#both in the sense that it is INEVITABLE i will write fic about it. i feel it coming. in me bones. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

psychedelic-ink · 2 months

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ㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘

ㅤㅤjoel miller x plus size!f!reader

genre: romance, flowershop au, jackson era, minors dni

word count: 7k

summary: you own a small flower shop in Jackson, when Ellie comes to visit, your life inevitably becomes tangled with the man who cares for her; joel miller.

warnings: age gap, piv in the middle of a flower field, no one sees, praise kink, some angst because joel, oral (fem receiving)

a/n: hello everyone! it's been a while and honestly, life has been kicking me in the gut lately with everything its got.

This originally was a commission, reader had a name and I've been working at it for months but sadly the person who commissioned be backed out last second saying they weren't interested anymore meaning I'm not getting paid for this work. Again, it's on me. Admittedly I've been slow on commissions due to my living situation and work and I should've taken half the payment upfront but trusting it was a joel fic I didn't really take extra precautions.

I decided to share it anyway, and the person who commissioned me said that I could. Any kind of writing has been hard for me to do lately and I really like how this one turned out. But since now I'm not getting paid for this work I decided to take out readers name and make some changes to the overall plot that I was given.

Sadly, I can't take any more commissions at the moment before finishing the ones I have left, but I'd be grateful for any kind of support you guys can give. I need to move out this summer (if I don't, I don't have a shadow of a doubt that my aunts will tell me to leave anyway) and I've been trying to save up as much as I can. Everything just has been a lot lately and I'm feeling anxious about my decisions and lost.

Again, any kind of support is greatly appreciated even tho I know I don't deserve it at this time:

my kofi

**dividers by @saradika-graphics 💜

You unlock the door to your quaint flower shop, the antique bell that you found and Tommy fixed chiming softly in greeting. Stepping outside, you're immediately embraced by the warmth of the morning sun, its golden rays dancing playfully on your skin. The air carries the unmistakable scent of spring, a delicate blend of fresh blossoms and earthy notes that fills your lungs with every inhale.

Dressed in a flowing dress, you feel perfectly in tune with the season as you begin arranging the colorful array of flowers on display outside your shop. The fabric of your dress sways gently in the breeze, a soft symphony of movement that mirrors the graceful dance of the petals.

Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes and tilt your face towards the sky, basking in the gentle caress of the sun's rays. Above you, the cerulean expanse is dotted with fluffy white clouds, their shapes shifting and morphing with each passing moment.

With practiced hands, you arrange the blooms with care, each stem finding its place in the intricate tapestry of colors and textures. The vibrant hues of the flowers contrast beautifully against the backdrop of the weathered brick walls of your shop, creating a scene that's both inviting and enchanting.

As you work, you can't help but smile at the thought of the joy these flowers will bring to those who pass by. It’s been hard adopting to a new and broken world, but ironically, you have found your passion. Something to make you eager to get up in the morning. Of course your heart still ached for those you had lost, the suffering, but working on flowers, something living and growing and adapting just like you managed to lighten the weight on your heart. Whether it's a simple bouquet to brighten someone's day or a thoughtful arrangement for a special occasion, your creations have a way of spreading happiness and light wherever they go.

With the last of the flowers arranged to perfection, you step back to admire your handiwork, a sense of pride swelling within you. With a contented sigh, you turn to head back inside, ready to greet the day with open arms and a heart full of gratitude.

That is, until, you hear a surprised gasp.

“Holy shit—”

Turning around at the sound, you're met with the sight of a familiar face. A young girl you've seen around town quite frequently. You haven’t officially met her yet, but you know her name: Ellie.

Realizing that the young girl has never visited your flower shop before, you understand the source of her surprise. With a warm smile, you approach her and greet her by name. "You're Ellie, right? Tommy's niece?"

Ellie nods enthusiastically, her eyes bright with excitement. "Yeah, that's me! Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I've just never been here before. The flowers are... fucking amazing—"

She suddenly claps a hand over her mouth, looking towards you apologetically. The gesture makes you laugh.

"I'm glad you like them," you reply, feeling a sense of satisfaction at her reaction. "Feel free to take a closer look if you'd like."

Her eyes light up at the invitation, and she eagerly follows you inside the cozy flower shop. The atmosphere inside is warm and inviting, with shelves lined with potted plants and bouquets of flowers in various stages of bloom. Sunlight filters through the windows, casting a soft glow over the space and illuminating the vibrant colors of the blooms.

As you lead Ellie further into the shop, you can't help but notice the curious glances she casts around, taking in every detail with a sense of wonder. The air is filled with the subtle fragrance of flowers, a delicate scent that lingers in the air and adds to the charm of the space.

"So, Ellie," you begin, breaking the comfortable silence as you approach a display of freshly cut flowers, "Anything you like? I’d be more than happy to gift you some."

Ellie's eyes sparkle with excitement as she looks around the shop. "Really? But there’s so many, how can I even choose?"

"Well, you're in luck," you reply, gesturing towards the colorful blooms around you. "I can just make you a bouquet of everything. Just pick out your favorites."

Ellie's gaze drifts over the display, her expression thoughtful as she considers your question. "Hmm, that's a tough one, they all look so fucking cool," she muses, her brows furrowing slightly in concentration. "How about sunflowers and. . . daisies? There's just something about them that feels... I don't know, hopeful, I guess."

You nod in understanding, a fond smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Sunflowers are a wonderful choice. They symbolize warmth, happiness, and positivity. Definitely a fitting choice for someone as vibrant as you, Ellie."

She grins at the compliment, "Thanks,. So, what about you? Do you have a favorite flower?"

“That’s a tough one, but I’d had to say daffodils. They just make me feel right at home. . . even though home has become a difficult word.”

She doesn’t answer you, at least not in a way that you would expect. She nods and says,

"Let's add some daffodils to the mix too. If that’s okay.”

“If course it is. I said any flower didn’t I?”

With Ellie's choices in mind, you set to work gathering the blooms she selected, expertly arranging them into a vibrant bouquet. Your hands move with practiced precision, the gentle rustle of petals and stems filling the air as you weave the different flowers together.

Each blossom is a work of art in its own right, vibrant hues mingling together in a harmonious dance of colors and textures. Sunflowers, with their golden petals reaching towards the sky, stand tall and proud at the center of the bouquet, symbolizing warmth and happiness. Daisies, with their delicate white petals and cheerful yellow centers, add a touch of innocence and purity to the mix. And finally, the daffodils.

Beside you, Ellie watches with rapt attention, her eyes shining, "It's so pretty," she remarks, her voice filled with awe.

You smile at her words, feeling a sense of pride swell within you at the sight of her delight. "Flowers have a way of bringing joy and beauty into our lives," you reply, your voice soft with reverence. "They remind us to appreciate the simple things and to find beauty in the world around us."

Finally, the bouquet is complete, a stunning masterpiece that radiates warmth and joy. You present it to Ellie with a flourish, a sense of satisfaction washing over you at the sight of her delighted expression.

"It's perfect," Ellie exclaims, her eyes shining with excitement as she admires the bouquet in her hands. "Thank you so much. This is amazing."

"It was my pleasure," you reply, your heart swelling with happiness at her words. "I'm glad you like it. And remember, if you ever want to learn more about flowers or need some help with anything, you know where to find me."

Ellie nods eagerly, her enthusiasm infectious. "Definitely. Thanks again. This means a lot."

As Ellie turns to leave, a sudden thought seems to strike her. She pauses, her hand on the door, before turning back to face you with a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Hey," she begins, a playful smile dancing on her lips, "do you need a flower assistant? I mean, I’d be nice to work here, and you seem really cool."

"Well, Ellie," you reply with a teasing grin, "If you're serious about helping out around here, I'd be more than happy to have you on board."

Ellie's eyes widen,. "Wait, really?" she asks, her voice tinged with disbelief. "You mean it?"

You nod, your smile genuine as you reassure her. "Of course. I could use all the help I can get, especially during busy times. And besides, it'll be fun having you around. Consider yourself officially hired as my flower assistant, Ellie."

A grin spreads across Ellie's face, her eyes sparkling with excitement at the prospect of working alongside you in the flower shop. "Wow, I don't even know what to say," she admits, her voice filled with genuine gratitude.

"No need to say anything," you grin. "Just don’t be late."

As Ellie nods, a sense of anticipation fills the air, signaling the beginning of a new chapter in both of your lives. With a shared sense of excitement and determination, you and Ellie set to work, ready to take on whatever challenges and adventures the future may hold for your blossoming partnership.

The next day unfolds with a golden hue, promising another beautiful day in Jackson. As you prepare for the day ahead, a sense of excitement tingles in the air knowing that you'll be mentoring Ellie, your newfound flower assistant. Ellie arrives earlier than you expected, her eyes oozing with sleep.

"Good morning, Ellie," you greet her with a warm smile, gesturing for her to come closer. "Ready for your first day?"

Ellie grins back, nodding enthusiastically. "Absolutely. I’m just not used to waking up so early."

With a chuckle, you lead her to the work table, where several potted plants await repotting. However, before diving into the day's tasks, Ellie's curiosity gets the better of her.

"How do you find all these flowers?" she asks. "I mean, with the infected and everything, it must be hard."

"I have a few spots outside of Jackson where I like to go to collect flowers. There's a field not too far from here that's brimming with all sorts of blooms."

Ellie's eyes widen and you can tell she's intrigued by the idea of venturing beyond the safety of the town's walls. "That sounds amazing," she breathes, her voice filled with wonder. "Do you go there often?"

You nod, a fond smile playing on your lips as you recall the countless trips you've taken to the flower field. "Yes, whenever I need to restock or find something special," you reply. "But I've also started growing some flowers myself. It's a work in progress, but it's been rewarding to see them bloom."

"That's so cool," she exclaims. "I'd love to see the field sometime, if you're up for it."

With a grin, you nod, "I'd be happy to take you," you reply. "But for now, let's focus on getting these plants repotted. We'll save the field trip for another day."

As if on cue, the shop door swings open, and a customer steps inside, a worn backpack slung over their shoulder. They approach the counter with a friendly smile, their eyes scanning the colorful array of blooms on display.

"Good morning," you greet them with a smile, your attention shifting to the customer. "How can I help you today?"

The customer returns your smile, reaching into their backpack to retrieve a small item wrapped in cloth. "I have something to trade," they explain, placing the item on the counter before you.

You unwrap the cloth to reveal a delicate piece of jewelry, a handmade necklace adorned with intricate beads and charms. It's a beautiful piece, clearly crafted with care and attention to detail.

Ellie watches with interest as you examine the necklace, her curiosity piqued by the exchange taking place before her eyes. "What are you trading for?" she asks, her voice filled with curiosity.

You glance at Ellie with a smile, impressed by her keen observation. "Well, Ellie, sometimes customers trade items in exchange for flowers," you explain, turning back to the customer. "It's a way for them to get something they need while also supporting the shop. As for how I decide what the flowers are worth, it's based on a few factors—like the rarity of the flowers, the time and effort it took to grow them, and of course, their beauty."

With a nod, you accept the necklace, carefully placing it aside before selecting a beautiful bouquet of flowers to offer in exchange. As the customer leaves the shop, their smile brighter than before, you can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction knowing that you've made another person's day a little bit brighter.

“Ellie, I’m not sure me bargin’ into your new workplace is the best introduction,” Joel says.

“You’ll be fine,” she says, dragging Joel by the arm. “Besides, weren’t you the one grumbling about not liking me spending all my time with a stranger? What else was I fucking supposed to do?”

Joel lets out an elongated sigh. “Language.”

He can’t see it, but he knows she’s rolling her eyes at him. The tiny, rundown flower shop soon comes into view and Joel can’t help but think of all the improvements he could make: the crooked step, the splintered door, the moss growing from the bottom of the woody exterior—

This shop won’t last next winter, he thinks with furrowed brows. And even though he’s been skeptical about Ellie spending all of her time here, he’s seen the improvement in her mood. Things just haven’t been the same since their return from the hospital, he couldn’t shake the distant feeling between him and her no matter how hard he tried. It had become something even he couldn’t fix.

But then, one day, she’d come home with the most beautiful bouquet of flowers he’d ever seen, with a wide smile plastered across her young face. Then she mentioned the keeper of the shop. Ever since then, his interest had been piqued.

Approaching the shop, he notices a figure outside arranging flowers, your silhouette bathed in the warm morning sun. You appear younger than he anticipated, your beauty catching him off guard. The way your dress contours your curves adds to your allure, a sight unexpected yet captivating. A gentle breeze tousles your hair as you work, momentarily leaving him speechless.

Contrasting his hesitation, you bound up to the shop with your usual cheerfulness. "Hey there!" Ellie calls out. The woman turns at her greeting, a genuine smile gracing her lips as she sets down the flowers. "Good morning!"

He hangs back, observing as Ellie effortlessly initiates a conversation with you. Your interaction flows with ease, suggesting a familiarity beyond your brief acquaintance.

While you chat, an unsettling feeling settles within him. There's an inexplicable pull towards the shop owner, despite his attempts to resist. Watching Ellie interact with you stirs a strange longing within him, leaving him more unsettled than before.

Before he can dwell on his thoughts further, Ellie snaps him out of it. "Joel, don’t be a stranger! Introduce yourself, she's the one I've been telling you about."

With a sigh, he steps forward, his approach cautious. As your eyes meet, a peculiar sense of recognition passes between you, as if you've crossed paths in another life.

"Hi," he manages to say, his voice gruff yet not devoid of warmth. "I'm Joel."

As he clasps your hand, a spark ignites between you, a connection unfurling with each passing moment.

“Joel?” you say slowly, as if tasting his name in your mouth. “Joel as in Tommy Miller’s brother?”

Your hand feels soft and delicate as it clasps his own, and he can't help but notice the subtle tremor in your fingers. It's a small detail, but it speaks volumes, hinting at a vulnerability that he hadn't expected from this beautiful stranger.

"Yeah, that's me," he responds with a nod, offering a friendly smile in return. "Tommy's my brother."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Joel. Ellie speaks very highly of you."

As you exchange pleasantries, he finds himself drawn to the warmth in your gaze, a warmth that seems to seep into his very soul. There's an openness about you, a genuineness that he finds both refreshing and disarming.

While you talk, he can't help but be captivated by the way your lips move, the gentle cadence of your voice. It's a strange sensation, this sudden fascination with a woman he's just met, but he finds himself unable to look away.

Your conversation is interrupted by Ellie's playful interruption, and he reluctantly tears his gaze away from you, feeling a pang of disappointment at the thought of leaving your side. But as they follow Ellie into the shop, he can't shake the feeling that meeting you has stirred something within him, something that he can't quite articulate.

Entering the shop, he can't help but notice even more things wrong– the creaky floorboards, the peeling paint, the flickering lights overhead. It's evident that the place is in dire need of renovations.

Despite the less-than-ideal surroundings, Ellie's excitement is contagious, and he finds himself getting swept up in the moment. She points out various flowers, their vibrant hues and delicate petals bringing a welcome burst of color to the dreary environment.

"These lilies are my absolute favorite," Ellie exclaims, thrusting a handful of flowers towards him with a mischievous grin.

He can't suppress a surprised sneeze as the pollen tickles his nose, and they both dissolve into laughter,and momentarily, all his concerns seem to fade away.

But just as they're catching their breath, you enter the room, your presence once again capturing his attention. There's something about you that intrigues him, a warmth and kindness that draws him in effortlessly.

A sheepish smile spreads across his face as your eyes meet. You return the smile, your gaze gentle and understanding, and for a fleeting moment, it feels as though you're the only two people in the room.

“Who helped you fix the place up?” Joel asks you as Ellie runs off to change the water of the vases. “

"Tommy actually," you explain. "He's been a tremendous help, especially with all the repairs."

Joel’s brows knit together and he ignores the way your smile falters as he speaks, “Well, leave it to my brother to do a shit job. This shop won’t last next winter.”

“O–Oh. . .” you hug yourself, thumbs moving along the contours of your arms. His heart sinks in, leave it to him to make someone feel bad.

“Not to say it can’t be fixed,” he continues abruptly. “I can help you out. Wouldn’t want Ellie’s new favorite spot to get buried under the snow.”

“Really?” you gasp, smile returning. “You would do that?”

“‘Course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I just. . . I just wasn’t expecting such an offer thank you. It means the world to me.”

Suddenly Joel feels stiff from how deeply you stare at him, and then he realizes how close they are, only a breath away between their lips. He turns his head, grunting, “Don’t mention it,” a stuttered breath leaves him. “Really. Don’t.”

Your growing smile surprises him, as does your not backing away.

“You got it, Mr. Miller.”

Watching Joel work on fixing the roof of the shop, you can't help but feel a flutter of warmth stir within you. His muscles ripple with each movement, his arms bulging with strength as he lifts heavy beams and hammers nails into place. Beads of sweat glisten on his forehead, catching the sunlight and creating a halo of light around him.

You find yourself mesmerized by the sight, unable to tear your gaze away from the sight of him. His white tank top clings to his chest, damp with sweat, and the short-sleeved flannel he wears hangs open, exposing the tank top underneath. Every movement sends a shiver down your spine, and you can't help but feel a flush of heat rise to your cheeks.

The sound of his grunts fills the air, low and guttural, and it sends a thrill through you that you can't quite explain. There's something primal about the way he works, a raw energy that draws you in and leaves you feeling breathless.

You watch as he reaches up to adjust a beam, his muscles flexing with the effort, and you can't help but imagine what it would feel like to run your hands over his warm, sweaty skin. The thought sends a shudder coursing through you, and you quickly look away, feeling flustered and embarrassed by the intensity of your thoughts.

But no matter how hard you try to focus on something else, your gaze keeps drifting back to Joel, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. And as you watch him work, you can't help but feel a strange sense of longing stir within.

But for now, all you can do is watch and admire from afar, content to bask in the warmth of Joel's presence as he works tirelessly to repair the roof of the shop. And as you watch him, you can't help but feel a sense of gratitude wash over you.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself with determination as you clutch the bowl of freshly picked black mulberries and raspberries in your hands. With a quick glance up at Joel, who is perched precariously on the ladder, you gather your courage and make your way outside.

"Hey, Joel!" you call out, your voice tinged with nervousness as you approach the ladder. "I brought you some fruit and iced tea. Thought you could use a break."

Joel looks down at you with a grateful smile, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Thanks. That sounds great."

As he descends the ladder, you can't help but feel a surge of excitement mingled with nervousness. With each step he takes, you steal glances at him, unable to tear your gaze away from the sight of him.

But it's when he reaches the bottom of the ladder and stretches upwards to take the bowl of fruit from your hands that you feel your breath catch in your throat. The movement causes his tank top to ride up slightly, revealing a sliver of his stomach, and you swallow thickly at the sight.

As Joel settles down to enjoy the fruit and iced tea, you find yourself drawn to the empty spot next to him on the porch. With a nervous glance in his direction, you take a seat beside him.

The warmth of the wooden porch beneath you contrasts with the cool breeze that sweeps through, and you can't help but feel a sense of calm settle over you as you sit beside Joel. The silence between you is comfortable, broken only by the occasional sound of birds chirping in the distance.

“Lovely day, ain’t it,” Joel takes a bite of the freshly picked black mulberries, the deep purple juice stains his lips, a stark contrast against the ruggedness of his features, and you find yourself mesmerized by the sight.

The juice glistens in the fading sunlight, tracing a vivid trail along his lips as he savors the sweetness of the fruit. Each movement of his jaw seems deliberate, each bite a study in pleasure as he indulges in the simple pleasure of the moment.

A soft breeze rustles through the trees, lifting strands of his hair and sending them dancing in the golden light. But your gaze remains fixed on his lips.

The silence and sight makes you light-headed and eager to say anything, no matter how idiotic it might be.

“Aren't you a little old to be doing this much heavy lifting?”

“Aren't you a little too young to be lookin’ at me like that?”

Your shoulders rise, blood rushing to your head as you look down. Your heart thuds loudly in your chest. Butterflies flutter madly within you, the wings tickling the insides of your stomach. You only swallow. “Your lips are stained from the mulberry.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

He takes another one, biting down with his lips, he finds your gaze. You watch a tiny drop go down his chin. The two of you are close. So incredibly close. It’s been like this since he started working on the shop. A pull that is too hard to ignore.

“Well,” he breaks the silence. “Better finish up before the sun sets.”

Joel stands and your heart breaks a little. You blink from where you’re sat, staring at him, yearning for him.

“Yeah. Wouldn’t want you trying to find your way home in the dark.”

“You know, I could’ve come here on my own. I always do.”

“I know. Just wanted to make sure you have someone lookin’ after you.”

“For someone to be known as a grump, you’re quite a softie.”

“I’m leavin’.”

“No—!”

Your fingers close around his arm, the warmth of his skin sending a shiver down your spine. For a moment, you find yourself frozen in place, your pulse quickening as you realize just how close you are to him.

Joel's gaze meets yours, and you can see a flicker of something in his eyes, something that makes your heart race even faster. His eyes drop to your lips, lingering there for a moment before snapping back up to meet your gaze. You notice the hints of a fading smile, “You were joking,” you say slowly, letting go of him.

“That I was, wildflower,” he doesn’t move away and neither do you. Your breath catches within your throat, the moment stretching between your two like rubber. Before you can say anything Joel’s eyes flicker to something behind you and he smiles. “I think we’re here.”

As you turn around, your heart skips a beat. The field of flowers stretches out endlessly, a sea of color and beauty that seems to go on forever. The grass has grown taller since the last time you were here, swaying gently in the breeze and creating a soft, rhythmic rustle that fills the air.

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm golden light over the landscape and setting the flowers ablaze with color. Reds and yellows, blues and purples, a riot of hues that dance and swirl in the gentle breeze.

You take a step forward, the grass crunching beneath your feet as you walk further into the field. The scent of poppies and blue hyacinths fills your nostrils, sweet and intoxicating, and you can't help but close your eyes and breathe it in.

The wind sweeps across the field, sending waves of grass rippling in its wake. The sound is soothing, a gentle whisper that seems to carry you away on a tide of tranquility.

For a moment, you forget about everything else – the worries and the doubts, the uncertainties and the fears. All that matters is the beauty of this moment, the beauty of this place, and the beauty of being here with Joel.

With a rush of emotion swirling within you, you turn to Joel, your heart pounding in your chest as you meet his gaze. He's still standing close, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that takes your breath away.

Without thinking, without hesitating, you lean forward and press your lips to his. At first, Joel is taken aback, his body stiffening in surprise. But then, he caves, his lips moving against yours in a slow, tender rhythm.

His hands come up to cradle your face, his touch gentle yet firm, as if he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go. You feel his tongue on your bottom lip and open up for him eagerly, the taste of him feels like electricity shooting through you. Heat pools between your legs, Your breasts tingle with the mere thought of having his hands on them, nipples aching and hard.

Joel breaks away briefly, then closes the distance again. Small hisses against your swollen lips over and over until neither of you can breathe. He hungers for it almost. And so do you. “Joel,” you whisper, eyes cloudy. “Please.”

“Is that what you want, wildflower?” he drags his nose down the side of your cheek, facial hair scratching delightfully against the sensitive skin of your neck. “For me to fuck you here? Right out in the open?” his voice trembles. “Like animals?”

“God, yes—” your insides clench. “I would want nothing more. Been thinking about you since the day I met you, your hands, your mouth, you as a whole.”

His hands drop to your ass and he gives the tender flesh a strong squeeze, “You want me?”

“I do.”

You suddenly find yourself on the ground, the grass tickling your exposed legs and arms, the skirt of your dress rolled up to your waist. Joel’s weight is a welcoming comfort on top of you, another gust of warm wind blows. With a groan, he pulls down the sweetheart neckline of your dress, exposing both your breasts. While holding one, he kisses the other, drawing the stiff nipple into his mouth. He sucks harshly, your body jolting with pleasure. The soaking mess between your legs grows.

“Joel,” you moan, back arching. “Fuck—”

He swirls the tip of his tongue around the nipple and grazes his teeth against it. Calloused fingers play with the other. Your mind is swimming in pleasure. He brings the skirt of your dress further up and traces his lips down the fabric, when you look down, you see him between your legs, his eyes darker than normal as he stares into your soul. The tips of his fingers dance along the elastic of your panties, asking for permission.

You breathe out a yes, barely audible, but he nods and tugs the fabric down. When he latches his mouth on to you, the world stops. His mouth feels divine. His tongue delves between your folds, the bridge of his nose rubbing against your clit. You shudder against him and he moans into you. The reverberations of the sound force a gasp out of you and you swear you feel him smiling.

His fingers trace patterns along your thighs, teasing and stroking as his mouth works wonders between your legs. You're on the edge, the pleasure building up with each flick of his tongue. You reach down and bury your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, guiding him where you need him the most.

