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redflagshipwriter · 9 days

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Hot Ghouls in Your Area 8

Chapter 8

Masterpost

“You're just now going to campus?” Jazz said. Danny scowled ahead at the sidewalk. Her tone wasn't judgmental so much as mildly surprised. He still hated it. “That's a lot later than usual. Is everything alright?” Danny hunched his shoulders up and consciously reminded himself not to get defensive. He wasn't slacking. He'd gotten home after his class and slept 13 hours. He still felt wiped out.

“Ghost stuff,” he said cryptically. “Ruined my night.” He dodged someone on the sidewalk without thinking about it, used to the crowds by now.

Jazz inhaled sharply into his ear. “They're supposed to leave you alone to focus on your education,” she hissed. “Just so you know, I do have the venomous Fenton electric creep stick-”

“Yeah, I know,” Danny cut her off. She was probably holding it up right now, thumb on the trigger. He couldn't fight off the rueful smile. She had his back, didn't she? Always did. With that in mind… “I think I need help,” he admitted. Oof. Felt bad. Not as bad as failing his classes, though, which was the danger if he got pulled too deep into more Ghost bull honkey.

“Of course!” Jazz enthused. He stepped off the curb and then quick-stepped backwards to avoid getting hit by some asshole running the red light. Danny lifted up his free hand to flip them off as he hung on his heels on the edge of the pavement drop. He dropped lightly back onto the balls of his feet and jogged across the street.

Jazz was still talking, voice clear over the morning meld of honking and running engines. “How about you come over to my place after your classes tonight? My roommate is out for a conference.”

“You just don't want to come to Crime Alley,” Danny accused her. “Even for me, your beloved baby brother.” He dodged a car that was parked on the cross walk and made an ugly face at the driver. “Despite your professed love for crime, when it counts, it's all talk.”

“I don't love crime,” Jazz reiterated with her inhuman patience. She didn't take the bait of his deliberate mischaracterization of her career plans. “But I am exquisitely stabbable." Her tone went lofty with the brag. "So yes, I avoid Crime Alley.”

Danny blew an unimpressed raspberry to show what he thought of that.

He hadn't met anyone in Gotham yet who he thought would really throw Jazz for a loop. She was a 6ft 2 judo black belt, and she was liminally spooky as fuck. “No one would stab you,” he said, making it sound like an insult. His janky ass was more likely to get held up. "But fine, I'll haul my poor broken corpse all the way over there to do you a favor-”

“So I can do you a favor,” Jazz corrected wryly.

“My poor broken corpse,” Danny cut back in, because that was a really relevant factor to him. He put the back of his hand to his forehead and swooned a little. He felt like he'd been in a tumble dryer. Missing a full night of sleep was an insufferable insult to his desperate shoe-string construction of a healthy routine.

“I would so get robbed if I came there,” Jazz argued. “Maybe even kidnapped.” He could all but hear her flip her hair.

He snorted but let her keep her delicate feminine delusions about not being one of the scariest motherfuckers in the crime capital of the country. He wasn't actually worried about her interning at Arkham Asylum. Maybe he'd freaked out a little when she'd moved here, but that wasn't why he was here. No matter what anyone said.

“There's no immediate danger, right?” Jazz checked. “No reason I need to be concerned today?”

“Nah,” Danny reassured her, as the campus came into sight. He had about an hour before class to spend in the lab before his lecture. “It's not that kind of problem.” He felt his face arranged itself into a wry smile. “You might like this one.”

“Oh?” Jazz asked, intrigued. “Do tell.”

“Only after I've sworn you to perfect silence,” Danny shot back instantly. “I mean it, for real, you can't tell a soul living or dead or nonliving or-”

“I think I get it,” she cut him off. Jazz huffed. “As if I can't keep a secret. You think I can't keep secrets? I know the most incredible things that you could never dream up.”

“...Big if true,” Danny snarked, pretending that he wasn't extremely interested.

“You never knew what happened to the Robinsons,” Jazz said airily. “And you never will.”

“...that doesn't bother me at all,” Danny lied. He stopped walking.

“Ahuh,” Jazz said knowingly. “Hey, remember the neon cheese incident?”

Danny gritted his teeth. “Can't say I do,” he said. It was bullshit, and even he knew it wasn't convincing Jazz. He was dying to know the truth. It had been the talk of the town for weeks and was still occasionally featured on unsolved mystery podcasts. He'd gone far enough to ask the Dairy King, but even the dead wouldn't speak on it.

“Have a good day of classes, little brother,” Jazz said sweetly. She ended the call.

He rubbed at his temples. Ancients, she gave him a headache. She was fantastic. She was killing him and absolutely ruining his unlife. He couldn't even beg her for answers about the neon cheese, because if he managed to badger it out of her, it would prove she could be manipulated into telling secrets. That would be a loss anyway. It was more likely that either she didn't know anything or that she knew and her lips would stay sealed: Danny didn't have any to waste his breath.

He did a few calming rounds of breathing, now that he was thinking about it, and then went on with his day a bit invigorated by the familial aggravation.

Danny felt a little better about focusing on class now that he knew he could count on Jazz in his corner. She was the smartest person he knew. She could probably get him divorced by the end of the day. Hell, she probably already had a contingency plan for getting him a divorce. She was so ready for him to have a relationship so that he would have relationship problems to ask her about.

When he finished up on campus, Danny cut across town to pick up takeout food as an offering. He presented it to Jazz as soon as she opened the door, head bowed and food theatrically high.

“Oh, come in,” Jazz said, exasperated. She grabbed him by the back of his collar and bodily pulled him inside. “My neighbors are going to think I'm so weird, Danny!”

“My liege,” he intoned seriously. “I come bearing- ow! Stop hitting my- hey, my face!” Danny wrestled away from the horrible pinching grip his terrible sister had on his cheeks, scowling. “That hurt,” he complained. “Have you ever thought that you're getting caught up in the cycle of violence?”

“I don't lose sleep over it.” Jazz lowered herself delicately onto one of the weird puffs she had instead of chairs and made grabby hands at the takeout. “What did you get me?”

“Coal,” Danny snarked. But he handed over the bag without a fight and plopped himself onto the closest poof thing. He fully laid out and let his head flop past the edge to hang upside down.

“Inversion therapy, so chic,” Jazz said absently.

He considered flipping her off, but his balance was really off in this position and it would be hard to defend himself if she lunged at him. Hell, if she picked up his legs he'd probably tip over onto the floor. Danny dug his heels into the side of the poof in defensive preparation. He kept her in his peripheral vision.

“Oh, Malaysian,” Jazz enthused. “I wanted to have this!” She sounded a little too surprised.

He shot her a thumbs up. Two days ago, she'd sent him a screenshot of a text landing from someone else that had shown most of her screen was the active map app she was using to get to an appointment. The Malaysian restaurant had the star mark that she put on the places that she wanted to try.

He'd gambled that she hadn't gone yet because she hadn't had a late night at work. Jazz only got takeout with company or if she got home too late to cook.

“Cool,” Danny said, because he didn't want his rotten sister to think he cared about her interests. “It was on the way and it smelled good.”

Jazz hummed and put the food on the side table. “So I see.” She folded her fingers in front of her face and peered at him over the steeple. “What happened? What ghost do I need to soup with a fragrant combination of turmeric and saffron?”

“Please don't waste that, ghosts taste fine on their own,” Danny said.

Jazz grimaced. “Ew, Danny,” she enunciated carefully. She paused. “Ew.”

He shrugged and accidentally slipped a little closer to the floor. “Just saying. But actually, no one dead was involved, unless we count-”

“We don't count,” Jazz cut him off, serenely unbothered by his attempts to score empathy points off his death. She was a cold customer.

“Boo,” Danny said, because he knew his brand and respected ghost tradition. “Anyway, Jeremy Waters. Remember -”

“How could I forget,” Jazz muttered. She put her hands on her face.

“Hey,” Danny said, offended that Jeremy got that reaction and he got a big fat impassive nothing no matter how annoying he was.

“What’s Jeremy done?” Jazz sounded exhausted by the concept.

“Well… He uh.” Danny stared at the ceiling. He couldn't look at her directly. “Well. You know how he wants the good favor of the god of the underworld?”

“Yup.” Jazz hit the ‘p’ sound hard.

“He uh, hit the idea that uh. Maybe a Persephone of sorts was just the thing to suck up.”

He heard fabric rustle as Jazz sat up. “He did?”

Wow, she had one of the most fascinating ceilings in the world. Danny stared intently up at a splotch that looked vaguely malign. She ought to get that checked out by an expert before it possessed somebody. “Yeah, so he's been trying to vault people into the Ghost Zone as bridal sacrifices.”

“Ahuh.” Jazz sounded a little bit choked up. She wasn't laughing, so he couldn't complain.

“I had Dani get Vlad look into it-” because Dad or Mom would have been mortifying- “and apparently, he told her the odds of some hack wizard managing to send a living human to the ghost zone was laughable.”

He paused. He couldn't go on.

“And Vlad would know,” Jazz said leadingly.

Danny put a hand over his face. “Yeah, see, the thing is that I'm now very concerned that Vlad might not know.” His words came out muffled.

Jazz was so intent on him. He pretended even harder not to know she was leaning in towards him. “Does- does the ghost king have a bride, Danny?” She somehow managed in a professional tone.

He nodded miserably.

She promptly lost her shit laughing at his misfortune.

#red hot ghouls #dp x dc #dc x dp #dead on main #dc fanfic

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ginnsbaker · 9 months

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In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (21/23)

Chapter summary: Christmas Eve; A person from Wanda's past prompts another bout of jealousy in you; Wanda surprises you with a Christmas present; You and Pietro talk it out after the festivities

Chapter word count: 7.5k+ | Tags: Mild Angst, Healing, Comfort | Ship: Wanda x Female Reader

Author's note: The second part of Christmas in LA. We continue wrapping up some relationships. Enjoy! :)

AO3 | Masterlist

Next part: Twenty-two

Twenty-One

Christmas Eve

The ride with Shannon begins in an uneasy silence. With the only sound being the hum of the car and the occasional directions from the GPS, the quietness feels heavy, making your palms sweat against the leather steering wheel.

“We need to pick up groceries first, then dry cleaning, and oh, there's a new shop selling artisanal cheese I've been dying to try,” she reels off her list of errands, her tone light and almost jovial, easing some of the tension in the car.

However, as the silence descends once again, there's a question that's been burning on your tongue since you stepped into her house, and it seems like the perfect opportunity to ask it.

“Shannon,” you start, your voice sounding unusually loud in the quiet car, “This might be a strange question, but...did you recognize me when I walked into your office for that interview at Stark Industries?”

There's a momentary pause, and you worry you've crossed some invisible line. But then Shannon chuckles, a light, easy sound, that oddly enough, puts you at ease.

“Well, I was wondering when you would ask,” she admits with a smirk. “Yes, I recognized you. But I didn't want to make things awkward by bringing it up.”

As you reach the grocery store and park the car, Shannon turns to you, offering a grateful smile. “Thanks for helping out, Y/N. It's been quite hectic with the preparations and all.”

On the way back, you spot a small coffee shop nestled between a bookstore and a flower shop. The sign in the window catches your eye–'Single Origin Beans' it reads, and you remember your conversation with Wanda on the plane.

“Shannon," you blurt out without taking your eyes off the signage. “Would you mind if we stop by that coffee store over there? I'd love to check out some of their beans."

She looks over to where you're pointing, and her face lights up in approval. “Oh, I've heard fantastic things about this place. Let's go.”

As you pull over, you can't help but think about Wanda and her upcoming competition, hoping that this little detour might just be the secret ingredient she needs to make her mark at the Cup-off.

As you and Shannon step into the shop, you are immediately enveloped by a blend of heady aromas–nutty, smoky, and unmistakably coffee. The smell is intoxicating, and you can't help but breathe it in deeply.

A world map on one wall is dotted with markers showing where their beans are sourced–Ethiopia, Colombia, Kenya, Indonesia, Guatemala, and more.

Shannon seems equally impressed, her eyes taking in the array of beans displayed in glass jars behind the counter, each labeled with its country of origin and tasting notes. She glances back at you, her gaze curious.

“You're into coffee as well?” she asks, opening a particular jar to sniff at its contents.

“Well, I love it. I’m the original coffee drinker between the two of us,” you clarify. “But I’m looking mainly for Wanda. She's the enthusiast. I'm... more of the support crew.”

“So Wanda only started drinking coffee because of you?”

“I suppose you could say that,” you say, your mind drifting back to an amusing memory of one of your early dates with Wanda. She had attempted to impress you by ordering your favorite drink, not realizing it was a bold concoction of three shots of espresso and nothing else. “Although I don’t think she enjoys drinking it as much as I do. It's more of a part of her daily routine now.”

A smile spreads across Shannon's face as she shakes her head. You give her a funny look and ask, “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Shannon shrugs off your question. “That girl is so head over heels for you.”

You feel your cheeks heat up. “Why would you say that?”

“She's taken something she's passionate about and turned it into something impactful. Something enjoyed by everyday people,” Shannon explains.

“I wouldn't exactly say coffee is her passion, though–”

“It's you, Y/N,” Shannon interjects, rolling her eyes playfully. “You are her passion. She excelled in coffee-making because it's something you love. And it's a beautiful thing, to shape a passion around someone you care about so deeply.”

“But it's rather strange, isn't it?” Shannon adds a while later. She digs her hand inside a bag of beans and takes a handful, then leans in to inhale its scent.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Well,” Shannon continues, “Considering how much she adores you, must be one of the universe’ greatest mysteries as to why she would ever cheat on you.”

You find yourself taken aback, unsure if you should feel insulted or if you should just brush it off. Her remark is quite out of the blue, and she doesn't seem to grasp how inappropriate it is. It seems that Shannon may be the sort of person who speaks without considering the impact of her words.

But, in her candid, albeit tactless, comment, you get a glimpse of another side of her–one that's less reserved and more carefree than you had initially perceived.

Before you can think of something to reply, a voice cuts in, causing you and Shannon to jerk your heads towards the source.

“Welcome! Can I help you find something particular?”

The voice belongs to the shopkeeper, an elderly gentleman sporting a smile as warming as a hot cup of chocolate. You return his smile with a slightly sheepish one, confessing, “I actually have no idea. My wif–my, uh, partner joined this annual coffee competition in NYC. I thought I might surprise her with some unique beans to experiment with.”

“Sounds like a wonderful gift!” he exclaims, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. He hobbles over to a nearby shelf filled with an array of coffee bags. “Well, if she's in a competition, I'd suggest trying a couple of different single-origin beans to get a variety of flavors.”

He reaches up to a shelf and pulls down a bag of coffee. “This here is a single-origin bean from Ethiopia. Known for its bright and fruity flavors, it's a favorite among many coffee connoisseurs.”

Setting that bag down, he moves over to another shelf. “And over here we have a single-origin bean from Colombia. This one has a richer, more full-bodied profile with notes of dark chocolate and a nutty finish.”

He hands both bags to you, his aged yet firm hands transferring the beans with a sense of reverence. “I think these two could provide some interesting flavors for her to experiment with. What do you think?”

A thoughtful hum escapes you as you consider the shopkeeper's recommendations. The Ethiopian and Colombian beans definitely sound like a good place to start, but you want to give Wanda something a little more... unexpected.

“Do you have anything else?” you ask. “Maybe something more unconventional? A wildcard, if you will.”

The shopkeeper looks at you for a moment, as if sizing up your level of coffee knowledge and daring. Then a slow smile spreads across his face. “Well, I do have something rather special,” he admits, leading you to the far corner of the shop.

He reaches behind a stack of bags, pulling out a smaller, unassuming bag. “This here is a single-origin bean from a tiny town in the northernmost region of Japan. It's not widely known for its coffee cultivation, but I have a friend there who has been growing these beans using a unique method. He's a former whiskey brewer and has applied some of the techniques from brewing to coffee cultivation.”

He hands over the bag and you take it, intrigued by the origin and backstory. The beans look slightly lighter than the other two bags, and you can almost smell the promise of a unique flavor profile.

