#today was the start of my 5 day stretch

[grouchythefish]

not having consecutive days off should literally be illegal. I have today as my singular day off (worked yesterday, work tomorrow) and then I'm working 6 days in a row. Because of my commute I am out of the house for a minimum of 12 hours on working days so I need to get everything done today that I have to do at home or I'm fucked.

and I have a migraine.

like, a sounds hurt, moving hurts, migraine.

this is so fucking unfair.

[phantom-does-a-thing]

No one talk to me or I'm gonna start biting and hissing like a feral animal

[transtief]

kind of insane how bad my body has been craving exercise

[valwrote]

PICK YOUR DOMESTIC HUSBAND 🛒

WHICH HUSBAND IS ON THE DOMESTICITY MENU TODAY?

featuring: diluc, alhaitham, zhongli, wriothesley, neuvillette.

synopsis: glimpses into married life with the genshin men.

warnings: implied fem!reader, occasional pet names, ooc (I have a sparse idea how diluc works, mention of "activities" (just mention I can't write smut pls), silly goofy ah loser coded men, mild swearing (damn, heck)

a/n: *stretching my back and crunching my neck.* I'm back from the dead. apologies for the choppy writing. thanks for the support on the other posts, if only I could write 50-page essays thanking everyone. <33 :')) not proofread.

DILUC 🍷

PRODUCT NAME: BREAKFAST AND KISSES IN BED. Diluc always hated the Knights of Favonius… 

He hated how most of them just stand around like buffoons and do not partake in any actual work that involves saving Mondstadt. He wouldn’t admit that he enjoys playing Batman. He hated them all except for one.

One he was willing to forgive all flaws of. "Knight of Favonius…always so inefficient,”  He scoffed at the pathetic sight of the hilichurls trying to dry roast a few knights roped to a wooden stick for their dinner. “Seriously, You’re so right Master Diluc.” Diluc’s head turned so fast at the sound of a new voice. When did you get here? Were you always there and how did he not sense you around?

That’s simply how you always were. A hard worker amidst slackers – he always termed despite Jean trying to explain that others work hard too. Perhaps that’s what caught his attention, honestly, he would never know what did. “G’morning…” He murmured against your skin, head buried in the crook of your neck, your flushed bare back pressed against him. “5 more minutes…” he heard your soft and groggy voice evoking a chuckle from the usually passive man. “Have I ever told you…how beautiful you are?” Diluc muttered against your skin. You smiled and turned around, “You always do. I remember my Dark-Knight Hero crying at the altar.” You pressed a finger against his chest, while he scoffed at the memory. “Don’t remind me about that, Kaeya doesn’t let me live that down…” He sighed, his brother consistently brought up the matter of him crying whenever he was losing an argument. Foul play if you ask anyone. “So…breakfast downstairs or in the bed?” He planted a kiss on your cheek while you hummed out a response, “Bed, you didn’t exactly go easy on me the previous night.” You recalled the events of the passionate night the day before. The honeymoon phase never seemed to end. “I am so sorry–” He panicked,” You're not in pain are you? I promise I’ll be gentle– I knew I should’ve been more considerat–” You stopped him by pressing a kiss against his lips. He groaned at the feeling of your soft lips touching his hands tangling themselves in your hair.

“I’m kidding silly… you should stop taking things so seriously unless you want me to start searching for grey hairs amidst those red locks of yours.” You snickered out seeing him release a breath of relief.

If the Darknight Hero really does exist, he's probably just someone in disguise. When he gets up in the morning to brush his teeth, it's the real him. He was his real him in front of you. People may call him a loser for such vulnerability…he was a loser for you.

ALHAITHAM 🌱

PRODUCT NAME: READING BOOKS OUT LOUD. One would say married to someone like Alhaitham was nothing short of a nightmare. They weren't 100% right. Shrouded beneath the aloof and meticulous personality resided someone who was in complete denial towards being loved. He loves it.

Who was he kidding? Nobody in a million years thought someone could put up with his insufferable personality — said Kaveh, his unpaying tenant. That was until he ran into you during his time as the newly appointed Scribe. You were like a painter, splashing heaps of paint in his 90s black-and-white life. Was eating ice cream always this enjoyable or was it because it was with you? Was the gossip between co-workers always this interesting or was it because it included you?

Why was his heart having an entire Queen’s rock and roll concert talking to you? Was it cardiac arrest or– He almost shuddered at the thought of it being what they called love.

“You’ve got flour on your face, sweetheart.” His teal eyes blinked amusingly into yours, a faint smile curling up his lips. You must have saved a nation in your previous life to land this man as your husband. Beige shirt perfectly sculpting around his abs – contrary to him calling himself “feeble,” hair slightly tousled and slight sleepiness in his eyes. He might not act like it but he was a little child whose needs had to be tended to like the coffee mug in his hands which you made, like usual. You wouldn’t want a cranky Alhaitham now, would you? “Hmpf, not my fault, this cooking book is completely bogus!” You rubbed your cheeks with the back of your hand, wiping away any remaining flour. “This is so boring…if only someone could provide their poor wife with some entertainment.” You always resorted to theatrics to get him to do things for you, albeit begrudgingly. “No, the same tactic is not going to work again.” “Please…” “No…” He groaned, tone almost pleading not to put him through the torture again. “During better or worse!” You resorted to the ace up to your sleeve. WEDDING VOWS! “Stop quoting the wedding vows.” He sighed in defeat. The most intellectually gifted man in the nation couldn't win against his own wife. Ironical. He got up and grabbed a book out of the bookshelf; a small fraction of his much larger library.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Alhaitham lazily flipped through the pages earning a rebuke. “More emotion! You are ruining the scene.” Alhaitham sighed and cleared his throat, “I love you most ardently…” His tone was feathery soft, emotion surging in it. A smile crept up as he stared at you endearingly.

“That’s much better. Though I seriously think Mr Darcy should’ve said– Miss Elizabeth, allow me to kiseth thy lovely lips.” You mimicked the deep voice of the character with the failing British accent. “Please have mercy on Jane Austen’s ghost and let her enjoy the afterlife.” Alhaitham chuckled and continued reading as you continued baking.  It was a shame that a man of such talent only paid attention to the truth itself and not to the people around him. If only the searching eyes of the ordinary say the exception to his indifference, you.

This was your biosphere, just you, him, novels and food encapsulated inside your small home.

ZHONGLI 🪨

PRODUCT NAME: ALWAYS ON HIS MIND. What is the best but the most useless flex you have? Being married to the Geo Archon. The inability to just tell the whole world that you are married to the frigging god was painful. You yourself were surprised by your ability to control yourself. Zhongli was a man of carefully curated words. Instead of words, straight-up poetry flew out of his mouth. Everyone knew how much he adored his wife, every vendor, every acquaintance, heck even Venti. Wangsheng Funeral Parlor's mysterious consultant. Handsome, elegant, and surpassingly learned. Excellent memory. A master of courtesy and rules. The amount of poor women who have tried to grab his attention. "Mr.Zhongli, how does this look?" the woman, who he remembered meeting over a history discussion 17 days ago. "Hm?" his amber eyes shifted to gaze at the hairpiece the lady was holding. "Most exquisite.." He remarked, seemingly going into deep thought. Instead of a compliment, he said something that made the woman back away, "Such beautiful craftsmanship...may I ask you to tell me where you found this? I wish to buy one for my wife–" he paused, seeing the lady vanished after pointing at the shop where she got it from. "Zhongli, you should be able to tell why people approach you..." Hutao sighed, standing beside the rather oblivious gentleman. "Let's just continue...we've got customers to find!" Hutao started walking alongside the railing, hoping to find people in need of funeral services. "Maybe we should go and ask peopl– Zhongli??" Hutao looked around for the Consultant, who was caught up chatting with a shopkeeper over some earrings. "Zhongli!" Hutao called out to him, causing his head to turn towards the director. "Oh, apologies...It seems I got too carried away. These earrings caught my eye...I'm sure [Name} would love them.." he mumbled, staring at the jewellery. "I'll take them." "Mister Zhongli? What about the payment..." The shopkeeper meekly asked, causing Zhongli to turn his head fully at Hutao; gazing expectantly. Hutao should've expected this... "Zhongli, we are out here to find customers! Not buying gifts for [Name], her birthday is months away!" "They say the best things should be done first. After all, why must I wait for one specific day to express my love for my beloved?" Zhongli asked curiously and Hutao shaked her head; love was clearly out of her expertise. Zhongli, he is particular about everything. He only attended the best operas and focused on the perfect ratio for the creation of an authentic dish.  On a typical day, all you will glean from him is a few pieces of useless trivia, because he particularly enjoys sharing these fun tidbits with you. He was particular about you and your likings. A smile on your face was what he wanted by the end of the day. For being someone alive for 6000 years, he could proudly say that he loved and cherished something– someone.

"Wait here, Director Hu...Perhaps I should get those flowers over there to accompany the hairpin and earrings..."

WRIOTHESLEY 🐺

PRODUCT NAME: BATTLE TO BUY A DOG OR NOT.

"Wriothesley, I want a dog!" You crossed your arms, staring down at the Duke who was glued to the chair in his office. “But why? That’s just unnecessary responsibility…” Wriothesley sighed, rubbing his temples. This was the 3rd time this month you’ve brought up this topic. Was he that incompetent in terms of filling his role as your significant other? Perhaps not with the never-ending paperwork. Oh, how he wished people would just stop committing crimes. “I get lonely in the Fortress…I want a child.” You put forth your point by using the term ’ child’. Child, dog same thing. You hoped to finally convince him this time.

“We have Sigewinne.” Wriothesley pointed at the head nurse prepping tea in the room with the back of his pen. “I am sorry, Your Grace but playing the role of the child is out of my job description.” The Melusine replied indifferently, pouring freshly seeped tea into the three cups. “Fine, we will go get one…I’ll schedule a meeting with the owner of the pet shelter. Happy?” He asked you, chin resting on his palm. Perhaps getting a dog was a good idea as he was guilty of being unable to spend quality time with you… “No way…” “Isn’t that..?” “The Duke of the Meropide–” “He rarely appears in public..” Wriothesley held out the door to the shelter for you, hoping you would go in and it would finally save him from the gaze of curious onlookers. The two of you walked in, only to be pounced upon by a big dog. “Kal! You sly dog! I knew I shouldn’t have let you out!” The caretaker yelled at the big ball of black fur who had tackled Wriothesley to the floor and was aggressively licking his face, tail wagging in delight. “Are you okay?” You asked your fallen husband, who just chuckled in response. “I am good just– Okay stop! I understand your gesture of love.” Wriothesley got up as the dog encircled him. “This one is so adorable…” you gasped at the cuteness radiating from the dog and its big brown eyes. “You’ve got a keen eye! This is Kal, Shiloh Shepard, one of the finest dogs out there.” The caretaker combed her fingers through the thick and groomed black coat of the canine. “He seems to have taken a liking to the Duke.” The caretaker continued as the dog ran back to Wriothesley, peppering his face with licks. “He even looks like you.” You teased as Wriothesley stared at you in disbelief. You did not just compare him to a dog…he even did a double take at the dog to confirm. “We will take this one then…” He chuckled in amusement. Never had he imagined marrying you and on top of that getting a four-legged beast. Needless to say, Wriothesley proudly walked out of the shelter, holding the big dog in his hands like a child. It felt complete ever since getting Kal; like your own little family. Wriothesley wouldn’t admit it but he loved the dog, despite it hogging all of your love and attention. He didn’t expect to be fighting over cuddling rights with a dog!? 

He watched you and Kal sleep peacefully on the couch, keeping him company while he finished up his work. He felt a sense of gratitude…people of the Fortress knew little of the crime he once committed. The only one who still remembers it like yesterday is Wriothesley himself. And no matter how much glory or repute he has earned, he still considers himself to be the same old Wriothesley he's always known.Neither a good person nor a complete villain. He's just another soul, still living on in this world. However, your eyes always reassured him in ways he couldn’t describe. Everything was perfect…

[Name]!! YOURDAMN DOG PISSED ON MY COAT!! Maybe not that perfect…whoops.

NEUVILLETTE 🌊

PRODUCT NAME: HELPING THE OTHER DRESS.

Monsieur Neuvillette, The Iudex of Fontaine, always wondered how his life had come to this. 500 years of serving his position as the Beacon of Justice, a lovely, beaming baker somehow broke the monotony. Well, calling you just a baker was now an insult. With your ring finger bejewelled, with one of the rarest gems– an ode to his undying loyalty and representation of his eternal love. “It’s astounding how a covert mission conducted by melusines could’ve landed someone such as myself a lady like her…” He muttered to himself, seeing his full form in the mirror. “Talking to yourself, again?” You leaned against the door frame, lopsidedly smiling at the peculiar antics of Fontaine’s most distinguished man. “Ah, apologies…I didn’t think you would notice me conversing with myself. Now I find myself in a rather awkward predicament.” He chuckled. Dear god, this man was so beautiful that his beauty was almost blinding with the morning sun perfectly hitting his face.

“Say ah,” You requested and he complied. Who better to take constructive criticism from other than your husband? “New filling?” He covered his mouth while chewing on the croissant. “Yup, how is it? I was experimenting with some Rainbow Roses and these Inazuman berries I bought.” You blinked curiously, waiting for some input. “Hmm it is very pleasant, it is fascinating how you manage to maintain the freshness of the fruit…” You smiled at his compliment, before noticing him struggling with the jabot around his neck. “Need help?” You offered and he nodded his head. “This is absurd..it usually isn’t this difficult.” He frustrated replied, it was amusing to see the cool and collected man all worked up about clothing. “I suggest simplifying your outfit.” You attached the jabot and secured it in with the teardrop brooch, fixing the ruffles. 

“Thank you. I do prefer my outfit as it conveys the message I wish for it to convey.” He explained before staring at you. You knew that look, he looked at you with his eyebrows slightly creased when he was hesitating from saying something. “What is it?” “Do I get a goodbye kiss before I leave?” “Pfft! I didn’t think you would take that seriously!” Conclusion: this man was wayyy to cute.

Neuvillette is a solitary person. Neuvillette is not known for his personal desires.

He was deemed as someone with unassailable impartiality. If only they knew that perhaps the Iudex was just a wee bit biased.

a/n 2.0: the crust will come off...hopefully. i wonder if it's possible to guess which one of them is my favourite??

don't steal, copy, plagiarise, or translate.

©definitelysel

[lyriumsings]

i haven’t managed to draw these last two days but i’m actually not mad about it bc my wrist feels even better i think it was a good call

[capslocked]

KINKVEMBER DAY: 5

[prompt: face sitting]

male reader x ahn yujin

3.5k words

Yujin is giving you shit when it happens.

It’s been a little over an hour since she turned to you, bored and pouty about it, and asked if you wanted to fuck again.

She gives you shit in the way only the prettiest girls can get away with. Perfect smile, like she's innocent. And all low and breathy in her throat. Hitched around the vowels of your name. Threatening enough that you thought about just immediately capitulating. It was tempting. 

"Or you could stay on the floor like a lame loser bummin’ around in your pajamas." She leans up on the arm of the sofa. "Either way."

Yujin stretches and her sweater is huge. One of those cozy campus crewnecks that everybody seems to have, oversized and inviting and right. Her shorts are ridiculously small, just enough of her stomach peeking out over her waistband for you to want to feel it, touch it, have the pleasure of sinking your tongue into the shallow groove.

She's teasing you because she never quite knows what to do with her energy. Lacks an outlet big enough, really, but is also selfishly delighted in getting any response at all, no matter how halfhearted it might be. You stare at her. You watch and don't speak when she runs her fingers up her stomach to pull her sweater up with it. You groan. She grins. She is pretty, her lips full and eyes soft. The laugh that follows her is because it's always obvious when she's won and you wish your body wasn't so prone to giving away your weaknesses.

"Hey." She blinks slowly, lifting one leg up. Her bare foot, warm, toes flexed, against your thigh, nudges against you once, and again.

"How many orgasms until I feel a little more forgiving towards my good friend who, I know, is super super sorry that he can't afford the pizza money because he chose to use his own allowance to do something as silly as pay rent, I wonder?"

"I paid half last time."

"Doesn't make sense because you ate it all.

"You said you weren't hungry." You start to object because you do have an objection. A list, actually, prepared, of instances you think you're owed. But Yujin arches, and when a separate but related complaint rises swiftly to the foreground, your throat goes dry -

"Orgasm tax."

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” she asks, and you’re struggling to answer truthfully, honestly.

She rolls over, lets you see everything she has, the tiniest shorts in the world tugged even higher, the generous curve of her ass and thighs in silhouette. You didn't ask for this but you weren’t about to die without it, you think, looking up from the floor and staring, wetting your lips, absolutely sure. She does it all on her own and it takes an absurd amount of effort to peel your hands off the ground.

"Stay where you are," she snaps, seeing it too - and in a second of deliberate slowness, hooks two fingers into her shorts, tugging them aside before looming over you. "Or you're not fucking me today. At all."

You let your head thud down against the rug beneath you. "That's not fair."

"You've gotta come up with something better than that. You could suck up, beg, maybe I'd forgive you if you just told me how much better I was than the cash I could use on literally whatever."

Your eyes cut down.

Part of you wonders if you've always been such an easy mark - whether being here has changed you, if all these months of dangling carrots in front of you are paying off or if you're just a willing accomplice to your own exploitation.

Part of you isn't stupid. Yujin's taken an almost disturbing amount of pleasure in flaunting herself since the first night you drank too much, said too much, resisted too little - you can tell the way it starts, a smile toying in the corner of her mouth, before she taps the band of her bra, waits to hear you swallow - to hear how hot you get - before she casually asks what it would take, "to convince you", to change the conversation from whether she wants something from the vending machine, or she just forgot it was laundry day, or where the hell that note from Wonyoung had gone, to what she'd like the answer to be. What would you let her do if it got you another chance to get under her shirt, see her all bared, eyes dark and hair like a veil across her collarbones, pretty nipples and swells of her breasts pushed up, until you put your mouth on her.

Yujin tilts her hips so it's easier for you to follow, her hand snaking beneath her body as she speaks. A gentle grunt gets muffled in her sweater, her toes curling into the space between your knees and it hurts, stings a little, the desire you're holding back, and then it goes right through you like fire, sharp.

(Part of you is incredibly stupid - but you think the truth is it doesn't matter.)

Yujin's kneeling over your chest, and her bottom lip, plump and lush, catches between her teeth. "Can you think of anyway to be useful?"

"A lot," you choke. It's true.

Yujin makes a noise. "Proof. Evidence. Put up."

The movement she makes - twisting of legs and stomach flexing and the fabric of her shorts down off her ankles - is one single, fluid motion and for a second you're distracted by how quickly she's gotten you there. Thighs resting over your shoulders, the only thing your lungs seem to remember how to do is want.

"Come on." She bounces her knees a bit. "Dick or mouth, get going."

You should really say something smart, show her how clever and charming you can be, how you've actually got a lot to show the hottest girl in the world - and sometimes Yujin giggles like she's shocked  about it all herself, but right now her eyebrows are raising, expectant and challenging and it makes it difficult to think when there's an open invitation inches away for you to bury yourself in. Your lips feel like sandpaper when you kiss the inside of her thigh. Her hips stutter and drop an inch as your tongue works its way out, thick and obscene and it shouldn't be so thrilling to hear her so low, so urgent when you have no say, really, in how this is going to go -

"Take care of me, yeah?" she practically whispers the words - all while your fingertips drag along her outer thighs until her spine straightens, gets her shoulders pushed back, her breathing louder, somehow, as if you couldn't feel her need without knowing already exactly what you can do for her.

And the most honest thing you could say in the moment, because Yujin has her panties stretched to the side, revealing the inviting creases where her long legs meet her hips - for god’s sake, her pussy is right fucking there, inches in front of you; glistening slightly in her own slick and looking so, so pretty - the words get kissed right into the curve of her thigh: "It's not fair."

The look she gives you makes it worth it. "Excuse me?"

"You asked, didn't you. It's not fair that your pussy's so good that I can't think about anything else."

She huffs, her thighs shaking just a little with the effort of staying put. "So, what," and your mouth closes in, kiss deep, your nose pressed in right at the peak of her folds, her entrance, and you try not to drool as you inhale and drag the flat of your tongue in, hard, where she's desperate for you, "you think this should all go in reverse or something, like I should worship your dick until you stop being a useless perv - "

But the insult dies in her throat. A moan comes out instead, harsh, deep, loud and enough that Yujin slaps her palm over her own mouth before throwing an impatient scowl down at you.

Here's what you'd tell her, if you weren't busy licking circles into the ache leaking from her core, eating her cunt like a starving man, if you had the audacity. Yujin can't control herself. Doesn't help that she's sloppy. When her orgasm hits she will get louder and she doesn't even like the things that come out. That's the thing about Yujin, really. She says all this shit, and really, in the end, she wants a good fuck so bad she can't keep her mouth shut, but the noises she makes are exactly the same as the sounds that you choke on -

Because as pretty and easy and fun to kiss as she can be, the absolute best thing about your relationship is that the more orgasms she gets the less she can breathe, much less control what the fuck she's saying to you. It's cute and hilarious and beautiful, when she forgets, when she gives everything up because in the end it's never any competition, the way she fucks, is so desperate. Her hips work themselves into your grip, over and over and over again, like they are meant for this. 

For getting off on your mouth alone.

All you know right now is that with the way you have your hands on her - one still holding her panties open and the other squeezed tight around the muscle of her outer thigh - it's like her clit's directly in line with the back of your throat. If you press your lips around her pussy and hold them firm, just like the way her knees are starting to tighten around your face, she's going to come. It will hurt her and it will leave her completely boneless, and you've fucked this much to the point where you have learned, well, she can never complain.

Not that she would. The slick dripping down your cheeks and throat and down to the front of your shirt - it's fucking everywhere - makes it obvious: any ability to talk is replaced with her just grinding her pussy against you, bucking and shouting, riding and writhing until you decide her pretty little pink slit can have another taste. 

Her only other option, really, is clenching and throbbing and cumming as hard as she can all over your waiting tongue.

"Hey. Get your fucking mouth back down," she breathes, taking her fingers out of her cunt and then promptly pushing your head back in, "and - uhnn, I - yeah, exactly. Mmmnghh - "

You smile, muffled and hot against the fabric of her thighs, her fingers twisting in the hair behind your ears and tugging firmly. "Oh."