Joel picks up the pace, his tongue moving faster, his fingers slipping inside of you. You can feel your body starting to tighten, the coil in your stomach about to unravel. You grip onto him tighter, your hips bucking against his mouth, and with one final flick of his tongue, you come undone.

You cry out his name, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm. Joel continues to lightly lick and suck, drawing out your pleasure until you're completely spent. He makes his way back up to your lips, kissing you deeply as you both catch your breath.

“That was…” you trail off, unable to find the right words for the mind-blowing experience you just had.

“Amazin’,” Joel finishes for you.

You nod, still a little breathless. You wrap your arms around him, pressing your body against his. Joel's hands roam over your back, his touch sending shivers down your spine. You can feel his erection against your thigh, and you know that he needs release just as much as you do.

“Been so long since I’ve tasted somethin’ this sweet,” he rasps. “Thank you.”

You hear the blood rushing in your ears, “You’re the sweet one,” you mumble, tenderly touching the scratchy surface of his cheek. “So sweet.”

He smiles and as he kisses the curve of your palm, shuffles above you, starting to get up. A deep frown forms between your brows. “And where are you going?” you pout, wrapping your arms around him. You feel the outline of his length as he lowers himself once more, the tips of your noses brushing against one another.

“I thought you wanted to gather some flowers.”

“Not yet,” you murmur, eyes glazed. “At least, not before feeling you inside me.”

“Fuck, darlin’,” he lets out a whimpering breath, grinding himself against your bare cunt. “You really know how to get a man goin’.”

“Prove it.”

His eyes flicker with an emotion you can’t quite describe. His breath stutters, then, without even looking, he unbuckles himself, never breaking eye contact. Joel’s hair ruffles with the wind, yet he doesn’t even blink. The head of his cock catches against your clit, ripping a moan from your throat. He fills you with one sloppy thrust, the length of him stretching you enough to have your eyes rolling to the back of your skull.

“Joel—Oh my god—”

“That’s it, good girl, takin’ my cock so well. Feels good?”

Slack-jawed, you nod. He goes deeper. “Want you to feel me for weeks, wildflower. And I want you to think of me every time you come to this god—” thrust. “—damn” thrust. “—field.”

You can only moan at his words, his hands grip your lovehandles, squeezing and pulling you closer to him every time he rocks forward. His head falls into the crook of your neck, sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin, he sucks. Your body convulses, shaking against him.

Sparks ricochet through every limb of your body as you feel the heat pooling in your core. Joel moves his hand from your lower back to cup your breast, his fingers teasing and plucking at your nipple. The pleasure ricochets through your body, making you feel like you're on fire.

“Come for me, darlin’.” Joel growls into your ear, his voice rough and primal. “Come on my cock.”

His words send you over the edge, your body shaking and convulsing beneath him as he continues to thrust into you relentlessly. The world blurs around you, all your senses consumed by the feeling of Joel's body against yours.

"Joel—" you moan, your voice lost in the wind as you reach your peak.

He groans in response, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chases his own release. After one final, deep thrust, he pulls out and spills over your stomach, his body shaking against yours. You both ride out the waves of pleasure until finally, you collapse against each other, panting and spent.

You lay in the flower field, a tangled mess of limbs and sweaty bodies. Joel's arms are still wrapped tightly around you, his face buried in your neck as he tries to catch his breath. You run your fingers through his hair, feeling the warmth of his body.

"I've never felt anything like this before," you say quietly, almost to yourself.

Joel lifts his head to look at you, his eyes softening. "Me neither, wildflower. Me neither."

As the sun begins to set, you both lay there, entwined in each other's arms. The field has become a symbol of something more than beauty. And as long as those flowers bloom, you know your love for each other will continue to grow.

A week.

A week without hearing from him, seeing him, touching him.

A painful week.

It’s almost as if he never existed. As if the moment in your favorite field was nothing but your imagination. The only reason why you know it's real is because Ellie still comes by every day, and despite knowing it’s impossible, you still feel him deep inside. It only heightens whenever you have to travel back to the field to gather flowers for the shop.

You watch as Ellie places more daisies into a vase. She’s been her usual self, joking around, telling you about all the details of her life. It’s hard not to ask her about Joel and how he’s been.

Some nasty part of your mind whispers words of discouragement, telling you he only wanted you for your body, for your charm, and got what he wanted. Your heart clenches. It might be true. You were young after all, emotional, broken. He’d already gone through all that, killed to stay alive, for loved ones, gone through grief—why would he want to take on another’s problems as well?

“Hey, Ellie?”

She turns to you, eyes slightly wide due to the rasp of your voice, “Yeah boss?”

“Can you watch the shop for a second, I have something I need to do that I forgot about.”

You don't wait for her nod as you exit the shop. You know he’s home. He has to be.

Luckily it doesn’t take you long to reach their house, your knock is loud and swift. You know you’ve taken him by surprise by the expression when he opens the door. His mouth is slightly ajar, his brows knit together.

“What are you—”

“I came to talk,” you brush past him, heading inside. Joel lingers at the door but soon after follows you inside anyway.

He sighs, “What do you want to talk about?”

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what's to come. "Us," you reply, your voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside you. "I need to know what happened, Joel. Why you've been avoiding me."

Joel's jaw clenches at your words, his gaze flickering away for a moment before returning to meet yours. "I ain't good for you," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "You deserve better than someone like me."

You feel a surge of anger rising within you at his words, frustration bubbling up to the surface. "That's for me to decide, Joel," you say, your voice tinged with defiance. "I'm not some fragile flower that needs to be protected. I can make my own choices, and right now, I choose you."

Joel's expression softens slightly at your words, but there's still a hint of sadness in his eyes. "You don't know what you're saying," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm a mess, a broken man with too much blood on his hands. You deserve someone who can give you the world, not someone who can barely keep himself together. You’re young. You still have so much ahead of you—"

“No! That’s not what I want. I want you, you’re the only person who’s made me feel like. . . like myself. . .before. And wanted.”

Your voice begins to shake, you see the hesitation within his body, hod his hand slightly moves forward to hold you, to touch you, but he doesn’t.

“I can’t do this to you,” his hands slide into his pockets, he gestures to the door. “Get out.”

The blood freezes in your veins, your eyes grow wide, your chest constricts, “What?”

“I said to get out,” he repeats, a little louder this time. “Get out, please.”

And you do.

“You need to get your shit together.”

“Language, Ellie, dammit.”

She glares at him from across the table. It’s an early morning, earlier than he’d liked. He’s been feeling hallowed out ever since your visit. He could see the hurt in your eyes, the betrayal. He knew that he’d broken something when avoiding you, something tender and not so easily fixable.

But what was he supposed to do? You were young, he didn’t want to trap you, didn’t want you to throw the best years of your life for an old man like him.

Briefly, he squeezes his eyes shut. His head hurts. All he can think about is you, your body, how eager it was to take him, the delectable curves he couldn’t get enough of.

He misses your taste on his tongue.

“She’s miserable too, you know.”

Joel’s eye snap wide open. “Who?”

“You know who,” she shakes her head. “I don’t know what happened between you two, but she’s definitely upset and so are you—Just fix it. Don’t be an asshole”

He let’s out a sigh, she’s right. He needs to fix this somehow. Joel stares at Ellie, her words hitting him harder than he expected. He hadn't realized just how much his actions had affected not only you but also Ellie. The weight of his own guilt settles heavily on his shoulders, a constant reminder of the mess he's made.

"Yeah," he mutters, his voice rough with emotion. "I know."

He runs a hand through his hair, the tension in his muscles making every movement feel heavy and strained. He knows he needs to make things right, to somehow find a way to mend the rift he's created between you and him.

But how? How could he possibly make things right after everything that's happened?

"I'll talk to her," he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll fix it."

Ellie nods in approval, her expression softening slightly as she looks at him. "Good," she says, her tone gentle. "Because I don't want to see either of you hurting anymore."

She was right and he knew it.

“The shop’s closed today,” Ellie says as he grabbed his jacket. “I don’t know where she is.”

But he did. He knew exactly where you would be. The place he tasted you, the place he felt your body against him.

Joel's heart sinks as he approaches the flower field and sees you sitting there, your shoulders hunched over as you hug your knees to your chest. He can hear your sobs from a distance, the sound echoing through the quiet morning air.

For a moment, he hesitates, unsure of what to do or say. But then, with a heavy sigh, he pushes aside his doubts and makes his way towards you.

As he draws closer, he can see your whole body trembling with the force of your emotions. His heart aches at the sight, knowing that he's the cause of your pain. He kneels infront of you, gently touching your wrists.

"Hey," he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's me, Joel."

You startle at the sound of his voice, lifting your head to look at him with tear-streaked eyes. For a moment, there's a flicker of surprise in your gaze, followed by a wave of raw emotion.

"Joel?" you choke out, your voice thick with tears. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to find you," he says, his voice filled with regret. "I couldn't stand the thought of you hurtin’ like this."

"I thought... I thought you didn't care," You sniffle, wiping away the tears with the back of your hand.

Joel reaches out to gently brush a strand of hair away from your face, his touch light and tender. "I care more than you know," he says. "I made a mistake, a big one, and I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I just didn’t want you to. . .I didn’t think I deserved someone like you."

"I missed you," you admit softly, tears still streaming down your cheeks.

Joel's heart clenches at your words, a rush of emotion flooding through him. Without hesitation, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close as you bury your face against his chest.

"I missed you too, wildflower," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "And I promise, I'll do whatever it takes to make you happy."

He hears the smile in your voice.

“You already do.”

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #plus size!reader #tlou fanfic #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic

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bby-deerling · 6 months

Note

Could I possibly ask for "don't you judge of my composure, cause i'm bothered every day" and Rosinante? <3

i want you to know that your mind???? perfect <3

this is my first time writing a full length fic for cora so i hope i got a decent handle on him

rosinante/corazon + who is it (nsfw, afab!reader)

18+, mdni, nsfw, wc: 821 masterlist

cw: afab!reader, size kink (duh, he's like ten gajillion feet tall)

The sky was murky and cloudy tonight, softening the moonbeams casting on your partner as he towered before you and shed his feathery coat. Whenever Rosinante returned to you after a mission, a sense of uneasiness bubbled in your veins; despite the way he trusted you with nearly every aspect of his true identity, he was tight-lipped about his trips away, and sometimes you couldn’t help but worry. Anxiety tore you apart when he was gone, worrying if he was injured, if he was even alive, or sometimes, rather irrationally, if there was anyone else. Above all, you simply missed him.

The tides of time inevitably erode at ones’ soul, carving and changing it irrevocably, and it always felt bittersweet to have missed out on the experiences that shaped your lover. Each time he returned to you, he brought back a handful of minute changes; his face was a bit more serious, his hands a bit more calloused, his clothes were a bit more tattered and singed, and making love with him felt like learning a novel variation on a theme that was burned into your memory.

His clumsiness, however, never faded, as he nearly trips over his own feet climbing into bed next to you.

You take the lead, unable to refrain from touching him any longer, climbing on top of him and cupping his face with both hands. His size had the unique ability to render you fragile; the mere sight of just how small your hands were on his face was enough to send a wave of electricity through your body, grateful for the way he was always so gentle with you despite the way he could break you between two of his fingers.

Lips softly pressing to his, long fingers entangle themselves in your hair, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss. A shiver runs through your spine as his other hand finds your waist; his warm palm sprawls across your side, and his fingers reach more than halfway around your stomach, another reminder of just how tiny you were compared to him.

When he sits up to align your hips with his, you feel swallowed whole by his presence; his back bends as he looms over you to hold you gently as he kisses you, and you both let out a shaky sigh when you roll your hips into his.

“You’re trembling.” he notes, eyes full of concern as he gently drags his massive thumb along your jawbone.

“I just missed you.” you whisper, taking a deep breath in an attempt to regain your composure and calm your shaking body.

“I missed you too.” he says, pressing a line of kisses from your cheek to the corner of your mouth, before devouring you once again, this time more desperate and passionate.

His sheer size meant he always took his sweet time with you, easing you into being able to take him. A single finger by itself required a fair amount of teasing in order to prepare you, but it was a task he reveled in, eager to open you up for him. Two of his fingers curling against your sweet spot is nearly enough to split you in half, but his movements are careful and loving. He holds your safety—and your heart—in his hands; in return for your vulnerability, he gives you his soul bared raw on a silver platter.

Grinding against the heel of his palm as he continues to massage you with his fingers, he brings you to your high, walls fluttering around his massive fingers. It’s messy and drawn out, soaking him in your slick; despite the fullness his fingers provided, you craved more.

“I’m ready for you.” you say, still catching your breath, heartbeat in your ears. He nods and frees his cock; it’s impossibly large and thick, and still makes your heart skip a beat in pure shock no matter how many times you have seen it before.

He throws his head back and lets out a deep exhale as you slowly sink yourself onto him. Taking as much of him as you can, you whimper when you feel his cock kiss your cervix, and he rubs gentle, reassuring circles into your hips. You rock against him hesitantly, allowing yourself to adjust to being stretched out this far for the first time in ages. He’s soft with you, rubbing circles into you clit and whispering praises into your ear in between kisses. The anxious whispers that had clouded your mind in his absence melt away, standing no chance compared to the sensation of how visceral and loving the way he unraveled you was.

A beam of moonlight peeks through the clouds and shines through the window, illuminating the two of you melting into each other. The sands of time could keep you apart and change you little by little, but your love existed on another plane, pure and untouchable.

#one piece x reader #x reader #corazon x reader #donquixote rosinante x reader #rosinante x reader #one piece smut #mdni #i hope this isnt too ooc

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nhlclover · 1 month

Text

𝐒𝐎 𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐍 | 𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐂𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘

word count: 1.35k

summary: on your way to the spend a weekend at the lake house with his teammates, you think about your future with rutger

warnings: british reader!, mentions of some other umich players (nick, duke brothers), brief sad thoughts

notes: based on 'so american' by olivia rodrigo. who am i if not writing fics based on songs.

The morning sun was beginning to rise, casting a golden hue on Rutger’s jeep that rumbled down the highway, its tires humming against the asphalt. Rutger sat in the driver's seat, his left hand holding a loose grip on the wheel, while you sat comfortably in the passenger seat, your feet were propped up on the dashboard. Rutger insisted you hit the road early to get to Jacob’s lake house around mid-morning. You felt that was a little too early, but he was excited to spend some spare time at the end of the semester with his friends and girlfriend, relaxing on the water. To make up for the early start time, Rutger bought you an iced coffee and promised that you could sleep in the car on the way over.

However, you couldn’t find yourself able to fall back asleep, instead taking over aux, the early morning air that flowed through the cracked windows helping to rejuvenate you. You tapped your fingers against the door handle, matching the beat of the song you’d selected. Dirt On My Boots by Jon Pardi filled the space, a contented smile gracing your lips.

“You’ve turned so American.” Rutger says, pulling your brain out of its brief daze.

“What?” You ask, your brows furrowing.

“I mean… look at you,” Rutger says with a chuckle. “You’re sitting there with your feet on the dash, you’re listening to country music, and you’re repping USA merch.”

Rutger motions to one of his hoodies that you’d thrown on as you were leaving. It was one given to him by the world juniors team he’d just played on, the letters U-S-A largely displayed on the chest.

You turned to him, adjusting your position in the seat. "Oh, please, don't say that. I'm still very much British, thank you very much." You retort, rejecting the idea that you’d become American in any way.

When you applied for an exchange to the University of Michigan, nothing could’ve prepared you for what would’ve come. On your first day of classes in the new country, you met Rutger. When a pretty girl sat next to him in one of his classes, he knew he had to talk to her. It didn’t take long for the two of you to develop feelings, Rutger soon being the ‘dreamy American’ that your friends had jokingly told you you’d fall for. And fall for him you did.

It was unfair of Rutger to make you feel this much when you both knew your future was uncertain.

“Hey, there is nothing wrong with being American.” Rutger points out.

“Yeah says the American.” You tease, rolling your eyes. “Thank god I’m going home soon. I need to reconnect with my roots if you think I’ve become American.”

Despite that being a joke, you couldn't shake the underlying sadness that gnawed at you. In just one week, you were leaving Michigan and returning to the UK. The thought of leaving Rutger and the life you’d established in Michigan weighed heavily on your heart. You knew that the bond you’d established with Rutger would withstand the miles and borders, however the prospect of being separated from him felt like tearing away a piece of you.

Rutger, sensing the shift in your demeanour as well as knowing that the inevitable move was weighing on you, reached over, taking your hand in his. His cold fingers lacing between yours quickly drew you back to reality.

“Hey,” He said softly. “Try not to think about it for now. Enjoy this weekend. We’ve got ages to figure it all out.”

You squeezed Rutger’s hand drawing comfort from his touch. With a gentle smile, you met his gaze, gratitude shining in your eyes. “Thank you, Rut.” You said softly.

Rutger returned your smile, turning his attention back to the road while keeping your hand in his. You continued the drive, doing your best to expel the thoughts of leaving from your mind.

Three hours later, Rutger pulled down a laneway that ultimately led to a large house on the water. Rutger’s teammates were already outside, eagerly awaiting your arrival.

“Hey guys!” Rutger called out as they stepped out of the car. Rutger’s teammates come over, greeting the two of them.

“This place is beautiful.” You comment, admiring the glimpse of the water you could see past the house.

“God, I will never get over the accent.” Nick said. Rutger shoved his shoulder while you playfully rolled your eyes.

You considered yourself lucky that you’d become friends with Rutger’s teammates. From the moment Rutger introduced you to them, they’d welcomed you with open arms. And as you spent more time with them, they weren’t just Rutger’s teammates, they were your friends as well.

“Alright, now go get changed, we’re hitting the water.” Luca said, ushering the two of you inside.

You headed up to your room, changed into the swimsuits you’d brought, and then headed downstairs to meet the rest of the group. The rest of the afternoon, you guys remained on the water. You all took turns on the tube, as well as some of the boys deciding to test their water skiing skills. When the sun began to descend towards the horizon, a golden hue being cast on the water, you headed back to the house to start dinner, which was a full team activity in which everyone was put to work doing something. You and Rutger were put in charge of the barbecue on the back patio, teaming up with Dylan and Tyler to grill the burgers and corn.

After dinner was demolished, you headed down to the fire pit, relaxing in the Adirondack chairs, talking about whatever came to mind. The flames cast flickering glows on everyone's faces as you discussed sports, your exams, and random childhood anecdotes whether relevant or not. After a while of drinking and chatting, both you and Rutger hit your limits and decide to call it a night.

The second that Rutger’s head hits the pillow, he’s out like a light, the day’s activities catching up with him. After a full day of tubing and waterskiing, combined with the drinks they’d consumed throughout the day, everyone was wiped. You, however, lay awake, the moonlight reflecting off the water and into the open window.

You traced your fingers through Rutger's hair, watching his bare chest rise and fall with steady breaths. With the tranquillity of the room enveloping you, you find yourself lost in a maze of thoughts, your mind swirling with visions of Rutger and the future they could share.

England was home. England was where you grew up, where your family and friends still resided. The thought of leaving them to be in North America made your heart tense. However, lying in the sheets and staring up at the ceiling, you couldn’t help but imagine moving to North America to be with Rutger. As you look over at him, still peacefully asleep, you imagine the prospect of uprooting your life for the American boy you fell in love with, of bridging the distance to be with Rutger.

Your thoughts continue to wander, picturing what could come of life in America with Rutger. Your mind entertains the notion of marriage, a distant yet possible milestone. That might be a little presumptuous of you, with your relationship still being in its infancy, but you practically couldn’t help it. The way he’d made you feel in the past 8 months was unlike anything you’d ever experienced before. Every moment with him felt like a moment torn from a romance book. Every moment with him was filled with laughter and stolen glances, creating an undeniable intimacy and connection.

You had to eventually force those thoughts out of your mind or else they would’ve kept you up all night. You rolled over, curling into Rutger’s side, and placing a delicate hand on his abs. Rutger stirred momentarily, instinctively wrapping his arm around you, drawing you closer. For now, you were content to simply be in this moment with him, cherishing the time you had left before you had to return home.

#rutger mcgroarty #rutger mcgroarty imagine #rutger mcgroarty x reader #nhl #nhl imagine #hockey #hockey imagine #umich hockey #umich #university of michigan

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crosshairlovebot · 8 months

Text

birthday revelations / crosshair x gn!reader

pairing: crosshair x gn!reader (no y/n). reader has a nickname.

description: crosshair discovers it's your birthday, and in an effort to try and understand birthdays, he gets you a gift.

word count: 3,793

warnings: none. crosshair ovethinks a lot

Another request! Maybe not technically a request, but @starrylothcat sent in an ask for an ask prompt and said it would be nice to see me write a fic where crosshair buys a gift for the reader for their birthday or christmas and it's been stuck in my head since! so here you go! i hope i did it justice!

also posted this on ao3. feedback is welcomed, reblogs are appreciated <3

Crosshair didn’t like crowds. He gritted his teeth as he walked alone through the market on Sorgan, sidestepping people as they entered his path. It was noisy, but that didn’t bother him so much. Vendors called out to passersby, promoting their various goods for purchase with enthusiasm. Voices chattered and laughed. The smell of food wafted through Crosshair’s nose and his stomach tightened with hunger. Rations were poor choices compared to the sizzling of flavourful meat on grills, but he didn’t have enough credits to buy himself something to eat.

He only had enough to buy something for you.

He had been helping Tech with cataloguing files when he saw one on their nat-born medic. You had joined Clone Force 99 just over half a standard cycle ago with your plucky yet kind attitude, falling into the group dynamic easier than Crosshair had thought. Sure, it had taken some adjustment for him and his brothers to become used to another presence they had not grown up with, but it was inevitable you would eventually find your place in the team. You were hardworking, strong and compassionate. You paid attention to each of his brothers, giving them your undivided focus during conversation and indulging them in questions about what they were doing or their chosen skill. He had watched you talk with Tech about data decryption, Wrecker about proton-based explosives, Hunter about tracking strategies, Echo about ARC trooper training, and of course, him about sharpshooting.

He recalled the way you sat next to him for the first time on his bunk during their time in Hyperspace. He had disassembled part of his Firepuncher rifle, readjusting the scope and the barrel after it had unexpectedly jammed on their previous mission. He’d been annoyed – his prized weapon never faltered, and he was trying to figure out why it had failed on him when the thin mattress dipped next to him, and you asked what he was doing. When he’d given a particularly surly response, you nodded and then just continued to watch him. His eyes had slid to you.

“Can I help you with anything else?” He hadn’t meant it to sound so icy, but he had been frustrated with this rifle, with himself.

“Can you…explain what you’re doing?” you had asked hopefully.

He had looked at you sceptically. “Why?”

You just shrugged. “It looks interesting.”

He had studied your expression, trying to discern if you were being genuine. But you were. You always were with things like this.

So, he explained what he was doing, answered your questions and by the time his weapon was fixed, he didn’t even really remember his initial annoyance. You had smiled at him, your mouth stretching in a way that made your eyes light up. He felt a little flicker of something in his stomach before it was promptly extinguished.

Since then, you have spent time with him like that more often. Not just when he was cleaning his rifle, but other things. Like throwing Lula back and forth across the bunks as you both talked, joking about things that happened on missions. Sharing looks over briefings. Stealing Wrecker’s snacks.

But his favourite time with you was drawing on your datapad and trying to guess what the other was drawing. He had learnt you liked to draw and enjoyed drawing out something other than a medical diagram. He felt a sense of pride in making you laugh so hard you cried with his silly caricatures during long hyperspace trips. Exaggerated doodles of his brothers, tookas and the like, a portrait of you with a funny expression. You liked to draw him with a smile too big for his face, chuckling as you drew and then collapsing into laughter when you showed him. It always made the thing in his stomach flicker.

He really liked having you around.

So, when he came across your file when helping Tech, he couldn’t help but open it. You had told them all any information they had asked for, and information they had not. There wasn’t really anything you kept secret. But when he saw your ID holo looking particularly embarrassing: with wide eyes and a half-formed expression – like you were taken off guard by the photo, the corner of his mouth twisted up in an impish smirk.

He had intended to tease you about it; set the holo to the show on every Marauder screen so it was everywhere.

He opened the file to take a copy of the holo when he spotted details about your age and date of birth.

He frowned at the date. “Tech, what is today’s galactic date?”

Tech looked up from his datapad, adjusting his goggles before rattling off the date. “Why?”

He said your name before telling him, “It’s their birthday tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Tech blinked.

Age and birthdays were almost foreign concepts to clones. With accelerated aging and growing in a capsule, they didn’t really matter to them. Awkward to calculate, they weren’t celebrated. Crosshair had no idea when he had been ‘birthed’ or decanted, and if the Kaminoans documented such dates, then it was classified information. He knew his chronological age, but his biological age was a little murky. He knew he was a “mature clone”, however with the accelerated aging, he didn’t know where exactly he stood. None of their brothers knew any of these details. It was normal for them.