“This is a real wildcard,” the shopkeeper adds with a wink. “It's unlike anything else you'll find. But tell your partner to be careful. These beans require a bit more finesse to fully bring out their complex flavors.”

You can't help but smile. This is exactly the kind of thing you were hoping to find. Something different and exciting for Wanda to work with, that would also show your support and faith in her skills. A perfect blend, in more ways than one.

“Seeing you so lovesick over your ex makes me want to gag,” Shannon comments, once you've finished your transaction with the shopkeeper.

You turn to her, eyebrow arched, “Are you always this tactless?”

She just laughs, the sound echoing in the quiet of the shop, and then completely ignores your question. “You know what? Now I see why you and Wanda are so perfect for each other.”

“And why is that?” you blink at her, intrigued despite yourself.

She shrugs, her smile knowing. “Because despite everything, you still do this shit like she’s the best thing that's ever happened to you. And I bet she’s the same.”

With those words, she heads out of the shop, leaving you standing there awkwardly, still processing her words. Her straightforwardness was unexpected but kind of refreshing. You shake your head, smiling to yourself as you follow her out.

“...Wh-Where was I?” Your words hitch as Wanda tenderly grazes her teeth over your jugular.

“You were saying that Shannon is kind of a bitch,” Wanda whispers, continuing her assault.

You chuckle lightly but it quickly transforms into a low moan. “Well, she is, but I think that's just her way of dealing with things.”

Wanda hums against your skin, a small laugh escaping her lips. “She certainly seems to have a unique perspective,” she concedes, withdrawing slightly to look you in the eyes. “But she's right about one thing.”

“And what would that be?” you ask breathlessly as you feel Wanda’s fingers trail their way up your stomach, under your shirt.

She gives you a teasing grin, the irises of her eyes pitch black as she playfully declares, “That you're smitten with me.”

You blink in surprise. “Wait, what? She said that?”

You feel Wanda’s smile against your skin before her tongue slips out to lick the sweat that has gathered under your ear. “Yes, she did. Told me right when you two got back home earlier.”

“Well, can't argue with that,” you concede, pulling her closer. The conversation drifts, forgotten, drowned in Wanda’s lips against yours and her hand squeezing your tit as she finally pushes her tongue inside your mouth.

“W-Wands,” you whine as your ex-wife’s other hand moves to cup you over your leggings. Wanda ignores you, rubbing your clit achingly slow as her tongue flickers in and out of your mouth, teasing you relentlessly.

“Wands,” you try again.

“What?” she husks out, her tone dripping with impatience and arousal.

“Is this a good idea? I mean… We… oh god,” you groan against her cheek when she slips her hand inside your underwear and zeroes in on your opening, collecting the wetness there before spreading them upwards towards your clit.

“Try saying that again, love?” Wanda murmurs with a smirk.

“Uh, w-we scheduled an appointment with–”

Your words fail you at this point when Wanda inserts a finger into your pussy, burying it two knuckles deep at once.

“Fuck–”

Wanda swallows your scream with a kiss, and she smiles as she feels the vibrations of your moans as she starts thrusting her finger in and out of your hole.

“I love it when you’re so loud, baby,” Wanda whispers into your ear before biting your lobe. “But we need to keep quiet. Can you do that, sweetheart?”

She senses your nod, but just as she's about to introduce another finger, your laptop interrupts with its ringing sound.

It’s a video call request from none other than your therapist.

You immediately extricate yourself from Wanda's grasp, causing her to groan in frustration at the untimely interruption. Your skin bears a heated flush and you hurriedly straighten your disheveled hair, trying to ignore how wet your inner thighs have gotten as you hit the accept button on the incoming video call.

There’s a satisfying grin on Wanda’s face as she observes the way you press your legs together, trying to relieve some of the tension she caused there.

“Y/N? Wanda? Can you hear me?” Calliope’s voice breaks through the speakers. The video is still loading and you can’t see her on the screen yet.

Understanding that the call includes her as well, Wanda quickly composes herself, matching your effort to regain decency. Both of you adjust your clothing, smooth down your hair, and take a deep breath.

“Am I disturbing anything?” Calliope inquires, an undercurrent of amusement lacing her tone. Your face turns a deeper shade of red at the hint of her insinuation, and you quickly shake your head in denial.

“With Christmas looming so near, I'd totally understand if you two prefer to reschedule–”

“No, it's okay,” you interject hastily. “Wanda and I are ready for this.”

The sound of Wanda's soft chuckle resonates beside you, and in a playful retort, you nudge her rib with your elbow. She responds with a firm, “Yes, we certainly are.”

Simultaneously, she reaches for your hand, weaving your fingers together in a comforting interlock, resting them gently on her lap. You smile inwardly, feeling more giddy about the intimate nature of this small action than the sex that almost happened.

Without further ado, Calliope delves directly into the agenda of this, your third session. She invites you and Wanda to share what your married life was like prior to the indiscretion, and you find yourself taking the lead.

“Honestly, it felt like we had a perfect marriage,” you start off. “Not just the marriage, but our entire life seemed idyllic. My career was progressing as planned. Wanda... She was my pillar, always there, always supportive.” You look at Wanda adoringly and in return, she offers a shy, hesitant smile, her eyes momentarily flickering away before meeting yours again. You don’t notice, but there’s something else there. Her demeanor has shifted ever since Calliope brought up the session’s main topic.

Her fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours as you continue, recounting the times when you both laughed together, celebrated successes, and held each other through tougher days.

“And it wasn't just that she was supportive,” you add, your voice catching slightly. “She was, and still is, my best friend. We shared everything.”

Wanda's quiet during your monologue. The room is silent except for the low hum of the laptop and the occasional soft exhale from Wanda. After a moment, Calliope's calm voice pierces the quiet.

“Thank you for sharing that,” she says. “Wanda, would you like to share your perspective now?”

Wanda nods and lets go of your hand, her eyes filled with a somber resolve, her voice quieter when she finally speaks.

“Over the course of our five-year marriage, I was mostly content–happy. However, I often found myself feeling like a shadow, rather than an…equal partner.”

You whip your head towards Wanda, but her eyes stay stuck on the laptop screen. It takes a few seconds longer before she finally turns her gaze towards you and says, “For the last few months before I–before what happened–it felt like I was just trailing behind you, almost constantly. But it's not your fault.

“I was grappling with feelings of inadequacy when I... made that mistake,” she continues, her voice faltering slightly as she alludes to her infidelity. “I was in a state of confusion, and despite your joy and accomplishments, I was unable to share in that same level of happiness,” Wanda finishes.

Just when you believe you're set for an easygoing session, life throws you a curveball. It seems each encounter with Calliope pops the cozy bubble you've created with Wanda. Each time you're certain you've navigated the thickest of storms, another one brews on the horizon, causing your heart to question–yet again–the durability of this second shot at a relationship with your ex-wife.

Wanda swallows hard, before adding, “And then there was the struggle to start a family. You were the one who wanted children, but when it got tough... I felt like I was in it far deeper than you were. You were supportive, yes, but it felt like I was alone in the intensity of wanting it, needing it.”

“What made you feel like I wasn't with you through this?" you ask, a tinge of frustration seeping in your tone.

She takes a moment before responding, “When I couldn't get pregnant, you seemed so quick to dismiss our failure... it made me feel even more isolated.”

You shake your head. She couldn’t be further from how it really was for you, but you can’t blame her if that was how she felt during those times.

“I'm sorry if it seemed like I was dismissive,” you whisper as memories play back in your mind, each one revealing nuances you hadn't recognized at the time. “It wasn't my intention to belittle our struggle. I guess... I just didn't want to see you in more pain than you were already in. I thought being optimistic and pushing forward would help us cope, but I see now how that might have come across as indifference.”

“Weren't you upset with me?” Wanda asks, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We invested so much for me to conceive and... and I failed. Do you... do you resent me for that?”

“Wanda,” you say, your voice choked with emotion, “I never cared about the money. And you didn't fail. It's a process, and sometimes it's a tough one. But I don't resent you, not for a moment. My disappointment was never with you, but with the situation. I felt...helpless.”

“Helpless,” you reiterate, your eyes steadfastly meeting Wanda's. “Because I was at a loss on how to support you... how to alleviate your pain.”

Your voice, once steady, falters slightly as you confess, “Each doctor's appointment, every unsuccessful attempt... It felt like I was failing you, like I couldn't provide the comfort or solution you needed.”

You draw a shaky breath before adding, “And in my helplessness, I pushed for us to move forward right away. But now I realize...it might have felt to you like I was dismissing your pain, dismissing our shared struggle. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Wanda murmurs, her voice heavy with regret. There's a softness in her gaze as she looks at you. “I’m sorry for not telling you what I was feeling.”

Just as you're about to respond, Calliope cuts in. “The reason I asked you both to share your perspectives on your marriage before is to gauge the level of openness and communication between you two. Communication is one of the key bridges to trust. If we understand where we each stood before, we can better see clearly where we want to go.”

With this new revelation, you can't help but wonder about other instances where your and Wanda's perspectives may have diverged significantly.

It makes you wonder, what other moments had been experienced so differently by the two of you? How many times have you found yourselves adrift on separate pages of the same story?

A cold shiver of uncertainty sweeps through you. You're not sure you're ready to dive deep into the past, to unpack five years of the life you had shared with Wanda.

The thought of your dissolved marriage possibly being built on illusion rather than truth feels scary, like realizing a favorite story might not be as real as you once thought.

The topic left untouched so far is how this disconnect relates to Wanda's act of infidelity. Despite your discomfort, the question lingers in your mind: If you were to misunderstand her feelings once more, would it drive Wanda away again?

You hold your tongue for the time being. Maybe there'll be a moment later to wrestle with this thought... or perhaps, you find yourself wishing, it might simply fade away with time.

A couple of hours later, you and Wanda find yourselves working together in the kitchen. The session with Calliope has ended on a less intense note (thankfully) with an anecdote about her cat after Wanda made a request for Calliope to share something about herself for a change.

Afterwards, Calliope, not one to shy away from uncomfortable questions, had boldly asked about your and Wanda's physical intimacy. In response to your surprised silence, she suggested a temporary pause on sexual activities. Her reasoning was that sex, while a key component in a relationship, could sometimes blur the perception of the emotional state of the partnership and hinder the process of rebuilding trust.

In place of physical intimacy, Calliope suggested an exercise known as “Eye Gazing”. The idea was simple: sit across from each other in a quiet room, looking into each other's eyes without speaking. It's an exercise designed to foster emotional connection and understanding, without the distraction of words.

As you stir the simmering soup and Wanda deftly slices the vegetables, the appetizing smell of your evening meal fills the room. The intensity of the session's discussions seems to recede, replaced by the cheer that Christmas Eve unfailingly brings as it approaches.

“Mom's home!” Pietro yells from outside, his voice bubbling with excitement over the Taylor Swift songs that Shannon has playing in the kitchen. Shannon's taken charge of directing the preparation of the prime rib and turkey, even though she's doing little more than calling the shots. It's almost as if she's forgotten that there's a seasoned cook in the house–someone who actually runs their own food and beverage business.

Wanda freezes at Pietro’s announcement and you put a hand on the small of her back and lean in to ask, “Are you okay?”

She nods and assures you further with a smile.

A few seconds later, the arrival of the twins’ mother is heralded by her appreciative comment about the tantalizing aroma wafting from the kitchen. You've only seen Iryna twice. The first time was when you drove Wanda to her hometown for a visit, and the last time was at a hospital, following a drug overdose just before you and Wanda tied the knot–an incident that was the final push for Wanda to sever all ties with her.

She appears significantly healthier compared to the grim memory etched in your mind. Her skin has a renewed vitality to it, and she's gained enough weight to fill out the hollow cheeks that you recall. Without the traces of addiction evident on her physique, she’s a dead ringer for Wanda.

You stop what you're doing, curious to see the reunion that would unfold.

Pietro’s arm is slung over Iryna’s shoulders as she laughs at something her son said. Wanda appears small and uneasy in the corner, waiting for her mother's recognition, uncertain whether she should be the one to make the first move.

“Wanda, dear!” Iryna calls out to Wanda with a wide smile, but as she makes her way to her daughter, she is intercepted by Shannon who greets her with a kiss on the cheek and engages her briefly in small talk. Wanda looks on, the corners of her lips downturned, and you can almost see the conflict of emotions in her wide, green eyes.

Finally, Pietro pulls his pregnant wife aside so that Iryna can have her moment with Wanda.

“Iryna,” Wanda murmurs, her voice choked with emotion. As her mother comes to a stop in front of her, Wanda can't help but notice how the years have softened her features.

“Hello, Dove,” Iryna's voice is tender, brimming with an affection Wanda had almost forgotten. Without another word, Iryna wraps her arms around Wanda, pulling her into a hug that feels like home.

Wanda stiffens momentarily, the walls she's built over the years making her hesitate. But as her mother's familiar scent fills her senses, she can't help but let go, letting the warmth of the hug thaw her frozen heart. Her hands tentatively rise, resting on her mother's back.

Tears prick at her eyes, tears she stubbornly fights back. She'd told herself countless times she never wanted to see her mother again, that she could live without her. But standing here, enveloped in her, she realizes just how much she had missed Iryna. At the same time, this woman feels like a new person, and she realizes she’s more than willing to embrace this opportunity to get to know her.

“Hey, where should I put this?”

All heads swivel toward the door where a man stands, holding a case of beer and sporting a friendly smile. With his chiseled features and confident posture, he could easily be mistaken for a model straight out of a Men's Health magazine. Around your age and undeniably attractive, your eyes quickly dart to Wanda, trying to read her reaction.

Wanda looks genuinely surprised, her eyes widening slightly as she takes in the newcomer.

And there it is again, that constricting feeling in your chest, the sudden, inexplicable need to claim Wanda as yours and yours alone. You're unable to shake off the feeling, even as you remind yourself that Wanda's reaction is likely just a response to an unexpected guest.

You should trust her, after all.

Pietro is the first to recover from the surprise, a grin breaking across his face. “Tom!” he exclaims, laughing as he moves to take the beer from him. “Kitchen counter's fine.”

You wrack your brain to place this “Tom,” mentally sifting through the countless Maximoff family photos you've seen, but come up empty.

But then, as he strides towards Wanda with a familiarity that tugs at a memory, it suddenly clicks.

Yes, Tom. Wanda and Pietro's childhood friend, and also Wanda's ex-boyfriend.

“I forgot to mention,” Pietro starts, turning to the rest of the room with an apologetic grin, “Tom, our friend from back home, recently moved to town. He's new here and doesn't really know anyone yet, so I thought he could join us for tonight's dinner.”

A casual round of handshakes and friendly smiles makes its way to Tom, each person sharing a word or two of welcome.

When the introductions circle back to you, you accept his handshake, offering your name and a casual, “Merry Christmas,” before excusing yourself to grab a beer from the fridge.

A second later, Wanda is at your side, her fingers finding yours. She leans close to your ear and murmurs, “I've told you about Tom, right?”

“Your ex-boyfriend?” You keep your tone neutral. “Yeah, you did.”

“Yup, that's him,” she confirms, nodding in his direction, her eyes searching yours for any signs of distress.

Finding your gaze locked onto Tom, you can't help but analyze him in every way. It's not your nature to be the jealous type, but after Wanda's affair, insecurity has a way of creeping into your thoughts every now and then. Perhaps Calliope hit the nail on the head; having sex with Wanda frequently might have lulled you into a false sense of security.

Meanwhile, Wanda's eyes are trained on you, her attention riveted to your reactions. Her indifference to Tom's presence is obvious, but you miss this entirely, too occupied with quelling the unexpected stir of jealousy within you.

She squeezes your fingers to get you to look at her, and when you do, you see nothing but total devotion in those green orbs.

“Why don't we get back to our cooking, huh?” she suggests with a small, warm smile.

It’s a reprieve from being helpless to your not entirely baseless worries. That’s Wanda for you–always able to draw you back, grounding you in moments like this.