"What did you want again?" she asks - except her body tells a different story, all flushed and keening and, fuck, absolutely soaked from your touch - she rocks against the base of your chin, slumping and dropping down and letting gravity do its work. You work your tongue over her throbbing clit, again, again, and Yujin moans loudly. So pleased.

Just this mess she's made of you. The smell that coats your nose, and chin, the way it feels when she ruts her whole body against the place where she's worked the hardest. Her breath stalls where you start to breathe in, and looking up at the cinched look in her face you press further.

It’s every little circle lick and lave and gentle nudge of the tip of your nose, where the feeling makes her cry out, where the sensation, overstimulated, is close to that perfect balance between too much and not quite enough, all while working your fingers into the swell of her ass, and finally her hips make small, greedy, selfish thrusts into your mouth.

She sobs for you. You sigh, contented, because you don't even need to ask.

"You're so fucking good," she murmurs, heel of her palm pushed into her eyes like she's struggling with a headache. "God, fuck, do that again."

It's so wet on your chin already, but you do it again, just for the way she bucks into it.

You give her the closest thing you have, your thumb riding the rim of her ass, tongue rubbing, stroking her pussy faster. Yujin's teeth work against the insides of her mouth as her hips shift forward, and she is clenching and begging for the cock you know would make her scream if you just stood her on her hands and fucked her from behind - it's such a cruel way of making her work to feel so fucking amazing - but you're here to indulge, and really, when she shivers and pleads the exact way she does, your mouth still full, how are you supposed to do anything besides fucking obey.

Yujin reaches up to grab onto the edge of the couch, anything to brace herself as her cunt sloppily gets wetter. The thickest part of your tongue is good enough for this. Everything about her clit is just this dull, swollen throb. Begging to be worked over the way you're licking at the entrance to her pussy, inside and all, kissing, sucking, kneading, pulling, - fucking her just right - until she starts fucking cursing up a storm.

"Oh god, god, oh fuck fuck, fuck," her hips shift until she's the only one riding, the only one fucking. Until you just get to lay there with your lips slack, drooling open, hands a frame for her entire body while she works your face, and nothing could be better - "yeah, oh, fuck, fuck yes - yeah - fuck, hahhh. You're going to make me fucking cum-"

And you almost say it: that's your line - it's not enough, you'll never have enough of her cunt - her clit or the slit, where she leaks, thick and sticky. Her slick tastes heavy on your tongue, and you can't swallow fast enough. Your fingers are so deep into the pliable skin of her ass - digging and needy and reaching for where she's tightest. Her hands pull sharply at your hair. You feel her, tightening her ass around your finger, cumming wet across your cheekbones and -

It goes on, her body pressing into you, until with a sudden snap of a cry, she cums.

“God, fuck-”

If Yujin doesn't have to see the look on your face after getting her off this hard, it's only because the pressure in her body has her knees across your eyes forced shut. A spasm clenches, almost rhythmic, through her thighs, and god, Yujin just cums her brains out. It's pretty hot. You make it count: pushing your fingers just as deep into her pussy, working, exploring - right as her whole body is tensing and coming apart and your other hand circles, two fingers, dipping down and through the cleft of her ass and into her tightest, hottest hole -

You know better than to rub at her entrance once the ripples and waves start - instead, it's more pressure.

Pushing up as deep as you can and your lips mouthing at her folds while her hips squirm for something harder, something stronger and with intent - like, maybe, if she thinks she is trying to push away, she will start to believe that the mess running from her hole isn't hers. It's yours. All that liquid heat pooling below her and what could ever make sense other than she needs more? She needs the way she trembles and shakes, the way her pussy weeps as you wring it for the pleasure that's well on its way -

You always feel like an idiot after, stupid with how much you enjoy this, what she gives you, but how could it be anything but fantastic, your vision dizzying when it swims from lightheadedness and the lack of oxygen to your brain. Yujin's holding you right where she needs, right between her thighs and next to perfection, just tight enough for you to groan, to make a low whine build in the back of your throat and that gets her, too.

There is the rush and a wave, the heat, of something that crests and breaks in her that has to match the absolute loss of control she seems to have all along - the only part you feel you are sure about is that Yujin always rides her cunt - all dripping lips and aching holes, swollen and flaring and practically begging to be fucked harder and more thoroughly - into every orgasm she's taken from you, until there's no where to run.

Even through your nose, and you're suffocating, her legs trembling with the rush of it all. You're gasping and shaking but she's shaking apart and you need that: to feel her melt from where her body collapses all its weight onto you and the way the aftershocks have to make it seem, at least for a moment, that she’ll never, ever recover.

"Fuck," Yujin sighs, "I fucking hate you."

(Translation: she can't fucking live without you.)

"Any time," you murmur and her entire body falls into you, straddled across your chest and slumped there, sweaty and spent. Your heart beats the moment, trying to remember when it was you could stop feeling this way about your roommate.

A part of you believes that, once upon a time, before all of this started, that your desire, your lust was rooted in seeing a friend who was beyond hot and simply unavailable.

A bigger part of you knows that asking for clarity isn't the point - because maybe, right now, in the way your hand has started massaging the soft skin under the curve of her spine, you should realize you can't live with it never happening again.

"What's my balance," you ask, rubbing your thumb into the crook behind her knee.

"Mm?"

You exhale.

"Two. I think you're good for two."

You laugh. "For real?"

She stretches.

"Or I suppose we can go for four or five, but that means you're paying for dinner, too." Yujin does this thing with her hair when she's excited. Swings it back, smiling wide.

Which is fair, you think, given the pulse between your legs throbbing and twitching as you picture it: the curve of Yujin's waist and the drop of her lower back, her bare ass. Her soaked little slit that can't help but beg to fucked and fucked and fucked, until she's trembling and quivering and leaking-

"Then I'm gonna eat," you promise her, "every last inch. Going to taste you and swallow."

Yujin shifts, sitting astride you.

You hum. "Still interested."

She simply kisses you - breathes you in - tasting herself on your lips and tongue, before leaning back with her palms flat against your chest and taking it slow as she starts to ease you into the kind of sex that doesn't leave either one of you with a throat quite so raw and dry.

So it's quiet in your apartment, just for a little while, when the afternoon starts to settle in and she rolls back onto her heels, not able to support the rest of her. You fuck her deep and it's amazing how quickly you both fall into rhythm. Yujin's clutching hard on either side of your hips. Folding herself back. Trying, by the end, to bury you where her fingers have been.

By the time she gets herself up on the couch, belly flat against the cushions and her hips arched back as she fucks herself with the length of your dick, you're just desperate. Aching in a way you know will happen any moment and even so, you can't even bring yourself to consider stopping because this is perfect - it's everything, really. To push her down, hold her still, and fuck her so thoroughly that she cries and shudders as you spill into her.

To have her.

Yujin holds a part of yourself so tender, something you have kept close for far too long, and watching her with her arm reached behind herself, clutching blindly with her fingers, as her moans go quiet with just these whimpery, little things, a thought occurs to you, of exactly how dangerous your roommate is -

Because with you fucking into her like this, this is more than sex ought to be. More than it’s ever been.

(More dangerous yet is thinking: maybe - perhaps - it is exactly what Yujin wanted, from the start.)

[kpop---scenarios]

Day Three: Changbin

Pairing: Changbin x Reader

Warnings: Smut, Smut and..Smut [18+ MINORS DO NOT READ]

Word Count: 1.1k

Day One: Felix | Day Two: Jeongin |

You let out a big yawn, situating your outfit before you walk into the empty gym. Late on Friday nights, you had a private session with Changbin, your personal trainer. They usually close around 5 pm, but he always comes to train you at 8 pm every Friday. You like to think it's because he has a thing for you, but most likely, he's just trying to be accommodating. However, that doesn't stop you from relentlessly flirting back and forth with him.

You swore you could cut the sexual tension with a knife when things got sweaty and you were ready to take things to the next level, if he was interested, and tonight you were going to find out.

“Hey.” You smile, setting your bag down. Changbin turns around, a grin plastered on his face as he sets down his weights. “Hey you.” He says, walking over to you. “Are you ready to go hard?”

“I'm ready to go very hard.” You smirk. You can see a slight blush creep across his face.

“As usual, we'll start on the treadmill to warm up.” He says, pointing to the machine. You knew the routine, but he always told you. Treadmill for 30 minutes, stretching, squats, push-ups, sit-ups, the works. He liked to work you until you were dripping sweat.

An hour later you're laying on the mat, sweaty while he looked so fucking good. He wasn't sweating at all, in fact he smelled so fucking good. “Deadlifts today.” He grins. He knew you hated them, which is why it made him happy to make you do them. You weren't terribly upset about it, because now you could finally see if there was truly anything between the two of you. You get into place, the weights on your shoulders, your hands in position and Changbin standing behind you, closely for support. You squat down with the weights and as you come up, you stick your ass out every so slightly. Just enough for it to graze his cock. You're watching him in the mirror as you squat down again, and stick your ass out and graze his cock again. He lets out a deep breath as he shakes his head, trying to focus.

“Again.” He whispers. You squat down again, this time sticking your ass out even more, grazing him again, but you pause, squatting down again and going back up just to tease him a little more. You can feel how hard his cock is as you come back up.

Changbin clears his throat, stepping away from you. “Take a break.. I'm gonna lift some weights.” He says looking around, all his blood must have rushed to his other head. You watch him in the mirror lay down on the bench as he lifts weights. You can see his cock pressing against his sweatpants and you fucking wanted it. You walk over to him standing in front of his head to spot him. But instead you just distract him. You bend over letting your tits spill out of your sports bra a little.

“Fuck.” He groans, continuing to lift.

“You okay?” You ask, cocking your head to the side.

He sighs. “You're making it really hard to concentrate.”

“Why is that?” You ask.

“Because all I want to do is bury my cock so deep inside you.” He says, continuing to lift. You walk around standing near his legs now. He watches you as he lifts the weights up and down. He watches you slip off your shorts. He watches you get down on your knees and pull down his sweatpants, letting his cock spring free.

You get on your knees, wrapping your hand around his cock, slowly pumping him as you watch him struggle to focus on lifting the weights up. You laugh as you move forward a little more, wrapping your lips around his tip. You take your tongue, swirling it around the tip.

“Christ.” He groans, as he slightly bucks his hips. You slowly swallow more of him until he hits the back of your throat. “Fucking hell.” He yells as you bob your head, forcing his cock down your throat even more. You lift your head, taking a breath before you swallow it again, making him groan loudly.

“Sit on my cock before I fucking cum in your mouth.” He snaps. You release his cock with a pop, and stand up. You can feel your wetness spilling from inside you. You go to straddle him, placing your hands on his chest as you slowly sink down onto him. You throw your head back as your pussy swallows his cock. He thrusts up, pushing himself deep into you.

“Fuck.” You cry out, rocking on him, grinding your clit against him as you ride him. He reaches up, gripping your ass, giving you a hard slap as he thrusts up, slamming himself inside you. He rams himself inside you a few more times before he sits up, you continue to rock on him as he lifts up your sports bra, letting your tits out. Changbin reaches up, pinching your nipples before cupping your breasts, putting his face in between them. He wraps his lips around your nipple, sucking hard while you bounce on his cock.

“Oh shit.” He groans, his hands now roaming your body. “You gotta cum.”

“I'm.. right.. there.” You whine, grinding faster on him. Your clit was at the perfect angle to rub against him, the feeling of his cock deep inside you, leaking precum made your orgasm come even faster. “Fuck I'm cumming.” You cry out, your body tensing as pure pleasure releases through your body.

“I'm close.” He moans.

“Cum in my mouth.” You whisper. You get off of him, getting down onto your knees as you take him in your mouth, slurping up your cum from his cock, shoving him down your throat and sucking hard.

“Jesus christ.” He yells, throwing his head back. you use your hand to jerk him off while you sucked in his tip, teasing him, while your other hand gently groped his balls. “That's feels..so fucking good.” You start to go faster and harder, he was like putty in your hands, the pants and whimpers that came from his lips made you want to do more to him.

“Shit, I'm cumming.” He cries, his orgasm hitting him hard. He's breathing heavily as he shoots his cum into your mouth, panting from the unexpected work out. You look up at him and smile, swallowing his cum. He looks shocked, his mouth open wide.

“What? You haven't seen that before?” You chuckle.

“Nuh uh.” He says. “I'm keeping you forever.”

[csuitebitches]

On Being Well Spoken

I recently received a request about posting something regarding being well spoken.

Something you need to realise is that you’re not going to become well-spoken overnight. You need to practice on people. You need to SPEAK.

I used to stutter so badly that I could barely speak a whole sentence.

Flash forward a few years. I pitched my start up in front of a crowd, I joined Model United Nations in high school and college, I’ve been invited to speak on my entrepreneurial experience by some top universities in my country. It’s taken a lot to get here. And I’m still not where I want to be.

1. Apps to track progress and help you get better at public speaking

An app that you can use: “Speeko.”

I used to use this, it is beginner friendly and you can improve your public speaking skills as well.

2. Use topic generators

Go online and look up a topic generator. Generate a random topic, video yourself speaking on that topic. Don’t give yourself time to prepare anything - read the topic and start speaking. Set a time limit - you’ll realise that speaking for even 2 minutes can be quite difficult at times.

Not only does this make you realise that you may have limited language skills, but it will also make you realise exactly where you’re falling behind. Note down things in a journal.

- is grammar the issue?

- Lack of vocabulary?

- Too many filler sounds?

- Knowledge gap?

This is also a great idea if you’re at an intermediate level of learning a language/ polishing a language. Do this everyday and maintain a diary on your improvement.

3. Reading out loud

Select a news article or any article. Read out loud, slowly and steadily. Pronounce every syllable calmly.

A two minute read should take 5 minutes to read out loud. That’s how slow you should go. Not more than 4-5 words per breath.

Your tongue needs to get used to different syllables and sounds. Practice will help.

4. Talk in real life

Talk to anyone and everyone whenever you can.

Ask your barista how their day is going.

Ask your work or university security if they’ve had a good day and if they ate today.

Chat with your taxi driver about their life. I always start with asking them if they are from the city we’re travelling in. Even if you’re from that city, act like a tourist. Where are the best eateries? The conversation eventually goes to personal questions. How many children do they have, and what do they do? What do they like about the city?

You’ll learn the art of small talk only through practice. No book or guide can actually prepare you. You have to practice, practice and practice.

5. Diaphragm breathing

Diaphragm breathing is very important. Look up some YouTube videos for reference. You essentially breathe from your tummy (stomach goes in and out; not chest going up and down). This is a great calming exercise too.

6. Stuttering tongue/ jaw exercise videos

These are great because they really do prep your jaw and tongue well. The videos could include tongue stretches, placing your tongue on your palette correctly, etc. Search on YouTube.

7. Body posture

You really need to work on your posture too. Sit up straight. Back, STRAIGHT. Chin up, shoulders relaxed. Something as simple as posture can change your level of confidence.

8. Pranayama

A yoga exercise for breathing. You can find a guided video on YouTube for sure.

9. Vocabulary

Invest your time in expanding your vocabulary. There’s enough apps and games that can help you with that, if you aren’t fond of reading. A sign of being well spoken is having great vocabulary.

Start by looking up the synonyms of everyday words.

“I’m upset”

- how many different words can you find for upset?

“I had a crazy day today”

- one can easily use “hectic”, “chaotic” “lively” instead

10. Idioms

Idioms, phrases, sayings - look up common idioms in your language of choice. Aim to use at least 3 new idioms on 3 separate occasions in a week while you speak. You need to understand when and where you can use the idioms in your vocabulary.

11. Knowing when to switch

You can’t talk like a 50 year old heiress to a 10 year old child; you need to get down to their level.

If someone is clearly not a native speaker and is struggling to put words together, don’t use difficult words around them.

If you’re meeting with someone high profile, refrain from using slang.

The best speakers know when to switch their level of language.

You can’t use one singular type of speaking with everyone. You need to understand that there is a time and place for everything - and you’ll be able to switch like a pro only when you actually speak and start gaining experience.

[carmenized-onions]

Do the Thing! | Toilet Repair

logline; Today's itinerary: Fix the toilet, catch up with Syd, try not to cry when everyone asks you where you've been.

series history; Previous Chapter

portion; 7.1k+ (this shit got away from me man, idk what to say)

possible allergies; Negative self-talk (It's the Bear, babe, everyone's sad). I did no research on plumbing and am truly making it the fuck up-- I know for a fact I'm not using any word correctly and I simply will not be fixing it. Reader eats meat!! Specifically pork!! Your 'name' is 100% just Tony now.

pairing; Carmen 'Carmy' Berzatto & Fem Reader (No pronouns, but 'handywoman' and 'Miss' are said. Plus a chest reference).

you ever start writing and you just cannot seem to find an end so you keep going forever? yeah.

“I think my name is just Tony now.”

You sip your overpriced orange juice. You really have to fucking savour it, now a days. That’s like 25 cents a sip, and Syd’s treating you to this breakfast outing, so it’s not even your own wallet on the line here.

“You lose all sense of identity, in a restaurant.” Syd straightens her back, mocking her very own mechanical movements of whenever she steps in a kitchen. “I am Chef.”

This diner isn’t more than two blocks down from The Bear. It was probably your second favourite spot in this neighbourhood. Probably still is. Sitting in the back corner booth (your favourite) with Syd is nice but distracting. She’s been updating you on everything since the catering scene and her botched credit, and you’re absorbing all of it, you swear, it’s just hard to not remember why this was your favourite booth.

Not because it’s seats are the least worn in, not because it’s got the right amount of sun through the window without blinding you, but because of the company you kept here. You’re trying to not notice your own name carved into the table. Especially since it’s not your handiwork.

You laugh at Syd’s joke on time, thank God. No awkward pause. “Yeah, you fuckin’ are. Head, right?”

She nods. “It’s cool. It’s like, vomit-worthy stressful but also…”

“You wish you were dead when you’re there, but you’d rather be dead than do anything else?”

“Yessir.” She nods again, digging further into her pancakes. “I really fucking owe you, by the way.”

“You’re paying me off through breakfast.” You wave her off. “Plus, I was available and it was like maaayybe 5 minutes of manual labour, it’s nothing.”

“Y’know what?” She hums, “I think actually, you owe me.”

“Yeah?” You grin.” Please, let me clear my debts, Syd?”

She smiles, pointing her fork at you. “You owe me the fuckin’ Beef background I’ve apparently not unlocked. Everyone was talking about you after.”

“Good things?”

“Vague things. Shit made me even more curious.”

You laugh. No shit they’d be vague. What can they say? “When my dad was running the repairmen gig, Cicero or Fak would call him in—”

“Oh fuck.” She snaps her fingers, seemingly in realization. “Your dad’s the connection!”

“The connection?”

“Fak said he had a connection for our fire safety test shit, and then said he didn’t—”

“Ah.” You nod knowingly. “Dad cut the cord on his business phone when it transferred to me, didn’t really keep people updated. Whoops.”

She nods, taking another bite of her pancakes, speaking mid-chew. “You could’ve saved our asses way faster, and I’ll-I'll never forgive you, but continue.”

Snickering, you continue, “Well, they’d call my dad in, and then my dad would call me in as his like, like his fuckin’ Sous of Repairs. And shit broke all the time at the Beef, as I’m sure you’re well aware, so I hung out around Mikey and everyone a lot.”

“Ah. N’ then…”

“He fuckin’ died.” You laugh, because there’s no way to say it smooth, so you might as well say it bad. You stretch out your arms and lean back in the booth. “I kinda took a step back, after that, so we didn’t manage to crossover ‘til now. S’ironic that you’re the one that brought me back instead of an oldie, honestly.”

She desperately wants to ask more about Mike, but she can tell now is not the time, so she just lets it lie and moves on. “You stopped being an EMT to take up the handyman shit, then?”

“Yessir.” You nod, finishing your straggling home fries. “Just kinda made sense to trade off, and I didn’t want to see the family bizz die. Do I have to occasionally pick up shifts bartending to make rent during slow months? Yes. But I also don’t watch people die anymore, so that’s a win.”

“In a way, you’re watching people die still, just slowly.”

You bite down hard to stifle any semblance of a smile or laughter, deadpanning, just to see her squirm in awkwardness for a moment. It works with flying colours, of course it does. It’s Syd. She’s still Syd. You speak at the same time.

“Cause of the alcohol?” “Cause—Cause of the alcohol.”

You both break into laughter, she throws her napkin at you. “Can’t stand you, oh my god. Let’s go clock in.”

She pays your bill before you can try to sneak your card in, which feels all too familiar, and you’re off.

Off to fix an exploded toilet.

“How the fuck do you fix an exploded toilet?”

Your hands rub over your face, lifting your safety goggles for a second. Too fucking foggy. Too fucking sweaty. Plumbing never really was your biggest strength. You’re staring at the bane of your existence, and it’s the latrine. How far we fall.

“You good, Cousin?” You hear from behind. You don’t need to turn to know it’s Richie in the doorway. It’s a fair question, you’re sitting criss-cross in front of a toilet, head in hands.

“Yeah, Cousin, I’m good.” Your words are muffled by your hands. Fully not cousins. For the record. You would argue you're not even that close, but he'd slap you upside the head. You turn to look at him over your shoulder. “Can you like, get me a pen and note pad? I need to like, strategize an attack.”

“It’s not that bad, Cousin—” “It’s that bad.” “Just tape the—” “Fuck off with the tape!”

You click your teeth, staring at the gurgling porcelain before you— At least it’s clean, it’s just fucked. “I shut the valve and it didn’t do shit. I think I have to remove it entirely so I can see what’s going on with the underground pipe.”

“Heard.” Richie and you both know that his hotfix handiwork has absolutely contributed to this penultimate mess you’re in now, but you’re both letting that go quietly for now. “You charge by hour or service?”

“Service flat rate and then after two hours it’s by hour.”

He hums, knocking his fist on the doorway a few times before walking away. “Pen and pad, Chef.”

“Not a Chef!”

“Term of Respect, Chef!”

You tap your leg incessantly, groaning like you’ve got an 80-year-old body as you stand to your feet. Richie’s grown a lot. He wears suits now. Hasn’t even poked at you for vanishing. Though you have a feeling it’s coming. If not from him, from someone.

You step out into the hall, leaned against the wall with your arms crossed as you wait for your pen and pad. And now you just have more time and a better view to take in how much has changed.