He read the date and your age. What would it be like to be so sure of something like that? To be sure of the parts that made up who you were?

Crosshair cleared his throat and closed the file without even copying the ID holo. He frowned to himself. Maybe he should’ve asked you about it before, but birthdays weren’t a part of his world, so he hadn’t thought to. But they were important to nat-borns, weren’t they? At least that’s what they’d all been told during their training modules.

When he lay in his bunk that night, he circled his mind for all he knew about birthday traditions. Gatherings. Food. Gifts. Would you like all that? Did you like all that? You seemed like you would. He didn’t know if it was something he would enjoy if he had a birthday…it didn’t really seem like his thing, but maybe he would. He would never know. He thought that Wrecker might be the only one who would enjoy a birthday. Maybe Echo too if you did it right. Same with Hunter.

But you hadn’t said anything about your birthday.

He had tossed and turned. You were part of their squad. You cared. Listened. Laughed. Did you not feel you could share the date with them? He didn’t know, and a part of him felt a little hurt that you might not feel you could. Were you not friends? Crosshair didn’t have many friends, but he knew they were supposed to tell each other things.

He turned again, crossing his arms against his chest as he faced the wall. Why did he even care? If you didn’t want to tell him it was your birthday, fine. He wouldn’t mention it.

He squeezed his eyes shut before sitting up on his elbows and craned his head to see you sleeping in your bunk. Through the darkness, his enhanced eyes saw you curled in yourself, and your nose twitched as you breathed deep and evenly. Something in his chest pinched. He sighed before laying back down and pulling the thin blanket over his head.

Now, as he found himself in this market the next day, he wondered what he was even doing here.

Once they had landed on Sorgan, they completed their mission easily with no complications. But Crosshair was still distracted by your birthday. You hadn’t even said anything when everyone woke up this morning. Just acted like it was any other day. You had just smiled at him as you tucked into a ration bar, saying good morning before throwing one to him to eat.

It puzzled him.

When you all started walking back to the Marauder after the mission, Hunter could tell something was up with him, nudging his shoulder.

“You alright?”

Crosshair had scowled at his brother. “…Yes.”

“You look deep in thought,” Hunter pointed out, falling into step with him.

Crosshair broke his gaze and looked away, back towards where they came, to the village they had just liberated. The thought had barely formed before he said, “Do we have time before the next mission?”

Hunter’s surprise showed in his voice. “We have a couple of hours, why?”

“I’ll be back later,” Crosshair walked off in the direction of the village before Hunter could say anything. His long legs carried him to the marketplace, where he stood now amongst the bustling bodies.

He just couldn’t get your birthday out of his stupid head; that you hadn’t said anything because clones didn’t celebrate birthdays. Just because he didn’t understand them, doesn’t mean he couldn’t try…for you.

He started combing through the vendors, most of which were finishing up resetting their stands after they fled suddenly several days prior. He moved from stall to stall, gazing at the different items over people's heads. Kriff, what were you even supposed to buy people for birthdays? Something they needed? Something they wanted? It was all a little overwhelming. And Crosshair didn’t get overwhelmed.

“Looking for something in particular, my friend?”

Crosshair startled and looked up to see the vendor, a greying man with a wrinkled face, horns protruding from his forehead and curled up in an elegant spiral shape.

Crosshair frowned, clearing his throat. “It’s…my friend's birthday today.”

The man’s face lit up. “Wonderful! Birthdays are special.”

Crosshair’s mouth tightened as the man continued to speak. “What were you thinking of gifting them?”

The hairs on Crosshair’s neck stood up with nerves. “I…I don’t know.”

The man’s face lit up. “Perhaps I can help.”

The man then went through the different items at his stand. He held up scarves, strings of beads, and handmade pottery. Crosshair thought they were all nice enough, but he wasn’t swimming in credits. And none of the items really felt like you. The vendor was patient, more patient than he should’ve been. Either he really wanted to help or was desperate for a sale in a competitive marketplace.

After many minutes and many items, Crosshair felt himself gradually stiffening, becoming more and more on edge and uncomfortable. He felt so out of his depth. He was always so sure of everything, and trying to do this thing he had no experience in, made him more vulnerable than he had in a long time. It was not a feeling he felt comfortable with. Never had been.

And as much as he liked you, maybe this was all a stupid idea. You hadn’t mentioned your birthday for a reason. He shouldn’t bring it up. If he did, he’d have to explain how he found out…and he didn’t want to go through that awkwardness. He was about to open his mouth and tell the over-enthusiastic vendor: thank you, but he wouldn’t bother with a gift, when the vendor clapped his hands loudly, making Crosshair jump.

“I may have something back here, hold on,” he said as he turned away to rifle noisily through a crate behind him.

Crosshair felt his fist curl at his sides, and this should’ve been his opening to slide away unnoticed until he looked down and saw a brown leather book. Crosshair halted and lifted a gloved hand to the soft worn cover, running his fingers over the engravings in the bound leather. He opened the cover, seeing it was a blank notebook, and it had a writing implement tucked into the spine. Not many people recorded things the traditional way anymore; datapads were much more efficient and stored more information than the pages of a notebook. He flicked through the pages, fanning them with his thumb. The dust drifted up and it was a smell he didn’t recognise, but he supposed it was the smell of paper.

“That’s a good choice.”

Crosshair retracted his hand as if he was a cadet being scolded, and looked up at the vendor, who held an oversized pot that would break the second it came aboard the Marauder.

“That would be a perfect gift,” the vendor continued, nodding at the notebook.

Crosshair looked at him before picking up the notebook – more surely this time, and turned it over in his hands. He imagined you in your bunk, scribbling in it at night with a torch in one hand. He imagined you keeping it under your pillow for safekeeping. He imagined you doodling in it, showing him your drawings with that smile on your face. He imagined drawing in it with you. The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“How much?” Crosshair asked.

“It’s yours.”

Crosshair’s head snapped towards the vendor. “What?”

The vendor waved him away. “Take it.”

Crosshair blinked, confused. “…I have to pay you.”

“No, you don’t. I’ve been trying to sell that for years. You’d be doing me a favour.”

Crosshair furrowed his brow. “…Isn’t the customer supposed to be right?”

The vendor barked out a laugh. “Not this time, my friend.”

Crosshair dug into his pocket anyway and pulled out half the credits. “For your patience…at least.”

The vendor chuckled and took them. “Thank you. I hope your friend likes it.”

Crosshair didn’t respond as the man turned away, placing the pot down before calling out to other marketgoers, trying to entice them.

Crosshair walked back through the market, the notebook feeling heavy in his hand. Leaving the village, he made his way back to the Marauder, thoughts swimming in his head.

Kriff, what if you hated it? Or thought it was stupid? What if all his knowledge on birthdays was completely inaccurate and you would think him strange for giving you something? Or what if you just thought he was weird for getting you something at all?

Crosshair’s grip on the notebook tightened. He just wanted to do something nice. Like you always did for them. But this is why he avoided it. It was so vulnerable being nice. Being nice left you open for hurt, open for aching. It was much easier to keep it at bay, to restrict it. To hide it behind actions inconspicuously where it wasn’t out in the open. Being so open with it for you…he wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it scared him. The doubt crept in. Crosshair had conviction and confidence, and he wasn’t used to it wavering like this.

He was just about ready to throw the notebook into a bush and never speak of it again when he heard your voice ring out from the steps of the Marauder.

“Crosshair!”

You placed your datapad down and ran over to him. He hid the notebook behind his back with both hands, gripping it so hard he knew his knuckles would be white as you approached him with a smile.

“Hey,” he said, hoping he sounded normal.

“Where’d you go? You disappeared after the mission.”

“I was just…looking for something,” he said carefully. Dank farrik, how was he supposed to do this? He thought he might just leave it on your bunk when you were distracted with a little note written inside the cover saying, ‘Happy Birthday’. That way he could avoid your reaction when you saw it. He didn’t even know how to get into the Marauder with it now that you were here in front of him.

You tilted your head with a quizzical smile. “Looking for something?”

Crosshair nodded. “I couldn’t find it,” he lied.

“Oh…okay,” you looked at him weirdly. Would you look at him like that when you saw his gift?

Crosshair nodded to the Marauder, desperate to get on board and stow the notebook away until he could leave it on your bunk. “Should we go inside?”

You looked at him, narrowing your eyes. “What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything, meshurok,” he lied, his grip tightening again.

“Yes, you are,” you sidestepped him to look behind him and he leapt out of the way. You grinned. “You are! What are you hiding, Cross? Why can’t I see?” you tried to chase him around, but Crosshair kept angling himself away. Kriff, he had never felt so stupid in his whole life.

“It’s nothing. Get your meddling hands away from me, you di’kut,” he walked backwards in a circle, his face and neck hot.

“Crosshair,” you chided, smiling at him. “Come on, is it really that bad?”

“Go away,” he grumbled, hands aching from holding the damned notebook so tight.

“Crosshair,” you said his name again, and your face was stretched in that playful grin that he’d unwillingly memorised. That thing in his stomach flickered again.

Then he remembered how you didn’t tell him about your birthday. And how you were friends, but you didn’t say anything about it. And how he had this unexplainable feeling he couldn’t name sitting in his stomach that compelled him to go to a village market and pick out a stupid gift for a birthday tradition he didn’t even understand just to do something nice for you the way you did for him and his brothers.

Crosshair’s expression flared and he shoved the notebook at your chest. You startled at your hand came up to grab it, sliding against his like a searing snake. He pulled his hand back and balled both at his sides as he gritted out, “Happy birthday.”

All he saw was your eyes were wide before he stalked off, almost stomping his way to the Marauder. His face burned, and embarrassment flooded his body. He felt so stupid, and he hated feeling stupid. He hated the feeling of being on the end of someone’s judgement. He hated knowing that he’d just been forced to make himself vulnerable. But mostly, he hated the feeling of you not trusting him with what was supposed to be the important parts of you.

“Crosshair!”

Your voice came from behind him, but he didn’t turn around. He was already planning different ways he could avoid you. He was going to lock himself in the ‘fresher until the next mission and make sure Hunter placed him on watch at opposite times to you. Whatever it took. His heart panged. You were one of the only people outside his brothers he liked. He would mourn the shared jokes and laughter, and time spent with you, knowing it couldn’t happen anymore.

“Crosshair, wait.”

He felt a hand on his arm pull him back. He swayed backwards, but he let you stop him. He avoided your gaze, scowl burning an outline in his brow as he stared off into the middle distance. Your hand stayed on his arm, and he felt it through the plastoid wrapped around his forearm, squeezing him there. It felt like part of him, and that made him feel both warm with content and spiked with anger simultaneously.

“Cross, please look at me,” your voice said quietly, and his heart squeezed. He slowly moved his gaze, looking down, then sliding his eyes to your bare hand on his arm before they lifted to your face. Your brows were slanted downwards, looking at him with such softness in your eyes he felt the flickering in his chest again.

“How did you…” your voice was soft and trailed off, notebook in your other hand.

“It doesn’t matter,” he dismissed with gritted words.

He felt your hand flex with your grip. “It does to me.”

He studied your face carefully before saying, “…I was helping Tech with cataloguing his files. I saw your birthday in yours.”

You continued looking at him with an indecipherable gaze and moved your hand slowly from his arm to his wrist, your bare fingertips brushing his gloves. You gently grazed his fingers as you let his hand drop softly. He watched you as you inspected the book, hands turning it over, fanning through the pages. He studied your expression, trying to discern what you thought, feeling anxiety grow in his stomach, his throat tightening. He felt something hot poke inside him as he watched your mouth turn up into a smile as you gazed at his gift.

“I’ve been so busy this year that I forgot about my birthday.”

Crosshair hoped he hid his surprise. You not telling him about your birthday…it was never about him. Of course, you had forgotten. The past six cycles had been a whirlwind for you trying to adjust to a soldier’s lifestyle, countless missions and trying to fit in with his brothers. His face burned again. He was a fool.

You looked up at him, a smirk itching the corners of your mouth. “Been too busy keeping you boys in line.”

Crosshair scoffed lightly, letting a puff of breath out of his nose. Your smile widened.

“This is a beautiful gift, Cross. Thank you for getting it for me,” you place your hand on his arm again, squeezing gently to show your appreciation He felt his heart lift and his cheeks redden, but this time, not in embarrassment.

He nodded at you. “I’m…glad you like it. I don’t have much experience with birthdays.”

Your smile touched the edges of your eyes. “That’s what makes it even more special.”

You reached up on your tip toes and wrapped your arms around his neck, embracing him. Crosshair stiffened in shock and surprise before he slowly wrapped his arms around your torso. His fingers grazed your sides, and there was something wildly comforting about holding you like this. He could feel the side of your face pressed into his neck, just below his ear, and your breath tickled the sliver of open skin not covered by his blacks. You were so warm. He felt you squeeze him gently and he didn’t stop himself from squeezing back.

You were his best friend, after all.

You pulled away, but not before you cupped his face and placed a kiss on his cheek. Crosshair flinched and his eyes widened as you lowered yourself back down on flat feet with one of the most joyful smiles he’d ever seen gracing your face. The action had surprised him more than anything else had.

“I’m going to show everyone what you got me,” you said before running off towards the Marauder.

“No, don’t, they’ll—” Crosshair started but you were already halfway up the gangplank. His brothers’ teasing was going to be ruthless.

He sighed, shaking his head before following you, that thing flickering in his chest. He didn’t understand it, but he didn’t try to extinguish it.

banner art by @vimse

mando'a / meshurok = gemstone thank you for reading! i did find this one slightly challenging bc it's very much crosshair in his head and i tried to write him how i thought he would react to a situation like this, but if it's a little OOC, i apologise! but i think he would react like this if someone he cared about didn't tell him something important about them; someone who was his friend and who he liked very much. i think he'd be kinda mad and hurt but he cares too much to not do anything at all. i have more gen requests on the way, so stay tuned if you're interested! <3

tags @starrylothcat @sinfulsalutations @moodymisty @nahoney22 @freesia-writes @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @bobaprint @crosshairsnose @jesseeka @thegalaxys-edge @snarky-mans-gf @chopper-base @wenalena @shredderwest @leavingkamino @rexamongthestars @r2d2staser @bluebird-dreams @pb-jellybeans @a-streakofblue @theawkwardartist12 @mylifeisactuallyamess @padawancat97 @littlecrowtime @jedipoodoo

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#larissa writes #crosshair x reader #crosshair x reader fic #crosshair fluff #soft crosshair #tbb x reader #the bad batch crosshair #tbb crosshair fic #crosshair fic #the bad batch fluff #crosshair the bad batch #tbb crosshair #bad batch crosshair x reader #tbb crosshair x you

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flem17ng · 5 months

Note

can i request a jessie fleming x reader fic? where someone (u can pick who) is getting closer to jessie (like physically and emotionally closer) and reader gets jealous. all the tension leads to a big fight where jessie ends up reassuring reader that she loves them and all that (r and jess are in an est. relationship). and (only if ur comfortable writing it!) smut ensues

Thanks so much for this request anon! I’m always having jessie fleming brain rot so this was an enjoyable write.

pairing: Jessie fleming x reader

warnings: slightly suggestive i guess

word count: 1.35k

summary: reader catches jessie flirting with a fan after a big chelsea win. (established relationship)

The game was supposed to be the best night of your life. The crowd was cheering, the stands were a sea of blue and you had just scored a fantastic header from a corner that your beautiful girlfriend had taken. Needless to say: you were supposed to be happy!

The crowed erupted as the ball hit the back of the net and for a moment everything was still. The players stopped, you stopped, the goalie looked up in disbelief. You had scored a goal in the final few minutes, putting chelsea in the lead.

When reality set in you were swarmed by the team: Sam slapped you in the back while Millie cheered into your ear and pushed you towards the crowd to celebrate the inevitable win.

It was then that you saw her: your wonderful Jessie, smiling and waving to a fan in the other side of the barricade. The girl (maybe 20) was wrapped in a fleming jersey with a sign over your head that read “marry me number 17!”.

You felt your throat tighten for a moment. Yes this was pretty normal: being in the public eye you often had thirsting fans chasing you (jessie probably more so than most). And yet something about the way the girl winked at jessie made your stomach churn.

Before you could say anything, the game was resuming. No time to worry about some little interaction. You were being jealous, that’s all.

***

The game ended soon after. A whirlwind of cheers ushered you through the tunnel and into the change room where bottles of champagne waited for you.

“y/n! that goal was amazing babe! I’m sorry i didn’t come to celebrate with you!” Jessie ran towards you, her shirt halfway off and a big grin on her adorable face. Usually this would be when you grabbed her rosy cheeks and kissed her, but your stomach was still churning so instead you gave her a quick hug and a nod before moving to get changed.

The team was going to be moving onto a pub after everyone showered so it wasn’t long before the dressing room began emptying out. As the room got quieter you could hear a conversation Jessie and Lauren were having in the corner.

“who was that eh jessie?”

“mmh? oh the girl! I don’t know, just a fan probably”

“bit of a looker though”

Jessie hummed but didn’t respond. You supposed that should have made you feel better but the fact Lauren had noticed the interaction at all made you a little uncomfortable. You and Jessie had been dating for almost a year now but had decided it was best not to tell people at work. You were both private people after all, it made sense to keep things quiet.

It didn’t make it any easier when people tried to hit of her though.

“hey jessie I recon i’ll walk to the pub” you called out at you gathered your things and pulled your jacket on.

“hey are you sure? I’ll give you a lift if you want” Jessie looked at you curiously, her big brown eyes piercing into you.

“yeah i’m sure. I want to cool my muscles down a bit” you shot her a weak smile before walking out of the room. The truth was you felt like the jealousy was eating you alive (and not in a nice way).

You had been ok with keeping things private at first, but now the thought of other people, other women desiring Jessie, wanting her… it filled you with anger. She was yours. And you were hers.

***

The pub was full when you arrived: Not only with the team but with family members, admin people, managers and coaches. The music was thumping loud enough to make the walls shake.

You needed a drink.

You pushed so to the front of the bar, attempting to get the attention of one of the bartenders when someone caught your eye.

Leaning against the bar a few metres away was that girl, the fan that winked at Jessie. It look you a moment to realise the girl was pushed up against someone: her hands were resting against the bar on both sides of some girl. As you watched you realised it was Jessie. Your wonderful, perfect girlfriend was pushed up against some dumb blonde fan girl.

Jessie must have said something funny (of course she did) and the girl reached forwards, placing a hand on jessie’s cheek, using the opportunity to get infinitely closer.

The churning in your stomach had become a full scale tidal surge. You needed air, you needed to go home, you needed that woman to get off your girlfriend.

What could you have done? no one else knew she was yours.

Just as you turned to leave, Jessie looked around, locking eyes with you for a second before you were lost in the crowd.

you couldn’t stand there, you had to leave.

***

“Y/n! Y/n please wait up!” you could hear her yelling for you was you walked up the street but you couldn’t, wouldn’t stop.

“please Y/n. that wasn’t what it looked like!”

You spun round, cheeks red, temper rising.

“really Jessie. because to me it looked like you were having a nice time getting felt up by some groupie.” you yelled, causing jessie to stop abruptly.

“Babe-“

“Don’t babe me Fleming. I saw that girl in the crowd. That’s why you didn’t celebrate with me. Because you were too busy eye fucking some dumb blonde?”

“Don’t be crass y/n”

“Don’t be crass! Jesus, Fleming! You think I like to watch you getting all touchy with those girls? Do you think I enjoy that?”

you walked back a few steps only for Jessie to walk even closer.

“Don’t ben ridiculous…” she breathed.

“Jessie stop. You’re being mean.”

You started to turn around before remembering you would end up at your shared apartment soon enough.

“y/n look at me. please.” Jessie’s voice sounded needy, desperate. Maybe that’s why you turned. Suddenly she was a whole lot closer than she had been before.

“Y/n that girl… she is nothing to me. She cornered me at the bar while I was waiting for you, she kept… touching me. I felt gross but I- I didn’t know what to do!” Jessie’s eyes looked wet now as she talked.

“on the pitch when I went to take my corner she yelled… well she yelled something pretty fucking gross if i’m being honest. the only reason i gave her the time of day was because I was so upset.” Jessie sighed and looked down. She fiddled with her ring as she spoke.

You covered her hand with hers suddenly feeling the need to be nearer to her.

“Y/n I love you. I mean, I am in love with you. I think I have been for years now. Even before we went out I loved you.”

you looked at her, taken aback

“Jessie?”

“please I need you to know this. No one compares to you. No one. Don’t you ever feel second best because you are always first in my heart.” It was your turn to tear up now. Jessie wasn’t always the best with words, this was… a first to say the least.

“Jessie I want to tell people about us. I want to be your everything. I want there to be no room for doubt in anyone’s mind that i’m yours. Jessie please I just… I can’t do this anymore. I want to be with you and I want the whole world to know about it.”

Jessie grinned, her cheeks going red in the dim light. “darling, there is nothing i want more.”

she reached up and held your face, bringing you in for a deep kiss. You grabbed her waist, pushing her gently up against the building beside you and deepening the kiss until you were both panting.

Slowly you dipped your head and kissed her neck, listening to her sharp breath as you went.

“don’t ever talk to that girl again. understand”

Jessie looked down, mouth open and breathless.

“take me home Y/n”

#jessie fleming #jessie fleming x reader #woso x reader #chelsea fcw

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leaentries · 5 months

Text

dangerous | jack hughes

summary: sometimes two souls crave each other more than they’d like to admit

warnings: swearing, suggestive themes, friends with benefits

wc: 1.8k+

a/n: here’s a surprise jack fic! i got a surge of motivation to write for him bc he’s been lookin too fine lately🫣 i was also in the mood for something a little more sappy so this was the outcome.

You knew you shouldn’t pick up the phone, that you should send him to voicemail. Yet, the way his face mocked you from the lit-up screen was beckoning. Jack was, without a doubt, the easiest man to fall in love with, but that's what made him dangerous.

The two of you met a few months prior, stumbling into each other during the offseason. You both immediately clicked, finding every chance to hang out. Even his brothers became close friends with you. It wasn’t until this past August when you inevitably found yourself in Jack’s bed.

❥.

The sun was still beaming, the fleeting moments of summer holding on for dear life. You sat, sprawled out in a lawn chair at the Hughes’ lake house, soaking in what was left of the hot weather. You knew you would be leaving soon, having to go back to Jersey with Luke and Jack, but the way the lake sounded in your ears was too calming for you to care.

With a single earbud in, you didn’t fail to hear the sneaky footsteps that inched closer from behind.

“I can hear you, ya know.” The sound of your voice breaking the peaceful silence.

“Man, I thought I was being quiet.” A smile graced your face at the familiar drawl of Jack’s whine.

“You gotta try harder next time, Jacky.” You sat up fully, squinting your eyes to look up at his form that stood in front of your burning legs.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t act like you weren’t screaming last night.” A blush found its way to your face at his statement. While you knew he didn’t mean it the way it sounded, it still made you flustered.

“Jeez, pretty girl, you’re starting to burn,” Jack took off the Yankees hat on his head, only to lazily plop it onto yours, “Here. That way your face is somewhat covered now.”

You scrunched your nose, “Ugh, Jack! It’s all sweaty!”

Jack just rolled his eyes, “Oh well, suck it up. It’s better than having to hear you complain the next few days about how sunburnt you are.”

This time it was your turn to roll your eyes.

“C'mon, pretty, let’s go inside before you go up in flames.” Jack sent you a smirk, before taking off in a sprint towards the back door.

“Jack!” You called as you ran after him. Upon entering the house, you attempted to catch your breath as you looked around for the blue-eyed boy.

As if sensing your confusion, you heard Jack call from upstairs, “Up here!”

You huffed as you trekked up the steps to his room.

“What the hell, Ja-” You cut yourself off as Jack’s shirtless back came into view. The way his muscles rippled against his tight, tan skin left you breathless. Summer sure did look good on him.

You took a deep breath as he turned around from his dresser, holding a familiar green bottle in his hands.

“I went ahead and grabbed some aloe, that way we can get ahead of the burn that's definitely gonna bite you in the ass tomorrow."

You stared.

Jack threw his hands in an impatient gesture, “Well? Come over here so I can rub this on you.”

While you and Jack had only been friends a short time, your body still shook with nerves at the thought of his hands on you. Deciding to put on your big girl britches, you quickly shed your cover, leaving you in your bathing suit top.

Jack moved his finger in a “turn around” motion. You roll your eyes at his impatience, “Calm down. I’m turning.”

“Not fast enough, pretty.” You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion at his haste.

Little to your knowledge, Jack’s lack of patience stemmed from his urge to touch you. He practically used every fiber to stop himself from applying the aloe to his palms embarrassingly quick.

You threw your hair up, just enough to keep it out of reach, then finally turning to face away from Jack’s awaiting form.

“Oh!” You yelped, the cold gel making your body jolt away. Before you had a chance to ease, you felt a strong hand grasp your waist and pull you back to your previous position.