Dinner is a massive success. Shannon revels in the praise, beaming with satisfaction. You and Wanda let her take all the credit, just happy to see everyone enjoy themselves.

Iryna keeps everyone entertained with funny stories from when Wanda and Pietro were kids, and the whole table is laughing. Tom joins in, too, sharing some memories and even shooting friendly smiles at you and Wanda. It still bothers you a little, but seeing Wanda enjoy herself helps you push it aside.

You can't help but watch Wanda throughout the evening. She's completely caught up in the Christmas cheer, her eyes lighting up like the twinkling lights around the room. Every once in a while, she looks your way, and when your eyes meet, you feel a warmth that's hard to describe.

After eleven years together, you'd think the initial thrill would fade, the love might settle into something comfortable and familiar. But with Wanda, it's different. It's almost frightening how you keep falling for her harder as the years go by.

Fortunately, no one bothers to reminisce about Tom and Wanda’s dating history, and you’re grateful for everybody’s consideration and respect for you and Wanda’s attempts at a reconciliation.

Still, a knot tightens in your stomach each time you notice Wanda and Tom sharing a knowing smile over Pietro's tales from their hometown. Your grip on your cutlery hardens as Tom attempts to engage Wanda in a casual chat or praises her culinary skills.

You find yourself imagining quite a few things, your mind drifting to their shared past and what they might have once been to each other. The more you think about it, the more you spiral into an unpleasant series of what-ifs and maybes.

Silently, you push your chair back and stand, excusing yourself. Except for Wanda, they don’t find anything amiss at your departure, their cheerful chatter resuming unimpeded.

A minute or so later, Wanda takes her leave as well, seeking you out. She discovers you in the guest room, the one both of you have been sharing, standing on the balcony, staring off into the distance.

She joins you at the balcony, her hand instinctively finding yours. “Is everything okay?” she asks, her voice soft, threading with concern.

In front of you, the landscape of Los Angeles stretches out, utterly unlike the steel jungle of New York you're used to. There are hills undulating in the distance, a patchwork of houses and greenery, the quiet echo of the ocean's waves caressing the shore, and an abundance of space that makes you feel both small and infinite at once.

Her thumb gently rubs soothing circles on the back of your hand.

“Talk to me,” she gently urges.

You've always prided yourself on your level-headedness, your rational thinking. But jealousy... It is a powerful emotion, tearing at the edges of your pride.

“I don't know how to say this without sounding pathetic,” you sigh, your eyes dropping to where your fingers are entwined. “But watching you and Tom, laughing and sharing stories, it stirred up feelings I didn't expect. I felt... jealous. And I know it's ridiculous and irrational. I know you're not... you're not going to just... But I can't help how I feel.”

The confession leaves a sour taste in your mouth. You don't know what you're expecting Wanda to say. An apology, reassurance, a confession of her own perhaps. The silence stretches, heavy and awkward, but you can't find the courage to look at her.

“I get why you're feeling this way. It's because of me. Because of what I did… and I’m sorry for that,” Wanda’s voice comes out hoarse from laughing so many times at the dinner table.

It’s becoming a pattern: you being upset and Wanda apologizing over and over again. And it’s not even her fault this time.

“I can't control how you feel, and I don't want to pretend that I know what you're going through. But what I can do is keep showing up for you, keep proving that I'm all yours. That's all I can do, and that's what I promise,” she says. She moves closer, hugging you from behind, her arms encircling your waist. You feel her chin resting on your shoulder, and her warmth begins to envelop you. You let out a soft sigh.

Her honesty strikes a chord within you. You look at her, her eyes reflecting the moonlight, and in that moment, you want to believe her.

You want and want and want. But when does the wanting transform into reality?

Still keeping her hold, she murmurs in your ear, “You know, I think now might be a good time for your Christmas gift.”

You turn to face her in surprise, the earlier heavy conversation momentarily forgotten. “A Christmas gift?” you echo, and she simply nods, her smile widening a touch.

“Yep, and I've been holding onto it for the right moment,” she explains, releasing you from her embrace to reach into her pocket. She retrieves a small box, its exterior adorned with intricate details and a shiny ribbon.

Her eyes find yours, alive with anticipation and a flicker of nervousness that is so uncharacteristic of her. She hands the box over to you, maintaining eye contact all the while.

"Go on, open it," she urges.

You look at her once more before directing your attention to the small package in your hands. Unraveling the ribbon and lifting the lid, you're met with a glint of silver catching the ambient light.

Inside the box lies a delicate silver chain, a pendant attached at its center. The pendant is a small compass, intricately detailed and with a vintage aura. What surprises you more is the small photo inside the compass. It's a picture of you and Wanda, the first one you took together as friends inside a photobooth.

Your breath catches in your throat as you carefully lift the necklace from its cushioned home. You can't take your eyes off the image. It's a snapshot of a time when you both were deeply in love but unaware of it, where everything was fresh and new and brimming with hope and ambition.

A memory of pure, undiluted happiness.

“Wanda…” you start, feeling an inexplicable lump in your throat.

“I know we can't go back in time,” she interrupts softly. “But this...this is my promise to you. I want to go forward, create more moments like these, and give you a reason to trust me again.”

You glance at the necklace in your hand, then at the one adorning Wanda's neck–the necklace that carries her wedding ring. An overwhelming desire washes over you to remove it from its chain and place it back where it truly belongs: on Wanda's finger. But you swiftly check yourself. You're moving too fast, allowing your hopes to get ahead of reality. You resolve to not act impulsively, to not assume anything.

You turn in Wanda’s arms to face her, a sheepish grin on your lips. “You know, I also got you a Christmas gift,” you confess, a bit hesitant. “Though it's nothing compared to this, and now I feel... a little embarrassed.”

Wanda's eyes sparkle with anticipation and a hint of amusement. She releases you and steps back, crossing her arms in front of her. “Oh, really? And here I thought you were going to outdo me,” she teases, chuckling at the red hue now spreading across your cheeks.

You let out a resigned sigh, knowing there's no way you can compete with the sentimentality of her gift. “Just... don't laugh, okay?” you warn her, but she's already grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Nervously, you reach into your suitcase, pulling out a box about the size of a shoebox, wrapped carefully in nondescript brown paper. As you hand it over to Wanda, your heartbeat escalates, thumping loudly in your ears.

“I just... I mean, it's nothing grand like yours,” you stutter, your cheeks flushing. “It feels a bit silly now, to be honest.”

Wanda merely smiles at you. “Stop it, I'm sure it's wonderful.”

Gently, she tears into the paper wrapping, unveiling a box. Inside it, three distinct bags of single-origin coffee beans sit.

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise as she takes in the contents of the box. “You got me coffee?” she echoes, an undertone of laughter coloring her voice.

Nodding bashfully, you say, “Yeah, I figured it could come in handy for the Cup-off.”

A chuckle escapes Wanda, and she lifts one of the bags to her nose, inhaling deeply. “These smell incredible,” she says, grinning at you. “This is such a thoughtful gift. Thank you. It’s just perfect.”

Your chest warms as you watch Wanda cradle the bags of coffee, a genuine smile lighting up her face.

“I’m sure this will help me make the best cup,” Wanda says.

You pull her in for a short but sweet kiss and say, “You already do.”

Much later, when everyone’s dozing off (Shannon) and catching up in small groups (Wanda and Iryna), Tom bids his goodbye to everyone, much to your relief. Your discomfort around him lingered in the background, even as you and Wanda returned to the living room to continue the celebrations and watch everyone else exchange Christmas presents.

Just as you're beginning to feel a bit more relaxed, Pietro approaches you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Hey, mind if I steal you for a second?” he asks, nodding towards the garden visible through the glass doors.

Puzzled, you glance at Wanda, but she’s in a deep and serious conversation with her mother.

You shrug your shoulders and say, “Sure, Pietro, lead the way.”

He walks you out into the cool night; it’s completely quiet except for the serenade of crickets hiding in the backyard.

Pietro settles onto a stone bench, and then gestures for you to join him.

As you take a seat, he fishes out a rolled blunt from his pocket. You merely raise an eyebrow and shake your head, waving away his offer.

His smirk broadens at your reaction. “Well, maybe it's worth a try. Might help you chill out a bit,” he suggests with a teasing note in his voice.

“No, thanks. I’m chill as it is,” you say.

“Really? Because I couldn't help but notice you weren't so 'chill' when Tom was around earlier.”

You hesitate, not expecting Pietro to call you out like this. “Was it that obvious?”

You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck. He then takes a generous puff of his blunt before exhaling slowly.

Suddenly, Pietro looks you in the eyes and asks, “Do you love Wanda?”

The directness of the question catches you off guard, more so than his earlier suggestion to try a blunt. You’re slightly offended that he feels the need to ask you this.

When you remain quiet and withdrawn for a long time, Pietro speaks again. “It’s not a rhetorical question by the way. I do want to know if you love Wanda.”

Finally, you turn towards him, brow furrowed, a hint of indignation in your eyes. “What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one. Do you love my sister?”

Yes.

Always.

Nevertheless.

The answer has always been clear to you, but instead, you return the volley. “Why are you asking? What's this about?” You challenge, more skeptical now about his motives behind such a question than providing him with an answer.

He meets your gaze, an uncharacteristic intensity in his eyes. “Because if you really loved her, why did you let it come to this?” he asks pointedly. “Why did you let things fall apart? Why didn't you fight for your marriage? You hurt her, Y/N. You hurt my sister.”

He continues, “And I know the extent of how much you hurt her. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“Wait, what?” You choke out, disbelieving.

Pietro simply shrugs. “It was me,” he repeats, his voice steady, unrepentant. “I was the one who sent you that photo of Wanda in the hospital. I wanted you to see. To know.”

The shock is enough to rob you of words. Shame wells up inside you.

He smirks in satisfaction and mumbles to himself, “Yeah, that kinda felt good.”

The words seem to get stuck in your throat; they press in on you, making it hard to breathe.

Finally, you find your voice, though it comes out as more of a whisper, your eyes fixed on a nondescript point on the floor. “At that time... I was so deeply hurt. I believed, truly believed, that Wanda didn't love me anymore.” You swallow hard, your throat feeling painfully dry.

“And I didn't want to fight for our marriage because... I was scared. Scared to fail if I tried, scared to prolong the agony only to find out in the end that there’s nothing to save.” Your voice cracks slightly, as if the wound is still fresh despite the passage of time.

Even now, you can't say that you're a hundred percent confident that Wanda's love for you is certain. Perhaps nothing she does will ever completely assure you. Maybe this time, it's really up to you to have faith.

“I just wanted the pain to stop. So, I did the only thing I thought would help. I... I walked away,” you finish, staring into nothingness as the memory of your decision reverberates painfully within you.

Pietro falls silent, his eyes narrowing as he studies you, taking in what you've said. Then, with a penetrating look, he says, “Sounds more like you wanted to be the one to walk away first.”

You blink at him, taken aback. “What?”

He shrugs nonchalantly, but his eyes are sharp. “You just didn't want to be the one left behind.”

A part of you can't deny it–perhaps you did preemptively end things out of fear of being the one left behind. A self-preservation measure that's caused more harm than good. But admitting that to yourself is another thing entirely, let alone to Pietro.

“Maybe,” you concede after a moment. “But can you blame me for it? You’ve never been in my shoes. Have you ever paused to consider what it was like for your ex-wives? What it was like for Shannon?” Your voice rises with each question, frustration finally breaking free from its confines.

Pietro looks at you, his expression inscrutable for a moment, before he gives you a curt nod.

“Touché,” he admits grudgingly, and then attempts a chuckle. “We suck at celebrating this Christmas thing together, aren’t we?”

Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitches up in a small, matching smile. But then it’s gone almost instantly because the topic of loving Wanda is something you’ve always taken seriously.

“I think things would’ve been worse if I didn’t walk away. I was in a really dark place. I only realized it when several months later, seeing the bastard she slept with sent me off the rails.

“If I hadn't stepped away, things would've gotten even worse,” you explain. “It felt like I was stuck in never-ending darkness, with no hope of seeing the dawn. It was really bad. I didn't know how much until I ran into that guy she cheated with, months later. I just completely lost it.”

“That... actually makes a lot of sense,” Pietro says, his tone softer than before. “It might not have been the best approach, but I get it. It's tough to see things clearly when you're caught in a storm, isn't it?”

You nod, grateful for his understanding. This empathy from Pietro, who usually comes across as nonchalant, helps ease some of the tightness in your chest.

“But then,” Pietro continues, locking eyes with you. “That still leaves my question unanswered. Despite everything that's happened... Do you love Wanda?” His tone is serious, almost challenging, making it clear that he expects an honest answer this time.

You give him your answer this time.

***

You and Wanda arrive back in Manhattan around noon the next day.

The plane touches down smoothly on the John F. Kennedy runway, marking the end of an unforgettable weekend. As you collect your belongings, you turn to Wanda, gratitude in your eyes.

“Thank you,” you say, sincerity lacing your voice. “This weekend... It was something special. Really.”

Her lips curl into a soft smile as she meets your eyes. “I'm glad you had a good time,” she says. “But now, it's back to work. The coffee showdown won't prep itself.”

“Need any help with that?” you ask, eager to stay close, not ready to say goodbye just yet.

She looks at you, her eyes wide with surprise, then her face softens into a grateful smile. “You're probably worn out from the trip,” she says, “and honestly, it might take me all night to get it right.”

Undeterred, you reply, “Well, you need a test subject, right?”

She thinks about it some more.

“I promise I won't be biased. I won’t just say everything tastes delicious,” you add, trying to win her over.

Her laughter rings through the air as she finally nods, accepting your offer. “Alright, you're on.”

What follows is an all-night coffee marathon, filled with experimentation, flirty banter, and more cups of coffee than you can count.

Despite the late hour and the caffeine jitters, you wouldn't have it any other way.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #ifiss 2 #ilgoss #unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #wanda maximoff fanfiction #natasha romanoff #agatha harkness #pietro maximoff

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mchlgayser · 8 months

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EXPOSED?! ft michael kaiser ✮

synopsis: after a long week of important tournaments, you can finally have your boyfriend all to yourself but not without the paps 😤

warning: random quick escalation, slight hurt/comfort, mention of panic attack (not proofread) tq.

nana's note: HEYCHEYHEY BITCHES BESTIES! im back hehehehehe, how are y'all????? im good tho ik no one asks i just thought i would inform y'all about it 😹 im back with another not so good fic (no pun intended) rotflmao hope you guys have fun reading, happy reading mwahh!! (reblogs or comments are very much appreciated xoxo) tq.

You are in the bathroom doing your hair and face routine and getting ready. The door creaks open while you are applying moisturizer and you see your boyfriend standing by the doorframe, hand crossing while he looks down on you with a small grin "Hey, mein liebe." You look at him with a furrowed brow "What do you want?" He chuckles, snaking arms around your midsection.

"Do I need a reason to be sweet to you, Liebling?" You scoff "Yes, it's usually because you need something so what is it?" His smug grin to a frowny pout "That's not true! ...Actually, it is cuz' I wanna being you out on a date-"

"No." He started to whine, burying his face on the crook of your neck "Why not?" You put on your Vaseline lip balm and sigh "You know why... Kaiser, I don't plan on getting caught by your fans again, worse, not by the paparazzi."

He groans into your neck "I promise I will be more secretive this time. Come on," You bite your lip in anxiousness "I'm not sure Besides we aren't even in Germany, and I don't wanna get caught by your fans in this country. They are known to be your most fanatic, and obsessive fanbase." He laughed, head throwing back a little "I promise I'll be secretive. I super promise."

You roll your eyes at him "...Fine but just this once, okay?" He nodded clinging on to you and peppering your face with kisses.

After some time, Michael hop into the shower cubicle and you left to get ready.

You put on your most promising top and bottom. You did your hair, put on your make-up to dolled up a bit. Kaiser got out of the bathroom, groping your ass lightly before tuning his way to the closet room.

"Where are we going?" Kaiser turns to you for a brief second "It's a surprise, remember?" You roll your eyes at him again "So cliche. We've been together for three years and this is only your fourth time surprising me but let me remind you, the rest of the three didn't end well."