Gutted. A few walls gone. Makes sense, you told Mikey he was getting a mold problem. He never listened. Seats are new. The booths are the all-around style ones now. Ritzy. It’s too good for this neighbourhood. Is that a good thing? Yeah, right? Despite the fact that The Bear should feel out of place, you feel out of place being in it. Could you afford to eat here? Could the people who work here afford to eat here? Syd said she’s not getting paid for the next few months, so at the very least, the Head Chef can’t.

“Strange?” Tina sidles up to you on the wall, wiping her hands on her apron. Completely knocking you out of your dissociative fugue state.

“Yeah.” You nod, a little too quickly, that felt judgey, you correct, uncrossing your arms. “It’s daunting, I think; to see it all at once rather than slowly built in. Like, I know objectively this is very cool, but—”

Tina hums with understanding. “Feels gutted?”

“Was gutted.” You nod. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like it, it’s just, I dunno. Adjustment period, all that.”

“I needed a second too, but Jeff is good. Change has been good.” You nod like you know who Jeff is. “Carmen, I mean.” Your nod is now significantly more understanding. She smiles, you’re a little surprised to see Tina’s got a lot more insight than she used to. She pulled the thought of Carmen right out of your subconscious before you even detected it for yourself. “He’s good. You’ll see.”

You nod. You know the good she means is not Michelin Star Good. You already know that. He’s Mikey good. Person good. You clear your throat. “How’s Louis?”

“Good. Y’know, he’s getting to that age, getting in trouble. S’been a while since he’s had a good influence.” She nudges you. There it is. There’s the poke. The ‘where have you been?’ The ‘it’s been a year’. The— “Y’know, Chef didn’t come to the funeral neither.”

That one you didn’t expect, your head swivels to her hard. “Carmen didn’t go?”

His brother didn’t go? Oh, who the fuck are you to judge...

She nods, practically with her whole body, she looks more amused than anything. But like, mom amused. The worst amused. “You’re both the sensitive type.”

You cock your head at her, raising a brow. Smirking slightly. “Wow, Tina, I thought you changed too but you still talk your shit, eh?”

“I’m not talking shit!” She laughs, hands up in defence. “I’m just saying, you’re alike.” You hope that the laughter makes her forget the topic but it doesn’t.

“Where have you been?” She softens. She’s not asking to be mean, she’s asking out of concern. Why does that make it feel worse?

You tuck your hands in your pockets and retrain your eyes on hers, even if it feels bad. “Thought time and distance would heal all wounds.”

“Did they?”

Before you can answer, “Pen delivery, cousin!” Richie returns, triumphantly, with a pen and pad held high in the sky. He makes you jump for it. You elbow him in the gut, not hard. “Fuck off, Rich…” He keels over enough for you to grab it. “Thank you, chef.”

You turn back to Tina, who you now realize has spent half her smoke break on you. She nods to you, and then the bathroom door. “I’ll let you get back to it.” You nod in return. When she turns to walk away, you grab her shoulder.

“Tina.” She turns again. You should say something. Something vulnerable and thankful. Words of affirmation are not your thing. But maybe they could be, “If you end up with a dead plate—” Or maybe not.

She grins, and part of you is concerned by this, but she waves you off, giggling like she knows something you don’t. Already walking off. “You’re gonna be taken care of, Terry, don’t worry.”

This is a bad new nickname scheme. The fridge guy is just gonna end up being called ‘fridge guy’ if you take all his names.

It’s maybe three hours later. 11 am ish. You’ve finally put the toilet back in place, the pipes fixed underground— Which is a huge win of progress, the problem is, it’s just seemed to open the toilet’s ability to have other problems that need to be addressed. There’s a strong chance you’ll be here until you die. And even after that, this stupid toilet will still be gurgling, outliving you.

But you seriously have to eat something, so you scrub yourself clean, set your safety equipment down, and head out of the bathroom for a much-needed stretch of the legs— And to hopefully get a plate from Tina.

On your way to the kitchen, you’re stopped and walked backwards to a booth in the corner by Richie. “Hey, Miss, happy to serve you today, my name’s Richard but you can call me Richie, how’re you doin’ this fine morning?”

They’ve yet to open front of house, so you play along, taking your seat with a laugh. “I’m doing perfect, Richie, how are you?”

He nudges the air . “Ey, better now that you’re here, ah? Can I get a drink started for you?”

“Really gonna practice your set on me?”

He shrugs, still smiling. “If you don’t use it, you lose it.”

You hum, then rub your temples, the headache is setting in— Not cause of him, just been a tough morning. “Just your coldest fuckin’ glass of water, Rich.”

“Right away, Cousin.” He slips off into the kitchen.

When the door swings open again, it’s not Richie coming with your ice water, but Carmen— It’s your first time seeing him since the walk-in. When you came in this morning with Syd, it was Nat that gave you the quick briefing on the schedule and goals for today.

“Tony.” He hums, corners of his mouth just slightly upturned. The nickname has stuck. Goddamn. He sets the water down in front of you, along with a plate— Covered by a cloche—Or the silver lid thing, whatever.

“Carmy.” You only mean to mimic his tone, but then cringe. “Is Carmy fine?”

He pauses mid slide into the booth, sitting across from you. He seemed all cool and collected and is now suddenly extremely caught off guard. Already sweaty. “Y-yeah, I’m better, thank you—”

“No, I meant—” It is so difficult to hold back laughter. You deserve an Oscar.

You’re not doing great to be fair but like, still, Oscar worthy attempt.

“I meant like, like is the nickname okay?”

The horrors just keep piling on his face, and you can’t help but feel guilty. No shit he feels like he’s starting on a lower playing field here. You knew his dead brother, you know his Head Chef, your first time meeting him was at quite possibly his lowest moment and biggest mistake— Of which you had to coax him out of, and now he’s misunderstanding every innocent question you have for a inquiry into his psyche.

He clears his throat for objectively too long of a time. “Carmy is fine. Tony is fine?”

“I’m doing okay, yeah.”

Thank God, he laughs, awkward sure but objectively amused.

You nod down to the covered plate, smiling, “Fuck is this?”

He leans forward in his seat to get a hand over the lid. “I, uh. Made you a thing. As thanks or like, an— an apology.”

Ah. That’s why Tina was laughing about you getting taken care of.

He lifts the lid, and what is revealed, if you weren’t careful, would be enough to make you cry. Thankfully, the shock registers as uproarious laughter, one that Carmen cannot help but join.

“What the fuck?”

Pork brisket sandwich. Something that Mikey made for you, specifically. Because you said one time you were more of a pork fan than beef and he absolutely lost it. In a cute way, though. Said ‘Oh, I’ll make you fuckin’ pork, alright?’ You’re not sure if he won or lost the argument, because you did find it better.

“I, uh, we had some cuts left over that we weren’t gonna be able to fuckin’ use, and uh, Tina showed me this, this recipe card, last night.” He slides over the very same brisket recipe Mikey had written down. Little doodles of angry faces and Xs over pigs in the margins.

“He was so fuckin’ mad.” You snort, looking at it. “All I fuckin’ said was I had a preference!”

“In The Beef!”

“He asked!” You quickly defend, through laughter. “And it tastes fucking good. All he did was prove my fuckin’ point— And spent hours doing it. Were you here overnight for this, slowcooking?”

He shakes his head, though there’s a hesitation in it— So you’re not privy to completely believe him. He sniffs, swiping at his nose “I, uh, just came in early. Had to fix some shit anyways.”

He’s staring at the sandwich, then occasionally you, expectantly. You look at him with equal expectance.

“Well?” You start.

“Well?” He astutely adds.

You nod down at the dish. “Do the thing.”

“The thing?”

You pick up one half of the sandwich, but you’ve got no plans of eating until he satisfies this craving first.

“The thing Syd does where she explains why she’s proud of her dish and why I should care. I know it’s Mikey’s, but you clearly made changes.”

��Oh. Uh…” He was both expecting and not expecting this soap box. “So, followed the rub to a T— Well, with a salt bed, this time. Put it on brioche instead of the old shit. And I uh, added uhm—” He snaps his fingers, staring at the sandwich in your hand. “Added pickled red onion, for acid and sweet, and garlic confit. I’m—I’m happy with my spin on it.”

You whistle as a form of praise, he flushes with a glow of pride and is desperately trying to not show it. He’s proud because it’s curated, personal. Ah, he is Mikey good. You nod and take a bite, trying to control your reaction. Worst part about having Artists as friends (especially chefs): They fucking stare so hard when you’re taking in their work. And they’re over analyzing every micro expression. He’s no different.

Fuck. It’s fucking good. Is it bad that it’s better than anything Mikey ever made? Nah, that’s how he’d want it.

“Ah fuck, that sucks—” Is the first thing you say, and his face falls, “Expensive food is worth it.” Right back up. Easy to please. “It’s really good, Chef. Thank you. Did you try it yet?”

He shakes his head, so you push the plate with the other half of the sandwich— It’s brisket, anyways. You’ll be full by the end of this one. Portions generous. He looks momentarily hesitant, which is cute, but inevitably leans forward and takes the sandwich. He nods with each chew.

He hums when he finishes chewing, pointing emphatically at you, though his voice is neutral. “You don’t like something, though.”

“What?”

“What’s wrong with it?” He stares at into the cross section of his bite. “Chewy? Texture?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it.” You’re quick to deny.

He shakes his head, hand over his mouth to hide the sauce on his mouth. “M’not gonna be hurt.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the dish, Carmen.” You take another bite to prove your point. Also you’re hungry. Two things can be true.

He zones in on the emphasis immediately. “It’s the plate, isn’t it? I told Syd—”

“Your tables aren’t bolted.” You interrupt, swiftly. Mouth semi-full.

“Huh?”

You put your sandwich down and swallow, taking your time with it. “Your booth tables.”

You knock on the pristine wood with the joints of your left hand. You swivel your body to look under the table, he follows suit, meeting you there. His left leg has been violently shaking, but he’s thought you wouldn’t notice it until now.

You put a hand on his knee to stop the shaking. He bristles, slightly, but you’re not even doing it on purpose. Your focus isn’t on him. It was making the table imperceptibly shift— Which, of course, you clocked. You tap your foot to the bottom of the table leg. No screws. “They aren’t bolted down.”

You lift yourself back up, moving your hand back to yourself in tandem. He stares at it for a little longer. How you noticed that, he will never know. Repairmen are a different breed…

“I just thought it was a weird choice. Nothing wrong with it, per say. Maybe you wanna test different layouts.” You shrug, taking another bite.

“The booths aren’t bolted either.” He adds, lifting his head up above the table, finally. “I don’t— we’re not gonna fuck with the layout, I don’t think.”

“Should get Fak on that, then.”

“Fak’s big-timing us.” You cock your brow, mid chew. He explains. “He’s focusing on hosting, f'now.”

You nod, swallowing, hand in front of your mouth so you can lick the sauce off your upper lip in non-humiliated peace. “This another job for me, then?”

“If you’ll take it.”

“If your fuckin’ toilet doesn’t kill me, I will.”

“How’s that going?”

You shake your hand so-so. “Ask me in two to three hours how it’s going.”

“Heard.” He sighs, leaning back in the booth. The stress is too apparent not to ask.

“How’s the second day open going?”

“I’m not in a fuckin’ freezer, so that’s a win.” Oh-ho, he’s acknowledging it. You were very comfortable forgetting that moment for his sake. “Thanks, uh, f’ that.”

You shake your head, shrugging off the thanks. You lift your last few bites of the sandwich to him. “You’re good. You’ve gifted me brisket. You relax since?”

“Not really.” He replies bluntly, taking a deep inhale. He pulls at his face from the top down, with both hands. Oof. Bad sign. “I think I’ll be good by tomorrow. Gonna get off early, tonight.”

“You don’t seem happy about that.”

“Ask me in two t’ three days if I’m happy about it.”

Back to work and this is taking so much fucking longer than it needs to take. Why is there tape there? Fucking Richie. Fucking Fak. Fucking Mikey. Godssake. Pipes are fixed. Water pressure is fixed. What the fuck is still wrong with it? What the fuck is wrong with you? Everyone is going to hate you if you can’t fix this. You’ve been here for like 5 hours and you can’t figure out what’s fucking wrong here? You’re nothing. You’re—

The toilet does you the favour of knocking you out of your episode by spraying you in the fucking face, soaking through the top of your jumpsuit. With a groan, you unzip the upper half and tie the wet sleeves around your waist. “Son-of-a-bitch.”

Maybe you just need a change in task for a second. Also, a new t-shirt, because your tank did not survive the waterworks either. This room isn’t the thing you need right now. You slip down the hall to the kitchen. “Who needs a coffee? Or water?”

There’s a chorus of orders, all of which sound like you’ve just asked ‘who wants a gift from God?’, which, you might as well have. This is what you like about being a handyman. The relief you bring. You just need a smidge of praise to get through the rest of this job. You’ve got this.

The small, but serviceable coffee machine in very back of the kitchen calls your name, but Richie sticks his arm out, blocking you from walking past expo up front.

“Hol’ up, Cousin, you look like a fuckin’ wet dog.”

“Well, what ‘ya gonna do about it?” You retort, despite the retort not honestly making any sense, you put your hands on your hips. “Do you want a fuckin’ coffee or not?”

He rolls his eyes, falling back onto the balls of his feet before walking off. “Ey, Sug, are those shirts still in the basement—”

You’ve won for now. You scrub your hands clean before getting to work. This is good. Oooh, Marcus has fresh coffee beans (that he’s willing to share!)— This is easy. You can already fix most broken things, but a machine that actually fucking works? Baby, you can make that sing.

Plus, the bartending gigs you’ve done don’t make you a barista by any means, but they certainly don’t hurt. Oooh, Marcus has syrups! Fuck it. Steamed and frothed milk. That toilet has you on your ass, you need to go above and beyond here. Make each cup personal. You need a win in the form of admiration.

You gather a tray of coffees (and a water for Sweeps, who is too fucking sweaty for a hot drink right now, so fair), all varying in milks, sugars, syrups, intensity. “Coffee run, I hand ‘em out, don’t just take! Corner!”

Ebra, to no one’s shock, likes his coffee black— But, and he’ll tell no one this, you just know it on instinct— He likes it a little too watery. “Good.” Who are you to judge? He likes what he likes.

Tina would take hers black for simplicity, if you let her, but of course you don’t. 2 sugars, foamed milk, chocolate and cinnamon syrup. “Too good to me.” It’s too worth it, when she says it like that and slaps your cheek. Balm of the soul.

Marcus, who watched you make these, did opt to let his imagination run too wild and added one of every syrup to his own cup, wanting to experiment with you. It doesn’t taste good. You switch it for a spiced coffee when he’s not looking. He’s silently very thankful.

After handing out a few more to the new cooks, you come up to Syd. “Take this one, take this one.” Then whisper, so no one knows you are displaying supreme favouritism. “It’s the one oat milk latte I made.”

She turns to you from her station, then darts looks over her shoulder like she’s making an under the table deal before grabbing it from you. She takes a delighted sip, eyes rolling just slightly in the relief of caffeine, she nods. “Fire, Chef.” Ah. This will get you through the day alone.

It also gets you through the willpower it takes to ignore Fak running by you to steal a coffee off your tray. Out of the corner of your eye, you point to the one meant for him— As if you didn’t make it for him, c’mon…

“How’s bathroom?” Syd asks, taking another long sip.

I’m going to fucking explode, not unlike your drainage pipe. “Needed a thinking break, but I’ve made a lot of progress. How’s kitchen?”

“Made a lot of progress. Auto-piloting through this prep.” She looks down at her cutting board, cracking back to it. “Latte helps, a lot, thank you. You should join for family, if you’re still here for it. Unless you don’t want more brisket.”

Fuck. She doesn’t think you’re so slow that you’re gonna be here until family, does she? “Yeah, maybe.” You look around, three coffees still on the tray. “...Where’s Carmen?”

She grimaces. Uh oh. The tension she glossed over at breakfast is still definitely there. She nods her head to the back door. “Smoke break. Or temper tantrum. I don’t fuckin’ know. Don’t tell him I said that.” You laugh, nodding. “You think a coffee would help—” “Please.”

“Corner!” Yells Richie, returning to you. He silently flicks out a shirt for you, holding it up proudly, ‘THE BERF’ stares back at you. You give it a solid five seconds to process before you say anything.

“Collector’s item...” You nod, tone sarcastically impressed. You pivot your shoulder for him to throw it over, hands too busy.

“That’s what I fuckin’ said!” He throws it over your shoulder. “No one fuckin’ listens, these days.”

You bite back laughter and nod, handing him his coffee. Hot. Dark. Two sugars. And, to his delighted surprise, a touch of cinnamon syrup. “Oh, fuck, missed your twists, Chip.”

You wince at what was a long-forgotten nickname, and so does Richie. Funny how remembering origins can do that to you. He’d just said it so instinctively, really. “My bad—”

“Chip is good.” You interrupt, rolling your shoulders back. And it is good, really. “It’s kinda—It’s kinda comforting.” It’s nice to not forget. He nods, and you give each other the ‘we are still so fucked, eh?’ smile before lovingly bumping shoulders as he returns to expo and you head to the back alley.

Carmen’s squatting, cigarette in one hand, creating a halo of smoke around him, and his phone in the other. He snaps out of his mental fog when the door opens, slipping his phone into the pocket of his apron like he’s got a secret to hide.

You hesitate at the doorway, maybe this is not the moment. “Sorry, Chef, I just wanted to offer a coffee? If you need air alone—”

“No, no, I’m good—” He’s quick to correct, then even quicker to correct himself. “I— I’ll take a coffee, I mean. You can stay, s’fine.”

He reaches for it when you sit next to him, but you pull the tray back to hand him the correct one. “Sorry, I—I like, did a thing, for yours. I dunno how you take your coffee, so I thought I’d do it weird.”

He takes the cup, eying it curiously. “Do it weird?”

“Do it like, like a Chef. Can’t make anything fuckin’ simple. The lot of you.”

He hums, amused, staring at the cup, then looks at you expectantly. “Well?”

“Well?”

“Do the thing.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Oh, fuck off.”

“C’mon, tell me why I should care.” He teases.

“Ah, fuck.” You sniff, oh to have your own words turned on you. Looking at the coffee in his hands, “I figured you’d like strong black coffee, but like, complex. So, it’s got like, cardamom and lavender n’ maple syrup. Shout out Marcus.” He smiles. “And then, I know I did just say black coffee but I wanted the aesthetic so I spooned foamed milk on top and sprinkled on some dried lavender.” You take your own cup in hand, putting the tray down. “If you hate it, we’ll trade.”

He pays close attention to your explanation. Man, his eye contact is simultaneously so soft and so scary. He takes a sip. Let’s it sit in his mouth for a second. “Excellent, Chef.”

Oh, if Syd’s ‘Fire’ could get you through the day, Carmen’s ‘Excellent’ will get you through the week to spare. You hide the way you beam by drinking your own coffee.

“How’re you doing?” It’s far too obvious that he’s had something heavy on his head all day, but you’re not going to say the quiet part loud, yet.

He takes a long time to respond. “I, uh…” And when he does, it’s weak. “I’m alright, yeah. I’m alright.”

You nod repeatedly, digesting the huge lie. “Ask me how I’m doing.”

He squints. “…How’re you—”

“Fuckin’ terrible, Carm.” You cut him off, putting your cup down next to him, standing up. You speak emphatically, gesturing with your whole body.

“I’m at my wits, Chef. Completely out of my depth. I fix the main pipe, I fix the water pressure, I triple check the tank, I fuckin’ power cycle the valve— I’m absolutely at a loss as to why it’s still gurgling— Why it shot water straight at my tits— Close your eyes, if you care, by the way.”

With barely any warning you peel off your tank top, you’ve got a bra, it’s fine. It’s very cute that he still looks away. You slip the new shirt over your head as you speak, muffling the words.

“—I’m wearing a shirt that says Berf, and the only way I can feel any semblance of not being utterly useless is by making coffees so good everyone has to praise me for them. And now I’m telling the fucking owner, my boss for the day all this.”

He nods, slowly. There is perhaps, not a single person in his life that has ever been this forthright. Someone he hasn’t had to over-analyze or dig into to figure out what’s actually going on. It is refreshing, terrifying, and for some reason, removing your walls have completely shattered his.

“So.” You lower your head to his level where he sits. “How are you doing, Chef?”

He takes a long sip of his coffee. Stews on the question before he spills his guts, calmly. “I’m sitting outside of the restaurant I started that I own, and my brother should be here, but he’s not and— And I was locked in a fuckin’ freezer on my opening night, which was my own fuckin’ fault— And the tape is wrong and the painting is stupid and that new hire did meth so now we’re down one.” He takes a deep breath.

“And we have Heinz instead of Frenchies, and it’s fine. That’s the fucked part— It’s fine. The ship did not sink without me— It went fine. Better, maybe. My problems aren’t fuckin’ problems. I’m just making it worse for myself— everyone. And I know Syd is mad at me, and I know my— My girlfriend? Is mad at me, and I know that I’m gonna break up with her tonight because I’m not meant to be— that.” He says the last part fast, more to himself than you, really. And then he finally looks back up at you.

“And I’m telling all of this to the person who saved me from hypothermia and a fuckin’—Fuckin’ meltdown, who probably thinks— knows that I’m a psycho.”

You take a beat before nodding, sitting next to him again, arms crossed. Silent. Contemplative. “I have thoughts.”

He nods, taking a drag. “Don’t pull punches.”

“Well, to start most honestly, we must remember, I love Syd. So, I’m not gonna mince about her.”

“Heard.”

You recall everything Sydney had told you at breakfast. The recap of how she got to this point. “Syd isn’t mad at you, she’s disappointed and distrustful.”

He grimaces. “That sounds worse.”

“It is.”

“Oh.”

“But in a way you can fix.”

“How?”

“Handle shit different. Actually show up to shit and make calls. Manage your priorities by urgency— Not by favourites. If I broke my fuckin’ arm and your ‘girlfriend’ had a runny nose, who are you taking to the hospital?”

“You can’t take yourself?”

“Bitch?”

“Kidding. Heard. What else?”

“You’re not gonna tell her I said this because she would rather die than tell someone she wants something.” You lean closer to him, peeking over your shoulder to make sure no one’s secretly come from the kitchen. You knock into his knees.

He takes another drag, short, choked. “Sure.”

“You were kind of a bitch about the menu.”

“The chaos menu? She said—”

“She fucking lied. She lied when she said it was fine, Carm, it does not take a psychic to read Syd’s mind.” You interrupt, taking a sip of your coffee. “She was so excited to get to build a menu, especially with—” you, “—a partner, and then you completely ditched her. And then you just made your own! Total control freak shit! Cut her out of the fun part of being head chef completely! You get to invent masterpieces and she picks out the best cheap plate? Fuck is that?”

