#to everyone who's so kind and reassuring when im not feeling my best

[maehemthemisfit]

So we did a thing...

2k milestone event(s) soon? wink wink nudge nudge 🤭

[alexa-fika]

hi! Do you mind writing something with a 3y/o child reader and the white beard pirates? Like specifically everyone is celebrating something, and then child reader slips and gets hurt and starts sobbing really loud and all the pirates are panicking?

Parties and Falls (Whitebeard pirates x male!reader)

A/N here we go! And along with this being a request I also wanted to dedicate it to @henrioo since I saw you were feeling down because of the lack of male readers out there and I wanted to cheer you up, this is not one of my best works but im hoping I can make more pieces so that you and all the male readers out there can enjoy and feel included!

Reader here is replaced by Dokucha which means reader in japanese

Dividers by @/saradika

With a Yonko as a captain and one such as infamous as Whitebeard, one who was able to fight on equal ground with the Pirate King Himself, people usually thought of the Whitebeard pirates as a fearsome foe, and although it was true that you would not want them as foe, behind all that lied a close knitted family who all enyoyed one thing, partirs

With a whole bunch of pirates who could drink whole barrels of alcohol, they are the kind of crew that would throw whole week-long parties with everyone involved, and that was the case right now

Dokucha was not the exception. He always had a grand time when all his brothers were brought together on such a happy occasion

He wiggled his way around his brothers to reach the bar where Ace was currently sitting, struggling slightly to climb the top of the stool.

“Ace-nii, can I drink some of that too?” The boy asked, pointing to one of the pints the flame user was currently downing

“Sorry, lighting bug, you can’t have this.”

He pouts, leaning his head on the counter

“But everyone is having it!”

He chuckles

“Sorry, Dokucha, tell you what, how about you ask Thatch to prepare you something? I'm sure he can whip up something delicious for you.”

The boy lights up at that

“Really?!” He beams, the grin on his face quickly returning

“Yes, really, and make sure to thank him. He should be on the kitchen.”

“Okay!” He exclaimed, excited at the promise of a beverage; however, it was in his excitement that he forgot he was on top of a stool; losing his balance, he fell to the ground, the sound of the chair hitting the wood below being drowned by the cries of the child, the crew quickly sobering up at the sound

The entire crew looked down at the small child who was now crying on the ground; some were already rushing to get to him

Izou was the first to reach the small boy, picking him up and giving him a hug, trying to calm him down

He wraps his hands around his brother, their cries still ringing around the Moby Dick

“H-Hey Dokucha, hey, hey, don’t cry, lighting bug, it’s okay. We’re going to take care of you,” Ace reassures him, gently patting the head of the boy

“It hurts!” He cries

“Where does it hurt?” Ace asks as Marco makes his way over to the two

Thatch follows behind, rushing over

He simply points to his hands, small scratches littering them from their fall to the floor

Marco sighs, igniting his flames and holding Dokucha’s hands, healing all the small scratches. However, this did not lessen the cries of the small boy as tears rolled down his cheeks, hiccups escaping him.

“Buttercup, you’re okay. Look, see, your hands are all better now,” Vista says, joining his brothers in trying to calm down their youngest frowning when he shook his head and dug his head deeper into Izou’s shoulder as he continued crying and screaming

Whitebeard, who so far had been watching the whole ordeal play out, stepped in, gesturing at Izou to hand him over, who obliged

Whitebeard smiled gently at the crying boy in his hand

“There, There was that scary?”

He nods

“Y-yeah, and it hurt.”

“Well, you are alright now; look at you; there isn’t a scratch on you now.”

He cries, looking at his hands, and just as he had told him, there were no marks on his hands

“Breath in and out for me, yes, just like that, see you are okay.”

He sniffles, rubbing his eyes dry

“It was really scary.”

“It was scary, huh?” he says with a soft smile

“You feel better now?”

He nods smiling

“Thank you, PaPaw”

Again it’s not my best works but I really hope you enyoyed and @henrioo I really hope this was able to cheer you up a little, and I will try to write more male!reader from now on!

Taglist:

@imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

@h0n3y-l3m0n05

[wyvernest]

Oh my god I saw your requests were open and I love eveything you write<33

I See many fics where Miguel is the one who is jealous, but what if the tables turned and the reader is the one who is jealous, maybe she’s a civilian and she feels like he’d be better of with a spider person who understands his work better? I’d love to see him feel sad that his love feels that way can you tell I like pain lol

Thank you so so much<33 wishing you all the best for your exam! I’m sure you’ll do amazing!

shameless

pairing: bf!miguel x f!civilian!reader

warnings: jealousy, fluff, suggestiveness, public display of affection

summary: you're worried that miguel might be better off with a spider-person, but he is eager to reassure you (and everyone else) that you're more than enough

a/n:thank you and i hope you like it! im thinking of making a part 2 with balcony sex above nueva york let me know if yall would want it<3

divider by @cafekitsune

You are aware of the so called disadvantages of him being your boyfriend.

He is handsome, no doubt. But that means a lot more than being able to watch him work around the HQ, swinging your legs and wondering how you landed him.

It means having unfamiliar eyes linger over him more than you'd be able to tolerate. Flirty looks and remarks thrown at him like he's magnetic, regardless of everyone knowing he's with you.

Even walking through the glassy hallways and cloud scratching towers of Spider Society is a stab in the heart. 

Noticing all the single spider-women look him up and down, eyelids heavy with the seconds that passed as they unabashedly stared at his physique; his broad back, the bulky arms and toned thighs, at the way the muscles underneath his suit rippled with every heavy step he took, not letting his weight drop lazily on each foot but rather walking with the energetic strength of a man with insane stamina.

You couldn't stop a venomous surge of anxiety mixed with the most sour amount of jealousy from dripping into your nerves as you met their gazes, seeing how beautiful and charismatic they all were.

How agile and gracious they were, swinging by just to blow Miguel a fleeting kiss.

And you certainly couldn't stop wondering if he'd be better off with one of them. One of his kind. One that would be able to swing alongside him, to practise with him, to accompany him.

One that would understand him better than perhaps you ever could.

You know he loves you, or else you wouldn't be together. But the idea that he maybe even once looked at all the women lining up for him and thought they'd be interesting to try is gutting you out.

And he starts noticing it.

Of course.

He isn't oblivious to how you straightened your back or curled your arms around his when another spider woman passed you with flirty looks or remarks. How you'd shut down and become awfully quiet when you two would get home following one of these encounters.

He couldn't bear to see you unhappy. Some of the times he even felt the sharp sting of guilt poking into his heart, knowing that he was the reason others were upsetting you.

More so, your bond.

You are heading towards his lab at HQ, walking beside him, heart pounding intermittently with anxiety and bubbling anger. Eyes darting around you swiftly, like those of a feral feline making sure no other animal is preparing to jump her and snatch her food from her.

Suddenly, two flowy silhouettes shoot mile long webs far up into a tunnel bridge, only to drop down and swing right past you and Miguel. 

Purring out a simultaneous "¡Hola, Miguel! Looking good today!", reaching their hands down to him while boasting perfect balance with their webs tied to their ankles, they disappear into the distanced skyscrapers of Nueva York, with echoing giddy laughters.

Miguel doesn't move his head in their direction, already way too familiar with such interactions, and already too interested in hearing only one particular ¡Hola, Miguel! - yours.

Only your focus isn't on him. Your mind is running wild with how talented they seemed to be, how flexible and enticing. Already imagining him, playfully swinging with them, his force and precision perfectly matching their grace and melodic rhythm.

A dance you could never participate in.

What you also fail to see is the frown on his face as he turns to you, intrigued and finally ready to catch you off guard.

"¿Qué pasó, amor?" (What happened, love?) He leaned into you, dragging you by your arm to stop you behind a glass pillar. 

You're hauled out of your reverie, eyes widening in panic as you think of something less pathetic and embarrassing to say than the truth.

"Hm? Nothing, I just think they're nice to look at." You motion with your head the direction the two women swung in, clarifying. "Everytime you bring me here, it's all so … breathtaking." You internally wince at the excuse, pulling the best poker face you could muster.

He takes a deep breath, annoyed but patient.

"You know you can tell me anything." He assures you, voice low and whispered so as not to embarrass you in front of the spiders passing by. He is aware that the place isn't the most fitting for the conversation, but any other time he'd tried to coax it out of you, you dismissed it with a "It's nothing. I'm just feeling off today."

Truth be told, he had his suspicions. He is by no means unacquainted with the ways of women, and without a single condescending bone in his body when it came to you, he wants you to spit it out so you could talk about it. So he could untangle the knots in your heart, the doubts about him and your relationship.

"I know." You reply shortly, something in you dying to snap out and tell him everything, but instead, you shut it down at the last moment and decided to leave it at that.

"Then why don't you?" He looms over you, unintentionally, but you start to feel utterly cornered. Your heart is drumming out of your chest, and you are more than certain he can at least hear it. His face reveals his disappointment, however hopeful and attentive he wants to seem.

And just like that, your fronts break down.

"I'm - Don't get me wrong," you trail off, not looking him in the eye. You feel his warm breath fan over your forehead, getting dizzy from the sudden proximity. "I love this place. All the work you put into it.." Your eyes meet his for a fleeting second. "But sometimes it reminds me of how different I am.", You pause, waiting for a response. When he doesn't interrupt, you continue, "How I don't fit in,... here, beside you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" He looks almost pissed, as if you had told him he doesn't fit in. As if he was the one that didn't fit you.

"I mean I'm not … them. I'm not a spider."

"I'm aware of that." he retorts, ironically. "When did that stop me from loving you?". His tone is scolding. He is trying to maintain an unaffected demeanor so you would keep talking, but inside, his heart cracks at your words.

Your face heats up, surprised.

"It's not that." You have to actively stop yourself from leaning into his body and hiding into the warmth of his embrace, so that maybe all the jealousy and worry will wash away. But he deserves an explanation, now that you've admitted your feelings. "They know a side of you that I can only imagine. How it feels to be…like you."

His face softens, full of love and pity.

"I'm the odd one out here." You spit out, frustrated with his silence. "I can't give you everything they can!"

"I don't want what they have." He answers quickly, sincerely. You find it hard to believe, even though he's never lied to you.

To you, he's perfect. He deserves everything. Everything he could get.

And you're not enough.

"Escúchame." (Listen to me) He leans closer into you, his breath hot on your face. "Estoy enamorado de ti." (I'm in love with you.) "I only need you to be happy." 

You finally meet his gaze, full of consideration and fondness. You pray to whatever god hears you that he means it, because you're too far gone in your love for him to go back now.

"What will it take for you to just relax and stop being jealous, hm?" He whispers, smugly and amused. It's clear that he's flattered with your sentiments and possessiveness, but wants to nonetheless fix your issues.

You feel yourself getting immersed into the scent of him, his body heat radiating onto yours. You don't quite know the answer yourself. He grabs your waist right above your hips, sending shivers up your spine. Pulling you closer to him, he moves his head to your ear.

"What if I kissed you right here, right now? Let everyone know that I love you, and only you."

Miguel was very clearly overjoyed with the excuse to show you some public affection, especially if it meant having you so flustered and pliant beneath him.

"Would that make you feel better? Knowing they'll be the jealous ones now?"

You nod, more or less consciously, lifting yourself up on your tiptoes almost reflexively.

His warm and eager hands on your waist strengthen their grip, lifting you further up against his body as your feet lose contact with the ground, your chest meeting his. His lips are soft and tender against yours, dancing in a slow, passionate kiss. With your eyes still closed, you hear a few gasps near you in the hall; some happily amused, some offended.

But you don't care. All you care about right now is how he's tilting your head to the side with one of his palms at the back of your neck, slipping his tongue into your mouth and deepening the kiss. 

You continue to make out without a care in the world, just for the whole Spider Society to receive a much needed reminder that Miguel O'Hara is taken. 

His hands knead the supple flesh of your lower back, making your hum softly into his mouth, your own arms curling around his neck in a vicious hold.

When you least expect it, you feel one hand descend swiftly, leaving you no time to react as he grabs at your ass hard, so hard you jolt up against him, eyes snapping open in shock.

Without moving his hand, he presses his nose to your pulse point, exhales sultry on the sensitive skin.

"I have another idea."

[downtwngrl]

INTRICATE.

hi so it’s been a WHILE. uhhhh rewatched challengers for the thousandth time and it broke me out of my writers block! i don’t know how im going to continue w this, so feel free to drop any ideas and ill add it to the lore 😈 note: series prob isn’t gonna end with any smut scene bc im incapable of writing one without it sounding stupid asf! but who knows, you might be surprised

cw: 1.4k words,,, art and reader are dating but fighting, set in stanford era, tashi is NOT injured, patashi, hints of reader crushing on tashi but repressing it, fighting, tensiontensionTENSION! basically everyone is friends with one another but they all want each other BAD. lmk what else i should add :)

“it’s complicated.” that’s what you say every time someone asks you what your relationship with art donaldson is. and it’s true— you guys are fiery, but not explosive. complex, but not convoluted. it’s just… strange. intricate. hence, complicated.

you think he’d probably say the same thing, but there’s no real way to know, since you can’t exactly ask. the two of you aren’t on speaking terms right now, and for the same reason you two stopped talking last time, and the time before that.

art donaldson can’t split his time between his girlfriend and his fucking best friend’s girlfriend. and you can recite the argument quite well, maybe even word for word; it’s still fresh in your mind, engraved there.

“c’mon, you can’t just keep ditching me for her. it’s annoying, and it hasn’t just happened once or twice, you know.”

“i know.” art sighed, a hand tangled in his hair as if to ground himself. your name fell from his lips, voice cracking midway. “what do you want me to do? she needed help with her physics homework.”

“she can get one of her fucking groupies to help her! she’s a big girl, she doesn’t need to rely on you.” the way you said it, mocking and condescending, was mean, and you know it. you don’t hate tashi— you can’t even bring yourself to dislike her. but it hurts every single time you text art on your motorola and get hit back with some half-assed variation of ‘helping tashi. sry :( i’ll come later.’ he never actually shows up at ‘later’, which only rubs salt in the wound.

art’s jaw ticked. his eyebrows furrowed and eyes darkened in a way you’d only seen once before, when someone was talking shit about tashi in the cafeteria. you had watched as she calmly reassured art that is was fine, that he needed to relax, but he only shook his head and clenched his fists. in that moment, you wondered if he ever got that angry if he overheard someone talking about you. you now doubt it.

“don’t talk about her like that.” he said it calmly, but your skin still prickled. “she’s an accomplished lady. what about you? what have you done?”

if you sounded condescending before, it was nothing compared to how he sounded then. you scoffed away the sinking feeling in your stomach, blinked back the sting in your eyes. there was a lot you could have said to him then: ‘i might not be half as good at tennis as she is, but that’s less embarrassing than being second-best to her boyfriend.’ or ‘i didn’t compete for her number and lose.’ hell, even a good ‘fuck you’ would have sufficed.

instead, you just stood there, frozen, as he grabbed his stanford sweatshirt and left.

when you tell the story to patrick, he laughs, and doesn’t stop laughing until you jab him with your elbow, effectively knocking the oxygen out of him. his hands raise in mock surrender before speaking. “sorry, it’s just funny to see him get like this, i guess.”

you frown. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“i mean that he likes you, but he likes tashi. i know it, tashi knows it, and from what i heard on the walk here—” he gestures vaguely towards the door to your dorm, “—the school knows it, too. i dunno, i guess it’s amusing ‘cause art has never been so disturbed about this kind of shit. usually he just picks the girl he likes best, but he can’t.”

“you mean he can’t because you’re dating her.”

patrick smirks his signature smirk. you have the urge to punch his teeth out; vagueness is beginning to be a pet peeve of yours. “no, i’ve told him that tashi is free reign.”

the way your stomach flutters at that is shameful. you push the feeling away. “like, you guys aren’t..?”

patrick shrugs. “i mean, currently she hates me because i said i’d go to her match yesterday and i missed it.” these guys really need to stop promising us stuff, you think. “but yeah, when she isn’t pissed off, we’re dating, and we talk about it. ‘bout you guys. she doesn’t really care if the two of you make moves on either one of us.”

you don’t say anything, but your ears feel warm, and your heart is about to explode out of your chest. it doesn’t help when patrick takes that as a sign to keep talking and says—

“i don’t care either.” it suddenly hits you, the closeness between you and him. close enough that you can smell his cologne, one typical of a rich frat boy you’d pass by in the halls. but it feels different, with him. patrick’s smirk has shifted into a grin, a big one. you realize he’s been gauging your reaction, and is thoroughly pleased.

“oh,” you breathe. he snickers, repeats it back playfully. you don’t understand how he’s so relaxed, able to make light-hearted jabs in this moment. art likes you and tashi. tashi doesn’t care if he likes her, or if you like her. patrick doesn’t either. but where do you stand in this?

your phone jingles, the sound muffled from the blood roaring in your ears. you don’t know if you should thank or curse out whoever decided to call you at this second, but you excuse yourself to answer. patrick nods begrudgingly, backs up enough for you to have room to finally start to inhale and exhale again. “hello?”

“hey.” it’s art on the phone. impulsively, you look around, as if he’s hiding somewhere in the dorm he marched out of a few days ago.

holy fuck. “hey!” you sound too cheery to your own ears, and hope that over the line it sounds more convincing. you hear a sigh on the other end, and can imagine art physically loosen. “what, uh— i thought you were mad. at me.”

patrick perks up. ‘art?’ he mouths, and you nod. he attempts to come closer, but you swat at him, moving a few steps away. he pulls a face, but doesn’t move closer. still, he’s definitely trying to hear what art is saying.

“i was.” art laughs nervously, the sound tinny over the phone. “but you’re right. i fucked up. tashi… she isn’t my girl. i need to pay more attention to you, and that’s gonna happen starting now.”

she isn’t my girl. “she could be,” you think aloud. you tense. art chokes. patrick stifles a laugh.

“what?” you pray that he didn’t hear it. you had mumbled it, whispered it, there’s a chance it didn’t pick up. art says your name one, two, three times before you respond.