He laughs, looking at you gleefully "So only four times surprises is understandable, no?" You snort, humming even though you are not that agree with him.

Kaiser stops by a fine dining restaurant and then turns to you. You look at him with wide eyes "You-" He chuckles, looking at you and unbuckling his belt "I made a reservation. You don't wanna waste my money now, do you?" You bit your lips, looking at him with angry eyes "I hate you."

You get out of the car and Kaiser hands his key to the valet guy. He swoops an arm around you with a smug smile "Let's just enjoy our time, okay?" Two doormen that stand by the entrance open the door for you both.

A host came by to you and Kaiser asking for your reservation name "I put it under the name Kaiser." The male host nodded and led you to your table. It's on the second floor of the restaurant whereas most of the table is designed in private rooms. You tread on the imperial staircase to your table and sit with Kaiser.

The host handed you both menus "Would you like anything from the bar, sir and ma'am?" Kaiser hums "Yeah, we'll have your finest- No, second finest wine." The host nods, bowing down before leaving the room.

You look around the room. The panel window is adorned with curtains but is withdrawn able you to look out at the night city and the busy roads "Just how much money you've wasted for all of this?" He simply shrugs, palm prodding under his chin while he looks at you "Not much, barely 0.001% of my net worth."

You scoff at him "You brag too much." He pouts, "You know nothing is too much for you, mein liebe." You shake your head at him "Still, we can just go somewhere less lavish than this."

"Yeah, we can but I don't want to cuz' you deserve the best out of the best." You were about to argue again before the host came with your wine and a bucket of ice.

"May I take your orders now?" Kaiser looks at you before nodding "Yeah, I'll have your Lobster pasta and this sweet lady here will have..."

You can get comfortable after some time and manage to prop a conversation with your boyfriend whilst you two eat. The night and date ended smoothly until you were about to head out. As soon as you two got out, flashes of cameras and chaos tending.

People started to swarm in right by the entrance of the restaurant aching to get near you but more importantly Kaiser. Paparazzi began to circle your forms flooding you with questions in their language to which you do not understand. Kaiser is trying to pry you two off but they're so persistent.

To make matters worse, there are a few of his fanatic fanbase - no matter what gender but they just started flooding forward to get in touch with Kaiser. A few even dare to throw comments randomly about you.

"Hey, please step off. You are interrupting my girlfriend's space." He commanded but they didn't seem to budge. Your head had started to feel heavy, chest tightened and breath quickens. You look up Kaiser for help and he nods almost immediately "Please step away, everyone!"

After what seemed like an eternity, guards started to appear and help push people and give you some space. Kaiser immediately took the chance to bring you inside the car and drove off.

You are getting ready for bed, lying down as you wait for Kaiser to come. Speak of the Devil, he swings the door open and turns to you "I made a call to the restaurant. They said they'll investigate as to how the paparazzi and my fans knew about us being there." You hum, sitting up and head resting on the bedrest "It can be a coincidence, you know? Maybe someone saw us and leaked it on the internet?"

"Or maybe the staff that knew we were there leaked it!" He assumed "Stop with the shenanigans. The restaurant is for high-status people and I'm sure the policy is right. The staff must've known the consequences of leaking the customer's information especially a famous person like you." He grunts, plopping beside you on the bed "Well, who gives a damn about that anyway? All that matter is now we are home and you are fine and whoever fucker that did this, intentionally or not, I'm going to sue them." He mused, tucking himself under the duvet beside you.

He linked his tattooed arm around you and kissed your cheek "I'm sorry, mein liebe. Next time, I promise we'll be more private-"

"Oh, shut up!" He laughs.

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umlewis · 5 months

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Every Traveler Needs to Try Lewis Hamilton's Hotel Hacks [part 1/2]

The F1 driver has mastered the art of resetting his body clock and getting comfortable on the road.

Lewis Hamilton first stepped into the Mercedes-AMG Petronas car over a decade ago. Before his signing, Mercedes was struggling to produce as a team, but with the young, cunning Brit behind the wheel, things changed. Since then, Hamilton has scored the record for most wins, pole finishes, and podium finishes in the most competitive motorsport in the world. No matter how gifted the athlete, leading the pack like that doesn’t come solely through natural ability, and the driver has found a formula for success that follows him across the globe. Men’s Journal spoke with Hamilton on how he prepares to drive circuits he’s never seen before at speeds over 200 miles per hour, his favorite cross-training activities, and the travel routines that keep him at the front of the pack.

Men's Journal: F1 Las Vegas Grand Prix has a start time of 10p.m. PT. How are you prepping for a night race—any hacks? Lewis Hamilton: Preparing to drive a new track means as much simulation work as possible to get a feel for the course. I have two full days that I’ll do in the sim before I land in Vegas. It’s important to adjust your internal clock, so before we get to Nevada, the team is spending some time in Los Angeles. I’m already adjusting my mornings to waking up and going to bed later to fit with the schedule of a night race. I’m also making sure my meals and nutrition intake fits the new schedule. The key is adjusting the light I’m taking in—using different bulbs with different brightness so I can maintain a good circadian rhythm. Since we travel so much, I always make sure the rooms we’re staying in have blackout curtains so I can get a deep sleep at any hour. I like to keep the room cool, which makes the bed more welcome. The bed itself is also crucial, I like a firm pillow because I like to sleep on my side. The ones I have at home are Tempur-Pedic. Do you struggle with sleep? I’ve never been a great sleeper. For years I would go to bed at 2 or 3 in the morning and sleep for about five hours. But, to be honest, that worked for me, because our days are leading up to the the main event, which is later in the afternoon. So if I wake up at 5 in the morning, I’m probably peaking a lot earlier in the day than if I wake up at 8. So I’m sticking with waking up later, though these days I’m trying to get more like seven hours of sleep a night. The Mercedes Benz team has a partnership with Marriott Bonvoy and The Ritz-Carlton, which seems like a smart one given how much you travel. How do you make a hotel feel like a home away from home? One of the most important amenities is a coffee machine in the room, because I like to have coffee when I wake up on race day or any day for that matter. I love to play music, it calms me so I’ll have my music equipment in the room as well. I have a keyboard that folds in half so it’s easier to travel with. I really want that hotel space to feel like home. The Marriott team takes that to another level, and sometimes they’ll even have a picture of my dog, Roscoe, on the nightstand. It’s also about what I have them take out of the room. I have them take out all the snacks and anything from the minibar, because when you're working strange hours your body can crave comfort. The easiest way to get that is from food, so I want to eliminate any temptation I might have to deal with later. Instead, I’ll make sure the fridge is filled with healthy snacks like fruit. What’s the most challenging part about being a Formula 1 driver? The Formula 1 season is very challenging for all the drivers. We're going to 24 different countries, maybe more throughout the year, sitting in planes all the time. Rest and recovery is a huge part of making sure we're on point when it comes to showing up to the races ready. There's an immense amount of travel involved. My mindset is greatly benefitted by meditation, so I try to prioritize it. I don’t always get to, and I can feel the difference, but the schedule can get very hectic. I always do better when I can put that focus into my mental game. I like to start my day with positive affirmations, no matter what state I’m in, and focus on the things I want to do. That’s where things like playing music comes in handy. Competing has become very serious business, and we work hard, perhaps too hard. There’s immense benefit to smiling to the body and mind. Exercise is also a great way to help me stay sharp, on top of being critical to succeeding in motorsports.

#lewis hamilton #f1 #formula 1 #fic ref #fic ref 2023 #not a race #2023 not a race #between brazil and las vegas 2023 #tw food #cw food #tw body image #tw diet

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rosze-v · 2 years

Text

lavender baths and silver hairs

pairing: Nozel Silva x Reader

synopsis: A slice of Nozel Silva's hair routine

tw: nozel silva’s hair, pretty much everything about his glorious hair, oh and also nakey nakey nozel but its not what you think it is, maid reader

w.c: 1.5k

a/n: Halu! I’ve written this like last two weeks? I finished watching and reading Black Clover for the 126128362 time and I can’t stop wondering who takes care of Nozel’s hair and here we are :D I’m also a bit sad that there’s not much crumbs on Black Clover fanfiction so here is my offering to the fandom! OH ALSOOOOO YOUR GIRL HAS A DRIVER’S LICENSE NOW!! I spend a month and a half learning like crazy and thankfully I got it on first try!!! I’m so happy of this accomplishment and now I can drive a car, though I have to learn how to drive an auto now cause I actually learned how to drive a manual. ANYWAYSSSSSSS, I’ve been rambling like crazy so I hope you have a good read!

You are simply a maid of the House of Silva, a maid that was chosen out of nowhere to be the particular caretaker of Nozel Silva’s hair. Yes, you were nothing more than a maid that takes care of his hair.

What they don’t know is the service you give Sir Nozel is much more than a ‘a maid who takes care of his hair’. When the sun had finish showing it rays of light, it was your time to knock on his door and a quick ‘Come in’ can be heard from the other side of the huge door. Coming in with a tray of Sir Nozel’s hair essentials, you were greeted with a freshly wash and dressed Nozel Silva.

He always look handsome, as simply as compliments could go, you always thought he looks handsome but in these times, when the ray shining softly in his room, the soft smell of soap, strong enough to cover the whole room. You give a gentle, respectful smile while you approach him and in which he exchanges with his own soft smile.

“Excuse me Sir Nozel”. You said as you gently place your hands on his silky, silver hair. Gently, you stroke his hair and through the mirror in front of him, you could see Nozel closing his eyes, relishing in the feel of your gentle hands caressing his head. From the tray you place on top of the dressing table, you took a glass bottle containing Argan Oil, originating from a foreign land beyond the country.

You pour a suitable amount of the oil, not too much and not too little on the palm of your hand and place the glass bottle back. With a slight rub of your hand just to warm it up a bit, you gently brush your hand through his long hair, from his hair line, to the ends of the roots. Many asked what’s the secret to his glorious hair and he always answers with Argan Oil, yet they don’t know these skilled hands of yours, filled with care and love were another secret of it.

Then you slightly crooked your fingers down, scratching his scalp gently which earn you a groan and a sigh. “That felt good”. He muttered with closed eyes as you whisper a thank you, a small smile of relieved is evident on your face. Nozel Silva have always cherished this little routine of his and yours, he loves it so much that every morning, he would wake up on time without fail, wash and dress, wear the finest perfume and patiently wait for the soft knock of yours.

Once you finish rubbing the oil in, you comb his hair and move to stand in front of him. Nozel then open his eyes, piercing purple stares up your eyes and he give another gentle smile. You, time and time again, blush at his actions, he’s an attractive man, what can you do about it. Clearing your throat, you took his hair ornament, a cross fleury and braided his front hair with it. At first you don’t understand why he asked for his hair to be braided like so, its eccentric and you remember gathering the little courage you have to ask him.

“Sir Nozel, why do you braid your like so?”. He stared into your eyes through the mirror as he answers.

“Because I am the Head of House Silva”.

You were new at the time, you didn’t understand his meaning as much but now you do. He’s the very and only Head of Silva, he’s the symbol itself, and it’s a way of him saying that he’s very proud to be called a Silva and to be the very image itself. He is the head of Silva and the Captain of Silver Eagle, both a symbol of grace and strength.

Once you finish braiding his bangs you move to the back once again and reach out for the thick hair balm which you use to style the hair on the side of his head. You then comb the stray hair to be put in place and move back to the front to tidy any other strays. Once you finished you smile proudly at your masterpiece of the day.

“I’m done Sir Nozel.” He nodded as he looks at the mirror, checking out his hair and overall look. With another smile, he nodded again and turn around to smile at you. You took his robe and place it on for him, patting down the material while he stares at you, content at the work you have done today.

Then in the evening, after long, arduous day of missions, handling household affairs and the constant stress as a Captain, he would wait for you in his room yet again, just so he can feel your gentle hands caressing his hair and releasing all the pressure he hold. At times, you would accompany him during his baths, washing his hair and massaging his head and shoulders, those are the days you knew that his day was anything but good. Once Nozel arrived, he called for you to his room.

“I would like a bath today”. You nodded in understanding and went on to the bathroom. You turn on the water, adjusting the cold and hot water using the magic tool. Then you went to the shelf, you pick a lavender smelling oil, a mix of dried lavender flowers and rosemary and a lavender smelling soap. You heard the lavender is a very relaxing scent when you went out the market before and so you bought some of the products and you have waited to introduce the scent to Nozel.

With all the items, you went back to the bath tub. First, you dipped your hand into the water and deem the temperature to be perfect. Then you pour the lavender oil and the herb mixes, dipping your hand again, you move it around to mix it. Once you’re finished you went on and pull the make shift basin for washing Nozel’s hair and pour in the lavender soap.

“What is this amazing smell?”. Your head whipped back and you were greeted with Nozel who’s wearing a bath robe. Your face burns in embarrassment, looking down, you answer him.

“Its lavender scent Sir Nozel, I recently bought it at the market and I thought you would like it”. You play with your fingers as Nozel chuckles and move to stand in front of you, he then picks up your chin, so you could pay attention to him. You breath hitched in your throat as he smile and says.

“That’s very thoughtful of you, I really like the scent. Later on, tell the butler to buy all these lavender items your have bought so I can use them again.” You nodded as he releases your chin from his hands and walk towards the tub. He took off his robe and went into the tub and with a sigh of contentment.

“The temperature feels amazing, you really do know how to cater to my needs”.

“Thank you, Sir Nozel, I’m happy that it fits your standards. May I wash your hair Sir?”. He nodded as you pull the basin closer to the end of his head. You gently pull his hair and place it inside the basin. You let his hair soak a bit and then gently you dab some water at his hairline to wet it a bit. Nozel was closing his eyes the whole time, his pale skin getting a bit pinkish, possibly due to the water’s temperature. You rub the soap into his hair and gently massage his scalp, which earn you a grunt of satisfaction.

After a while, you change the water of the basin and wash off the soap out of his hair. You then asked him to sit up straight which confuses him.

“Excuse me Sir Nozel”. You place the both of your hand on his bare shoulders as you start your massage at the base of his neck. Your thumb move down to stroke the blades of his shoulder, Nozel’s breath hitched in his throat because that hit the spot, it felt amazing in his opinion. You continue your massage throughout his back, earning you groans and sighs.

“I think I’m done now Sir. I shall call your attendants to dress you up.”

“That was amazing you know. Where did you learn such craft?”. Nozel asked as he wiggles his shoulder, refreshed now that the knots on his back are gone.

“Before I become to maid of the house, I actually work along with my mother as a travelling healer. We learn the crafts of masseuse from a traveling healer as well.”

“Ah, I see, no wonder you’re good with your hands. Thank you for today”. You nodded and thank him, bowing a bit as you move out to call for his attendants.

Nozel, who was still in the tub let his mind wander on you. He was really satisfied of your works and what warms his heart more is the fact that you actually bought the lavender with him in your thoughts. Perhaps, he was grateful to find a gem like yours whom he could share silent comfort and ease just by having your presence around him and your hands working on him.

Or perhaps, there was a flame lit from a single match at the mere thought of you. Hopefully, he’ll learn to know what exactly is you in his life.

#nozel silva x reader #silva nozel x reader #black clover x reader #black clover #nozel silva #fluff #cozy nozel #nozel hair #rsz.w

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pankowperfection · 1 year

Text

A Christmas to Remember

Summary: proposal season always brings you down, until its your turn

Warnings: none other than extreme cuteness

Unlike many others he had dated, you had known Rudy since middle school. You had seen him go from a shy, lanky kid into a handsome, talented man and you had somehow loved him through it all, whether you were willing to admit it or not. After dating off and on through high school you had drifted apart; you moving away to go to college and Rudy starting his acting career. The timing just never seemed to work out no matter how much you both wanted it to.

You couldn’t remember exactly how you had come back into each other’s lives, all you knew was that as soon as it happened you were all in. You quickly dove back into your old routines, falling back into a comfortable relationship that quickly flourished. Moving in together, adopting pets, everything seemed to come easily. Except for a proposal. Each year you were together you got your hopes up that it would finally be time to get engaged, but each time you were disappointed.