He nods contemplatively, poking his inner cheek. “Yeah, that, that makes sense. That’s shitty.” He turns his gaze from looking ahead to face you, hand over the bottom half of his face. “What else?”

“You’re reactive.”

“No shit.”

“How long do you think you were locked in the walk-in for?”

He swallows, thinking. “Like… an hour?”

“It had been 23 minutes.”

“Oh.”

“You catastrophize, it’s a fancy therapy word,” You cannot help but be impressed by this white man writing down the word in his phone for later. “It means, basically, when something bad happens you blow it completely out of proportion into something it isn’t. Your opening night was definitely a bummer from being in a freezer— But be honest with yourself, would you have let yourself have a good night if you weren’t in there?”

“…No.”

“No. Which is also bad. Which brings me to my key point.”

He tenses up, preparing for you to rip into him further.

“You’re doing a good job, Carmy.”

He immediately swivels back to you, almost dropping his phone. Knee knocking into yours. “Fuck off.”

“I will not.”

“You just said I was a catastrophe.”

“Fully not what I said.”

“I read between the lines.”

“Carmen.”

You take a breath, putting your arms on your knees, bent over. “The restaurant is beautiful, your cooks are talented and they’re prepared— So prepared that they can handle 23 minutes without you. That’s a good thing. You’re threaded into The Bear— The ship didn’t sink, not because you weren’t there, but because you had been. Everyone had the tools they needed to succeed, even with Heinz, a Mid painting, and torn tape. And listen—” You take one last sip of your coffee. “You need to check your ego if you think you’re the first man I’ve coaxed through a panic attack while doing a repair.”

He laughs, half-heartedly. He scratches his nose. “Heard. Yeah, thank you, Chef.”

“I don’t know shit about the meth thing though, I really couldn’t tell you.” You smile when this coaxes a better laugh out of him. You’re considering a career in stand up exclusively for him because it feels like such a reward to hear it.

“And the girl?” He asks. Amusement tinging but leaving his voice.

You click your teeth, shrugging your shoulders at him. “Based purely on your hesitation to say girlfriend, I’d say yeah, probably not ready for a relationship.” You reach your hand out to his shoulder when he flops his head down. “But, just asking, is this your first relationship?”

He thinks for too long before nodding slightly. “First one.”

“First restaurant too?”

He nods again.

“Yeah.” You pat his shoulder before letting it go, opting to hold your cooling cup. “I know you’re a Michelin star fuckin’ big deal but like, me personally, I can’t name a thing I got perfect the first time I did it.”

There’s something in his eyes, when you say that. Something wistful, nostalgic, hurt? No. Something different.

“It’s not that I didn’t do perfect—”

“You’ll do better next time.”

He wrings his hands together between his knees. “Yeah.”

“You’re gonna be fine, Carm.”

“You’re good at that.” He sniffs, head down, scratching his nose.

“At what? Self-help?”

He exhales what just barely sounds like a laugh. “Kinda. S’just, when you say it, you say it in a way where I actually believe it.”

You’re getting the fuck out of here before they open for dinner. You’re not letting anyone down tonight motherfucker. The Berf shall prevail. Maybe a win here will feel like a win for Carmen, too.

You run the sink to wash your hands, as you’ve done before here— But since fixing the pipes and the pressure… Something’s… different. You pause your scrubbing, listening closely.

…

When the sink is running, the gurgling flow of water from the toilet stops. Huh. You stop and start the faucet a few times to verify this. Yeah. You stare for a long moment before connecting the dots, then punch the sink in realization.

“Fucking Mikey!”

“What’d he do this time?”

You twist around. Ah, other sibling. Natalie. Clipboard in hand, business ready. You take a beat before remembering to smile, nodding to the sink behind you. “He connected the tank flow to the toilet and the sink with one wire.”

She tilts her head, squinting. “Why would he do that?”

“I suspect to save water?” You spin around, kneeling down to look behind the sink. “I think the idea was to have the sink not function when the toilet is flushing. But, it uh, well, did the reverse, kinda. Toilet doesn’t function when the sink isn’t running.”

“Oh.”

“So uh,” You shut the valve under the sink. “Your water bill should go down a little after this, since it won’t be running into what is an essentially a second trap pipe.”

“Oh!” Did she get what you said? No. But she doesn't need to. She heard ‘bill should go down’ and that’s really all she needed. “Thank you!”

“Not a problem. S’my job.” You stand, shutting off the valve to the toilet as well. As you kneel down to work again, you feel her gaze burning into your back. You don’t turn to face her. “You have questions.”

“Oh, ah… Am I so obvious—?”

“Yes.” You’re too quick to answer, unbolting the wires where it attaches to the toilet and the ground. You sniff with a panicked, “Ah, uh, it’s endearing.”

She’s quiet, for a moment. She doesn’t ask you what she actually wants to ask you, and you know that. “Well, I’ll need to exchange info for your invoice.”

“Ah, don’t worry ‘bout that, your brother already covered it.” You stand once more, before going to the sink to undo it’s valve, you fish through the deep pocket of your jumpsuit, pulling out a crumpled business card and handing it to her.

“But it’s good to have my info on hand, for sure. It’s ah… Kinda old.” Kinda is an understatement. Your dad’s name is still on it, scribbled out in pen and replaced with yours. The dead business line is also scribbled out in exchange for your personal cell.

“It’s uh… I usually only work for friends and family, these days, so I’ve kinda stopped trying to keep up appearances.”

She smiles at it. Thank God, she finds it charming and not sloppy. She tucks it into the clasp of her clipboard. “That’s fine, we are friends and family.”

All you can do is nod, pivoting to the sink. There's a beat of peace.

“Didn’t see you at the funeral.”

Ah. There it is. For a Bear, she sure knows how to poke one. You stutter in unscrewing the bolt.

“Would’ve been nice to meet you, then.”

You clear your throat, it's strangled. “Yeah, I think I was trying to avoid introductions, honestly. Grief comes in different ways, eh?”

“Does it?”

“Mine does.” You swallow, unbolting the wire. With it free, you can just yank it out of the wall. God, forgive your brain, but Mikey was right, she does like to fight. Too bad you don’t.

She just hums in reply, watching you pull the wire from the wall. “You’re a real lifesaver.”

Fuck. Fuck. Lifesaver? Is she fucking with you?

“That toilet sprayed me right in the face, yesterday. And you saved Carmen.” There’s an amused lilt to her voice. She’s not fucking with you. “There’s something about a handywoman that Fak cannot match.”

You can hear a faint ‘Hey!’ through the walls. You laugh through an exhale.

“Again, s’my job. I do my best. Did uh, what was it, Terry come by for the walk-in? I wasn’t looking when I was there.”

You sort through your tools, deciding caulking the holes closed is probably the best option.

“He came over basically overnight to fix it, bless him, still don’t know his name.”

You laugh, it’s a little strangled. So Carmen did stay overnight. He must’ve. You smooth out the caulk with your thumb and a palette knife. Blending it into the grout as best as you can. “Good. Good.”

You dust yourself off. Standing. “Well. That’s uh. That’s my job done. Carmen asked me about—”

“Bolting down the booths?” She nods, checking the time on her watch. There’s not enough time before lunch to do it now. Plus you don’t have the screws. “You’re free to come by in the morning tomorrow—”

“But?” You interrupt, throwing your tool bag over your shoulder.

“But?”

“You said free like you’ve got a preference, what do you prefer?”

She chuckles, slightly. There is something about you that feels familiar. “If you could come after close tonight around 12, that would be nice—”

“It’s done. I’ll be there.”

“Lifesaver. I'll give you the code.”

Fuck.

Always gotta give the reader/mc some sort of mysterious background that even you don't have all the info on. Always.

Hehehehe, again, we're slowing this burn so much. Strangers to Friends to lovers but they're both so comfortable in friends it's hard to move !!

Forewarning, btw, if you've already sunk 10k worth of words into your brain for me (thank you!! I hope you've enjoyed!!), I've never written smut before and I feel like I probably will not build up the courage to do so by the end of this series, but I could prove myself wrong, I dunno. But warning in case that's your thing!! I might blue ball you babe!!

Pretty please tell me your thoughts or I'll eat my Berf shirt. Collector's value!! Thrown away!!

Next Part

[random-stardew-panda]

||•~The Worst Thing~•||

Harvey (SDV) x reader(female)

Warnings: Language, Violence, Death, Nightmares

Word count: 2.6k

Helloooo everyone! New blog dedicated to my rekindled Stardew Valley obsession. First fic obviously must go to my beloved doctor, you will be seeing him here a lot. I hope you enjoy and hope you don't hold my terrible grammar and probably terrible spelling against me 😅 I have no excuse. English is all I speak and I do it terribly.

====================================

====================================

You’ve had an exhausting day, it was the end of the season and you had been fishing all day for the last fish you needed for the community centre and the ones you needed just were not biting.

“Finally!!” You squealed as you reeled up the last fish you needed, sighing loudly you stretched your limbs and groaned as your joints crack softly. It was so much later than you realised, it was already dark out.

You wandered through the town square, eyelids drooping, trying to stay awake when you passed the calendar and help wanted board and your eyes shot open as you rushed over and let your finger scroll over the date and you curse yourself. You had accepted a quest from Clint a week ago to kill 50 Slimes you hadn’t gotten around to finishing it, too busy trying to finish these fishing bundles, today was the last day left! You let your forehead fall against the wall as you look down at your watch, 7pm, you could finish and get home in time surely? You only had 7 left to kill, easy work.

“Harvey is always upset when I get home late…oh but I promised Clint. Uhg…one more late night won’t kill him, I’ll just give him some extra kisses. He can’t stay mad at me.” You giggled and slowly pushed yourself off of the wall and started making your way to the mountains and down into the caves. The trail to the caves felt extra long tonight, you splashed your face in the lake trying to wake yourself up a bit before you entered the caves.

You slash at the monsters in the cave, stumbling at the force behind your swing, you were panting and clinging to the wall of the cave. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all…You felt so, so tired…No. No! You only had one more left. You glance down at your watch, 12am…damn it really was getting late.

“One left. One more. I got this…I got this…” You mumble to yourself, repeating the sentiment that you could do this as you start climbing down the ladder, using the inside of your elbow, squeezing the ladder rungs between your forearm and bicep to help support your weary muscles as you climb down, shaking a little bit, two steps from the bottom you lose your footing and slip off the ladder.

“AH!” Your body hits the floor and your head bounces off the ground, you squeeze your eyes shut and lift a shaky hand to your bleeding head, the room feels like it was spinning. “Ow…” you lay there flat on your back on the ground for a moment staring up at the ceiling as a ringing filled your ears, it was at this point you hear the familiar squelching sound of slimes approaching.

With great effort and loud groans you push yourself up onto your hands and knees and are met with 5 slimes, using your sword to push yourself up to your feet you lunge at one of them slashing it in half, your vision is spinning and everything is blurry and out of focus you were cursing yourself, this had been a horrible idea. With every slash at the creatures you staggered trying to catch yourself, every hit from the monsters was causing worse aches in your muscles, cuts and bruises littered your body and you were getting to a point where you had embedded your sword into the ground using it to keep yourself upright leaning on it more than actually attacking the monsters, you desperately tried to kick the slimes away and with the hand that wasn’t white knuckling your sword you tried to swat away the insects cutting into your flesh with their sharp claws. The few slimes left leap up attacking you, smashing into your chest the sudden force knocks you back to the floor, you desperately try to reach out and grab your sword, your hand sliding down your sword slices your palm open as you topple over your head once again hitting the hard ground of the cave, you fall unconscious.

====================================

Linus had seen the farmer go into the mines hours ago but he hadn't seen her leave yet, the farmer always took the path past his tent through the back of the mountains to get back to the farm late at night. He was getting anxious it was almost 2am he had a terrible feeling something was wrong. Linus walked over to the adventures guild and started pounding on the door. After several moments the door was yanked open and a very disgruntled Marlon was standing infront of Linus.

“What?!” Marlon growls a deep frown set in his features.

“I think the Farmer is in trouble. She is still in the mines…”

Marlon groans and turns back into the guild, leaving the door open as he reaches over the counter and pulls his sword up into his arms. He walks out of the guild, pushing past Linus, slamming the door behind him.

“That kid is going to be the death of me…let's go then.” Marlon sheaths his sword and rubs his forehead.

The two men head into the mines, every level was littered with dead creatures and exposed ladders, the farmer had definitely been here. They made their way down more levels of the mines.

“Oh Yoba!!” Linus yells as they round a corner and are met with an unconscious farmer being smothered by creatures, cave insects, slimes, even a stray cave crab was slashing at their defenceless body.

“Well fuck.” Marlon unsheathed his sword and starts slicing at all the creatures making quick work of them. “Get the farmer!!” He yells at Linus as he brings his sword down piercings the crab.

Linus grabs the farmer under her arms and starts dragging her body towards the ladder leaving a trail of blood in the dirt. Marlon quickly grabs the farmers sword off the ground and rushes over to the ladder. Marlon grabs the farmers legs and they quickly climb up to a level with an elevator. As soon as Marlon saw the elevator he grabs the farmer off of Linus and starts carrying her by himself.

“Is she okay? She doesn't look like she is breathing!” Linus is fussing over the unconscious farmer the entire time they are in the elevator. A loud ding sounds and the doors open to the main level of the mines. Marlon sighs with relief.

“Linus. Go get Robin to call the farmhouse. Call Harvey. Get him to the clinic. Tell him Y/n needs him NOW!”

Linus rushes out of the mines sprinting towards Robins house. Marlon follows behind him carrying the limp unconscious body of the farmer in his arms. Marlon kept glancing down at the farmers face he was trying so desperately not to show how alarmed he was. Everyone else was going to freak out someone needed to be to be calm and reasonable but tears filled his eyes as he thought about how injured his dear friend was, was she going to make it…? He shook his head and kept heading out the mountains. No, he couldn’t think like that, he was going to get them to the clinic in time and Harvey was going to save her.

Marlon was rushing past Robins house, the door was wide open, he was the chaos inside, Linus and Robin were practically screaming into the phone as they saw Marlon and the injured farmer rush past the house down towards the town. Maru was pushing past everyone in the hallway, shoving them out of the way as she rushed out to catch up to Marlon.

====================================

*RINGGG RIIINGGG RINGG*

Harvey groaned and rolled over in bed to hold his wife and was suddenly aware of the absence of the second person in his bed he frowned and rubbed his eyes gently tapping around on the bed trying to find her.

*RINGGG RINGGG*

Harvey groans and flings his hand over to the nightstand and blindly feels around until the phone is in his hands.

“Hello?” His voice was gruff and tired.

“Harvey you need to get to the clinic now!!” He was met with Robins frantic voice and he sat up finally starting to wake up.

“Robin? Calm down tell me what is happening?”

“HARVEY NOW YOU NEED TO GO NOW. IT Y/N!” Robin sounded like she was about to burst into tears.

Harvey’s heart stopped, he looked up at the clock on the wall, 2am? She wasn’t home…? His mind was running through every single injury she had ever gotten. Every operation he has had to preform. Every single time he scolded her for staying out so late, for being so reckless. A horrible feeling of dread was starting to choke him.

“I’m leaving right now.” Harvey hung up the phone and flung the blankets of off him.

Harvey was practically flying out of the house, stumbling over his own feet as he grabbed a coat off the hanger and slid his shoes on without even tying the laces. He slammed the door behind him so hard it shook the wall slightly as he ran out of the farmhouse.

Harvey was sprinting towards the town square, towards his clinic, he was fumbling with the keys in his coat pocket. The cold night air was making his tears feel cold. By the time he reached the clinic he was out of breath and trying his hardest not to breakdown but his mind was racing with every horrible outcome. What kind of shape would she be in when she got here? He was pacing around the clinic preparing everything he thought he might need.

It took 10 minutes for Marlon to reach the clinic, Maru rushed in first and held the door open, the sound of the bell dinging caused Harvey to stop dead in his tracks and stare teary eyed at Maru, who looked equally distressed.

“H…Harvey…she isn’t breathing…” Maru has tears in her eyes.

Marlon entered the clinic holding the farmers limp body and he looked like he was about to start shaking and crying. Marlon places the farmer down on an examination table Harvey had already prepared. Harvey was looking wide eyed at Maru for a moment before he rushes over to the table and tries to take his wife’s pulse but he can’t find one, tears are streaming down his face as he stares at his wife, her bruised cut up body laying there in front of him. Maru was softly crying and Marlon was leaning in the corner of the room with an unreadable expression.

“No. No she isn’t…She can’t be.” Harvey climbs up on the table and starts doing CPR.

“Harvey.” Maru steps closer to him but he doesn’t stop, he leans down pressing his lips to his wife breathing air into her lungs.

“Wake up…wake up!” he is pushing down harder against her chest.

“Harvey.”

“NO! SHE IS OKAY. WAKE UP!” Tears are rolling off his cheeks as he keeps giving her chest compressions, leaning down trying desperately to force air into her lungs.

“HARVEY!” Maru yells at him with tears streaming down her face.

“NO SHE CAN’T BE. SHE…she can’t…” His compressions slow down.

“Harvey…” Maru puts a hand on his arm urging him to get down and he shoves her hand away.

He leans down collapsing onto his wife’s body and starts sobbing, he clings to her, wrapping his arms around her as tight as he can.

“Harvey…man you have to stop…” Marlon grabs Harvey’s shoulder and tries to pull him off.

“GET OFF OF ME!” Harvey sobs trying to shove Marlon away.

====================================

Harvey shoots straight up in bed he tried to scream it came out as a strangled wail his voice cracked, his eyes were filled with tears. He was gripping at his heaving chest, gasping desperately for breath. His eyes were darting around the room as he struggled to breathe.

“Harvey…?” You softly whisper as you sit up in bed and place a hand on his arm softly, looking up at him with sleepy eyes you find his hand covering his mouth as he sobs, wide eyed and straight ahead.

“Harvey?! Are you okay? Sweetheart what happened…what's wrong??” You sit up higher on the bed and place one hand on his chest and the other gently on his cheek rubbing your thumb softly over his face whipping away the tears that were streaming over his cheeks.

“H…Harvey..? What's wrong talk to me what happened..? Harvey darling…?” Your voice was shaking a little full of concern

He doesn't even speak as he jerks forward and wraps his arms around you pulling you tightly against his chest as he cries hard into your shoulder

“oh!…Harvey…” you wrap your arms around his head holding him against you, gently running your fingers through his hair softly scratching at his scalp “shhh….shh it's alright sweetheart…it's okay shhh I'm right here it's okay…” his grip on you tightened clinging to you like you were about to disappear, like his arms were the only thing holding you to the earth.

“You were gone…” his voice cracks as he whispers softly continuing to cry into the crook of your neck. “You were…gone and I couldn't save you. I couldn't…” he is gasping for air as he sobs

“hey...hey shhh breathe…breathe I'm right here. I'm right here okay? I'm not gone. I am right here, you have me in your arms, see?” You squeeze him a bit tighter before cupping both his cheeks and lifting his head in your hands so he can look into your eyes

“You were gone y/n…you were g…gone…” he is clinging to you tighter it was a bit uncomfortable but you didn't say anything “You were dea-” he gasps and more tears fill his eyes as he looks into your face “You were dead! You…you were dead in my arms and I couldn't do anything to save you. You were in the mines and I failed you and you were gone. You were gone and you weren't ever coming back.”

You are running your thumbs over his cheekbones as you lean forward and softly kiss him.

“Harvey. I am right here. You need to take a breath and calm down, you are getting yourself all worked up. I am right here. I am right here. Take a breath honey…” you press another more chaste kiss to his lips before pulling him back into a tight hug.

“You're safe..?” He whispers quietly.

“I'm safe.”

“…You aren't going to leave…?”

“Harvey sweetheart. I'm right here and I'm never leaving you okay? Never. I'm staying here with you forever.”

“…P…promise…?” He sniffles quietly as his tears slowly stop.

“Harvey look at me. Hey look at me. I promise you. I promise I am not leaving. I know I'm a little…uh…reckless in the mines sometimes and I'm so sorry I didn't know it was upsetting you this much. I'll be more careful. I promise. Come back to sleep…” you softly rub his chest “I promise I'll be here in the morning too.” You kiss his cheek as he pulls you down onto his chest, holding you tight against his body, he sighs deeply as you snuggle up with him.

“I love you so much My Love…you mean the world to me.” Harvey sighs quietly as he squeezes you tighter. You kiss his cheek a few times softly rubbing your nose against his jaw.

“I love you Harvey. Always.” You softly trace invisible patterns over his chest as he slowly drifts off to sleep, you stay up a while after he falls asleep making sure he sleeps soundly. His arm draps loosely over you even as he sleeps he wants to feel you close to him.

“Goodnight Harvey...” You kiss him one last time, smiling softly and put your head down on his chest letting yourself finally fall back asleep.

====================================

You can check out my other non stardew related stories at @random-writing-panda

[faretheeoscar]

NEEDY MIGUEL pt 2

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x SpiderFemaleReader

Warnings: 🔞 NSFW, Masturbation, sex toys, brief mentions of sex, a form of voyerism (?), oral sex, Peter B. mini cameo that could lead to something else in the future

AN: English is not my first language, no beta read/grammar corrected.

PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4 (final soon)

Needy Miguel who was siting down on his desk having a bad morning after not sleeping enough last night, having to conduct meetings all morning leaving him in a very cranky mood.

Needy Miguel that shifted uncomfortable on his seat thinking about how today was another day when he was a coward and instead of trying to get closer to you, he sent you away on a 3 day mission

Needy Miguel that searching for one of his tools on his desk to occupy his mind in something else that wasn’t frustrating him more, notices a small gift on one of his drawers and inspects it, his face turning 5 shades redder as he opens the box and quickly tosses it back

Needy Miguel that is fuming in anger thinking about who could’ve pranked him that way, stuffing a sex toy on his desk? That was a very untaste full joke that made his blood boil.

Needy Miguel that overthinks and calls out for Lyla, she says to him that only one hand full of people had come to his office, she includes your name on that list and he quickly dismisses her, for him to be alone with his thoughts feeling a pressure tightening on his chest and his mind clouding.