“Gotta stay still f’me,” His husky voice sent shivers down your spine, “Or else you’ll make a mess.”

Your muscles tensed as Jack brought his hand back to your shoulder blades, applying the aloe gently. The cool tingles were soon replaced with hot ripples of pleasure as Jack’s warm palm worked. You closed your eyes, leaning back into his touch.

“That feels so good, Jacky.” You mumbled into the air.

You felt Jack’s hand stutter slightly before regaining its pace. “Can’t say things like that, beautiful.” He sucked in a breath, “Not with that pretty mouth.”

Your head lifted as you stepped away from him. Jack’s eyes widened in panic, worried he had gone too far. But when you turned to him, gazing into his eyes with your lust-blown ones, he knew you felt it too.

Jack wiped his hand on a nearby towel, before tossing it somewhere. You took a couple of steps forward, your chest now pressed against his. You could feel his heavy breathing. Jack brought his hands to your waist, bending down slightly. Your eyes flickered from his eyes down to his lips.

“You gotta tell me to stop, pretty girl. I don’t want to do something you don’t want.”

You shook your head, “Then don’t stop.” That was all the confirmation Jack needed before slamming your lips together in a rush of want and desperation.

Before long, your bathing suits littered the floor and your cries filled the room.

❥.

This was just the first of many encounters that formed the strange relationship you held with the hockey player. What started out as a one-time thing soon developed into something more and truth be told, every time Jack left your apartment he took a little piece of you with him.

You’re not one hundred percent positive when your feelings for him grew, maybe they were there the whole time, but either way, seeing Jack only caused you to get hurt. Knowing he only sees your relationship as strictly physical, ignoring the boy seemed to be your only option.

You were all too aware of the outcome if you tried to talk to him in person. There would be a lot less talking and a lot less clothing. Your eyes remained glued to your movie, opting to shut your phone off after Jack’s third missed call. You knew what he wanted, and you were too drained to make an effort. Was it the most mature option to semi-ghost him? No. Did you care? Also no. But what you did know, was that you needed a drink.

You stalked over to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of cheap wine that Luke had somehow managed to buy. Not even bothering with a glass, you remove the cork and take the bottle back to the couch. Taking a swig, you resume your movie, trying your best to block out the electric temptation lying next to you.

Around an hour has passed, when rapid knocks burst through your apartment. A little past tipsy, you called out, “Whoever you are,” You hiccuped, “Go the fuck away!”

“Open the damn door, y/n.”

You felt yourself sober up almost immediately. The harsh tone in his voice struck you. Hesitantly, you walk to the door, only slightly opening it. You cowered, sticking your head out, with a meek, “Hi, Jack.”

Unamused, he pushed you back, careful not to hurt you, before making his way into your apartment. You stood still as he paced in your living room. Nerves coursed through your veins as he remained silent.

“Ja-”

“Why are you ignoring me?” His question rendered you speechless. How were you supposed to tell him that you caught feelings? Your brain moved miles a minute, attempting to come up with an excuse. Yet, it turned up empty. You bit your lip as you looked away from him.

“No. We’re not doing this. You can’t just ignore me for weeks and not have a reason.” His voice was laced with worry and anger. Jack ran a frustrated hand through his messy hair, “Did I do something to piss you off? Did I hurt you? Was it Lu-”

You cut him off, “I caught feelings.”

Even you found yourself startled at the sudden confession. Jack halted in place, staring at you with an unreadable expression. You teetered your weight between your heels, too afraid to say anything else. You had put your entire friendship at risk with those three words. And now you might have to pay the ultimate price.

Getting scared at his silence, you begged, “Jack, say something. Please.”

He remained in place. He appeared deep in thought, before finally speaking. “How long?”

“W-what?”

“How long have you had feelings?”

You looked at the floor, “Before we even hooked up.”

“Jesus, Y/n”

His tone was enough to make tears spring in your eyes. “I’m sorry! I know I should have told you. I just was so lost in the moment and how you made me feel. I know this is only physical to you and I understand if you don’t want to be fri-”

He cut you off once more, “You think I only see you physically?”

“Well, yeah?” Your brows furrowed, “I mean, you would practically sprint for the door every morning. It’s kinda hard to think otherwise.”

Guilt flashed in his features, “I only ran because I didn’t want to risk you seeing my feelings for you.” Your eyes darted up to meet his. “I was so scared that I’d lose you, I just wanted to hold on to any part of you that I could. B-but when you wouldn’t talk to me I thought I screwed us up for good.” Tears began to fill Jack’s eyes. “Please tell me I haven’t lost you, pretty girl.”

“You could never lose me, Jack.”

With two strides, Jack was pulling your body into his. Wrapping his arms tightly around your frame, you buried your head into him.

“Don’t ever ignore me like that again. I don’t think my heart can handle a rejection from you.”

A whimper left your lips at the desperation in his voice. You pulled away, and without another word, you slotted your lips into Jack’s. Your hands gripping into the soft material of his hoodie, holding him to you. He slowly backed you up to the wall, hand moving to cradle your jaw.

He parted, chest heaving, “I wanna show you how much you mean to me, pretty.” With an eager nod, you returned your lips to his.

With strung clothes and lingering kisses, you finally let yourself fall for Jack, not caring how dangerous it might be.

#jack hughes #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes blurb #jh86 #new jersey devils #njd #leawrites💋

373 notes · View notes

leclsrc · 1 year

Text

stay, at least for breakfast ✴︎ cl16

genre: angst, just. angst, fluff

word count: 9.2k

You love once and miss always.

notes... internet translated ita/fre, non linear format so might b a tad confusing but thats it

auds here... this fic is a tad long sry. many thanks to mack who recommended the most painful songs to me that got me through writing the last couple of scenes. ik i said i wasn’t sure when i’d release this but here it is :)

You’re the only person Pierre knows in New York, so you’re the first one he calls. You suggest you meet just at your place, so you can smoke more freely, because so many people complain about the smell these days. You stall. You say the L train is broken. You say you’re tied up with work at the firm. But Pierre sees through you and eventually you meet anyway.

He looks the same, and just seeing him reminds you of so much. Shadows and outlines of memories long gone. You try to keep up the pretense of being okay, to remember that truly, your mind has been elsewhere lately—off everything, off the memories, on work, on cases. You try not to bring him up, even if it’s inevitable that he arises; you keep conversation to a polite minimum.

Pierre offers a cigarette, a Camel light. You’re a fourth’s way through the stick.

“He asks about you, sometimes.” And then just like that, your world has ceased to turn.

“Oh?” A beat. “What do you say?”

“Just the usual. You’re working on this and that case for the law firm… you went to Greece in the summer.”

You and Pierre are still close, but it’s difficult to forget why. You two are connected by Charles, by a friendship so sacred it warranted a dinner for a Pierre-exclusive introduction. You’d grown close then, and when the breakup happened, it became hard for Pierre to maintain close contact with both of you.

Selfishly, you wanted him to see how broken you were, so he could report it all back to Charles, etch every last detail of your pain. But Pierre is more mature than he’s given credit for.

“Okay.” You say blankly, unsure of how to bridge a less tense topic.

Perhaps sensing the apprehension, Pierre does it instead. “Do you remember when we bought shaving cream and made Charles look like Santa?”

It was in here in Manhattan, you recall, when Charles had dragged Pierre along with him to visit you over winter, when he’d been dating you for nearly two years at the time. Your flat was just above a bodega that had a comical amount of cheap cans of shaving cream that you and Pierre had found so absolutely silly, birthing a series of Charles-related pranks. After your grocery run, you’d returned to your place, where your boyfriend was fast asleep, mouth half open.

Shh. Quiet, you’d said, spurting shaving cream along his chin, his jaw, laughing silently.

Pierre had followed suit until finally, a beard of Nivea Men bounded down to Charles’ torso. You’d snapped a picture; the shutter sound had woken him up to a red-faced you and Pierre.

He was a good sport about it, kissed you with laughter, so you, too, had a beard of froth. Pierre took a Polaroid with a gifted camera of you on Charles’ lap, arms entwined around his neck, both of you bubbly with the cream, cheeks achy with smiles and laughter. You pretend to forget where it is, to forget that it’s tucked in a box you open once in a while.

“I miss him sometimes, you know.” The confession rips through you, exacerbated by the cigarette.

“I know.” Says Pierre, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You realize maybe it is.

I still have so much love for him, you wish to say. But where will I put it? Will I keep this inside of me forever? A great, monstrous, shameful thing it is, to love somebody who’s left. But here I am doing it, trying to fill a void that feels like a crater. Where do I put this love? Maybe I can give it to somebody else, somebody new—but I’d say it’s not the same.

You think you’ll always hold a torch to Charles, even when the fire burns through the wood, ash trickling onto your arm until it hurts. And even then, when the light’s gone, when the flame’s wounded you and licked deep into your heart and bones, like it has now, you’ll linger, still holding this torch, still yearning, still unwanting to let go. Still loving. How desperate, you think. How human.

You clear your tobacco-flavoured throat. “It’s em—it’s embarrassing,” you say instead, throat closing up midway, in a futile attempt to water down your intense emotions. They threaten to crawl up your throat, force secrets out of you with the ease of ripping a piece of paper in half.

“Is it?” He asks, open-ended. “N’est-il pas honorable d'être si aimant?”

“Pas si ce n’est pas réciproque.” You scoff.

But he’s relentless, persistent in his pursuit to prove a point. “No. Love isn’t embarrassing, or pathetic, when it’s one-sided. It means more that way, when it’s not reciprocated. It means you’re selfless. It means the love is real.” He turns toward you, and in a billow of smoke, asks, “Does it not?”

You stare, left speechless. All you muster is: “Va te faire foutre.”

—

You exit the room at eight-thirty with your toothbrush still foaming in your mouth. You stretch your arms over your head, combing a hand through your bedhead. Your eyes are half-shut, and already you smell it before you see it.

Pausing in your tracks, you rub the sleep out of your eyes. “Charles?” You call out, still out of the kitchen’s view. You try to remember if he was in bed when you crawled out, but your mind was still cloudy then, and the desire to pee took precedence.

You turn toward the bedroom door. “Charles, come out here. I think something’s on fire in the kitchen. Babe!”

You speedwalk, concern taking over—you didn’t pay enough attention to fire drills in primary school, clearly. Once you peek into the kitchen, however, your concern is only exacerbated, but not nearly as much as the extreme confusion that begins to well up inside you. There, at your stove, is your boyfriend himself, clearly fully awake and conscious, and holding a frying pan in mid-air that’s billowing smoke.

Having heard your voice already, he feels your presence and turns slowly. His gaze blinks from the pan in his grip to your totally incredulous stare.

“I can…” He pauses. “I’ll try to explain.”

“Very smart save, babe,” you say, but it’s muffled by your toothbrush.

“You sound stupid,” he retorts.

You remove the toothbrush and try to speak as coherently as you can through the spearmint foam. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be giving me criticism right now.”

“Fair,” he says, flitting his gaze over to where he holds the frying pan in mid-air. “I will explain as soon as you rinse your mouth. I promise.” You narrow your eyes, wondering if maybe this is another tactic to get himself out of trouble, but you figure it makes sense. If you’re going to scold him, might as well not spray toothpaste everywhere.

You grab your phone on your way back, where the disarray has not subsided in the least. He’s wearing your kiss the chef apron, stained with grease and pancake batter, both vital ingredients to bacon and flapjacks, neither of which are to be seen anywhere.

“What’s going on, Charles?”

“I wanted to cook you a surprise breakfast. But I can’t get the stove right.”

“Tu es fou.” You laugh, inspecting the smoke-scented pan. “Pourquoi n'avez-vous pas simplement pris à emporter?”

“Je voulais être pensif!” He defends, pouting. “Sorry. I’ll clean up the mess.” He deposits a batch of dishes at the sink as you watch in amusement. Your boyfriend is usually a good cook, you’ll say—he makes a mean stack of pancakes, and anybody can cook bacon, really. You suppose this is all just one honest mistake, born from a desire to surprise you on this morning.

He’s scrubbing at the pan when you wrap your arms around him in a backhug. “Thank you anyway. You’re the sweetest, Charles.”

He turns, a bubble of dish soap on the tip of his nose and hums. “Does this get me boyfriend points?”

“Alright, Jesus, a hundred of them.” You smile fondly, meeting his lips in a soft kiss. He makes you toast as compensation, takes the time to cut the crusts off the bread and the pulp out of the orange juice and the big bits out of the jam. He does his best, perfecting the art of toast and breakfast and, by extension, making you happy.

—

“Un amaretto sour, une bouteille de rose et un dirty martini,” you order smilingly in smooth, sure French.

The waiter nods and after thanks are exchanged, he leaves your table alone. In your limited knowledge of Paris, you’ve chalked it up to a few things: many people will be rude, the serving sizes will be petite, and the men will be anything but trustworthy. You’ve tried them before and they all go the same way, slipping out of hotel rooms with disarming desolés, buttoning their polos as they go.

So here you are, characteristically silent, because your friend is flirting with a guy and you refuse to do the same.

“You speak French?” The guy across you asks curiously. He talks like he’s always smiling, eyes turning into half-crescents. He’s accented, but you’re unsure of the origin—it sounds French, in the same way it kind of doesn’t. You nod politely.

“Ah? Où est-ce que vous l'avez appris?”

“Université,” you respond. “J’ai etudie le langue français, mais… est trés difficil.” He laughs, nodding like you’ve said the funniest thing in the world. Half-crescents.

“I’m Charles. I grew up—I’m from Monaco, so I speak it. And Italian. Joris and I.” He elbows his friend, who your friend is flirting with. Oh, Monaco. So… not French.

“I’ve never been,” you say, letting yourself loosen up a bit more.

“It’s very small. You should go sometime.” An implication of something hangs in the air, like clouds over France. You smile, bashful, nodding along.

“I’ll make sure to.” The drinks arrive and flow through the night, laughter passed along the table like wine. At some point you and Charles get up to dance, but are quickly put to your chairs by the waiter—you mutter some slurred remark about how why play music if you can’t dance?!

But he is funny, and charming, and pretty. You find yourself staring at him in a very desperate, schoolgirl crush way, lip bitten and cheeks warm when he catches you.

Later that night, tipsy off the alcohol, Charles the Monegasque presses a kiss to your cheek and asks, shyly, if you’d like to come to his hotel. You tease him, just to see the half-crescents again, and then you’re in his car and in his room, top pulled off and bra unclasped, laughing drunkenly into his neck when the pleasure reaches its crux. And you hope he doesn’t ask you to leave the next day, drifting into sleep with his arm slung over your waist.

—

You like Charles’ voice in real life.

This is because it means you feel it more than hear it, a low thrum through his chest and into your ear. It lets you know he’s close by, which is the best kind of reassurance, because he never usually is. It doesn’t matter what he talks about—the day past or about to begin, racing, family—all you can really digest is the amount of love and care he puts into his words.

Most of the time you hear his voice through the layered, stuffy audio of your phone or your laptop, when they can’t quite catch up to his lips, when the Internet lag is just that awful. If you’re lucky, he sounds more like himself, but nothing compares to hearing it for real, the whispers and murmurs and roughness of it all. He’s here, and you’re home, content just to listen.

You’re in Monaco; it’s your fourth day here. You’re off school for two weeks before you dive into midterms, so you spend it in Europe, because you haven’t seen Charles in ages. Lately he’s been pixels, voice memos, bubbles of words. But now he’s Charles, real, tangible, yours.

Life has become easier when he’s around, a fact wholly owed to his presence. When he’s here, you feel at ease, like laughter is effortless and loving is natural. But there is a ticking timebomb you sleep on, and it’s your impending departure, your flight back to the city, your resuming of normal life. Of life without him.

“I’ll be in Geneva next week,” he tells you, voice throaty from having just woken up. They’re the first words out of his mouth after he hangs up the early morning phone with Andrea. It’s an invite, even if it’s phrased as a statement; he awaits your affirmation, should it come. He invites you to these things often, as a way to introduce you more into his world. The words rumble through him, slowly onto your fingertips that waltz silently across his bare chest. They skate while you formulate a response.

“Okay,” you say quietly, half-asleep still. “I have… a huge recitation coming up, so I don’t think I can make it. Criminal law.”

He tenses, and you feel it. But his words say something else. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I wish I could,” you say, as compensation. It’s what you’ve both grown used to lately, wishing. Wishes that, for all your trying, never seem to come true. I wish I could make it. I wish I could visit. I wish we could celebrate together. I wish I was there for the podium, or the grades release, or the job offer phone call. I wish, I wish, I wish, and not much of anything else. Just wishing. Wishing, wanting, never getting.

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “I wish you could, too.”

The dissonance between the voice that rumbles through him and into you—comforting—and the words that leave—a touch too sharp—strikes through you like electricity. “I’m sorry,” you say achingly, and the morning is silent as you both fall back into ignorant, blissful sleep.

—

“Aaaaand that pretty much evens us out to a solid 12-3.”

You finish tracking the score on your Notes app, closing your phone and facing your boyfriend’s pouting face of defeat.

As always, the loser packs up the chessboard first—the wooden pieces click noisily against each other as he folds up the game, to be won (by you, no doubt) another time. Between work and the general upkeep of a relationship that’s constantly long distance, you and Charles find it difficult to begin and maintain romantic traditions.

But there’s always the assurance of chess. To air out grievances, to pass the time, to play footsie under the table. You and Charles always play, keeping a seasonal tally of near-daily games—during flights, pre and post race, after sex, at brunches with family.

“You’ve been cheating,” he accuses jokingly, storing the chessboard and inviting you onto his lap.

You’re in Nice today, housesitting for a friend while Charles spends time off racing. He claims it’s sufficient practice for when you one day buy a place together; two, at that: one in New York and one in Monaco. The days have passed in chess games, pots of coffee, and slow dances in the kitchen while you wait for pasta to boil or rice to cook.

“You’re just jealous,” you tease, clambering atop him. Your arms loop around his neck, his around your waist. “Don’t worry. The tally will restart in September.”

“I’ll best you then.” Here, in this still moment of silence, where the sunlight from outside filters in just right and illuminates every detail of Charles’ face, you can almost feel your heart swell to an unimaginable size. You connect the moles and freckles with the tip of your pinky, traveling lower until it rests softly against his lips. He smiles, flexing against your touch.

“Sore loser,” you say, flirtatious, playing with his hair.

“I think I keep losing,” he starts, hands tightening around your frame, “because every time I see you, I forget how to do the most ordinary things.”

You bite back a smile. “Hey, don’t try to charm yourself into a win.”

“Can’t help it, the winner’s too pretty,” he teases back; your lack of retort leads you to press your face into his chest. He smells like he always smells, clean and woody and a bit like your own perfume, your pretty boy. You inhale, breathe him in and ground yourself. Here, miles away from Monaco, even farther from Manhattan, you are home.

—

“How do you tell people you broke up?”

“I say we wanted different things,” you reply, two puffs into your second Camel.

A white lie, a half-truth, a rehearsed answer after being asked the same repetitive question so many times. You and Charles broke up because at that point, nothing about you made sense. You were growing older, and with age came the stupefying realization that nonsense wasn’t always romantic. If it didn’t make sense, it never would. But you did want the same things, you suppose, at least to some extent.

You know you wanted marriage. After law school, it had to be, and in Europe, somewhere sunny and windy and flowery with a sea nearby. A small affair, family and friends. You know you wanted kids, two or three, a bunch of Charles lookalikes, tufts of light hair and bouts of crazy energy. You know you wanted a house—not a flat, a house, a brownstone in Manhattan, a big property in Monaco. You wanted so much of the same things.

Perhaps that is why Pierre will never understand the magnitude of the way you miss Charles. You dream of him when you’re awake, of the times you spent together that finished abruptly. You look for him in everyday objects. You keep the tissue paper conversations, you want to say, even if it’s so, so mortifying, so raw to admit it.

“But you didn’t,” says Pierre, because he knows it.

“We didn’t. But what other explanation is there?” Where a concrete summary of your breakup is supposed to be, there lies grey matter, webs of explanation spanning years and months and questions unanswered.

“I get it,” he replies. But he’s not you, or Charles, so he doesn’t.

—

Charles looks at you and imagines your smiling face in every moment of his future. Holding a child, under a veil, half-asleep in the morning, flushed and warm after a few beers.

You’re—you’re you, and he just loves you, in a way he will never be able to articulate. He drives for a living—he looks at all kinds of statistics, worded and encoded onto machines and computer screens. But this love isn’t quantifiable. Not in numbers, not in speed, not in words, stanzas of Italian. His love for you is indescribable; it exists in a wordless plane, massive and all-encompassing, carved and chiseled finely.

When you’re absent, the world seems duller, a bit more empty. But it’s okay, he thinks—you’re here now, across the room, in nothing but lingerie, your dress pooled at your feet. You’ve both just arrived from another social gathering, with so many people, and an afterparty arranged by Max.

You’d utilized your well-used secret signal for parties that directly translated to “let’s go home”—bringing up peanut butter meant you were well past exhausted and needed to leave. One “the dessert would’ve been so good with peanut butter” later and you’re here. Years of being together means you’ve both created a vocabulary all your own, lexicon and phonetics making up a language of love and familiarity. Nobody else will ever get this, he thinks. It’s just yours.

You’re removing your makeup in the mirror, and oh, well, you’re beautiful. He wonders what he has to do now to be able to find you in the next life, to be able to meet your eyes again for the first time and fall in love with you the way he did.

You’re what he looks for after a race, after a win, after a DNF. So he can, if just for a moment, let his guard down and allow himself to be yours, yours and only yours, collapse into your arms from ache and overwhelm and find reprieve there. With you, he lets himself go, lets the façade fall, lets himself stay in your touch before he deems himself ready to be with the rest of the world.

“Hey, you,” you call, and he blinks. “Eyes up here, buddy.”

“I just love you,” he says sleepily.

You tug on a nightshirt—his, from ages ago—and crawl into bed beside him, raising a teasing brow. “Sex is off the table.”

He laughs. “I wasn’t trying to get into your pants.”

“Good,” you half-yawn, yanking the lamplight closed and nestling yourself beside him. “I look horribly un-sexy.”

“The shirt’s kinda doing it for me.”

“Go to sleep.”

—

It’s raining today, for the first time in a dull stretch of weeks. The fall comes in angry, noisy sheets, made more furious by the wind. Wrapped in one of his hoodies, you clasp a mug in your hands, staring sullenly out the window, wondering when Charles will be home. Something has shifted in the weeks since you last saw each other, since you flew back out to New York and Charles didn’t finish in the last race.

Sometimes everything feels impossible to touch, like you don’t know what the next step is, let alone how to take it. There’s a certain uncertainty to where you stand, a possibility that, if the seconds tick just right, everything will crash down. This isn’t a feeling you’ve ever had before, but you suppose this is the only way to learn how to deal with it.

It��s comforting, then, when you hear the keys jingle at the door.

Your flat, as expensive as it is, has a quirk to it; the door only opens when you jerk it with your knee twice. You hear it, the double thump, and in almost childish excitement, you set your mug down and pad gently over to the foyer, so you’re ready for him when the door opens. Everytime you’re apart for this long, the routine is standard, and first thing you do is hug—so hard, so tight, your legs wrapped around his waist, his face in your neck.

“Hey,” Charles says, seeing you wait idly by the front door. You inch forward, but freeze. He heaves his luggage in, smiling softly, tiredly almost, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek and then disappears into the bedroom. The lump in your throat doesn’t go away when you slowly realize the hug you’d awaited, prepared for even, does not come.

You follow him instead, to the bedroom, where he’s still quiet, shirtless and picking out something from the drawers. He turns when he hears you. “Have you seen my grey hoodie?”

“Yeah, it’s in the wash.” You pause. “I used it last week, sorry.”

“I tol—it’s,” he says, inhaling, “it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, taken aback by how affected he is. “I can get it dried.”

“It’s okay.” He insists, a bit sharply, tugging on a different shirt instead.

The air is thick, threatening to break, and you’re hopeless, lost, left wondering—what the hell is going on. You try your best anyway, humming as you take a seat on the bed and fold the bits of laundry you’d abandoned in the morning.

“Pascale’s inviting us over tomorrow,” you open, finishing a pair of shorts and depositing them into the drawers. Your arms wrap around him, and he holds them there. This is good, you think. This is okay. “For brunch, because Arthur’s going to be home. I told her okay—since I’m back in New York by Tuesday and you’ll be in Italy then, too. We haven’t had brunch with your family in forever. God, they’re going to be asking questions about marriage, and engagement, and ki—”

“Stop.” The room goes still. “Why did you tell her okay?” He asks, disengaging the hug and turning toward you fully.

You’re like a deer in the headlights, confused, lost all over again.

“Charles?” You prod, gently. “Is… are you okay? I mean, we always greenlight brunch.”

