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#that Nobody would notice lol. its good

starstruckmiraclekitty · 1 year

Note

I've had a bit of brainrot today and have to share so I can get it out of my head (maybe) so feel free to ignore lol I've been thinking of 141 having a civilian spouse (separately, just in case there was confusion) that only ever refers to them by their call sign/rank during an emergency situation. Using it just immediately sets off sirens and they see red. - 🐍

Yesss. Got a bit carried away with this one, lol. Only did 141 specifically, lmk if you'd like to see anyone else! Also tried my best to make this GN!😊

141 With Reader Who Uses Their Callsign in Emergency Situation

Warnings: mentions of guns, violence, unwanted advances/touching, stalking, swearing, injury, crying--- I promise it has a good ending😅

Simon Ghost Riley-

"Golly, aren't you a fine looking thing." You heard a voice say behind you, as you were standing at the bar getting you and Simon another drink. Simon had just gone to the bathroom, so you knew you were on your own for this.

You turned around and were met with a man double your size, a sickening smile making its way on his face.

"Oh, thank you." You mustered a small smile before turning back to the bar, praying the man would take the hint and leave you alone.

"No, I mean it. I could take that little ass of yours home right now." The man came closer, and you could just start to feel his breath on your neck, making you cringe.

"I have a boyfriend, I'm sorry." You tried softly. You were desperate at this point, your eyes searching for Simon.

"I don't see him anywhere." The man smiled, his teeth were yellow, and his breath reeked of cheap booze.

"He just went to the restroom." You mumbled.

You felt a hand grope your ass slightly, squeezing at the flesh there. "Mmhmm, if I were your boyfriend, I'd never leave you unattended like this."

You cried out, moving to swat the guys hand away, to no avail. Nobody around you seemed to notice your predicament, and you were starting to grow scared.

The man pushed you up against the counter, his hand now gripping your waist. "Be a good little pet and come with me, okay?"

You struggled against his hold and screamed out, "Ghost!"

Simon, who had just exited the restroom, heard the wail and immediately started to run to you. What he saw had him seeing red.

He forced himself between you and the man and grabbed his hand roughly. "Who the fuck do you think you are touching them."

The man looked as if he was about to piss himself, as Simon was nearly a half foot taller and twice as bulky. "Sorry, man, they acted like they wanted it."

Simon seethed and twisted the man's wrist with such force that you swore you heard bones cracking. "Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here. Before I decide to do something that'll end with me in jail."

The man let out a small whimper, grabbed his now bruised hand and ran for the door.

Simon watched as he fled, then turned his attention to you, his eyes softening. "Y/N? Sweetheart, are you okay?"

Your eyes filled with tears as you threw yourself into Simon's chest. "Thank you, Si."

"You don't have to thank me. That's what I'm here for, yeah? Why won't we go home, I'll draw you a bath." He pulled away and cupped your cheeks, carefully pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

You nodded your head slowly and let Simon lead you out of the bar, not expecting him to crouch down on the ground once you made it outside. "Si?"

"Cmon, get on my back. Long way to the car." He gestured to his back and helped you on it, holding your legs tightly as he walked you to his car. He'd be damned if he ever let anything like that happen again to his person.

Kyle Gaz Garrick-

You were walking around your local department store one afternoon with Kyle, looking to find him some new dress shirts. The two of you had a friends wedding to attend that weekend, and Kyle didn't have many outfits to pick from.

"What about this one?" You picked out a light blue stripped dress shirt, holding it up for Kyle to see.

"I'll look like a grandpa with that one, babe." He joked, waiving away the shirt.

"You'd be a hot grandpa." You countered, putting the shirt back.

"Oh hush. I gotta run to the restroom, I'll be right back." He chuckled as he gave your arm a squeeze. You watched him walk away with a small smile before returning to the racks in front of you.

Unbeknownst to you, there was a gentleman who'd been following you and Kyle around the store for some time now, and now that Kyle was gone, it was the perfect opportunity to strike.

You were just rounding the next row of racks when the man came up behind you and started to pull on your purse. You cried out, trying to pull back, but the man was too strong. He yanked with one mighty tug, ripping the purse from your arm, and shoved you backward, sending you toppling into the racks behind you.

"GAZ!" You screamed, as the man stared at you, frozen, before turning the other way and running.

Kyle was walking toward you when he heard you scream, and his blood ran cold. He immediately sprinted in your direction, running right into the man with your purse. The man fell backward, and Kyle looked down to see him clutching your purse.

He put his foot on the man's stomach and pushed down hard. "Give me the fucking purse, asshole."

The man refused and tightened his grip on your bag. Kyle saw red and promptly punched the man square in the jaw, knocking him out cold. He grabbed your purse as a few workers finally came to check on the commotion.

Kyle looked to see you clutching your head in pain. He ran over to you, sliding to a crouch position once he got to you. "Baby! Are you okay?"

Your bottom lip trembled as a strangled cry escaped your throat, and Kyle grabbed you, pulling you to his chest. He had to talk himself down from going and giving the man another few punches.

He tucked his arm underneath your legs and lifted you up bridal style. "I'm so sorry, babe. I've got you. Let's go home. Yeah?"

Kyle spent the rest of the night watching over you and icing the bruise that formed on your head. He made a silent vow that day, that he'd beat the ever loving shit out of anyone who dared touch his baby again.

John Price-

BANG!

You looked up from your computer in your home office at the sound of the loud noise. It was late at night, and John was asleep, so you were concerned as to what caused the sound. You grabbed the pocket knife out of your drawer and made your way quietly to investigate.

Peeking your head around the doorway, you saw a large man making his way through your shared home with your husband. It appeared he'd somehow broken in through the front door.

You let out a small whimper, the confidence you had before now fading. John was fast asleep upstairs, and you had no way to get to him without revealing yourself.

You watched silently as the man started to rummage in your drawers, trying to find anything valuable he could take.

He started to draw closer to where you were, and as you slowly crept backward, the floorboards creaked underneath you.

The man was immediately notified of your presence and caught a glimpse of you as you tried to hide around the corner.

"Hey! You!" He shouted, immediately running toward you.

You sprinted in the other direction, narrowly missing his outstretched hand. You ran into the bathroom in the hallway and tried to close the door before a hand came out to stop it.

"Nowhere to run now." He said, a terrifying smile lining his face.

"PRICE!" You screeched, your heart beating rapidly.

John's eyes flew open at the sound of your terrified cry. With adrenaline coarsing through his veins, he flung himself out of bed and grabbed his handgun from his bedside table. He slowly crept down the stairs and took in his surroundings.

He saw you right away, crouched in terror before a man, who had you at gunpoint. John swiftly made his way behind the man before hitting him hard on the back of his head with the butt of his gun.

The man fell limply to the floor, and you let out a strangled sob. "John."

"Hey love, it's alright. I'm here." He approached you slowly, his hands raised up to show you he meant no harm. You held your arms out to him, and he pulled you into him, holding you tight. "I've got you. Nobody's going to hurt you."

He pulled away for just a moment to call the cops but held a grip firm on your waist, letting you know he wasn't ever going to let anything happen to you.

Johnny Soap MacTavish-

"Alright, babe, I'll run and grab the stuff at the bottom half of the list. You grab top?" Johnny asked, eyeing your fairly large grocery list.

"Sounds good, thanks, love." You smiled at him and tore the list in half, sending him on his way after a quick peck.

You watched as he strolled away, basket in hand, and made for the toiletry section of the store.

You were comparing toothpastes when you felt two men staring at you. You subtly turned your head in their direction, and they quickly looked anywhere but your direction.

You felt a slight sinking feeling in your belly and quickly threw one of the toothpastes in your cart. You made for the next aisle, looking around deoderant for you and Johnny, when the same two men appeared again, walking slowly down the aisle toward you.

Trying to brush off the occurrence as a coincidence, you threw what you needed in the cart and started to make your way to the shampoo aisle. Your resolve quickly crumbled when you now realized the men were following you.

The store was rather empty, so there was nobody close by for you to turn to. You sped your cart up and headed in the direction you thought Johnny might be. The men were hot on your tail, making it clear they were trying to get to you.

You felt one of their hands touch your back, and you let out a cry. "SOAP!"

Johnny was just finishing up his portion of the list when he heard your scream. His heart was beating rapidly as he dropped the basket and ran to you.

"Y/N?" He called out and was met with a horrifying sight. You were cornered in one of the aisles by two men and were crying, your hands up in a defensive motion as you crouched on the floor.

Johnny immediately approached. "Leave my partner the fuck alone."

The two men whipped their heads in his direction, rubbing their hands together. It was clear they were looking for a fight. Johnny lifted his shirt slightly, revealing his sidearm strapped to his waist. "Try it, I fucking dare you. You won't like the outcome."

The men clearly knew better than to create such a scene in a store and decided to flee.

Johnny watched as they ran and crouched down to your level. "Baby. Are you okay?"

You choked out a sob and wrapped your arms around your husband. "I was so scared, Johnny."

Johnny gritted his teeth in anger, he hated that anyone made you feel this way. It took everything in him not to go chasing after those bastards.

"I know, baby. I'm here now, though. Why don't we quickly finish up this trip and grab some takeout, yeah? I'm not really feeling up to cooking anymore." He pulled your face away gently and stroked your tears away. "I've got you, always, okay?"

You nod slowly and let him help you up. He grabbed your hand, lacing his fingers with yours, not letting go until you both reached the car.

#simon ghost riley x reader #soap imagine #soap x reader #simon ghost riley #cod imagine #simon riley imagine #mw2 imagine #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost mw2 #john price #captain price #price x reader #price imagine #gaz imagine #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #ghost imagine #ghost cod

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dunmeshi-darlings · 1 month

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omg yippee.

can I ask for you trying to wake Laios up after he falls asleep ontop of you? after like a long day of fighting shit. or something in that vein. he has big dog energy so I feel like its something he would do

(anon i had to use this gif for it, it was to good to pass up lol)

Nobody has ever claimed that adventuring in the dungeon would be easy work, in fact its notorious for being extremely difficult the further and further down you go

So you can imagine after a particularly grueling fight against a monster, that after everyone has eaten they would all be beyond exhausted. So its safe to say that its immediately bed time after senshi finishes up cleaning and everything.

However to your surprise, Laios doesn't head to his sleeping bag and instead heads to you with yours. When you ask him why he responds "after the last fight it looks like my bag got damaged...plus yours is way comfier." he would say with a slight blush. And looking over at his bag you see it fully rolled out and several noticeable large gouges and burn marks on it, seems he wasnt kidding.

You sigh and say that its ok, motioning for him to lay down. You thank yourself for deciding to get the EXTRA large sleeping bag since you often roll around in your sleep. He smiles excitedly and thanks you and takes the leftover pillows and blanket he has and lays down beside you, of course even then you two are still laying next to each other and basically laying side by side.

You cant help but notice just how warm he is, You can feel the heat radiating off of his body and sure you are phsyically touching but even then you note just how warm his body is next to and laying beside you. Of course with how tired you as well as everyone else is, you dont think about this too long before immediately falling asleep.

You have some nightmares about being crushed by a trap in your sleep, however the cause of said nightmares is quickly apparent when you finally wake up and realize that laios is no longer laying next to you....no now he is currently laying on top of you, his large frame draped across your chest and stomach as he he snores happily, an obvious drool stain at the corner of his mouth.

You cant help but chuckle softly, its no wonder laios was sleeping so peacefully. He saved everyones hides during the fight and took some nasty hits, so he definitely has earned his rest...However as you try to slowly move him you realize something very quickly....Laios is VERY heavy.

You hadnt really thought about it at first, But laios Armor is made of incredibly durable (and heavy) plate and with how easily he is able to move around in it as well as carry his sword, Laios has built up quiet a bit of muscle on himself. Add this together with his already impressive height and you have a man who is heavy with more muscle than most people realize.

You regret not listening to namari's advice in regards to building up some muscle mass for yourself as you try to move laios off yourself gently, as adorable as he is sleeping you really need him to move and you dont want to shout to wake him up cause you would feel bad. You struggle, quietly grunting as you try to wiggle out from under him, stopping whenever his snoring stops, only to return to your fruitless wiggling.

While laios doesnt wake up, your wiggling and quiet grunting drew Chilchucks attention once he finally woke. He tiredly looked over at you as you simply whispered "help me" to which he sighs and stands up, taking sleepy steps towards you and laios as he starts repeatedly smacking laios in the face. "hey laios! wake up your crushing Y/N"

After a few smacks laios's eyes groggily open as he rolls off you, yawning loudly and stretching before looking down and realizing he was laying on top of you. He blushes and rubs the back of his head, saying he was sorry. "sorry, so used to sleeping with my dogs where we would all just lay on top of each other and fall asleep, my bad."