Needy Miguel that stares at the toy and can’t stop thinking about the subtle looks you gave him that morning on the meeting, could it really be you that left him that in there? No, that was ridiculous, it was probably one of Parker’s jokes, he’d always be nagging him about not getting any action, and that he needed to blow off his frustrations some way, hinting to the two of them maybe… well thinking about that let’s not go that way, that’s a total different story for another day

Needy Miguel that reaches out for the toy and takes it out of the box, to inspect it, the toy looking so small against his big palms, he introduces one finger and his eyes immediately roll to the back of his head at the feeling of it.

Needy Miguel that quickly made disappear the crotch part of his suit as his hard rock cock spring out already leaking precum that will do as lube for now

Needy Miguel that slowly takes the toy and push his cock inside it groaning loudly at the sensation not even caring if anyone could hear him outside his office

Needy Miguel that made a mess of himself in less than 3 minutes just by the sensation of something different than his hand, and how the semitransparent small thing looked rolling against his thickness as it squeezed him hard cause it could barely fit around him

Needy Miguel that kept jerking himself with the toy even if he was sensitive and his thighs twitched by the overstimulation of it, cause for him one orgasm simply wasn’t enough

Needy Miguel that got the urge of having a visual aid and while still moving the toy up and down his length reached out for the footage of you before you left for the three day mission he sent you and zoomed in on his screen

Needy Miguel that whined desperately as he watched how your eyes were focusing on him the whole time he conducted the meeting, hips buckling up and thinking about how he’ll keep your eyes focused on him not letting you close them even if he rolled his girth so deep inside you that he would reach your cervix and make you both moan in need

Needy Miguel that let out short gaps of breath as he focused on stimulating his tip with the wrinkly parts of the toy as he saw your pretty face pouting when he said he was sending you away with other members that weren’t him.

Needy Miguel that started to think about how your lips would look around his cock, how they would stretch out due his thickness.

Needy Miguel that indulged better in that fantasy, imagining,the lingering stickiness of his previous load inside the toy, acting as if it was your saliva, how your tongue would lap over his tip to then take him fully.

Needy Miguel that started murmuring to himself praises he’d give to you as he saw you biting your lip on his screen while you payed attention to him on the meeting this morning.

“look at you princesa, taking me— so well”

Watching his cock disappear on the small hole of the toy picturing your stretching lips and how would you hallow your cheeks so suck him better

Needy Miguel that imagined how he’d take your head and bob it up and down his liking making you gag and plead silently for a breathing

“que bonita te ves, sucking my cock at work—-“

Needy Miguel that fastened his pace hips fully fucking the toy at the thought of how your warm throat would feel around him, when he’d fuck your mouth making tears roll down your cheeks, imagining how you’d drool for him.

“Coño cariño , keep on going, just like that”

Needy Miguel that kept on fantasising over you as he rolled his hips up sensually keeping himself on edge as his calls of your name resonated all over his office.

Needy Miguel that gasped for air as he felt his balls tightening making his eyes roll to the back of his head trying to suppress a moan biting his bottom lip and making a small cut to it with his fangs

Needy Miguel that looked down at his twitching member and how it spurt out ropes of cum all over his desk, as he stimulated it for a few more seconds before stopping

Needy Miguel who’s chest was lifting up and down uncontrollably and he let out a pathetic whine when he finally took his cock out of the pocket pussy to shove it back to the drawer.

Needy Miguel that started to feel the embarrassment of his actions and felt his anxiety creeping back up at him, but before he could close his eyes and lean back on his desk chair; saw a little white piece of paper shining on the back of the drawer

Needy Miguel who got confused when he saw a little note on the back of his desk drawer and his face turn white when he read that it was from you and quickly, went through his history of calls on his gizmo, noticing that as your note stated he had in fact called you in his alone time yesterday…

Needy Miguel that reached back down his crotch to feel his once again hardening cock to start to tug it again even though it hurt at this point by how hard he have been jerking off, reading the note over and over again, picturing your mischievous smile while you wrote it:

I enjoyed your call from last night…. I hope my little gift serves you better than your hand, that only until I get back to see you again ;)

Oh, you were a little brat…and he will show you the consequences of your little prank, but for now he’d probably just kept his office locked and forget about work for today due to his new entertainment source and your tease that will keep him hot and bothered.

Shock you’re gonna be the death of him

AN: Guys I gotta thank you for he overwhelming response to the first part of this thing!

It was supposed to be a one time dump of horny thoughts but I’m so grateful for y’all and hope you enjoyed this second one too!

Thanks again for the new 100 of y’all and over 1k numbers on the first part! 🫶🏼

PS: can’t stop imagining Miguel jerking off all day, god… so pathetic and hot 🥵

Reblogs and comments are kindly appreciated!

Main Masterlist

Fic Masterlist

[jar0fhoney]

PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3 (NSFW) - PART 4 - PART 5 (NSFW)

You started having the dream again. The disembodied eyes of your father floating in a black void. Just the eyes. Nothing else.

And for hours- and it really felt like hours- they would just stare at you. The eyes never moved, or blinked, or did anything other than hang in the air. But there was a terrible sense of dread when you looked into them. You couldn’t force yourself to look away.

And so that was why you had been losing sleep. You didn’t tell your mother that though. When she asked what troubled you, you made up some excuse to quell her worry. You could never tell her the truth; the truth that there was some piece of you left which never recovered. But guilt nearly destroyed your mother, and you couldn’t bear to let it fester in her any longer.

On Sunday you spread all of the ingredients the orc man gave you across your table. He didn’t even tell you the measurements. Your mother glanced down at you as she made her way to the root cellar. She stopped in her tracks, “By the Gods, are you making golden eggs?” You cocked your head at her questioningly. “Where did you find turmeric all the way out here?” She grabbed a pinch of it, “And so much of it too!”

“Uh-“ Your mother had a sparkle in her eyes that you hadn’t seen for a few years. She chuckled to herself, “Years ago. Many many years ago. There was a very nice orc family who lived just down the path. The wife taught me this recipe.”

Orc family? This was the first you have heard of an orc family. “You never told me you had orc friends Ma!” You jeered at her. She smiled warmly. “You hadn’t been born yet, of course you wouldn’t have remembered. Your elder sister loved playing with the little orc girl.” She reached for a jar from the cupboard and began concocting the mixture. When she was done the eggs swirled around in the vibrant yellow brine.

There was still turmeric left over, and your mother was so excited to show you how it could even be an excellent clothing dye. She took one of your more drab frocks got to work.

~

You weren’t used to feeling pretty. Sure, you knew you weren’t ugly by any stretch of the imagination. But to feel pretty? Beautiful even? It had been years.

But today, on regular Monday, you felt radiant. Your mother actually gasped when you stepped out of your room. You looked like a dream in the yellow shade your mother had dyed the fabric. She insisted on arranging your hair specially to go with the dress. “It’s just another Monday, Ma. Any more primping and I’ll be over-dressed.” The older woman sighed, kissing you on the forehead, “Fine go along now… before I start braiding daisies in your hair.” You giggled and practically skipped out the front door. Tucked in your basket was the jar of golden eggs.

The town square was nearly vacant, save for a few other shopkeepers opening up for the day. And then you saw the trio of orc men sharpening their arrows and adjusting the tension of their great longbows. You reckoned they were just about to leave for a hunt. Curse the Gods for your lingering gaze, but you made direct eye contact with one of them. You made direct eye contact with him. The orc you had bloodied and bruised the previous week.

Something (probably a lack of self-preservation) compelled you to start walking towards the bunch. If your mother could make peace with orcs, why couldn’t you? “But this isn’t a peaceful family with children, they’re trained killers, y/n…” You thought to yourself. The little muscle inside your chest was puttering away as you got closer. The two other hunting mates had started to notice your approach now. Your orc acquaintance had sort of a surprised yet dumb look on his face as you stopped before him.

”You didn’t write me a recipe, but you can thank my mother for knowing how to prepare these.” You extended the jar to him. His friends were snickering to themselves, and the orc just sat there staring at the contents of the jar. One of his buddies guffawed and whacked a big hand onto his back, “This simpleton can’t read to save his life… won’t be getting any recipes from him!”

You also held out the two silver pieces he had given you, and dropped them into his open palm. “And I can’t take these. Not after I injured you. Can we consider ourselves even now?”

“Khargaad, you didn’t tell us this was who the scuffle was with.” The other orc friend chuckled, “And look at that, not a scratch on her. Guess she won.”

Khargaad. Was that his name? Or was it a word in their mother tongue? He shot a venomous look to his friends, and with that they backed away leaving the two of you alone. “These look… like they’re supposed to,” He said in a tone of mild surprise. “Your mother… She knows other orcs?”

Was he trying to make conversation with you? “Um- Yes! Yes, it was a long while ago. They lived down the road from my family. It was before I was born, but they got along well from what I hear,” you replied. There was a deeply awkward pause before he glanced quickly at your dress. “Oh!” You gasped, “my mother taught me about this as well. The yellow stuff you gave me is an excellent clothing dye.”

“Yes, I know.” His tone was a little gruff. You felt foolish for telling him what he probably already knew. “Your name is Khargaad?” You blurted out. A hint of color rose to his cheeks, “Yup. Khargaad. And- um- what may I call you?”

”y/n,” you replied with a nervous smile. Silence hung over the both of you for a second. “Well, I’ll be on my way.” He said, turning on his heel to join his hunting mates. “Stay safe out there!” You responded. Your inner-self cringed, that reply was probably too familiar. He glanced back at you one more time before jogging to catch his friends.

~

The next day Milo found you sweeping outside the shop. “Why were you talking to those orcs?” He spat at you. You didn’t look up at him, “Just customers.” This technically wasn’t untrue.

”You don’t have orc customers”

”Says who. You?” You snorted at him, pushing the dust from the cobblestones onto his shiny leather boots. He yanked the broom from your grasp, “Why are you wearing that?” He hissed. You glared at him, wrenching the broom back from his grasp. “It’s none of your fucking business-“

“Let me buy you new dresses, y/n. You look like an orc.” You straightened a bit. “What do you mean?” Milo rolled his eyes. “It’s turmeric. They often dye their clothes with turmeric. It looks ridiculous if you ask me…” He trailed off. You were tired of this conversation, leaving him standing in the street. He didn’t bother to follow you inside.

The rest of the day was uneventful. You spent the last hour hammering some boards over the window still shattered from your target practice.

You didn’t notice Karghaad watching you across the square.

————————————————————————

Thank you to everyone’s sweet comments, and to those who wanted a part 2 😘

@kennedyabraxas123 @allthecraftandthings @sunndust @blushycadaver @whyiamadegenerate @beaniebaneenie @reads-stuff-quietly

[luveline]

𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐚 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

Hotch touches your face much more than a boss should. Or, 5 times you have a nosebleed +1 time Hotch does.

8k words, a slightly bloody coworkers to lovers, fem!reader, nosebleeds, reader works in the BAU but isn't a profiler, jack is a sweetheart, hotch has game fr, fluff + hurt/comfort

༺༻

You like your desk job. You handle paperwork primarily, and act as a sort of assistant unofficially. Anything to be useful — you get paid either way. It's why you don't mind trying to be helpful in the office and take on some of the office administrator's overflow. 

Today, that's fixing the coffee machines. The office can function on one at a stretch but both being broken means an entire roster of grumpy agents and all of them are on your back. And when they have to see all the stuff they say? You figure fixing the coffee machines is the least you can do. 

You're ignoring the weight of their waiting, elbow deep in one of the machines. The instruction manual had mentioned a little spout that can get clogged with detriment. Hopefully, you can clean it out and get at least one machine working by midday. 

"Oh no," you murmur. 

The piece you're trying to unscrew is tightly wound, too tight for your fingers to work behind. You're probably going to need a small tool, like an allen key. 

"No luck?" Agent Prentiss asks, sounding defeated. 

You look up from the machine and smile quickly. "I need smaller hands," you joke, letting the machine sit back on the counter and pulling out your aching fingers. "I'll have one working by the end of the day, Agent Prentiss. Scout's honour." 

She shrugs and waves a hand at you. "It's alright. What's one day without caffeine?" 

You laugh at her good-natured sarcasm and go back to your machine. When you're certain you can't jimmy it you turn your attention to the second machine and run through the steps. You're too determined to lose. Your coworkers depend on you. 

You start by changing the filter and are unsurprised when that doesn't work. You check the button connectivity, the fuse, and then you turn again to that small piece that needs to be washed. 

"Yes," you cheer under your breath, pulling the piece from its home to assess the problem. 

It's a tiny pipe with a piece of mesh that acts as a sieve to trap dust. Maybe. Whatever it is, it's full of caramelised coffee grounds. You move to the sink basin and turn on the faucet to clean it, washing with anticipation as the burned coffee trickles down the drain. 

You're pleased enough to feel a mild adrenaline rush, and your excitement leads to butter fingers: you drop the prized piece of pipe and it rolls out of sight.

This is not a good time for business casual. 

You tug your too-tight pants from your thighs and bend down in search. When it doesn't reveal itself you get on your knees and run your hands along the seams of the kitchen cabinets, face lowered. 

"Is everything okay?" 

You wince at a very familiar, very unfortunately timed voice. 

"Yes, sir, everything is perfect," you say, looking up to meet the eye of your boss' boss, unit chief SSA Aaron Hotchner. "I've misplaced a piece but I'll have the coffee machine working again in no time. I'm sorry." 

He raises his eyebrows at you. It's a very nice expression on him, his eyes light with an emotion you don't often see on him. "Is fixing the coffee machine in your job description?" he asks. 

You think it might be a polite reprimand. You won't insult him by insisting you're always on time with your actual delegated workload because he and your supervisor have to send you emails asking for missing paperwork all the time, so you try to disarm him. 

You beam. 

You're not a supermodel but everybody is pretty when they smile. "Sir, I thought I could sacrifice my lunch break for the good of the Bureau." 

"Yes, well." He looks like he wants to smile back. You might be seeing what you want to see, though. "That won't be necessary. Take your time." 

Your smile falters as you feel a telling heat at the back of your nose. "Thank you," you say quickly, covering your nostril with the pad of your index finger. 

You're hoping your swift words will send him on his way, but he's literally the lead profiler of the BAU. He knows suspicious activity when he sees it.  

"Is something wrong?" 

Blood starts to trickle down your palm. You slide your hand up to cover your nose the best that you can. The alarm on his face when he spots the blood sliding down your bare forearm can't be understated. 

"It's just a nosebleed," you placate, sounding stuffed up. 

He's a quick thinker, tearing a wad of paper towel off of the dispenser above the microwave and offering it to you.

If you weren't so distracted by your current predicament you'd say thank you. 

He turns back to the paper towels and tears off another wad. To your horror, Hotch bends down right there in the kitchenette and waits for you to open your palm, feeding the towels into your spare hand. 

"Should you tilt your head back?" 

"I think that's a myth," you say. 

Your skin starts to scrawl with embarrassment, the itchy, awful feeling of being pinned by his eyes. 

"How long do they usually last?" 

"Not very long, sir. I'm sure you're busy." 

He tilts his head slightly to one side as if conceding your point. "Let me help you up," he commands. 

You can't make yourself reject his help. Honestly, it's nice to have somebody care even if the nosebleed is purely superficial. His fingers curl around the crook of your elbow and he helps you onto your feet just in time for Agent Prentiss to return.

"Hotch, what did you do?" she asks, bewildered. 

You try not to laugh too much, worried you'll force another burst of blood. 

—

Confidential information. You hear it, you ignore it. Harder to ignore the whiteboards in the conference room that are currently choc-a-block with prints of crime scene photos. 

You don't mean to gawk at them. It's severely unprofessional and you shouldn't really be in here to begin with. The electronic screen is off, as are the monitors, so you know the room isn't in use. 

That could change any second, and it does. 

You hide your clammy palms behind your back at the sound of footsteps and try not to rush obviously toward the mug you'd come in here to collect. 

The door creaks open as you're leaning over the table. 

"I'm sorry," you say without looking. 

"You don't have to clean up after anyone." 

"Actually," you say quietly, abashed at having been caught, "this is my mug." 

You turn to face him. 

Agent Hotchner is tall and handsome. These are two undeniable facts and yet every time you see him it feels like a surprise. It might have something to do with how composed he is, how deliberate his movements are, or it might just be 'cause you have a crush on him. 

It's anybody's guess.

"I can make Reid wash it," he says. 

You're so whipped that your chest confuses his offer for something much worse. Like, he's on your side.

"That's okay, I don't wanna punish him for my own fussiness." You cover the mugs printed sides subtly, or as subtly as you're able. 

"What's special?" 

You smile at him, lips pressed together tight and eyes squinting slightly. You know what he's getting at but you ask anyways, stalling now he's caught you. "About what?" 

"About the mug." 

You peer behind him. 

"You can't tell anyone," you murmur, rounding the table to stand by his side with your shoulders to the door. "I'm not sure anybody knows it's mine." 

The mug is a corn-husk yellow and printed with a scene from a vintage Peanuts comic, dark-haired Lucy standing behind her lemonade stand that boasts 'Psychiatric Help 5¢'. Charlie Brown sits in front of it looking morose. 

It's hard to describe why you like it so much. 

"I see," Agent Hotchner says. 

It's become something of an office joke, offering each other five cents on bad days, calling someone Charlie Brown when they look lost. You doubt very much that anyone is making fun of you, you're just hiding that it's your mug because that's part of the fun. The mystery of the Peanuts mug. 

"I can't drink out of anything else," you confide, turning your face to his. 

He's definitely smiling this time. "Why would you?" 

You nod in genuine delight. "Exactly! Vintage Peanuts, and I searched so much for this because they used to use lead in glassware paint, and-" 

The nosebleed comes on suddenly. There's a drop of blood running down your lips before you've even realised. Agent Hotchner's eyes follow it all the way down. 

"Oh, no," you say, blood dripping to the hill of your chin. 

You use the back of the hand that's holding the mug to catch what's rolling down your neck and the other to pinch your nose closed, bending forward on instinct to hide your face. You're seasoned in nosebleeds. You know how you look — scary. Ridiculous. 

"Here," Agent Hotchner says. 

His hand comes into your eyeline, offering a dark square of fabric. You cringe at the idea of marring his likely expensive handkerchief but you can't not accept, pressing it haphazard to your bloody nose. 

"What were you saying about lead?" 

You're so frazzled about the blood you don't realise he's made a joke until it's too late to laugh.

"Do you know what causes them?" he asks. 

"I'm not really sure, sir. I used to get them all the time as a kid, um…" You pull the handkerchief away from your nose to check if it's still bleeding. When it doesn't continue, you say, "They're pretty harmless. It's done already." 

"If you need time off for a check-up, I'm sure the office administrator can find a sick day for you." 

You smile at him, and then remember the blood and grimace. I must look like Carrie right now, you think morosely. 

"That won't be necessary, sir, thank you. It's apparently the dry air." You're starting to feel more and more warm under his serious gaze. There's a startling amount of concern there. "I'm gonna go clean up now. Excuse me," you say, face glowing with heat. 

"Of course."

You cover your bloody face with the back of your hand, his handkerchief held in red-stained fingers. You pass Agent Prentiss on the stairs, hurrying past her with an I'm okay smile. 

"Hotch, again?" you hear Agent Prentiss ask incredulously. "Where do you get off?"

—

You can't return Hotch's handkerchief, it's a biohazard, but the fabric had felt so soft and the monogram in the corner had cued you in on how expensive it must have been. Your guilt manifests itself into three new handkerchiefs with the embroidered A.H. They aren't half as nice as the one he'd let you ruin. You leave them on his desk — or rather, you get Dr. Reid to leave them on his desk, as walking into his office doesn't feel like something you're allowed to do — and try to forget about them. 

For a week, you do. Agent Hotchner doesn't visit his office, Agent Jareau apprehends him on his way in that morning and the profiling team gather around their round table, and you don't see any of them for four days. The Friday they return, you're already on your way home. 

That's why his actions the following Monday shock you. 

It's unusual that he walks anywhere that isn't a straight shot to his desk. You're doing paperwork for once in your life, sitting awkwardly with your foot hooked under your thigh and a pair of wired earphones in. It's not technically allowed but he really doesn't venture over to you often. You've become complicit in your unsupervised nirvana of a desk job. 

You snatch your earphone out and struggle into a normal position. "Agent Hotchner," you say, wondering if you should call him Special Supervisory, or maybe something cooler, like your Highness. Your grace. He's intimidating in his accomplishments at the FBI, and he's super handsome. 

"Can I see you in my office? Ten minutes." 

You nod brainlessly. 

Your desk buddy doesn't wait long after he's left to investigate. 

"What did you do?" they ask from across the short partition. 

"I really don't know," you say, though you have your suspicions. 

"Were you reading on your computer again? I told you, read under the desk like a normal person." 

"No, I learned my lesson with that one when Agent Morgan started reciting Pride and Prejudice from over my shoulder." 

You check your face in a compact before you report to Agent Hotchner's office. Your heart beats in your throat as you knock his open door. 

"Come in," he says without looking up. 

You take a cautious step. 

He finishes off quickly and lifts his chin. His eyes are dark in the early morning light, his hair in mild disarray from the wind and drizzle. 

"Come in," he says again. 

You wish there was a word that could describe his voice accurately. He talks in the peaceable kind of cadence that comes with hushed tones without truly being hushed. 

"Sir…" You bite the bullet. "If this is about the macadamia cookies, I promise I'll replace them. I didn't actually eat any of them. They kind of fell out of the cabinet and exploded, it was a freak accident." 

He holds up his hand. "Thank you. For the handkerchiefs. They were unnecessary." 

He says 'unnecessary' with a smile. 

"Actually, sir, I think they were entirely necessary." You just disagreed with your boss. "Sir. I couldn't return the first, I ruined it and I- I didn't think you'd want it even if I got it dry cleaned." 

He raises his eyebrows. "It was unnecessary," he repeats, the word drawn out carefully. "But, I appreciate the gesture. Thank you." 

Two thank you's. You stop while you're ahead. "You're more than welcome, Agent Hotchner, sir." 

You share an amicable glance and turn to leave. 

"L/N?" 

You stutter to a halt. "Sir?" 

"Hotch is fine." 

You try not to swallow your own tongue. "Hotch," you say, and then worry that's something people only do in movies. 

A few days later, your humming along to your earphones and wading through the chaos of the bullpen feeling pretty happy. The office has been busy but not in the scary, suffocating way, and you're happy to be here. The BAU can be hard (and that's as someone who isn't on the front line). Times like this are cherished. 

You pause a foot from your desk, eyes creasing into a suspicious squint. 