“sorry, i just zoned out a little.”

“no, you said something. baby, what’d you say?”

“i said ‘you should be’. like, you should be paying more attention, dumb joke, i was trying to sound threatening,” you slap your free hand against your lips to stop your word vomit, then your forehead as you reprimand yourself for acting so stupid.

art hums. “oh, okay.” it should relieve some on the tension in your shoulders, but it doesn’t. he usually laughs when you fluster, but he didn’t. is he unconvinced, or are you overthinking? “hey, tomorrow can you come to my practice at noon? we can go to the cafeteria after, i’ve got wayyy too many meal credits.”

you look to patrick for help, but he shrugs, enjoying the moment. “sure.”

art says his goodbyes, goes ‘mwah!’ through the phone (which usually makes you laugh, but now you feel bad), and once you say bye, he hangs up.

“i’ll go to his practice, too.” it’s never a question with patrick (or with tashi); he just lets you know. “tashi’ll be there. she’s always on the court when she’s free.” you find it endearing that he knows her schedule.

“tashi.” you like the way her name rolls off your tongue, but you’d rather die than admit it.

before you can say anything else, patrick walks over, swings an arm around your shoulders and pulls you close. “don’t forget about what i said.” his breath smells like spearmint gum, the type art is always chewing. maybe he gave him a piece. “just think on it, yeah?”

you nod, and he pats your cheek before walking out the door, leaving you feeling dazed. after a few moments of just laying on your bed, soaking in the conversation you just had, your phone dings.

we’ll see u tmrw :-) -pat (&tash)

[thelastofhyde]

you cut your hair, and take some space (2)

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

synopsis. an anthology of events that precede and procede the termination of you and your father's best friend's sexual relationship. this is part 2 of 3! (part 1)

warnings. no use of y/n! all spanish text is followed by immediate translation ( please note that i am fluent in castilian spanish, therefore some words/phrases may differ from that of other hispanic countries ), age gap , student!reader, dbf!javi, post-s3!javi, policeofficer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, violence, nondescript depictions of sa ( not javi ), pedro-ception aka there's a small cameo of another pedro boy, vomiting, mentions of pregnancy, reader is described to have hair and celebrates christmas ( but no mention of the reader's religious beliefs )! smut ( creampie, breeding kink through the roof, domesticity kink?? javi just wants to love and be loved and start a family, dacryphilia, indecent use of a credit card, spanking, dirty talk, prostitution kink?? i feel like i'm making these up at this point, + a hell of a lot more ) this fic is based on bsc by maisie peters except this has a happy ending bc im a sucker for mr. peña :( not all warnings listed here appear in this part, these are warnings for the fic as a whole !

word count. 14.3k

hyde’s input. hey... hey... how y'all doin'?🧍remember when i said part 2 would be posted a few weeks after part 1? yeah, that was a fucking lie. and, remember when i said it would be 2 parts in total? that was also a lie! the universe is praying on my downfall ( i had a fun mental health episode and fell into a black hole for a few months <3 ) unfortunately, i am very much still alive and kicking, so this is me trying to get the ball rolling again when it comes to posting fics. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it + tumblr will not allow me to post it as a whole due to it's paragaph-count limit, i've decided to post it in three parts. the fic will be posted in full on ao3 once all three parts are available on tumblr!

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of. “huh?” “this. us. it could be casual, y’know?”

Golden boy, you dropped the ball I am Annie fucking Hall

The year moves too fast.

It’s like you blink, and suddenly it’s Thanksgiving.

Leaves turn brown. Pumpkins are carved only to rot upon front porches. A gathering of friends, young adults getting their first taste at hosting a thanksgiving meal.

You’re put on dessert duty, which culminates in stressful tears and your mother’s hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, reassuring you that it’s okay, everyone burns their first pie.

No one at the party needs to know the pumpkin pie you brought was a product of your mother’s gentle care.

Then there is actual Thanksgiving, which you celebrate, as always, at your aunt's.

The highlight is, and forever has been, the road-trip out of state, your father making it his mission to deafen you and your mother with his horrific singing.

As they drop you back at your apartment, your father has no qualms leaning out the car window and calling after you.

“I expect to see you cheering me on at the Thanksgiving Touchdown event!”

Which brings you here, to said event, sweater sleeves tugged over cold fingers and a wandering pair of eyes who refuse to comply with your wants.

You want to focus on the ongoing football match- Fire Department vs Police.

Your eyes prefer to follow him, striding up the field, his hair soaked in sweat and his t-shirt long removed.

You’ve no valid reason to roll your eyes at the other women who seem to prefer spectating the sport of Javier Peña. You’re no better than them.

Yet, as one of them let’s out a joyous shriek as he takes a pass at the ball, your eyes roll.

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

At least you have company. An older gentleman, who you caught struggling to pick his wallet up from the floor. He’d smiled as you returned it, and conversation had flowed easily from there.

As the whistle blew, commencing the final match of the local community services’ football league- or, Thanksgiving Touchdown, as your father so aptly named it-, he’d patted the empty seat next to him.

“Hmm?”

He points, and you follow the direction, realising he’s speaking about Javi.

“Him,” he says it with a teasing tone to his voice. It’s like he’s mocking the agent. “Think’s he’s God’s gift, takin’ his top off like that.”

The more you sit with the older gentleman, the more you enjoy his company.

On the field, your dad bellows something at Javi. He replies with a curt salute, and shoots off down the length of it.

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

A force to be reckoned with, keeping pace with rookies half his age.

The vision of him, gun strapped to his leg and a tact vest on his chest, speeding down streets in the columbian heat conjures in your mind.

You wonder how it felt to know him then, if worry kept his companions awake.

It had certainly kept you awake in recent months, and that was with him safe, in Laredo, cooped up in some bachelor pad.

“Surprised he’s not thrown his top to the crowd of screaming ladies!” The gentleman continues his mocking, and it rouses laughter out of both of you.

A whistle is blown, your eyes return to the field and, though he’s quick to look away, you catch the tail end of Javier’s eyes on you.

Fifteen minutes pass, in which you do your best to not stare at him.

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

Eventually, the man next to you coaxes you into getting him a lemonade from the food truck.

You oblige, of course, and deny his attempts to hand you cash, insist it’s on you.

He’s kept you smiling on a rather gloomy day.

You tell him you’ll be right back, smile, and realise you don’t know his name.

“Chucho,” he tells you, and waves you off.

You join the queue, keep your head down, ignore the gossiping women three spots ahead of you, claiming to have each shared an encounter with Javi.

You don’t need to know what he’s been up to.

You don’t want to know who he’s been up to it with.

It happens when you’re finally being served.

There’s no longer a queue, just you, smiling as sweetly as possible. The service industry is rough enough, nevermind on holidays.

You order successfully, both Chucho’s lemonade and a hot chocolate for yourself.

The guy working the truck- young enough, a bit too traditionally good-looking, with coiffed hair and a shaven face- he’s talkative.

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

Even more so after a something that means nothing yet everything ends out of the blue and you’re left reeling over whether or not some part of you is to blame.

So you let him shoot you his dashing smile, and throw in unnecessary pet-names that just feel forced into every sentence he speaks to you, and write his number on the paper cup of your hot chocolate.

“Here you go, pumpkin,” he winks. The pet-name feels a little too on the nose for the season. Couldn’t he have called you sweetheart instead? “A sweet treat for that sweet smile.”

You wonder if he’s allowed to gift the free donut he slides your way.

Your stomach growls and begs for sugary release before you can fully bring yourself to care.

An awkward thanks. Hands reach up to grab the to-go cups, three fingers curling up the bagged donut. 

He helps you get a grip on the beverages, placing them in your hands.

His touch lingers, more than necessary, fingertips brushing over your knuckles as if trapped in slow-motion.

“So, a pretty girl like you got a boyfriend, or are you gonna let me take you out to-”

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

Your father screams one name, loud and clear, down the pitch.

“Peña, get your head out your fucking ass and pick up the ball!”

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

Javier, frozen in place, face an unreadable maze of emotions, eyes staring right at you.

They follow you all the way back to your seat, even as the game picks up again.

Even as you congratulate your dad on another victory for the police department, now the four-time consecutive champions of the Thanksgiving Touchdown.

Even as you head off to your father’s car.

Even when you’re home, curled under a blanket and watching a televised copy of Annie Hall, you feel his eyes on you.

The look of betrayal on Javier Peña haunts you even once you fall asleep.

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

Everything has it’s place, from the books that line your bedside table to the memories inside your mind.

You compartmentalise.

Tucked deep into the right side of your brain, there’s a box.

It’s contents, memories you’ve yet to process.

Moments you know that, if you wish to move on, you’ll have to relive.

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

And, scribbled in bold red marker, April ‘99.

A late night.

You, wide awake, laying on your back and mapping out stars in his ceiling.

Javier fell asleep hours ago and now snores softly against your neck, muscled arm curled around your waist as his legs entangle your own.

The agent is a fiend for cuddling, and so often wraps himself around you like a vine.

You find yourself nestling your hand in his hair, and take note of the sharp breath he intakes.

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

Relax when you feel him snore and press himself even deeper against your naked skin.

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

He hadn’t told you that, but he didn’t need to.

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

In the way he let you take the lead, resting back against the couch to watch how your hips wound down on him.

In the way he got even clingier than usual, dragging you into the shower with him just to have you near, holding you from behind as you washed up the plates he’d used to serve you dinner (a trade-off he’d reluctantly agreed to months ago: he cooks, you clean), laying his head on your lap as you curled up to watch some cheesy horror movie- one you’re bound to fall asleep during and he’s counting on it, glancing up till he spots you slumped over and eyes closed, granting him the perfect excuse to carry you to his bed and nestle himself in beside you.

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

It’s like you’ve forgotten something, misplaced something, and can’t even figure out what it is.

You just know its absence is wrong.

Javi mumbles something, dreaming away, and you feel the subtle press of his lips against your skin.

Fingers curl tightly into the fabric of your (his) shirt.

He can’t get you close enough, it seems.

Playing against his wants, you pull back, slowly, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.

There’s a pinch between his brows, furrowed in worry.

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

It’s a selfish act, born purely from your own desire, but you find yourself pressing a kiss against his forehead.

His grip loosens, though slightly.

It gives you enough time to feel a stir between your thighs, a calling coming from your bladder.

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

It’s a struggle that leaves you topless and feeling a pinch of cruelty, standing over the bed as you watch his hand grabbing at the vacant spot you once occupied, your scent and shirt the only traces you leave behind.

You don’t bother turning on a light, make your way to his bathroom with practiced ease.

Pad your way across the cold linoleum floor, sink down onto the porcelain seat- he’d stopped leaving it up when your overnight visits became more frequent. You hadn’t asked- didn’t need to ask-, he’d simply done it.

Closing the door over, yet not enough for the hinges to squeak and the handle to lock, you pray the wood muffles noise of the flushing toilet.

When it stops, you wait a few seconds, until you’re sure there’s no rustling coming from his bedroom.

Then, you open the tap.

The water is barely a trickle, yet you tell yourself its enough.

Lather your hands in soap, sit them under the constant drip of cold water till you feel the suds wash down the drain.

It’s hard to stop yourself from sneaking a glance at the mirror, just as it’s hard to recognise the version of yourself you see.

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

Yhen come the thoughts of Javier, and how he sees you.

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

He’s not said anything. Or done anything, to make you notice a change.

But, then, Maybe it’s been subtle, slow, dragged out long enough it’s not drastic enough for either of you to take note of.

You eye the spare toothbrush he keeps in his bathroom, and try to remember when it became yours.

You don’t remember.

One moment, his toothbrush sat alone. And, the next, you were standing side by side, laughing as you raced to see who could make a foamier mess of the toothpaste.

Corazón, you look like a rabid animal, he’d called you once, laughing through tears as he wiped away the white suds dripping off your chin. You’re lucky that you’re just so cute.

You can recall, even now, how quickly his mouth had found yours that night, with no ulterior motive other than to bask in the minty taste of one another.

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

Only, sweat lines your forehead and your face seems drained of colour.

You make it only two steps back before you’re hurtling across the bathroom floor.

Your knees crash down first, harsh and unforgiving against the tiles.

The first wretch burns, has you coughing over your own gag.

In the dark, it’s hard to see what exactly comes out of you, but you know where it came from.

Your stomach.

Another wave of nausea hits, this one harder, and you’re gripping at the sides of the bowl, spewing into the water below.

A splash meets your cheek, but you’re too out of it to care, wave after wave of nausea leaving you a coughing, gagging, crying mess.

You feel lightheaded, only managing a moment to catch your breath before another wave hits.

It feels like you’re suffocating.

It’s in your throat, in your mouth, in your nose, in your hair.

It feels like it’s never stopping and you’re doomed to spend the rest of your days submitting to the horrors of throwing-

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” warmth, against your naked back.

It’s a nice warmth, not like the one that has you covered in a cold sweat.

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

You try to follow it, match your breathing to the tactile comfort.

“That’s it, baby,” cool air meets your neck, the hairs that stuck to your skin now pulled up and pushed back. “I’m right here, I got you.”

Eventually, all that’s left is the burning of bile at the back of your throat and the dull ache of eyes gone raw with tears.

You’re pulled into a solid mass, naked chest pressed to naked chest as you go slack upon the bathroom floor.

You’re exhausted, and covered in your own sweat, tears and vomit.

Javier doesn’t care, pulling you tighter against him and whispering sweet words you don’t quite pay attention to.

“Woke up and you weren’t there, corazón. Don’t do that again,” even in his attempts to chastise, he’s gentle, brushing the remaining strands of sweat-slicked hair off your face. You must be an awful sight, yet his expressions don’t give way. “You wake up, you wake me up too. ‘Specially if you’re gonna hurl, okay?”

You glance at him, swallow back a lump and deal with the realisation that dawned upon you ten minutes earlier, as you sat hunched over the toilet’s bowl.

“Javi,” he smiles at the way you call his name.

You feel sick all over again at the thought of that changing, everything changing, as you build the courage to speak.

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

You imagine he’ll stand up, pace the floor.

Run his hands through his hair, rant over every thought he has.

Ways to get rid of it, the dangers of your dad finding out.

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

He’ll ask why you weren’t safer, why you forgot to take that morning-after pill, why you played so fast-and-loose with your body.

None of it arrives.

He stands, yes, but only to pull you up with him, tired limbs leaning into his strong build as he drags you both under the heat of a warm shower.

You watch the remnants of your own vomit wash down the drain, and question how he can stand there, not disgusted with you.

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

He’s rougher with himself, scarcely drying properly before he’s carrying you back to his bed, a replay of hours earlier as he lays you down, crawls in behind you and tucks you both under the soft comfort of his worn-out sheets.

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

He so easily nestles himself behind you, dragging you back against him and committing himself to the role of big-spoon.

His hands have always felt large, their touch always electrifying, but nothing compares to the feeling of him splaying one across your lower stomach, a subtle press into where part of him could be growing within you.

“Javi,” you whine, fighting off the sleep your overwhelmed body so badly needs. “I’m sorry.”

You say it because you feel obligated, like it’s your place to be apologetic.

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

“No seas boba (Don’t be silly),” there’s a fresh set of tears already sliding down your cheeks by the time he replies. “Don’t need to be sorry, baby.”

“But I-”

“But, nothing,” his tone feels final, one that tells you you’ll get nowhere arguing against him. “You’ve done nothing wrong, corazón.”

You fall asleep, eventually, soothed by his gentle breathing and the repeated motion of his thumb stroking over your belly.

Yhe next time you awake, there’s a crack of sunlight creeping through his blinds.

Javi’s still in bed, only he’s propped up on his elbow and staring down at you.

His smile stretches a little wider when he spots your open eyes.

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

“I gotta go, corazón,” is met with a protest from you, rolling over to curl into his solid chest.

Expecting it, he wraps you up tighter in his arms, presses an array of chaste kisses to your head.

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

You don’t want him out, in the real world, where the hours you’ve spent cooped up together become more scandalous than the peaceful nature of them.

“I know, I know. Don’t wanna go either, baby,” you wonder if you spoke your thoughts aloud, or if Javi simply knows you so well.

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

Help him tie it, the comforter pooled around your naked waist as you sit criss-cross-apple-sauce and Javi’s at the side of the bed, legs bent at the knee.

He thanks you with a kiss, then asks you to pass him his cologne.

It’s on the other side of the bed- his side of the bed- and you lean over to grab it.

You don’t bother handing him it, spraying it directly onto your own wrist and dabbing it into the skin of his tanned neck.

He lets you, a gentle smile on his face and eyes that pull you in for a hug, burrowing himself between your naked breasts.

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

“You’re gonna smell like me all day, cariño (darling),” he tells you.

“Good,” you reply.

Another hum, this time of approval, and a squeeze to your hip.

When he pulls back, he looks even more reluctant to leave.

Reality rears it’s ugly head, but he pushes it out your mind with the pressing of his hand against your stomach, the same spot he’d held onto all night.

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

Your hands instinctually curl in his hair, and you like to think you leave it a little messy, enough to ward off any of the women he works along side, hopeful eyes hoping to get a taste of the handsome, unmarried cop.

“Stay,” he mumbles against your skin, as if you’re the one who’s about to leave. “Don’t go, ok? I’ll call around lunch.”

He keeps his word.

Calls you, a few minutes past two, interrupting whatever daytime TV you were pretending to watch.

Answering leaves you feeling lightheaded, like you're trapped in a daydream.

Listening to him croon down the line while your finger anxiously tangles in the phone’s wire as you stand in his apartment, it feels domestic, like you’re waiting for him to come back home, a place you share together.

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

“How bout you, corazón?” He knows how to make you melt, picturing him smiling at his desk. “Have you ate yet?”

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

“You need to eat, baby,” you don’t like the fact he uses that pet-name, not right now. “There’s plenty in the fridge. Could make yourself a sandwich, or some toast. Might even have some of that pasta left over. You know, that one you said you liked? Oh, wait, maybe don’t eat that, don’t think uncooked salmon is good for pregn-”

You don’t want him to say the P word, so you cut him off.