Now that you are free from your meaty blond haired prison, you cant help but laugh at the situation, this was definitely something everyone will be able to make jokes about from here on out.

#dungeon meshi #laios #laios touden #dungeon meshi x reader #chilchuck #chilchuck tims

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sawbiter · 3 months

Text

a field of geranium - yuuji itadori

summary ! you and itadori have been together since middle school. when he randomly breaks up with you and disappears from school, you're left heartbroken and completely alone.

warnings / tags ! angst to fluff , exes to lovers , non-sorcerer reader, hopeful ending! implied fem reader, written with a poc reader in mind (skin tone and race unspecified!), past bullying, yuuji is lowkey dumb, reader is stated to be intelligent, lonely reader .. lots of angst. probably not very canon accurate to how curses work but shush.. reader curses a lot lol.

a/n ! hope you guys like this! i loveee yuuji sm .. this probably isnt good i haven't written in a while ;;

you remember a time when it felt like yuuji would always be around.

when he would kiss your forehead before classes and during lunch, hold your hand as he walked you to class and write you childish love notes during maths.

you never expected him to break up with you, let alone over text. you'd planned on confronting him at school after he had repeatedly dodged your frantic calls, but when you entered the school, yuuji didn't go there anymore.

it stung. yuuji had been your best friend since middle school, defending you from the bullies who'd pick on you for various things that'd later become insecurities of yours. (sometimes you wonder if those things are why yuuji left.)

going back to eating alone in the single stall bathrooms and having nobody to talk to during passing periods was a hard transition. your parents weren't any help either, telling you that high school relationships never lasted.

(you can't bring yourself to throw away the promise ring he gave you.)

you see him out one day, with a pretty brunette girl, carrying shopping bags for her. you go up to him; he's clearly moved on. (you can understand why. she's gorgeous.) he doesn't seem to notice you.

you're sitting alone the class garden for your botanicals class. you remember a time this was your favourite class (it was one with yuuji; go figure.)

now it's filled with bittersweet memories and the grief over someone you know isn't dead.

you're calm as a boy you've never seen before approaches you. your hands are gloved and your hair is a bit messy as you look up at him.

“be careful around here, please. it's class policy not to walk on the soil.” you scold a bit, his boots having crushed one of the plants.

he looks down at you, his face a bit stoic, “sorry.”

“it's alright- did you need something?” you smile at him politely.

he snaps his fingers, frowns a bit, then says “nope,” and walks off.

you'd never seen him before. he didn't even have the right uniform on.

“i cannot believe you just made me do that.” megumi rolls his eyes.

yuuji frowns a bit, “i'm sorry but- i can't go up to her.” megumi rolls his eyes as nobara fumes a bit.

“you broke up with her over text. no wonder no girls like you.” she snarks and yuuji just glares at her.

“i had just eaten sukuna's finger! i thought i was gonna die soon anyways!” he argues back,

“well then why haven't you tried to talk to her again? not that she should take you back- i pity the fact that she dated you at all.” nobara speaks as they walk away from the school.

“she probably has new friends anyways, plus she could get hurt, she's not a sorcerer.” yuuji says, his face looking almost like a kicked puppy.

nobara looks at him and raises an eyebrow, “didn't you say you were her only friend? that curse probably attached to her cause she's lonely.” she pops her gum after saying the last sentence.

“even more proof that me being around her is dangerous! plus- what if sukuna gets out around her while i sleep or something?!” he sighs, looking back and sneaking a peak at you in the botanical garden, “she's better off.”

megumi looks at him a bit, “i'm not surprised. you are the self sacrificing type after all.”

“i just think its rude to break up over text with no explanation, you guys were together for so long too.” nobara shrugs a bit.

“if i had spoken to her any more than that, i think i would've tried to stay.“ yuuji frowns.

two weeks after the boy approached you in class, your botany teacher dies in a freak accident, or at least that's what the police said. you aren't too sure.

ms. woods was a smart woman. you knew from the lunches you'd spend in her classroom to avoid bullies that she seriously loved plants.

so dying by ingesting a poisonous plant? out of character and frankly, insulting. you know that can't be the whole story.

that boy had something to do with it; it has to be. you look through your yearbooks after he had left; no sight of him. you go through all of your classes, all grades, you ask around. nothing. he didn't go to your school but he walked up to you during botany class and then two weeks later your teacher dies.

it can't be a coincidence. you go nearly crazy over it. you stay up multiple nights. you cry.

you remember when ms. woods called you smart, when she understood your grief over itadori and let you extend your onion cell project. you cry; something horrible happened to her, you just know it.

so, the night you stay in the school way too late studying poisonous plants in her room, you have a good excuse for why you see a huge monster in the hallway.

at first, you think you're seeing things from the sleep deprivation. you blink, rub your eyes and squint. it's still there.

“holy shit!” you jump out of your seat, going for the door to the garden before realizing they're locked, only able to be unlocked via a key- which you don't have.

the monster, a disgusting bipedal amalgamation of red roses, vegetables, cacti and other odd plants was slowly walking towards you.

“what the fuck.. oh my god- what the fuck?!” you shout, your hands shaking as you go to grab the nearest object to defend yourself as you press your body against the door. you grab a glass flask and hold it out as if it's at all a threat to the 8 foot creature in front of you.

the creature groans and you begin to tear up. this is it- you're about to die the same way ms. woods must have. nobody is going to mourn you besides your parents. you're going to die with people thinking you injested a poisonous fucking plant. you shut your eyes tight in preparation as it approaches.

it never does. you hear the creature use ms. woods' voice to cry out as someone attacks it. you peek to look.

its yuuji. and the girl from the mall. and the boy you thought killed ms. woods.

you gasp as they use all sorts of stuff against the thing and- are those bunnies?

“what.” is all you can gasp out as the brunette and the black haired boy run off, chasing the monster.

yuuji looks at you with his puppy dog eyes and you resist the urge to slap his stupid kissable face.

“yuuji, what the hell is going on.” you say, but it comes out as more of a statement than a question.

“i.. um..” he looks back at the two he came with who are now chasing the monster down the science hall, “that's the curse ms. woods left behind.. we're getting rid of it.”

“a curse? and- and you're fighting it?” you ask, puzzled.

“i promise i can explain but,” he pulls you into a tight, squeezing hug, “I was so worried. A special grade curse against you- I was terrified that we'd be too late. We didn't notice in time to get it before it tried to hurt you.”

“did it kill ms. woods?” you ask.

he shakes his head, “no- the grief from her death created that.” you gasp.

“I made that?” tears spill as the adrenaline settles.

“no!” yuuji pulls away a bit, looking at you put still holding onto you, “no. you didn't- it's not your fault. oh my god, it's not your fault- i love you please don't blame yourself!” he hurries to reassure you.

you sob into the crook of his neck, “yuuji- you.. why did you go? i was so lonely. it's been so hard.”

he can feel his heart break as he squeezes you once more in his embrace, “i'm sorry baby- i'm sorry.” yuuji soothes you, rubbing circles into your back, “i didn't want you to get hurt but- it happened anyways.”

after several minutes of silent comfort, you pull away, wiping your tears before giggling.

“where'd you get those face tattoos?” you sniffle and laugh.

yuuji laughs too.

“it's a long story.“

you smile, “tell me about it. i wanna hear.”

#yuuji itadori x reader #itadori yuji x reader #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #yuuji x reader #yuji x reader #itadori x reader #yuuji x you #yuuji itadori #itadori x you #yuuji itadori x you #yuji itadori x reader #jjk fluff #jjk angst #jujutsu kaisen angst #jujutsu kaisen fluff

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kniveschaudefender · 5 months

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hi !! can you do a gideon graves x male!reader who owns a flowershop? (if you dont do male readers thats ok lol, gn!reader is good too)

Better than Any Boquet

(a Gideon Graves x male flowershop owner! reader)

EEE MY FIRST REQUEST !! (TYSM ANON IM LITERALLY SO HAPPY ABOUT THIS) ALSO I DO ALL GENDER READERS !! SO MALE READER ISNT A PROBLEM AT ALL !!! ^_^ (ALSO I WILL SAY THAT THIS SUUUUUPER LONG. I DIDNT KNOW HOW TO MAKE IT ANY SHORTER BUT PLS DONT BLAME ME IM BARELY STARTING 🙁 ) BUT I RLLY DO HOPE U ENJOY BC THIS HONESTLY TOOK ME SO LONG TO PUT TOTHER. BUT THANK U AGAIN !!! <3333 (also this isnt proofread so)

Gideon had been acting..strange lately. The league noticed, his employees noticed, even he noticed ! But, nobody could seem to pinpoint what exactly it was.

He had been going out more, being a little bit less harsh on certain people, and the biggest thing people noticed was the amount of flowers around now. Of course nobody dared to ask, heavens no ! But still, it was strange. It’s not like he was a big fan of the flowers himself, but for some reason he had so many around.

Eventually, it had started as a routine. Day after day he would do the exact same thing ! Saying he needs to go do something ‘important’ out, taking his leave, and ending up in the local flowershop. But why ? Its not like he was there for the flowers, no. He had a better reasons.

He walks in, his mind somewhere else before hearing something that completely snapped him out of it. A simple, “Good morning, Mr, Graves!”

< Thats > what he was here for.

The nice owner, thats what he was here for! How could we forget? How could he forget such a nice boy, the same boy who helps him every day no matter how many questions he asks or how many times he ends up repeating them. He even remembered his name! Not by the fact that he’s THE Gideon Graves, but by the fact that he comes in every day to his shop !

Will he ever admit its for him? Maybe later. But right now? Certainly not ! He can’t lose such a ‘friendship’ with this lovely boy he’s met ! For now, he simply comes in, looking for him at the desk in the front. Asking things such as “How do I take care of these?” or “What type of flowers would go best with this event ?” . Simple things to hide the fact that he’s only there to see him and to hear him talk.

After about an hour of mindless questions and small talk, he comes home, once again with a boquet of flowers in hand. He couldn’t help it ! He HAD to buy flowers every time he’d go in there, or he’d leave feeling a bit bad. So, there he goes, grabbing another empty vase and putting some water in it, then placing the flowers inside.

He sighed, looking around at all the flowers he now had. How long could he keep this up ? How long could he push his feelings for this boy away and just keep going and buying flowers, never making a move?

It honestly didn’t take long, he was running out of room for flowers and was so head over heels he couldn’t help himself anymore.

Though, for the first time he couldn’t help but feel a bit afraid. Would you like him? I mean yeah, he does have quite the name and ego, not to mention the billions he has in cash, but would you really find him attractive? He guessed he’d just have to find out.”

He spent about a week thinking about this.

Infact, he spent the whole time trying to distract himself, he had forgotten to go to the flowershop. After the week, he had finally decided to go say something. Thats when he remembered. He spent the whole week away from YOUR presence after being there non-stop for a few months!

Now he was really worried. He probably made you sick thinking something must have happened since he stopped coming for a whole week!

So, off he went! Sprinting down the street to the flowershop, holding on to his glasses for life. His plan? Say everything through a letter. He couldnt get himself to say it to your face, no matter how big of an ego he had.

He comes in, pushing the door open, almost falling over as he catches his breath before looking up. And there you were, making direct eye contact with him as you out new fresh flowers in a certain section.

“Mr. Graves! There you are! I was wondering where you’d been.” You say, giving him that same, sweet smile.

“Please..call me Gideon.” He says, closing the door behind him as he comes in entirely. “I have something..a bit more important for you this time.” “Anything! What do you need, Gideon?” He liked how you had listened without a question.

“I need a boquet of roses, the best ones you’ve got, and I need you to put this letter in there. But, I’d like you to read it first.” He says, handing the note to him. “I need these by 5 p.m today, and I’d like for you to write me a reply on the letter of what you think.”

With that he mutters a “Thank you” and runs out quickly, not even giving you a chance to respond.

You stand there, a bit dumbfounded. But, there was no need to go chase him down and question him. It seemed simple enough. So, you grab the roses, picking the best ones as he’d asked. Then, the letter.

You grab the letter, opening it slowly, then is when you get met with something..suprising.

“Sorry about the leave, I couldn’t be here for this. All these visits were never about the flowers, it was about you. I wanted to get closer, but never knew how. I’ve liked you for all these months, and never knew how to truely say it. You were always too kind, and quite the handsome man too, giving me that smile every day I walked in, no matter how clueless I was about anything. Especially the flowers. But you always listened to me. But, I do love you and everything you do a lot. And I would love to have you by my side. Because to me, you’re better than any boquet.”