His hesitancy to commit further was frustrating. After all, nothing would really change other than a stronger commitment to each other. He had even mentioned multiple times about how he wants to spend the rest of his life with you, unable to imagine each day without you by his side. The holidays always brought along further disappointment, every day seeing more and more women get engaged. You even debated deleting your social media until after the season had passed, tired of feeling like your moment would never come.

On your way to your hometown to visit with family he takes an unexpected turn. “Rudy - where are you going babe? You were supposed to keep going straight back there.” He smiles, resting his hand on your thigh as he drives back a two lane country road. “Relax sweetheart. I have a surprise that you’re going to love.” Your heart kicks up a beat, anxiety wracking your system at the thought of what it could be. After all, you weren’t a huge fan of surprises.

Your opinion changes immediately when you pull up to the beginning of a huge Christmas Lights Festival. The soft glow of each display makes the snow on the ground sparkle, drawing your eyes to take in the beauty in front of you. “Oh my gosh. It's beautiful!” you exclaim as you exit his car. He takes your hand, leading you down a winding path that leads through the different displays. Each part of the festival is themed: Toy Land, Under the Sea, Space, Dinosaurs, each set of lights somehow more impressive than the last.

He can’t help but smile at you, your face lighting up like a kid’s on Christmas morning. Christmas lights were always one of your favorite parts of the season, bringing back those warm fuzzy feelings you associate with holiday magic. You stop to take in the favorite piece you have crossed so far, synchronized snowflakes in all different colors twinkling across the archways. Rudy pulls out his phone to snap a few candid photos of the wonder on your face, wanting to capture the moment. “You look beautiful in the snow,” he murmurs, pulling you in for a sweet kiss before taking your hand again and leading you around the bend in the sidewalk.

You could never have been prepared for the next display. In large letters, the words “Will you marry me?” are spelled out in flashing red and green lights that dance to the beat of the music playing. You turn around searching for Rudy, thinking surely this must be some kind of joke. Instead you find him down on one knee, unshed tears in his eyes as he holds up a little black box with a beautiful diamond ring inside. You tremble as you walk towards him, tears already sliding down your cheeks, truly not believing that this is really happening. “Y/n, I love you so much. With all of my heart. You have always been there for me for all of my successes and failures. I can’t imagine spending my life without you by my side. Princess, will you marry me?”

Your legs can no longer hold you up, dropping to your knees in front of him as he reaches to wipe the tears from your face. “Yes Rudy. Yes!” He slides the ring onto your finger and time stops. The lights fade into the background as you take in the sheer euphoria of this moment. He folds you into his arms, peppering kisses all over your face before cupping your cheeks softly, sealing the moment with a kiss on your lips. Minutes seem to pass before you break apart, his megawatt smile mirroring yours as he helps you to your feet. This surprise couldn’t have been more perfect and you feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

You spend the rest of the evening in pure bliss, sipping hot chocolate as you sit beside a bonfire snuggled against Rudy’s side. “I can’t wait to tell everyone. They’re gonna be so happy.” He smiles, hugging you tightly as he basks in the warmth from your smile. “I can’t wait for you to be my wife. We better hire a wedding planner so I don’t have to wait too long - Mrs. Pankow.” Your stomach flips at the sound of him calling you by his last name, having dreamt of the opportunity for years. “That has a nice ring to it,” you whisper, pulling him in by the front of his coat for another kiss. “Yes fiancé, it sure does.” You pull out your phone, snapping a picture of you sitting in his lap with the ring easily visible within the frame. You post it with the caption “Future Mrs. Pankow”.

@adventuresinobx @starkeyobx @paradisehamilton @ailee-celeste @pankhoeforlife @outerbankspov @houseofperfecttaste @drewbooooo @maybankslover @maybanks-luver @blueicequeen19 @toystory2wasjustokay @I-always-come-back-xoxo @onmykneesforrafe @penny4yourthoughts @maddie-routledge @rosetintednorth

#rudy pankow fanfiction #rudy pankow x reader #rudy pankow imagine #rudy pankow #rudy x y/n #rudy x reader

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soranihimawari · 1 year

Text

Break-In

Word Count:6.4K Pairing:timeskip!iwazumi x reader Warnings: mentions of stalking; break & entering; security breach; 🔞nsfw ending scene

『Good evening Mr Iwazumi. My name is unimportant, but I thought you might like to know I have access to all your media accounts, bank records, oh? and your personal schedule...

Hmm, who is YLN, YN?』

No one had wanted to be part of the security breach from Human Resources. The department had received multiple e-mails and phone calls from various public relations teams when the news spread to the general public via media outlets. Unfortunately, you were working at the time with a Parisian bound Olympic team. You were suggested to assist the sports medicine team in your home country of Japan. It had been years since you had visited home, however since your parents later in life chose to separate legally, you’ve been making trips to visit your mother and her parents over the course of your university years. Your father chose to remain back in the states due to being granted tenure and department head promotion for his university job. The same university where he was employed was the one with a fellowship program where you were able to continue your education in sports medicine. Always an avid track and field participant, you have overcome both physical and mental hurdles to be accepted into the program where your degree hails from.

Currently, you are at the center of the concerned team members, assisting in passing out water bottles. You’re listening to the captain and the coaches talk about current travel plans for practice matches around the city, only contributing here and there until your fellow sports trainer, Iwazumi Hajime, is called a little later into the coaches' office. A representative from the Human Resources department along with a social media public relations consultant is present. You’re assisting in the clean up routine for now as you wonder what is going on in that office. Surely, you've been invited out by a few members to the local pub down the street for a post-practice outing. You mention you’ll text Iwaizumi later tonight before packing your items, heading out with the ace and vice captain of the team.

Hours later, while in the comfort of your home your phone vibrates with a melody attached. You had just boiled some hot water for your nightly cup of chamomile tea dressed in nothing but a simple camisole and shorts. Picking up your phone, you see you have several missed calls from a few members of the team (whom, your mind thinks, were a bit more drunk than others) and a few texts from…

“Iwazumi-san?” you mumble while the kettle begins to whistle.

All the message has is an emoji (you and the team had introduced the keyboard to his phone the other day) of the Red Cross (❌) on it. There is no mention of whether or not it was a typo, but alas you decide as your tea seeps, to give him a call instead.

“He always said I should call,” you muse. “Maybe I should tell him the team might be dealing with a hangover tomorrow…”

Down the road, a baffled and irate Iwazumi had just parked his car in the underground parking structure of his apartment complex. He recalls the words of caution the HR Rep and team social manager had said. As far as the athletic trainer can remember, he hasn’t met anyone, romantic or otherwise, who would have developed a delusional idea of cloning his phone. The only one he could think of in recent terms was your recent camaraderie and partnership with him because of the work you two signed up for. A stalker for the team or a deranged fan might have had more information tucked away elsewhere and it’s that particular wavelength he is apprehensive of. Sure, in high school he had a taste of the fan-lifestyle thanks to Oikawa being the pretty boy setter he was (and still is). However, Iwazumi Hajime, twenty-seven years young, head trainer for an Olympic bound team, is about to learn the ramifications of having his personal information leaked. What does that entail, he wouldn’t know. Perhaps that’s why, as he enters the elevator to proceed in going to retire for the night, he receives a peculiar call from you.

“Hey,” his voice is tired, he claims this as you hum mentioning you made tea.

“Are you ok?”

Your question almost has Iwazumi fumbled his keys out of his hands. You clear your throat justifying your answer in the veil of co-workers’ friendship. He chuckles at that and he is reminded of the first time he had met you…in the office of the advisor at Irvine.

Once inside his residence, he slips off his shoes and you hear his bag slide off his shoulder.

“Iwa,” you place your half empty cup back on the counter. “You don’t have to tell me the details of you don’t want to…”

This makes his heart rate pick up just like in the office hours, or what seems like days ago now.

“What was that meeting about?”

“…”

You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose with your free hand. He hears you sigh on the other end.

“Tell me when you’re ready. I should go, it’s late.”

You withdraw by a centimeter and until he is advised to break his silence on the issue (it’s still in the observation stages of the investigation), he keeps up the facade in this call. He bids you good night, unsure if he will do the same.

Morning comes with the news chimes in the neighborhood going off. Your phone buzzes with back to back notifications from the group chat: five names is all you see. Five names, all of which you know because you saw them yesterday. One of which shocks you because of the nature of his keeping personal and professional life separate or as separate as can be. Suffice to say you knew Iwazumi was pretty popular amongst the female student body and the boys while you think about it. Your mind races in fleeting pocket memories and for all that is holy, some poor sap in a tabloid magazine probably had (somewhere along the way) misconstrued your relationship. “We’re friends” or “we met in university” conversations always ended with the players, even coaching personnel, wondering when you two would be honest with yourselves. Truly, the secretive romance rumors were not so lucrative since the vox populi seemed to take to social media scrutinizing the way you’re never more than a few feet apart during interviews even going so far at one point you two wore similar colors to a function hosted by the JVA. The stylists thought it would be fun since the theme of the party was “mirror.” You had dismissed the idea of going until Miya opened his mouth to ask if he can take you as a date. Iwazumi is within earshot when he says you can’t because, ‘yn is going with me.’ You stutter, yet recover quick when you read through your prickly friend’s sentiments. Playing along, Iwazumi can’t help the cough that comes out of his mouth when you make a mention of remembering he said in passing: ‘we were going to wear teal, ivory, and mint green, right?’

That was the last social function of the spring you think, minus the press tour for the Parisian games and even at world championships. Iwazumi couldn’t have made any enemies since then, right? This wouldn’t be a publicity stunt by anyone on the team either…

“Fuck me,” you sit up in a jolt, immediately dialing your partner in the training department. Your phone’s email counter now begins to rise to an alarming high as your texts keep getting flooded by family and players alike.

“I know,” is all that is said when you hear him pick up on the other side. “Stay there, I’m almost at your place.”

“Bring coffee asshole,” you grit your teeth and though you say it affectionately, he is ultimately reminded he has truly never seen you lose your composure. Sure, he’s seen you stress cry, but when you open your door roughly fifteen minutes later, your eyes are glazed out of frustration. Holding up the drink carrier holding a peace offering of trenta sized hazelnut espresso concoction and an everything bagel with blueberry cream cheese, you do not dial back your anger.

The door is closed behind him and the deadbolt is secured. He walks into your kitchen, sitting himself on a barstool facing the counter. You stand between the counter and the stove, sharp bonsai leaf green eyes observe your casually dressed attire: the white polo with red shorts and black belt was similar to the one you wore on beach trips in university. You noticed he came dressed still in the dry-fit undershirt and newly washed jeans from earlier that week.

“Iwazumi,” your voice is scarily monotonous. “Sit and explain.”

He listens like an obedient pet. If you could draw, you’d make a caricature of him as a hedgehog with a deflated expression. On the other hand, he might be bold enough to call you a tiger’Now he knows why your father is a docile man—your temper is inherited from your mother.

“Now,” you growl before taking a bite of said bagel, sliding your phone with the breaking news articles plastered everywhere on the site.

“One chance to tell me everything from the top, Hajime,” you raise a finger before taking your first sip of the hot beverage he brought.

“We’ve been through a lot worse,” you finally take a good look at your first friend from abroad—iwazumi looks like a psychopomp ready to rue the day: the lack of sleep is evident in the dark circles under his eyes, his jaw is tense, and for what it’s worth, you can tell your tactful (or rather inefficient, but justified rage) onslaught of a greeting was perhaps not a good call. He seemed to be blindsided by the media hoopla catching wind of the fact there was a security breach in high profile athletes’ information. Sure, breaches were created to test the waters of firewall security systems in an OS. Somehow, a tech savvy bot was able to unzip and reallocate specific targets, ie Olympic status athletes. Your friend explains this to you as calmly as he could, apology on the tip of his tongue before you lean forward to silence him with a finger to his lips. You’d think you’ve gone mad, but when you shake your head, you say something a bit more provoking: “so what’s the play Haji?”

He scoffs when you retract your hand. The bagel is nothing but crumbs at this point and your coffee is almost gone when you come round your kitchen counter. He watches as you lean your back against the edges, arms crossed while he swivels around to turn at least three quarters toward you.

“I just told you everything,” he hands you your phone back. “And your immediate response is ‘what’s the play?’”

“Don’t be so surprised,” you turn off your phone entirely now before sliding it in your back pocket. “I’ve known you for better half of seven years, heh.”

Leaning down to knock your temple against his, gently in the form of trying to let your brains catch up with this impertinent information.

“And this is not the worst thing that's happened in those years?”

He is dumbstruck, almost pulling away from you to show you his phone with his own messages and emails with counters almost in the hundreds by now.

“No,” you are suddenly face to face with him. You were honestly trying to bring some lighthearted humor back, but alas this is a grave breach in personal privacy, unaware of what would happen when you see your reflection in his rather glazed eyes.

Dangerously too close if you think about it; his pretentiousness loosens to give into curiosity. Iwazumi and you can’t recall who initiated locking lips with the other, both of you sort of let it happen.

“Ha-hajime,” you cup the sides of his face, gently yet firm when you pry him away from you.

His voice murmurs your name back and you’re unprepared for the ramifications his tone does to your heart. Iwazumi studies your flushed features before coming back to his senses like an Icarus falling into the sea. His eyes flutter close, lashes tickling your palm; mind you, he is trying to think of any excuse really, yet he comes up with none. Seven years is a long time to look at love in the face and just ignore whatever underlying pretense there was. It becomes suddenly apparent to both pirates once he readjusts himself to hold you properly by your natural waist. He wants nothing more than the world to disappear, even now as the perplexed look on his brow gives way to witnessing his typically sharpened features melting away—you do now know why the lines are so easily blurred. You hear him hum tiredly, exasperated by the shit-show that is about to occur once you return to work.

“Lay low,” you advise.

You run a hand through the back of his head when he presses himself more into this simple embrace with you.

“Stay out of sight,” he frowns when he says this against the fabric of your shirt.

“We can talk about this later,” you continue, tapping his lips with your other hand.

This time, you feel his muscles twinge upwards into a small smirk.

“I’ve got your back,” you remind him kindly when he lets you break free of his gentle grasp. He chortles a bit before making the move to wrap up this morning greeting.

“Don’t look so surprised,” you tease when you escort him to your door.

“I’m not,” shoving his hands in his pockets, he turns abruptly before you unlock the door. He bends down to press his lips to your cheek, whispering a secret loud enough for you to hear. With that, Iwazumi departs from your place, a little more confident in his steps.

A team meeting is called immediately at noon. You’re included in the must-attend listing as though you’re the one about to receive the scolding of a lifetime. However, you’re the odd one out considering you’re standing shoulder to shoulder with not only Iwazumi, but Miya, Ushijima, Hinata, and one more you’re not yet familiar with, but you choose to pick your battles wisely for now.

“You too?” seems to be the general consensus while everyone stands awaiting further instructions or rather, for whomever called this internal meeting to begin with. You all find your answer once the doors open and in walks the coach, their assistant, three representatives?: one from the JVA, the other two were from HR and the media manager. Now it occurs to Iwazumi why you might have asked the question, “what’s the play?” to him. His stomach knots on itself almost as much as Hinata’s when the meeting is called to start by the coach.

Before going into much more detail, Ushijima and Miya glance at each other because though they are single at this point in time, they had been known around the rumor mill as a hot and cold duo more so than another certain jackal this year; yet if Hinata was here as well, then it is also because of the outlying ramifications of one series of people all tied to them–family. Families outside of this room are no longer safe, go figure. All this talk and legal jargon could make your head spin, yet it doesn’t.

“Ms YLN, you’re awfully quiet,” the coach’s assistant points out. The boys were already holding files of the information that was leaked about their privatized personal records. Clearly the boys beside you are going through all the documents there and some of it is pretty damning from women being photographed at games to private dates outside the purview of the public to even travel tickets. Hinata is quite young, but the horrified faces of Ushijima; Miya’s color drains from his sunny disposition; to finally Iwazumi’s trembling fists. There was something on all of them and the only reason why you don’t speak up is because you’re about to say something extremely stupid (or brilliant).