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

He says ok, then you hear him take a bite of whatever his lunch is.

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

He tells you a quick story, something about one of the younger guys accidentally stapling his tie to an arrest warrant.

That rouses a laugh out of you, makes you forget all about the massive P word he almost said.

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

A place he’d begged you to stay this morning, safe and tucked away.

“Was thinking we could drive out to the clinic, find out for sure if we’re pr-” he cuts himself off this time, like he knows you’re not ready to hear that word. “Then we’ll take things from there, okay? Whatever you decide you wanna do, corazón, you call the shots.”

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

He walks through the door and welcomes the way you coil yourself around him, humming in delight as he peppers a few kisses over your face.

“Still smell like me,” he says it with approval, takes a purposeful whiff at you as he pulls you tighter against him.

You still smell his cologne on him too, buried beneath a few layers of sweat and cigarette smoke.

Near clinging to one another, it’s a miracle you two make it out his apartment and down the elevator.

An arm around your waist, he guides you over to his car.

Pulls the door open for you, stops you from bumping your head on the way in.

He practically runs round the car’s hood, jumping into the driver’s seat and thrumming the engine to life with the turn of a key.

“You remember to eat?” He asks as he pulls out onto the street.

You nod, then audibly reply.

Tell him you did in fact eat toast, leave out the part where you spewed your guts again twenty minutes later.

The drive is quiet.

Not uncomfortable, just relaxed, with the radio playing gently and his window rolled down enough to let in some air.

At some point, his hand slides over the console and rests against your thigh.

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

As you watch out the window how he drives past the turning for the local hospital, he must catch your questioning gaze.

“They, uh,” he clears his throat, rings his hand over the steering wheel. A small stain of sweat marks it. “Know your dad pretty well in there. And me. Figure you’d rather he not find out about us like that.”

He’s right.

So you relax back into your seat, accept the fact you’re both driving out of town together.

At some point, the beginning notes of your favourite song play through the stereo.

You instantly perk up, sitting up straighter in your seat and tap your foot a little to the beat.

Javi says nothing, simply peels his hand off you to turn the volume dial up.

Seconds later, he turns his head and throws you a look just asking if he’s done good.

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

A soft squeeze before he pulls them up to his lips, eyes back on the road.

The clinic is bright.

And squeaky, each step you take making you a little more nervous than the last.

Javier, by all accounts, is solid as a rock, signing you both in, picking up a few pamphlets, buying you a can of soda, all while you curl up in some plastic chair and just focus on not spewing your guts out.

You only relax once he’s sat beside you, helping you get a sip of the sugary drink and wrapping a protective arm around you.

You don’t mean to but you fall victim to sleep, the past 24 hours getting the best of you.

You come-to likely not much later, but to the sound of a childish giggle.

Cracking one eye open, just slightly, you notice you’re slumped into Javier, head on his shoulder.

There’s a giggling little girl in front of you both, in purple overalls and with two pigtails to hold her curly hair.

One of her hands is on Javi’s knees, using him to keep herself standing.

“First time?” You snap your eyes shut as a stranger’s voice fills the quiet bustle of the clinic.

A confused sound leaves Javier.

“Yeah, could tell from the look on your lady’s face,” the man continues. “Same one my own wife had during our first visit.”

You want to pay attention to Javi’s response, but you’re a bit busy dealing with the fact he’s not correcting the man, telling him you’re not his lady nor his wife.

His thumb soothes over your hip, and you wonder at what rate you’ll melt away into a pile of nothing thanks to his soft touches.

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

You tell yourself to try harder, to actually pay attention.

You succeed, catch as Javi replies, “a girl.”

“Yeah?” the stranger seems genuinely invested, it almost makes you want to open your eyes, see him for yourself.

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

“Wanted a boy, myself,” that same little girl giggles again and you can’t fight the temptation to peek once more, catch as she crawls into her faceless-father’s lap. “Doc told us it was gonna be a boy, too. Then this one came along and, wouldn’t ya know, not a boy.”

“Surprise!” the little girl squeals, and you feel Javi’s shoulder shake under your head.

God, you want to look at him, see if he’s looking at her with the same adoration that’s festering in your heart.

“Yeah, baby, you’re my little Sarah-Surprise,” the man coos and, despite his rough accent, it suits him. Like he was only ever meant to speak with gentle words and a soft heart, all for his precious daughter. “It’ll get easier, on your lady, just so ya know. Less scary, more exciting. ‘Bout to welcome our second one, and I’ve never seen my wife so happy.”

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

A chair squeaks as pressure is taken off it, the stranger standing.

You peak your eye open in time to see him picking his daughter up, her little legs dangling off his hip.

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

“What,” he clears his throat, and you wonder if it’s of emotion. “What are you hoping for this time?”

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

You’d pretended to wake up to Javier’s coaxing.

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

A smiley nurse handed you a cup, talked you through what you needed to do for your tests.

Took your blood pressure, complimented your earrings, and stepped out the room to give you privacy.

A short while and a reunion with Javi later, you sat in a doctor’s office, both a nervous wreck as you clasped each other’s hand.

“Mrs. peña,” again, Javier does not correct the doctor. And you realise it’s because he filled out the forms, he signed you in. He wrote you down as Peña. “You and your husband are not pregnant.”

What should have followed was a sigh of relief, from both of you.

But all you felt was led drop in your stomach and Javier’s grip tighten on your hand.

“You are, however, displaying symptoms of acute food poisoning, likely salmonella.”

The doctor continues on, detailing a prescription you’re being given.

But it falls on deaf ears, the world around you gone blank as you wrestle with conflicting emotions.

You’re not pregnant.

You should be elated. Jumping, and cheering, and dancing all over the place. Instead, you’re silent, letting yourself be guided back into the car by Javi.

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

He doesn’t explain that he’s taking you back to his place.

Getting you back in his bed, switching off the lights, he curls himself in behind you and splays his hand over your stomach.

Over your empty womb.

For some reason, you find yourself sobbing into your pillow, unaware of the tears from him that stain your neck as he tries to hush you.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” the irony of him repeating those very same words last night is not lost on you.

It’s hard to move on, when every month there’s a stabbing pain in your abdomen and a trickle of blood staining your underwear to remind you of April.

And so you keep it locked in it’s box, slapping another caution tape over it’s lid as you groan and roll out your own bed, trudging your way into your bathroom to check if the wetness between your thighs is your monthly visitor.

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

It’s not because he’s done anything to warrant your rejection, but, rather, it’s the forthcoming actions he’ll be guilty of.

See, you know why he’s calling.

Your mom let it slip, over brunch and a few too many glasses of wine.

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

Or, at least, that’s what you were until the last poker night he’d hosted, way back in March.

He slips away, phoned by your tipsy mother and obligated to drive three towns over to go pick her up because she misses him.

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

It was less a suggestion, more of a pleading, his hands already scraping the seat back and awaiting you to plop yourself down.

He leaves you with his hand, his winnings so-far, and a kiss to the top of your head.

“Watch out for Peña,” he whispered, as if you hadn’t been keeping an eye on the agent all evening, clouded by his own cigarette smoke and sitting looser each sip of his whiskey, no ice. “His poker face is dangerous.”

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

Rounds end and rounds start, and you father’s pile of winnings grow more and more.

It’s an ego boost, taking money from these cocky men who look at you as though surely you have no clue what cards you’re holding.

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

Flinging down cards, muttering curses, shoving his cash across the table.

All whilst glaring, at you, eyes black with ire.

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

Nearly an hour’s past since your father left, someone else leaves the table.

Says he needs the toilet, you point him in the direction of it.

You all call for a break, and then you graciously offer a refill on drinks.

It’s what your dad would’ve done, kept them all drinking and lowering their inhibitions, their focus disappearing alongside it.

“I’ll help!” One of the officers exclaims.

He’s on the younger side.

Practically a rookie, it’s only the second poker night he’s attended.

He’s sweet, with his large-framed glasses and his nervous smile.

You both make your way out of the basement- refurbished to be your dad’s man-cave- and head towards the kitchen.

You open the fridge, grab however many bottles of beer you need.

He heads to the liquor cabinet, pulls out a bottle bourbon.

You beat him at grabbing the whiskey, an unvoiced need to be the one who refills Javi’s glass.

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

Conversation flows naturally between you, in spite of him being a near stranger.

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

You both agree on the fact he’s a pain in the ass.

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

You tell him where to go to get the best club sandwich.

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

nNeither of you can tell who causes it, but one of you mispronounces a word and you both wind up in a pile of giggles, falling over yourselves and banging into counters.

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

Through wheezes, he repeats the phrase that left you both in this state.

You laugh harder, louder, warn him to stop before you lose control of your bladder.

Something thuds in the hallway, your eyes shoot up to the kitchen entry and you swear you see Javi’s retreating figure.

Blink a few times, realise there’s no one there.

You both gather some decorum.

He grabs as many of the beer bottles he can manage, and looks at your empty hands in question.

You tell him to head back without you, that you just need to go to the toilet.

Parting ways, you find the both the downstairs and upstairs bathrooms occupied.

Sigh in frustration, only to remember your parents en suite.

It’s empty, because of course it is. No one would feel comfortable enough invading the privacy of your parents' bedroom.

You do your business, wash your hands, fix yourself in the mirror.

Decide your lipstick needs a little touch-up, your clothes need straightening out.

And, when you’re done and ready to head back down to the poker table, you hear a thud.

Pull open the bathroom door, expect to find your father struggling to put a tipsy, giggly, clumsy version of your mother into bed.

Instead, there is only a brooding look and disapproving grunt.

A firm grip, on your arm, dragging you right back into the bathroom.

The door slams shut, a little harsher than you’d like, the sound of it surely reaching the ears of those regrouping for the next dealing of the cards.

He doesn’t pounce, like he so usually does when he’s wearing that look of frustration.

He’s simmering in it, teetering on the edge of boiling anger as he smooths a hand over his chin, visibly clenching his jaw, swallowing back whatever it is he wants to say to you.

He takes one step forward, and you go one back.

Then two steps, which you also match.

Your hip smacks into the sink’s counter on your fifth step backwards and it’s enough to finally put his hands on you.

He tugs you right into his chest, one hand soothing over where you’d banged your hip.

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

When he speaks, you nearly melt into a puddle, the heat of him invading your space, face inching close to your own, enough to have you questioning the sanctity of your parents en suite.

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

“Could ask you the same thing, officer,” you make the fatal mistake of giggling, but you’ll blame it on the fruity cider you’d helped yourself to.

He clearly finds no humour, not even as you fiddle with the top button of his shirt and shoot him your best look of innocence.

“Think you’re real fucking funny, don’t you?” His hand, warm and imposing, grips a hold of your face.

It’s almost painful, but you like it, squirming a little at the blunt stab of his nails and the way he smooshes your cheeks, forcing a pout onto your lips.

You try shake your head, his grip won’t let you.

“Sitting in a room full of men, making yourself the centre of attention,” he huffs a breath out of his nose, and you can’t help but compare him to an angry dragon.

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

“What’s the matter, Javi? Jealous you’re not the centre of all those men’s attention?” You’re poking the dragon, teasing him, and it’s an act that may leave you burned and scarred.

Or, as you’re hoping, it’ll win you the ride of a lifetime.

He doesn’t even grace you with a verbal response.

No, he scoffs, as though he’s in physical disbelief at the words you’re saying.

Spins you around, pins you to the sink’s counter, tugs your hair till you’re forced to stare at your reflection.

He’s right behind you, seething in anger, fire in his eyes.

His head dips between you neck and shoulder, brushing his lips against your pulse point.

“Not all of us are attention whores like you,” it’s fleeting, and he’ll deny it if you dare mention it, but he smiles.

Just a second, but you feel it, see it even though he tries so hard to turn his face into your neck.

It’s what lets you know he’s playing, teasing, egging you on to push him over the edge.

“I’ve been with real whores, corazón,” he confesses a sin you already know, eaves-dropping one too many times on your dad fishing stories of Colombia out of him. “Fucked them so often they started doing their nails in colours they knew I wanted to see wrapped around my cock.”

Involuntarily, your back arches, brushing your ass against him and providing him the perfect access to wind his hand up between your heaving breasts, all the way up till his fingers curl round the base of your throat.

In the mirror, the image is one of ownership, of Javi seizing your bodily autonomy. A whore and her gentleman caller.

It’s arousing to think about, Javi and his whores.

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

“And not one of them took half the money you’ve taken from me tonight.”

Oh.

So that’s what this is, his pretty ego, bruised at the hands of you?

Poor Mr. Javier Peña, humiliated in front of all his peers round after round, hundred bill after hundred bill.

You almost taunt him for giving into the temptations of the fragile male ego, but you’re stopped in your tracks.

By him, hands squeezing at you a little tighter as he grinds the unmistakable outline of his hardened cock against you.

That single action changes the game, entirely.

Because this isn’t about you stealing his money and his ego.

No, this is something far filthier, that has your panties growing wetter beneath the skirt of your dress.

“I’m worth every dime though, aren’t I, officer?.”

The grip tightens.

He shoves you harder into the counter, so hard a tub of your mother’s moisturiser topples off.

The hard outline of him is still there, ever-present.

“‘S that what you like, huh, taking my money? Wanna be Javi’s personal little whore?”

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

Certainly not you, reflection mimicking the way you eagerly nod, teeth biting down on your bottom lip in a failed attempt to hold back a grin.

Javi notices- of course he notices- and takes his victory, hips rocking even deeper into you.

There’s too many layers between you, a feat on which you both agree, yet neither of you do anything about.

You just savour the friction, instead, pushing and pulling one another to the axis of pleasure.

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

“What’s it gonna cost me to get you bent over and stuffed full of my cum, corazón?” One hand leaves your body. The mirror snitches on him, exposing how he’s reaching into his back pocket. “This?”

He smacks something down, into the bowl of the sink.

It’s his wallet, and you watch the worn leather of it shine with the residue of water on the linoleum.

The hand at your throat pulses a squeeze, his knee nudges you from behind.

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

His mouth, right by your ear, lips tickling you with the subtlest of brushes against it.

His hand guides your own, down into the sink, flipping the wallet open and putting it’s belongings on display.

Bills, some placed neatly, others stuffed in forcefully, edges spilling out the pockets. There’s less in there than when he arrived, courtesy of you.

There’s a few miscellaneous cards. A library card, an ID slip you’re sure he uses for something in the sheriff's station, a loyalty card to some record store.

The picture of his mother sits centre stage, radiant smile and loving eyes grabbing the attention of any who dare open it.

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

And then you notice something else, peeking out from behind his mother’s picture.

You dive into temptation, dart your nosy fingers over to tug at the object, till you realise it’s another picture.

A picture of Javi, and you.

Taken on a polaroid you found under a box of his belongings, you remember the day clear as ever.

The two of you had messed around, captured your sins on film with the promise of destroying it after. It would be too risky a thing, to allow image evidence of the intimate ways in which you knew each other’s bodies.

Javi’s fingers on your skin, your nipple in his mouth, his cock’s outline bulging within your lower abdomen.

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

Fully dressed, eyes fixed on his television, your head lays in his laps while his fingers card through your hair.

It’s captured from above, as if Javi’s own eyes had made a permanent record of his view.

The sweetness of this living on, of Javi taking something sacred for himself to keep hidden in his wallet distracts you for a moment.

He does good to bring you back into the room.

“Take how much you think you’re worth, corazón,” whispered into your ear, as he rips a few of the notes out his wallet.

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

With each bill you count, your internal price shooting up within your head, you try picture his reaction.

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

You, your face, looking at your expressions in a way that reminds you it’s his job to read people.

You decide to be bold, dig into his wallet and, even though your insides twist in anxious turmoil, hold up your hand to present him with your answer.

Resting neatly, between your fore and middle finger, a shiny credit card.

The gleam in Javi’s eyes just about match it, blackened and blown out with lust.

The card is plucked out your hand.

The hand on your neck leaves, in search of your waist.

The fabric of your dress bunches, wrinkling and creasing as his fabric-straining grip inches it’s hem higher and higher.

You feel sexy like this, face heated and breathing heavy.

It’s an effect he has on you, has had on you, forcing you to look at yourself in new lights, in new angles, admiring every out-of-line trace of you for what you are.

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

And every other word under the sun that Javi whispers into your skin with innocence as his body commits sins within you.

At the bottom of the mirror, you watch as the white cotton of your panties comes into view.

Wet, as you both expected, the thin fabric now turned almost sheer, exposing the delectable view of your cunt hugged cutely by the cotton’s tight seams.

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

There’s a strain to his voice, one that would have you worried he’s in pain if it weren’t for the way you’re watching as his face contorts with lust.

His eyes are dark and you study them like he studies his card, contemplating something.

A few seconds pass. 

Tension is puffed out his chest with one exhale, through the nose.

You feel the air tickle your skin.

He nods curtly, to himself, and flickers his gaze back to meet your own in the mirror.

It’s unwavering, even as he brings the black plastic down and smacks it against your mound.

You squeal, he hushes, and you both know he doesn’t mean it at all.

He likes when you gift him noise, a private aria only he has tickets to.

Just as easily as the first time, he snaps the card against you again, a jolt of pleasure shooting straight through your clit.

Just as loudly as the first time, you squeal, a jolt back into his warm, steady, hard embrace.

“What’re you running from, hmm?” His face turns, burrowing itself in the tresses of your hair.

A shallow sniff, and you wonder if he notices the smell of his shampoo on you.

There’s a pressing of lips, against your scalp, and it’s far too gentle of a juxtapose to the imagery of his fingers pulling your panties to the side, exposing your pussy to the bathroom’s cold air and the two pairs of hungry eyes in the mirror.

“You say that this is what you’re worth, and then you don’t want to take it?”

The third spank of the card against your bundle of nerves is harder, louder, echos in the confined space. A moan, minuscule and muffled, slips past tightly shut lips, a look of fear flashing through wide eyes.

Javi’s quick with his reassurance, gentle with his comfort, a hand stroking over your collarbone.