#gideon graves x reader #gideon graves #scott pilgrim x reader #scott pilgram vs the world #scott pilgram takes off #x reader stories #fluff #??? idk #i love gideon #thank u sm anon #writer #new writers on tumblr #vancesrambles

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bitchimasnake-sss · 6 months

Note

Can you do Zosanlu x male reader. Fluff/Smut

hi!! i don't think i'd be able to write the smut part very well lol but i definitely think i can do fluff so here you go!! (also i made it gender neutral since it was just very fluffy lol)

ft. luffy, zoro, sanji x gn!reader

set-up: idk, just vibes my lord; hope you feast well

warnings: hints of a polyamorous relationship; other than that, none. just soothe your soul with these headcannons bby <3

- if the strawhat crew is notorious for something, it's taking care of each other with their entire blood and soul (other than being famous for being the most powerful idiots at sea) - atleast that's the first thing you noticed - they would fight like dogs over the last piece of meat but good lord, a merchant once annoyed nami and refused to haggle and luffy almost snapped his neck "GUM GUM IM GONNA PULL A GUN OUT BITCH" "luFFY ITS NOT THAT SERIOUS" - bestest boy ever - anyways, ever since you have (reluctantly) joined the crew, you cannot help but notice how protective the crew gets everytime there's even a tinge of threat - but what you can notice more is how three certain men are at your disposal at the drop of a hat - it's nothing out of the blue, luffy is always ready to die for his friends but with you, his stares last longer and his smiles are more frequent (didnt think that was humanly possible). clingy as he is with everyone, his hands always seem to find your figure no matter what - sanji's a flirt with every living being in sight yet everytime he's serving you something, his fingers lightly skim over you. sometimes it's as faint as the brushing of fingers and other times it's a blatant, lingering touch on the small of your back - zoro's the most obvious tho, he thinks nobody catches on but boy what the fuck, stop making heart eyes at the dinner table. you once said something smart, strategizing to take down a warlord and you're sure you heard him mutter "is this love?" under his breath - back to the point, they are insanely protective - did lead to you yelling at them at one point and storming into your room - but you had to come out cause you were hungry and sanji baked your favourite cookies (fuck him and his stupid beautiful fucking face ugh) - they all steal you away to spend time with you, luffy's hogging you, telling you stories he heard from ussop; sanji's taking you away every 5 minutes to tell him if the food looks/tastes/smells okay and zoro really thinks he needs someone to check if his form is alright (flexing not-so-subtly) - they love to buy you stuff whenever you guys dock on an island, luffy (obviously) gets something to eat, sanji buys you a perfume that reminds you of him and zoro bought you a knife cause you "are really weak, you should train more sometimes. if you want, i can teach you." - one time you got sick and the entire crew was SWEATING OKAY these people were at you day and night, babying you as if you weren't a whole ass grown person - you cannot help but love these fuckers - aaah idk head empty, just wholesome thoughts of them <3

a/n: idk if i did this justice, but i hope you liked it even a little bit! (also, i was confused if you wanted it altogether or with all three but separately, eitherways i hope this is good enough!)

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tartigglez · 9 months

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puppy, bunny or kitty? (pt.1)

・❥・hey guys here's silly goofy headcanons of some genshin people and what flavour of petplay they're in to lol. this was initially only the mondstadters but i threw in some liyue babagrills too woowwo

・❥・kaeya, diluc, jean, albedo, thoma, zhongli, childe (separate) x gn!reader

・❥・nsfw, 16+, this is about petplay so dni if uncomfy!, sub!switch!character, dom!switch!reader, collaring, ears n tails, i think thats it? general dom/sub dynamics, talk of aftercare, degradation in some, just general filth bro

・❥・0.8k

kaeya - puppy

when he’s not in control, he really enjoys being loyal and told what to do. he loves when you order him around and when you spoil him, so its no surprise how happy he looks when you present him with a fluffy, blue tail you got for him recently. he happily giggles and asks if he can put it in. only you would be capable of breaking the cavalry captains ever-suave façade. he just sincerely hopes nobody ever finds out how he can get when you're in control…

diluc - kitty

diluc is poised, prim and proper, and although he doesn’t quite see it, you’ve definitely noticed this fact making itself present in your sex life. it’s not often that he hands control over to you, but when he does, he does it fully and completely. the level of trust he has for you is incomparable to anything else, so he trusts that he will be safe with you. he’s not much in to having accessories, but will definitely kneel by you, allow you to pat his head and rest it against your thigh, or kiss up and down it, depending on how he’s feeling.

jean - kitty

she’s never thought much in to the idea of having one of you being strictly “in charge” so to speak, but when you suggest it, she’ll enthusiastically agree. as much as she is quite vanilla, she’ll try anything once. she is more than happy to put on cat ears and place her hands between her legs on the bed as she kneels, happily awaiting for you to tell her what to do.

albedo - puppy

albedo will quite literally do whatever you tell him to do, he is a literal golden retriever, i will die on this hill. he is extremely gentle in nature and this reflects in every aspect of his life. he is usually vanilla but this is one of the exceptions to that. when he feels like submitting, you should be ready for him to become completely subservient, he will be awaiting your command, tongue out, waiting for you to push your fingers in to his mouth. when he has been won over, it is so incredibly hard to break his loyalty. he trusts you with everything. (do not hurt him ;-;)

thoma - puppy, through and through.

thoma is good at keeping secrets, which is why it's such a surprise to you when he shows you his collection of ears and tails, but you are far from disappointed. in fact, there is nothing prettier than watching him as he kneels, waiting for you and pouting. he loves being praised. just you telling him what a good boy he is has him smiling ear to ear and sticking his tongue out for you. he’s loud and vocal, whining and whimpering without even realising he’s doing it. he can get needy very easily, but he’s happy to wait for you, even if he knows you’re only teasing him. eventually you’ll give him what he needs, and that’s enough for him.

zhongli - a bit of them all!

it’s pretty impossible to type zhongli for this, it really just depends on how he’s feeling! he finds it really, really attractive when you suddenly assert dominance over him, kiss him all over and make it known that you are in charge. he is such a powerful being, but he is reduced to nothing when you tell him how much of a pretty puppy he is in that sweet, sarcastic tone. if he’s feeling more bratty however, that’s when he wants to be chastised for being a naughty kitty. he will put up a fight against your dominance, but he never wants to win that fight at all. when he craves intimacy, but doesn’t want to take charge, he will bury his head in to your neck and whisper soft words against it. when you’ve only just begun, it might be something along the lines of how wonderful you look. later, when he’s further gone, it may be something different entirely, like asking if he’s a pretty bunny, or it could be that his mind is already wandering to the thought of aftercare with you.

childe - puppy

cheery in nature, eager to try anything, and above all, loyal, childe wants to try everything for you, and will readily defend you in any situation. at the same time, he is literally filthy. nothing turns him on more than being degraded and used and told how much of a whore he is. he’s a little ashamed at first, but nothing makes him happier than being treated that way, then being degraded for it. being belittled makes him so incredibly horny, but also drives him to do better for you. trust he will serve you, and will bring you all the pleasure you could possibly seek. of course, aftercare is important as always. treat him softly, he needs time to get out of the headspace <3

nsfw masterlist || sfw masterlist || taglist: @celestetalkstoomuch @lioria

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kadextra · 10 months

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So that conversation Richarlyson had with q!Bad. we got some juicy glimpses for character analysis in there >:3c

(analysis below cut)

Little summary: during their chat, Bad found out that Richarlyson had more totems of undying and was eager to have them, causing Richas to deny the request and comment on how Bad’s been burning totems / throwing himself into hordes of mobs during dangerous battles lately. and how that’s scaring him

Which Bad replied to with

“Every totem that goes, goes for good reason. It goes to save lives.”

and

“Sometimes that’s the appropriate approach! Get the mobs to aggro you, so they leave your family alone!”

…. ow. ouch. those lines say a lot….

q!Bad literally has the option to split apart his pool of totems with other people (like how Richas explained he does with his dads) but he just doesn’t. Aside from restocking the eggs if they lose one, he holds onto a huge number of totems & charges headfirst into danger to tank the worst hits for his family so they won’t have to experience the pain.

and remember that a totem being used is canonically painful too, its experiencing death and being brought back to life in an instant. as a grim reaper with a unique relationship with death, what does that even feel like..?

Whatever it did didn’t stop him when Foolish got downed by vindicators in a dungeon and Bad instantly jumped straight into the horde to save him and use 4 totems. He burned 25 totems in rapid succession during the Noise Dungeon, and the only thing on his mind at the time was if Richarlyson and the others were safe.

Plus the fact he constantly tells everyone mid-battle to “stay far away from me” too? god. *shakes q!bad* why do you make yourself go through scary things alone in order to save others

We’d already started to see this pattern from the very start, by how he would just dive in the way of shots meant for an egg, push in front of other people as a shield… but lately he’s going much harder with it.

And it becomes more interesting to analyze when you take into account the character’s confidence in his abilities. q!Bad is calm, collected & capable. He knows he is a person who can do it successfully. The behavior is backed by logic and skill which makes it hard for anyone to shake

His paranoia also ties in- being observant and constantly on guard for danger. like how he noticed the torches being broken in the cave when nobody else did, and the code showed itself less than a minute later? The island itself reinforces all this behavior, so the character will continue this way. and I’m personally curious about where it’ll lead him…

but the most important thing is how q!Bad’s emotions play a role. This cubito views it as his personal duty to protect his beloved family no matter what, and is prepared to lay down his life for the ones he cares for. the angst of it hurts meeeeeeee

die for you by starset fits the character well I think (cc!bad also mentioned this is one of his favorite starset songs lol)

#qsmp #qsmp badboyhalo #qsmp character analysis #text post #tw death mention

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envy-of-the-apple · 2 months

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Hey ! Thinking about that maybe you could write a transmigrator reader ? Like reader knows everything of the plot and is the hope of their happy ending or can save "everyone", or maybe reader knows/understand them (it could be anyone) the most and they don't need to act or hide something around them so (Random) can be trully themselves... Technically reader is weak but too precious... and reader wants to go home but can't... ending up a tragic story for reader...

By the way I noticed something, Satoru represented very well the Sun :

"The Sun is alone but it still shines."

"If the Sun disappears, everyone will die."

"The more you are close to the Sun and the more you will be in danger, the more you are far away and the more you were discovered by other. Be like the Earth, not too far away nor too close tho."

"Everyone rely on the Sun but nobody is here for the Sun."

"The Sun is the most important in the Solar System."

"The Sun doesn't need allies but is still surrounded."

"If you want to approach the Sun, you could never because you will die before even touch the Sun."

ngl I hate the isekai trope so much because it has SO MUCH POTENTIAL. But ppl only write 'y/n gets Isekaid into (anime), but their only personality is quoting decade-old vines and misusing AAVE.' I want isekai but with spice.