There's a small box on your desk. 

"What is that?" you ask your desk buddy. 

"What?" they ask.

"That. There's a thing on my desk." 

"Nothing to do with me." 

"Think I should call the bomb squad?" 

"I'm sure you'll be alright. Maybe read the note before you raise the alarm." 

"There's a note?" you mumble, caution swiftly overrun by a burning curiosity. 

You'd be sincerely worried about a bomb, only this is the FBI. If a bomb got this far into the building half the people in it would lose their jobs. You kick your bag under the desk and drop your ipod onto the desk, tinny music blaring from your earphones. 

"What are you?" you ask under your breath. 

The box is wrapped in crepe paper and a yellow sticky note has been attached to the top. 

Rest assured, made without lead. 

That only confuses you more. You're hesitance has your desk mate sitting up in their chair. "Wait," they say, peering over the glass partition, "should I raise the alarm?" 

You slide a trim fingernail under a neat stripe of tape. "No, I think we're good," you mumble. 

And lo and behold, a mug is homed inside. A Peanuts mug no less; the mug has been printed with a Peanuts comic panel. Charlie Brown lays on the floor in a straight plank, and standing overy him is his friend Linus, who says, "I have been asked to tell you that your cries of anguish are keeping the whole neighbourhood awake!" 

You laugh loud and instinctively, shrill enough to attract the attention of half the office. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you slouch down as low as possible in your desk chair. Heat pools in your cheeks. 

"What is it?" your desk mate asks. 

"A present." 

And hence your new favourite mug is brought into life. You write your name on the bottom with black sharpie and continue to deny all knowledge of the first, which you retire to the drawer of your desk. 

For a while your nosebleeds go away. You know exactly who left the mug on your desk, and you remember the joke he'd made. Maybe Hotch had been on to something, and you'd inadvertently poisoned yourself.

You smile practically every time you see your new mug, and you're unsurprised when others appreciate its humour. 

You're not sure how to explain it to an eight year old, though. 

You're slumped over, nose to the desk and hand working diligently across your notes. Having a crush on your boss makes doing your work easier because you're constantly trying to impress him — an impossible task, but trying all the same. Your earphones bump a soft love song, something sweet to cut through the unhappy details of the case file you're working on. 

"What are you listening to?" a small voice asks. 

You drag your gaze up slowly and find Jack Hotchner standing beside your desk. You've seen him in person a few times, and once as Hotch's phone wallpaper, but he grows so much between visits you almost don't recognise him. 

"I'm sorry," you say, pulling your earphone out, "what did you say?" 

"What song are you listening to?" he asks, hands creeping up over the lip of your desk. 

You sit up and smile at him. You can't say he looks like Hotch, though maybe you can see it in his tiny grin, that hint of cheekiness. "I'm listening to a song called At Last. It's a love song. Do you… want to listen?" you offer quietly. 

He nods. 

You push your chair away from your desk and turn down the ipod's volume so it doesn't damage his hearing. "Here," you say, offering one of your earbuds. "Don't push it in, okay? I don't want it to hurt your ears." 

Jack takes the proffered earbud but doesn't seem super interested. "Do you have The Beatles?" he asks. 

"The Beatles! Is that what you and your dad listen to?" 

He nods, pleased, and you nod yourself, flicking through your songs in search of what he wants. 

"I have Here Comes the Sun. Do you like that one?" 

He beams. "Yes! Me and dad sing that one in the car." 

That's a really nice image, Hotch and Jack belting happy lyrics together in the busy mornings. It's also odd. Hotch singing isn't an image you can say you've ever thought of before. 

"I love this one," you tell him, letting your elbows dig into your thighs so the two of you are eye level with one another. 

"Me too." 

You share the earbuds, Jack combing your desk for something interesting no doubt. You cover a case detail that involves some gory images and almost knock over your mug in your haste. 

"What does that say?" he asks, pointing. 

Jack looks between you and the mug for answers. 

You lick your lips. "Uh, do you want me to read it to you?" 

He thinks about it. "Can I try?" 

"Of course you can." 

You clear a path for the mug and place it in front of him. 

"I have been asked to tell you," he begins confidently, "that your cries of an-" He frowns. "Anguish are keeping the whole ne… I don't know that." 

"I'm sure you do, it just looks weird. Neighbourhood." 

"Neighbourhood," he repeats. "Keeping the whole neighbourhood awake." He huffs a boyish, gentle laugh that makes your heart spin. 

"Good job, buddy." 

He melts under your praise. He's a cute kid, and his hair shines golden under the office lighting. It flops to one side as he tilts his head. "What's 'anguish'?" 

"Anguish. Uhm, it's like sadness." 

"Oh." He takes this in. "Do you have Let It Be?" 

You eventually give up your chair and let Jack sit with your ipod in his lap, playing through all The Beatles songs that you have. Nobody seems to be watching you and Hotch has yet to come out of his office and tell you off for supplying his son with technology, so you work around him, leaning over the back of the chair to fill in what's missing from your reports. 

Jack leans back in his chair, his adorable singing coming to a stop. "Do you have movies on the computer?" 

Yes, but should my boss' son know that? "It's for work," you say regretfully. 

"Not even FernGully?"

"I'm sorry." 

He shakes his head. "It's okay, it's not your fault."

"Do you like to draw? I don't have many colours, but we can play a game." 

He smiles for a moment, then hesitation crawls over his features. "Dad says not to disturb anyone." 

"I'm on my lunch break," you assure him. You hadn't been, but you don't mind taking it now. "Are you hungry? I have oranges." 

You and Jack end up sitting under your desk. You really don't mean to end up like that; you sit on your knees because your back has started to ache and Jack wants to sit with you. You can't say no to him. (You could, you just don't want to.)

"What did she say after that?" you ask, fingers digging into two orange segments to pull them apart. You shave off all of the strands of white pith before you pass it to Jack, who says thank you every time. 

"She said to ask Stacy who said to ask Morgan P who said to ask Joan. And Joan said she didn't wanna know, but then she changed her mind after I told her abd she said to ask Cooper." 

"What did Cooper say?" 

"Cooper says he doesn't think he knows where it is." 

You nod, chewing your own orange slice slovenly. "Well, what did your dad say?" 

"I haven't told dad." 

You lift your head from the paper where Jack has drawn an impressive house with five windows. "You haven't told your dad?" 

"He worries about everything." 

"That's his job, Jack. He has to worry about you." 

"He worries about everybody." 

"Some people do." You clean another orange slice for him, and he says thank you again. "You're welcome… Jack, I really think you should tell you dad. It sounds like somebody might have taken your pencil case on purpose. And even if he can't find out who did, he can get you some new pencils for school." 

"I told mom but she hasn't done anything yet." 

Your stomach hurts. 

"Well," you murmur, picking up the green pen, "I'm sure she's trying her best, baby. Can I help colour in these trees?" 

You and Jack fall into a companionable silence, his head bobbing to You Make My Dreams (Come True) the cutest thing you've ever seen. You're not sure how long you sit there, but all good things must come to an end, and your half hour for lunch draws to a close. 

"Hey, Jack?" you say, straightening where you kneel and preparing to stand. "I have some stuff I have to do but you're welcome to stay there." 

Unfortunately, you don't manage to grab his attention. Double unfortunately, somebody else does. 

"Morgan, where's Jack?" 

You peek past your desk chair. A little ways away, Hotch stands looking sick to his stomach, and Agent Morgan looks lost. 

"I didn't have him?" 

"I asked him to sit with you," Hotch says miserably, throwing his gaze over the office. "Jack?" 

Jack hears that loud and clear. Something in his dad's tone must spark some urgency, as he stands in a rush and trips on his own shoelace, smacking the top of his head into your nose. 

You gasp. 

"Ouch," Jack moans. 

Blinking, you shake off your disorientation. "Oh no, are you okay? Here, sweetheart, stand up," you encourage gently, "I'm so sorry, have I hurt your head?" 

Jack's gaze to the floor, he rubs the top of his head with a clumsy hand. "It's okay, Miss Agent, it wasn't you and-" He stares at you. 

"What?" you ask. 

"Dad!" he shouts, backing away from you. "Daddy!" 

Jack runs out of your little alcove and straight into his father's legs, almost bowling him over. Hotch drops two relieved hands down to his small shoulders. "What?" he asks, startled, "What happened?" 

Your nose stings, admittedly, but you've felt worse. It's a light throbbing that distracts you entirely from the blood racing down your lips until you taste it. 

Shit, you think, crawling out from under the desk with one hand, the other clamped over your bleeding nose. Your movement draws Hotch's attention, which in turn gathers at least a quarter of the office's. 

"I didn't mean to," Jack says shrilly. 

"It's okay. It wasn't your fault," you say stuffily, clambering onto shaky legs. 

You turn your head away from the collective gaze of the office and start toward the kitchen and hear at least three different people say, "Wait!" 

You ignore them, using your elbow to help tear off a paper towel from the roll and pushing it without finesse against your face. You squirm under the weight of tens of eyes, more embarrassed than anything else, worse when a warm hand turns you by the shoulder. 

"He really didn't mean to," you say, looking up into Hotch's concerned face. 

"I know." 

"Is he okay?”

"He's not the one with a nosebleed," Hotch says, neither kind nor unkind. 

"I honestly didn't even feel it." 

His fingers curl around your wrist, a slow tightening. "That doesn't surprise me, Y/N." 

You bite your tongue to stop from laughing. “He bumped his head into me." 

"Mm. Just a red mark. It won't even bruise." 

You deflate in relief. "Oh, good." 

Hotch's hands have found their way onto yours. He pulls one from your nose, gaze hardening at the strong river of blood that makes its way into the dip of your cupid's bow. 

"I'm sorry, sir." 

He shakes his head and gathers another wad of tissue paper, a light blue that quickly turns to a wine dark when he presses it to your face. Your heart hammers at his proximity, a thousand and one nerves aflame. 

He's close but not too close, nothing anyone could mistake for something else, and still it feels like a strangely intimate moment. His careful touches. He directs your hand to hold a fresh paper towel to the stream of blood and discards the bloody tissue. You watch him push up his sleeves carefully and give his hands a quick rinse in the sink before he dampens another paper towel. 

It's cool against your neck. 

"I think your shirt is ruined," he says, dabbing at a line of dried blood. 

You shiver at the feeling of cold water dripping under your starched collar.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, moving up to your jaw. 

You don't know how to admit it to him. No, it doesn't hurt. Your hands are really warm, and you're touching me so gently I can barely feel it. 

"A little." 

"Well, Jack is very sorry." 

"He doesn't have to be. He tripped, he…" You fade off as Hotch lays his hand across your cheek, thumb lifting your head slightly so he can clean your chin. 

"How are you faring?" he asks. 

You pull your tissue away and wait for the tell-tale heat of continued blood flow. You're ashamed to admit it but you're almost glad it hasn't stopped, Hotch's hand warm and large and impossibly comforting. Nosebleeds don't stress you out, exactly, but it's not fun to be covered in your own blood at work where everyone can see you. It's nice to have somebody wiping it away. 

"I think I'll live," you say. 

—

Jack sends you an apology card. 

It's hand delivered. Hotch is coming up to the BAU main floor as you're heading out. Like a rock dividing a river, his teammates stream from the elevator around you and Hotch remains inside. 

"I'll catch up," he promises. 

Agent JJ raises her eyebrows. Agent Morgan chuckles. 

You draw in on yourself self-consciously. You don't dress as nicely when he isn't here, and today you're rivalling Dr. Reid for most lovable dork in a pair of brown pants and a big sweater. Teetering the line between professional and unprofessional. 

"Sir," you greet, stepping into the elevator.

He presses the ground floor button. "I have something for you." 

Your eyebrows jump up high. Hotch unzips the main zipper of his duffle back and threads between clothes and papers for a smaller envelope. 

"It's for you." 

You accept, careful not to tear the thin sheet of folded paper as you pull it free. You're thrilled to see a drawing of Charlie Brown on the front, crudely drawn but clearly him with his head-wrapped in bandages. His puppy Snoopy sits beside him with something in his hands. You're not sure what. 

The inside is even sweeter. 

To Y/N

I am sorry if I made your nose angwished. Please feel better soon 

Love, Jack Hotchner. 

"Oh, I love it," you say, rubbing your thumb over a heart drawn in red crayon. "He's really something else, Hotch. He's brilliant, and so smart. I mean, anguished." 

He laughs and it twists your chest in five different directions. "He is." 

"It wasn't his fault though. If my nose weren't so sensitive it really wouldn't have bled at all, I didn't bruise. How is he? Did his head feel better?" 

The doors open. You hesitate, waiting for his reply. 

"Children are made of harder stuff than we are," he says. 

You step backwards out of the elevator. "I felt so bad. I don't suppose he'll want to come and sit with me again." 

"Actually," Hotch says, stepping out of the elevator just as the doors close again, "he thinks you're, uh, in his own words, the 'coolest friend' I've ever had." 

"Friend," you repeat with a smile. 

You've focused on the wrong word, and you worry an awkward silence will ensue, but Hotch steps up to the plate and says, "Yeah. He wouldn't stop telling me about all the cool songs you have on your ipod." 

"Purely for non-working hours." 

"Right." His smile says that he's seen straight through you. 

You're thinking maybe he likes what he sees. 

"This is really amazing," you reaffirm, pressing Jack's card to your chest. 

"He felt guilty." 

"He doesn't have to. Please, tell him I said thank you. And that he's amazing. And that my nose was being dramatic." You smile softly. "He can sit with me whenever he likes." 

"Maybe at the desk, next time, rather than under it."

"Yes, sir." 

You nod at him and he nods back, and you take it as a dismissal, turning on your heel. You've barely walked a metre when he's speaking up.

"Y/N?" 

You look at him from over your shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Are you hungry?" 

You bite your cheek in a hurry to answer, “Yeah. I’m starving.”

Your heart is basically a ticking time bomb in your chest as you and Hotch make your way into the heart of the city. He's a fast walker with long legs and you rush to keep up. That’s totally why you’re breathless. Not because he makes you nervous. 

Hotch is a really surprising guy, though maybe he isn’t surprising at all, you’re simply unversed in how he is outside of work. He talks more and his voice grows louder the further into the city you go, more expressive. 

You’re no profiler, but you’d bet money on Aaron Hotchner being nervous.

Good thing you’re nervous, too. 

“It’s not far now. You like Thai?” he asks. 

“Yeah, of course. Have you ever had Tom Yum?”

“With shrimp?” 

“Exactly.”

“I think I’ve tried it. I lived off of pad Thai when I was a prosecutor,” he says, head tilting back very slightly. His Adam’s apple works under the skin. 

He looks back down, a sheepishness to his voice as he continues, “A lot of late nights.”

“More than now?” you ask skeptically.

His laugh is low and warm. “No. The firm was much closer to the city than the bureau. It’s a long walk.”

“It is,” you say, taking a small step closer to his side to share a secret smile, “but it hasn’t felt that way tonight.”

You try to keep it light. You don’t want to scare him off. 

“No,” he agrees. “It hasn’t.”

You duck into a fragrant Thai restaurant and order fast, the two of you knee to knee in the very corner. A potted plant threatens to blind him every time he moves, and so he endeavours to stay very still. 

The food's a little on the spicy side, and while you're laughing you can't find it in you to feel embarrassed about your runny nose. 

"You didn't like Seinfeld?" you ask, and how you got here's a mystery, but Hotch is extremely passionate about it in the best way. 

"No, of course not. How could you? George was always worrying about something, he was the definition of a self-fulfilling prophecy and he never learned!" he debates, all in a rush, chopsticks moving in emphasis. 

You snort and wipe your nose again. "It was like a relief, though, that it was happening to him and not to you, you know? You might be having a bad day but George Costanza's having a worse one." 

"Oh, honey," he says. 

It takes you a second to realise that he's talking to you. 

"What?" you ask, perplexed. 

Hotch stands up though there's no space for it, chopsticks ditched and hand pushed into the recesses of his pocket swiftly. He pulls out a small packet of tissues, and he lifts his chin, a jut. You lift your own, and he's quick to press the tissue to your nose. 

"It's bleeding?" you ask, startled. 

"Just a little." 

"Sorry." 

"No, no," he says, bent down, a comforting hand around your shoulder, "don't be. It gives me an excuse." 

"To do what?" 

"To be this close." 

Your smile is a slow, molasses thick thing. You can't get a handle on it, and Hotch's answering one is worse. He looks so happy to be here with you, to be wiping your bloody nose. 

It's only a small nose bleed. Hotch pulls the tissue away once or twice to check, wiping at it tenderly and giving you a comforting squeeze each time. The silence feels natural as breathing. 

"There," he says eventually, pulling the bloodied tissue away with a smile. "All done." 

"Thank you, Hotch." 

"I'd think you'd better start calling me Aaron, considering."

"Considering what?"

His hand climbs from your shoulder to the column of your throat. He doesn't make you wait any longer, leaning down with a sure, brave deliberateness. He presses his lips to yours. 

A sweet kiss but too short — barely two seconds and he's taking a half-step away, your lips tingling in want. 

You go to stand and he pushes you down into your seat, not unkindly. "I'm gonna go see if I can get some hot water for you," he says, placating your gutted look with a kiss to your cheek. 

He wipes it thoughtlessly with the pad of his thumb before he goes. 

You're genuinely surprised your nose doesn't start bleeding again at the look he gives you as he turns the corner toward the restaurant's kitchen. Protective, knowing. Your heart races in your chest. 

You probe at your face, elated. Your sensitive nose is good for something after all. 

—

The first time you sleepover with Aaron is an accident. You don't "mess around," as you'd crooned over the phone, joking but with enough salaciousness to make him smile. The gas and hot water had stopped working in your apartment, and though the landlord had promised they'd fix it the very next morning, Aaron couldn't stand to think about you cold and alone when you could easily be warm and with him. 

So here you are. 

"Are you sure this is okay?" you whisper, peering over his shoulder at Jack. 

His son stands in the living room in his pyjamas.  

"It's okay," he says, "I asked him, and you know he's obsessed with you. His one condition is that you watch FernGully." 

"FernGully," you say, enthused. 

"You'll like it." 

You actually really do. Showered and dressed in your own pyjamas, a little shy but not too much to stop from laying against his side on the sofa. He's got one arm around you and one around Jack but he might as well be invisible, the two of you talking in murmurs across his chest. 

"And that's-" 

"Pips," Jack supplies helpfully. 

"Pips," you say, hand spread over Aaron's chest. 

If he didn't know better he'd think this was a slice of heaven. 

"So many people," you whisper in Aaron's ear. 

"More in the second one." 

"There's two?" 

After the movies finished — "It was better than you said, Jack," — and dinner’s been eaten and cleared away, Aaron takes Jack to bed. 

"Do you want a story?" Aaron asks, flitting around the room in a half-hearted attempt to square away the mess. 

"No." 

"You sure?" 

Jack's eyes are heavy, and they have been since dinner. "Yes," he mumbles, face turned into his pillow, hands lax on top of his blanket. 

Aaron smiles and makes his way to Jack's side. He kisses his son's cheek, and strokes the soft hair from his face. He smells like strawberry toothpaste and kids shampoo. 

You're sitting on the end of the bed when he gets to you, face damp with skincare and shining in the light. Aaron kisses you without touching it, worried he'll mess it up. 

“He’s wiped. All the excitement,” he says. 

“Excitement- From me?” you ask. 

“From you.” He puts his hands carefully either side of your neck.

You haven’t been dating very long, and still he knows how easy it is to fluster you. And while he loves to see it, see you giddy and shy, blinking at nothing like there’s a light shining in your eyes. He’d once pressed his thumb with the very faintest of pressure into your windpipe while kissing you, and you hadn’t been able to look him in the eye for three days. 

He loves that, but he’d prefer if you slept facing him. He wants to see what you look like asleep, as odd as it sounds, he assumes you’ll be beautiful. He wouldn’t be surprised if you were more. 

“Aaron,” you whisper. 

“What?”

“Want me to massage your bad shoulder?”

He wonders, as he thinks is more than allowed, if that’s a seduction trick, but you genuinely just give him a massage, as you have a couple of times in his office after noticing how sore it gets now the weather’s cold. 

You rub into the problem spot carefully, sighing with sympathy. “Oh, baby,” you say, more to yourself than him. 

He fucking loves the way you say it. Aaron’s never been called baby like that — like it’s his name, and it’s sweet to say. Your tired yawns warm the back of his neck as you go. He doesn’t think he’s getting lucky tonight, and he doesn’t care one bit. He feels pretty lucky just having you near. 

He gets you under the covers before you can fall asleep against his back and makes sure you know how grateful he is for the massage with two kisses. The first is a genuine thank you and the second is to make you laugh, nipping and playful under your jaw. 

Aaron falls asleep thinking about it. 

He wakes to something much less idyllic. 

It’s that strange feeling. Being a dad has honed it, but he’s always had it. It’s one of the things that makes him so good at his job, a prickling at the back of his neck. At first he can’t pin it down. 

Your waist rises under his hand with your breathing. He remembers that you’re there and smiles contentedly, hand sliding behind your back to pull you in. You’d fallen asleep on your back, and you’ve turned toward him in your sleep. 

The metallic stick of blood is sudden and sharp in his nose. He knows what it is before he opens his eyes. The room is dark, lit only by the red light of his alarm clock on the nightstand. His eyes ache with fatigue, and he knows in his gut that it’s too early to get up. 

Blood pools under your nose. Not a lot, nothing to panic over, but blood all the same. He sits up, quickly turns on his bedside lamp, and rouses you as gently as he can, a hand slid under your shoulders to drag you up. 

You blink blearily. “What?” you ask, voice scratchy. 

“Nosebleed,” he informs, pinching your nose before blood can slink down your neck and ruin your pyjama shirt. 

You wince and he hates the way you flinch away from his touch, your clouded confusion. It’s only a second but it doesn’t sit right with him. 

“Sorry, honey.”

You catch hold of his bicep and blink some more. 

“You okay to pinch it yourself? I’ll go grab some tissue paper.”

You nod robotically and replace his light pinching with your own, much less kind. He rushes to grab a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom, and when he returns you've pulled yourself into an alert sitting position, awaiting his return. 

He tears you off a wad of paper. “Here, honey.”

“I think it’s stopped.”

“Yeah? Let me grab you a towel.”

Back to the bathroom. When he returns for the second time you’re holding his given toilet paper against your face. He’s alarmed to find your eyes glassy with tears, shimmering in the bedroom light. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, sitting across from you. 