“Don’t worry, no one’s gonna hear you. You just be as loud as you need, hermosa, they’re too busy encouraging that boy-cop to ask you to dinner.”

There’s a tint of jealousy to the way he says boy, and you’re reminded of the image of him in the kitchen doorway.

Smack!

The card strikes down, once more, this time eliciting an open-mouthed gasp. 

He doesn’t let up, repeating the action twice more.

It hurts, in a way that makes your core throb and your toes curl, squirming aimlessly in a grasp he knows you don’t truly want to escape.

But he mocks you, with a hushing noise in your ear and gentle it’s okay, corazón, Javi’s got yous against your neck. His thumb swipes through your folds, coating it in your wetness and dragging itself up to your clit, soaking it in soothing rubs.

His gentle nature lasts mere seconds, his wrist flicking back only to smack the credit card down again. This time, it’s a pattern of three, repeatedly crashing down on your sensitive nerves one after the other.

In the mirror, you watch him observe as he twiddles the card between deft fingers, contemplation on his mind.

The room’s quiet, apart from your shortened breaths and his deep inhales.

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

It must have been a loud cheer, for you to hear them all the way up here.

And, suddenly, the stakes feel higher than when you were sat at the poker table, counting Javi’s coins with every passing round.

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

This doesn’t seem to cross Javier’s mind, who merely twists your head away from the bathroom door and back to the mirror, to where his hungry eyes await.

All contemplation is gone, he’s decided in what he’s going to do, and so you watch as he takes the card and swipes it through your cunt.

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

In fact, it’s rather uncomfortable, the solid plastic hard on your delicate skin.

It’s the arousal of him doing it that gets you weak in the knees, to have him perform such a mundane act- the swiping of his credit card- in such a crass, dirty, wrong way.

Like he’s paying for you, committing a physical transaction in exchange for your body.

It doesn’t matter that he could have you for free, has had you for free.

He wants to pay, wants to reward you in a way that aligns with the capitalistic world.

“Javi…” You whimper, softly, head lulling back against his shoulder as he swipes the card again.

Your eyes, slowly slipping shut, shoot right back open as you feel the rounded corner of the card prod at your opening, as if trying to notch itself within you.

“Think she could take it, corazón?” Javi bites at your ear, teeth clamping down and pulling at it’s lobe. The card sinks in, not even an inch. You nudge back into, your cry circling the room around you both. “I know, baby, I know. It’d be a wide stretch, but ain’t that all pretty whores like you are good for, hmm?”

It’s automatic, the way you bend to his every whim, head nodding without direct orders from your brain, every part of you, conscious or not, ready and willing to prove you could fit his card inside of you.

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

Surprisingly, the hand between your thighs retracts and you watch as he brings the card up to your mouth, glistening with your arousal.

“Open,” the directions are unnecessary, your mouth already dropping open for him in an act of muscle memory.

He hums approvingly, yet his eyes are still fury filled as he slots the card between your lips, lathering your tongue in your own taste. 

“You’ll take anything I give you, won’t you, corazón?”

The statement rings true, both ways: as much as you’ll take anything, he’ll give anything.

You don’t tell him that, though, finding it much easier to rest your palms on the countertop, backing your sopping core into him, enticing him with the wiggle of your hips and whines from your lips to take you already.

“Shh, shh, don’t you worry that pretty head. Javi’s gonna feed this greedy little cunt, ok?”

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

Something smashes, in the basement, and it’s enough to have you flinching.

Javi’s touch soothes you, a hand running over the curve of your shoulder as he presses yet another kiss into your neck.

“S’okay, probably just a beer bottle.”

He doesn’t move another inch, not till he sees you nod, melting back into him.

You hear, more than you see, the way he tugs his trousers down, just enough to free his hardened cock from its jean-clad confine. The risky business of a quickie in your parents’ en suite calls for clothing moved aside, and not removed.

Much to your annoyance, his all-encompassing warmth drifts away as he moves back, hands clamping down on your hips. 

He tilts them to the angle he wants, the angle he knows gets him brushing all your sweet-spots.

He tugs the skirt of your dress up, and then readjusts your soiled underwear.

You hear him draw a deep breath and watch his eyes in the mirror, glued to that spot between your legs, entranced.

The drag of his cock over your folds is familiar, the way he smacks the head of it against your clit is welcomed.

He spears you no gentle coaxing, no stretching around his fingers first, coming undone just for him to fill you right back up, this time with his cock.

No, this is a vengeful touch, the kind that’s meant to display his irritation, his fury, for reasons you’ve yet to confirm yet you’re more than willing to accept.

A man like him, so unfairly selfless, taking something in this world for himself, how he wants to and how he likes to.

You’ll be his vice, so long as he grants you his virtues.

Javi fills you with a single thrust, grunting low into your ear as you feel the way the air is physically knocked out both for your lungs.

He’s still, head buried in the crook of your neck as he works on steadying his breathing, giving you time to adjust to the delicious stretch.

You whine out some version of his name, feel yourself pulse around him.

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

He’s making you wait for it, you think, torturing you with an impending paradise.

He’s savouring the feel of you, he thinks, taking advantage of the few moments alone he wins with you.

"Javi,” he barely lets you part from him to speak, chasing a trail of kisses down your jaw. “This isn’t the time to develop patience.”

The snide remark earns you a bite, his teeth nibbling on the sensitive skin of your earlobe. You squeal, try remind yourself to be quiet, only to squeal louder when his hands tickle at your waist.

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

His hips roll back, slowly, but it’s better than nothing, better than when he wasn’t moving at all.

Still, he makes you squirm a little longer, moan his name a little louder.

Only then does his fake resolve snap and he’s fucking into you at a brain melting pace in the blink of an eye.

Javier does his best to keep quiet, at first, biting down on his lip and your neck just to contain all those melodies he usually makes.

You can’t say the same for yourself as, despite your efforts, broken moan after broken moan tumbles out your mouth and into the sink, filling and filling and filling it in sync with how Javi your cunt.

You wonder how long till it all spills over the edge.

“Joder (Fuck),” he groans as you unconsciously squeeze him tighter, pulling him deeper into your walls. serves him right, for the teasing and the torturing. “Tienes el coño más lindo en todo el mundo. (You have the prettiest cunt in the whole world.)”

You feel lightheaded.

Warm, sweaty, covered in the fingerprints of a lover you shouldn’t be with.

The bathroom fills with an array of sounds. The slapping of skin against skin, the broken cries of an agent’s name, the mindless rambling of a man drunk on pleasure.

“So good to me, baby. Always so fucking good to me.”

“Gonna stay here forever, fuck. That sound good to you, corazón, hmm? Full of my cock always?”

“Look at yourself… Pura belleza (Pure beauty).”

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

There’s no worrying about the happenings around the poker table, no listening out for your father’s car pulling in the driveway, no worrying about your tousled hair or sweating skin.

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

“Please, please, Javi-“ The words all melt together, pleads becoming his name, his name becoming pleads.

You’re not sure what you’re begging for.

It’s okay though, Javi always knows what you need.

“I know, amor (love), I know,” he murmurs into your skin, butterfly kisses so gentle you wonder how they come from the same man that’s pistoning his hips into you like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get. “Let go, c’mon. Show me how much you love this cock, how much you love-”

He’s cut off by his own groan, you cunt fluttering around him as you inch closer and closer to the edge of euphoria.

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs. 

It brings a welcomed cushioning, shielding you from repeatedly bumping against the marble of the countertop.

Your legs part further, eagerly, an easy pathway for his yearning fingers to seek out the wonders of the female body as they brush over your clit.

The gentle tactile that he strokes over your bundle of nerves, partnered with the repeated brushing of his cock against that spot that makes you weak in the knees, drool out your mouth, it’s becoming too much.

Eyes glancing in the mirror, you wonder if yours is the same image of the whores who’d warmed his Colombian nights: sweat soaked skin, hooded eyes, messed up hair, wrinkled clothing.

He tilts your hips, a deeper angle to fuck into you that has you perching up onto the tips of your toes, fighting with the chance of losing balance.

He’d catch you, if you fell.

Wrap you up in an embrace that’s more familiar than your own.

“I’m gonna- Fuck! Corazón, need you to cum. Now, please. Please. Need to feel you-”

He’s babbling, losing composure and revealing the side of him you pray he never showed those other women: the side that needs, the side that longs, the side that begs to see you cum before he allows himself to, before he’s able to.

“Javi,” it’s a struggle to speak, but you endure, fighting off your orgasm and holding back tears. There’s something you need from him too. “Cum with me. Wanna be full of you, all of you-”

“¿Sí? (Yeah?)” He pleads back, thrusts already getting a little sloppier, hands a little shakier in the way they touch you. Much like his poker face, you know how to read the face he wears moments before he falls apart. “¿Eso es lo que quiere mi corazón? (Is that what my sweetheart wants?) Want me to cum in you, hm?”

“Yes, oh god yes! So bad, Javi, I want it so bad!”

“Ay, bebesita, no llores. (Aw, baby girl, don't cry.)” He coos, a condescending lilt to his words that has you falling into a bigger mess. “Shh, don’t worry, baby. Gonna fill you right up, so my cum’s dripping down your thighs when that poor kid asks you for your number. Thinks he’s got a shot with you cause he made you laugh, poor boy wouldn’t know how to deal with all the noises I get out of you.”

Javi divulges into a spine-tingling rant of burning hot jealousy, the kind that leaves your cheeks burning and your heart scorching, lit under a flame of your desire for more of him. To have him, equal parts physical and emotional.

You try warn him of the bubble that’s about to burst, the feeling in your loins building and building till it’s seconds way from toppling over. 

“That’s it, baby, squeeze my cock. Lemme feel it,” He urges, heart pounding out his chest against your back, hands tightening their grip on your hips. “Need to feel you cum, ‘s all I want.”

You both crash and burn, together.

You fall first, a chaos of unfinished words, crying out for Javi.

He follows close behind, body pressed against your own like he’s willing you to fuse together, to become to entangled in one another that all possibilities of separation become void.

“Take it, cora-” He’s in your ears, in your head, in your heart. Inside of you, consuming you, as eagerly as he’s willing to be consumed by you, fingerprints on hips and teeth-marks in necks. “Take it, take it, take it.”

Arms envelop you from behind, crossing over your chest to pin you back against him.

He’s nearly stagnant, nothing but the twitch of his cock and the shallow thrusts he fucks you deeper with, filling you with another, another, another pump of his cum.

“So good,” Javi’s voice persists, teeth gritting as he bites back the need to be loud, to be heard, to lay a claim on you so blatant no one could deny hearing it. Your relationship with your father is the only thing that holds him back. “Good to me, baby. Always… Good… Díos. (God.)”

Craning your neck to the side, you manage to pull him in for a kiss.

It’s something he accepts easily, lips parting and melting into a dance against your own.

One of his hands falls over your jaw, twisting your face even closer to him.

The kiss dies slowly, with each of you refusing to truly part, pecks being splattered messily against the other’s mouth.

“Was I,” Javi interrupts you with another kiss, his free hand smoothing up and down your side, his hips still slowly rocking into yours, a delicious sting of overstimulation biting at your core. “Am I worth it?”

He pulls back, tired gaze warm as it takes in your messed features.

With the smile that stretches over his lips, however, one would think you were the prettiest creature in all the world.

He calls your name, calmly, slowly, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of it on his tongue. “You’re worth everything I could give, and more.”

There’s something behind the ways he says it that makes you believe him.

With little will to do so, you peel apart from each other, his hands moving quick to adjust your underwear as his cum starts to leak out onto your folds.

He exits the bathroom first, a final kiss placed on your cheek before your left alone, forced to confront the wrecked version of you that will never see your parent’s en suite in the same light.

Your dad arrives back just in time to see you slipping back down to sit at the poker table, no seat left for him to take but the one between his sweet daughter and his loyal best friend.

If only he knew he was placing you both where you most wanted to be when he suggested Javi give you a ride home, waving you both off through the car window with no idea Javi's cum sat dripping out your cunt, staining the car seat.

Your phone buzzes to life in your hand, slipping you out of your memories.

Your father’s contact name reads clearly on the screen.

Hitting decline one more time, you roll over and try ignore the gathering slick between your thighs.

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

Mr, I don’t want a label You made me a little miss unstable (And it)

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

Pick out a tree, synthetic, and lump the box up the countless stairs to your apartment.

Try not to think of how he would’ve insisted on helping, refused to let you carry it.

Even if it culminated in him doubled over in pain, clutching his lower back.

Lights, baubles, action.

The tree’s smaller than you expect, barely reaching your hip, but it’s green, tree-shaped and festive. It’s enough.

Your decorations are minimal, a few inconsequential things you picked out your parents’ stash. There’s a Santa hat, frayed with time. A few cracked baubles, with string so thin you suspect they’ll snap off. A gingerbread man ornament, a glass snow-flake. A crooked star, missing one of its points, tops the tree.

A homemade snowman, one you’d gifted your parents after a busy day in nursery. Neither of them had the heart to tell you you’d made its nose a rather phallic shape.

And then there's the red phone-box, nestled somewhere in the middle, an etching of LONDON brandishing it as a reminder of your trip.

You’d picked it up in a tiny bookstore, right next door to The Distillery Club.

The winter season has never felt so lonesome, tucked away in your grown-up apartment. 

There’s no fireplace to warm your hands, no hot cocoa boiling on the stove. No cheesy hallmark movies to laugh at with your mother, no racing past your father to grab the last slice of dessert.

It’s just you, alone, with only your wandering mind as company.

Sometimes, more often than not, it wanders to him. To if he’s alone.

To if he’s filling his heart as easily as he fills his bed.

To if he’s finally bought a second seat for his dingy balcony.

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

He hums, brows furrowing, lips pouting, smoke dragging into his lungs.

The cigarette sits perched between two fingers of the hand resting on your knee, his other curled around your waist.

“Some what?”

“Tactic,” you repeat. Watch him blow a puff a smoke, taste his ash at the back of your throat. “Only having one chair, so pretty girls have no choice but to sit in your lap.”

He lets his gaze wander away from the streets below and up to you, sitting pretty in his lap. Like a cat, draped over his thighs.

Nothing but his own rumpled, inside-out shirt to cover your skin.

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

Fingerprint bruises littering your hips, bitemarks etched into your collarbone.

“I gave you a choice,” he speaks with a reservation he didn’t have before, when he’d offered you a ride home from the bar. There’s an etching of something that’s diluting his expressions, sinking him deeper and deeper into his own pensive mind. “You were the one who insisted on sitting on me.”

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

Nails pinch at your thigh, causing a squeal out of you.

A few birds fly off a nearby wire, a head or two turn in the street below.

They don’t see you, or Javi, or the lack of clothing that sits between you.

“Neither were you. In fact, you were a little busy fucking my fac-”

“Stop!” Your sudden modesty feels unearned, yet that does nothing to stop you from placing your hand over his mouth.

He licks at it, you grimace, he licks again.

Then takes another breath of nicotine, as you wipe the remnants of his spit onto his naked thigh.

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

The whiff of Javi’s post-sex smell- muted cologne, matted sweat, burnt ash- steals your senses, reminds you you’ve already done enough to disappoint your father, a cigarette can’t do much damage.

So you let him hold it up to your mouth and inhale it’s poison.

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

But that was supposed to stay in Vermont, tucked between snowy slopes and wooden cabins. Existing in a timeline separate from your reality, where you are your father’s precious daughter and Javi is his trustworthy colleague and friend, that is where it should have stayed.

And it had, for two weeks. Sixteen days, specifically. 

You’d returned to classes, to sharing lunch breaks with your father in his office, to slowly moving more of your things out the family home and into your new apartment.

And Javi, from what you heard, had returned to keeping civilians safe, to sharing a drink or two with your father at the end of the work week, to flirting with every secretary within a mile radius.

Neither of your crossed paths and, when you nearly did, the other made the effort to turn a corner, shut a door, hide behind a wall.

Until tonight.

Until you ditched your mediocre date, some lame excuse of having a last-minute paper due.

Until you’d gone to console yourself over your failing love life, unknowingly sliding into a bar stool right next to the most desired cop in town.

Until he’d turned to you, tilted his head, and asked “d’you wanna get out of here?”

He’d offered to take you home.

The drive was quiet, tense, until his hand drifted over the gearstick and you dragged it down onto your thigh.

He squeezed.

You inched it further up, till the tips of his fingers brushed at the edge of your dress.

He took the invitation, took a turning towards his own place.

Brought you into his apartment, drowned you in his fountain of kisses, begged you to sit upon his face. He’d made you see stars beneath a roofed sky, eyes rolling so far back they threatened to get stuck there.

With barely a moments recovery from a third blinding orgasm, he dragged you down the expanse of his body, sat you down on his cock and refused to help your overstimulated, puddle-brained self ride him, grinning cunningly with his back pressed against the mattress as you struggled through shaky legs.

Eventually, he tired and launched himself, arms tangling behind your back, feet planted flat behind you, hips fucking up into your battered cunt until you both came to a haltering crescendo.

He’d layed you down to rest, cleaned you of any mess, and then wandered out to his balcony, inviting you to join him when the feeling returned to your legs.

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of.

“Huh?”

“This. Us. It could be casual, y’know?” Another puff of smoke slips right through his lips. “If that’s what you’re worrying about… your dad, and all that other stuff. I don’t need a label, not if it means I get to have… We could keep it casual, if that’s what you want.”

It takes a few moments for you to fully register his words, and then a few more to formulate a response.

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

Because what else could Javier Peña, notorious womaniser, want with you if not a casual, no-strings-attached permit to sleep with you, as many times as he sees fit, without the risk of losing his job or, worse, his best friend?

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

Within a half’s hour, he’s got your hands white knuckling as they grip the metal bannister of his balcony, his own hands busy pulling your hips back to meet each of his desperate thrusts, not even the cool air of the night enough to soothe the flaming desire that burns between you.

Your stomach twists, your mouth dries, your eyes water at the thought of him out on that balcony now.

Somebody else, some new body sat in your spot, upon his lap as they exchange smoke rings and warm mouths.