I had this idea of making an isekai fanfic where the reader gets this McGuffin (given by dead grandma or whatever) that transports the reader to a different dimension- where cursed energy exists. Satoru is the only one who can see the reader (cuz six eyes) and reader becomes his guardian angel. The MC will appear anytime Satoru is in danger (either from another poisoning attempt or assassination attempt) and then will return to her own dimension. Slowly, Satoru develops this obsession with his guardian angel and tries to figure out a way to make his guardian angel stay with him forever. I've debated on writing it a couple of times but I doubt I will lol.

idk i just want interesting isekai. Oh! there was actually this amazing isekai with the AOT universe. Basically, the mc was transported into the aot universe but actually went through the trauma a soldier fighting titans would face. Eventually, she dies and is transported back to her own universe and she assumes everything was a horrible dream (even though she has ptsd from her time in that universe). Just when she starts getting herself back together, characters from the AOT universe start appearing in her own universe and its clear not all of them have forgiven her for something she did (that hasn’t been revealed yet) ughhh it was so good but the AUTHOR DELETED IT.

i think it was called cracks....if anyone has a copy pls pls pls lemme knowww it was so so good akslakskandsks

#yandere #yandere jjk #dark gojo satoru #dark jjk #Poly rants #srry this got so long #i just have so many thoughts about isekai

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transboysokka · 4 months

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So my favorite character in The Brothers Sun is Taiwan. Like yeah Taiwan has its own shows and movies but it just feels Different to see Taiwan in a big international/American show! It’s SO cool actually and so um here are some thoughts I had and things I Noticed about different Taiwan scenes and things in the show idk

Episode 1

the opening shot of Taipei tells us this is a Thursday- the top of 101 is green and is a different color every day of the week

that corkscrew-shaped apartment building we see Charles living in is kind of an urban legend here in Taipei. They say it’s the most expensive place to live in the city, that each apartment has its own swimming pool, and that there’s an elevator specifically to bring cars up to display in your living room. No idea if the interiors look like that for real though

I was gonna say it’s pretty crazy he has an American-style oven in Taipei bc nobody does but actually in that apartment… yeah he probably would

afaik there’s not a way to (“legally”/officially) stream any of those famous British baking shows here rip

I do wonder if they actually filmed the opening scene in the corkscrew building or if they just really pay attention to detail because the skyline seen out the window matches up to what it would really look like from that part of the city

the shoes, I mean we all know about shoes-off houses but yeah

豆漿. Soy milk. Yeah

They definitely eat Hi-chews in one of these scenes

Episode 2

It makes way more sense for the guys to have snuck out for shaved ice as kids than youtiao… I’m just saying… like would *I* do that yes but it’s usually just like. A thing you eat with soup or breakfast

Episode 3

“Are you sure you can handle-“ “the heat? I’m from Taiwan.” lmfao BITCH Taiwan has some of the blandest cuisine I’ve ever tasted (he does think it’s too spicy tho lol)

“Keelung. A fishing village just north of Taipei.” Okay like I can see how the older generation would call it that but it’s actually a whole ass city…

Episode 5

Not a Taiwan thing but the Maotai made me laugh. It’s like the Coca Cola of Chinese baijiu and imho it’s just as awful as every other brand

Episode 6

ok the episode that made me want to make this list

the Costco shit IS funny because vitamins, baby formula, that’s all the good stuff you want to bring back from abroad BUT actually we have Costco in Taiwan and can easily get a lot of that stuff? This concept imo would fit a lot better for China than Taiwan. It’s still very much a thing to load your suitcase up with baby formula on the way home to China, and there’s actually a huge smuggling business bringing it in through Hong Kong but I digress

Idk why I’m happy to hear Changhua and Douliu mentioned in an American TV show… Seriously, I don’t know. They’re kind of like nowhere places I’ve never even been. I just feel like everyone’s grandparents live there.

Even the way they film Mama Sun on the plane. Like the Mandarin music in the background with the announcement for Taoyuan airport… to me it feels specifically like a transpacific flight to Taiwan lolol but that’s definitely like a bias probably

Okay not to be SO nitpicky but so when she looks out the window on the plane to see Taipei 101 etc I’m not sure about that? The airport is actually in another city and I feel like I usually come in around and over the ocean or something?

But WOW the taxi scene my favorite scene it’s SO visceral and SO Taiwan… the street, the lights, the Cosmed/Mos Burger/7-Eleven, the street noises, like I can FEEL Taiwan through the screen and HER FACE taking it all in I WANT TO SOB

The temple, beautiful like this episode makes me believe Michelle Yeoh is Taiwanese lol

I appreciate the viscerality of the night market shots too but it seemed a bit empty

Okay so Mama Sun’s mom is super rich too based on where she lives which I guess it makes sense. But what I am curious about is the story about why they’re speaking Cantonese because Taiwan has a lot of languages but that’s not one of them like officially at all. I wonder if there’s a character backstory there or they just like. Didn’t want to bother teaching Michelle how to speak Minnan or something

The cemetery too is so fancy, I mean it fits but wow that’s expensive real estate

In the hospital scene, Taipei 101 is lit blue out the window, making it a Friday. Has everything in the show so far happened in only 8 days?

Episode 7

“Last night the Boxers made their move” 101 says it’s Tuesday for anyone keeping track

I LOST it at the Foodpanda driver assassin the first time I saw this… So Taiwan

Big fancy church in Taipei? I know they exist but I’ve never seen one in person (like 2%? of the country is Christian)

A mom bringing back tea as a souvenir from Taiwan? 100% real

Episode 8

RAW is a real restaurant in Taipei. It’s very fancy and very expensive and had I think two Michelin stars. I don’t know ANYONE who’s actually been there lol

#the brothers sun #text #greatest hits #100

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meadowscarlet · 2 years

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freak in you ━━━ eddie munson.

pairings: eddie munson x fem!cheerleader!reader

summary: having a secret relationship with you, a popular and beautiful cheerleader, makes it difficult for eddie, the well-known freak, to maintain the secrecy of your relationship especially when you're flaunting your short cheerleading skirt, looking both hot and adorable at the same time which drives eddie slightly insane and causes him to lose control of himself.

warnings: nsfw, eddie is down bad for the reader, vaginal fingering, praise kink, skirt kink (does that even exist? lol) uses of pet names, cursing and dry humping.

author’s note: i honestly don’t know why i wrote this but enjoy i guess. do not copy, post on another site, translate or claim any of my works as your own or you will be reported! nav.

Eddie first met you in middle school. You were the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, in his eyes, and he was easily infatuated. He remembered how he would memorize the side of your face, annotating your delicacy, and how sometimes when he was bored in class he would do some sketches about you, always admiring. He would have felt like a stalker by the back of the class—always admiring and nothing else.

You wouldn’t notice him anyway. Eddie has always been in the background; he would sit in the farthest corner of the classroom, away from everyone, and eat lunch with his freakish friends as the popular guys taunted and threw shit at their meal while everyone laughed at them. Eddie was used to everyone taunting and insulting him, so he didn't mind.

In short, Eddie gives no fucks.

Obviously, at first, it bothered him, but all of a sudden, he realized that nobody—who is an asshole in his book—was worth caring about. Everyone but you. Even though you were a pretty little thing, Eddie had learnt not to judge a book by its cover and he was still leery of you. He wasn't surprised that your reputation as a popular girl from middle school continued into high school, but he always assumed that you were just like everyone else.

Eddie hasn’t always been the wisest so he assumed wrong. Despite your notoriety, you proved him wrong by treating him with nothing but gentleness. When you caught Eddie staring at you in class, you would smile at him (which was embarrassing for Eddie, but hey, at least you didn't look at him oddly) or you would even continue to ask how his day was; you were never mean or a complete ass to him, and that made Eddie even more smitten with you, if that's possible.

Eddie was often caught off guard by you, which in some way led to your bond. Many people found it odd that you were friends with Eddie the “freak,” believing that he would have a negative influence on you, but you weren't bothered and kept your friendship with him. You were an angel that managed to captivate everyone with your lovely demeanor and beauty, preventing them from being able to dislike you.

In contrast to your beauty and other qualities, Eddie really admired your resolve to be with him. He recalled how you occasionally skipped cheerleading practices so you could see him at his trailer and listen to him play his guitar. Something about the way you value him beyond all others. Feelings first surfaced when your relationship became so strong that Eddie realized he had always wanted to be with you.

He didn't envision you to feel the same way about him. He didn't hate it—he fucking loved it—but he was anxious about you because many people detested him and his entire being. You might have passed into opposition to the hatred they directed at him, but you persisted. You showed him that the feelings you had for him were similar to his feelings for you. So it all began when your mutual feelings of lust, love, and trust began to blossom.

You both agreed to keep it a secret for a while.

Eddie thought it was a good idea.

Until it wasn’t.

Being forced to pretend as though Eddie wouldn't fuck you senseless in your short, skimpy skirt that taunted him each and every time you had to wear it for practice was getting boring. Your smooth, exposed legs—which would look great wrapped around his hips—just made you appear so gorgeous. He could already picture it, and it was enough for him given how hard he already was.

Eddie drew you to his room, his hands firm on your waist and ass, the instant you entered his trailer after practice, calling him with your soothing voice that did wonders for his already crazed head. As Eddie gripped your ass and fumbled with the ends of your skirt while grunting in satisfaction, you gasped in surprise and brought your hands to land against his chest.

“Eddie?”

“Do you fucking realize what you're doing to me?” He brought you to him as you fell on his lap, gasping, and he sighed as he settled on his bed.

Eddie's hands tightened around your waist, sending chills down your spine as you felt how hard his dick was already under your clothed pussy, and you suddenly felt a surge of pleasure and uncertainty. As you squirmed on his lap while you were strangling him, you became aware of what you were doing.

“Yeah,” he breathed out, guiding your hips back and forth against him. “Keep doing that, sweetheart.”

You held onto Eddie's shoulders as he spread his legs out farther and caressed your ass under your skirt with his hand–which were cold and his rings sent shivers on your skin–as you became unexpectedly needy. You liked the sudden pleasure you were experiencing as he bucked his hips against you, which caused you to whimper softly.

He says blearily, “Fuck, sweetheart,” and grabs your jawline with his other hand, forcing you to look into his eyes as he gives you a full-mouth kiss. He then delicately sucked on your bottom lip and continued to caress your ass until it reached your covered pussy, which is throbbing between his thighs.

Eddie brushed his lips to yours and murmured, “I want this off,” gesturing to your underwear as he ran his cool fingers over your clothed slit, making you moan softly.

Eddie stopped you almost too abruptly when you started taking off your skirt, saying in a voice that was almost dark with need, “No, leave the skirt on.”

At first, you didn't understand, but as soon as you noticed the thick layer of hunger in Eddie's eyes, you did. He was usually touchy whenever you wore your cheer skirt, as you remembered. Eddie is overcome with desire, something about the way the fabric rides up to your impeccable thighs catches his attention when you sit down or the way it reveals your silky legs.

He carried you by the hips to turn you around until your back was firmly pressed on his chest as soon as you hurriedly removed your underwear. Eddie's finger immediately stroked your folds before entering without a warning, making you moan in surprise. You could feel how you tensed when Eddie added another finger, and you could feel the coldness of his rings as it added pressure as he swirled his fingers within your clit.

He tenderly nibbled your shoulder and said, “God, you're so wet.” The sensation of his hot breath against your ear made you whine. “My pretty girl is wearing her pretty little skirt. You're fucking driving me crazy.”

Eddie was completely enthralled with you since you were so stunning. The way you grinded yourself against his fingers, letting your juices stain his fingers and rings, was so pleasant. Your face scrunched up in pleasure as his fingers moved quickly against your cunt. And the noises you produced were far better to those provided by guitar strings. Shit, Eddie never once complained despite being utterly consumed by you.

You were so tight and Eddie could feel your walls tightening around his fingers. His need for you was so intensely sparked by your arousal that he worked on his fingers more fast to make you moan in a way that was mesmerizing to his ears. Your skirt riding up to your thighs caught Eddie's attention; you appeared to be like a goddess writhing on his thighs.

“Yeah, just like that sweetheart,” Eddie said, nibbling your earlobe. “You’re doing so good. C’mon, come on my fingers, pretty girl.”

And as you came undone on Eddie's fingers, you let out a loud moan as you sensed your climax approaching.

“Eddie?” you breathed out, face flushed adorably.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“What—what was that all about?”

“Your skirt,” Eddie said, almost breathless. “It drives me crazy.”

Your lips quirked upward as you turned your head to face him and gave him a peck on his lips. “I’ll make sure to always come here after my cheer practices.”

“You’re teasing me,” he deadpanned.

“Maybe,” you grinned.

Eddie said, almost serious, his eyes roving around you with wanton hunger, his other hand stroking your inner thigh. “Next time it'll be my dick instead of my fingers.”

#♡ — ani’s works.#eddie munson smut #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x you #stranger things smut #stranger things imagine #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things season 4

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deadricslover · 1 year

Text

little admirer

here's my masterlist!

a/n: I've been stuck for ideas I'm sorry I've been gone :/ but hopefully I will get back into the routine of posting! this is also shorter than usual but I didn't want to drag it out lol

summary: you always hated getting bombarded by 'fans' of Bruce and the paparazzi. You didn't think this encounter would be any different but you were wrong. It was actually one of the most wholesome ones and definitely your favourite.

warnings: this really isn't about Bruce but he's the boyfriend ok? so...ya. and scars I guess NOT PROOFREAD

pairings: bale!Bruce Wayne x gn!musician!eader

-------------------------------------------------

When you looked out the window and saw the crowds of people outside, your fear reached its pinnacle. The only thing you wanted was to spend your anniversary with Bruce alone, free from intrusions other than kisses, of course. Yet that was all wishful thinking. It was obvious that it would not occur. Given your animosity for the paparazzi, Bruce had made an effort to ease your fears, but in reality, you both knew you would just have to get through it. You might have thought you would get used to it since you were also a fairly well-known musician, but not as much as Bruce, the prince of Gotham. However, Bruce took your hand and urged you to break the habit of chewing your nails while staring at the crowd.

"how do they even know you're here?" to ask turning to him

he huffs and shakes his head in thought. "I don't know. maybe someone saw us walking in"

"can we not go to dinner in peace? I mean.." you were at a loss for words, you didn't know how people could be so invasive and inconsiderate.

"I know. I know" he soothes gently kissing your hand and stroking your opposite shoulder whilst his arm is around your back.