“Just because I have no files in my hand, doesn’t mean I am unaware,” your voice seems to snap the boys’ attention real quick. “Truth be told, I knew something was afoot when Iwazumi-san was called into the office yesterday.”

The assistant is about to say something when you decide to not give anyone else a chance to speak, planning to thwart the insinuations any farther.

“If you think I had something to do with it since I am the only common denominator, then I will do you all a favor,” you take your phone out of your pocket to turn it on.

As the tech comes to life, your phone sounds off with different tonalities of various degrees, however when one particular chime goes off, you don an expression that is seldom let out.

“I’ll sit this one out if you get internal affairs involved,” you are eerily calm as your words carry the weight of a block of dried ice. “The athletes have a lot of stress placed on them once it was made known they would be representing their home country for the games, so whose brilliant idea was this to leak the story to the press?”

Your question raised a valid point, one that perhaps might not have crossed the minds of everyone in that meeting, yet here you were presenting a fact outside of the normal wheelhouse. In the later half of the meeting your refusal to say anything further than what you had said is a true neutral ground. You don’t budge, rather you repeat the question you asked any opportunity you can:

“Clearly if this was one of those publicity stunts, we would have made it known to the players, Ms. YLN.”

“And yet I find it rather interesting that none of you thought of involving internal affairs in this matter from the start, and since you’re so bright, mind telling me whose idea it was to leak this information to the associated press?”

This goes on until the meeting is adjourned with you coming too close to being either fired or suspended for a time, much to the dismay of your friends behind you. They know you didn’t do anything, hell Hinata, Miya, and Ushijima vouch for you being at their little pub crawl the night before, so they swear on your sobriety you had nothing to do with this if that was what the assistant was trying to do. For now, the contingency plan is to have the guys keep their distance away from you and your hours were going to be reduced (at least while the investigation is underway to make sure nothing else was leaked) until the case draws to a close. The coach reminds the athletes themselves they have the world watching when returning home while Iwazumi learns the basics of managing his time with each of them individually for the remainder of the off season/pre season conditioning training going on.

Things go pretty quiet after that: Miya, though he was young and up and coming as he is, might have sacrificed a relationship outside of work, but he bounced back eventually; Hinata chose to spend time with his family outside of volleyball for a little while; Ushijima stayed to do what was expected of him; and Iwazumi chose to take the path of least resistance and adhere to the proposed schedule of training. You were mostly put to use the gym in the early mornings or well into the night once main practice was over to observe and make notes of individual practices. Though it was a rough couple of months, you all along with the team don't really interact with each other the same way you used to. You’re mostly left out of the team dinners, the social media pages go ahead with contractual rumors and affiliations for sportswears once more, and for the most part you become like a living breathing poltergeist.

You’re in the gym one night, body now attuned into working out late, a half empty ball rack is at the side of the court you’re standing on. Empty water bottles line the opposite side of the net. A few scattered balls roll away with each serve you had successfully aced. Your hands weren’t as calloused as before, but since you decide to go back to your roots as they say, you learn to hone your anger in a different light. It’s not until you’re a third of a way deep in the new ball bag you hear him call out to you.

“You never told me you played,” Iwazumi steps into the court.

Shrugging your shoulders, you give the ball a good bounce or two before tossing it high in the air–that’s when he sees the surgical scar on the back of your heel. It pokes out of the socks you wore and Iwazumi can’t place what’s worse: knowing you had to give up the sport or resigning to prove you can play again. Your serves are powerfully direct when gravity takes over and the speed gun clocks your serve around 115mph. You’re not just good, you’re on par with some of the best servers out there. Peacefully your feet touch the ground and Iwazumi approaches you, only to hug you from behind.

“We never really had a chance to talk,” is how he opens this side of the conversation. “And I know it’s killing me and you with both of us trying to upkeep this schedule.”

“I know,” you bow your head a bit. “I know, Iwa, but you really have to stop coming here—”

“To convince you otherwise?” He holds you a bit tighter now.

“When you know the answer?” An aggravated sigh leaves your lips. “Hajime, listen. You and I both love and respect this team from day one, right?”

You feel him nod when you lean back to look up at him.

“But we both know we can’t go public unless one of us leaves and,” you glance back at the empty court. “I won’t let you lose them.”

“YN.”

You hand him the ball that was about to be in your hands.

“I resigned this morning.”

“You’re kidding. C’mon,” he tries to see if you’re actually joking, yet your silence is all he needs. It’s not long before you’re handing him the ball from the other side of the court.

“Seriously?” he seemed so despondent the more you began to clean up. You explain as you go telling him how you’ve started receiving texts from him, most of which were not from him. Some of the messages were pretty illicit in terms of the content, none of which you know he would never send, yet when it was brought up, your concerns were brushed aside. When you tried again and failed, you decided to start flagging the messages.

“And you never thought to tell me?”

Iwazumi isn’t upset, you didn’t speak up, you did. It was the actions of those who would rather save face for the athletic department for an internationally revered country for their continued contribution to the growing interest in a sport.

“I tried,” you pick up a volleyball and place it amongst the bag at your feet.

You showed him your call log from a few weeks ago to be exact. He remembers that call, yet it was the end of a rough day and he recalls asking if you want to go for a bite before your shift started. However you were stuck waiting at the appointed place for over an hour when he was held up by the new juniors under his supervision. The assistant coach finally pulls them away to speak to him privately for a short while.

“So excuse me for trying to interrupt whatever life has in store for you,” you are bitter when you twist your face into a forced smile that never reaches your eye. “But you weren’t there for me, Iwa. Do better.”

The night janitor was heard whistling down the halls. His shift must have just started when he saw you and Iwazumi taking down the net. You kept your back to the door because though you may be a proud person, you don’t have the capacity to let anyone else know how a breakup before a relationship could even start wounds you both.

“Is everything alright?”

Clearing your throat, you speak up. “Y-yeah. Just talking to an old friend. I’ll be going soon, ok?”

Your acting is sublime as the janitor reminds the athletic trainer he needed to sign in all visitors who don’t have a badge, yet when you hear the old man say, “they’re quite a catch Iwazumi-san. You’re lucky to have found your match so young.”

Iwazumi doesn’t have the heart to disagree which truth be told, but he corrects the old man.

“They’ll come around sonny,” the janitor says. “People do crazy things when they’re in love.”

Iwazumi glances back at the door, apologizes to the old man (he makes a mental note to get his name say after tomorrow) over his shoulder as he runs off to find you.

YLN, YN, twenty eight and three quarters old, ex-athletic trainer for the Olympic bound Japanese Men’s Volleyball Team, is a person of great importance in his life, the internal workings of Iwazumi’s mind finally sees you in the world of black and white. So when he sees you half a city block ahead of him, the man sprints fast enough to a) startle you and b) tells you to be quiet so he can remind you.

“Remind me of what?” You ask, more wittily delivered if you were being honest.

Iwazumi rolls his eyes before shaking his head when he pulls your body protectively over to his.

“Comfortable?”

You nod, your face is unabashedly flushed the more his intensity radiates off of him.

“Good.”

One final word of warning is the last thing you know of before you’re caught in a silencer of a kiss: it is a ruggedly formed one until you quit overthinking for a time.

You remembered that time the day the news blew up your phones, the whirlwind meetings that went on and all this goes on while you both try to protect your images both on and off the court. Your friends notice the change in Iwazumi going so far as to ask him by proxy how you were doing these days; you don’t go to team functions anymore because your name was not added to the list (Hinata finds this out at the end of practice a couple weeks before sports fashion gala was announced and Iwazumi declines attending); self practice hours held with you had Miya and Ushijima vying for your attention until Ojiro and Sakusa join for a more balanced two on two match and it’s then you decide to showcase your little secret when Miya provokes you to “try an’ get a service ace against me” (and you do much to his dismay, four times over to prove it wasn’t a fluke); all those stolen glances Iwazumi did when his new juniors walked through those doors as if you’d pop in at any moment was the final straw for him.

It’s not until you reciprocate his affection you catch him by surprise. There is something refreshing about the way his warmth balances your rage filled blood, believe you me, he understands more than he lets on. Although you pull away with eyes closed, you take a fist full of his shirt and pull him back to you. You don’t break, not yet, because there will be time for that too.

“Don’t cry,” his voice soothes your anger until you feel a coarse curled finger flick away a stray.

“Don’t give me a reason to,” your voice cracks a little more than you thought. You’re about to crumble back because you tried everything in your original playbook, so you’re left with the only path you thought was plausible. Iwazumi finally pieces it together in his mind’s eye and he can only imagine the horrified slap in the face look you give your collective superiors who brush your claims aside. No wonder you’re on the precipice of a spiral, yet just as you’re about to drown, you maintain your tactfulness, hoping to bid the place you’ve come to love to work in a final goodbye.

Iwazumi reacts to the rigidness of your body as you let him try his luck in comforting you: he readjusts his hold from earlier–his hand that held you by the shoulders earlier slides down to the small of your back. Meanwhile with the other, the same one he used to flick away the tear, he invites you to hide away from the very real world around you. A car or two passes, for all you know this might be one of the last times you’d get to spend together, so as you calm yourself down, you make a small request.

“Give them hell,” you kiss the corner of his mouth, pressing your phone on to his chest.

It takes less than seventy-two hours for the following to occur: first, on behalf of the team, a press conference had been scheduled with the intent of the investigations coming to a close. Second, the majority of those who are involved are asked to wait until the end to answer any and all questions the news outlets needed to know. Third, and this one was the piece de la resistance, a zip file containing all text exchanges between the person claiming to be ‘Iwazumi, H.’ had been sent to all reporters on the roster for the day. You’re at home, typing up an updated version of your resume and reviewing it one more time before deciding it was time for a break. You received a new phone graciously bought by an old friend who just came back from Sendai to cheer on her former classmate, unbeknownst to you said friend passed along your new phone number to a certain athletic trainer. You recognize the phone number when you’re asked to turn on the local city news no later than five-forty in the afternoon.

The conference room was abuzz with flashes here and there, microphone reverb was cut to a minimum when the floor was open for questions.

“I'm with the Orange City News, this question is for your athletic trainer: Iwazumi-san, how has your life changed since the leak? Are there any new developments you can speak freely of as of right now?”

Iwazumi places what seems to be a phone on the table and you nearly drop the glass you’re about to pour some apple cider in. Leaning back in his chair, there is an air of nonchalant business about him, you hear him decide to go through with this. It was the answer to your question which seemed so long ago, “what’s the play?”

“A few months ago, when the initial news of the leak was made known to me, I found out the same morning you all did,” chuckles were heard everywhere but it soon died out the moment it was made clear the young man was deathly concrete in his demeanor. Whispers of, “wait, really? You didn’t know at all?”

“I didn’t know what was leaked or how much information was already made known to everyone, but I try to keep my work life and private life separated. And yes being well known as the athletic trainer for this stellar team is a bonus, but when you try to hurt me, you instead inflict trust issues onto my person, nearly causing them to spiral into an unhealthy mindset you can’t just apologize and recant,” he flips over your phone which he had kept up with charging and whatnot, even called in a favor to a friend in the city precinct to backlog your messages. “Not when I’ve had to pacify their worries over take out, or practice attempting to receive their killer serves, who knows how to prioritize the needs of the team usually putting in the work even when they were stuck with the flu for two weeks, or,” and now he’s a bit more reserved before he continues. “Or bribe them to open their door with their favorite breakfast meal I’ve memorized since sophomore year abroad, all because some idiot thought they had the high ground in taking pleasure at tearing down an important member of our team.”

Your phone rings and though you pick up, you have a sly grin of approval.

“You’re bold, I’ll give you that,” you turn your tv off once you hear several chimes go off.

The zip file and backup evidence of the messages that clear your participation in all this is sent privately to those journalists attending. Back carbon copies are sent to the managers, the board of directors of the JVA, and even a baffled coaching staff. Following Iwazumi’s answer, though he never says your name explicitly, he bids everyone good day, pressing the phone he used to call you to his ear.

“You still there?”

“Mmhm.”

“Good because I’m due for a vacation.”

You chuckle into the receiver. The commotion surrounding the files that were airdropped as a power move resulted in more legal action than originally thought.

“I hear Argentina is fabulous this time of year.”

Iwazumi hums approvingly before saying a quiet, ‘start packing now love’ when he ends the call. He walks into the gym away from the brewing shitshow only to be ambushed by two familiar faces.

“Sawamura,” the former ace nods at the first-year detective. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“Eh, well,” the former captain has this shy smile. “Don’t tell me you think I’d miss the opportunity to right a wrong for an old rival…pro bono as they say?”

“Oya?” Another voice calls not too far behind the detective. “Send me a postcard when you see Oikawa-shenshu. Tell the pretty bastard to pick up his phone every once in a while!”

“Yeah yeah,” Iwazumi waves the two former captains off (one known for instilling a firm foundation, the other known for scheming) as he crosses the empty court with a victorious smile. He’s driving back to you with the future becoming more promising than before. Sure the team will make do for a few weeks as their athletic trainer(s) set off on a much deserved break. Iwazumi sends a final text to the team while he’s sitting in his car: ‘rest assured hell week is coming’ is cryptically sent to everyone. A smiley emoji is tacked on courtesy right after he sends a ‘and don’t worry, I’ll send your greetings to yn when I see them.’

The drive from the stadium does not take longer than twenty minutes, so when your door opens, you are greeted much like before. With your preferred blossoms in hand, Iwazumi’s unmistakable hair protrudes behind it, all of which you find amusing.

“Flowers?” you question while taking a hold of the bouquet. “Does your significant other know you buy me flowers?”

“I hope so,” he smugly says. “I just think they’re neat.”

You roll your eyes before kissing his cheek when he walks through the door frame. Without giving it much thought, he toes his shoes off at your entryway before heading to the living room. His suit is still pressed from before the press conference and he does fill you in on what his old friends had said. You’re listening intently as you fill a nearby cubed vase with water.

“Sawamura said he’d call once there are more developments on promising leads,” Iwazumi reassures you when you come round to join him on the couch. He holds your hand as if you’re going to pass him by. You give yourself a moment to pause before shaking free from his grasp.

“Not good enough,” three words that would stop the world, his world, from spinning.

“Excuse me?”

Iwazumi glances up at you bewildered as your demeanor seems to wilt a bit.

“YN, they’re going to do the best they can to find–”

“How come you get to stay and I was asked to resign?”

Your interjection came with a fiery ferocity which you expanded upon. You go through the motions of talking it out with Iwazumi by your side to listen to rambles and go off as you’re pacing the living room. The fact that someone was delusional enough to have a mark on you whether it was intentional or not, the team still kept all of their players and out of fairness thought it was best to see if they could force you to resign, yet you are a boulder unwilling to move.

“Genius comes in many forms I suppose,” you stop in front of Iwazumi for the nth time. “But if this turns out to be a stunt, contractually or not, I resign for no reason and I don’t know what’s worse than that.”

Whatever you just said made Iwazumi’s face contort in a sort of conspiracy theory way. If what you say is true, then it is plausible the members of the committees who had you all under surveillance minus internal affairs, would have access to what had been leaked. You might have stumbled upon the answer around the same time, give or take a few seconds, as the both of you exclaim the name of one of the common denominators: the assistant coach.

“Can you prove it?” you whisper to him.

Iwazumi scoffs as he pats the empty space beside him on your couch.

“For you, I will,” he answers you, a tired smile and all. You sit down beside him, resting your head against his arm, almost leaning into his shoulder. He rests his cheek atop your head with a delightful hum; his hand rests palm up on your knee and this time, when you take it, you intertwine your fingers.

“Would you like to stay like this for a while?” you ask, although you know the answer.

“As long as we remain stalker-free for the rest of our days, sure, why not?” you could feel his fond smile through every word.