Broke me big time It’s funny and I’m laughing baby You think i’m alright

The Laredo sheriff’s department is known best for three things: its lack of parking, its swoon-worthy ex-DEA agent, and its office holiday parties.

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

A Christmas wreath, mistletoe hanging from every doorway, egg-nog and mulled wine.

It’s not just Christmas.

It’s menorahs, and ficus trees, and a statues of different gods.

Each piece of culture, tradition, holiday that makes up the people that inhabit the station, day in and day out, behind desks and in cop cars, filing paperwork and fetching coffees, represented in some way, celebrated.

Each member of staff is encouraged to bring their friends, their family.

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

Then there’s the gift exchange, a Secret Santa system, optional for each member of staff.

It’s the part you look forward to most.

Crowding your dad the minute he gets home on the first of December, poking and prodding till he lets it spill who he’s got.

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

Drawing up a list, made of details and anecdotes your father remembers of his target.

Dragging your shop-avoidant father down to the mall, for a day of gift hunting and sweet-tooth indulging.

Getting to watch your father’s coworker open their gift, eyes lighting up as you once again knock the ball out the park and gift them something perfectly tailored to them, winning your dad the spot of top gift-giver year after year.

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

No trying to crack just what exactly your dad should gift his person.

No waiting with baited breath to watch them open it, heart racing with that little fear of them not liking it, of you failing.

No, the moment that name fell from your father’s mouth, you knew what he needed to get.

Hinted at it, slightly.

Claimed you’d smelt it on a friend, thought it would be a good idea.

Sipping on some wine and picking at the buffet, you watch him pick up his gift.

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

Look down at the box, confused, then tear into the wrapping paper.

The whole room stops.

Not really, but it feels like it does, as somewhere across the room Javier Peña holds up a bottle of that damn cologne.

And, when his eyes instinctively find yours, it feels like everything else fades away.

Fades to grey.

It’s just him, and you. The only two within the room, holding a secret too heavy on the tongue to ever speak it aloud.

He knows.

Of course he knows.

Knows you’d watched him spray it on his skin, day in, and day out.

Knows you’d worn it on your own, sunk it deep into your pores after intertwining your souls upon wrinkled sheets.

Knows you’d watch its contents decrease over time, time you’d spent with him.

That bottle of cologne reminiscent of a timer on you both, that morning before the hospital trip becoming the last few sprays he got out of it.

Colour returns to the world that surrounds you as your dad steps into view.

He’s hugging Javi, pathetically tipsy and ignorant to the lipstick stain on his cheek, no doubt ingrained to his skin with how hell-bent he is on having your mother kiss him beneath each mistletoe.

They’re exchanging words you don’t hear, slapping one another on the back.

You turn on your heel, insides twisting as nausea overcomes you at the scene.

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

You’re trying to leave, tempted to take the good old Irish exit and just slip out a back door.

But your parents- ne, your father- are so busy show-ponying you around the room, that you fail to take a single step that goes unnoticed.

“There she is!” Your father calls out, somewhere behind you, as you slip your hand into the arm of your coat. This act sparks outrage, a frown birthing onto his face. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving too.”

You say you’re tired.

He boos, loudly, like he’s not the chief of police and a whole grown adult.

Grabs at you, lovingly, trying to pry the coat out of your hands.

The effort is minimum, and you know he’s only messing around.

You can leave, if you want to, even if he’d rather you stay.

“It’s not even midnight and you two buzzkills are leaving!” He wails, all the while he’s reaching around and helping you slip your other arm into the coat.

That’s when Javi’s face comes into view, over the arch of your dad’s shoulder, sporting a smile and a pair of keys dangling off one finger.

You try your best to counter his smile with your own, though your throat feels dry and your cheeks feel tight.

“I can’t believe I’m being betrayed like this by two of my favourite people!” The smile slips before you can catch it, eyes widening at your father’s words.

Words you’d spent months agonising over the thought of hearing. Picturing the circumstances in which he’d find out. Imagining the horrendous fallout, a red slash over Javier’s reputation. Swearing you’d quit it, quit him, and then winding up tangled in his sheets again, head pressed to his chest, eyes closed in the soundest of sleeps.

Javi plays it cool.

Nudges your dad’s shoulder, shakes his head and tells him to “quit the dramatics, viejo (old man).”

“I gotta head out to my pop’s first thing in the morning, he’s wanting me to help him rewire some of the fences.” Comes out as his excuse, one your dad can’t really argue against.

He knows better than anyone that Javi drops everything for his dad.

Well, better than anyone but you.

Your excuse, however, falls a little short, a consequence of the last minute conjuring of the lie.

“I’ve, uh, got an early class. Don’t wanna flunk out in my last year, right?”

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

And that’s how you know you’re screwed.

“Class? I thought you were on winter break.”

Javi takes the momentary distraction to shrug his coat on, over those broad shoulders.

Shoulders that twist with the rest of him, as he makes space for you in the doorway, nodding you over. Here, he’s saying without really speaking, escape with me.

So you do, tiptoeing past your parents as though, the slower and quieter you move, the less they’ll notice your approach to the exit.

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

“The library, it’s still open for the graduate students,” Javi swoops in effortlessly, dragging the spotlight off you.

He takes hold of your jacket, too, slipping the zip into place and dragging it up the length of your torso, over your chest, till it rests snuggly at your sternum.

A little too snug, making each new inhale deeper, harder, practically heaving the air into your lungs.

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

You don’t get to dwell on it too long, fortunately, for your mother lets out a gasp.

She points, eyes a little widened by excitement, at the both of you and nudges at your father.

“Look!” She tells him, and you watch in confusion as he displays her same reaction, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Then comes the laughter, straight out the depths of your dad’s belly and right to your weak heart, a melody that reminds you so much of easy Sundays and curling up next to him on the sofa, watching kids’ shows that seemed to entertain him more than you.

“Oh that’s just,” he takes a laugh break, doubling over slightly, his own finger joined in pointing at you two, beneath the doorway. “Too perfect!”

Before you can inquire on either of your parents bizarre reactions, Javi’s eyes are staring into your own and pointing upwards.

Wrapped with a red bow and barely hanging onto the door frame with a single strip of tape, a mistletoe stares down at you, two white berries like mini eyes.

When you glance at the agent once more, it’s hard to read what he’s thinking.

His shoulders are tense, his lips are pursed, his brows are furrowed. But, his eyes.

His eyes burn you with an unspoken intensity, a look he should never possess in front of your parents.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” You mom, camera in hand, urges you both, a wide grin cast upon her face.

You dad is in no better state, rushing forward to squeeze you both closer, one hand clasped over the back of Javi’s head.

When the once-agent exhales a nerve-striken breath, the warmth of it, of him, hits your neck.

“Dad, c’mon, stop-” you’ve never imagined yourself stuck like this, your mother and father both urging you to kiss a man you spent months tossing and turning in bedsheets with behind their back.

The creatively deviant part of your brain tells you this is how it could be, maybe, in some other life.

Some other life, where Javi’s not a cop, you’re new in town, and you both bump into each other at the grocery store.

Both of you reaching out for the same apple, or box of cereal, or bottle of milk.

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

He’d charm you, easily as he always has.

Get your number and then, the next day, a date.

One date leading to two, three, four, more dates.

Till you bring him home to meet your parents at last, squeezing his hand tighter when he tries to pry it away as the door opens to your father’s stern face.

It would take a while, you reckon, for your dad to see past the difference in years.

Your mother wouldn’t care, wouldn’t spare a second thought to it, not when she notices how much he makes you laugh and how he can’t keep his eyes off of you in any room you occupy.

This could be your first Christmas together, your parents begging for one sweet photo of you under the mistletoe, before you both head off to spend the rest of the holiday season with Javi’s father.

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

“C’mon, it’s bad luck not to!” Back in the present, in reality, your dad’s found his way over to your mother’s side. “Peña, just kiss the girl on the cheek for Christ sake, I ain’t gonna bite your head off for it this one time!”

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

Gentle, a hint of warmth, a tickle from the wisps of his well-groomed moustache.

“Get a bit closer, you’re not fully in frame!”

The flash goes off on your mother’s camera, and the two give a little cheer, and Javi wraps an arm around your back, squeezing you a little closer.

When all is said and done, your mother’s forcing you both to stare at the camera screen, a perfect picture of the most doomed couple to ever grace this Earth.

Such dramatics in your thoughts reminds you of the copious glasses of prosecco you’d downed throughout the night, and of your intentions to get yourself home before you done something stupid.

Like stand under the mistletoe with your former casual lover, the very same man your father calls for golf matches and March Madness debriefs.

Javi offers you a ride home, an idea your father approves of.

“I’m heading that way anyway, gotta pick up a few things before I drive out to the ranch.”

A part of you thinks he’s lying, wanting any excuse for a moment alone with you, but then that’s the kind of delusions you shouldn’t be feeding into.

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

You part ways at the door, your father watching you from inside.

Javi calls your name, before you can take more than a few steps.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Then his arms are pulling you in, and he’s got you right against his steady chest, and he’s resting his head atop your own, arms squeezing tightly at your sides.

“Get home safe.”

He walks away before you can tell him to do the same, the door slamming to his car the last thing you hear as you pull out your phone and call a cab.

It takes twenty minutes for it to appear, in which the rain starts and your clothes get soaked, but all that and the fifteen dollar fare are a cheaper price to pay than the torture of letting Javier Peña drive you home.

Crawl up the stairs, unlock the apartment door, drop your clothes onto the floor.

You find sanctuary under the shower, soap suds and boiling water, a dynamic duo that scrub off any remnants of his skin against yours.

Even as you step out, fully cleaned and towel wrapped around yourself, you catch a hint of his cologne, the very same one you’d made sure your dad picked out for him.

And as you pick your coat off the ground, a distant voice that sounds much like your mother scolding you for leaving such a mess, you notice it.

First, just a little extra weight.

Then, scratchy paper as your hand dives into the left pocket.

The wrapping is haphazard, with an uneven bow tied atop it, but that’s not what matters.

You tear away at it, let the paper fall to the floor at your feet.

Then you’re met with a small box, which you tear open too. 

And find it sitting neatly among balls of yarn, the prettiest, most delicate looking glass bauble.

It’s ribbon a deep green, and it’s centre an image of mountain slopes, backed by a green forest and a valley full of wooden lodges.

It shakes in your grasp, and you spy the snowglobe-esque white foam that dances around within it.

In it’s centre, in bold, italic and green, Vermont.

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

You fish it out in one breath, hold it up to read what it says.

Corazón, For your tree. I hope there’s still space.

[artydonsgf]

tashi duncan, my poor villainized girl i love you so😭😭😭 everyone wants to write patrick n art WHERE ARE THE TASHI STANS… so i present to you, tashi duncan as your gf, wife, and a small nsfw bit because im in love with her

Tashi Duncan as your Wife

- when you meet tashi, you’re smitten immediately

- shes charismatic, she’s beautiful, she has kind eyes, and an ambitious personality

- talking to her makes you feel on top of the world

- you start out as friends, and while you have feelings for her, you don’t want to be the asshole who befriended her just to fuck

- you’re content listening to her rants about her games, the latest sponsorship deal that has her face slapped on it, and any other tidbits she has to share

- you two are chilling at her dorm one day, cuddled up in bed like always

- you want her and it’s obvious but out of respect, you stay in the same position as always and don’t dare mess up your friendship with your feelings

- she turns to you with a serious look on her face and you worry, this is when she’ll tell you that she’s sick of your obvious feelings

- instead, she looks strangely vulnerable

- she asks you if you’re only here because of her status

- you’re confused and she immediately tells you that nearly all of the people she hangs out with are only there because she’s good at tennis

- before you could even tell her how wrong she is, she backtracks and says nevermind

- you reassure her that tennis could disappear tomorrow and you’d still be at her side forever

- you’re not a tennis player and you couldn’t really care less about the sport, you’re only there for tashi

- when the injury happens, you stay true to your word

- the first few months of recovery are hard but you two are glued at the hip

- you play with her sometimes and you know it makes her feel better because she beats you every time

- makes her feel like she’s not a loser just because she can’t play professionally anymore

- you start dating soon after, it only felt right

- an amazing girlfriend

- very direct and if she has a problem with the way things are going or your behavior, she’ll set it straight immediately

- she’s not trying to lose you so she’ll ground her teeth through uncomfortable conversations if it means you’re stronger together at the end of it

- enjoys romantic gestures, both receiving it and giving it

- staunch believer of the tashi duncan words of affirmation agenda

- absolute queen with her words, she makes you feel like the most loved person on planet earth

- she proposes to you the very night you planned to propose to her

- you exchange rings and immediately plan a small wedding

- having an intimate wedding is the best thing in the world for her

- spending the day surrounded by the people who truly love her and not what she can do for them

- values privacy and despite how famous she still is, she’ll never put you in the public eye unless you’re 100% down

- excited to announce that she got married to you, she’s so very cute

NSFW

- praise QUEEN

- you do anything n she’s praising you for it

- likes to be dominant but if you really work for it, she’ll let you take over

- your arguments are very rare but on days where you’re both being really petty, yall just fuck it out

- you’re too exhausted at the end of it to even remember why you were arguing

- founder of munch nation

- she just likes making you feel good

- complete tease when she’s feeling particularly dominant

- makes you work for it and if you work enough, you’ll be rewarded real good

- aftercare with her consists of a very good shower where she washes your hair, puts good smelling lotion on you, and cuddles you to oblivion

- after you guys change the sheets ofc, she’s not sleeping in that mess

- isn’t really into quickies, she prefers taking her time with you

[17020]

DOLLHOUSE

Don't look behind the curtains, because you might not like what you see about Yn Ln, and Hajime Umemiya. tags: angst! ume is a complete ass (im sorry zevie and to everyone), very self indulgent, i need emotional compensation as do yall, toxic relationship sorta. it's definitely a blurb! not proofread my eyes are puffy.

Hajiime Umemiya is the perfect boyfriend. Kind, attentive, patient, with compliments slipping past his lips every few seconds. Strong, affectionate and intelligent is what he is, constantly worrying about you and being your personal hype man. To the public eye, Hajime Umemiya was perfect.

Not you, though.

A witch. A master manipulator who always managed to carefully pull the strings of the puppet that was Hajime Umemiya. What was once a perfect couple slowly rotted in foreign eyes, the image of you and Umemiya leaving a bitter taste in the townspeople's mouths.

What they saw was Umemiya's suffering. Arguments, which led to him spilling his heart out to his friends, who told their friends, who told every citizen of Makochi. Complaints, which made Umemiya feel trapped in a maze with no exit.

There's two sides to every coin.

Arguments, which were caused by Umemiya's denseness. Because he paid no mind to what you liked or what you preferred, and had stuck to what he thought you liked instead of learning. Complaints, because after five fights, Umemiya had finally understood that no, you don't like gold jewelry, and you're dripped in silver every day. According to him, he knew you wore silver, but he wanted you to wear gold because he liked gold.

Complaints, because his friends knew no boundaries, constantly molesting and groping him in your presence. Couldn't they at least wait until you were gone?

Arguments, because Hajime Umemiya didn't trust you, accusing you of falling for his best friends, treating you as a liar, a deceiver, a cheater. Even after reassurance, his threats to break up were present. Umemiya's insecurities were a fair match to yours...

But there was one half who did something about it, and another who had your fears in one ear, then out the other.

The straw that broke the camel's back was when Umemiya's priorities changed in university.

Because Umemiya thought for himself, and went back to his ways of being a self-preserving, desperate puppy, clinging onto anyone be it good or bad, for attention. What's it to you?

He went to the people who hurt you. Hypocrisy was certainly at it's finest, because Umemiya was now adopted into a clique which had shit talked him and your relationship, offering him fake smiles after spilling all of his and your secrets in a club on a random Thursday.

You were spiraling.

Not only was his clique two-faced, but they had hurt you in the past, having been part of the group years prior and being nothing but ignored and criticized. A bullet to the head would have hurt more than to see Umemiya's texts saying he belonged there, belonged with cheaters, shit talkers, and assholes.

Hajime Umemiya is too naive for his own good.

Fights had become more common as he expressed his liking for the group with each passing day, as you warned him about his 'friends'. His response? Laugh it off, as they were nice and welcoming. Plus...

"They haven't done anything bad to me, so why should I care? I like being there, I don't like being alone, and they're cool!"

Your heart shattered. Especially after checking your socials and seeing the girls you despised posting your boyfriend as if he were Mattel's newest and hottest Ken; the center of attention for all Makochi to see.

You were done.

Pleads were not enough. Crying to him was never an option, as he simply brushed off your feelings, as his smile grew wider at the thought of the upcoming party he and his new friends were to attend that same night.

Hajime Umemiya was also done.

A final complaint. A final warning. A final plead. Your words were in vain, with your boyfriend shoving each and every one of your words up his ass. He didn't care, not one bit, and it showed.

Because self-preservation was most important to him. Better to be alone than in bad company right? Hell no. To Umemiya, that was absolute bullshit.

"They didn't do anything bad to me, baby, so I'm hanging out with them and consider them best buds. I don't wanna be alone and the girls are so nice to me, so don't worry about it."

Don't worry about it? It took a day for him to make up his mind.

"The girls are my friends, and I'm sorry they did you dirty and talked badly about our relationship, but I'm lonely. Yn Ln, you have been the greatest gift life has given me and I'll love you forever. We're done."

taglist (open, yippee!): @stunie @kaiser1ns @nyxypoo

[starrayblogs]

Not So Rock-Hearted || Floyd (Trolls) x Reader

a/n: MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE! or happy holidays~ i hope you all had a wonderful day, and i hope this new chapter is a fun read! likes/reblogs are appreciated, and asks are welcomed c:

tags: @brights-place

✩ previous chapter

v. Keep on Watching

It’s the day of the Secret Holiday Gift Swap.

And you’re panicking.

“Barb!” You barge into the longue room and watch as the mentioned troll shouts, jumps, and drops her invitation. 

“What the- I know I told you you’re welcome anytime, but you can knock-” She tuts when she recognizes that it’s you, bending to pick up her card again.

