further.

“So how is it? Do you like it?”

Beneath the florescent lighting, a turquoise gem and your birthstone shimmer on the crown of the pinky-sized silver ring. Ken stares down at the box, blinking a few times. “That time I asked for your hand measurements? This, um, this is why. I wanted to surprise you—”

A sudden momentum pulling you forward rips a gasp from you, your chin gently knocking against his shoulder. In your peripheral vision, you see his free hand holding the box slightly aloft, not wanting to risk it falling out and onto the floor.

A breath escapes him, a whisper soft enough for you to mistake it as belonging to the boy he once was. “Thank you.”

You smile, raising your arms and wrapping them around his waist, tightening around him, breathing a whisper of your own.

“Happy birthday, Ken. I love you, my darling boy.”