"do you want to just get it done?" he inquires and you knew it was the smart thing to do even though you didnt want to. at all.

"yeah sure" you reply turning away and grabbing some last minute things off the bed. On the way out of the elevator, Bruce gently yet firmly places his hand on your waist in order to keep you close. Cameras flash, questions are thrown as you try to make your way through the flood of people. Bruce usually liked to put away a minute or two for some real fans who just wanted a high five off of Bruce Wayne, but he wasn't so sure about right now. You encouraged him to do it, not to break tradition and said you would wait elsewhere. Usually people would recognise you, but Bruce Wayne was right there so of course nobody would pay attention to you...not that you were complaining. A couple people did ak for a photo and you kindly obliged as long as they were sincere about it. As you stood watching Bruce interact with kids and their parents, not paying any mind to reporters, you feel a little tap on your arm. You look around and notice a little girl standing next to you with loving eyes. You crouch down to the little girl thinking maybe she was lost.

"hi sweetie. Are you ok?" you ask the child glancing around to see if her parents were anywhere to be found.

"I'm very good." she replies cheerfully

"awh that's good. where are your parents?" you ask

"getting a photo with Bruce Wayne."

"ooohh. everyone wants to don't they? he's really famous" you emphasize trying to make conversation with the girl

"not as famous as you, though"

she knew who you were? that's so sweet "no no. Bruce is way way more famous than me. but thank you! what's your name?"

"Camilla. You're my favourite person, ever!" she jumps lightly squealing.

oh my- of your heart wasn't throbbing before. it sure is now. the smile on your face couldn't be bigger.

"awh that's so sweet! you're my favourite person too, Camilla!"

"can I tell you a secret" she whispers after a couple moments of silence

"of course you can" you tell her pretending to zip your lips and lock them. She rolls up her t-shirt a little to show you a scar on her tummy. Whatever caused that scar, you felt horrible, especially because she said it was a secret. your eyebrows draw together as a reaction to your reaction.

"I used to hate it and cry all the time because I thought it was weird. but then I found out that you had one too, and now I love it, because my favourite person in the whole wide world has the same thing as me!" she tells. you honestly could cry. A little girl hating something about her body ay such a young age is bad enough but also the fact that she grew to love it because you had one too?! your heart throbbed.

"I do have one. it's on my arm. But yours is so much more beautiful"

"I got mine from an operation when I was a baby" she informs you butchering the word operation as any child would.

"ooh interesting. see all those people asking Bruce for a photo? with all the cameras? well I got mine from them. one time I finished a show and was going home and they hurt me" you recall in simple terms

"my mommy and daddy hurt you?" she asks shocked

"no! not your parents. some others that don't work there anymore."

"that's sad" she replies

she looks off into the crowd for a second and waves to her parents before telling you she has to go now-- not before asking for a hugh though. you kindly oblige without a second thought and embrace the girl smiling. her parents walk over and thank you for being kind to her and watching her. you tell them it was no problem as they leave and you wave to the little girl. Right on queue the famous Bruce wayne walks over without you noticing

"she seemed to love you"

"tell me about it. I'm her favourite person ever in the whole wide world" you recall

"she's not the only one" he adds to taking your hand in his and starts walking

you smile lightly and nudge Bruce slightly "she showed me something too. she had this scar on her stomach from a surgery when she born and she used to always be insecure about it" you start

"that's horrible, she's only young" he butts in genuinely sorry for the girl

"yeah, but the nice part that she found out that I also had a scar the same shape as hers and because of that she grew to love it...all because I had one too!" you exclaim still in disbelief

"you're such an influence. that's so sweet" he responds continuing to walk. "it is isn't it?" you reply placing your head on his shoulder while strolling to the restaurant. Usually you hate the paparazzi, but this time was different, it was sincere and sweet. definitely your favourite so far.

#dc #batman #bruce wayne #christian bale x reader #deadricslover #batman begins #bruce wayne fluff #the batman #bruce wayne x reader

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kysuguru · 9 months

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i love the last rin or shin? its so quirky and cute like satoru is absolutely so spoiled and reader does it without realizing she spoils him sooo bad😖hes so baby and a big head. he will throw a tantrum if her attention isnt on him for a sec!

but what if satoru founds out reader’s first crush was nanami? or suguru? i wanna see him throw a big fat tantrum LOL hes going to wail that reader doesnt love him and bullies whoever reader used to like and try to act like that person. or give reader the silent treatment which confuses her ?? maybe shoko accidentally puts out that reader and nanami or suguru went on one date and that puts satoru in the worst mood the entire week. yes WEEK.

ok so that one shot is from a series where both gojo AND geto are love interests, so i don’t think gojo would mind when it came to geto and the reader. but NANAMI? ohhh he’s such a big baby.

“okay!” satoru slams a hand down on your conjoined desks, startling everybody. you jolt a bit in your seat, your widened eyes trailing up and catching sight of his mischievous face.

“what is it now?” shoko drones, closing her book.

satoru sits down next to suguru, making sure to squeeze against him obnoxiously close before he’s opening his mouth with a big grin, “it’s time to talk crushes! [name]! go!!!!”

with the quickness of his finger as he points it at you and how he has no hesitancy with saying your name, both shoko and suguru knew the entire purpose of this sudden interrogation.

satoru was nosey. and a jealous bastard.

and even though suguru makes a face, he’s curious, too.

you stammer, suddenly put under the spotlight, “c-crush? me? what’s this about all of a sudden?”

“it’s not only you! everyone will say someone they’ve had a crush on! you just happen to be first,” satoru is excited, leaning in as he awaits your answer. as if he’s expecting what it’ll be.

that makes you sweat. but with the promise of everyone doing the same thing, you were more prepared to go. besides, you were kind of curious as to who were the lucky people shoko and suguru crushed on.

you fiddle with your fingers as your lips part, “well uhm,” satoru leans forward in his seat, eager. your eyes meet his for a split second. “i used to kind of have a thing for.. for kento-kun..”

…

nobody speaks for awhile. suguru and satoru’s faces contort. shoko looks close to laughing.

“i.. i didn’t know you- you liked the brooding type.” shoko takes a small breath in between as she tries to the best of her abilities not to laugh in the boys’ faces. she’s lying, with your obvious crush on suguru, she knew very well.

“it was only for like a week, i swear!!” you wave your hands in front of your face frantically, embarrassed and regretful of even answering in the first place. why did you have to set the example?

satoru has been oddly silent, you notice. which is odd because he looked so excited earlier.

you look to him and see him sporting the biggest pout. your jaw drops.

“s-satoru?!”

he turns away from you dramatically, not gracing you with an answer.

suguru’s smiling now, but it doesn’t reach his eyes and his lips are tight. you wonder what you did wrong..

shoko succumbs and snickers into her elbow.

“do you still like him?” suguru’s voice is strained, as he tries to keep up his norma demeanor.

you shake your head instantly in denial, “no! no! like i said it was just for a week! we’re just friends now..”

and even though you clarified that, and watched as a subtle relief overtook suguru’s expression. satoru was still silent.

even after you all went to your respective rooms for the night. the next day during class, and even when you all gathered your desks together again to talk about whatever whenever.

you loved satoru’s presence, it’s only been a day of him ignoring you yet your hurt was in so much pain you’d think he’d broken up with you.

suddenly, after walking shoko and suguru to their rooms, bidding them a good night, satoru latches onto you.

you’re shocked, initially, but it doesn’t take long for you to reciprocate the embrace, and satoru revels in that.

“don’t do this with nanami, okay?”

“w-why would i do this with him?”

“it doesn’t matter, just don’t do it.”

“will you stop ignoring me if i do?” what a dangerous proposal.

“of course!” he’s beaming at you again. you missed him.

of course, a hug with nanami sounds divine, but why jeopardize your special friendship with satoru over something that might never happen?

you melt in his arms and sigh with content. satoru is smug as he tightens his grip, cursing the first year in his head who probably wouldn’t even care if the entire ordeal was brought to his attention.

satoru gojo has been a spoilt brat since birth, he wasn’t sure how he would fare in school, but he’s ecstatic to say your bias towards him is worth more than any expensive object the gojo clan could provide him.

gojo is a little SHIT. and i’m sure he would still be a baby abt it in his adult years, but i also feel he would handle it just a liiiiitle bit better. anyways air head reader who enables him simply because she loves him and will do anything to keep him around. trying to write her to fit tohru and sawako because i heart them.

also thx for this ask i love detailed asks like these ur the best ever anon <333333

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pooplyface1423 · 3 months

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"~The most radiant angel in all of Heaven~"

(get to know the characters!)

So hello before I keep going with this mini series I wanted you guys to know more about the characters!

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡��♡♡♡♡

Y/n:

Full name: Y/n Valentin

So she has (your hair) hair and beautiful (your eye color)

She is slightly taller than Lucifer. (like basically 6 foot but its not important)

She likes helping others and is described as a motherly person.

She hides Almost everything about Lucifer to her babies.

She volunteers to almost everything helping new winners in heaven help the young winners in there education etc.

Is good friends with: Adam ,Sera and everybody

*Warning sensitive info below*

She tried to take her own life after millions of years off grief.(on earth it would of been the 1980's) (also both hope and faith were full grown adults)

and has a whole journal of the different stages of grief she went thru nobody knows about it. (all this new info will come in handy later into the story)

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Hope:

So Before anything his Full name is: Benjamin Hope Valentin

He's the one who resembles Lucifer the most basically looking like a mini Lucifer.

Hes like on inch taller than you. (Tall boi)

He's good friends with St Peter and Emily

Is way smarter than Faith

He likes to: Help others ,be with you or Faith, and Meet new people

He was born 2nd (lol)

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Faith:

Full name: Faith Valentin

Faith is the one who actually looks like a mix between you and Luci, having your hair color with blonde tips or vise versa. (if your blonde than she's just fully blonde) She has the same eye color than you and sadly does not really have visible red cheek mark its very light red so you can't really notice it.

She's the same height as Hope .

Good friends with Emily and St.Peter

Is a very oblivious person and tends to forget minor things.

Likes: Being called Faye, helping others, going on wild adventures around heaven being with both you and hope and meeting new people.

Like i said she likes to go on adventures in heaven trying new things volunteering to do crazy stuff but would mostly likely only do it if Hope is there aka she doesn't like to do things alone she likes being with hope which is why there almost always together.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Thanks for reading this hopefully part 3 is here soon until then!

Tag-list : @yourmommylol04 @lxkeee @vann13 @adaizel @juskonutoh

#my post #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer morningstar #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer x reader #x reader

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teacupofgooglyeyes · 7 months

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THE MAGNUS PROTOCOL. oh my GOD, the magnus protocol. (marginal spoilers up ahead for the tmp trailer + arg)

….i have a theory. its based on other possibly improbable theories but please indulge me as i connect the dots nobody else can see with red string and declare it a masterpiece.

WHAT IF…. something was trapped in the database? yes this is absolutely inspired by the theories bouncing around saying J.01 + M.01 are jon and martin- and possible J.02 is jonah. yes im going insane about it. yes i am distraught. BUT- what if its not just our silly little jarchivist and martin ‘knife crime’ blackwood trapped in the O.I.A.R. database? what if theres something that the O.I.A.R. takes ‘incident reports’ of to contain (and perhaps categorise) in encrypted files or the like in an attempt to rid the world of this something for good?

what if they had figured out a way to trap… the fears themselves in the database?

okokokok hear me out- it sounds insane but i promise i can provide evidence that proves with sufficient certainty that theres definitely SOMETHING (or someone) trapped in there. as to what that something is- i cant prove that for sure but i can absolutely try my darnedest! and whatever you choose to believe is up to you.

PROOF #1: THE ARG EMAILS

1. in the tmp arg, there was a small message at the end of every email. it read as follows: ‘In accordance with governmental guidelines we encourage you to consider the environmental impact before printing this email.’ All in all, this doesn’t seem too suspicious, right? Probably just rusty quill trying to be eco-friendly, right? right??

2. but that’s not all. in the middle of the environmental impact text in the first email sent, there is a section of random german text. it reads: ‘[NichtdurchkommenlassenEsistwichtigdasswirdieKontrollebehalten 🜶]’. this translates to: ‘Do not let (pronoun missing on purpose) come through. It is important that we remain in control 🜶’. Pairing the two makes it definitely seem like theres a reason for the O.I.A.R. to not want people printing things off of the internet that is absolutely connected to making sure certain things contained on internet in some way do not escape…

PROOF #2: THE TMP TRAILER

now that the arg has been solved, we now all have access to the tmp official trailer. i could rant about the contents of this trailer alone for HOURS but right now i just want to focus on a few specific details i noticed.