“I got him!” You pop up in front of her, grabbing her by the shoulders and stopping her from picking up her card again.

“Who’s ‘him’?” Barb raises a brow, leaning her head away and tucking her chin to further emphasize her confusion.

You let her go with furrowed brows and a dreaded look in your eyes. “I got Floyd!” You say, out of breath, like you’ve just sang your heart out.

“Wait, what’s wrong with that?” Barb places a hand on her hip, finally having the opportunity to pick up her invitation.

“Uh- what isn’t wrong with that?” You extend your arms and shake your head in quick, short motions. “I’m already having a hard time confronting my feelings for him, now I have to think about him even more!” You exclaim, letting your weight fall on your butt and your back against the couch. 

Barb laughs, taking her seat next to you with her knee up. “Man, I would have never assumed you’d be a softie underneath all that edge. Then again, that’s any of us actually…” She trails off a bit before letting out an amused sigh, turning her head to you. “Seriously though, don’t complicate things too much.” She shrugs.

“Easy for you to say, who did you get?” You cock your head in her direction, watching her open her card.

“I got…” You hum, watching her pull out the name. “Aww, cool, I got Riff! I totally know what to get ‘im.” She smirks confidently, tucking the piece of paper back in the pocket of the card. 

“Good for you,” you quip quickly before catching her attention. “But what do I get Floyd?” You ask worriedly.

“Uhh… Well, what do you think he’s like?” Barb asks. You look ahead of you, thinking back to him.

“He’s… kind. Very kind, it’s like his whole charm. He’s sweet too, like cotton candy. And he’s reeeaaally cool, I mean come on! The hair was one thing, but spending the weekend with him… When he sang, I immediately got hooked on his voice.” You inhale deeply. “It’s gentle. Like the way he speaks to me, it’s like he cares about me…”

“Maybe because he does.”

You swiftly turn your head to Barb with a deadpan look, who raises her hands up in defense before motioning for you to go on.

“Ugh, he’s just! So…!” You plop your head down on the couch behind you, reaching for a pillow behind you and plopping it on your face.

“So… from all that, what do you think is the best gift for him?” She asks again, but you sigh. You remove the pillow from your face and glance at her. “Hey, you’ve got three days to think about it. I’m sure you’ll come up with something…” She reassures you, patting your shoulder.

And you did, but you weren’t confident with it.

You clear the cough in your throat as you hop off your bike, adjusting your guitar strap. You look ahead to Pop Village, seeing all the other trolls and their gifts. “What if you just handed the gift to Floyd and told him I got sick?” You rapped to Barb, holding your gift nervously.

“Dude.” She looks at you with a ‘seriously?’ face. “No. Poppy always said, it’s the thought that counts when it comes to gifts.” She pokes a finger to your chest. “And every rock troll knows how much you thought about this gift.”

Your cheeks warm up a little, and you let out a long sigh. “You’re right, you’re right.” You hop a bit on your feet, telling yourself to relax a bit. You look at the colorful light bulbs hanging across the entire village, lighting up the night, and smile a little.

“Come on, the gift swap’s about to start.” Barb starts walking with her gift in hand, and you follow her to a big stage where Poppy and Branch stand atop it.

“Welcome to our second Trolls Kingdom Secret Holiday Gift Swap! I’m so glad to have you all here again, and with some new faces this time.” Poppy grins, pointing in the crowd and having a light shine down on the pointed area. You see that it’s Viva, her Putt Putt Trolls (which she told you about), and Brozone all condensed in one area. 

The crowd welcomes them with a cheer, but you find your eyes on that pink-haired troll. You chuckle when you notice the piercing in his ear turned into a snowflake to match the holiday. You turn away and look at his gift in your hands, frowning a bit. You look up when Barb speaks.

“You’ve got this.” Her hand moves to pat the place where your heart would be. “Time to let someone new in this, ya know?” She chuckles and you do the same, following it with a whiney ‘yuck’.

“That’s the sappiest thing you’ve ever said.” You comment, and she shivers.

“Yeah, I think Poppy’s rubbing off on me.” Barb shakes her hair as if there was dirt on her. “But, you know what I mean.” She smirks, nudging your shoulder.

“Now, who’s ready to gift-swap!?” Poppy announces and fireworks shoot up into the sky. “Reveal your secret troll!” She hypes, and the crowd starts moving to find the person they got (who was scrapbooked on the invitation, conveniently).

Barb waves you goodbye to find Riff, which you return until she’s eventually lost in the crowd. You look to where Floyd was previously, but can’t get a glimpse of him from everyone running around. You frown, beginning to aimlessly walk around the crowd to find him until someone lifts you up in a hug.

“Amiga!” You let out a sigh of relief when you realize it’s Viva. When you’re let down, you turn around and return a quick hug.

“Happy holidays, Veev!” You greet and she giggles, still holding her gift. “Who’s the special troll?”

“Barb! The one you always hang out with, have you seen her?” She tilts her head, pursing her lips. 

“Got separated, but I hope you find her. I don’t think you’d miss that bright red mohawk anytime.” You snicker to yourself. “I like your clothes.” You comment on her white leotard with red trimmings and her matching red-and-white striped leg warmers. 

“Aww, thank you, you too-” she’s cut off with a gasp when she does a double take on your hair. “Did you..?” 

“Yeah…” You run a hand through your hair nervously. “Does it look fine?”

“Fine? Fine doesn’t even cut it, you look amazing!” Viva squeals, looking up at your newly two-toned hair. “Guess I don’t have to guess who you got, hm?” She smirks, raising her brows teasingly.

“Yeah…” You smirk eases into a smile. “Have you seen him?”

“Oh, I got separated from him too…” Viva frowns, which causes you to do the same. “But, I have no doubt you’ll find him!” She recovers, jumping on her toes excitedly. “I have a hunch that this holiday is gonna end up so well~” She sings.

“Can’t hide it from you either?” You raise a brow, tilting your head embarrassingly. 

“I’m your childhood best friend, what is it you can hide from me?” Viva smirks, punching you in the shoulder. “I was the one who came up with the idea to put you two together for the morning last weekend.” Your jaw drops, pointing a finger at her.

“That was your doing?” She giggles and winks, turning her back to you and running off with a jolly ‘see ya!’. “Viva, we’re talking about this later!” You yell into the crowd, hoping she hears that.

Your cheeks flush again as you grumble your way to Branch’s bunker, hoping to wait for the crowd to die down and you’d eventually spot Floyd. You hold his gift gently in your hands, maneuvering through the others who are either still finding their troll or are celebrating with their gifts already.

Once you make it out of the cramped area, you walk slowly to the bunker. You kept your eyes on your gift, overthinking if it was good enough to give to him. Then you hear your name.

You hear your name in his voice.

You turn around and see him emerging from the crowd, holding his gift. “Floyd.” You say, out of breath. Your eyes flutter as you watch him walk closer to you. Both of you are now far away from the noise, just the two of you right outside Branch’s house. Just like how you arrived.

He opens his mouth, but then he notices how you look tonight. You’re still dressed in your usual fashion, but for colder weather. Then his eyes met your hair.

“Oh…” His cheeks darken slightly as he sees what you’ve done to your hair. Instead of the highlight in your hair being your favorite color, you dyed it white in the meantime. Your hair matched his. “Your hair…”

“Yeah… I figured I could rock the look, ya know?” You chuckle, trying to keep up your cool image. When he doesn’t laugh with you, your brows furrow, and you frown as you try to meet his eyes. “Do you… not like it?”

“You look great.” He meets your eyes with a wide smile, and, for the first time, you see both of his eyes. “I like that we’re matching.” He follows up with a soft chuckle.

He’s beautiful.

Your frown slowly lifts into a smile as you laugh softly. “Now we’re both cotton candy.” You joke, and he laughs with you this time. There’s a small pause between you two after it dies until he speaks up.

“I’ve been looking for you.” He smiles at you. Your cheeks warm up again, and your shoulders straighten.

“You were?” You repeat, and he nods. He holds out the gift in his hands toward you. Your eyes widen, and you nearly drop your gift for him in shock. “You got me..?” You look back up at him in disbelief.

“Happy holidays.” He simply says with that stupidly charming smile of his. “I hope you like what I got you.” He nudges the box into your hands, and you reluctantly take it after propping his gift against the wall. 

“If it’s from you, Cotton Candy, I’ll enjoy it.” You chuckle. There’s truth in your words, but you were still putting up walls. You unwrap it and reveal a box. You lift up the top and mutter a soft ‘no way’, tossing the cover to the ground. 

Inside was a guitar strap. You gently take it out and set the box on the ground, letting the strap unfurl to its full length to see its design. It’s a simple black strap, but it’s stitched with several symbols related to rock in your favorite color. You don’t notice how wide your smile has gotten, and it only gets wider when you notice the stitched shape of cotton candy on a cone.

“Do you like it?” Floyd asks, bringing your attention back to him.

“I love it.” You reply, holding it close to your chest. You take off your electric guitar carefully, detaching your old guitar strap for your new one. “I’ll wear it forever. Thank you, Cotton Candy.” You laugh softly, placing your old one in the mess of your hair and wearing your guitar again.

He smiles, watching you adjust the guitar to your back again. “So who’d you get?” He tilts his head a bit, and you inhale sharply as your smile drops.

“Oh, funny you ask,” you chuckle nervously, reaching back for his gift again. “I got… Uh, I got you.” You hold out the present to him, looking away with downturned ears and darkened cheeks. “I hope you like it.”

His eyes widen in genuine surprise. His hands slowly rise to take the gift in your hand, trying to guess what the present could be as he turns it around. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted, and I was worried the whole time, wondering if this would make you happy.” You explain, watching him carefully tear the wrapping. “Then, I figured that if you don’t like it, I would dye my hair to match yours to make you happy… If you thought I would look funny or, I don’t know.” You fiddle with your (new) guitar strap.

He stops just as he was about to open the box at your words with a furrowed gaze. “Why would I think you’d look funny?” He asks, upset. 

You open your mouth to explain, but no words come out. You shrug your shoulders.

“I would never laugh at your appearance,” Floyd says, stepping closer to you. “I like how you look. I like that you thought about me enough to go as far as dying your hair.” He lets out a small laugh. “You keep getting cooler to me.”

If steam could come out of your ears, you wouldn’t be able to hide how much his words made you feel. Your chest is light again, and your heart is tugging in his direction. Your lips managed to turn into a smile. How can he keep doing that?

He returns to the gift, taking off the cover. “Woah.” He murmurs as he pulls out the gift from the box. You fiddle more with your guitar strap as you wait for more of his reaction.

You got him a rouge-colored acoustic guitar. The sides, fretboard, and soundhole were trimmed white to match. Most importantly, the fretboard was in the shape of a cotton candy swirl and colored both rouge and white. You worked on that guitar for the last two days, getting as much help as you could, but you did most of the work.

“Do you like it..? I wasn’t sure if you could play instruments, and you seemed like a guitar-type guy, so I could teach you-” You began to ramble worriedly until you were interrupted by a few notes played.

You watch him play the guitar smoothly before he stops with a smile, followed by the brightest laugh. “Thank you!” He says, his eyes turned into crescents. “It’s been a while since I’ve played. This is amazing,” he says your name and your worries fly away.

You smile sheepishly, running a hand through your hair for a moment. “I’m glad you enjoy it.”

“I love it.” He corrects you, just like you did. You share another laugh together. 

You hold your gifts to each other gently. His hands are careful with the guitar, and your thumb is carefully stroking the stitched pattern of cotton candy on the guitar strap. 

You’re so focused on his smile as he looks at you that you didn’t even process what he said when you saw his lips move. “What did you say?” You blink your eyes, telling yourself mentally to get it together.

“I asked if you’d like to spend the holiday together. It’s the weekend, right?” He tilts his head with a smile.

“Just the two of us?” You ask, dipping your head but keeping your eyes on him.

“If you’re only okay with it.” He quickly replies, his brows raising with his smile growing sheepish. “I was hoping we could play some songs together.” He chuckles, mostly to himself, but your head rises with a smirk.

“Is this some trap to hear me play again?” You chuckle. He hums, shrugging his shoulders innocently.

“I don’t know what makes you say that.” You laugh a bit harder, and his eyes soften.

You aren’t as scary as he thought you were the first time he saw you. He was taken aback by you’re casual compliment about his hair at the cantina, his heart thumping a bit faster from surprise. When he met you again, he thought you were cool and confident, finding himself interested in you. Then you left your guitar behind, and he took up the responsibility to take care of it until the next morning. When he saw your edgy exterior drop when he gave you back the guitar, something tugged at his heart again. 

And it’s tugging at him again, telling him to find out more about you.

“Come on, I recently got my own pod. We can jam out there.” Floyd suggests, and you nod your head as your laugh dies down.

“Ohh, trying to get a VIP rock show, are you now?” You snicker.

“Stop revealing my plans.” Floyd points a finger at you, trying to contain his own laughs by turning around and leading the way.

You breathe deeply as your face settles in a grin. That felt nice. He makes you feel so nice, and you remember Barb’s words. Your grin drops to a hesitant, small smile as you watch him walk. You think for a moment, wondering if you should just take the leap and grasp that happiness right in front of you.

“Are you coming?” Floyd stops and turns around to find you still standing. You blink and fiddle with your strap again, but you make up your mind. Your smile settles softly as you begin to walk up to him.

“Yeah.”

You two walk away together, making small talk on the way to Floyd’s house. You two walk away, unaware of the crowd watching you.

“Are they gone?” One of them whispers from under the mushroom. 

Branch, who reveals himself by dropping his disguise (which was a fluff ball, with the help of his hair), steps out under the mushroom and looks in the direction you two walked off in too. “Clear.”

There’s a pair of squeals as everyone’s hair disguise reveals themselves underneath the mushroom. “We should’ve put a mistletoe on top of them!”

“Woah, too early, Poppy.” Bruce raises a hand with a light chuckle.

“My little rockstar is growing up.” Barb steps away from Poppy, pouting her lip with a hand to her chest. “It’s sickeningly sweet, but aww, but also eww…” She fake gags, which receives a friendly hit on the back from Poppy.

“They’re adorableee.” Viva coos, her hands pressed to her cheeks.

“If adorable, you mean Floyd can’t even recognize his own growing feelings.” Branch rolls his eyes as he crosses his arms.

“Like you were any better.” Poppy smirks, hand on her hip.

“I agree with boytoy over there, though.” Barb raises her arms and dips her head in surrender. “It’s all cute seeing them together, but I don’t think I’m emotionally prepared to be a possible confession dummy.” She contemplates, scratching her ear.

“How long do you think until they get together?” JD tilts his head with crossed arms.

“Oh, I think they’re just like this sad romance book I read where-” Clay starts rambling about his predictions, earning the approval of Poppy and Viva, with the others weirdly agreeing with him too.

✩ next chapter

[anzulvr]

hii could i please request a little hurt/comfort drabble where reader feels sad during christmas season but forces herself to at least pretend to be happy because karma’s birthday is on christmas day :( but karma notices how her smile doesn’t meet her eyes and stuff and asks reader about it!

Summary: You’re sad on Christmas, Karma x reader (except it’s his birthday.) hurt/comfort GN!reader HUGE SPOILER WARNING FOR ASSASSINATION CLASSROOM

(this is so cute I LOVE THIS REQUEST thank u! Had this in my drafts for a while but waited for Christmas to post)

It had been two years since everything ended. Two years since Korosensei died and all of End class were labeled as victims with some weird-Stockholm attachment to the monster who blew up the moon.

It was strange, seeing everyone care about you when you didn’t need it and remembering how low they thought of you when you were only the reject class of kunugigaoka.

A lot happened in two years, not a long time but considering how quickly everything was moving you hadn’t had time to catch up. Like any special day Christmas wasn’t a good time anymore- something your classmates agreed on. With the impact Korosensei had on your lives it was impossible to celebrate anything without wondering what would have been if you managed to save him. That was only wishful thinking, you couldn’t change the past.

Regardless, today you tried to keep a smile on your face. It was the most important time of the year, Karmas birthday- and Christmas too.

You stared at your poor attempt to decorate the cake you baked with Karma, the frosting written birthday note was almost illegible.

“What’s with the look, you’re writing isn’t that bad.”

You looked up after hearing Karmas voice as if you were pulled out of a trance.

“What look? I know it’s not that bad I was admiring our hard work.”

“More like my hard work, you kept dropping everything! Seriously though, what’s wrong? The whole day I’ve been catching you teary eyed.”

You turned your back to the counter to face him as you set the frosting bag down “I’m fine, today’s your day I’m not going to bother you with my problems. You should enjoy everything to its fullest.”

“I’m not going to enjoy anything if you’re not happy, ‘m not budging tell me why you’re upset.”

Karma was stubborn, you knew him well enough to realized this wasn’t negotiable.

“I don’t know… I was just thinking about how Korosensei can’t spend Christmas with us, and he can’t be here for your birthday. Ever since we killed him, Ive felt so helpless? Like we never did enough.”

He nodded slowly breaking eye contact for a second, “my parents haven’t answered my call today, they’re in Italy right now, all I got was a text saying they were busy and that they’d talk later. I know they haven’t forgotten, it’s kind of impossible when it’s Christmas but still- I hoped they would have time for me today, I know they have more important things to do but It made me think about how Korosensei would’ve been here.”

you nodded in response, “They could still call the days not over… and if they don’t they’ll try to make it up to you…” You could bet they wouldn’t call until the next day but you wanted to reassure him, there wasn’t a lot you could say in this situation that would make him feel better.

“It’s fine, you’re here- and you’re the best company, I had fun today. I just meant Korosensei has done a lot for us he’s proud we pulled that off, he wouldn’t want you to beat yourself up over it.”

“I know you’re right, still I wish I could’ve done more, we should’ve tried harder to save him.”

“We did what we had to. I miss him too, there’s a lot of things I could never repay Korosensei for—”

“Like getting you through senioritis? Or always bringing money in his wallet even though he knew you’d steal it?”