Elsewhere, the names of the tertiary parties involved have less than a half days time to gather all necessary documents because slander is added amongst the charges of breaching the laws of privacy. Your phone records as well as Iwazumi’s are kept sealed until the trial is set to begin. It’s been a wild two-three months since dealing with the damage control for this security breach, and luckily those who were questioned did face irrevocable jail time for slander and stalking. To this day, you and Iwazumi are thankful to have supported each other throughout the ordeal especially since it drew you together.

𝔸𝕣𝕘𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕒, 𝟚 𝕞𝕠𝕟𝕥𝕙𝕤 𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕣

Considering the generous offer of one Oikawa Tooru, you wake up, in a shirt not your own. Strong coffee, as you’ve learned to love during your stay here, has been brewed just to your liking. You are lazily flipping over in bed as the wind caresses put face and a slight chill is sent down your spine; you hiss at the absence of company you kept, the same person who and you quote, ‘fuck like you love me.’ Oh, after a few drinks after dinner, did Iwaxumi do that. Four times, four times?! You sat up quickly, throwing the blanket over your legs. Your thighs, littered in teeth marks and firm bruises made you let out a shaker breath. You feel so sore the higher your eyes and hands climb toward your core. There, unmistakenly, is a dull ache from where you remember you embarked on the physicality of this relationship—“god damn it, yn,” you inarguably stifle a laugh. He wore you out, you don’t even remember half the pet names he called up, but up until yesterday, you thought your college friend was a serial monogamist, and you knew why now.

As you let the memories of last night’s tumble in the sheets with Iwazumi blind your memories, he knocks on the door. The bastard has this pot on his lips asking if you’re ok or if you woke up too sore after something you both consented to.

“‘M fine,” you pat the space next to you. “You?”

He sits down, kissing the spot behind your ear, teasing you with a gruff, “mmhm.” The guest room still smells of sex and candied sin, but that doesn’t stop you nor Iwazumi from exploring each other with the intent of making another mess. You turn three quarters of the way to rest comfortably in the space of his lap, clothed erection you can graze by and feel he’ll become hard the longer you’re on him like this. Teasing him by tracing your hands over his chest, down his defined abs, then the waist band of his boxers had you greedily mumble, “already? hajime, we haven’t had breakfast yet…”

“Don’t care,” He sighs back into your mouth, hands supporting the small curve of your back. “You started this, we’ll pause after one round, eat, then come back.”

“Mm, sounds promising,” you tilt your head to one side. The buttons where the shirt was clasped together easily pop off the second you push iwazumi’s compliant body down. You settle yourself at an angle you know you could take him as you feel him drag down his waist band.

“So pretty boy,” The bold name makes him almost buck up into you. You feel the raw aching tip graze your uncovered sex. Leaning down to kiss his clavicle, your expression darker than his, you squeeze his member with one hand the other on his shoulder. Your hand adjusts the grip until you almost easily slip him into you. His eyes roll a bit as he feels you pump him just a smidge. “Think you could let me ride you for a few hours?”

A shaky breath followed by a most haste kiss has you continue preparing yourself to take him, all of him, at once. You groan from the slight, but pleasurable sting as does he. Your breathing is shallow like his as you let him set a steady rhythm that works for you both. His hands hold your waist while gently telling you encouraging words, “It’s better if you do it like this,” and a hip stuttering, “didn’t think I’d get to see you so fucked out this early.”

“Waking up alone sucks,” You breathe as you lace your fingers around iwazumi’s own. Prying his grip off your hip this time, you press a kiss to his palm before placing it on his neck. He’s a bit surprised, but now that he knows you like being choked a little, he presses down a bit.

“Nngh!” The very same cry from you as he is mercilessly curling up into you had your head in a tizzy. He’s come alive and you can feel his member pulsating at how your gummy walls stick him back in. His fingers still on your pulse point when he squeezes it again, another blissful cry has him wiping away glossy tears from your face.

“Keep making noises like that and I’ll fuck you from behind in the bathroom so you can watch your pretty face see what I do to your body,” It’s a beautifully prompted threat. Your orgasm has you in a metaphorical choke hold as your stamina increases with every pull and push of Iwazumi’s free hand. The one that holds you against him is not not dominant hand; that one sneaks between where you two are joined, locating a spot where if given enough attention, you’re driven off the metaphorical edge. You’re sinking your teeth into his shoulder and you feel him tense up.

“S-shit, ‘m close too, hol’d on, yeah?” You wearily nod. “Where?”

“Fuck! Inside,” you don’t have time to worry about the consequences. (It’s not like you don’t plan on birthing this man’s children, but if you two keep going at it like this, you just might. He’s just that good in the sack.)

Breathing like you both ran a marathon, your abused center still pulsates as the combined fluids never threaten to spill out. You confess you don’t care what happens in the future as long as you’re in it together. Iwazumi’s, catching his breath, sort of laughs into your shoulder.

“If you wind up with a scare, we’re at least know how to fuck again to make you a mommy,” He hears you laugh. It’s the purest one he’s heard since this vacation began.

“Be careful what you wish for.”

Iwazumi kisses your temple. “C’mon princess, coffee awaits.”

You concur, lazily draping the used sheets around your shoulders once Iwazumi reluctantly leaves the room. Glancing around you, despite the updates of the court case, you’re glad to rest in a paradise all on your own doing. Who knows? Maybe you’ll come back here with a family all your own—with the silly athletic trainer dancing in his boxers to “last Christmas” on the pop lite station.

Iwazumi is many things to you, but right now, a thief of your heart seems to be the most accurate.

#security breach #iwazumi hajime x reader #sora scribbles 2022 #haikyuu x reader

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alias-sam · 5 months

Text

Pierced by a Golden Soul

Chapter 1. A Normal Day in a Normal Life

Platonic Jojo's x Reader

Summary: Fate is a bizarre concept with countless more bizarre implications. In life sometimes such extraordinary events happen that the only reasoning left must be fate. The tragedies that constantly befall the Joestar bloodline for example may be the unluckiest series of cards drawn in human history, or perhaps the work of a greater power. There is no way to tell for sure. Had Dio Brando or Jonathan Joestar moved slightly on a divergent path the world itself would be left very different. The fate or luck of the noble Joestar bloodline has led to destruction of evil likes of the Pillar Men and DIO. This story is of a similar caliber to that of the other Joestars (as I am sure you are familiar with them). This is a story of lost souls, compassion, hope, and above all fate.

Word Count: 2,440

(Crosspost from Wattpad, full fic is already posted there.)

Saint Rosewater County Florida 1998. Between one of the oldest cities in the country, and one of the busiest cities in the panhandle, laid an ever-shifting tourist town known as Andorra Beach. Home to many a strange characters and many a stranger spectacles. Local tourist hotspots, including fishing and shopping destinations, had made Andorra quite the attractive vacation area.

Among hustle and bustle from travelers was the daily lives of more permanent residents to the area. This included you. Bordly you continued your trek towards an intersection that led to your high school. It was currently May, one of many hot months of the year where you lived. You wiped some sweat from your forehead, then rifled through your bag to make sure there was an umbrella handy. The gods of Florida weather were chaotic. You had to be prepared if they decided to bless you with random rain around the time you had to walk back home. As your leisurely morning pace brought you closer to the crosswalk, you noticed a peculiarly tall man. His nose was glued to a map and small book he held closely to his face. His staggering height alone did not grab your attention rather it was his flamboyant white jacket and hat.

You were just a few feet from him when you realized he was starting to step off of the sidewalk. The crossing light cleared him to go, despite traffic continuing to flow past the curb. You were oddly calm in this situation, as unfortunately it was one you dealt with every morning.

The crosswalk timer and traffic lights had been broken since before you could remember. Often the light up sign would misinform pedestrians of when it was really safe to cross. Thus began your morning routine of stopping tourists who tried to cross before the traffic lights changed. Occasionally pulling them out of the street before something tragic happened. With practiced movements you sprinted forward, reaching for the back of the man's jacket. Time seemed to slow when you noticed the man was just a hair out of your immediate reach. Before you could do anything else a ghostly hand shot out from your own. It gripped the man's jacket, tugging roughly backwards. He was quite large but the ghost hand managed to make him stumble back onto the sidewalk. A red car speedily zipped through the stretch of road where the man would have been standing. Your grip on the man's jacket loosened while you let out a small breath you had subconsciously held. You looked down to get a glimpse at your arm but the ghost hand disappeared just as suddenly as it showed up.

The man turned. He looked down at you before turning his gaze to the crossing sign and the road. You could see the questioning look gather on his face, just like every time you had this interaction with someone. He seemed to understand the reason you stopped him though, because he didn't look annoyed. You watched the giant tip his hat in front of his eyes and mutter in another language something along the lines of 'Yare Yare.' A phrase you couldn't really decipher.

"Thanks kid." His voice was monotone but you appreciated being acknowledged. In most instances you didn't get anything close to a thank you.

"Someone really needs to fix that light." You mumbled, mostly to yourself but loud enough for anyone around to hear. It was nice the guy was smart enough to figure out the problem, you hated having to explain it. As the light changed and cars stopped you stepped off of the curb and crossed. When you made it to the other side you had to readjusted your bag. There was a weird tugging sensation coming from your back. When you looked behind you there was nothing there. Maybe your strap was to tight or something?

The rest of your venture to school went as it always did, you passed by fellow commuters, occasionally checking your watch to make sure you were moving at a pace that would get you to first period on time.

This year had so far been boring as they come. While you were glad for nothing chaotic per say happening, a part of you longed for some break from the monotony. 1998 marked you entering high school, a change that would shake things up for most teens, however after the first day of school everything fell into a quiet rhythm. You weren't the most outgoing of people, but not a total introvert either, this landed you with a few acquaintances, but basically no friends. After the first few weeks you got marked a 'loner'. The title oddly enough made annoying people want to approach you. Often when you got closer to school a small gaggle of classmates and strangers would start following you. It was up to luck if they were there to try and hang out, or give you trouble.

You picked up your walking pace as you made it to school, hoping to avoid any unwanted attention. Unfortunately, luck was not smiling upon you today. You sighed to yourself as several high-pitched voices called out your name. You walked a bit faster but they just matched your strides.

"(Y/N)! We have a project coming up wanna partner up?"

"Hey! I heard that you aren't in any clubs! You should totally join mine!"

"You're looking nice today."

Any normal person would probably be flattered by all of the attention, but to you most of these people were strangers. You would occasionally recognize people maybe a boy or two from your English class and that girl you accidentally brushed past in the halls one time. Other than slight recognition you had no idea who these people were. It was weird and creepy to be approached like this.

A random brunette who was already walking close by grabbed your arm.

"We should have lunch together! How about it (Y/N)?" You quietly shook the girl away from you before turning slightly to the small group.

"Could you all just let me get to class? This is kind of ridiculous." You watched in confusion as several of them blushed and let out small 'Okays' and 'sures'

Thankfully they left and you made it to class without any other distractions. Classes came and went some feeling gruelingly longer than others. Not many lessons stood out to you today. When you made it to your biology class the teacher showed an article about fish in the area dying of an unknown cause at alarming rates. It was common local news that had popped up recently. Some residents attributed it to the sudden tourist season, others suggested it was pollution of some caliber. You tuned out the rest of class, completely missing when your teacher announced that a marine biologist was going to be volunteering at the school for a few days to give lectures.

Eventually school ended and you were freed from your stuffy classroom to enjoy the day that had been laid out in front of you A dark and gloomy sky replaced the clear one from that morning. Pulling your umbrella from your bag you walked with it in hand, ready to open it up in case any rain started. When you passed the courtyard, several eyes followed you. A thing to note about your school was its hive mind. Indeed cliché, but people who didn't conform to the social norm were targets for rumors. Luckily, none of the ones centered around you were particularly damaging. In fact, some of them were so outlandish it was hilarious. Luck seemed to smile upon you in that aspect.

All of your day did end in a bit of excitement since a massive downpour fell from the skies conveniently right as your commute neared home. You half jogged down the sidewalk, keeping in mind not to slip. At last, you reached the 'Jones Family Bakery' Smiling at some customers who exited before making your way to the back. The delicious and familiar smell of sweets hit you as the door closed behind.

"Ciao señora Jones." You greeted. Out from behind a cabinet door came a short Italian woman. Your adoptive mother.

"Greetings darling, how was school?" she asked while attentively removing a batch of cookies from the oven. You plopped down your school bags trading them for a work apron.

"Do you really need to ask?" was your immediate response. Senora Jones gave a light laugh as she sat the hot cooking pan on a cooling rack.

"I suppose not, you always give the same response." She cleared her throat before doing her best imitation of your voice. "Exactly the same as every day, I'm tired and just want to sleep." You chuckled slightly; her playful nature always put a smile on your face. You grabbed a pair of tongs, preparing to move some baked goods to a display.

"Did you make any new friends today?" Your mother's voice was a bit more serious than before. You froze where you were, and looked at her.

"I-... no." You knew the line you were going to get next. Just like clockwork, the conversation happened every day.

"Look," Jones spoke softly. "I don't want you going through life alone. I get that maybe you don't like everyone at school, but please amour? It would put me at ease if you had someone to rely on." You looked at the older woman and saw nothing but a caring expression. She wasn't mad, just worried. You hated disappointing her, but part of you knew her wishes were a bit hard to carry out. Mob mentality was the best way of describing your school's hierarchy. If someone messed up a wave of sorts was the result. A wave of bullying, rumors, and ostracization. Your method of staying afloat was keeping away from drama and wave makers.

"Yeah." You sighed. "I'll keep trying."

You worked mindlessly on a display in a comfortable silence until the front door bell caught your attention.

Ms. Jones raced you to the counter. She made it there first and kindly greeted the customer.

While you didn't necessarily recognize the girl, you were willing to bet that she went to your school. She had on a backpack and carried a slightly soaked textbook (identical to one you owned). She looked a bit disheveled, likely due to getting caught in the rain. Her platinum blonde hair was dripping wet and sticking to the sides of her face.

As the newcomer gave her order you watched and listened in case you had to get something specific from the kitchen for her.

"I'm here to pick up an order for Jaya Rossi." She politely said. Ms. Jones looked over at you, to which you nodded. You retreated to the kitchen and retrieved a small box marked Rossi, then moved back to the front counter and handed it to the girl.

"Thank you so much!" She seemed rather excited for a simple cupcake order, but you paid it no mind.

Your mother motioned towards the windows and the atrocious rain pouring down outside.

"You aren't planning to walk home in that. Are you?" The girl looked outside and visually sagged a bit.

"I forgot my umbrella at school." She responded bashfully.

"Well that just won't do!" Your mother grabbed a towel off of the counter, handing it to the girl. "You dry off what you can with this while I go find an extra one. Can't have you catching cold walking home in the rain!" She walked past you to make her way to the second floor where the two of you lived. "Please keep her company for a few minutes would ya Y/n?" You gave a nod of understanding to your mother, despite mentally preparing yourself for the awkward silence that was about to ensue. You pretty much knew exactly what she was doing too. Senora Jones was always the type to dote on you, and your stark lack of close friends had led her to put you in as many social situations possible.

She smiled and went back to finding an extra umbrella. You looked over at the girl, noticing her unyielding stare up at you. Paying her no mind you began moving around some of the baking displays and tidying up the front counter.

"So...." She trailed off, drumming a slow beat on the table she was sitting at. "You work here?" While the girl seemed comfortable enough talking to you all you felt in the atmosphere was awkwardness.

"Yes?" It was a statement that came out as a question. You were honestly thinking she wouldn't talk to you.

"That's pretty cool!" A wide grin was plastered on her face as she scooted a chair closer to where you were working. She did not seem to feel the same awkward atmosphere you did. "What's it like? Do you help make all of this?" She pointed to the display case that was filled with baked goods. You hesitated, caught a bit off guard at her forwardness but ultimately decided to humor her.

"I work after school and most weekends, it's peaceful actually. Senora Jones insists on doing most of the baking so I really just tidy up and deal with whatever customers she doesn't beat me to."

"What's your name?"

"Y/n. Y/n Jones." You introduced.