1. the epa pollution preventer. when the program is initiating, up in the top right corner there’s a logo for some company advertising anti-pollution… something. im mentioning this as this only furthers the strange obsession the O.I.A.R. has with protecting the environment, this incessant need to keep everything digital.

(SIDE NOTE: i have two other theories as to where this environmental obsession stems from:

1. paranoia from the archives burning down in this universe calls for the usage of any flammable items to record important data is STRICTLY forbidden!

2. the extinction has become the leading fear in this universe, prompting this very interesting concern for keeping eco-friendly.

these theories are enticing and i would love to expand on them later if i have the energy lol all these theories are rushing through my head and driving me even more insane.)

2. the files. THE FUCKING FILES!! yes, the ones that we are PRAYING contains our dearly beloved jon and martin (and probably jonah, but i doubt anyone else is as excited about that compared to the happy couple). this got me thinking- what if they trapped something ELSE in the files? something that maybe took the burning of the entire magnus institute, all those fears open and barely contained on paper, to contain digitally? something that maybe needs to be encrypted in files to keep it away, and to further contain it recordings of incident reports statements are made and also placed in the files archives? just saying. its a possibility.

PROOF #3: WHAT WE KNOW ABOUT JONNY

1. after listening to all the Q&As and extra content to recover from episode 200, i have LEARNT a few things. specifically, i know our good friend jonny sims loves creepypastas. fun fact- the actual s5 finale was itself inspired by creepypastas!

2. plus theres many episodes that do also have distinct creepypasta influences, one of which being mag 65: binary. this particular episode is about a fictional creepypasta/internet rumor about a man who placed himself and his sentience into a file on the internet that turns out to be true. internet horror stories often involved something trapped on the internet, interacting with users on the internet to attempt to escape or achieve whatever their goal may be. seems…. interesting. hmm. what if this sort of thing is influencing the podcast yet again? its a thought…..

IN CONCLUSION:

im insane. and-

#the magnus protocol #the magnus universe #the magnus protocol theories #the magnus pod #the magnus archives #the magnus institute #tma #tma theory #im going insane

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pochipop · 1 year

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＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — LET ME PAINT YOUR SKIES (MOIRA X READER).

#. synopsis! — moira, a frustrated geneticist in the throes of an impossible war against her superiors, meets a despondent young artist drowning sorrows at the bar. as it turns out, the latter is a particularly good listener, and the former is the type of woman you’ve only met in your wildest dreams .

#. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — light angst, mentions of alcohol consumption, extreme slow-burn .

#. word count! — 11.7k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. a/n! — sorry i've been gone so long, got busy w/ school and irl stuff :// feel free to hmu to play overwatch lol (i swear i'm not ass all the time!!) anways, moira kissers, this one's for you!!

This place is as rundown and decrepit as they come these days, —a hole-in-the-wall type of establishment with old, creaky stools and paint that chips off into the drinks from time to time. Fruit flies are more regular than most customers, and they provide little bits of extra protein to those either too wasted to fish them out of their shots or unfortunate enough to not notice them. It's incredible that this place hasn't been permanently shut down, actually, with health and safety hazards galore. . . And yet, despite all its undeniable (and very obvious) flaws, you quite like it here. It's where you come when you're stuck in a rut and need to drink away some sadness.

Sure, it's not the healthiest of habits, but everyone has their vices. This is yours, —but it's an occasional thing, for the most part. You go months at a time without so much as glancing in the direction of any alcohol whatsoever, and most times when you indulge, it's more of a social thing than that of a desire to get plastered. Unfortunately, old habits die hard, as they say, and being an artist has its ups and downs. The highs are more intoxicating than any alcoholic beverage could ever be, but the lows hit you like a semi truck. They claw at your ankles and pull you down into the depths so mercilessly, as if feeding on your sorrow is the feast of a lifetime.

Thus, here you are again for the first time since mid-November of the prior year. It's been roughly five months since you've sat on this stool, ordering shots from the grumpy bartender who never remembers your name and doesn't care much about conversing with his customers. This time, however, a fresh face stands out to you. She'd come in when you were still nursing a whiskey on the rocks, insisting that tonight would be different, that you wouldn't leave with your head all foggy or your balance thrown completely off. You've since changed your stance on that, of course, —as one simply does when they're wrung dry of artistic inspiration and turn to seeking some sort of haven in an unhealthy vice.

Still, the woman at the other end of the bar has your full attention, even if she hasn't realized it yet. Even from her slouched position you can see that she's quite tall, —and equally as thin. She's dressed in more formal attire than yourself, a starkly white button-up and a pair of black dress pants as opposed to your own ill-fitting jeans and a greyish-blue sweater you'd picked up simply because it was seventy-five percent off. It's certainly comfortable, but stylish is most definitely up for debate.

Her foot taps against the bar counter, the toe of her black flats ringing out in little thumps that nobody seems to notice but you. She swirls a shot glass in her elegant hand, —her long, lithe fingers adorned with lengthy nails all painted a uniform shade of violet. Strands of short, ginger hair fall over her forehead, clearly unstyled after a long day. Whatever she's going through, you're sure it isn't pleasant for her to have ended up here alone on a Thursday night. Even so, you silently wonder if she's aware of just how attractive she is. In a sense, she's almost ethereal to you, with her extended limbs and sharp lines. . .

You reach for a napkin and are pleasantly surprised when the rusted dispenser sitting loose just a seat away isn't completely empty as it usually is by this time of night. Digging in your bag for a moment, you find an old ballpoint pen buried at the bottom. You try to take something to write or sketch with wherever you go, —but sometimes you still find yourself wholly unprepared for when inspiration strikes.

It takes a bit of scribbling before the ink begins to flow. Even then, it's rather choppy and doesn't come out in a smooth line. But, it's the best you have on hand, and so you're sure to use it to your advantage in whatever way possible (which isn't many.) Your gaze flickers between the woman at the end of the bar and the napkin you're sketching her likeness on in inconsistent ink. It's certainly rough, but it's the first thing you've drawn all week that you haven't felt the urge to light on fire, so you're considering this a win.

You get a little carried away with the shading and the general environment, adding flowers that aren't there and little markings all around for some additional texture and pizzaz.

"Interesting," a low-toned, curious voice says from just over your shoulder.

You startle at the sudden interruption, nearly scribbling a horrendous line across the center of your sketch. The woman had been so silent in her move, (or perhaps you'd just been too engrossed to hear her make her way over) that you were left flinching under her looming shadow.

She seems fittingly confident for the aura she gives off, —like some kind of CEO.

"Uh. . . Sorry," you apologize, hoping the mood won't become too awkward. "This must seem pretty weird."

This is pretty weird, actually, and you can acknowledge that much. After all, when someone trudges to the bar late at night, it's not as if they go there expecting that some equally as frustrated stranger will see them and be unable to resist the urge to sketch their likeness on a painfully thin napkin.

"I've seen weirder," she replies, —and though you don't ask for examples of that, you're rather curious about what she'd give as some.

She sits next to you now, on the bar stool just to your left. Her knee brushes against yours as she does so.

"You're an artist then, I presume?" She asks without missing a beat.

You nod, letting your pen drop to the bartop, giving her your full attention now. Something about her demands it (not that you're complaining.)

"Yep," you answer, though you can't bring yourself to sound particularly stoked by that admission at the moment.

She takes notice of that much too quickly for having just met you.

"You don't seem very pleased about it," she notes. "Trouble in paradise, perhaps?"

An Irish accent clings to her words; not a heavy one, all things considered, but more than enough to be obvious. It's quite attractive.

"Yeah, something like that," you say with a bitter laugh, —one directed more at yourself than her statement. "Nothing I'd want to bore you with."

She hums in acknowledgement, not trying to pry anything out of you that you aren't readily willing to share. That makes you like her all the more.

"I understand that quite well," she seems to sigh. "I'm a geneticist, —seasoned and well-ingrained in my field."

That makes sense. She speaks with an air of confidence that you assume comes with not only age, but experience, and it's clear she's well-educated.

"Yet here I am, constantly being pestered and questioned by those around me," she complains. "They insist upon checking and checking and checking again for ethical violations, —as if any true scientist has ever been able to examine the fullest potential of life without bending a few rules."

You gather rather quickly that she likely just needs someone to vent to, and a stranger is as good as anyone else. Though you're sure it won't be long before she gets into specifics and you lose the plot entirely, you have no qualms about keeping her company for the time being. In fact. . . This might as well be just as much for you as it is for her.

"They say rules were made to be broken," you quip, hoping it'll be enough to keep her talking.

"I don't know that I'd go quite that far, —but what I will say is that being ethical will do no good if it leaves us plateaued and unable to advance," she says. "Humanity is shackled by so many things. I am searching for the key to those shackles, —searching for the means by which to unlock the true potential of human beings. Just imagine what could be achieved if every individual was consistently performing at their highest levels of functioning. Productivity would skyrocket, advancements that have taken decades in the past would come about in less than half the time. . . There's so much waiting to be discovered, and yet so many seem to want to stand in the way of that."

"I'm sure that's frustrating," you acknowledge. "Obviously I'm not familiar with your field, but it seems a bit counterintuitive to stunt your progress when advancement is such a crucial part of today's society."

At this point, you're just speaking and hoping something sticks. It'd be nice to have someone to share time with, even if all she does is rant about things you're nothing short of completely removed from.

"Exactly," she practically hisses. "Sometimes, I'm utterly convinced that I'm surrounded by fools. Fools who haven't a clue what it means to strive for the betterment of humankind."

Truth be told, she knows you don't get it. She knows you're telling her what you think she wants to hear from you. . . But, at this point, it's enough. She doesn't have the patience to keep it all bottled up anymore, and your vague attempts at encouragement are something she's rather pleased by (for the time being, anyway.)

As a result, she goes on, and on, and on, well into the early hours of the morning. She drinks, but seems to hold her liquor so well that it hardly affects her at all. Or, perhaps you're just a bit sensitive in that department. Either way, she finds you to be a tantalizingly good listener, even if she lost you the moment she started detailing something about stem cell research and the possibility of using the brain's localization to its 'fullest potential.'

By the end of your time with her, you're drunk less on the drinks you've admittedly been nursing, and more on her. A woman of such. . . Confidence and refinement. Perhaps in great contrast to the artist at your core, who craves some semblance of chaos and passion that burns so hot you can feel it course through your veins.

It's only after you've parted ways with her that you realize you never caught her name.

You return to the bar several times after that, though you seldom have the urge to drink any of your problems away. Your long, strange conversation with that enchanting force of a woman weighs heavily on your mind. Her very likeness on its own had helped to chip away at your stunted inspiration, giving birth to new designs and a perhaps pretentious series of paintings in which long, slender fingers with sharpened nails painted a deep violet color held different types of flowers. A part of you wonders if she’d like them. . . After all, they were born only because you’d had the chance to meet her (and spend at least a good two hours staring at her hands.)

Now, however, you’re content with staring at the art displayed at this gallery. It’s clear many of the paintings are uninspired, simply taking the form of references, —which is all well and good, of course. . . But there’s a sense of romanticism missing from most of them that isn’t quite scratching the itch inside your chest.

You stand before one such piece; a beautiful painting of a teacup filled nearly to the brim with amber liquid. It’s accompanied by a few cookies, ones that look delectable in spite of their bland appearance. The scene is nothing revolutionary, but there’s a sense of warmth it exudes that the other works here lack, so you’ve chosen to camp here for a bit, if only to bask in its delight for a while longer.

“I don’t presume this is one of yours.” You’d know that voice anywhere.

Perhaps a bit too quickly, your head whips to the side, eyes immediately scaling upward. You meet the duel-colored stare of the woman you’d met at the bar, and the intensity of her gaze leaves butterflies tickling your stomach. She’s dressed much the same as the night you first crossed paths with her, but her hair is pushed back completely, —not a single strand out of place. She wears some subtle makeup, a bit of color on her lips and liner on her eyes. You couldn’t even begin to picture her in casual clothing.

You blink, clearing your throat as you remember that she was likely looking for a response.

“No, not quite,” you reply.

She hums in acknowledgement. Her hand almost looks empty without a glass in it, you note, but choose to say nothing of it.

“I’m y/n, by the way,” you introduce yourself, hoping that she’ll follow suit. . . Hoping that she’ll take it as a sign that you’d like to see her again at some point, even if just at random.

“Moira.”

You swallow. It’s a name that sounds so elegant, and it suits her completely. Before you can compliment it, she turns her full attention to you, no longer dividing it between the painting. She never seemed particularly interested in that one anyhow.

“Are any of your pieces displayed here?" She asks. "I'd be interested to see them."