“I meant setting us up together, but sure those were good too.” Karma smiles breaking tenseness of the conversation for moment, “at the time I thought he was being a hassle but without him im not sure id have you right now.”

Suddenly you felt shy laughing it off and covering your face for a moment while you composed yourself, “Yeah he did push for us a lot but I was obsessed with you far before we even ended up in 3-E so you would’ve had me regardless.”

“Yeah? Tell me more.”

“No way in hell, I don’t trust you to not make fun of me. Anyways I didn’t mean to bring up something depressing, we should be smearing cake all over your face right now.”

“Try all you want but it isn’t possible to mess up my face.”

“Wanna bet?” You shake the smile off your face.

“See that’s more I like it, we can enjoy our ugly cake now. And more importantly you can open your gift.”

“What do you mean my gift? It’s your birthday you’re not supposed to buy me stuff!”

“It’s also Christmas … I couldn’t help myself I really wanted to get you something.”

“But now I’m worried my gift won’t live up to yours!”

“[Name] you could give me rocks for all I care and I’d keep them in a safe with multiple locks.”

You gently shoved his shoulder suppressing your laughter, you leaned in to kiss him.

It was impossible to not feel better with him around. This morning you had woken up wishing time could stop for a moment and you ended the day hoping for the same thing but for a completely different reason.

[ssa-atlas-alvez]

thinking abt cowboy!reader now after that fic. i imagine him just being all nice and offering to do stuff without being asked and people constantly thinking he's flirting or something of the sorts and he's just like ???? what. im just treatin you right? and then i imagine he is a very horrible/reckless driver ESPECIALLY when they're running down an unsub.

Warnings: minor car accident (no one gets hurt), unsub is not a nice man, mentions of killings (super brief)

A/N: So I got this not too long ago and the words just kind flew out lmao. Also not me tempted to do a series of this because I'm falling in love with his personality aha *cries* ((I feel like the team need to meet this man's parents))

"Allow me," You gave them a smile as you jogged passed Emily and JJ, tilting your head as they walked past. You caught up with them, making sure to get the door ahead of them as well.

You watch as they both sit down, massaging their temples - presumably from stress. Without a second thought, you headed into the breakroom.

"I thought you ladies could use a drink," You give them a smile as you placed a coffee in front of each of them.

"And what about us?" Morgan asked, Spencer crossing his arms next to Derek as they both stared at you.

"If y'all wanted one, you could have asked," You smirked before you made your way back to the break room, emerging with another two cups. "I'm just toying with y'all, I couldn't carry all at once,"

You stood up when JJ and Emily walked into the room, taking your hat off for a moment in greeting. When they reached their seats, you drew the chair out for them.

"Are you flirting?" Emily asked.

You furrowed your eyebrows, reaching up and removing your hat, "What makes y'all think I'm flirting?"

"You're always offering to do things, always holding the doors open, you always bring us coffee-"

"Mama didn't raise a man who overlooks the feelings of a woman-"

"And you say stuff like that-"

Concern flicked across your face, "Am I making y'all uncomfortable?" If they didn't know any better, they would have thought you were nervous, "Because that was never my intent-"

"No, no, not at all," JJ is quick to reassure, "We just wanted to make sure that you weren't flirting,"

"I'm just treatin' y'all right," You reply, "I can tone back if y'all want,"

"That's okay, we just wanted to make sure it was friendly rather than-" Emily's cut off by JJ.

"Flirtatious."

"No, Ma'am," You respond. You made a mental note to try and limit the actions they had listed, not wanting them to feel uncomfortable.

You took a seat as the rest of the team filtered in, ready for a briefing of the case.

Fast forward a few days, the unsub was beginning to speed off down the street in his truck.

"(Y/N), you're driving," Hotch states.

"Hotch, I don't think it's smart to let (Y/N) here drive," Morgan said with a grin.

"Why not?"

"He's... not the best driver," Morgan laughed.

"I am wounded by your harsh words," You responded.

"We don't have time for this," Hotch presses, everyone into the car.

You slide into the car, driver's side. The moment the last door shut, you pressed the gas. "What the fuck?!" Spencer yelps.

"Morgan, I don't say this often, but you were right," Hotch says from the passenger seat.

You roll your eyes at the lot of them and continue to chase the unsub. Until you served (you didn't want to hit a pothole) and swerved into the unsub's car. Your eyes widened as you breaked quickly. You were the first out of the car, helping the unsub out and assessing him for injuries as Morgan clapped handcuffs on him.

"Sorry sir, I didn't actually mean to hit you with my car," You apologise, gripping your hat in your hands.

"Is he for real?" The unsub turned to Hotch in disbelief.

"Sir?"

"I killed seven people, what-"

"And I hit you with a car-"

"Why are you-?"

"What do you mean-?"

"Okay, I'm intervening because this is too painful to watch," Emily chimed, gently taking your shoulder and guiding you away from the unsub.

"I feel bad for hitting him with a car-"

"I know." Emily mumbled, sharing a look with JJ.

[the-s1lly-corner]

Could I request TADC with a character who has abandonment issues and is afraid they’ll be left alone again? 🥺 thank you in advance!

TADC cast x reader who has abandonment issues!

rubs my silly little hands (the admin also has abandonment issues/is working through them) gonna answer a few requests then i think i might make meringue cookies (they have a weird packing peanut texture that i love. or at least how i think they would feel, admin has never actually touched or chewed a packing peanut but he likes to think this is what they feel like)

CAINE:

honestly if anything you might have to ask him to give YOU some space; caine in his spare time always wants to spend it around with you. doesnt even matter if you guys are doing something, he will literally just hover and run his mouth because he just cant get tired of you. so i think out of all of the cast hes going to be the one where to feel the most secure around since he pours his heart out about how much he loves you (whether platonically or romantically!). even when youre away off doing something else, hes likely gushing about you to anyone who will, and sometimes even wont, listen. embodiment of the "shes my girlfriend ehehe" mickey mouse meme that i saw going around a few weeks ago; point is theres nothing you need to worry about! however he listens when you share your worries, and squashes them down with reassurances and affirmations

POMNI:

oooo okay so this one is interesting because pomni is actively looking for an exit out of the digital world. and i think that this is common knowledge to just about everyone around her, you included. so i think that this might very likely feed into your fear of her leaving you behind... because what are the chances you guys would reunite if she actually found an exit? i mean can you imagine? and thats even assuming you guys would remember your time in the digital world when you return; im kind of on the fence on whether or not the digital memories would still be there after an escape, since you forget everything when you enter the digital world... (also as a side note for fluff with that idea imagine meeting with whoever after escaping and not knowing youve met before but you guys still fall for one another. this isnt just for pomni but for any of the characters. love that idea, so much)

anyways, as ive said a few times before pomni is... not good at comforting... but she sure as hell were try.. though, even she doesnt seem so sure of herself when she says shes going to be looking for you when you both escape, like shes scared you guys will be separated forever

"together"

RAGATHA:

as sweet and caring as ever, if you confide in her about your fears shes going to make sure youre not left in your thoughts. the best at reassuring you, and perhaps even pulls up an activity for the two of you to do together so you have something to get your mind off of it. if you dont approach her, shes going to notice that something is wrong with you and ask you yourself if youre okay and if theres something on your mind... does her best to stamp out your thoughts of fear and doubt, shes not going anywhere and she doesnt intend on abstracting anytime soon (though, can she really help it, if she ever does?)

point is i think out of all of the characters shes going to be the best in terms of comfort and making you feel safe and secure; and if it makes you feel any better you guys come up with a system of sorts to pin down the other if you guys ever escape the digital world; so you can find one another.. very sweet stuff, i think

JAX:

while ragatha is the best in terms of giving comfort and security, jax is probably the worst. the guy does not particularly scream the most emotionally mature and available; if anything i think he might brush off your worries with soft jabs like "dont be dumb, im not gonna go anywhere" or something in that vein. as per usual i think it would take you showing real big signs of distress for him to drop the whole asshole thing and try to make you feel better and assure you that hes not going to go anywhere. and even then its still a little.... eh... i mean jax isnt the best at comforting people; its not really his... thing, you know? sure he wont turn his back on you or make you feel bad (on purpose) but his main way of assuring you is just pushing the statement that hes not going to leave you be ("besides, im not done messing with you yet,") and even offers to hang out with you for the day/until you feel better

KINGER:

similar deal with caine in the case of "youre probably going to be the one asking for space" simply because kinger is too paranoid that something is going to happen to you that hes always trailing you and keeping you in his line of sight... honestly, i think his fears might even mirror your own; youre scared that hes going to leave you behind, and hes scared that something is going to happen to you and you wont be around anymore. neither of you can bury the thought... and in a weird, and perhaps even an unhealthy way depending on how intense it is and how you personally view it, you guys find comfort in your shared fears. like a confirmation that the two of you are too afraid to let go... you poor things... in short, you dont need to worry about anything, kinger is not going to be going anywhere..! in terms of comfort, he lets you hug and hold him and mess with his robes fur while reassuring you. back pats n rubs are in order, me thinks

ZOOBLE:

while zooble might come off as mean and cold, i dont think theyre exactly an asshole. sure they can come off as such thanks to their tone and attitude, but they care about you and while they struggle with expressing that... theyre trying their best... so at least theres an effort to let you know that they at least enjoy your presence..! their... flat voice doesnt really do them any favors but thats just how they talk. very firm in telling you that theyre not going anywhere, and to the point about it. while the others may go on tangents about why they wont leave, zooble will be blunt in simply saying that they care about you and that youre cool and that theyre not planning on just up and ditching you. now THATS not cool, unless you did something to them that warranted such a reaction... but what are the odds of that + then they would be in their right to bounce yk?

that aside, theyre firm and blunt in terms of comforting you, and often times offer to let you take the reigns for the day to choose what you guys do, in an attempt to make you feel better with something you enjoy!

GANGLE:

oh ho ho i think she would also have abandonment issues.... i mean it comes with the shy artist thing, you know? outcast weird kid who actually is a neurodivergant individual energy, you know? ponders. so i think, similar to kingers piece you guys find mutual comfort in the fact youre both so scared of the other leaving (again, the energy around that is up to you) and in an odd way it brings you two even closer. though, i dont think that would be enough for either of you to actually overcome your fear of abandonment, because ultimately its both something you guys need to work on... but why do it alone? you guys probably share tips and build each other up, going through something with a friend/partner isnt as scary or intimidating as doing it alone... so thats nice, i think..! not many ideas for gangle, unfortunately but i think i will leave this open with the concept of both of you healing and all that :3

[luvscr]

price, ghost and alejandro reacting to m!reader's sh scars (hcs)

cw/tags: depression, sh, scars, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff fluff fluff, probably ooc characters but idc🫶

apologies for any grammatical erros!

long ass note:

so i got this request which i won't be showing in case it might trigger someone nor will i tag the person who requested this bc im not sure if he would be comfortable with it. i've never written about sh hurt comfort before, simply because i didn't feel like i could do justice for the comfort part but i tried my best and tried to make it not so triggering. your media consumption is your own responsibility, please proceed carefully and do not read if you're not in the right mindset. if you're struggling, i know it's hard but please reach out to a loved one or even me. you're not alone, you matter.

—

price:

it was purely on accident that he saw your scars. he wouldn't mention it to you but he would ask around, people you interact with if they've heard or seen anything. when they asked questions he would simply shut them down or use his rank and pull the "classified information" card. he wouldn't really know what to do, given he's your superior so it was kind of his responsibility, so he got in touch with kate to help him find a therapist. his first instinct is to get professional help if needed. he would invite you to his office so it's just the two of you and make you comfortable, even make you a cup of tea. he would approach the topic carefully and wouldn't force you to tell anything you didn't want to, reassure you that he's not upset, he just wants to help. if you refuse to get a therapist it's okay, he completely understands and will offer you to talk to him instead. he may come off as stern sometimes but it's just because he genuinely cares so much about you and is worried constantly, no matter how old the scars are. he would try to think of alternatives for you to put that energy into if you still struggle and would be there anytime to comfort you. he kinda acts like a dad (like w everyone bruh)

—

ghost:

oh sweet lord this man. he kind of had a feeling when he noticed that even in the hottest weather you only wore long sleeved clothes. he would notice them when your sleeve and the somewhat shorts you had on accidentally rolled up. you just ignored his eyes burning holes through you, given it was normal for him to just stare menacingly at anyone. (not on purpose tho he just looks mean by default) i wouldn't say it would trigger him, but it would definitely stir up some unpleasant feelings inside of him because of his past. he knows exactly how you feel and wants to help you, no matter if you're a friend or just some rando at the base. just like price he would approach the subject carefully, knowing well how hard it is to reach out for help and how it's even harder to open up and actually talk about it. he isn't the best at comforting but he's is a damn good listener and he'll let you know that if you need him don't hesitate to talk to him even if it feels useless. will crack those stupid jokes of his to make you feel better lol tbh i feel like he would be the best kind of person to open up to because he relates so much, he completely understands the feeling of being ashamed of self-destructive activities and would be the sweetest during a relapse. would caress gently the older scars on your body if you allow him to :(<3

he strikes me as a very straightforward person bc of the graves scene. my dude just straight up told the cabrón to stfu (as he should!!) so based on this i think as soon as he sees he's all up in your business. of course not with the intention to make you uncomfortable but he just wants to make sure you're okay and is absolutely willing to help whether it's finding a therapist or just giving a shoulder to lean on. he values every single person in his life and would literally do anything for them and obviously you're no exception. ngl it would be kind of uncomfortable and awkward as you're not used to so much attention especially surrounding your mental health, but he just wants to do good and he's willing to do anything to help and i mean anything. you need a break from work? done. a hug? you don't even have to ask. he will do everything for you if you feel too drained to do even basic things such as cooking meals, helping you shower if you're comfortable with that and etc. basically becomes a househusband for you!

—

alejandro:

[foxnikki]

HIHI NIKKI !!! i wanted to request a matchup 🤭

to start off, i’d like a romantic matchup! and for the fandom, i would love if you could give me a character from jjk, mha, haikyuu and kimetsu no yaiba BUT IF NOT ITS FINE!! and you can just expand on one if you do feel like giving me a character for each

if you just want one i’d like mha please !! and i have a strong preference for men 🗣️

personality wise, i’d say i’m very similar to jiro from mha !! im very reserved and kind of rude to everyone but my friends and i have a rbf majorly 😭 but with my friends i’m very loud and expressive most of the time !! (my therapist has also had a hard time believing im quiet outside of her office 😭)

i’m actually a very insecure person especially about my looks but i act super confident to hide that 😝

i’m also a very judgy person and i need someone to judge and gossip with 😞‼️

my love languages (giving) are gift giving and quality time !! and receiving are words of affirmation and physical touch !

i dress very grungy + alternative and my makeup also reflects that !! but i also love dressing up for dances and such

i try to be as feminine as i can with my style because i hate being perceived as masculine

it doesn’t take me long to open up once i’ve decided i’ve liked a person but sometimes that bites me in the butt so i’ve been trying to not do that 😭

i’m naturally very smart (not to brag) and i take a lot of pride in it!! i’m always the friend people turn to for help/answers in my classes and all my teachers love me 😭

okay i think that’s enough yapping!! lmk if you need anything else for this and thank you sm in advance 🤍🤍 AND LIKE I SAID ITS FINE IF YOU JUST DO MHA IM JUST CURIOUS ABOUT THE OTHERS AS WELL 🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️

a/n: don't worry, I'll try to do all of them! Hope you like this!

You Got...

Satoru Gojo !

Seems you caught the attention of the strongest sorcerer in this era!

Very open to share some gossip.

He ends up calling you if he needs something or just wants to talk, in most cases the latter.

A great giver of physical affection, a few words of reassurance may fly from time to time - especially in times of stress. Also expect some gifts or/and treats.

He could probably come out with a “You cryin'?” just out of spite. Yes, he's a tease, but you could tease him back [*inserts evil laught*]

Denki Kaminari !

The pikachu probably has a city for you for a long time, even if he hasn't said it, it's easy to notice.

Very extrovert, convinces you to be friend with the classmates - looks like you're being a good friend with Jiro too!

More into giving physical touch than words of affirmation, likes time passed with you. He's taking you around town with the others. The more the better.

VERY happy if he sees you start to open up with him.

Asks for the answer of the homeworks, but he still repeats he won't ask next time [we know it won't happen]

Keiji Akaashi !

I honestly wasn't sure who to pair you up with, but in the end he seemed like the best choice!

Imagine having a yapper named Bokuto next to him and deal with his sudden mood swings. He is literally used and prepared to listen to everything you have to say. Yes, even gossip.

The type of person who is really good to comfort and reassure you. He doesn't mind to spend time woth you, a good company is still a good company

He would notice you start to open up around him but he would say nothing.

He's a pretty observant person, so if he notices even the slightest bit of insecurity he'll try to cheer you up. Honestly, he doesn't like to see you down in the dumps about something like that.

Tengen Uzui !

The flashy ninja thinks you're cute and likes your style!

Having multiple wives I seem much more inclined to give physical affection and give gifts. Oh, did you give him a gift too? He kinda wish it's a shiny thing.

Admire that you're pretty smart and he likes to remind you it.

When he's talking to someone and you're nearby, he might come closer to you and come out with phrases such as "Look, isn't my girlfriend pretty?", "She's the one who won my heart," and stuff like that. He is sincerely fond of you.

Most of all, he protects you and helps you when you need help or are in danger.

[bisclavret]

hello I'm thinking about that gifset you did. yaoi cocaine. whatever it was. with gwaine and merlin having figured each other out. and gwaine looking betrayed while merlin looks elated is SO IMPORTANT TO ME YOU DON'T EVEN GET IT.