You watch him pinch his nose bridge, exhale, close his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” You echo, stepping forward. He steps back, avoidant.

“Don’t,” he says. “Please, just… don’t.”

You’ve heard this often lately. In fact, no—you’ve maybe felt this more than heard it. This—this distance, this space, this push. Every call unanswered, every flight missed, every text answered with a brief, apathetic OK. You can’t quell the fear, the panic swelling in your chest, because you can feel him floating away, just out of grasp.

“Talk to me,” you say, because it’s the only thing that can bring itself to leave your mouth. It’s weak, it’s desperate, lacking composure and firmness. “Nous pouvons travailler à travers cela.”

“Non,” he says, as if he knows it already. “This, I—I just. I think I just need some space.”

Space.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll be in the living room.”

“No, I’ll go,” he insists, like he’s doing you a favor. I’ll save us the nasty fight, he seems to convey. I’ll go. So he does—grabs a coat and wrestles himself out of the door, with barely anything left to reassure you, just a short kiss and a hand on your hair. It’s performative, you know this, but you’ll take it. You don’t have much to accept these days.

The night passes, still and quiet, without the jingle of keys or the double thump at the door.

Even in memory and introspection you will come to find this moment and remain capable of recounting every thread of detail, ones as small as the eyes of needles, every prick of pain that pokes at you. Because even if you see him the day next, and even if he greets you with a kiss, and pulls you aside to apologize profusely, and even if you feel so loved in this very moment, with hugs from Pascale and jokes from Arthur and check-ins with Lorenzo, the fact has secured, burrowed itself into the dark crevice of your heart.

You will look back on this one day, and think, with the kind of certainty so crushingly absolute: yes, this is when it all went wrong.

—

“Is he seeing anybody?” Halfway through the third stick.

“No,” Pierre says, blowing smoke out into the air.

“Be honest.”

He snorts. “D’accord. An Italian girl, few months ago, but it’s over. It was quick. Very. And you?”

The information makes you weak in ways you refuse to share. “Just… testing things out with this guy.”

“Does he know about Charles?”

The silence is telling. “About Charles” is an awfully broad topic.

Charles was such a big part of who you are, and who you’ve been, and what you’ve been through. How would you even begin telling somebody about you both? The bits and pieces, the great figure eight, the tiny infinity. The moments within the moments, memories within memories. The love. The way you loved, the way you sought him, the way you have yet to replicate the feeling of loving him, the way you wait for the next life, so you can seek him all over again.

There is “does he know Charles,” and there is “does he know about Charles,” and the two are so cruelly separate and different. Anyone can know Charles; he is, after all, world-famous. You don’t know how he’s doing in motorsport these days, because a lot of the time the Google search for his name suggests ex girlfriend right beside it, and that’s enough to stun you into not searching again. But still he’s famous and renowned, so of course he’d be known. But for someone to know about him, what he meant to you—it feels like you’d be reciting a novel in an effort to explain how the both of you began, became, and ended. Reciting sonnets and stanzas of prose, of moments painfully intimate, of habits that have yet to die, of things you wished to be taught by him.

“So, no.” You nod softly.

—

The possibility of spending Christmas with either of your families grows thin as December begins. Between final exams and racing meetings, neither of you give, discussing over hours-long calls and coordinating calendars. You find that your only common free day is the seventh of January, which is effectively well past the holidays. You’ve sunk into a pile of misery at the very real chance of spending the holidays by yourself. It’s not a pretty idea, despite the fact that you’ve befriended loneliness lately.

Outside your window, Manhattan is caked in snow; it reminds you of Santa Claus Charles, with his foamy frizzy beard and kisses of froth and the Polaroid on the fridge. You wonder if Charles, wherever he is in Europe now—traveling multiple times a day—remembers you, too, in these little mundane things.

He’d called on the third of December, when it was three in the morning in New York. You picked up after two rings, busy studying, and mumbled a sleepy hello into the receiver.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, clearly excited over something.

“Bit early, honey.” You’d said back amusedly, highlighting phrases on the textbook.

“Just saying it now, because the next time you hear me say these words, it’ll be in New York.”

You didn’t register his words until you realized you’d tinted two entire paragraphs fluorescent yellow.

You blinked. “Wait, what’d you say?”

“I’m there by the twenty-fifth, evening. Found a sweet spot in my calendar thanks to Joris.”

“If you’re joking, Charles, I swear—”

“I’ll see you then,” he had said; even then you could hear his smile through the scratchy audio of international calls.

That’s what you’re doing here, over your stove cooking chicken to commemorate your first Christmas together. You stick a thermometer inside it, busying your mind with thoughts of dinner instead of the fact that you haven’t spoken to your supposed guest in over a week.

Like many fights lately, this began over something irrational and grew into a serious, temperamental discussion about your future.

About moving in together and how impossible it seemed. About raising kids or getting engaged. Everything was written on different pages for the two of you. Your plans were always years too early, years too late, never aligning. Bilingual paragraphs eventually devolved into exhausted intermittent texts, check-ins if it mattered, and barely any concrete discussion at all.

It’s mortifying to have to say the phrases “like many fights lately.” You wonder what it proves about the two of you, about the relationship you share. Has it gone sour? No, you tell yourself. But this yogurt dip will, if I don’t put it in the fridge. You wipe your hands off after you do, rechecking your phone; still no texts or calls or updates. He’d texted this morning, a brief and simple see you soon, but hadn’t responded to your text.

Chicken, mashed potatoes, candles ready to be lit. You fiddle with the pink Bic, lighting and unlighting, sighing.

You dial the airline eventually. They man both public and private flights, so they should know something about his jet. Something, anything—any tidbit of information is useful to you right now. You’re embarrassed, alone on Christmas in a dress you thought was beautiful hours ago but now only seems over the top and mocking. A woman picks up your call after it’s transferred thrice.

I just need to know the ETA of this flight, you say. Under Charles Leclerc. He gave me the flight code.

Silence. You hear the bustle of the airport on the other end and wonder if Charles is there in that bustle, in his puffer jacket he uses in the winter, holding a suitcase and waiting for the delayed plane. Or maybe he’s already here in your timezone, in a cab bumbling with excitement, or in the elevator, or right outside, fist posed in front of the door—

A snowstorm, she says, her voice tinny through the phone. The pity in her voice makes you want to smash the landline to pieces. So sorry. If you’d gotten your husband to book just two days earlier, you two would’ve been together. Why don’t you call him, sweetie?

She is right about the unsolicited booking advice, wrong about the title. Charles is not your husband. You hang up after mumbling something you can no longer remember, too exhausted to be rude or polite at this point, and turn to face your dining room. Your texts go unanswered, and in your earlier effort to save energy, the lack of heating has caused your phone screen to grow cold to the touch. The roast chicken is getting cold now, too, the mashed potatoes cool, the sourdough stale, the butter melted into ugly coagulated puddles, the wine sweating all over the table.

You eat two bites before depositing a clean plate at the sink. The flat smells of pine and citrus; it’s stronger because you’re by yourself, with no Charles to cloud the room with his own scent. Your phone remains silent, your heart drowning slowly in a cloud of imprecise sorrow. And you realize, remembering the airline officer’s words as you unplug the lights from the Christmas tree and let the moonlight swallow the room, that Charles is not your boyfriend, either.

He texts the morning next, says he’ll make it on the next flight, twenty-six. He doesn’t apologize and you unwrap presents alone, from friends, shipped from family. You wallow in your loneliness, humiliated by your need for him, a need that is met only on the seventh of January.

—

“Are you and Charles okay?”

Lorenzo is always the first to ask. He’s intuitive, and you think maybe it comes with age, but damn if it isn’t infuriating when he knows something is up before anyone else. You purse your lips, hope your laugh is a good enough substitute for an answer.

“Are you?” Obviously, it’s not.

“We’re… we’re just working through things.” You’ve had two glasses of bourbon, and your eyesight is blurring the way your words do. You’re in a big Manhattan ballroom, just several floors underneath your hotel room. Charles is somewhere socializing, because of course he is, and you can’t take your mind off school, because of course you can’t.

“But you’re good, right?” He sounds hopeful, like your answer is the only thing that can convince him. Does he think you aren’t? What has Charles been telling him? Your breathing quickens, grows frantic.

“Yeah.” It convinces nobody, not even yourself. He nods, smart enough to drop the subject, and you’re alone again. This is the umpteenth gala you’ve been to this week alone, all for something or other along racing. You grow used to the faces, the introductions, the gentle nos when asked if you two are engaged, because why would you be? It’s a farfetched idea, engagement.

The bathroom is half-full when you usher yourself inside in your gown, almost tripping with how fast you try to make it to the mirrors. There are two middle-aged women beside you lazily drawing lipstick onto their faces, their French accents thick as they converse.

“…So I decided to divorce him.”

You stare deep into the mirror. You look like a caricature of yourself, a puppet. Where is Charles? He overestimates your capability to be alone.

The other woman goes, “I can’t believe he didn’t see it coming.”

“I know! You’d think he would notice, no? Bah, men.”

“You’d felt it for a while then, too.”

“Tch, I really did. Just goes to show.”

Before you digest it, you’re turning and intrusively asking: “How did you know you wanted to divorce him?”

They exchange a look that’s as condescending as it is patronizing. Here you are, a naive twenty-something asking for relationship advice like you’re some know-it-all. You feel like a child suddenly, meek and curling in on yourself. Answer me, you want to say, tell me how it feels, tell me how you knew. You look petulant.

“Well,” she says, eyes meeting yours as she closes the tube of lipstick, “sometimes, dear, you just know.” It clicks closed.

“Yes,” says the other. “You just know. When you wake up one day and you feel it, that’s just it.”

Bullshit. Easy answer. You won’t know, you want to say.

No matter how stupid, how cliché, it sounds, you’ll never know this feeling. This feeling of nonchalance over a relationship lost, of laughter over unsuccessful love, of casually coloring the same lips that talk so abrasively of a lover. Because you have Charles, and Charles has you, and what else is there to know?

The rest are candles on a cake, kisses under a blanket, orange juice served over toast, arguments that end with compromise and a hug. The rest is love. These two know nothing about it. They know hurt and heartbreak and denial. They know nothing but this sad, sad feeling.

It must be sad to know, you think, even if the exact suffocating feeling crawls up your spine and wraps around your throat on the elevator ride back to the room.

—

This is boring

You scan over the scribbled phrase on the embossed, no doubt above asking price, tissue paper given at this (granted, boring) charity ball. Stifling a laugh, you fish a pen out of your purse, rereading the words and judging your outgoing response. In neater penmanship, you quickly write a message below it.

OK let’s end things.

He laughs when he reads it, eyes crinkling into half-crescents, mouth in a wide, silent smile. He mulls over a response and when you get it—

No goodbye sex? Quelle poisse. You giggle, rolling your eyes and squeezing his hand underneath the table, putting your little game on pause lest you get in trouble for not listening to the speaker onstage. This kind of lovely, comedic push and pull is what keeps you always entertained with Charles; he always, without fail, manages to make you laugh. Your easy, instant, but equally profound connection to one another constantly has you revisiting the idea of soulmates, of destiny.

Prior to meeting, your and Charles’ lives were barely entwined. You were a law student in America, Charles a racing driver based in Europe. A year ago, to the date, you’d been in Paris on vacation, when a friend invited you out to get drinks somewhere along the Seine. You had three case studies waiting on your laptop, but something tugged at you to accept the invite.

Had you not been up for drinks in Paris that night, for instance—you’d never have met. And the drinks wouldn’t have been suggested in the first place if Charles got home from a meeting early, expressing boredom over the phone to Joris, who relayed it to the girl he was currently flirting with, who relayed it to you. You would never have talked if you didn’t order cocktails in French, prompting him to ask where you learned the language.

And if you hadn’t, in a haze of rosé and amaretto sours, accepted the handsome guy’s invite back to his hotel—where would you be now? The series of little things make up where you are now.

“Je t’aime,” he whispers into your hair.

But, then again, Charles has never felt like a stranger. You’re so sure that if you’d declined, or if Charles’ meeting ended on time, or if Joris was single, or if you ordered in meek English instead, you’d still be here, laughing over irrelevant tissue paper conversations, holding Charles’ hand under the table.

“Moi aussi,” you murmur. So sure.

—

God is the best scapegoat.

You first realize this when you’re ten and your favorite necklace snaps in half. You’d been running around, you moved too fast, it stuck on a branch, and became forever unfixable. You’d skipped on the usual nightly prayers as some sort of petulant, rebellious counterattack. You’re fifteen when you’re friendzoned, a first for you. You convince yourself it’s God playing tricks on you. You’re sixteen when you get an F for skipping class too often; you tweet God wtf is happening to me and you giddily watch it get thirteen likes. You’re not alone in this revolt, you think. You’re seventeen and a half when you lose your virginity; it sucks. You’re on top and you learn the art of faking. So you lay on your bed and bemoan Him for the misleading introduction to sex.

It becomes easy to blame God, moreso than usual, when the matter is one of life and death and danger. Being with Charles puts you in this position often. You curse God when something happens during a race that causes your heart to snag in itself and skip a beat or go five times faster. Inversely, it’s dreadfully difficult for you, innately unreligious, to pay thanks to God. Charles knows this, and is always the first to say “thank God” when a race goes well.

You throw around the phrase a few times, but it’s rare. Most, many, all times—it’s “oh, thank fuck” or “I’m so happy you’re safe.” It’s almost like you actively avoid the phrase, so whenever you say it, Charles is momentarily stunned; sometimes it’s after a particularly nasty circuit, or a rainy race day when you physically cannot withstand the stress of watching the love of your life drive fast under such bad conditions.

You have nothing to thank God for.

The hotel room is thin-walled and cold. Just last night you’d been tangled into each other for warmth, but now you’re throwing your suitcase onto the same bed and shoving laundry inside. No folding. No organizing. You make quick, messy work of it to avoid the conversation Charles so desperately tries to coerce out of both of you. The chessboard from last night’s game—5-7—lies abandoned, folded up at the foot of the bed. You ignore it.

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” he says, lazy almost. He seems to say oh, fine. If you need me to say sorry I’ll say it, here.

“You don’t understand.” You say, cutting phrases short to avoid saying anything you’d rather harbor inside yourself.

“Then enlighten me,” he shoots back. “Please, really. Dis moi tout.” He sounds sarcastic.

“I don’t fit here,” you respond cuttingly. If he chooses to be sarcastic, you think—then be it. You’ll be blunt. You’ll exaggerate. You’ll be impulsive, if for once in your life, you have to be.

“Here, in your life.” You clutch a shirt to your chest. “We don’t make sense. We never did, and you know what? We never will. I honestly don’t know why we keep trying. It’s pointless to believe this could ever work. In between our careers, friends, and schedules, it takes more work for us to see each other for just a day than to push a fucking rock uphill. Ç’est inutile et tu le sais—tout ce travail pour rien.”

Your words sting, join the draft leaving through the crack in the window, turn into dew that stains the vines of the hotel exterior. The ones about to leave his mouth, though, stay put, cement themselves in the grooves of your brain. You’ll think of this exchange years from now, and the words will never blur, sore on your tender heart.

A pregnant silence follows your soliloquy, prompting you to look up and meet his eyes. He says it then. “Pourquoi se disputer pour rien? Let’s just end things.”

“Fine, let’s just end things.” You repeat. Struck, hurt, and angry, you say one last thing, in a valiant attempt to get the last word in. “Thank God.”

The seconds tick by like days, where you look at one another, thinking the same thing. So that’s it? When did it all turn to this? You push past him, bearing your suitcase and messily wiping your face of tears, pretending not to notice the hitch in his voice when he mumbles a quiet goodbye.

Your steps to the elevator tick by like hours, and you take the time to think of how you’d lived much of your relationship thinking that, with how strong your and Charles’ personalities are, a breakup would be messy. Loud. A yelled out fight, tears, thrown curses and hurtful names. You’d always thought, with much conviction, that you would end with a bang.

Many previous fights had gone something like that. There was Thanksgiving, where you ushered him out of your family home to avoid anything escalating into a yelling match. Bang.

There was post-race, where, in the throes of frustration, you two had a heated exchange and you left the paddock in tears. Bang.

There was nothing, however, that couldn’t be solved without a shag and a kiss and an apology. So, reasonably, you expected the final fight to be the loudest. The angriest. This relationship, you were so sure—this would end in a bang. Because you and Charles love the same way: strongly, with so much conviction and noise, and the line between love and spite is more frail than you think. A great big bang, where finally you collided in ways you’d never done before, every frustration, every complaint, thrown back and forth like comets, like war.

But you are wrong. It doesn’t.

It ends with you softly sighing, arms crossed over your torso to shield yourself from the ache in your chest, tears slipping then falling unstoppingly in the elevator. It ends with a night’s sleep taking up one side of the bed. It ends with Charles deceiving himself into thinking you didn’t just thank the Lord that your relationship has just crumbled to nothing in the bounds of this thin-walled, cold hotel room.

—

“Say something to me,” you say quietly, like you’re afraid to disturb the still morning silence of Paris. “In Italian.”

It’s a corny, cheesy request, no doubt inflamed by the butterflies in your stomach when you think about the night before and one romantic comedy too many. But you ask for it, anyway, your leg bumping his under the too-thin cotton blanket of his hotel. You found yourself here this morning after a night of sweet French alcohol and slurred, flirty conversation.

“Assomigli al resto della mia vita.” He says, smiling.

“Okay. What’s it mean?”

“I won’t translate it for you, because it’s a bit cliché.” He narrows his eyes.

“All of European language is cliché.” You laugh. “Come on, tell me.”

“I will one day,” he says, “I promise. I swear!”

The promise of “one day” is upsettingly romantic. Barely a day after you first met, first bonded, first kissed, first had sex. Okay, fine, you two hadn’t really gone the traditional route of dating, but here he is waxing poetic in Italian, finger tracing your bare arm. “One day,” you say, just so you’re sure.

“Yeah. One day.”

His hand finds yours, and fingers are laced together. Words wrestle themselves out of your throat nervously, a question that might seal the morning. “Should I go?”

The question rests in the air. How do you want your eggs, he wants to ask. Or would you want pancakes or waffles or bacon? Or bread, a croissant with coffee and compote? He wants to know all these things, hear all your answers, watch your eyes twinkle with amusement at the silly questions. So he’ll ask them, he figures. He’ll ask them if you don’t go.

“Stay,” he says. “At least for breakfast.”

—

Pierre leaves after a few more hours. He says Yuki texted him about some Mexican place they need to try. The night next, he is brought up in conversation: “Who were you with last night?”

“A friend,” you explain. “He’s an old friend, Henry.”

Henry Maxwell, the Wall Street guy you’re seeing, who’s inviting you to a charity ball a month into dating. To you, that’s basically a sign to end things, but you allow him to explain his invitation. Babe, don’t you think networking in New York is a gold mine for everything great these days? Don’t you think we need to network if we ever move in together?

“Henry, n—I mean. It’s just going to be another one of those stuffy city galas where everyone tries to out-wealthy one another,” you half-joke. In truth, the reason why you’re so adamant on not going is because this is just about the worst first date idea ever conceived—from experience, you’re sure you’ll have barely any time alone to get to know each other, whisked away to socialize with groups of other people.

“Oh, lighten up,” says Henry, with a sheepish smile. “You’re my plus one on the RSVP, so you can’t complain.”

“Am I?” You ask, chuckling. It’s a bit weird. But he’s excited, and asking, and convincing, so you tug a green silk dress out of your closet and take an Uber to the hotel address. Nevermind the fact that you’ve been here before.

You squeeze Henry’s hand when you walk into the massive ballroom, and not five minutes later you’re facing a crowd of people, drowning in taffeta skirts and wool suits and champagne and snooty small talk. Henry is charming, Henry is kind, Henry is a smooth talker.

He’s the ideal prototype of a guy you should be dating right now. His hand never leaves the small of your back, playing with the satin of your dress, laughing into your neck. You’ve faced several groups of business magnates and supermodels; right now, he’s introducing you to a big journalist for the Post.

She’s in the middle of talking about some hippie retreat to Thailand or somewhere or other when your eyes glide across the room, bored, searching for something to occupy you. To be frank, you really don’t care about ayahuasca.

The hands on the clock seem to halt just for you, just for now, suspending this moment in time like a mosquito in amber. Your eyes meet—and if you’d been less careful or maybe more tipsy, you might have mistaken his gaze for a stranger’s. But your heart demands hurt, demands the memories, demands the sick, sweet nostalgia threading through you like needle to cloth. Your heart demands you to remember, but the demand is so painfully easy to obey because you’ve never forgotten. All at once hate and love arise in you, like great big waves conflicting against one another, until you feel swollen with longing and spite, finding reprieve in the green of his eyes.

Timing, destiny, God. Whatever it is, it’s decided to play some silly joke, because here you are. In the precarious balance of a memory and a figment of your imagination, here you are. In the gap between never and always, here you are. You might appear to be strangers, stranded across opposite ends of this marble ballroom, but to both of you, the idea is almost unfathomable. No, not strangers; you two are anything but.

You are you, and he is Charles, here again in the place where it all ended.

He is never a stranger, and he could never be. He is Charles, your Charles, the beautiful boy who took up years of your life and explored every inch of your heart and mind. He is Charles, who broke your heart, he is Charles, whose heart you broke. But now, he is just Charles Leclerc, racing driver and charity gala attendee, conversing with the same crowds, mingling as he always does. Did. The usage of past tense is a painful pill to swallow.

Charles feels like it’s torture, suffering, a slow punishment, to be rooted to the ground and to do nothing but look. How can he look away now? He is rooted to the tiles, thick vines keeping him here, even if his heart tells him to go, run, now. He is stuck, tacked by the stillness of the memories that play back through his head, the love and the sorrow. You’re still you, hair a little shorter, brows a little darker, but you’re still you. The you he had once, held once, loved and lost once. The you he wishes to have, hold, and love once again.

For a moment, a fleeting, short, moment, he wishes to blink, to nod and to signal for you to meet him outside, on the balcony, so he can straighten his tie and press a polite hand to this person’s shoulder and say excuse me and leave, slip quietly into the night. So maybe you can tug on Henry’s suit jacket and say I’m sorry and join the crowd of gowns and satin and leave, run, go. Because you’re you. And what a sweet lie it would be if he said he wouldn’t do anything for you.

In the end you stay, and you stare, rooted still, time moving the way grass grows. When he smiles, you smile back, and the answers to what if are quietly fabricated in the limits of your imagination.

—

“I miss you. I know it’s—I know this is weird to say, after so long. After not talking for such a long time.”

“No, I understand. I miss you, too.”

“Right… well, how have you been?”

“Same old. You?”

“Yeah, same. How’s everything?”

“It’s… it’s okay. How’s life?”

“Tough, but great.”

“I noticed you were with someone.”

“Yeah, no. That’s—it’s sort of—I don’t see it going anywhere, really. It’s kind of over.”

“Oh? Is it?”

“Listen, I’m… sorry. For—just for everything. I’ve lived the past few years thinking about everything and still hoping I could someday apologize properly. I’m just glad I’ve been given the chance. And I think things ended without… without… I just don’t think we were mature enough. And sometimes now I think—it’s you, it’s still you.”

“Don’t apologize. Can you believe it happened right here?”

“I know. It’s almost crazy—”

“You left a bottle of scent at my place. It’s… it’s still half full. Sometimes I—nevermind. I mean, I think of you a lot. Probably too much for my own good. I think of us, our past, our relationship.”

“So do I.”

“—I love you. I try to stop it, I keep trying but I always end up here. Always here, back here, loving you.”

“If you didn’t see me tonight—would you have felt this way?”

“Oh, I feel… I feel it everyday. I think I’m always going to love you.”

“I’m always going to love you, too.”