You swear the smallest semblance of a smile quirks at the corners of her lips as she speaks now.

"No, unfortunately not," you reply. "The deadline was too tight, and. . . Nothing I'd created recently felt worthy of the spotlight."

Untrue. The few paintings you'd stayed up until ungodly hours to finish were more than suitable; but they were of her. Only her hands, thus far, but. . . You still felt the urge to keep them to yourself. That's why you'd lugged them back to your apartment instead of keeping them at your worn-down studio.

She hums in acknowledgement.

The conversation is running thin, and you feel your chest tighten. She’d gone out of her way to speak to you first, so you assume there’s some semblance of a spark here, even if only a little one. You yearn to keep it safe from anything and everything hellbent on snuffing it out before it even has the chance to burn brightly.

“How’s work been for you, then?” You ask, somewhat desperate to keep her talking.

Moira heaves a heavy sigh, —not so much at you, but at the mention of work. You take that as ‘less than stellar.’

“It could be better,” she replies bitterly.

It’s then that you let impulse take over. Working as an artist is the culmination of your life’s devotion and effort to refining your skills. . . But it can be a bit lonely. Usually, that doesn’t bother you much, —it’s a feeling that rarely bubbles up enough to even cross your mind; but since you’d met Moira, it’d been much more difficult to ignore. In the end, you took a chance, perhaps a bit rashly. And yet, it paid off.

“I’d be willing to listen, if you’d like someone to talk to,” you offer. “There’s a little cafe just down the block. I’ve heard the pecan pie is to die for.”

She stares for a few moments, as if eyeing you down like prey. At the very least, Moira seems to be giving some thought to your offer, and you consider that as good a sign as any. Eventually, she breathes out through her nose just loud enough for you to hear it (and make note of the amusement it carries.) A smirk tugs visibly at the corner of her pretty mouth, and this time, it’s not one you’d have to squint to catch sight of.

“Suppose I am feeling a bit peckish,” she notes, then tells you to lead the way.

You’re almost dumbfounded that you’ve gotten this far. It’s all too easy to abandon the gallery and travel with Moira to the newly opened cafe just a ways off. You’d stopped by a few times since its grand opening just a few months back, but had never ordered anything more than a simple drink. You’d also never taken the time to sit down and enjoy the sweet atmosphere of the establishment, always rushing about too frantically to even consider the possibility.

This time is different. You sit with Moira by a large window, tendrils of sunlight pouring in from above, creating long shadows on the table between the two of you. She orders a simple cup of dark roast, but decides for the both of you that the pecan pie does, in fact, look too heavenly to pass up; so she requests one slice with two forks.

She tells you about her day, —about her work and her ongoing struggles to convince her superiors that she knows exactly what she’s doing and should be permitted to do as such. You still don’t understand most of it, but you make sure she knows she has your full attention nonetheless.

And then she makes the decision to turn the direction of the conversation.

“How has life as an artist been treating you since we last spoke?” She inquires.

You’re almost thrown off by the sudden reciprocation of curiosity. Between the both of you, you’d simply assumed she was leading the more interesting life, and had been completely content to listen to her spew her frustrations while sipping on coffee for an hour or so.

Still. . . It felt nice to know she cared about your own ventures, if only out of politeness. (Though, really, Moira didn’t seem like the type who’d ask a question she didn’t care about receiving a genuine answer to for the sake of saving face.)

“Better,” you smile softly. “I was struggling to find inspiration, —worried that everything I was producing was just bland and uninteresting. But, after speaking with you, I started digging myself out of that rut. Since then, things have steadily been getting back on track, so I suppose I should thank you for that.”

Moira hums in acknowledgement.

“I’m happy to have helped, though I’m not certain I truly know what I did to spur any of your artistic inspiration,” she admits.

“You’re alluring,” you tell her without thinking the compliment through.

You qualify: “Unique. Very visually striking.”

She raises an eyebrow at the sentiment, then offers you a low chuckle in reply.

“Is that why you asked me here?” She questions, though she doesn’t seem perturbed by the idea. “To be your muse of sorts?”

Your heart thumps a little louder in your chest now, though you’re not sure why.

“No,” you answer honestly, shaking your head a bit, “—but I’m sure that’ll be a secondary benefit.”

Will it ever.

“I take it you simply enjoy my company then?” Moira continues.

“Precisely,” you nod. “It’s exactly that.”

She stares at you for a moment longer, her eyes all but boring holes into your own. In a good way.

Finally, she cracks an amused smile, and mumbles: “Likewise.”

At that, you’re certain you’ve won the lottery. You talk with her a bit more about a variety of things; what it’s like to be a full-time artist, about her nails (press-ons, apparently, —you could hardly believe the notion), —about how right everyone was about the pecan pie. She disappeared before you could say a proper goodbye, paying the bill and scribbling her phone number down on a napkin that she left at your seat while you were in the restroom. You grin to yourself the whole way back to your apartment, letting the day’s events wash over you like the evening tide.

Just before you turn in later in the night, you send a quick message to her phone thanking her for paying the tab and telling her that next time is your treat. She responds in almost record time, and you let yourself believe for a moment that maybe she’d been waiting around for you to reach out since she’d left the cafe.

Looking forward to it.

As late spring turned to early summer, you kept in contact with Moira, if only passively. She was a busy woman, unsurprisingly, and despite the continued conflict with her peers and superiors, she remained wholly devoted to her work and ideals. It was easy to recognize that you came second, —if you even made her list at all.

But that was okay. It didn’t weigh heavily on you as it might have if she were anyone else.

You saw her only a few times here and there over the weeks, returning to that same cafe to chat for a bit over coffees, venturing to a steakhouse on the far end of the city for a night of fine dining, and attending an opera performance with her after she’d been given tickets by a work colleague as a regifted-gift when that individual had no interest in attending themself. Each time, you saw a new side of Moira; getting to know her better, getting to experience the many shades of her.

It was mid-June when you heard your phone buzz late at night, vibrating against the oakwood of your bedstand. On the off chance it was Moira contacting you at such a strange time, you shot upright, startling yourself awake in the process. You snatched your phone off the surface, squinting at the brightness only to realize it was a completely unrelated, automatic notification from an app. But you sat there that night, your stomach tied in knots, that device clutched a bit too tightly in your hand, only to realize something all at once.

You were falling for her. For Moira. And you were so certain that that was a terrible idea.

You laid awake, thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong in the face of this newfound revelation. Really, had anyone else had a say in the matter, the more shocking part of it all would have been that it took you so long to put two and two together. —She’s addicted to her work, utterly devoted to her job. That had long been established. Any plans you sought to make with her had to first be run through her hefty work schedule; the one that was so bizarre and so obscure that you’d given up trying to make sense of it a week into your acquaintanceship.

Any relationship you could hope to forge with her would be a lowly affair. Her first love was destined to be science. Still, you rationalized that Moira wasn’t much unlike you, in that sense. You too were deeply devoted to your career, thinking of it often, keeping your art at the forefront of your mind more often than not.

Even that aside, there was so much that could go wrong here. If she were to feel the same way, which seemed so unlikely to you that even considering it felt like something akin to a cruel joke, —it was more likely to be fleeting than anything else. Yet, a part of you still wanted it. . . Wanted the push and pull, the long weeks of her undoubtedly forgetting that you even existed, just to fall back in her arms at the first sign of affection. Foolishly, a part of you still wanted the late nights and early mornings, —wanted to feel your own heart break as you watched her slip out of your bed through hazy eyes, leaving you lonely without a proper goodbye.

Obviously, you were getting miles ahead of yourself.

Still, the fact remained that you liked Moira. . . You just weren’t sure what exactly you were supposed to do about that.

The summer heat became sweltering before long. Moira traded her long-sleeved dress shirts for short-sleeved ones in the same color and style, and you began to stare not only at her hands, but at her arms now when the two of you found time to get together. You’d sit and listen to her frustrations, —always about her working life and how it was so difficult to deal with being stifled, told that she couldn’t do this or that because someone had deemed it inappropriate by their own standards.

Admittedly, you still didn’t get it. Her work was so different to your own, and in the end, she didn’t really get yours either. But, each of you managed well enough. Your relationship was symbiotic. She had someone to vent to, you had someone to lust and desire for, someone to get your inspiration pumping. . . And that was good enough.

Until it wasn’t.

You did your best to drown your feelings out. There was too much at stake, what with Moira being your closest friend in the city, you assumedly being hers (since she often made note that you were the only person she spoke so candidly with,) —and you didn’t want to disrupt the balance the both of you had created together. It worked, and they say what isn’t broken doesn’t need to be fixed.

But it was breaking you, little by little. It was something you could ignore at first, until ignoring it became much more difficult, and you defaulted to stuffing it down on purpose, forcing thoughts about the bow of her lips and the dips of her waist into the back of your mind. If she ever caught sight of your wandering gaze, she never mentioned it. Still, you were prepared to chalk it up to admiring her frame for artistic purposes, and Moira likely would have bought that without much thought otherwise.

And then came the banquet, —the gathering, the party— whatever the hell it was. You didn’t really know what it was about other than that it had to do with Moira’s work, and that in itself was enough to signal to you that you probably wouldn’t have been able to make much sense of it anyway. She’d asked you to attend alongside her, saying that it would go much smoother with someone there to talk to (presumably so she could ignore everyone else that would be lapping at her ankles, vying for her attention.)

Whether her colleagues liked or disliked her and her methods, it was surely undeniable that Moira was intelligent and could provide insight into just about anything (within reason.) Thus, she’d requested that you come along as her so-called “plus one.” It didn’t help that when you mentioned that you’d likely be out of place at such an event, she responded by assuring you that many of the scientists would surely be taking their partners and spouses along with them.

“So, this is your way of asking me on a date?”

It was a joke. You gave a sly smile to project that, and it seemed that she understood the intention. You just hoped she didn’t catch sight of the desperation that lingered in the back of your stare, —desperation born from the desire to cross every line known to man and then some.

The worst part is that she didn’t deny it. She seemed unphased by the proposition even, telling you to “call it what you’d like.” And you would, albeit not to her face again. In your mind, this was a date. Perhaps one of convenience more than anything else, —but a date nonetheless.

When the time comes, you meet Moira just out front of your apartment. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen her sleek, black car in person. She’d made mention of it before, (only when you’d asked first), but your get-togethers with her had been within comfortable walking distance of most things in the city. This time, however, the venue was a bit further out, and because the occasion called for fancier clothes, Moira decided driving there would be the best option.

You watched through the slightly tinted windows as she reached over the passenger seat, her long, slender arm easily reaching the inner handle of the car door. She pushed it open for you, and you got in, feeling like some kind of moviestar. It wasn’t often that you saw a car as expensive and luxurious as hers around your admittedly worn-down apartment complex. It was even less often that you got to ride in one.

“Wow,” you note, slipping your seatbelt on, “I figured you’d drive something nice, but this is really something else.”

She lets an amused tuft of air escape her nostrils.

You turn to look at her now, taking her in as the last rays of dying sunlight spill down from the sky. She’s in a nice suit, as expected of her, —one that compliments her lengthy stature noticeably even in a sitting position. The fabric of her blazer is a deep, crimson red, a few shades darker than the scarlet iris of her right eye, and it’s paired with a black undershirt and black dress pants to match. Her hair is slicked back, and her hands are hidden under a pair of black gloves. She’s almost too stunning to be real, you think as she seems to examine your own attire.

Though Moira pays you no compliments, the light smirk that curves her lips upward ever so slightly says enough.

“I’ll have you home before it gets too late,” she says. “This is more for appearances than anything else. Those matter much more than one might think in the scientific field.”

Unsurprisingly, she seems less than excited about all of this, and you temper your own expectations as a result. It wasn’t so much the event itself you were looking forward to, —it was just getting to spend time with her that really lit your fuse, so to speak.

“I’ve got nothing better to be doing,” you note. “I’m yours for the night.”

Maybe that was a little too forward. As soon as you’ve said it, a part of you wishes you hadn’t. . . But Moira gives you a little hum in reply, throwing you a final glance before fixing her eyes ahead, and that’s the end of it. You like to think she was pleased with that admission, though. The drive is quiet, but in a comfortable sense. She seems to be in neutral spirits in spite of her distaste for the final destination, and you’re glad for it (not that you mention it.)

The venue was about as extravagant as you would expect; chandeliers hanging from the ceiling in the party hall, well-dressed staff members carrying platters of red wine and bubbling champagne, weaving their way through the guests with surprising grace and elegance. You can’t help but think to yourself that you’d never survive a day doing their job.

Moira snags the both of you some wine.