GWAINE USES HAVING MERLIN FIGURED OUT TO BRING HIM JOY. MERLIN USES HAVING GWAINE FIGURED OUT TO HURT HIM.

fuckkkk it just. you can sort of see it with how they distance themselves too and what their relationship looks like in s4 & 5. ESPECIALLY 5 bc at the end of the season merlin uses his knowledge of gwaine (that gwaine cares about him and would risk his life for him without hesitation) to hurt him (not being honest with him about his magic or allowing him to help get it back) LIKE OH MY GOD. THEY HAVE EACH OTHER FIGURED OUT. MERLIN KNOWS IT'LL HURT GWAINE IF HE DOESN'T TELL HIM THINGS BUT HE ALSO KNOWS GWAINE WILL DO ANYTHING FOR HIM AND I JUST. AUGH. I THINK THAT SHOULD BE EXPLORED MORE BC LATER SEASONS MERWAINE TOXIC YAOI IS EVERYTHING TO ME

oh im so glad you picked up on that too! theyre literally ideological foils to each other in that episode: even as they bond over some shared values and trauma (and attraction), the key conflict between them is that gwaine's life experiences have made him a staunch anti-royalist while merlin is prophecy-pilled into believing he lucked out with "the good ones". from the moment merlin learns gwaine's dad was a knight he relentlessly uses this fact to convert gwaine back to catholicism nobility so he can stick around as a knight of camelot, which merlin rationalizes as a kindness because gwaine seems lonely and leads a dangerous life.

but the way gwaine reacts to merlin's attempts at persuasion is conflicted and suspicious because "what's this guy's agenda?" and i don't think that ever fully lets up. even as gwaine concedes that arthur is one of "the good ones" i do believe it's just for merlin's sake because there are no "good ones" in a class war lol he sees how rooted merlin is in his beliefs (not to mention the repressed sexuality) and wants to reassure him that even though he's in no rush to join him, he's not judging him either. and merlin is relieved and happy with this outcome because gwaine kindly didn't call him out on the homosexuality and he stopped trying to threaten his beliefs. that whole episode is the equivalent of being a leftist on a dating app in 2022 wondering how low you'd stoop for a cute british twink that's unironically mourning queen elizabeth. but i digress.

merwaine is toxic yaoi to ME because not only does it start with them butting heads ideologically, merlin's ideology WINS and gwaine abandons everything he stood for to become a knight in the hopes of finding love and community. and then of course by the time s4 and s5 roll in there is so much grief and shame and fanaticism in merlin that he refuses to indulge, refuses to go off-script and allow gwaine to be anything except a tool and a weapon. which is obviously not the vibe gwaine was getting off of merlin in s3, but by his last episode he's surrendered himself to the reality that that's all merlin allows himself to want from him to the point where after merlin rejects him one last time he literally gives him his sword and lets him walk away. grim!

then again, they're both complicit in making each other feel worse! gwaine sounds like he already has some mistrust of magic when we first meet him, and by s5 he's parroting camelot-isms about magic, "you are a sorcerer and a heretic", and killing sorcerers who did nothing. and then merlin quietly marks their grave and keeps repeating to himself that "it'll get better one day" while refusing to listen to anyone who has any criticism whatsoever.

and to circle back to the point of "they figured each other out": THAT'S WHY IT'S SO POTENT. TO ME. merlin knows that gwaine loves him best of all but whenever gwaine tries to act on his love merlin recoils because of catholic fanaticism he's convinced everyone he shares his secrets with will die. the repression is off the charts. and gwaine resents repression but he's forced to abide by it because he's disarmed by merlin's apparent selflessness and bravery (and the fact that merlin gets to live a life of adventure and self righteous fighting while not actually being a noble - that's literally gwaine's dream!) but i simply cannot look at gwaine in honestly ANY of the seasons he's in and go "oh he doesn't mind :) he just wants to be involved!" the man practically died of a broken heart. merlin broke his heart. and gwaine let him, he was also an active participant! i like to overanalyze eoin's acting decisions and try and pinpoint moments where he bites his tongue lest he says something that goes against merlin's (and the show's) ideology that will cost him his place. which is not unlike hiding a secret identity if you think about it

[abbofff]

How I Met My Trauma-Bound Brother

masterlist

Hi, my name is Ada Williams. I, like many other unfortunate souls, am a daughter of a Greek god. Yes, those exist. No, I'm not crazy (at least not that much). I could go on and on about of my particular childhood and the struggles I got from seeing and experiencing things that adults said were impossible. But I might as well start with one of the very few moments that being a halfblood wasn't that bad.

So this set us up a couple of years ago in September. I had just turned 10 years old a couple days before and I was coming home from my new school I was at because I got expelled from my last one due to some trouble I got into that wasn't my fault. I mean, how could I have knocked the wind out of a bully if I didn't even punch him? I mean, yeah, sure, I really wanted to, but I wasn't going to do it and, of course, no one believed me.

Anyway, on the way home, I saw an oddly large Tibetan Mastiff walking down the street, and for a second, I thought it was really cute until it started barking and chasing me. I ran through the streets of Manhattan until my legs felt like they were burning and my lungs hurt, which led me to an alley with a very rabid dog on my back a couple of meters away from me. On my last hope of not being torn apart, I grabbed a rusty metal rung that had apparently fallen off the damaged fire escape next to me. My grip on the step was slippery thanks to sweaty hands and that I felt more scared than I had ever been.

I didn't know why God was so determined to make me his best warrior, but I tried to ask him to please let me go home to my mom. The dog (who had grown a lot compared to a few moments ago) jumped towards me and I felt a surge of adrenaline and a tingling in my hands with which I managed to grab the metal tightly and as soon as I was going to hit him with the piece of metal a thunder hit the ground and my back hit the wall of the candy store next door. The last thing I saw before I fell unconscious was the dog disintegrating into dust and a lady in a red, white and blue uniform running towards me. 

When I woke up I was siting in a chair on a corner with the left of my head rest against the grey bricked wall with a blue coat covering me. I was on what it seemed a storage room filled with a lot of candys and the best smell ever. In front of me, a couple meters away, blonde kid who looked my age was resting his right side against the open door with his arms crossed.

- Mom! The strange girl is awake! - He said as he was looking at me with the most stranged look.

- Percy! Don't say that. - Said a woman appearing behind her son.

- Hi, little one. My name is Sally and he is Percy, my son. How are you feeling? Don't worry, I have already called the ambulance a couple of minutes ago, so they must be on their way already, and when they get here, they can find your parents. -

I loved her voice. It made me feel at ease, it reminded me to my mom. Oh no, my mom. Trought the open door I could see a glass window that view to the street bathed on a sunsets glow. Mom must be home from court already and worrying sick.

- Im feeling good. Thank you for getting me into safety, ma'am. What time is it? - I asked as I got up and grabbed the coat off of me, the boy that now I know was Percy grabbed it and put it on a shelf.

- It must already be past 5pm, I believe - Sally said. - But don't worry, sitting still its the best thing to do now. Listen, I'll wait outside for the ambulance, ok? - She said in a reassuring tone. Then, she looked back at her son -Percy, stay with her and see she's okay - She demanded as she walked trought the door, the boy nodded in response.

- What's your name? - He asked while tilting this head in curiosity.

- I'm Adara, but its kind of weird name so everyone just calls me Ada - Only my mom calls me Adara, and that was she was really serious. And when she was that serious, she made that dog look like a puppy.

Oh damn, the dog, it just couldn't disintegrate. I must have hit my head very hard or something. And with the way the back of my head was kinda sore I assumed that was what happened. Now, about the freaking thunder? I really have no idea, maybe a bare wire. Yes, yes totally what happened.

- Well, if we are talking about wierd names, then i win. My actual name is Perseus, but its very greek and very odd and never really finished liking it, so i just go by Percy. -

I let out a little laugh.

- What happened to you? - That damn curious boy asked.

He grabbed a chair that was behind a shelf and sit next to me and grabbed a plastic bag of blue candy. I didn't actually knew how to respond without ending up in a mental hospital.

-I got chased by a dog and I think I touched a bare wire or something and past out-

- And you are not hurt? Yeah, you are wierd but maybe in a cool way. - He said. Oh, I thought. Nobody has ever called me cool, and I was called a lot of adjectives by my dear fellow classmates.

Percy opened the bad of candy - Want one? - He asked kindly.

- Of course. -I grabbed a couple and put them in my mouth. - They are so good!! I didnt even know they selled all blue jellybeans. - He smiled fondly.

- They don't, me and my mom separated them. My stupid stepfather said blue food its not a thing. We want to prove him wrong. -

- Yeah well, he can shove his words up his butt. - I laughed and he did too. Maybe Percy wasn't that bad after all.

- Are you 10? What school do you go to? - it was my turn to ask something.

- Yup, I turn 10 in august. I don't go to school right now. I got expelled of the last one and same with the other three schools before that one. So its getting hard to find a new one. - He said like it was the most common thing in the world but he still seemed pretty sad.

His face didn't show it, it must probably be because he is used to it, I would know, I have been in his spot a lot of times.

- Oh, I'm sorry.- I smiled kindly at him, I knew exactly how he felt.

- Well, I think you are pretty cool too. So maybe you could shoot a shot at my school. -

He looked very confused.

- If you haven't already been expelled of that one at least - We laughed again.

It would be nice to start the year with a real friend. I wasn't exactly disliked in school but I was the kind of person that was kind to everyone but friend of no one. I never fit in enough to have a real friend. But I had a feeling he was different.

I told him the name of my school, and after 15 minutes waiting, his mom came back with two doctors. They checked me up and said it was nothing to worry about. After the doctors where gone Sally asked me my mom's number so she could call her. And left the room again.

- Hey, do you wanna hang out some day? We could try to make blue food If you like. - I said.

I know we just met, but I really liked him. He felt familiar, not in a way that we already had met but in a way that somehow I knew he was a good guy.

- Yeah, sure! I would love to - He responded. He sounded very exited and I was to. Then, Sally got in the room.

- Your mom's on the way, she sounded really worried but I got to calm her down. You sure you are fine, right kid? - She said pretty preoccupied.

- Yeah ma'am. Thanks a lot for the help - I turn back to look at Percy - and for the amazing blue food.  - I laughed.

Suddenly my mom came in the store shouting my name. My mom's name is Amelia Williams. She was a beautiful blonde with green eyes that held the kindest of looks, although they seemed to held a worried looked almost half of the times they looked at me. I hated to make her worried, I knew life as a single mother wasn't easy but I always seemed to manage to make it a lot harder despite my tries of being good.

I came out of the storage room looking for her. And I saw her, she was still on her blue suit with stripes. She must have got off court late and on her way home when she got the call. She wrapped me in a tight hug and let out a heavy sigh.

- I'm so glad you are ok. That thing didn't bite you or anything thing? - She asked worryingly

- No, mom. The doctors said I'm good to go. - I said with a smile in hopes to calm her down.

We separated and she looked behind me. Sally and Percy were out of the storage room too now.

- Thank you so much for looking out for her. I don't know how I could ever repay you -  My mom smiled fondly at Sally, and she responded with one of her own.

- Don't worry, I'm a mom too - Sally was smiling at Percy now and he was looking at his mom with a embarrassed smile.

- Well, I have an idea. - I said, and now all eyes were on me. - Could Percy come home someday? - I asked my mom with pleading eyes. Then she looked back at Sally.

-  If that's alright with you, I believe we can arrange something. - My mom said.

Then Sally looked at Percy, and he gave her his own set off pleading eyes.

- Yeah sure, you already have my number anyways. - She said smiling.

After that talk and a hang out planning, my mom and I said our "see you soon" before getting in the car. And while we started making our way home, Percy and Sally waved goodbye from the candy store door while smiling.

And that's how a met my best friend, my brother.

[ballad-of-birdy-lamb]

i saw ur post about lucy gray angst so im here to request 🙋🏻‍♀️

Ok so reader is lucy grays bsf and corio comes to district 12 and meets reader and starts taking a liking to reader and lucy gray gets jealous but then reader reassures her and they kiss and get together 🫠 please and thank you💕

-🧛🏻‍♀️

I'll hide you in my poetry.

Lucy Gray Baird x Fem! Covey Member! Reader Summary: Lucy Gray wasn't the jealous type, but oh, did she feel terrible when she saw Coriolanus with you. Warnings: none Word count: 1.3k ⊹₊｡ꕤ˚₊⊹

Lucy Gray wasn’t the jealous type, everyone knew that. Yes, she could enact revenge if she wanted to, but it was very specific and rarely happened. Her shoving that snake down Mayfair’s dress? Bound to happen! Don’t send your boyfriend's ex into the hunger games.

But she was full of love, so it wasn’t surprising that she got a thing for you of all people. She knew you for years, having grown up together after leaving the man that took care of them before he died of black lung. Your family had helped the Covey get to their feet again for the short amount of time your parents were alive. The rampant deaths from black lung affected your family and later passed. Out of thankfulness, Lucy Gray offered you join the Covey and help them with shows. Thankfully, you accept.

Her romantic feelings weren’t immediate, but her affection grew overtime. It didn’t happen while Billy Taupe was dating her, but she couldn’t deny a place in her heart was saved for you.

After Lucy Gray found Billy Taupe was cheating on her with Mayfair, she didn’t try putting that on your hands since 

Lucy Gray sang love ballads hidden behind platonic love, singing about the beauty of your eyes and how she would get lost in them, and your kindness and how you were bound for the good. If she can’t tell if you love her like she does, she’ll say they’re platonic and are just grateful for your care.

After being sent to the Capital for the Hunger Games, she had grown fond of Coriolanus, her mentor. Of course, Lucy Gray would talk about her life back home, it being suggested after she said Wovey reminded her of Maude Ivory. She would go on long streams of compliments and say you were born with beauty she could never describe but try her best anyway.

It enchanted Coriolanus too.

Lucy Gray’s time spent in the Capital and in the arena wasn’t fun for obvious reasons, her time spent mainly worrying about her life being on the line, how the Covey was holding up in District 12 and how you were helping them. She hoped the shows were still doing well without her there.

Once she got back to 12, Lucy Gray had almost run home if it wasn’t from exhaustion and stress. If her time back home wasn’t spent getting food to eat, bathing, and sleeping, maybe she would have confessed to you.

Life had gone back to normal only a couple weeks later, the Games not being prominent in Lucy Gray and the Covey’s life after. Though it was only mentioned before shows to remind the audience she was a victor.

You had gone back to your job assisting the Covey in getting the cash donations from the audience and getting their things to and from the house. The days went by normally.

But who would have thought Coriolanus would follow Lucy Gray back.

The summer heat had gotten as bad as the year before, humid with the smell of sweat and coal from the coal miners, their uniforms still smelling of the two. Lucy Gray had gotten the idea to spend Sunday at the lake house, needing to get away from her problems and stress after the Games. Coriolanus had been allowed to go along since peacekeeper work and had gotten tiring and he was offered to relax too.

Like it was stated before, Lucy Gray wasn’t naturally sadistic or vengeful, she wouldn’t commit violence unless she was in a situation where the other person swung first, or she truly needed to. It wasn’t like her jealousy was prominent before Coriolanus became more obvious with his feelings.

While at the lake, Coriolanus would try sweet talking to you. Though you would make jokes about how his accent and slang was odd, he’d continue trying his best to get you to realize how he really felt.

Lucy Gray would watch and listen with disdain for his sweet talk. She couldn’t deny that you were gorgeous and a sweetheart, but she couldn’t stop herself from becoming jealous.

The day passed slowly for Lucy Gray, watching as you laughed with Coriolanus, his smile a little too wide for her liking. She would occasionally break into the conversation to try and bring the attention back to her. Part of her wanted to try sweet talking with you but didn’t think it would work. If you liked her, it would be obvious right now.  She did care for Coriolanus for the fact he took care of her in the Capital but trying to get with you? Ew!

The lake water shimmered under the moonlight, the firelight covered the grass around the Covey and Coriolanus. They sat with each other and sang happily, making campfire foods from their bags. On the other hand, You and Lucy Gray were inside the lake house, fixing the wet swimsuits. She had gone silent from annoyance, which you noticed throughout the day.

Lucy Gray had spent her time by the fire not wanting to sing for her guest or trying to partake in the sing-alongs either. Simply eating her food quietly, making remarks when she was expected to. The day eventually needed to end, leaving the campfire put out with a bucket of lake water while the Covey and Coriolanus had gone inside.

You watched as Lucy Gray tried going inside too, quietly making her way to the door to go to bed.

__

“Lucy Gray,” you mutter and grab her arm, stopping her gently from leaving you outside alone. She looked back at you blankly, almost solemnly, causing you to tilt your head. “You’ve been a little quiet.”

Lucy Gray hesitantly nodded and pulled her hand away. “Just don’t have anything to say,” she remarked and looked down at the ground.

“Bit surprising,” you smile at her but it quickly fell when you realized she pulled away. “What's wrong, Lucy Gray?”

Lucy Gray paused for a moment, looking at you as though you were a puzzle she was trying to solve. She spoke again.

“Do you like… Coriolanus?” She asked, looking at you with a saddened expression. Your eyes widened at the idea whatever you felt for Coriolanus, of all people, would be a possible lover. “I understand if you do.”

“What?” You mumble and narrow your eyes. Lucy Gray looked away from you, not wanting to get too teary eyed when she spoke.

“I… I want you to reconsider. Please,” Lucy Gray said, stammering slightly. “I know I’m your friend but I’ve been in love with you for a long while. And if you truly love Coriolanus, I can understand but know there will always be a place in my heart for you.”

It was only seconds after Lucy Gray had spoken that your hands held the soft flesh of Lucy Gray’s face, keeping her close as her lips pressed against yours. She almost instinctively pulled away before realizing who was kissing her. You!

She had only dreamed of how soft your lips were when you got her attention, each time you smiled and spoke she wished she could touch your lips. She was now and couldn’t believe it was real life. Her hands had gone to your clothes, holding on tightly as she kept her eyes closed almost as tightly as your grasp.

You didn’t pull away for what felt like hours, keeping her to your body out of -what could only be described as- desperation. Your and Lucy Gray’s breathing had grown quick with what she thought was proven adoration. It didn’t matter if you both stopped in a couple seconds and went inside, she would just hope you would give her more kisses later in time. But you didn’t pull away now and whatever you had planned for the night with her didn’t matter, as long as you held her in your arms.

⊹₊｡ꕤ˚₊⊹

Thank you for the support!!! Highkey sucks, I rushed to get this done.

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