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc angst #f1 x reader

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idyllic-affections · 1 year

Text

what if kaveh adopted a child? (pt. ii)

summary. kaveh isn't exactly the best single dad out there, but he's doing his best.

trigger & content warnings. no applicable warnings.

tropes, pairings, fic length, & other notes. fluff, slight angst. adoptive dad!kaveh & reader. alhaitham & reader. tighnari & reader. collei & reader. 1.7k words. they/them pronouns for reader. this post is an expansion of what if kaveh adopted a child?

author's thoughts. do you guys remember when i said i wouldnt expand upon this brainrot? i lied. it was pretty well recieved and got some nice interaction so i hope to replicate that effect with this one!! heres some more adoptive dad!kaveh 💖 this will not make sense if you havent read the aforementioned brainrot, so please do that before reading this one! also do be aware that this has hints of kaveh's backstory in it, so if you don't want to see implied spoilers, don't read this!!

kaveh is a disaster single dad, but he's doing his best.

kaveh did inevitably take alhaitham's unsolicited advice and took them to gandharva ville. as much as he may hate to outwardly admit it... he knows he's not in a place to take care of a child alone, and he can't force alhaitham to help. that is simply not his roommate's responsibility. kaveh respects that; taking care of a child is a serious committment. it is not something that can be treated lightly, and it is certainly not something to force upon an unwilling caretaker. thankfully, the people at gandharva ville have no issue taking them in until kaveh is able to care for them properly.

tighnari and collei take really good care of them—especially collei. she adores them.

collei was very awkward with them at first, but she warmed up to them pretty quickly. something about having the opportunity to help a young child recover from trauma and learn to be stronger and smarter, having the opportunity to be like a big sister... it's very healing for her. she is being the person she herself would have needed all those years ago.

tighnari was also somewhat hesitant at first. children have a tendency to be bratty and loud, and he... does not have that kind of patience, but he was quick to get over any prior doubts after meeting them for the first time. they were very quiet. it was kind of worrying at first, but tighnari quickly realized that they just prefer communicating nonverbally.

the way they write is beautifully advanced and elegant, but it seems that their mouth finds it hard to keep up with their brain. that's all.

tighnari tutors them alongside collei. they're very advanced in language for their young age, and collei is a bit behind, so the two are roughly at the same level. he's also teaching both of them some of sumeru's many languages.

unlike collei, however, they are not from sumeru. they're from fontaine. as such, they have a lot of trouble producing some sounds that native speakers would have no trouble with.

(it's a source of very much frustration for them. collei is always there to console them when they get especially frustrated with themselves, wiping their tears away with gentle yet calloused hands and reassuring them that absolutely no-one expects them to be able to pronounce every word perfectly. even she messes up sometimes! she was away from sumeru for so long, after all. some sounds are difficult for her too.)

whenever kaveh visits them, they absolutely shine with excitement, as if he hasn't come to see them in ages. however... he's usually there multiple times a week (unless he's away for a project, and if he is, he always tells them before he leaves). they're simply always happy to see him.

it's really very cute, the way they gasp delightedly and run up to hug his legs since they're too short to reach any higher. it's impossibly endearing.

one time in particular stood out.

"Baba!"

Utter shock.

The silence that spread through Gandharva Ville was incredibly overpowering, but that didn't seem to deter them from running up to poor Kaveh—who had yet to completely process what they had said, how they had addressed him—and squeezing their little arms around his leg. The silence was quick to dissipate into fond murmurs and giggles as the Forest Rangers resumed their individual duties.

...

The blonde had no intention of replacing their parents; he'd feel awful if one or both of them turned up at some point, only for their child to have bonded with a different caretaker, but...

He also didn't have the heart to chide them. Who would? The way they gazed up at him with a smile that outshined the blazing sun itself was too sweet, too innocent. Kaveh couldn't possibly imagine why anyone would want to crush their soul like that.

He couldn't deny the warmth spreading in his chest, either.

With a smile, he raised his child into his arms, laying his forehead against their's. His gaze was gentle, affectionate, as he observed their expression. 'Enamored' didn't even begin to describe Kaveh's affection for them.

"Hello, little one. Baba's back."

from then on, kaveh absolutely addresses them as his kid. he just accepts that his role in their life is that of a father. family is not defined by blood, and archons know they need a parental figure that they can trust and rely on after what they went through in fontaine.

he never really saw himself being a father, at least not for a good while, but he adores them sm <3

alhaitham definitely warms up to them (eventually)!

he teaches them a few things here and there. most of the things he teaches them are language-related, but he'll sometimes present them with math problems. he'll even review some of their work for them if they ask, especially if it's something like an essay.

kaveh would absolutely pay special attention to his child's hair. if he doesn't already know how to care for their specific hair type, he would do everything in his power to learn how to.

kaveh spoils them whenever he can afford to. he oftentimes can't afford to do such things, which stings like a fresh wound would, but he knows they're happy even without being spoiled. he tries his best!

the architect wants to preserve their native culture, but they seem averse to the idea of returning to fontaine, and forcing them would do no good.

for now, the best he can do is obtain fontainian literature through foreign sources and ensure that their own language isn't erased by the sumeran languages they're learning.

his mother does live there. he could always ask her for a few favors when needed.

when the political climate cools down a little, he plans on taking them to fontaine, just not the capital city. anywhere outside of the nation's capital would do. ideally, he'd keep them as far away from the hydro archon as possible.

kaveh would never push his child to enroll in the akademiya, no matter how brilliant they are. unless they voluntarily want to go...

he will not do something that cruel to them. he wouldn't dream of it. honestly, even if they wanted to go, he would be a little hesitant.

(this view would change drastically after the sages are removed from office, however; once they're gone and the akademiya becomes less suffocating, he'd totally encourage them to go.)

if they did decide they wanted to go, however, he'd absolutely try to get them to enroll in kshahrewar.

like father like child!! they've been with the forest rangers for a while, so surely they'd be good with their hands by then.

alhaitham would try to get them into haravatat just to spite kaveh (those two are married, trust me!). his reasoning? they're far ahead of their peers in language. they'd thrive in an environment such as the one his darshan creates.

if they decide not to go? that's alright, too.

kaveh wants his child to thrive in an environment where they can safely and happily pursue whatever catches their interest, even if that means they regularly hop between subjects and ideas on a whim. inspiration is a skittish beast that would surely slip through their fingers if they aren't quick enough to pursue it; he understands this idea very well. it really isn't the end of the world if they don't want to go to the akademiya. they have plenty of scholars willing to teach them without all the academic stress attached—kaveh himself, alhaitham, tighnari, cyno...

(they're like a platonic co-parenting friend group LMAO they're raising [name] and collei together! they all help each other out!!)

kaveh is also very intent on teaching them to care for themselves before they try to care for anyone else.

he lives weighed down by guilt for things that weren't even his fault. he knows he's trapped by his own ideals; he'd be damned if he were to teach his child to be same way.

"do as i say, not as i do" kind of vibe. also definitely teaches his kid to "do no harm but take no shit"

(though, let's be honest: children learn through mirroring. if kaveh is not careful, his child will subconsciously adopt his self-destructive behaviors. thankfully, they do have other people to set them straight if they begin exhibiting such behaviors, namely alhaitham and cyno, who also do the majority of teaching them to "take no shit".)

ultimately, kaveh just wants his child to be happy, even if something were to happen to him. he doesn't want them to feel the way he does every moment of his life.

It wasn't often that Kaveh simply got to sit in calm silence with his child.

More often than not, they spent their time in Gandharva Ville with the forest rangers. However, every other weekend, Kaveh would take them back to Sumeru City with him; Alhaitham seemed to have no qualms with keeping them around after realizing the kind of child they turned out to be.

It was during the weekends the architect had them that he sought to spend as much time as possible with them.

Sometimes, that meant sitting peacefully in the silence together.

"...Little one," Kaveh called softly, hand stroking lovingly over their hair. They tilted their head back to meet his gaze, a small, inquisitive sound leaving their lips.

"Hm?"

"If something ever happens to me, I want you to know that you had nothing to do with it in any way, matter the circumstance. If something ever happens to me... it would not be your fault, okay? Do you understand?"

A heavy silence extended for a moment, and Kaveh could only watch as a variety of emotions crossed their face at once.

It unsettled him that they seemed to fight with themselves about how to respond, as if they couldn't agree with that.

Then again...

It wouldn't surprise him if they blamed themselves for the loss of their biological parents. Only time would tell if that pain would manifest into something worse as they got older.

"...Okay, baba. I understand."

He smiled, leaning down to kiss their forehead.

"Good."

please consider reblogging, it helps me out quite a lot!

#aphelion's headcanons 🌸#: [ adoptive dad kaveh! 🌸 ]#favoniuslibrary #astronetwrk #platonic genshin x reader #platonic genshin impact #platonic genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #kaveh x reader #platonic kaveh x reader #genshin impact x reader #alhaitham x reader #tighnari x reader #collei x reader

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tangerinesgirl · 3 months

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Unravel

AFAB!Reader x Mark Hoffman

Word count: 1.8k

Rating: explicit, 18+, no minors

Warnings: smut, masochism, size difference, some brief talk of weight, creampie, mostly Dom!Reader but some Dom!Mark, spitting, p in v

Summary: Your ex, Mark, has no where to go after the glass coffin trap and needs your help...even though you've been on a break.

Notes: I wanted to challenge myself to write a fic that has more detail this time. Reading my works back they all seem super quick to get into the action. So let me know what you think and I hope you enjoy!

You jump out of your skin at the loud bang against your apartment door. You begrudgingly roll over to the bedside table to check your phone: 1:03AM. Sighing, you put on slippers and stagger to the door. There's a more polite knock this time as you look through the peep hole: it's Mark Hoffman.

You and Mark had a rocky relationship ever since he became an apprentice for John Kramer. You found out from his clothing being torn, covered in oil and miscellaneous substances, or just straight up gone missing, and confronted him about it. He showed you the way of the traps and Kramer's ideology, part of you was sick to your stomach thinking about how many people have died like this, but the other part of you was seriously into how he would build the traps, brainstorming ideas and coming home all hot and bothered. But in the end, you had to take a break, Mark couldn't commit to a relationship as he was essentially married to his work. What you both had was fun, but you always wanted something more.

You unlock the door and Mark tumbles into your flat and walks straight into the kitchen. When you turn around you notice his once silk blue shirt is now red, full of cuts and glass shards. You don't quite know how he got to you; did he drive? Walk? Either way it was impressive how he's still standing. He swipes the kitchen table clean and dumps a first aid kit down. "Fix me", he demands of you. You sigh, thinking about how many months have passed without hearing from him and he turns up like this out of the blue, then inevitably grab some tweezers and sterilising fluid.

Nothing more is said after that, the only sound in the room is you cutting off Hoffman's shirt. Mark had actually trained you in first aid since he started up the traps, to cover for all eventualities. Things like how to stitch a wound, fix dislocations, and so on. You didn't think you'd actually have to use it when he left. It's not exactly like he could fish out the shards himself so it made sense in a way, even though it was painful for you to see him again. Maybe not as painful as the actual glass in his back though. You carefully start removing pieces from him, every so often he flinches but stays as stoic as ever. You put each shard on the table, disinfecting the tweezers as you go. It's painstaking, especially without a word being said. There's too many thoughts whizzing around your head, you wouldn't even know where to start, so you focus on your work instead.

You dab at the wounds with wipes, you notice a couple of particularly deep ones need stitches, and few more need steri-strips. You start to unwind your thread, and begin to close them up. He still flinches and groans occasionally as you fix his wounds. You're surprised you have enough steri strips for the rest. You give it one last glance over to make sure there's no more tint hidden pieces. Once you're happy with your work, you start to pack the rest of the stuff away.

As you reach for an unused bandage, Hoffman suddenly grabs your wrist. You turn to look at him, and he looks at you, deeply into your eyes, as if to say "thank you" without actually saying it, since that wasn't really part of his nature. He then glances down briefly at your lips. He thinks you didn't notice, but you did, and you look down at his too.

There's a lot of tension in the room, and you find it extremely hot that not a word has been said in the last two, maybe three, hours. You've lost track of time, you always do when Mark is around, because nothing else matters. You start to move forward into a kiss but you stop, inches away from him. Mark looks at your lips again. Then he suddenly puts his hand on the base of your skull behind your head and grips your hair. You let out a little surprise gasp.

Then everything happens so fast.

Mark slams his lips against yours, like a man starved, his kisses are desperate and all tongues. You both lightly moan through the heavy kisses, you sit on his lap and start to drag your hand through his hair in exchange, tugging occasionally. You start grinding while on his lap, searching for more. You can feel his member through his trousers. Then you accidentally knock one the cuts on his back and he groans out in pain, however you couldn't help but notice his cock twitch as you did so, now semi erect. You both stop for a bit and share a glance, not one of humiliation but of realisation. You raise an eyebrow, intrigued, and start to purposefully play with one of his stitched wounds. Mark moans and quickly grabs your other hand that's resting on his chest.

"Stop", he commands. There's clearly some unsaid things between you and Mark. You stop and look at him, you both look at each other with need and desperation.

"I don't know how far I'll go, I can't promise I'll be gentle", Mark has danger in his eyes.

"I know", you admit. Mark was always the kind to take out a rough day at work through sex, and you had a feeling tonight was no exception. But it somehow felt different. It could be the time you've had away from each other, or whatever he experienced that night had him particularly wound up.

"Same safe word?", you ask. He nods slightly, and in a flash he's back to passionately kissing you. He lifts you up, trying to walk you to the bedroom, but can't see where he's going as he's so tied up in the moment. He slams you into a wall, you moan as the air is pushed out of you.

You break the kiss momentarily to remove your top, you must have each other now and can't wait until you're in the bedroom. Mark removes your bra, his hands replacing it. His hands are so large, one hand seems to cover your entire chest. His rough skin feels amazing on your soft breasts. You moan as you remove your underwear. Mark breaks the kiss to kick off his trousers and underwear. He catches you looking at his erection, he walks back over to you and grabs your hair.

"How do I look?", he growls in your ear. You moan and start to kiss him again.

Without warning he pushes his cock into you. You forgot how well he filled you up. He was just the right size, but girthier than average. His thickness stung a little since he slammed into you without warning, but it's a good thing you were already slick with arousal. You hold him around his neck as he's lifting you up. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he's slamming into you against the wall.

With him still inside you, he then carries you over to the kitchen table. It's a good thing you packed everything away earlier. You put your feet on the edge, with your back on the table. Mark continues to push inside of you, sweat starting to glisten down his forehead, onto his large chest. Somewhat hairy, but oh so broad. His frame and arms have always been a turn on for you. Sometimes he was self conscious about his weight but you found it extremely hot. Especially the way it felt on top of you.

You sit up, breaking his momentum briefly, as you can feel the table shake, becoming more and more unstable. You push him to the chair where he was sat as you were cleaning his wounds, and motioned for him to sit down. You straddle him like before, only this time you were completely naked. You haven't felt this powerful for a while. You start to ride him, reaching behind you to start and fondle his balls. He tilts his head back in pleasure, mouth wide open. You stop briefly to hold his jaw open, you look over him as a dribble of your spit travels into his mouth. You forcefully close his mouth to get him to swallow, and continue to ride him.

It's not often you're able to take charge, but you were enjoying it. Hoffman, even though he wouldn't admit it afterwards, likes to think he's dominant at heart, but also loves it when someone takes control.

Your hands start to trail down his back once again. You could feel a few of his stitches had begun to unravel. Mark hisses as you trace your fingers over them. You stop briefly, making sure he was okay with you going further. After no safe word, you continue to pluck open a wound. Mark pretty much jumps out of his seat, slamming into you as he does so. You both moan, the lines of pleasure and pain blurring. You start to dip your finger into the warmth, blood coating your finger and travelling down his body.

"Y/N, I'm gonna-", Mark trails off. You remove your finger, and smear the blood as you caress his face. Around his lips, his jaw, down to his neck.

Mark is VERY into this, he's a massive masochist and seeing you like this has his mind going into overtime. What traps could you come up with? Maybe you could come with him during the next game, getting off on your hard work, putting each other in a trap, and seeing others in them. Watching them struggle in your game, totally oblivious to you and Mark having the steamiest sex of your lives over the monitor.

At this thought, he starts to cum inside of you. The biggest orgasm of his life. You continue to ride his orgasm out of him, the amount of cum you can feel inside you also triggers your orgasm. Mark slams you down by your shoulders to get you to stop moving as his penis slowly grows softer and twitches inside of you. You collapse into Mark's chest, both of you breathless.

You both sit there for a moment, taking everything in. Mark still inside you, his cum leaking out onto the chair, onto the floor, mixing with the blood from his wound that you opened.

You eventually move and mention that you should clean him back up. Mark reluctantly agrees. Neither of you decide to put your clothes back on, as you start to disinfect the table and open your first aid kit again. You mend his stitches and clean him up, and Mark is giving you that look again. Looking at your lips, totally helpless. You sigh as you realise you'll be stitching him back up once again.

#fanfic #mark hoffman x reader #detective mark hoffman #mark hoffman #afab reader #saw #saw fanfic #hoffman x reader #mark hoffman x you #mark hoffman x y/n #hoffman x y/n #glass coffin

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thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 7 months

Text

Built a haven for your love (until I let you fall apart)

Mihawk x reader. NSFW!!

Title is an excerpt from Blind and Frozen by Beast in Black. I will probably write a second part to this...

Note - 13/11/2023: I have edited the fic to delete a brief, completely unimportant reference to Kain, the reader's past lover, in order to focus on other, more important characters.

*****

What I wanted to ask you is... do you wanna have a baby?

Dracule Mihawk doesn't have friends; he hasn't had any for a long time, maybe since he was still a child and forming bonds with school mates was almost inevitable. He knows, without guilt or embarrassment, that the fault is largely his own, since approaching him requires a certain courage, given his intimidating figure, not to mention his reputation; he prides himself on the fact he has never hurt an innocent, least of all voluntarily, but many people don't even need to know about his activities and his deadly ability as a swordsman to perceive he is not the sort of man you could invite to join you at the bar.

He is fine with that; truthfully, he is happy with that, since he has always preferred his own company to that of others; perhaps it is presumptuous of him, but most people bore him in the best of cases... and get on his nerves in the worst. At best, he has a few acquaintances he doesn't mind meeting, like Shanks (even though he doesn't consider the Red-Haired pirate a worthy opponent anymore, given the loss of his arm)... or you.

Your acquaintances goes back a long time, after a chance meeting soon after the beginning of your respective carreers. A swordsman who had challenged him was killed by you the day before they had agreed to meet for their duel; you apologized for stealing his adversary, and offered to split the bounty as compensation, but Mihawk declined, convinced that the fact that the other swordsman had been so easily killed made him an unworthy opponent, so in a way you had spared him a waste of time. You parted (somehow) amicably, and that had been your last encounter for years, until you had both allied yourself with the Marines, him as one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea and you as a mercenary, both not exactly on the World Government's payroll but still regularly called upon to carry out assignments suited to your particular talents.

You have never exactly looked for each other, but for some reason you have met often and regularly, both at the Marine HQ and wherever your travels would bring you. You are extremely capable at what you do, proud of your abilities and accomplishments without lapsing into boastfulness, smarter than many of the people he has to deal with and a pleasant company when the two of you find yourselves killing time with a glass of wine as you wait to meet Vice-Admiral Garp. Mihawk... likes you, in a sense, a feeling that is in part respect and in part a fondness he can't describe; it is pleasant talking to you, you never get on his nerves like many people do, and he can't help admiring the bravery, stubbornness and resourcefulness that have made you the best mercenary in the four seas, capable of hunting down whoever you are pursuing across land and sea and dispatch them, accurate, relentless, and inexorable. He wouldn't say he looks forward to seeing you, but you are one of the few people he doesn't mind meeting, and is pretty sure you feel the same.

That is how things are between the two of you; such they have been for years, and such Mihawk expects them to remain for the foreseeable future... until today. Until your proposal, and since he has been a boy very few things and people have been able to surprise him, but this... this really takes the cake.

"Is it good to see you; it's been a while." you say, receiving a nod in response. A small, well-lit chamber in the Marine HQ is used as a waiting room for officers and civilians waiting for a meeting or to be received by a superior, and this is where the two of you have met, having both come to the HQ for your own affairs; you seemed happy to see him, and he had accepted your invite to sit and enjoy a glass of wine, that you had languidly ordered to the first cadet who had walked past you.

"It has."

"Are you leaving or returning?"

"Returning; I have to report to Garp." Mihawl explains as he makes himself comfortable on the chair; he has not fully carried out the task he had been assigned, since the young pirate who has inherited Shank's straw hat is still at large, but he is not worried of the repercussions; after all, he is not the Marines' lap dog, the Vice-Admiral's even less "Yourself?"

"Just received my new assignment; I'm leaving for the North Blue in the morning. Just killing some time until my dinner reservation." you elaborate; one of your many guns (you always have no less than four on your person, from the long rifle you carry slung over your shoulder to a tiny but deadly pistol you keep hidden in the wide sleeve of your shirt) is placed on your lap, together with the rag you have used to polish it until the arrival of your drink "So, what keeps the greatest swordsman in the world busy these days?"

You listen intently as he tells you about Zoro, a young and impulsive adversary he nonetheless is sure will one day will be worthy of his attention, and then you tell him about your latest quarry: a man who, knowing you were pursuing him, had hidden in a ball-room full of people during a dance, confident that the quick-moving throng around him would make it impossible for a sniper to aim. He didn't have the time to realize how wrong he was when you, hanging upside-down from a lamppost across the street, shot him through a window in the middle of a valzer, your bullet brushing against his partner's cheek without hurting her and passing through his skull from his left orbit.

"Impressive." Mihawk says; he doesn't tell you he could count the people who have earned such a compliment from him on the fingers of one hand, but you smile, clearly flattered.

"Thank you."

For a couple minutes, the only noise in the room is the soft song of the backwash filtering through the windows; you seem... pensive, Mihawk thinks, not sad but vaguely tense as you sip your wine, as if there were a problem you can't find a solution for.

The only other people present in the room are a trio of captains arguing over a map on the table in front of them; coming in, they have glared at both of you, as if unhappy to see a couple of miscreants like you, a pardoned pirate and a woman who kills for money, among them, but both you and Mihawk have ignored them. He sees a look of satisfaction on your face when finally the three uniformed officers leave; as soon as you are alone, you look at him.

"May I ask you something?"

Mihawk looks back; this is why you were anxious, he realizes. Even though you try to maintain a calm, almost casual tone, the tenseness is still clear in your eyes and in your ramrod posture, and in the way in which you almost subconsciously grip the gun in your hands, not to point it against him but because it makes you feel safer and more in control.

It is the same for him; otherwise, no matter how confident he is in his capacities as a swordsman, he would not sleep with Yoru under his bed... and the Kogatana under his pillow.

"You may." he concedes; not of course, or tell me everything, because such expansiveness is as far from his personality as it is possible to be, and you know it well. But he knows you as well, and because of this, he is willing to listen; he has no idea what you may want to discuss (maybe a partnership for a particularly challenging task? If so he might humour you, if the quarry is interesting. He wouldn't mind seeing you at work) but he must admit, he is curious... just a little "What is it?"

You breathe in, like a diver ready to jump; you don't lack courage, and still, for a moment Mihawk expects to hear you say "It doesn't matter." and leave it there.

You don't.

"I would like to ask you... if you'd like to have a baby with me."

*****

You can't remember ever being so nervous, even though he is the last of a long list of men you have approached (but after all, none of them were like the one sitting in front of you; none, you have come to suspect, could ever be), but when you look at Mihawk, who after a whole minute has yet to utter a single word, you feel a smile blossoming on your lips.

"Are you surprised? I should be proud, I left the infamous "Hawk Eyes" Mihawk speechless..."

"Is this a joke?" he inquires, and you would have to be deaf to ignore the threat in his voice; your smile disappears, as quickly as it had come.

"Absolutely not; I know you are not the joking sort, and this matter is extremely important to me. Give me five minutes and everything will be clear."

He doesn't answer, not even with a nod, but he remains where he is, silently allowing you to go on, and you swallow, your mouth suddenly as dry as if you hadn't had a sip of water in days. You are not afraid of him (not actively, at least; he could probably kill you, if he tried, but you know he is not the sort of man who needlessly resorts to violence for the simple pleasure to hurt others... and maybe, just maybe, your long acquaintance will grant you a little of his patience) but probably you'd have been better off keeping him out of your little plan. After all, there are so many other candidates, healthy men whose cooperation you could secure with a bought drink and a bit of sweet talking; involving him (a man you know, and respect, and because of this who you feel obliged to be honest with, not to mention it would be hard to keep him in the dark regarding your plan, since you meet semi-regularly) is unnecessarily complicated... but at the same time something in your heart, a tiny voice you have stopped listening to eight years ago, tells you that this is the right choice, he is - for your future child, and maybe for you as well.

"I don't think you know this, but I am the heir of a noble house." you begin "My family rules over an island in the North Sea. It is nothing special, tiny compared to many others similar domains, but the soil is fertile and we have trade agreements in place with many other kingdoms and cities; about fifteen hundred people live on the island, and my family has governed them for more than ten centuries. It is a very beautiful place, with a mild climate and a luxuriant nature."

Silence.

"Sorry, sometimes I get carried out when I talk about my home. Anyway, I am the only heir to the family; I have no siblings and my mother is too old to have other children, which means that the responsibility to ensure the continuation of the family lineage falls on my shoulders. Because of this, I have decided it is time for me to bear an heir who will one day rule our home; and because of this, I need someone to sire a child for me."