He’d been right about sleepy you. You look lovely, a little funny with your rumpled pyjamas, and now quite sad because of your tears. “Honey,” he says again, pulling your hand from your face so he can assess the damage, “you’re okay. Is it hurting?”

You’ve told him before the nosebleeds are painless, but maybe they’re a symptom of something, maybe you’re sick—

“I ruined your pillow,” you mutter. 

Ah. That’s much better than your being sick. He can work with that easily. 

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

He takes your chin between his thumb and his forefinger to lift your head. The blood has stopped already; your nosebleeds are often a whirlwind, over by the time you’ve started panicking. 

“I’m sorry.”

He drops your bloodied tissue into his lap and brings the dampened towel to your face. He’s cautious. Your nose gets irritated and any roughness could disrupt the blood clot or agitate the anterior blood vessels inside. 

“You think I’m mad over a pillow?”

“No, of course not.” 

You sound stuffy. It’s adorable. Adorable and sad. He rubs the hill of your chin in a show of affection. 

“Then why?”

“Sorry, I think I’m just tired. I- I was trying to make tonight perfect because,” — a small tear bumps down your cheek — “it’s our first night together even if it was accidental.”

He dabs at your upper lip and the wet blood there with a smile growing. “It was perfect. It is perfect. You getting a nosebleed on a seven dollar pillow doesn’t change that.” His hand moves to your cheek, squashing your baby tear. “You know I love any opportunity to touch you… Now, do you want a glass of water?”

You close your eyes and lean your face heavily into his palm. “Can I have one of those kisses from earlier?”

“Can you keep your blood inside your body?” he asks with a smile, rubbing your cheek with his thumb.

“Depends how hard you bite me.”

He’s very, very gentle.

—

+1

Aaron breaks his nose. You are not supposed to know that he breaks his nose, only he breaks it so bad that he has to go to the hospital to get it set, and he decides he’d like you there. 

Technically, somebody else broke his nose. The details aren’t important. What matters is that Aaron makes a rookie mistake and he has to deal with the consequences, which is a biting, aching pain behind his eyes and a trip to the ER. He does not let them take him in an ambulance, and it really isn’t urgent. He sits in a waiting room chair with a stiff back and it doesn’t take long before you’re striding inside looking terrified. 

“Hey, baby,” he says, testing it out. He doesn’t really like it. 

“What did they give you?” you ask, bending at the waist to take his face into your kind hands. 

“Vicodin when I got here.”

“Lucky you.” You turn his face in your hands. 

“You look beautiful,” he says. 

“I wish I could say the same, but somebody messed you up bad.”

He laughs and takes your face into his hands, the two of you smiling way too much for the situation that you’re in. “I was so worried,” you say with a little laugh. 

He kisses you soundly. It hurts, but it’s worth it. 

They call his name not long after and a nurse takes you both into a grey examination room. The doctor is a short, stern woman who has to use a stool to reach Aaron’s face, and she sets his nose with a swiftness that even he manages to recognise for the brutality that it is in his drug haze. 

You hold his hand. He has to try very hard not to crush your fingers. 

It starts bleeding immediately. 

Aaron meets your gaze over the doctor's head, eyes wide and in similar fashion as your own, and he knows it’s an adverse reaction to shocking pain but he starts giggling. Aaron Hotchner doesn’t giggle, really. He laughs, and sometimes when he’s with Jack that laugh can get super loose and high, but this is a bona fide giggle. 

You try to gasp in shock but you’re laughing too. “Aaron,” you reproach.

He holds his breath as the doctor presses gauze to his face. 

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he says.

You snicker behind your hand. The doctor presses gauze to his face and rolls her eyes. She likely does not get paid enough. 

“You’re still handsome,” you say giddily. 

“Oh, well that's good.”

There’s a small silence rife with tension, and when it breaks it bursts like a dam. You laugh so hard you end up clinging to his arm, chest pressed to his bicep. He strokes the back of your head with a wobbly hand, wondering how miserable he’d be if you weren’t here with him right now. 

“What happened to keeping all your blood inside your body, Hotchner?” you ask, delighted. 

He beams at you dopily. “I’ve never been any good at that.”

You kiss his forehead. The doctor is furious. 

༺༻

[diorkittys]

yoga lessons ˚ ♡ ⋆｡ teacher!ramattra + [human] reader

synopsis : being late to your teachings with your bhikkhu wasn’t unbeknownst to either one of you. though, maybe you should’ve studied up a little more on your poses. it’s okay, your teacher will remind you lazy work does not go unpunished. maybe that’s not a punishment in itself.

—TW : smut , female body parts , mentor and student (not an age gap, i promise) , size difference , hittin it from behind , dom! ramattra , exhibitionism , slight dumification , slight overstimulation , yapping

‘sleeping in’ was a foreign concept in the monastery of the monks. you were expected to be up ‘before the arrival of surya’—the sun himself. Although, that wasn’t necessarily a problem anyone there faced; an unspoken rule of awaking at 4:00, meditation until 5:00, and chanting before 6:00… all to be fulfilled to begin your day.

early mornings didn’t phase you anymore, it was to be assumed regarding the fact you live with the monks. And so whilst everyone finished their routine, you had an extra step: teaching. Bhante Ramattra took you under his wing as his novice 6 months ago, when you had fled to the monastery in search of spiritual guidance and inner peace… as most do. He was a stoic mentor with a gentle soul; and he was always gentle with you. you figured he, as a bhikkhu, however, was like that to most. it was still nice to perceive it as your own.

“Namo tassa bhagavato arahato samma sambuddhassa.” you finished your daily prayer, taking in a deep breath, and standing from your place on your cushion. in about 5 minutes you would be late to your lessons with your bhikkhu.

you hurried to put on your robes and make your way to the gardens of the monastery. you passed by various monks walking the halls, taking a quick bow with your hands together to each one. you finally reached the scenic path to the gardens, feeling the cold cobblestone nipping at your socks. bhante ramattra sat on an intricate-patterned mat in a clearing of grass. his back straight and turned against you. you approached quietly, seemingly tiptoeing on the meadow.

“late again, my lotus?” you cringed, scrunching your nose. how could you sneak up on someone who’s practice is higher understanding? and his endearing nickname only seemed to make you more awkward.

“only by a minute or two this time. you can’t blame me if my reasoning is prayer.” you sat on the mat draped in front of him, noticing his loose robe showing off his chest plate. you let your eyes wander for a brief second.

“a moment delayed is an opportunity for patience and reflection… have you practiced either of the sort during your travel here?” if ramattra’s eyes shown, they would be staring deep into yours, quizzical and smug.

“well, what about you? you weren’t very patient for my arrival..”

“in questioning, we uncover the path to wisdom. in your case, i see no benefiting outcome in questioning me, besides a failing grade.” ramattra folded his arms.

“since when am i graded?” you giggled.

“i am your mentor; i grade you by progress, not by numbers.” at this point, ramattra has begun his dhyana mudra practice, joining his thumb and index together as a way to get rid of the headache in front of him. “now, have you rehearsed your yoga poses i gave as homework. i would hope you took this seriously as today’s lesson encompasses the custom.”

“yes, i think i have them all perfected.” you started on your warmup stretches, pulling your leg, then the next, to your sides. “excellent. are you confident to demonstrate your teachings?” you nodded and even with an expressionless face, ramattra seemed pleased.

you started with a simple locust pose to begin—balancing on your stomach, neck bent upwards, and hands stretched behind your back. your bhikkhu hummed in contentment, “very well, my lotus. now form into a cobra stance.”

again, the pet name only made your body stutter and for a moment you had blanked on how to do such a pose. ramattra is observant, he was taught about even the smallest body language from an early start of his own teachings—he noticed.

your black out didn’t last more than a second, though, and you pressed your pelvis to the floor, steading your weight on your hands. the omnic watched as you faced the sky, adam’s apple bobbing when you swallowed. 

again, ramattra hummed, watching the muscles of your back push together. “you’re doing well. i see my instructions didn’t fall on deaf ears. switch into fish pose.”

“you know,” you strained, falling onto your hands and rolling on your back. “these names don’t have any correlation to the pose itself. who came up with them?” you propped yourself on your elbows and awaited a response.

“matsyasana. that’s the original sanskrit name. we haven’t fully completed your language lessons yet, so we will stick to the westernized name of the position.” the omnic looked a bit displeased with the naming himself, but he was considered more traditional, so you assumed he didn’t like the newer adaptation.

“but how does it resemble a fis—er.. matsyasana? all i am doing is arching my back—what matsyasana have you seen do that?”

ramattra let out a raspy chuckle, and it brought a sense of pride that you could get that out of him. you liked the sound… even if it was a bit robotic and rough; almost like it was new to him too.

“you seem to keep ahold of your humanistic, logical ideals; embrace the current of life’s flow with a light heart.” your bhikkhu sighed, “but, if you must know, the pose resembles the graceful arch of a fish jumping out of water.”

ramattra stood to sit at your side, placing a metal hand under the palm of your back; he put his other on the cavity of your chest, gently forcing your rib cage to stick out. “like this.”

you looked up at your mentor, he looked down at you… and for a moment you could’ve sworn you both couldn’t look away. but in the second he was above you, he was now back to where he sat. it was probably—most likely, in your head.

the pose was difficult and hard to keep. your breathing wasn’t very steady as your body contorted in almost 180 degrees. “try not to focus on the position, instead focus on each exhale, releasing your struggle.”

“…easier,” you huffed, eyebrows furrowed, “…said than done.” ramattra tried to think of another way he could find you strength, but something in front of him was blurring his thoughts…

your breasts were perked up by the way your back stretched, laying on your chest oh, so perfect, and so vulnerable. something inside ramattra was whirring—electronic signals zapping circuits and tangled his wires.

he’s never… he’s never felt so hot before; maybe it was a malfunction.

but your chest kept heaving as your breathing deepened. your mouth was slightly agape as you tried to hold together, on a tiny thread. and your little noises were only stirring on this… feeling inside him even more. no, it couldn’t be a malfunction; he knew his sensations were purposeful. but, by devine presence, what kind of monk would he be? still holding onto the chains of lust, how foolish.

and yet, here he was, allowing himself the pleasure of watching you, watching you struggle, watching your body with desire. so lost in his own selfishness, he didn’t even hear your pleas.

“bhante ramattra? bhikkhu? please… am i finished?”

you were so strained. maybe this was a test? why else has your bhikkhu let you hurt without lesson?

ramattra snapped out of it, now feeling slightly guilty for letting you writhe in pain. “my apologies, lotus. you may lay out of pose.” he didn’t have to tell you twice. letting your body drop to the floor in exhaustion.

“i’m sorry.”

“for what?”

you let yourself calm down before continuing, “i’ll admit, i didn’t practice that position as much as i should have.” your mentor shook his head. “learn from this experience, and with a sincere heart, your efforts will blossom.” although, ramattra knew it shouldn’t be you to take the blame.

…

“are you restful enough for another demonstration?”

you nodded. ramattra was satisfied.

“marjaryasana.” he spoke, finding your readiness to speak more sanskrit endearing.

you remembered from previous teachings that ‘marjaraha’ meant ‘cat’ and you understood it to start a cat pose.

you planted yourself on the ground with your hands, balancing on your knees and lifting your head to the sky. you expectingly awaited your bhikkhu’s approval… but he said nothing.

“you’re missing something.”

“this is a cat pose, is it not? marjaraha?” what could you possibly have done wrong? you may have messed up your last instructions, but you were certain you had this simple one down. your continuous practice the night before being a witness.

“your sanskrit is correct; i’m proud of your remembrance—but your posing is lacking.” ramattra stood from his spot to come kneel behind you. “allow me to help.”

the large omnic loomed over you. from an outside perspective, it looked as if a wolf engulfing it’s prey.

but ramattra wasn’t a ravenous creature, at least, from your understanding.

he took two big hands and gripped your waist, bunching up the fabric of your thin sanghati; ramattra would have to have a word with you next time on wearing the correct number of robes.

“bend.” he commanded. gesturing to the small of your back. you obliged. you were warm all over besides the chill of his metal holding you in place, which hardened your nipples through your clothes.

you wondered if this explicit position was all but innocent… surely, your wise mentor didn’t have any further intentions; you couldn’t hold yourself to that high regard… that didn’t stop your lustful thoughts. and anyone with common sense could stumble into the garden and most certainly view it just as suggestive as you… right?

you kept silent, letting the bigger man behind take the lead and guide you. he pressed against your skin until your arch was just to his standards.

you were almost positive that you could feel warmth radiating from how close his crotch was from your ass… that is, if a robot could emit such a thing.

“perfect.” he finally spoke. the bhikkhu admired his work from above.

you were afraid to respond… partly because you didn’t want to scare him away, and partly because you felt that if you opened your mouth, a long, suppressed moan would come out instead.

so you sat there, on all fours, back arched, unmoving, trying—desperately trying to squeeze your thighs together as best as you could to maybe satisfy this need you craved.

biting your lip, you stifled a pathetic whimper as ramattra’s thigh grazed over yours. how wrong this must be. a novice lusting over their bhikkhu… in a place of respect and religion. siddhartha, guide you now…

ramattra noticed your quietness, bending down closer to your head. had he made you uncomfortable? were the tensions thick for you too? he’ll admit his grip on your waist was rather tight; the plush skin beneath your garments was enticing.

you were… small compared to him. you allowed him to touch you and you obeyed his words. very obedient. and now comes the remembrance that you were practically all his. his novice. his responsibility. his student.

and you were a very good student.

“what’s wrong, my lotus?” he asked, hovering over you. “is this pose too much for you than the last? i would’ve expected this one to be easier.”

you shook your head. your shoulders were stiff now, especially with that whirring, raspy voice his speakers emitted behind your ear.

“in silence, we give, but in words, we convey. should we revisit that lesson again?”

his words were teasing. ramattra slid his metallic fingers up your torso, just enough for the skin of your back to peak out.

you shook your head again. he squeezed.

“no…” you shivered, berating yourself for the unsteadiness of your words.

“no, what? perhaps a deeper dive into honorifics sometime the-“

“no, bhante ramattra.” you blurted before he could finish. “…sorry, bhikkhu. i didn’t mean to come out disrespectful.”

“mistakes are life lessons. now listen to your teacher once more and bend down on your arms.”

this craving could not be denied any longer. ramattra should listen to his… perhaps, vile instincts and have you here, right beneath him. how foolish he has accepted himself to be in this moment of need, because he did, in fact, need you. his star novice; much to learn, but he knew you had so much to give.

where in his circuits he’d be wired to lust, who knows. but after all, sentience was a gift to be held… and to be cherished. no amount of enlightenment could take the selfishness out of living.

it was clear now to the both of you that this was not so unrequited. that this back and forth game, that no other monk and apprentice shared, was not out of the blue, but a slow burned 6 months.

of course, you did not disobey your bhikkhu. you, ass up, face covered by elbows, awaited ramattra’s instructions, or actions.

the large omnic let his hands travel down the small of your waist, down below your naval. his other hand let way, bunching your beige attire into a fist. but he stayed a second longer, observing.

“tell me, lotus, are humans naturally this sensitive? i’ve barely touched you and you’re quivering as if it were snowing.” ramattra chuckled.

it was true. a simple graze was enough for you to be fully at his mercy. embarrassing, really, but one look from this monk could have your knees buckling. did he not realize how enticing he truly was? you can only imagine how many yearn for his attention—but no villager has ever had it; he’s been to busy teaching you.

“just… cold.” what a believable response.

“cold? the sensors in my fingers speak otherwise; you’re burning up.” he continued, “a lie is temporary refuge for a simple answer. you’ve been rather deceiving today—something you did not learn from me.”

“how have i? i know better.” you furrow your brows. this is… frustrating. speaking when all you want to do is scream the omnic’s name. waiting when he knows exactly what he’s doing. was this really a time for discussion?

“you should have told me sooner that you have had selfish thoughts. these are things that will lead you astray from your higher path.”

“i-“ he cut you off.

“i am no fool; i see how you look at me. how you react to the small things i do. how you stutter and play with your fingers when i look down at you.”

ramattra slowly slides his middle fingers along your slit, coating himself in your arousal. you stifle a whimper, burying your head in your folded arms.

“for thoughts like those, you could be casted out of the monastery. it is frowned upon to hold a bhikkhu in such low regard.”

long fingers split you open and felt you inside. each circle on your swollen clit was a jolt of hot pleasure through your body. your sounds were lewd—moans rolling off your tongue like your prayer this morning.

“it’s a good thing i like you so much; otherwise, your consequences wouldn’t be so… nice.”

does he ever stop talking? isn’t it apart of monk code to be listening instead of boastful? his voice is sexy though, you thought. as long as he keeps reassuring this was not at all one sided, it’s not a problem.

ramattra was toying you, using your venerable feelings as a way to touch you the way he wants. touching and pressing—and you could’ve sworn his robotic fingers had a sort of buzz to them. but this was torture, and he knows it; you needed him elsewhere.

“bhikkhu… please.”

“please what, lotus?” his movements were slower now, giving you just enough to want more.

“what do you need?”

“you,” you huffed, “inside me… please.”

ramattra dragged his long digits across your pussy, stopping at your hole and pressing down. you let out a guttural moan, shoving your ass forward for him to continue. he slowly pushed himself inside you, basking in the way you choked on your voice. whole body tensing and then relaxing all in a second.

“right here?”

“right there.”

he pumped in and out, curling into the spongy spot that had your hairs sticking up. his other hand pushed your garments out of the way, feeling you up—goosebumps littering your skin from the cold.

you slightly swayed from his movement, fingernails pressing into the rug below you so hard it almost hurt. but, you couldn’t focus on anything besides the full feeling you got from his fingers knuckle deep inside you, and then that empty, needy—pleading feeling your pussy sent all the way to your head when he pulled out. a back and forth that eventually fried any coherent thought you could have formed; sensory overload that made your skin buzz and toes curl.

your previous nervous and shameful scenarios of anyone being able to find you like this—to see one of the most disgraceful acts performed inside a sacred monastery, still stuck somewhere in the back of your mind. by divine presence, how awful! you would surely be cast out—you and your bhikkhu, just like he said. could even buddha be enough to guide you back astray?

and yet, here you were almost worry-free. for some reason that hadn’t been discussed, you felt as if… protected—safe with your bhikkhu behind you. as though bhante ramattra truly wouldn’t allow anything to happen to his precious student—and you were the most precious in this moment.

ramattra’s free hand moved from the fabric of your robe to the mound of your breast. he lingered beneath your nipple for a minute, almost like hesitation… too much for his artificial hormones to handle. after all, this was fairly new to omnics—like testing the waters to see how far he could make it before short-circuiting.

he let the quiet air sit still for a brief second, hearing the ever-present squelches sounding from beneath the two of you, and your breathless noises, before speaking.

“i would be deceitful to say you were the only one sneaking lustful glances, my novice… i have… wondered… how you must look coming out of the shower, or behind closed doors when we say ‘goodnight’. i’ve pictured you bare, as dishonorable as it sounds.”

another pump inside you.

“although, you leave nothing to the imagination when you don’t wear your proper attire—i assume there’s more than just me whose thought of you like that… but, i wonder… if you dress like that just for me.”

his voice lowered; it sent a new chill down your spine, and a new whimper out your plush lips. ramattra leaned even closer to your ear, hunched over you.

‘ramattra wasn’t a ravenous creature’, you thought, but right now, you worried he might actually devour you.

his movements slowed. again, keeping that tortuous pace that barely gave you what you need. just enough for you to whine and groan.

“i wouldn’t put it past you; i’m surprised you haven’t begged me onto you before now—so needy, you are… practically clung to me.”

he lowly chuckled, in his own robotic, whirring way.

“and my teachings can’t be that good, no… my lotus… you’ve needed me.” “ah!” you sharply gasped, teeth digging into your lip when your bhikkhu hit a particularly sensitive spot.

the monk’s hand now pushed past his previous hesitation, coming to grope your breast, fondling the plush skin. you heard the slightest grunt come from his speakers, if at all. his middle and index capturing your nipple and pinching.

“oh, fuck!” you moaned, furrowing your brows.

ramattra, again, chuckled, “i haven’t heard you curse since the beginning of your teaching… might i add that to the list to revisit?”

you groaned, “is this really—erugh!—the time for judgement?” the monk shook his head, “there is no place for judgement at any given moment; i do not judge you, my lotus, far from it. i admire you.”

ramattra curled metal into the tip of your cervix, slightly spread his fingers, then curled again.

“is that not obvious?”

maybe you were see-through—had he made that comment in a normal circumstance, you surely would’ve stumbled on your words. picturing it now with heat blooming across your pretty cheeks, nervously toying with your pinkies as if that’s the highest regard anyone could’ve held you at.

prized student, but now also, ramattra’s worship.

the omnic switched from fondling your sensitive breasts to trace his hands over the skin of your chest… then your waist, then below your navel, pressing ever-so-slightly to feel the indent of himself inside you. it was almost like he was trying to remember you; perhaps, scared that this might be the last of this lesson—that he’ll never get to see his student like this again, so he will savor it.

the metal of his thumb stretched out to your clit, pushing on the bundle of nerves to see how’d you react, which you would respond with a mewl of his name and he’d take that a sign to continue.

he started carefully, then gradually began the same pace he was fucking you with. ramattra huffs and holds onto you a little tighter when your once coherent moans turned into a mess of crying, whining, and blurts of ‘bhikkhu!’.

you felt a familiar, sickly sweet feeling bubbling in your tummy, flowering to your chest, and burning your inner thighs. your desperation had a mind of its own, and you arched your back farther than you thought you ever could. your pretty ass pressing more into your mentor’s crotch, fingernails bracing yourself. your blissful noises shortened and choked on each other as your mouth hung agape.

with another teasing pull of ramattra’s fingers, coming almost all the way out before shoving back inside your dripping cunt, you tipped over. that sweet, hot, white feeling coating your entire body, prickling the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. you orgasmed… hard, coming undone right beneath your bhikkhu, all for him to see.

your knees quivering, body too heavy to carry now, but ramattra had a firm hand to your navel, keeping you up for him to pump his, now cum-coated, fingers through your high. and when the slightest graze to your g-spot had you jolting, he stopped, setting you down gently and running his hands down the sides of your waist once more before sitting back on his knees.

you heaved your breaths, sweat glistening in the sunbeams through the trees, clothes tousled almost purposefully around you. ramattra would mutter a comment about how you look celestial, astrology hanging from the droplets in your hair.

it took a moment to get your bearings, and even 5 minutes later, you’re still tired and sore and hung up on the fact your teacher, who you no idea reciprocated your feelings, had fucked you so hard and passionately next to a statue of aurora ten feet away.

ramattra placed a hand on your back—the same one used to pleasure you, would you ever look at it the same?—but, nonetheless a hand and you were grateful it was made of metal, cool to the touch.