"Im Jaya." The girl held a hand out over the counter. It took you a second to process she wanted a handshake. There was really nothing in particular to talk about, but after the handshake your mother returned.

"Here you go." She handed the girl an umbrella with a warm smile. It unendingly amazed you how caring Senora Jones could be to complete strangers. While she would always care about you more than words could say she had a similar love for people in the community. Much like the current instance she would help passers by and customers at a moment's notice.

"Thank you so much! Ill return this I promise!" Your mother gave her signature laugh at the girl's determined expression.

"Don't worry! Just drop by tomorrow." The blonde girl (Who you had now come to know as Jaya) nodded and thanked your mom before heading out.

Your time at the bakery continued on. The familiar patter of raindrops against glass windows was calming. You reorganized some of the pantry as well as wiped down counters and tables. The normal daily work. When closing time rolled around Senora Jones trusted you to close the shop while she headed upstairs to make the two of you dinner.

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shawtybabe · 2 years

Text

Pinball Wizard: Pot Pals. (Vance Hopper x Fem! Reader Chap. 5)

Edit: Not proof read, sorry this took a while to come out, I promise Ill be more consistent with updates in the future.

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I shut the door with a sigh as I bid the last of my goodbyes to my friends, everything felt hazy from the night before, we stayed up all night, most of us high half the time. I was one of said people, it was worth it though, Julie and I got into a deep conversation with each other about UFO’s and proof that they exist.

I smiled at the memory, beginning to pull apart the fought and pick up pillows. It took around an hour to get all the mess cleaned up, I ended up finding three more spare joints that we didn’t use, I raised an eyebrow and stuffed them into my pocket for later.

I rubbed my eyes as I stumbled my way up the stairs for a shower. Locking the door behind me, I got undressed with no hesitation, not even waiting a few short seconds to get the water the right temperature before I practically threw myself in.

It felt like heaven to be under the water, my skin felt smooth and not icky like last night, the chlorine from the pool stuck to my skin like glue. I didn’t notice until the morning and I could practically feel it on my skin, not just in my pores.

I tilted my head up towards the shower head, opening my mouth and letting it fill up with water to sooth my dry and irritable mouth. I gargled it in the back of my throat before swallowing it in one big gulp.

I finished up my normal shower routine, moisturize, wash hair and shave whatever needs shaving. I stepped out and wiped the steam off the mirror with my hand, snatching my towel off the rack and drying myself off. I slipped on my robe and slippers as I wrapped my hair in a towel.

I don’t plan on doing much today, maybe I’ll go down to the grab and go for a tub of ice cream but that’s about it, I’m probably going to finish off my joints and slump on the couch all day, it was too hot to do anything today and I’m pretty much dead at the moment

I watched whatever was on TV until my hair was dry. I should probably get dressed to go get my ice cream before I get too lazy and don’t bother.

I got changed into whatever I saw first, not bothering to do anything with my hair I reached for my purse and left the house. Mom wasn’t home, she left in the morning to get some more pots for the weed plants and saplings we have stored in the attic.

I almost melted onto the pavement when I finally got down my driveway. God, I wish I could fly or something, or teleport, that would be so handy. I could just teleport my mom and I to the towns and countries we want to move to.

I groaned as I waited for a whole heap of cars to come past before crossing the road and headed towards the grab and go.

The store was bustling, and I hated it, my head was pounding and behind my eyes were throbbing. I breathed in through my nose as I grabbed a lighter from my pocket, I always carry one in case of emergencies.

I pulled one of the joints from my pocket and light the end, inhaling the smoke with greed. I don’t particularly care that I’m smoking pot in a store, if anyone has a problem they can fight me, I am not in the mood for peoples shit right now.

I spotted Vance and prayed he doesn’t notice me; I know we made an agreement, but I don’t have the energy to listen to him snap and grumble at me. I quickly pulled two tubs of choc-chip cookie dough and choc-mint ice cream’s out of the big doored freezers.

I was making my way to the cashier when I heard him call my name, I whipped around and put on a fake smile. “Oh hey, sorry I didn’t notice you over there.” I said, taking a few steps closer and bringing the joint to my lips again, struggling to hold two tubs of ice cream in my hand.

His eyes flickered down to my hands and his eyebrows furrowed more than I thought was humanly possible. “Are smoking pot inside a store?” He whisper-shouted at me, I nodded. “I don’t have the mental energy to not at the moment, I am so tired.” I explained, blinking intensely.

He shook his head and snatched it from my hands harshly, this time my brows furrowed. “Hey, give it back.” I grumbled, he smirked and puffed smoke in my face. I scrunched my nose and tuned my head to the side.

I groaned and rolled my eyes, my arms beginning to hurt due to the coldness of the ice cream. I turned around and headed towards the cashier, placing the tubs on the counter, and rubbing the skin they stuck too. Handing the money to the woman, I placed my items into a paper bag I decided to pay for.

I carried the bag in my hand as I strode towards Vance, snatching the almost finished joint from his lips and took a much-needed drag. I shoved some coins for pinball into his chest pocket and wandered out of the store.

I was just about to walk through the car park when someone grabbed my arm and spun me around. It startled me to say the least, but I relaxed when I saw it was Vance. I placed my free hand on my hip and looked up at him with an annoyed expression.

“I gave you your money, what?” I asked, making sure my tone was snappy. He rolled his eyes as his tongue darted out of his mouth to lick his chapped lips. “Do you have any more pot?” He asked in a mumbled and rushed manner, from what I’ve gathered, he doesn’t like making conversation or asking for things.

I nodded. “If you want a of the bag the shit it’s fifteen bucks for your first buy, after that it’s twenty. The joints are ten bucks for each pack and two bucks for a single one.” I explained, I know my mothers’ prices and stock off by heart.

She used to send me to deliver some stuff to her clients in the area, she stopped after I was sexually assaulted when selling it though.

Vance looked almost dumbfounded. “Are you a dealer?” I shook my head. “No, but my mom is though.” He raised his eyebrows in a shocked manner. “Seriously?” I nodded once again, wanting to either be done with the conversation or move to the shade to talk.

I stretched my neck and made a pained face. “Can we move to the shade? Its hot as fuck.” He didn’t say anything just stormed away and behind the store. I groaned and rolled my eyes, if I stay out here any longer my ice cream will be soup by the time, I get home.

I decided to follow him, maybe if I sell him some stuff, I can get my mom some extra money. I had just turned the corner when he viciously shoved a twenty dollar note in my face. It made me jump and sigh in annoyance.

“Be a big boy and use your words, I don’t read minds.” I said and pressed my back to the brick wall of the store. He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes tightly. “All I have is a twenty, I just want a few joints.” I plucked four from my jacket pocket and handed it to him, I still had two for myself, plus I can snatch a few more when I get home.

“Thanks.” He muttered as he rummaged through his pockets for a lighter. I shook my head with a small smile and handed him mine. He took it and breathed in for a few solid seconds, blowing some smoke rings as he breathed out.

I slumped down to the floor with my back still on the bricks, I opened the brown paper bag and pulled out one of the tubs of ice cream. I cursed under my breath when I realized I didn’t have a spoon.

“What?” He asked, seeing I was distressed. “I don’t have a spoon and by the time I get home my ice cream will be mush.” I pouted and held my hands up, opening and closing my palms, signaling for him to hand me the joint.

He did and I wasted no time in taking a puff. “Ill be back, wait here.” He said and walked off. I shrugged and continued enjoying the peace while smoking. My headache had reduced a little bit, and the throbbing behind my eyes stopped all together.

Vance came back around two minutes later with two spoons in hand. I looked at him confused when he handed me one. “Where did you get these?” I asked and opened the tub back up again. “You can ask for some spoons for if you want to stir your coffee when you order one.

I completely forgot about that. “Oh my god, I completely forgot about that, thanks.” I said, my mood mildly improving. He only nodded and slumped down with me, snatching back his joint form my lips. I stuck my spoon into the choc-chip cookie dough ice cream and shoveled it into my mouth, if I’m being honest, it was still a lot more frozen that what I was expecting.

Vance reached over me and pulled out a spoonful as well, just as he did so, his hair almost fell into the tub. I laughed and gently pushed his shoulder away.

His face contorted into an offended one. “You almost got your hair in my ice cream, tie it up.” I grind. He scowled at me. “Does it look like I have a hair tie to you dip-shit.” He said angrily. I giggled and pulled one off my wrist.

“Turn around, ill tie it up for you.” I said, he did so but grumbled and complained that I was pulling his hair too hard the whole time. I tied it up in a small bun, little baby strands of hair fell into his forehead and hung at the nape of his neck, I can’t deny that he looked even more attractive with his hair up. I had to stop myself from staring.“There, now you can have some.” I scooted myself, and the tub closer to him. He wasn’t paying attention; he was too busy pretty much groping the bun on top of his head. I smacked his hands away. “Stop touching it or it will fall out.” I scolded. He rolled his eyes and grumbled, taking a scoop of ice cream.

I had noticed some bruises and red marks on his knuckled, one of his fingers even had some scratches. I pointed my finger to them, tracing the skin carefully when he went in for another scoop. “How did you get them?” I asked and he looked at me like I was stupid.

“I know you got them fighting but who were you fighting any why? Give me a back story.” I crossed my legs and sat the tup on my knee.

“These asshats tried to jump me on the way to my car yesterday, I beat up their friend for talkin’ shit. That kid went to hospital, and I think he sent his stupid fucking friends to get back at me. Didn’t work though.” He gave a wicked laugh in the middle of his story. “Those fuckers were weak as shit, I barley hit em and they toppled over.” He spoke with pride and a wide smirk plastered on his lips.

I smiled. “Good on you, I’m guessing that was damage you did to yourself?” I tapped his hands with my fingertips, and he nodded. “Yeah, it doesn’t hurt though so don’t give me your fucking pity or some shit like that.” I chuckled and shook my head as I traced a flower onto the back of his hand.

“I wasn’t planning on it.” “Good.” He said and yanked his hand away, picking up his spoon from his lap and digging up a heap more of ice cream. “Okay that’s the last bit, I’m sharing the rest with my mom when I get home.” He groaned and threw his spoon somewhere into the distance.

I pulled one of my second joints from my pocket and light the end, I breathed in deeply with my eyes closed, feeling my head spin for a few seconds until I reoriented myself. I offered it to Vance who took it without hesitation, he lowered the joint from his lips and swished the smoke around in his mouth like how you would water, then blew a smoke ring into my face.

I smiled and poked my finger through the ring, it broke and evaporated once it my skin. I took my joint back and inhaled, opening my mouth and watching the smoke bubble out, I quickly sucked it back in and puffed it out like I normally would.

We continued to swap out joints back and forth until they were all gone, by now we were both really smiley and giggly. Talking about the stupid stuff we have done in the past, Vance was telling me about how him and some of his friends egged a cop’s house because he arrested Vance just for jaywalking. I agreed that was a deserved punishment.

By now the hot mid-day sun was gone, now the afternoon breeze was beginning to pick up. It wafted the heavy smell of pot around us. We had just calmed down from laughing our guts out, we were making fun of our science teacher, saying how he looks like a gnome and that his mom probably still picks his clothes out for him.

“Oh my fucking god.” I breathed, my hand on my chest to try and calm myself while wiping a tear from my eye. “Do you think he still lives with his mom; can you imagine that?” I asked with a giggle, Vance nodded. “Probably, what’s the bet his siblings live there with him?” I cracked up laughing again, my ribs aching from laughing to hard I practically wheezed with my eyes closed and the back of my head resting against the wall behind me.

Vance passed me back the last joint and I slowed my breathing to take a puff, so I didn’t choke. I finished the last of it off and began to stand up, my knees feeling weak from being in the same position for so long, I almost toppled over.

Vance grabbed my shoulder as I tilted and wobbled, I kept laughing and trying to stand up straight. “Thanks pot pal.” He gave me a strange look. “Pot pal, cause ya know, we just smoked pot together for like-“ He cut me off with a small smile on his face and a knowing tone in his voice. “Yeah, I get it, it’s just stupid.”

I gasped and placed a hand on my chest dramatically. “How dare you say such a thing, I’ll have you know that I am a genius when it comes to names!” I shouted with as much flamboyance as I could muster.

“Come on you idiot, I’ll walk you home, if I don’t, you’ll probably be run over or some shit.” I scoffed but agreed. He carried my bag of ice cream for me, only because I’ll probably end up flinging it around and lose it or something.

I showed him the way to my house, I was rambling about something random and while walking, he had to keep grabbing my shoulders and steering me back onto the pathway or away from the road, I didn’t particularly notice and continued my story.

He would often ask which way and I would point instead of using my words, to invested to stop talking for even a moment. Just as he grabbed me shoulders to steer me somewhere else, I leaned my head back to look at him.

He looked down at me with a relaxed face, something I haven’t seen before, he looked so pretty, his eyes are a gorgeous shade of blue, they’re like icy crystals or glaciers. And his nose is so perfectly sculptured while his lips are so pink and plump, the way his tongue darts out of his mouth to lick his lips drives me insane and how his hair is so wild and untamed like him.

Speaking of his hair, I reached up to grab at the soft bun at the top of his head, giggling childishly at how soft and fluffy it is. I feels like heaven tickling my skin when I touch it and soon enough, I’m completely fixated on it, curling my fingers around the little baby strands and watching them bounce when I let go.

Sadly, my happiness didn’t last long, he violently shook his head, making me pull my hands away. “Don’t touch.” He warned, briefly looking up at the path to make sure we were going the right way. I pouted. “Whyy, it’s so soft and fun to play with, I love playing with people’s hair.” My voice was whiney, but I didn’t care, it was true.

“I don’t care, now deal with it.” I grumbled and looked back up at the path, pointing to the left and at a wide, metal fence. That’s the start of my house. “This is it.” I said, his eyes widened just a tad as he let go of my shoulders. The skin where his hands had been were as hot a fire and tingled, it gave me goosebumps all over my arms.

“Do you want to come in?” I asked, rubbing the goosebumps away before he notices. He shook his head. “Okay, are you going to be alright walking home by yourself? I could get my mom to drop you home.” I offered, he scrunched his nose, and it sent butterfly’s erupting through my stomach.

“I’ll be fine, I don’t need you or your fucking mom to walk or drop me home like a little fucking baby.” I put my hands up in surrender. “Okay, it was just an offer.” I said smiling. “Yeah, I don’t need it, now get inside. I’ll see you later.” He mumbled the last part, but I still heard it, it made me smile. He shoved my bag of ice cream into my chest and shoed me towards my gate.

“Yeah, okay, see ya.” I waved, opening the gate, and closing it as he began walking off. Throughout the entire walk up my driveway I couldn’t stop smiling. It became clear to me that I may have a tiny, itty-bitty crush on him. I prayed it was only a short-term thing because I don’t think Vance has ever felt that way about someone, he is always caught up in either pinball or his emotions, which is clear by the way he treats everyone.

I made it inside with my bag, immediately bee-lining straight to the freezer to put them away. My mom made her way down the steps and into the kitchen to see me doing some odd dance, I didn’t notice her presence until she cleared her throat, clearly amused.

I froze, looking up to meet her eyes, I gave a wide smile and continued dancing. “What’s got my little monkey dancing like it’s the best day of her life?” My mother crossed her arms with a happy smirk on her face.

“Okay, okay, so… I went to the grab and go to get ice cream, nothing unusual, but I have this deal with this boy who really likes getting into fights for no reason. I give him money for pinball, which he is absolutely obsessed with and he keeps me off his hit-list pretty much, his name is Vance and I was at the grab and go and I gave him some money but he caught me smoking pot, so he ended up bringing me around the back of the store and he paid for some and we sat down and smoked pot while eating ice cream together and making fun of our science teacher and then he walked me home and I played with his hair and I really, really like him!” I shouted, taking a deep, dramatic breath when I finished talking.

My mom didn’t say anything just kissed my head and brought me over to the couch, we sat down and ended up watching shows together while I laid my head in her lap while she played with my hair.

Hopefully something like that will happen again, maybe even next time I see him.

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