Silence again, and you know him well enough to know that Mihawk never utters three words if one is sufficient, nor does he appreciates useless talk from his interlocutor, so you force yourself to keep silent as well, feeling your heart beating fast enough to hurt. The worst he can do is refuse your offer, which would be disappointing (it would really be, you realize in your heart; a bitter, deep disappointment) but not an insurmountable problem, and you'd be free to look for another donor, but still, you find yourself holding your breath as you wait for an answer. Why do you feel like this?, you wonder; he is just one man, one you have grown deeply fond of in the years since your first meeting and whose blood would undoubtedly produce healthy, strong and attractive offspring, but suddenly you feel desperate to receive a positive answer, and you don't know why. Is it because after five years, you're starting to lose hope? Or because you know how embarrassing it would be, to think back to his refusal when you would meet Mihawk again in the future? Or maybe...?

"Don't noble families require a member to be married in order for their children to be eligible to inherit?" the man in front of you suddenly asks "I seem to understand you are not asking for my hand."

"I am not; what I would like from you is to get me pregnant, that's all. It is true that the children of unmarried couples are often forbidden from inheriting, especially in the case of a noble family, but things are different in my island. Marriage is often just a formality and a personal choice, and no large difference exists between couples who actually tie the knot and those who don't, nor between the treatment given to their children. A blood relationship with the ruler, or their heir, is enough to ensure suitability as far as the inheritance of the fief is concerned; I could technically adopt a child from another family, but their position would be less solid. I have no siblings or other close relatives: if the child is born from my womb, there will be no reason to doubt their qualifications." you explain, secretly relieved Mihawk has not refused your proposal already but suddenly wishing you could exchange the average red wine in your glass for a sip of cool water "So... are you interested?"

Silence - again, and this time it is clear to you Mihawk is reflecting on your words, something you can't blame him for, and obviously this is the sort of proposal you can't decide on in a matter of minutes, not to mention he is clearly the sort of man who likes to meditate on what he does, but at the same time you can't take it anymore... the silence is going to kill him.

"Mihawk, please." you murmur. For a moment you are about to rest your hand on his over the table, an innocent contact to lend more weight to your words, but thank all the Gods you stop yourself in time since, good acquaintances or not, in a heartbeat you'd probably find your hand amputated by the little blade hanging from Mihawk's neck "Tell me what you're thinking."

His eyes, until now focused on the wine in his glass, move to you, and for the first time since you remember, you need to make an effort to hold his gaze, not because of his eyes, whose colour actually reminds you of a bird of prey, rather because of the intent behind them: he is observing you like a scientist studying an interesting experiment, and it is not pleasant.

Stop it now, you're about to say, but once more, you force yourself to hold your tongue; you are not afraid of him, you have never been, but after all you're trying to earn his collaboration.

"I have a few questions." he states in the end, folding his hands on his lap.

"Understandable. Please ask."

"Why are you asking me?"

"Well, you're not my first choice." you confess, immediately aware those words don't precisely convey your thoughts; you glance at him, suddenly curious to know if he found them offensive, but Mihawk's face is as expressive as the wall behind him "I mean, I have started trying to conceive five years ago, and consequently it was then that I have started searching for a donor. Until now, I have chosen men I didn't previously know; I made sure they were healthy, because obviously I want my child to be physically and mentally sound, and young, since at a certain point age results in a decline of fertility. But now..."

"Now?"

You shrug. "I don't know. I am tired of sleeping with men I don't even know and don't feel attracted to; seducing them is not easy, since I have never been good at flirting, and I can't help feeling guilty when some of them ask to see me again. With you it would be different, and this is why I am coming clean about my real intent; with the others I didn't, and not simply because we meet regularly and you would notice I was pregnant and suspect the child was yours. I know you are in excellent health, and since I want what is best for my child, I'd be happy if they inherited your skills and strength of character."

"I see."

He seems uncertain - he is uncertain, you realize, maybe like it rarely happens in his life; but he is actually considering your proposal, which is already more than you felt confident about.

"What if I wanted to be part of the child's life?" he says after a while "And what if they were not fit to rule your island? Healthy parents can have sick children as well."

"Do you think I would put aside my child simply because...?"

"Answer me."

In your heart you can't blame him for asking, rather the fact that he wants to make sure the child will be taken care of does him credit; he doesn't seem the sort of man who dreams of fatherhood, but after all he deserves to have his say on the matter. So you tell him that your child will have to be raised on your island, since it will be necessary for them to know the land and the people they will one day have to rule, not to mention to receive the necessary education, but nothing forbids their father to spend some time with them, either there or wherever else. "You could visit our island as often as you want, or they could visit you; I'm sure you'll keep them safe. On the other hand, if you wished to have nothing to do with them, I would respect it; I would also keep your name a secret, if you so desire. And whatever happens, even if, Gods forbid, our child got sick or something actually made him unfit to rule, I would still take care of them at the best of my ability. I don't want you to think they would be a means to an end; I don't want a centuries-long lineage to end with me, and I know of my duties towards my island, but... but I do want a child. I want to become a mother, I have for a long time; and there is nothing I would not do to defend my child, not after...

... after what I have been through. After I failed once already.

"... after wanting it for so long."

Silence. Again. You are still clutching your wine glass, hard enough to break it you realize, and as you place it on the table between the two of you Mihawk is still deep in his thoughts, his fingers intertwined on his knee; after a while (you have practically stopped breathing) he opens his mouth to talk...

"Hawk-eye Mihawk? Vice-Admiral Garp is waiting for you."

You have nothing against the cadet who has just joined you at the table (a young, short man with pink hair and round glasses) but you find yourself glaring at him, wishing he had better timing. Mihawk doesn't try to hide his dissatisfaction either.

"I will be with him in a moment." he says with an hand-wave, as if to dismiss the messenger; for a moment the cadet looks as if he's about to say something, before wisely deciding it really is not worth it, and leaves the two of you alone.

Mihawk stands; in a moment, he has retrieved Yoru from the wall he had placed it against and he has placed it on his back, the movement as fluid and apparently effortless as those of a dancer. "I will think about it." he says; he doesn't add I promise or anything of the sort, but you can trust him (you do already) and you know it, and because of this, you smile.

"I know you will. Thank you; thank you for listening to what I had to say." you say, and then he leaves, and you pour yourself another glass of wine, still thirsty but aware you need more than water to recover.

*****

The sight of the sun disappearing beyond the horizon, the flame-red ball seemingly drowning in the dark waters of the sea, is still breath-taking; Mihawk loved it when he first took the sea as a young man, and while no one could ever consider him a romantic (not that many people know him well enough to get an impression of his personality, but still) he finds it equally charming now, so many years later.

The harbour is almost empty around him, a few sailors who hurry to secure their boats before retiring, while the Marines doing the night shift cross the paved path behind him to reach their post. A gentle wind has risen, the white feathers on Mihawk's hat and the tails of his coat barely stirring; he doesn't notice, so focused he is on the spectacle taking place as every day in front of him... and on the surprising proposal he has received four hours ago.

(name) has amazed him; that he has to give her. He would have never imagined her in the role of the scion of a noble family, given her collected but friendly personality, completely devoid of the conceit and sense of superiority so common among the few World Noble he has crossed path with, but at the same time, it isn't hard to imagine her drafting laws or collecting taxes in the little corner of world her family has ruled over for so long. How did a woman whose destiny had undoubtedly been prepared for her since before she was born (Mihawk had no doubts about it, given the care (name) herself had already taken programming the future of their child) end up working as a mercenary? Is her fief so impoverished she needs to raise funds to take care of her people? Or is it simply an hobby to pursue while the previous generation still rules... ?

Their child. The thought appars, sudden and unbidden, in his mind, and Mihawk finds himself struggling to breathe for a moment. He has never given much thought to a possible future paternity, and during his (very sporadic, at least in the last decade) sexual encounters he has always made sure to avoid the risk of pregnancy. Still, the idea of having a child with (name) is... intriguing. He has no doubt she would take care of her progeny in the best way possible, and while he has never considered himself an ambitious man, the prospect of contributing to perpetuate a centuries-long lineage is... pleasing; also, should the child demonstrate an attitude for swordsmanship, he could take them on as an apprentice and bequeath them his knowledge and capacities...

And then there is the other thing. The fact he is almost embarrassed to admit even in the privacy of his own heart, the small but not insignificant detail that has caught him off guard like no adversary has ever done since he was thirteen: the warmth that has filled his belly, and the area below that, when the mental image of him and (name) conceiving that child... the two of them naked, in bed together... blossomed in his mind.

He shouldn't feel embarrassed, let alone distressed, because of that. He is an adult, having thoughts and desires of a sexual nature is perfectly normal, and he has no troubles admitting, at least privately, that (name) is an attractive woman; he surely is not the first man to be attracted to her.

... am I? Attracted to her? I have never thought about her in such a way, let alone about the two of us together; and there was nothing lascivious in the way she discussed her proposal. She wasn't trying to... to seduce me, she asked for a favour but it was more akin to a business deal. Then why am I feeling like this?

He sighs, his eyes still focused on the darkening expanse of the sea. The whole matter is probably harmless, but delicate enough to potentially cause troubles down the line; but after all, what would they have to fear? The idea of becoming a father is not so unpleasant after all, he and (name) are both adults and have the sort of relationship he is confident would not suffer after the end of their... tryst. At worst, they will spend a few pleasant hours together; at best, they will have something precious to carry out their lineage once their time is over.

It is getting darker by the minute. Mihawk remains still, his svelte figure cloaked by the night, witnessing the sun disappearing under the sea.

*****

Dinner was nice. If there is a positive side in your visits to the Marine HQ, besides the thousands of berry you are paid every time you successfully carry out an assignment, is the possibility to visit the city's establishments, among which many world-class restaurants; after all, Admirals cannot always dine in the mess hall, and while you'd be content to taste your island's local cuisine for the rest of your days, sometimes it's nice to have a little variety.

Now, your belly pleasantly full, you are sitting cross-legged on the bed in the inn room you have booked for the night, still busy polishing your weapons, like you do at least once a week. A few of them (a couple of revolvers, customized to hold up eight cartridges instead of six; a carbine with a barrel longer than your leg, that you took as a souvenir from the last man you killed; an ancient varmint rifle you regularly use to hunt larger preys than badgers and boars; and your personal favourite, a beautiful, muzzleloading derringer, your name engraved on the ivory butt, that you always hide under your pillow before going to sleep) are neatly arranged on the duvet in front of you, waiting for their turn. You are singing softly under your breath as you clean the barrel of a gun from the drops of blood left by your latest quarry, when an unexpected noise comes to disturb your concentration: a discreet, soft but resolute, knocking on the door.

You haven't told him what inn you're staying in, nor were you thinking about your discussion at the Marine HQ. Still, you immediately know who it is, as sure as you are of your own name, and when you stand from the bed, the way your hand immediately moves to grasp the derringer is more out of habit than because of a potential danger, and the way your legs are suddenly shaking might be because you stood all of a sudden after more than an hour spent cross-legged, or maybe not...

You force yourself to cross the room. "Who is it?" you ask in a deliberately questioning tone. You would recognize the firm, vaguely husky voice filtering from the other side of the door everywhere, even without the soft whisper of the name of his owner. A moment later you have pulled the handle towards you, and you and Mihawk are face to face, again after just a few hours, but suddenly you feel, and he looks, as if it everything had changed - as if you had.

"Hello."

"Good evening." Mihawk greets you; he is not smiling - if he ever did, you think, the world would probably stop turning on its axis "Is it too late? Am I disturbing you?"

"Of course not; please, come in."

He looks around him as you close the door, unhurriedly examining the weapons on the bed, the folded clothes on the tiny desk, the boots you have taken off as soon as you returned in a corner; and then he looks at you, and for a moment you forget how to breathe.

You feel his gaze on the back of your head as you retrieve your weapons from the bed and neatly place them on the desk, except for the derringer, which is simply moved to the bedside table; you haven't been anywhere, not even in the privacy of your own room at home, without a loaded gun within easy reach ever since you were ten, and you don't intend to start now.

"Please, make yourself comfortable." you invite him, and a moment later Mihawk is sitting next to you on the bed, Yoru resting against the wall, and you feel yourself smiling softly at him, still unbelieving you are actually here - with him.

As you dined (and wined; you immediately stop drinking alcohol after one of your trysts, well aware of the dangers for the baby you each time hope has been conceived in your womb, but the only silver lining to getting your period once more is that you can start again, if only to drown your sorrows) you had started regretting involving Mihawk in your plan. While it is true that you're tired of sleeping with men you don't even know, much less like, and that any child would be lucky to inherit his gifts, the choice of an acquaintance as a donor is potentially even more complicated; first of all, he is aware of what you plan on doing, which means that it will be next to impossible to fully exclude him from your child's life, should the need arose. One of the reasons you are an excellent mercenary is that you are resilient and stubborn enough to follow your quarry to the other end of the world and back, without giving up until your bullet is in their brain or heart and their bounty in your pocket, but you know no one and nothing, barring perhaps death, could ever keep Mihawk away from something he is keen on. You are more than willing to let him be part of his child's life, and you don't think he would ever hurt them, but still, who knows what could happen...

And then, there is another reason, one it is hard to explain logically. What had become as a simple business proposal (this is what you had intended it to be when you spoke to him, you could swear it on your mother's life) has quickly become something else, something more delicate and less rational, all of it in the few minutes you and Mihawk spent discussing it, and then later you couldn't help reflecting about it, wondering what he thought about your proposal and whether he would accept it, as you enjoyed your dinner.

Having a child with Mihawk... and more specifically, Mihawk putting a child inside you. You have forgotten (it has been a mistake, a simple and natural failure to recall a relatively small detail during an already complex discussion. You didn't do it on purpose!) to tell him there is no need for the two of you to sleep together, artificial insemination is a common occurrence nowadays and the doctors on your island are more than capable. It would be much easier the other way, but honestly, you hadn't meant to suggest... to give him the impression that you wanted to...

You chided yourself for your forgetfulness, in case that was actually a dealbreaker for him and Mihawk would not think to propose a less invasive procedure himself, and then... and then it was as if you couldn't stop thinking about it, thinking about him... and how it would be, what it would feel like. You'd have nothing against it... quite the opposite, actually, you realized as you emptied the wine carafe on your table and asked the waiter for another.

Mihawk is an attractive man. Extremely attractive, actually, especially if one looks beyond the menacing look, deadly reputation, and the huge sword on his back (or, if one is actually attracted by that sort of man. You might.. not not be.) to notice his elegant and athletic figure, the chiseled features of his face, the well-styled beard and hair... even his eyes are exceptionally beautiful, that deep, penetrating yellow gaze that actually reminds you of a bird of prey. You have no idea whether he has a partner or not, but you'd be ready to bet he doesn't lack in admirers... even though approaching him would require no small amount of courage.

You have known him since you were barely more than a girl, and met him regularly for years, and you have never thought about him like that, never even realized how handsome he is. Or rather, you were aware of the fact (after all, you are not blind!) but somehow subconsciously, never paying attention to the fact. You have already slept with many partners you were not attracted to and you could easily do it again, Mihawk' strong body and swoon-worthy face change nothing, but... but...

Who knows what kind of lover he is, and he would be with you. Generous, attentive to his partner's pleasure as well as and maybe even before his, or egotistical, the sort of man who doesn't even look at you in the eyes and tries to avoid even kissing you? What is his favourite position? Your guess would be something that allows him to be the dominant part in the rapport, given his forceful personality and no-nonsense attitude, but for so many people the face they show to the world is different from the way they live their intimacy, and maybe when he is with a partner (someone he trusts, someone he can be himself when he is with... why were you suddenly picturing yourself in that role?!) Mihawk likes to surrender control, to relax and let someone else take care of and decide for him. If he is with a woman (again, in the thoughts that had quickly become a full-blown fantasy, not simply any woman) does he like to be ridden, or to push her against a wall and lift her legs around his hips? Does he like to receive oral? Or... or... to give it? Does he grunt, moan, sigh, scream, his partner's name or to express his pleasure, or is he silent just like his normal taciturnity would suggest...? What does his body look like, under the elegant but austere clothes he favours? What does his...?

This, and much more, is what you couldn't help reflecting about at dinner, and then during the little walk you took to return to the inn, and even later, as you killed time with the upkeep of your weapons, those thoughts persisted in your mind, so much that you started fearing you wouldn't be able to fall asleep... or that you would go from thinking to dreaming about him.

Is this due simply to your proposal, and the fact that you did ask him to get you pregnant? After all there already is an emotional, no matter how distant, bond between the two of you, and you're still a sort-of-young woman with a heart and not a stone in her chest. Or were these feelings already part of you, hidden until you had reason to reflect on the fact that this business deal could actually turn out to be much more pleasant, not to mention complicated, than you had thought...?

Whatever the truth may be, the man who is the source, and the cause, of your emotional turmoil is now sitting next to you, on your bed, to further discuss your proposal, and no matter how many times you have risked your life since you were just a girl, no matter the coldbloodedness you have acquired during your years as a mercenary, no matter how many men you have slept with since you were sevevnteen, you are trembling, like a young girl before her first kiss, and suddenly you are not sure what would be better, if he refused your proposal... or if he accepted it.

Because of the baby, and not only that.

You have remained lost in your thoughts for several minutes, which is perhaps deplorable when someone has come to talk to you, but Mihawk seems fine with your silence; actually, he looks as pensive as you feel.

"I thought about your... proposal." he finally says "And I'm willing to accept it, provided you agree with my conditions. I'll give you a baby, or at least I'll do my best trying."

A hundred other men would have accompanied those words with a saucy look; a thousand others would have blushed, or stammered, or betrayed embarrassment due to the delicate, intimate nature of the deal they are accepting. Not Dracule Mihawk; he looks as rational and dispassionate as if he were buying an umbrella during a sudden downpour to discard it as soon as it stops raining, something he needs to do but he is relatively unconcerned about. And once more, you're not completely sure how that makes you feel.

What you know, is the answer he deserves. "Thank you. I... Thank you so much. I am truly and deeply grateful, you don't know how much this matters to me." you say; you are not stammering, but you know he can hear the depth of the emotions filling your heart in your voice: happiness, gratitude, relief, and trepidation. All he can do is try, there is no guarantee he can actually get you pregnant, and the list of failed attempts you have left behind you is as long as your arm, but still, you have a good feeling about it... and even if the two of you failed, you feel suddenly sure you won't consider it a wasted effort "You spoke about conditions. Tell me everything."

Mihawk's first request is to keep his involvement in the conception of your child a secret; in other words, nobody has to know he is the one who got you pregnant, not even the child themself, at least for a while. "Even though I am technically an ally of the World Government now, I have a certain number of enemies in the world, people who could try to hurt me or lure me out through those closest to me. I have no doubt you would do everything you can to protect your child, but I'd feel safer if no one knew. Unless, of course, this would be cause of... embarrassment for you, on your island..."

"It won't be." you assure him; many at home will undoubtedly be curious about the identity of your child's father, but the law says your heir must be a child of your blood, without any particular requirement about the other parent, so that won't make any difference "I promise I'll keep it secret, if you wish. Anything else?"

Mihawk's second request is even simpler: for you to immediately tell him whether you are pregnant or not, as soon as you know for sure. He is a patient man, but since the matter you are discussing about is particularly delicate, he'd rather not be left wondering.

"Of course. It will take about a month, you can probably guess why; should I miss my period, I'll go to my doctor, and then I'll inform you of the results, whatever they are."

"Very well."

Silence falls between the two of you, and you're suddenly aware of the still purely platonic, but somehow compelling intimacy surrounding you: you're alone, for the first time in the many years of your acquaintance, sitting on a bed, discussing about matters that concern you both deeply. Mihawk looks as relaxed and in control as ever, so maybe for him this is simply a favour he is doing you and an investment that could come in handy one day, or maybe not, you think as you search for something, for an emotion of any kind, in his beautiful yellow eyes, and could swear you actually find it, maybe that is simply a facade he is used to present to the world, and in the privacy of his heart, he feels exactly as you do...

"Anything else?"

"Not on my part, no. I'm sure you will be an excellent mother, and I don't need to ask you to take care of them. I... still haven't decided how involved I will be in the child's life, I hope this is not a problem."

It isn't, since you will be happy with whatever he decides to do, as long as he does not object to you raising the child on your island.

"So... shall we?" Mihawk asks; the flash of emotion in his gaze is brief, but you see it (maybe he has let you?) and a smile blossoms on your lips.

"We shall."

You quickly take off your shoes, while Mihawk stands to take his hat and then his coat off, leaving them neatly placed on a chair.

"I forgot to tell you." you begin once more, after more than one silent moment spent staring at his naked back "We don't necessarily have to... to do it the old-fashioned way, if you'd rather not. We could... go to a doctor..."

Mihawk grunts as he bends to unbuckle his boots; again, you find it impossible to avert your gaze. "I will not give a stranger a vial of my seed, as if I were a stud bull." he states "It is barbaric. There is nothing wrong with the natural method."

You silently agree. A moment later, he's back on the bed; he lets you look a him, and he looks back while you unhurriedly take off your dress, exposing the bra and underskirt you wear underneath.

"Very beautiful." Mihawk says, as if he were talking more to himself than to you; you smile.

"You'll make me blush."

"You are an attractive woman, I sincerely doubt I am the first man to pay you a compliment. The other... donors you selected, for example. I'm sure all of them felt exceptionally lucky."

There is no trace of mocking in his voice, let alone of blame; still, those words are enough to make your smile disappear. "They did not matter."

"While I do?"

"You do. You know you do. We have known each other for so many years, and I know we are not... friends, exactly, and I could always close my eyes and think about something else, but you don't know how... how dehumanazing it is to... well, to feel nothing for the other person..."

Mihawk nods. "I know the feeling." he says, and then, in response to your incredulous look: "I have been young as well; and I've made mistakes, like everyone."

"I'm sure you were the only one to think so."

"Hmmm..."

For a whole minute, you are both content looking at each other. Finally, Mihawk's raised hand brushes against your face, and you close your eyes, savouring the warmth of his fingers against your cheek. You take his hand, and let it guide you as you stand, close the brief distance between you, and rest both of yours on his shoulders to stabilize yourself as you sit on his lap, your thighs open to the sides of his clothed legs.

Mihawk's eyes move on your body; you can't stop looking at him either, and so you feel, rather than see, his strong and elegant hands rest on your hips, gently caressing them above the light fabric of your underskirt. You can feel his breath on your chest; he can feel you hold yours when you rest your hand on his cheek and then let it slip down his body, the well-toned physique (he is much less burly than other pirates and fighters you know, but his muscles are solid and defined, as you expected... and even a little more), the pale, smooth skin, except for a thin line of hair on his lower abdomen that your fingers follow down to the waistband of his pants, and that is when you hear him grunt.

"Shall I stop?"

"Do not mock me, woman..." he growls, but he's enjoying your ministrations and doesn't bother to hide it. "Take this off, now."

This is your bra, which you obediently remove; you sigh, kissing his dark hair and temples and any inch of him you can reach, as Mihawk, whose arms have circled your waist and who is now holding you tight against his body, begins licking your chest, the sensation of his lips on your skin sweet and delicious beyond words. Soon, you are moaning his name, gently rocking against the turgescense under you, and you hear him whisper your name before he quickly but gently turns, pushing you on your back on the duvet while he kneels above you.

He sighs, relief evident in his tone, while you relieve him from his pants, lowering the fabric to his knees. He returns the favour lifting the hem of your underskirt, but when you move to take off your panties

"No." he stops you, gently resting his hand on yours "Please, keep them on."

A minute later you are locked in an embrace, your leg lifted around his hips, Mihawk's hand caressing you between your legs, gentle, confident, inexorable, until he feels you are ready for him, and he shifts to press the centre of his body against yours.

You lock eyes; for a brief, precious moment, it is as if the distance between the two of you had melted like snow under the sun, leaving you the two parts of a single, hot and quivering being.

"I don't know if I can actually... do what you want." Mihawk whispers; his hips press against yours with the desperation of a man living his last night, but he sounds regretful, as if saddened by the possibility of disappointing you "I... want to, but..."

Of all the emotions you expected to feel for Dracule Mihawk, tenderness was the last of the list; still, you do, a sudden, powerful surge of empathy that makes you desire this night would never end... and that it weren't your last, as well as your first.

"An attempt." you murmur, before claiming his mouth in a new kiss "That is all I ask."

He gives you three.

*****

You wake early on the following morning (like you expected Mihawk to do as well, since he doesn't seem like the kind of guy who likes to sleep in; on the other hand, you did exhaust him last night...), but you linger a bit before getting up, as you observe the man sound asleep next to you. He is lying on his side towards you, an hand hidden under the pillow, the other reaching out towards you.

He is so handsome - no, he is rapturously beautiful like this, tranquil, at ease, not exactly smiling but serene, as if he were in the middle of a beautiful dream; the azure sheet covers him up to his hips, letting the first sun rays of the day caress the naked skin of his arms and chest.