“yathā tvaṁ mām āvaśyakaṁ, tathā aham api tvāṁ āvaśyakam.” ramattra muttered, quiet and soft. you wondered how an artificial intelligence could muster up something so human sounding.

you peek up at him, the side of your face still pressed against the mat. he dragged a finger down the disks of your spine, tilting his head. you question, “i’m sorry, bhante ramattra, i haven’t gotten that far in my studies; i don’t understand.”

“and i wouldn’t expect you to, my lotus. but in unknowing lies the seed of understanding—soon, lotus, you’ll be able to read between my lines—like a flower holding the promise of fruit. i will teach you much more.” he promised. you stare at him; he stares back.

suddenly, you pushed yourself up with your hands, gathering your disorganized fabric to cover your chest. you were in the middle of the gardens of the monastery. you fucked in the middle of the gardens of the monastery. “oh, siddhartha—oh, shit!”

“what is it, novice?” ramattra watched as you frantically dressed yourself in your sanghati. you turned to him with wide eyes and a flustered face. “we just fucked in the gardens!” you whisper-yelled.

your bhikkhu did not respond in the panicked way you thought he would’ve. no. instead, the monk began to laugh, more of a chuckle—well, more of a buzz—whatever noise equates an omnic laugh.

“i assure you, lotus, i will not let harm or discrimination come your way. you’re safe with me. besides… the clock strikes the time for afternoon prayer; no one must have walked our path.”

and that lifted a weight off your shoulders. was your entire public display lewd and dishonorable? absolutely. but something tells you this is one of many more lessons to come… and you’ll simply have to get used to it.

notes: “yathā tvaṁ mām āvaśyakaṁ, tathā aham api tvāṁ āvaśyakam” - “i’ve needed you as much as you’ve needed me”

[rcsewcrld]

Hi Rose! I’ve just found your profile and saw you’re accepting requests so here you go:

Poly!wolfstar or poly!marauders where reader is completely in love with them but thinks they don’t like her back. When they confess their love for her she doesn’t believe because she thinks that what they have is already perfect and she doesn’t have a place in it. It takes them a lot of effort to make her believe it. Lots of angst with happy ending

really? || poly!wolfstar x fem!reader | 1.5k words

a/n: hi so this is very cliche and possibly very bad bc i’m very out of practice so i hope you appreciate that and i hope that this is what you wanted. i promise my writing will get better once i get back into the swing of things! also, thank you very much for requesting and i’m so sorry i took so long, something came up but that’s slowing down now so i’m back to it! also i’m really sorry it’s not very angsty but i just wasn’t in that frame of mind i’m so so so so sorry :(

content: as gn as possible but some fem hints in there sorry (im just too used to it :((), minimal use of y/n and pronouns, also bridgerton reference guys😭

“S’wrong, darling?” James queried at your spaced out expression during breakfast in the Great Hall. 

You shrug, “Dunno, James.” The bespectacled boy furrowed his brows but was soon distracted by something Peter was showing him on his other side. You did, in fact, know what was wrong. The two boys sitting opposite you were the bane of your existence this morning. They were also the object of your desires.

Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. Best friends of 6, coming up to 7 years and boyfriends of 3 months. The most painful, yearning, pining 3 months of your life. The relationship between you, Sirius and Remus had always been ambiguous between the lines of platonic and romantic, but one fateful morning Sirius and Remus walked towards you in the corridor, holding hands and exuding a sickeningly sweet air of love.

“Earth to Y/n/n… you okay, sweetness?” Dark grey eyes locked with yours, pairing with the saccharine nickname you couldn’t help but smile dreamily at him. 

“Mhm,” you mumbled, “M’fine, Siri.”

“Good. Couldn’t have you spaced out like this all day,” he furrowed his dark eyebrows, “would never get through Potions if I didn’t have my lovely partner to talk to.” He finished with a wink that almost had you melting into a puddle on the stone floor. Peter and James shared a look at your, somewhat pathetic, lovesickness. 

“Ready to go then? Lessons start in 5 minutes.” Remus interrupted the charged gazing between you and Sirius.

“Of course you’d be the one to make us prudishly early, Moons.” Sirius stood up alongside Remus, clapping him on the back harshly as they started to walk off, followed closely by you, James and Peter.

“5 minutes is not prudishly early, Pads…”

———

“Ms Y/L/N, daydreaming again?” Slughorn’s voice broke you out of your stare. Your task today was to brew a successful amortentia potion. Sirius, eager as ever to discover the smell of what he loves, bounded up to the storage cupboard to collect all your ingredients. Also, something about ‘What kind of gentleman would I be if I let a lady lift a finger under my watch?’

“Sorry, professor. Sirius is getting all the equipment so I just zoned out for a moment. Won’t happen again.” You visibly straightened up and put on your best apologetic voice, because you really weren’t sorry at all. You had been ogling Sirius. His shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of smooth, pale skin, his shirt tightening slightly at his arms where his lean muscles were bulging slightly with the strain of stretching. He was visibly far less built-up than someone such as James who was nothing short of stocky, but being a beater still took lots of arm power.

As Professor Slughorn migrated back to his desk, Sirius came back over to your workbench, albeit, more carefully than he left it, as he was now carrying an abundance of supplies ready to begin brewing.

“Siri, y’know I could’ve helped you?” 

“Don’t sweat it, love.” He brushed it off.  

You began brewing the potion and it was going smoothly. (As much as Sirius tried his hardest to be a nuisance in class, he’d never purposefully sabotage you)

A pop from across the classroom made you a jump a little and averted your’s and Sirius’ attentions to James and Remus on the other side of the room. Remus was scoffing and rolling his eyes as James’ face was covered in soot, hair standing up on end. 

“Poor Moony.” You tutted, focusing back on your own potion. Originally, Remus had been partners with Lily, no complaints, perfect work, until Slughorn decided that James and Peter being a pairing was far too chaotic and forced Remus and Lily to re-partner, to quell the chaos caused by James and Peter’s pairing.

“He’ll be alright.” Sirius chuckled as you sprinkled the final ingredient into the brew.

You watched as the potion turned a pinkish colour and turned to Sirius with a pleased smile, “It worked!” He held his hand up for a high five that you quickly returned. 

“Ready to take a whiff, Black? Y/L/N?” Slughorn said as he approached your workbench. You both nodded and Sirius pushed you forward. The entire class had gone quiet, attention on your bench. You took a deep breath in over the cauldron.

First, cigarettes, and a deep, musky aftershave that was awfully familiar.

After a few moments it morphed into the scent of a crackling fireplace, new books and… chocolate.

“So? What do you smell?” Slughorn queried.

You broke out of your trance, glancing around the classroom at all of the pairs of eyes staring at you, awaiting an answer, specifically Sirius and Remus. The two people you had definitely just smelled, “Uh, um- I smelled,” You didn’t know whether to lie or not, “um, flowers?”

James snorted a laugh from across the room, quickly shutting up after a harsh elbow to the ribs from Remus.

“Care to elaborate?” Slughorn raised a questioning eyebrow. You shook your head vehemently and stepped back towards Sirius’ chest, who hurriedly took your place, eager to smell the potion.

“Books… chocolate,” Sirius paused to wink at Remus who glared at him, embarrassed, “…and, vanilla?”

Your eyes widened at that and you sucked in a very audible sharp breath, reminded of the vanilla perfume that you apply rather generously every morning. Sirius locked eyes with Remus across the room, sharing a look that meant We’ll talk later.

Slughorn clapped his hands to diffuse the awkward tension and called on Barty Crouch Jr’s workbench.

———

“Marls, I can’t just tell them I like them. I don’t wanna impose on what they already have together…” You huffed, pulling your knees up to your chest. Marlene wandered over from her bed and sat down next to you.

“Babe, I love you, but you are so oblivious.” She lamented.

You furrowed your eyebrows.

“She really has no idea does she…?” Lily sighed from her bed.

“Those two boys are hopelessly in love with you, Y/N. And if you can’t see that then you are oblivious. Sirius’ amortentia smelled like you and Remus. The boy he’s already in a relationship with.”

“That could’ve been anyone’s vanilla perfume.” You shrugged, certain that the boys couldn’t want you in any way.

Lily rolled her eyes, “Tell them, Y/N.”

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth anxiously but nodded in agreement, “Wish me luck, girls.”

You trudged down the stairs to the common room, head low and anxiety swarming your brain.

“What’re you doing down here so late, darling?” 

You jumped at the voice, not expecting anyone to be occupying the common room at such a late hour. You looked up to find just the two boys you were looking for… Sirius splayed dramatically (somehow) in an armchair and Remus curled up into the corner of a couch.

“Oh, hi guys…”

“Don’t sound so disappointed, dovey!” Remus feigned offence and caused you to roll your eyes. You don’t know why you were so nervous. These guys were your best friends. Even if they rejected you they’d never stop wanting to be friends with you. Remus patted the space on the sofa next to him, indicating you to sit there and you obliged.

“Actually, I’ll have you know I was looking for you two.” 

“Oh, really?” Sirius raised an eyebrow.

Here goes nothing.

“I like you guys. Like in the not friendly way. And I totally get if you don’t feel the same way and don’t want me to join you guys, ‘cause I don’t even know if you’re into that, but I just wanted to tell you because it’s been eating me up inside-“

“Shut up.”

“Sirius!” Remus scolded, smacking his boyfriend on the arm with the book he was holding. You remained silent, eyebrows furrowed in an attempt to mask your sadness with confusion. Slowly, you began to stand up, ready to make a run for it.

Abruptly, Sirius exclaimed, “Where are you going?

“You told me to shut up.”

“Oh yeah, that…”

“Dovey, he’s just shocked, that’s all. We feel the same way, see?” Remus comforted

“I can’t believe you didn’t bloody know we fancied you!” Sirius sat up straighter and pulled you from Remus’ side to sit on his lap, causing you to flush.

“Wait, you really like me?”

“Yes.”

“Both of you?”

“Yes.”

“Like, actually?”

“Yes.”

“And this isn’t a prank?”

“No.”

“So James and Peter aren’t hiding around a corner ready to throw treacle and feathers on me right now?”

“No.”

“And you really, actually, truly like me?”

“*Yes*!”

“Bloody hell, woman!” Sirius smashed his lips onto yours, leaving you breathless as you relax into his embrace, threading your hands through his hair before you pull apart.

“Is that enough evidence for you, sweetheart?” Remus grins as you nod, albeit hesitantly.

“Look at me. Sirius Black. Not only is he dating the fittest boy in Hogwarts, bar himself, of course, but he’s now dating the fittest girl!”

Remus rolled his eyes at Sirius’ antics.

“Wait, so we’re dating now?”

“Yes! Christ almighty…”

[b14augrana]

Scrubber

Before you fly out for the Spain camp, you make the most of your ‘last day’ in Barcelona

Barça Femení x teen!reader

pt. 5 masterlist

Warnings: ✖️

A/N: a bit of a longer update than usual, but here’s the fridolina content people have been waiting for 🐾 sorry about this being a bit boring, it ends up being like that when bebita isn’t playing a game and making crazy tackles, but it’s not too far away from happening 💝

“Ale, you liar! You said we were leaving today!” you grumbled, wheeling your suitcase back to your room. Your backpack landed with a thud on the ground beside the suitcase, and you trudged back to the woman in the living room. “Don’t twist my words. I just told you to pack so you’re prepared for when we do leave, since you like to leave things till the last minute.”

“We’ve still got to walk downtown with all the trophies, chiquita,” Alexia added.

“So then when are we leaving?” you asked, and she responded with, “Tomorrow night… maybe. Remember, you’ve got school today as well. You wouldn’t had time to pack anyways and I did you a favour.”

“Whatever, I get it. Can we go now? Where’s Irene?” you said, walking out of your bedroom with Alexia. You two entered the kitchen and saw Irene sitting on the couch, eating a bowl of cereal.

“Ireeni,” you exclaimed, basically jumping onto the couch. She clutched her almost-empty bowl and laughed, “I could’ve spilled my cereal, nenita.”

“There‘s barely anything in it,” you replied, rolling your eyes and shuffling closer to her.

You were really tired for some reason. The fatigue of the last few days was seemingly catching up to you, and all you wanted to do was crawl into bed and stay there. Alexia wouldn’t let you do that though. She wanted you to come and walk with the trophy you helped the team earn, but you thought she was just giving you way more credit than what was due at that point.

“Ale, I didn’t even do much to be carrying the trophy!” you argued, but she looked at you with an eyebrow raised and a small smile. “Don’t be silly, you’re too humble. You did everything.”

“(Y/N), Fridolina said she is going to pick you up from here and take you downtown for breakfast,” Irene said, looking up from her phone.

You nodded happily. Fridolina was one of your most favourite people in the world. You always looked forward to café dates with her in downtown Barcelona, and she knew you better than you knew herself. She was like a mother to you.

A knock rung through the house, and you almost slipped while sprinting to the door. You wrenched it open and revealed the tall Swede on the other side of the door, smiling down at you. “Frido!”

“Hi kärlek, how are you?” the woman asked, engulfing you in a hug. “I’m good. I’ll just grab my shoes and then we can go, vale?”

“Vale,” Fridolina laughed. As you ran to your room to grab a pair of sneakers, she spoke to Irene and Alexia for a little bit. “Okay, I’m ready,” you said, emerging from your bedroom.

Fridolina waved goodbye to Irene and Alexia. You turned around and said goodbye to them as well, and then you walked out of Irene’s apartment. You two took the elevator down to the complex parking lot, and while you were stepping out of the elevator, you spoke. “Where are we going today, Frido?”

“Our usual spot. I figured you might want one of their pastries to get you going,” she smiled, opening up the door to her car, “Oh, by the way, I’m taking you to school today. I just talked about it with Irene and Alexia.”

You sat in the passenger seat, stretching out your legs, “That’s cool. Can I stay at your house tonight? I’ve been at Irene’s all week,” you asked. Fridolina nodded as she started up her car and reversed out of the car park. “Do you have clothes?”

“Oh shit, that reminds me… I have to go tomorrow. My suitcase is at Irene’s!” you exclaimed with a groan.

“It’s okay, you can always sleep over another time. That doesn’t mean you can’t stay for a bit, I can drop you off to Irene’s if you want to hang around,” Fridolina suggested.

“Perfect. Gracías, Frido!”

The rest of the car ride consisted of small conversations and a bit of singing along to the radio until Fridolina found a parking spot on the side of the street. You hopped out of the car and skipped around to the other side, then you walked into the café with Frido.

“So, how are you feeling? Are your legs alright after all those tackles?” the Scandi asked as you two sat down at a table, “I always forget you’re only 16.”

“My legs are alright for the most part. I guess the win cancels out all the bruises and grazes,” you giggled in response.

Fridolina smiled at you and added, “I’m glad you’re feeling well. You really impressed us all last Saturday. You kept us in the game.”

Your cheeks flushed a pale pink and you looked down at the table, smiling shyly, “It was all Aitana. She gave us the momentum.”

You examined the menu and tried to decide what to order. Frido discussed it with you and when you two settled on your orders, you went to the cashier and bought the food.

You had ordered a couple of almond croissants, an Earl Grey tea, and a grilled cheese. Fridolina got a coffee with a Boston cream donut on the side. While going extremely slowly, you walked over to the table with your food in hand and Fridolina’s in the other. As you placed it down and got back in your seat, she spoke.

“So, are you excited for the Olympics?” she asked, stirring her coffee and taking a sip. You took a bite out of your grilled cheese and nodded, saying between a mouthful, “Really excited.”

It was your first ever Spain call-up. Most people were a bit surprised as they expected you to have experience playing with Spain’s youth teams, and you received invites to the teams, but since you started playing for Barcelona at such a young age, your agent told you to turn them down. Somehow he knew that you’d get a call-up to the senior team not long after, and he was right.

You confided in Mapi, asking her about what she thought was the best decision to make since she had withdrawn from the national team. Despite the new management and Mapi’s reassurance you still weren’t completely sure, but you pushed it aside for the opportunity to win Olympic gold.

“What if we verse each other, Frido?” you said, thinking about the possibility. The Swede placed her cup of coffee down and leaned back in her chair and responded, “Then you treat me like any other opponent.”

“But you’re Frido, not any other opponent,” you replied.

“To you I’m Frido, but to the rest of your team I’m the rival, and they’re trying to beat me. You aren’t playing for Barcelona at the Olympics, you’re playing for Spain,” she said with a smile, taking a little bite out of her donut. She offered you some, but you declined with a quiet ‘thank you’.

As you two ate your meals, your conversation switched from that of football to more general things up until you finished your food and decided to go home. You considered going back with Frido, but you didn’t want to get too tired and annoy Alexia the next morning, when you couldn’t wake up in time, so you didn’t say anything and let her take you home.

Frido walked you to Irene’s apartment and knocked on the door. When Irene opened the door, she was met with you standing beside the Scandi, smiling brightly with both your arms wrapped around one of Frido’s. “Nenita, you’re back,” Irene exclaimed.

“I hope she didn’t blow too much of your money, Fridolina,” Irene continued with a laugh, and Fridolina laughed as well, shaking her head. “Don’t worry, she’s learning the value of it.”

“Bye bye kärlek,” Frido said, wrapping you in a warm hug. You hugged her back tightly, saying goodbye and running inside while her and Irene said bye to each other. “Where’s Ale? I thought she was staying for the day,” you spoke, flopping onto the couch.

“The trophy walk, remember? She’s meeting Fridolina, Patri and Sandra at headquarters,” Irene explained.

“Why aren’t you with them?” you questioned, looking at her with a confused expression.

“Because we’re going together. Come on, get your ‘Movem El Món’ shirt and get in the car,” the Basque replied, shaking her car keys. You completely forgot about the trophy walk and you were kinda hoping Irene forgot about it as well so you wouldn’t have to go, but you trudged to your room and snatched up the shirt anyways.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your school either!” Irene yelled from the living room. That was another thing you wish she had forgotten but the one thing you know she’d never forget.

The trophy walk was pretty straightforward. Alexia thrusted the Champions League into your arms and made you parade down the street with the silverware, showing it off. You did enjoy it, but it wasn’t worth the ache in your shoulders.

Irene let you skip your classes, and she took you straight home. She could see the exhaustion in your eyes, and she didn’t want you to suffer the consequences of being tired and unable to wake up when Alexia came to pick you up the next morning.

You skipped dinner, instead beelining straight to your room. You felt like a zombie, but you liked that kind of tiredness — it made sleeping feel way better than usual. As soon as your head touched the pillow, you were sound asleep.

Irene even did your Hay Day login for you.

Alexia had been the one to ruin your sleep since Irene had opted to travel with Mariona and Sandra. She shook you gently and was very surprised when she didn’t have to bang pots and pans. “Nena, I made breakfast for you. Come out when you’re ready, vale?”

You nodded slowly and rolled over, pulling the duvet to your chin and sighing deeply. At that point you were fully awake, you just wanted to soak up the warmth of your sheets.

You sat up on your bed, rubbing your eyes. You looked directly at the poster of Vidić stuck on your wall, your eyes lingering on it for a moment longer than usual. You looked at the picture of him holding up the UCL, knowing you felt the same euphoria just a few days ago as you held the trophy for the same title, all because you managed to capture his essence and make it part of your play style. It was amazing what a notable inspiration could do for you.

You emerged out of your room and sat at the bench, resting your head in the palm of your hand as Alexia pushed a plate of strawberry-topped waffles towards you with a smoothie. “Our flight has been rescheduled. We have to be at the airport in a couple of hours, sí?”

You nodded once again, taking a bite of the waffles.

“By the way, both our matches are against Denmark,” she added, putting some waffles on a plate for herself. “What’re we versing Denmark for? I didn’t know they qualified for the Olympics,” you mumbled.

“They didn’t. It’s for the Euros,” Alexia laughed, pulling out a stool and sitting beside you. The Euros had totally slipped your mind.

“There’s so many tournaments going on, I can’t keep up!” you sighed, shaking your head.

“You’ve been playing too much Hay Day, it’s gotten to your head. Maybe give Bagheera Land a break until we come back to Barcelona,” the Spaniard joked with a gentle nudge to your side, and you smiled.

“Even though you’re playing for the national team and there’s a lot of important tournaments coming up…” Alexia started, pausing to chew her food. You looked at her curiously as you also chewed your food.

“…You’re allowed to make mistakes because you’re still young. All of us have been where you are right now, but none of us were as talented as you. Cree en ti misma, mi chica, y florecerás.”

You had made as many daring tackles as it took to lead your club to glory for the third time in a row and complete a historical quadruple. On top of that, you had partaken in defeating the club your team has never been able to beat in a final. Winning Olympic gold with a World Cup winning nation is nothing compared to that.

“Venga, let’s get our stuff together and call the taxi. The earlier we get there, the more time we have to wander the airport without rushing,” Alexia announced as you put the last bite of food into your mouth and sipped the remaining amount of your smoothie. She grabbed your plate and put it on top of hers, then walked over to the sink and quickly washed them.

You wheeled your suitcase out to the living room and put your other bags on top of it, waiting for Alexia to grab her backpack. When she swept it up from the couch, you pulled the handle of your suitcase up. “I’m ready!”

Alexia smiled at you and nodded towards the door, “Vamos, estrella.”

You couldn’t wait to get on the plane just so you could pull out your neck pillow and have the best nap of your life. You were constantly checking the time, counting down the minutes until the gate opened.

The original plan was for the whole national team to travel on one plane together, but somehow, all the Barça girls including yourself ended up on the team commercial plane. You preferred it, because you wanted to properly meet the team and not on a plane when all you want to do is sleep.

You settled into your seat and quickly grabbed your neck pillow. The airline gave you a complimentary regular pillow as well, which you hugged tight. By the time you opened your eyes and sat up with a yawn, looking out of the window with squinted eyes, you weren’t in Barcelona anymore.

You were approaching Denmark. As the plane descended and got closer to land, a mixture of nerves and excitement formed in your stomach.

The last time you felt so nervous, you won a Champions League title. You were scared but you did it anyways, and that’s what you’d have to do when meeting your teammates for the first time and then playing against Denmark with them.

Do it anyways.