You feel as if you could spend the whole day like this, just admiring him; but sooner or later he will wake up, and then you could stay in bed for a little more, attempting again or just cuddling, savouring that new intimacy that feels so natural, so genuine and true, even though nothing in your relationship until last night could suggest this could be born from it. But it has, and it is a gift you will keep in your heart forever... as a cherished, now-distant memory; because no matter how desperately you wish you could stay in that little paradise you have created together for a little more, you can't... and, in your heart you know for sure (or you think you do; the truth couldn't be more different, but you haven't learned to read his heart, nor he to express his feelings. Yet.) Mihawk doesn't want to, no matter how enthusiastically he made good on his promise last night. You didn't even know a man could last so long, and hearing him growl your name was enough to push you over the brink...

Still. He has done what he had promised you, and expecting more, expecting other, is naive and even dangerous, because the last thing you need now is to have your heart broken. You know Mihawk respects you and maybe even considers you a sort-of-friend, and not to brag, but you are confident you have given him the best night of his life... but letting that rapport evolve, pursue a relationship, whether romantic or even simply sexual? That's another thing altogether, one you know he won't be interested in.

(Again, you don't, and he would).

You shouldn't even consider thoughts like these. Since when have you thought about Mihawk like that? You are well aware of how attractive he is and are genuinely fond of him, yes, but when did you start wanting more than a casual friendship with him? Probably you don't, not really, it's just that the amazing night you have spent together and all the talking about the baby made your most emotional and romantic side emerge, as if you were still the young girl who thought two people could not experience pleasure, let alone reproduce, without being madly in love with each other. The truth is obviously different, and in a few days, maybe even as early as tomorrow, you will realize how naive and shallow your desires are, born from passion and the hope to see your dream come true. You don't really want him, you just... think you do, because you shared something amazing last night and you know he'd be an excellent father for your child. That's all; and he wouldn't want you in any case. You did what you agreed to, and now you better leave as soon as you can, to avoid the classic, unavoidable embarrassment of the morning after.

This is why when finally Mihawk wakes up, twenty minutes later, he finds you already clothed and ready to go, busy sliding your weapons in their holsters or hiding then under your clothes, your faithful derringer by your side once more.

"Hi." you murmur softly as you sit on the edge of the bed, your hands naturally, instinctively finding the one he has moved towards yours "Are... are you ok?"

"I am. You?"

"Fine. It... it was nice, wasn't it?"

He looks at you, veguely ironic; do you really need to ask?, his lovely yellow eyes seem to ask, and you can't help a small laugh.

"You are leaving, I see." Mihawk adds after a moment, his tone expressionless. He is looking at you as if your clothes were still scattered on the floor, just like he did last night; he sees you blush, and he smirks, but after a moment he turns serious as usual - even a little more sombre, you would swear.

"I am; after all Garp gave me a new assignment yesterday. The first ship for my next destination leaves in half an hour, but you can stay, if you want, I have rented the room until midday."

"There is no need, I have things to do as well."

He gets up, without bothering to hide what you have had time to look at, and to touch and to kiss, as much as you wanted last night, and retrieves his clothes. He has turned his back to you, and you wonder if it is deliberate, because he has already lost any interest he could have in you, because he is already regretting what you did together, or maybe because he is grappling with emotions he doesn't know how to process, and trying to find the words to express them, to ask you...

No. It's impossible. Stop thinking about it and focus on your next assignment. You did everything you could, now you can only pray it worked.

Five minutes, and you're both ready to go; you look at Mihawk as he places Yoru on his back, and you wring your hands, suddenly shier and more unsure than you have ever been in his presence.

"Mihawk?"

He doesn't answer, but he turns, his face slightly tilted on one side in an inquiring manner. He looks so much like a bird when he does that, you think, amused; like a bird of prey... a beautiful, deadly hawk.

"I... I wanted to thank you."

"There is no need..."

"Yes, there is." you quickly interrupt him; you need to tell him, and you need to do it now, otherwise you will lose courage "I... I have been wanting to become a mother for a long time; it's the thing I want the most in the world, and not simply because my island needs an heir for when I'll be dead. It's... it's more important than I could explain, and I've been disappointed so many times and there is nothing I can do but hope and pray, but... call me crazy if you want, but I have a good feeling about this. About you. I... I think we did it, even if it will take time before I know for sure. And I'll be happy to have your child."

Mihawk nods. He is standing right in front of you, close enough he could touch you without even reaching out, but suddenly it is as if you were standing at the opposite points of the Great Line, the unmade bed next to you a suddenly uncomfortable remainder of your nightly activities. "Remember your promise."

"Of course; I will inform you as soon as I have seen the doctor, whatever the result."

"Good."

Pause. "(name)..."

"Yes?" you ask, intimately happy to break that uncomfortable silence, the first in the many years since your first meeting. This is something you have always liked about Mihawk; with him, you never feel the need to talk, but you can feel content with his solitary presence next to you. Still, it has never been so hard to say good-bye... "What is it?"

He hesitates (something you are probably the first to witness, or at least to live to tell) as if unsure about what he wants to say, or about the words to use; he looks at you, and you hold your breath, because for a split second you are sure, you just know, that what he is about to say will change everything, because it is not all in your mind, something has changed, after last night or because that moment of intimacy made you both realize your bond was much deeper than you knew...

"I need to give you my number. To call me."

Disappointment explodes inside you. You feel... mortified, as if you had ended up naked in the middle of the public square; your little infatuation will without a doubt disappear in three days at most, but for now, it hurts as if you had been stabbed. Stupid, romantic girl, an unpleasant voice whispers in your ear; what did you expect? Did you really think he could care about you that way?

"Oh. Oh, right..."

A moment later, a slip of paper with Mihawk's contacts is safe in your pocket, and he is neatly placing his feathered hat on his head.

"It is. Be safe. I mean, I know I don't need to tell you..."

"You don't." he easily recognizes "And I don't need to tell you, but I will; remember that perhaps now you have someone else to think about as well. Good-bye, (name)."

A smile, small but sincere, and a brush of fingers against yours, accompany that greeting a moment before Mihawk leaves, and even though you awoke first and meant to depart before he could notice your absence, you are still there, alone in the sunlit room, suddenly too saddened and wistful to think about the child who might be growing in your womb.

#One Piece #One Piece Live Action #OPLA #Steven John Ward #Dracule Mihawk #Dracule Mihawk x reader #Mihawk x reader #Bellona's stuff

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pippytmi · 1 month

Note

Your ennemies to lovers prompts make me think so much about kacy during S1. I appreciate all of your Kacy fics and love the emotions you manage to create with your writing. I was wondering if you would be interested in writing a story that combines prompt 4 and 6?

It is an unspoken rule that when the DIA is involved in a case, Lucy needs to be kept far, far away.

At least, that’s how Jesse rationalizes trying to keep Lucy away from DIA Officer Whistler. He cites repeated complaints to Tennant (undeserved ones), numerous whisper-shouting matches in the halls (all Whistler’s fault), and ending in the middle of tense stare-downs more often than not (obviously biased). So really, it’s a no-brainer that Lucy indignantly ignores Jesse’s pleas and makes it her mission to give as good as she gets.

“Good morning, DIA Officer Whistler,” Lucy tells her sweetly this morning, having been waiting outside the elevator just to catch the briefly-perplexed, then immediately-annoyed expression on Whistler’s face.

“Special Agent Tara,” Whistler says curtly. “I was told I would be speaking with Agent Boone today.”

“He’s busy,” Lucy says. “Small mishap with his car.” (She’d let the air out of his tires, actually, just in preparation for today).

Whistler’s expression does not waver. “I’ll speak with Special Agent Tennant, then,” she says.

“Or,” Lucy says, following as Whistler begins to stalk through the bullpen, “you can discuss the case with me. I haven’t actually been briefed on why you’re here, but if you give me two minutes…”

Whistler comes to an abrupt stop, and Lucy nearly knocks them both over; Whistler has to grip Lucy’s arm just to keep her from falling on her face, and when Lucy meets Whistler’s gaze, she sees—strangely—a kind of uncharacteristic apprehension that Whistler never has. Whistler drops Lucy’s arm like she has been burned, and her voice goes quiet when she says,

“It really would make more sense to discuss clearance with your boss. It’s a time-sensitive matter.”

“Oh.” Lucy tries to hide her confusion, but it’s a halfhearted attempt at best; usually, the back-and-forth with Whistler is inevitable (and maybe even slightly thrilling). Whistler never just…gives up. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course,” Whistler says, already heading towards Jane’s office with renewed intensity. “Excuse me.”

Lucy is practically rooted in her spot, bewildered, and she watches as Tennant beckons Whistler inside before shutting the door. “Huh,” she says aloud. “Weird.”

“What’s weird?” Kai comes in carrying coffee, and he freezes in place as he, too, realizes what Lucy is looking at. “Damn. DIA’s here already? We haven’t even been briefed on the case yet.”

“Apparently it’s ‘time-sensitive’,” Lucy says, complete with air quotes and everything. “Think this means Whistler will actually give us something for once?”

“I’m not holding my breath,” Kai yawns, offering Lucy her cup before he wanders over to his desk. “Hey, where’s Jesse?”

(Lucy decides not to incriminate herself by answering that).

By the time Whistler and Jane emerge, both Kai and Lucy are pretending to be working and Jesse is just barely bursting through the doors. Jane doesn’t comment on either; instead, she waves her arms to get everyone together and begins her spiel about how they need to work with DIA and be a happy team or whatever. Honestly, Lucy is kind of tuning out the pep talk and is instead studying Whistler—everything about her body language screams discomfort, from the stiffness of her shoulders to the sharpness of her set mouth. And when she catches Lucy staring, all she does is quickly look away.

Weird.

Later, after they've been fully briefed and Jane dismisses them to do boring grunt work, Lucy tries to edge closer to Whistler and ask what exactly DIA needs to be here for. But when Whistler sees her coming, she makes a beeline towards Jesse instead, and Lucy is left frowning at their backs.

At first Lucy doesn't think too much of it. Jesse is probably handling the precious, redacted DIA files that point them to the possible suspects in this abduction case. But then, after Lucy is tasked with talking to their kidnapping victim's husband, she tries to be polite and ask Whistler if she wants to sit in. A gesture of goodwill, really, to make Whistler feel like she’s part of the investigation.

“Hey Whistler, do you want to get in on this?” Lucy waves her case file enticingly when Whistler emerges from the break room. “We can do a good cop/bad cop routine. Obviously we know who's who in that scenario, but if you ask nicely I might consider flipping you for bad cop.”

Whistler blinks at her. “What?”

“I'm going to interview Sergeant Nguyen’s husband,” Lucy clarifies. “Want to help?”

“That's not in my job description,” Whistler says, brow crinkling in deeper confusion. “And I have to go talk to Tennant.”

“Again?” Lucy asks this question to the empty space where Whistler used to be. Except this time, Whistler is not being invited into Jane’s office. No, Whistler is just walking away, and pretending to get a call so she has an excuse to exit the hallway.

In an instant, Lucy is pissed off. Here she is, extending an olive branch, and Whistler is acting like she's too good for it. Fine—if Whistler wants to avoid her, then two can play at that game.

Ernie patiently listens to Lucy explain all of this once the interview with the Sergeant's husband gets them nothing. “So that’s why you're hiding in here,” he guesses. “Because Whistler doesn’t want to fight with you like usual.”

“I'm not hiding,” Lucy scoffs. “I actually came here to discuss…” She lamely grabs the top file on his desk, flipping it open to the first page. “Timothy Summers. Hm. Yeah, I think he's our guy.”

“Great,” Ernie says. “So an arrest is imminent, then?”

“Oh, definitely. That's why I'm here…with you…for our next move.”

“And how does the fact that he's been dead for six months fit into this?”

Lucy pauses. “You couldn’t have just told me that?”

“It’s literally underneath his picture. Deceased.” Ernie jabs at the file with his finger, and Lucy smacks him with it. “Ow! God, you’re mean when you fight with your girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” Lucy’s voice comes out several octaves higher than it should. “Why would you say that?”

“Uh, lots of reasons.” Ernie pops open a box of candy on his desk, offering Lucy a sympathetic red vine which she numbly accepts. “Everyone can see it. Honestly, I thought you two were going to start going at it on Kai’s desk the other day when Whistler broke the news that we were off the Dominguez case.”

Lucy’s jaw drops. “Because we were arguing?”

“Intensely arguing,” Ernie corrects. “Kai and I placed bets on who would kiss who first.”

“Are you serious? She hates me.”

“Does she?” Ernie continues chewing on his red vine before whispering conspiringly, “Or does she secretly burn for you?”

Horrified, Lucy ditches the candy; surely, that must be the reason she suddenly feels sick to her stomach. “Forget it. I’m going to hide somewhere else.”

“So you are hiding. I knew it! Hey, can you—”

Whatever Ernie wants, Lucy doesn’t stick around to find out. She decides she’s going to find Kai instead, see if he has any actual leads in the case.

Except she ends up bumping into Whistler again. Full-on body contact this time, even—Whistler jerks backwards, Lucy tries to jump into the wall, and really it's a wonder it doesn't end in catastrophe.

“I'm sorry, I…” Whistler trails off when she sees Lucy. “Um, Tennant said I had to talk to Ernie about Sergeant Nguyen’s finances. Is he here?”

“Yeah, he's in there.” Lucy gestures vaguely over her shoulder. “The tech-nerd talk is all yours. I need to go talk to...other people. About things.”

Whistler nods awkwardly, still waiting, and Lucy belatedly steps out of the doorway in order to head back to the bullpen. Okay, so, Operation Avoid Whistler is officially off to a bad start.

But when she catches up to Kai, he has a much better idea of how to spend their time, and it also guarantees Lucy can avoid Whistler perfectly.

“Sergeant Nguyen was last seen at a Vietnamese restaurant two blocks from here,” Kai says. “Do you want to go check it out? Maybe we'll get something the police didn't.”

Lucy’s spirits are immediately lifted. “Yes. I could go for a banh mi,” she says dreamily. “Ooh, and some spring rolls.”

“I'm…pretty sure we're not allowed to order food from our suspects.”

“We don't know if they're our suspects,” Lucy reminds him. “And besides, spring rolls never kidnapped anyone.” She pats him on the shoulder reassuringly. “Give me five minutes and I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

It ends up being closer to twenty minutes to update Jane on their next move, but Jane does give her blessing to investigate (and bring back lunch). Lucy has a pep in her step the entire way out to the parking lot, where…Whistler is standing.

Lucy notices her first; Whistler is facing the ocean, hand cupped above her forehead and frowning at something. She looks so serious—and out of place—that Lucy almost considers asking what’s wrong. Key word almost, because she is still on avoid-Kate-Whistler-mode, and she makes a mad dash to Kai’s car before Whistler can spot her.

Kai yelps when Lucy yanks the door open with, admittedly, a sense of urgency that is a tad unwarranted. “What—?”

“Drive, Kai,” Lucy demands, and he immediately starts up the engine, but he eyes her warily all the same.

(Unfortunately, Lucy makes eye contact with Whistler through the window as the car peels out of the lot, and she groans and sinks low in her seat.)

“What was that?” Kai ventures to ask. “Are you and Whistler fighting?”

“For once, no,” Lucy says. “She’s been avoiding me. So now I’m the one avoiding her.”

“Well did something happen?” The drive is quick, and before they know it, Kai is easing the car into a parking spot. “I know you two get…uh. Really passionate sometimes.”

“Because she hates me,” Lucy reiterates, feeling like a broken record at this point. “So I hate to break it to you, but you and Ernie are not going to collect on any bets related to kissing.”

Kai winces. “You know about that?”

“Yes, Kai, what the hell? I expect this from Ernie, but from you?”

“Any way I can make it up to you?” Kai asks weakly.

“Buy me lunch and we’ll talk,” Lucy says, and Kai—newfound meddler that he has proved to be—can at least follow instructions beautifully.

The restaurant turns out to be a dead-end case wise, but their menu is grand; they order too much food and bring enough lunch for everyone. (Even Whistler).

But when Lucy ever-so-casually mentions this, Jane just shrugs and says,

“I told her to stick around for you two, but she said she had to finalize some reports.”

“Wow,” Ernie says around a mouthful of noodles, “that’s dedication. Turning down free food just for work.” He pointedly raises his eyebrows at Lucy, who in turn tries very hard to glower at him with just her eyes.

“Good for her,” is all Lucy has to say about that. Jane gives her a curious look for the comment, but thankfully doesn’t ask.

“Hey, Lucy,” Ernie says suddenly. “I left my tea in the lair. Can you do me a favor and bring it to me?”

Lucy—still cradling her precious, half-eaten banh mi—has to do an actual double-take. “Why can’t you get it?”

“Because I have a cramp…in my leg…and you love me,” Ernie says. When Lucy stares back at him, unimpressed, he tries again with: “And I’ll owe you?”

“Fine,” Lucy sighs. “But you’re being so weird.” Suspiciously weird, even, but his scheming doesn’t click until Lucy is actually opening Ernie’s door and—“Oh.”

Whistler lifts her head at the intrusion, her stunned expression likely a mirror of Lucy’s. “Special Agent Tara,” she says.

“Whistler,” Lucy says slowly. “What are you doing in here?”

“Ernie said I could borrow his computer,” Whistler says. “DIA wants me here until we get a ransom demand, and I wanted to get some work done.”

“Ernie let you borrow his computer,” Lucy echoes. “Willingly?”

“Yes?” Whistler tilts her head questioningly. “Sorry, did you need something?”

Lucy knows she should be looking for Ernie’s tea. She also knows she should probably ask Whistler about it. But all that comes out is: “You know, we brought lunch for everyone.”

“Thank you, but I had lunch already.” Whistler glances back down at the computer screen, tapping away at its keys in a silent dismissal, and in an instant Lucy has had enough.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

The mechanical typing falters. “I’m not.”

“You’re working with everyone else on my team but me,” Lucy says. “That kind of feels like you’re avoiding me.”

“Maybe I felt like getting actual work done for once.” Whistler looks up again, this time with a deep-set frown on her lips. “And I wasn’t in the mood to fight.”

“Hey, you’re the one who fights with me!” Lucy argues. “Literally, from day one. You yelled at Jane about me in front of everyone.”

“Because you stole a sensitive report which you had no clearance for!”

“Actually, I read it upside down while you were talking about how I didn’t have clearance for it,” Lucy counters. “No stealing required.”

Whistler’s jaw clenches. “That is not any better.”

“But it means I’m not a thief. I’m just…you know, crafty,” Lucy says. “Come on, haven’t you ever bent the rules a little to break a case?”

“I don't break cases,” Whistler says flatly. “I protect intel.”

Lucy rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she snaps, exasperated, “you’re a saint and a better person than I am. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Are you—what is your problem? That is not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?” Lucy lets the words hang between them in the ensuing silence. She doesn’t even realize that she has placed her hands on the desk in challenge—barely any space between them now—until Whistler is hastily standing up.

Even as tall as she is, Whistler’s voice comes out incredibly small. “Nothing,” she says finally. “Please forgive my…gross unprofessionalism. Clearly, I have overstayed my welcome.” She steps out from behind the desk without even bothering to close whatever she’d been working on, and Lucy sees red.

“Oh sure, just run away,” Lucy huffs. “Go ahead! Prove you’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t been—”

“I’m sick of playing this game with you!” Lucy cuts her off.

Whistler doesn’t move an inch. “What game?”

Dammit. Ernie is most definitely in her head. What the hell; it’s not like Lucy has anything to lose. “The game where we pretend we don't like each other,” she says firmly. “You’re an asshole and I like to piss you off, but obviously there is something else here and I’m not crazy. This is—”

Honestly, in the back of her mind, the most Lucy expects is more denial. At worst, she expects Whistler to march out of the room and report her to Jane again. She certainly does not anticipate Whistler yanking Lucy in to kiss her breathless—just for a brief, dizzying moment—before pulling away.

Whistler tries to apologize, but Lucy doesn’t let her; she is once again determined to give as good as she gets (in a very different context). Lucy pulls Whistler right back in, grasping desperately at her face and stretching as fall as the tips of her toes will allow.

It seems to reassure Whistler in any case, who eagerly slides her hands along Lucy’s back and melts against her. Maybe it's the months of pent-up aggression between the two of them, or maybe it's the knowledge that Whistler is an actual human being, or maybe it's just the ghost of the faint touch of Whistler's fingertips underneath the hem of Lucy’s shirt, but the kiss gets really intense really fast.

Lucy debates sliding her own hand under Whistler's shirt—see if she is as serious in her bra choices as she is in pantsuits—but then Whistler flicks her tongue into Lucy’s mouth and she cannot possibly be expected to focus. It's intoxicating and exhilarating and…

“Wait, wait,” Lucy regretfully manages to twist away. “We can't do this.”

“Right,” Whistler says, nodding rapidly. “It would be a mistake.” She's clearly trying to school her features into her usual stoic demeanor, but her efforts are completely undermined by her kiss-swollen lips and the obvious flush on her cheeks.

“What? No, I meant, we can't do this here,” Lucy says. “You think it would be a mistake?”

“Not if…you don't,” Kate says, almost like a question.

“Are you seriously going to throw yourself at me but not even say what you feel out loud? I think you're addicted to fighting with me,” Lucy decides.

“I didn't throw myself at you, and—if anything, you're the one trying to fight with me!” Kate exclaims. “Every day I come in, and you're there trying to undermine me. I've been trying to keep my distance for both our sakes. Obviously our working dynamic is…less than ideal, most of the time.”

“I'm not trying to undermine you. I'm just trying to get you to loosen up a little maybe,” Lucy says. “Which…okay, might be annoying. So I get why you're an uptight asshole sometimes. No offense!”

Whistler frowns. “Some offense taken.”

“Oh, it's fine,” Lucy says. “The asshole thing is unfortunately very hot. Ernie may or may not have had a point.”

“What does Ernie have to do with this?” Whistler looks horrified now.

“Not like—Ernie and I don't sit around discussing how hot you are,” Lucy tries to save face. “He just suggested that we might…you know…jump each other at some point.”

“You're not making this any better.”

“Then forget Ernie,” Lucy says. “Take him out of the equation entirely. Do you also find me unfortunately hot?”

“I wouldn’t call it unfortunate,” Whistler says. “But. Yes?”

“Okay, so…” Lucy trails off. “What are we doing here, Whistler? Do you want to walk out of here and pretend this never happened?”

“No.” Whistler steps forward hesitantly. “That’s not what I want. I…I like you, Lucy. And I know this would completely ruin our working relationship, but—”

“Shut up about work,” Lucy says, dragging Whistler back in for another fervorous kiss, delighting in the fact that Whistler certainly isn’t fighting her now.

(Lucy’s phone buzzing, however, does effectively kill the mood.)

“What is that?” Whistler is instantly back into work mode, smoothing her hair haphazardly as if someone is about to walk in any second. “Is it about the case?”

Lucy unlocks her phone with bated breath. “Maybe we finally have a ransom call,” she says, before the familiar face in her text messages proves otherwise. “...nevermind, it’s just Ernie. He wants to know if we’ve ‘kissed and made up’. I’m going to tell him we’re going to have sex in his chair.”

Whistler half-coughs, half-chokes. “Are we?”

“Obviously not,” Lucy says. Then, thoughtfully: “But I’m technically still on lunch. Did you drive here?”

“Yeah, I have a company car,” Whistler says. “Do you have another lead?”

“No, but I do have thirty minutes to spare,” Lucy says cheerfully. “Get your keys. We’re totally going to have sex in your company car.”

Whistler turns very, very red. “I…don’t think my boss would like that.”

“Fine, then we can make out in your company car,” Lucy amends. “But you’re going to have to leave first. Kai and Ernie have a bet going about us, and I don’t want either of them to win.”

“Your team has a strange obsession with your love life,” Whistler tells her matter-of-factly.

“Eh, could be worse,” Lucy says. “Jane could get involved.”

Whistler—marginally disheveled—manages to crack a smile. “Let’s not let it get that far,” she suggests, brushing one final kiss against Lucy’s mouth with a resigned sigh. “So…are we keeping this between us for now?”

“I guess so,” Lucy says begrudgingly. “Think you can keep on fighting me in front of everyone?”

Whistler shrugs. “Are you going to keep being an asshole?”

“Wha—hey, no fair! You’re the asshole. I’m the good-meaning, happy-go-lucky agent who just wants to keep you human,” Lucy says, poking at Whistler’s cheek until her smile grows even more.

“Challenge accepted,” Whistler says, smoothly tucking a strand of hair behind Lucy’s cheek before casually making her exit.

Lucy places her hands on her hips and wistfully watches her go. This day has gone absolutely nowhere she expected it to, but dammit, she can’t be mad.

(Especially when her phone buzzes again with another text from Ernie. All it says is: NOOOOOO 😭).

#this is essentially a re-imagining of s1 #where kate & lucy first met on the job and just hated each other from day one and ofc the tension is off the charts #kacy #kate x lucy #ncis hawaii #ty for the prompt!! these two in an enemies to lovers scenario 100% eats ngl #i need a fic tag

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