“Can’t help but think this is a bit nostalgic,” she comments as you put the rim of the glass to your lips to take a small sip.

The dark red liquid almost matches her outfit.

“I guess so,” you smile sheepishly. “It’s been a bit since we first met, and that’s the last time we drank together.”

“Indeed.”

She takes her own sip now, her lipstick clinging to the glass. You let yourself stare for a moment, gaze caught on her mouth. . . You let yourself wonder what it’d be like to pull her in, match your hand to the curve of her neck, —kiss her, taste the wine on her lips. It’s a bad idea, of course, but. . .

You just can’t help it.

“I suppose I should give you a proper thanks,” Moira notes after a few moments of silence. “I’m sure this kind of event isn’t much like anything you’d be used to.”

“Not in the slightest,” you shake your head.

She appreciates the candid way you answer, not trying to soften the blow for the sake of saving face. Your honesty is part of your charm.

“Lucky you,” she notes. “These things are practically the bane of my existence. They’re just glorified circle-jerks, —everyone squanders their time meeting here to drink alcohol and grit their teeth while they speak with colleagues they haven’t seen since the last one, even though they promise to keep in touch every single time.”

You get the feeling she’s quite pleased they never actually go through with that. The very prospect seems more like a threat than a broken promise.

“Sounds. . . Fake,” you answer lightly.

“Utterly synthetic,” Moira says, venom lacing her words.

She really isn’t holding back tonight, and there’s a certain luster that comes with it, —the kind that makes your insides twist into pretzels. Though she’s seldom the type to be vulgar for the sake of it, her gloves seem to be off tonight. Metaphorically, anyway. The actual gloves on her pretty hands are still there, tightly fitted to her elegant fingers. You’d be a tad more bitter about the view they steal away from you if not for how nice they look on her.

“Worse off, you may think idle workplace gossip would be less common in a career such as mine, —but you’d be wrong,” she tells you. “The amount of nonsense they spew never ceases to amaze me.”

And here you thought it was an impossible task to impress her. Imagine your shock when you found that a tried and true way of doing so was just to spout off pointless grains from the rumor mill. . .

“Seems hellish,” you remark.

You shiver at the mere thought of it, your eyes surveying the loose crowd now, looking for anyone who seems to be questioning your presence at Moira’s side or making assumptions about whether you really belong here. You don’t, and that just makes the anxiety worse. Another sip of wine down the hatchet, but your worries don’t go down with it the way you’d hoped they would.

“Hellish may be a bit of an understatement,” Moira mumbles sourly.

“Really though, a proper thank you for coming along is in order,” she sighs. “If you have anything you’d like in return, do tell. Money isn’t much of an obstacle, —within reason, of course.”

Unsure of how to say that all you really want is for her to pull you in and let her body meld into your own, you give her a little nod and a polite smile instead.

“I’ll let you know if anything comes to mind.”

She seems pleased enough by your confirmation, swallowing down the rest of her wine in a few ungraceful gulps. The way her throat contracts as she tips the glass back sends a shiver down your spine. Everything she does is so mesmerizing, and at this point, it’s just unfair. No one person should be able to captivate you; mind, body, and soul the way she always has, even from the very start. Sitting at a rundown bar, standing tall before a painting of tea and cookies, —drinking down blood red alcohol under dazzling chandeliers and crystalline lights that dance off her eyes like fireflies in mid-July.

You stand by as the night drags on, going much too slow for Moira, and far too quickly for you. It’s clear she’s not content to just be by your side here, and that hurts a little more than it should. She has another two glasses of wine and leaves a lipstick stain on each of them. . . And she doesn’t know just how much you’d risk for her to leave that same mark anywhere on you.

For the briefest of seconds, you consider asking that of her in return, but you banish that thought to the shadow realm just as quickly.

A few fresh faces greet Moira with varying levels of that synthetic politeness she’d mentioned not long ago. Seeing it in real time is like looking through a kaleidoscope of disgust, and you have to force a scowl off your face. You try your best to zone out when they come around, figuring that you’re not supposed to be privy to whatever information they’re sharing, —and that you wouldn’t understand much of it anyway. Unless they were suddenly struck with the urge to discuss color theory or artistic interpretation, you were pretty certain you wouldn’t be of much help. Moira’s field of expertise was worlds different than your own.

“Doctor O’Deorain,” a pretty blonde woman greets, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail and a little black dress clinging to her body in all the right places.

Moira regards her with less hostility than the others, her expression softening a bit.

“I wasn’t expecting you to actually show up,” she continues with a familiar giggle, losing the formal nature of her address. “I’m almost afraid to ask what you were offered in exchange for your attendance.”

If she’s comfortable enough to joke with Moira, you assume she’s known her for long enough to have built that kind of comradery. Maybe it was just a hunch of yours, but you’d have been willing to bet that Moira didn’t ease up to people very quickly. You like to think you were a slight exception to the rule.

“More like what they threatened to take away if I didn’t,” Moira answers, that characteristic bluntness still present in her tone, —but it’s softer with this woman, for one reason or another.

The blonde laughs again, seeming content in the redhead’s presence. Jealousy prickles at your heart, making you feel utterly ridiculous. Her blue eyes finally travel to where you’re standing, as if she’s just now realizing that you’d been standing there the entire time.

“You brought a friend along?” She inquires, her kind smile never fading. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Moira beats you to the punch.

“Lover, actually,” she corrects, one of her gloved hands sneaking around your waist, pulling you closer and nearly knocking you off-balance in the process.

Your throat goes dry, face falling into an expression of panic, but you gather yourself before the blonde woman can take notice. Though you have no idea why she’d lie about such a thing, you can only assume that Moira has her reasons, and the last thing you’d want to do is correct her in front of a colleague, —even about something like this. You’ll probably never see this woman again anyway, so no harm, no foul. (Well, maybe some harm to your heart, but what else is new.)

The woman seems shocked by even the idea of it.

“It’s nice to meet you as well,” you say with a forced smile.

It’s not that she isn’t kind or easy to talk to. She’s both of those things, actually, and you can admire that (and you do.) But you’re still reeling from Moira’s sudden concession, and making small talk is the last thing on your mind.

The rest of the conversation is a blur. You do your best to fall into the background, hoping that each of them might just forget you even exist. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, beating something dangerously close to out of control.

The feeling of her hand on your waist all but burns itself into your flesh.

By the time they’ve said their goodbyes, she’s taken it away. But it’s far too late to fix the damage she’s done.

Moira never does explain herself that night, and you don’t have the nerve to ask. Questions are ripe on the tip of your tongue the entire ride back to your apartment, but you sit in silence just as you did before, —albeit much less comfortably.

It’s then that you’re forced to acknowledge the crueler parts of her. . . And yet, you fear, you’re still falling for her anyway.

Communication is brief and inconsistent over the rough week and a half following the event. You send a few messages out of nicety, hoping she might choose to spark up a conversation. . . But she doesn’t, and you chalk it up to her being busy with work. At least, that��s the story your rational mind would like you to believe. The part of you that you’d like to shut out completely warns you only of the possibility that you’re being overbearing, and it’s pushing her further away.

You begin to worry that it’s now or never. If things continue as they are, Moira might as well just be another person who only contacts you when it’s convenient or they’re feeling a little nostalgic and want to hear a whisper from a ghost of their past.

As a means to counteract that possibility, you decide that it’s time to put that favor from Moira to good use. Best of all, —it’s utterly free of charge.

She agrees to meet you at your little painting studio to provide some assistance. Upon arriving, she walks around and gazes long and hard at each of your pieces, —finished and unfinished alike, sparing you the flurry of compliments she’s sure you’ve heard a million times over. If she were anyone else, her silence might have been a bad omen, but you know her well enough to understand that she means well.

“I’m not certain I can really be of any help,” she says, giving you a sidelong glance over her angular shoulder. “I enjoy art, but I haven’t the slightest clue how to create it. I leave that to the lot of you who’ve crafted your skills and put in the time.”

“For many of us, —myself included— inspiration is just as important as skill,” you reply. “These days, it’s been running a bit dry. But I was hoping you could get the wheels turning, if you know what I mean.”

Moira thinks she has a good idea of it.

“And how, pray tell, should I go about that?” She asks. “Do I just need to sit here and pose?”

“Actually,” you say, hoping to rip this off like a bandaid, —because you know it’s bizarre and that she might well say no, but you’re sick of wondering about it.

As it goes, you’ve prepared for the worst, but you’re hoping for the best.

“I’d like to paint on you.”

She looks at you evenly, as if she’s not shocked by the request at all. You’re more surprised by her lack of a visceral reaction than she is by your requisition.

“Interesting,” she notes, though it doesn’t sound like this is particularly intriguing to her, “—where, exactly?”

“Just like that?” You laugh. “No hesitation? You’re just gonna let me do it?”

“That’s dependent on the where,” she replies, an amused smile thinning her lips out. “If I’m right to assume you’re keen on keeping this within a certain boundary, I see no real reason to object. I do owe you, after all.”

Above most things, Moira is practical. She sees this as repayment, not only for your attendance at her working banquet, but also for the many afternoons, evenings, and nights she’s talked your ear off, sharing her own disgruntled feelings over coffee, steak, and whiskey neat respectively.

You offer her an appreciative smile, as if she’s done something so loving for you out of the kindness of her beating heart.

It’s more out of obligation, you fear, but you’re fine to ignore that for now.

“Will an arm suffice?” She asks.

“Maybe two,” you answer cheekily, and she doesn’t object.

You grab her a wooden stool to sit on, one much less rinky-dink than the barstool she’d sat on the night you first met as you go about procuring your materials; paints, brushes, —the necessities for this kind of ordeal.

“Can you roll your sleeves up a bit more for me?” You request.

“Would it be easier to just discard the shirt?” She asks.

Your breath catches in your throat. Yes, she’s probably right in some sense. . . That likely would make this process increasingly easier in a pragmatic sense, —but you’re certain seeing her in such a state would do numbers on your heart that you’re not sure you’re really equipped to handle.

“I. . . I suppose so,” you nod.

You try not to stare as her elegant fingers undo the buttons of her shirt with ease, like she’s a master of the craft. Her back arches ever so slightly as she slips her arms out, long and limber as they fall to her sides and she keeps the mess of white fabric balled in her hands now. Her bra is a stark black, the kind of deep shade that really contrasts with every inch of her pale, porcelain skin. You swallow nervously at the sight of her, taking the shirt from her hands to drape it over an unused easel.

She seems to have no reservations about this. Maybe it’s because she’s simply confident in every aspect of herself, —or maybe it’s because she trusts you enough to remain stoic in the face of it. You don’t ask, and Moira doesn’t tell.

“Any ideas?” She says instead, “—For the artwork.”

“I was considering something floral and nature-themed,” you answer, focusing in on that aspect of the ordeal so as to forget that she’s sitting in front of you like this, so much of her on display for your eyes only.

“Butterflies with carnations,” you add, “—or daisies, perhaps.”

“I’m impartial to hyacinth myself,” she notes.

It’s not so much a suggestion for your art piece as it is something Moira simply wants to share with you. Still, you think it best to run with it, and you give her a slightly lopsided smile.

“Hyacinth it is.”

She watches with curiosity as you go through the motions, —mixing colors, cleaning your brushes between them, dabbing them dry. It’s not often that Moira has the luxury of watching something like this in person. . . In fact, now that she’s thinking of it, she’s not sure she’s ever witnessed an artist work firsthand at all. In her lifetime, she’s seen innumerous things she would personally describe as incredible, —and unbeknownst to you, this is one of them.

“This is actually quite relaxing,” she says. “Like a massage. I don’t fancy those much, I loathe the thought of a stranger touching me so extensively, —but this is nice.”

You offer her a small smile.

“I’m glad,” you reply. “I knew it was a bit of a strange request, and I wouldn’t have blamed you for turning me away, but I’m happy you felt comfortable enough to allow it.”

“Perish the thought,” Moira shakes her head slightly. “If anyone knows about unconventional methods, it would be me. I know better than most that in order to reach one’s full potential, sometimes it’s necessary to step outside the proverbial box.”

That wasn’t quite your mindset going into it, but if she was ready and willing to place a perfectly good excuse for this in your lap, then so be it. Truth be told, you were simply a conduit of passion to your very core, and in a perhaps distorted sense of the word, this was romantic to you.

You hum in acknowledgement.

“While you’re here. . . Can I ask you something?” You inquire.

Though it feels like your heart is in your throat now, you manage to keep your hand steady enough to continue your work with little disruption.

“You can ask,” she says, “though my ability to answer might waver depending on what the question is.”

“At that event. . . You told that blonde woman we were lovers. Why?”

It’s been eating at you since it happened, in more ways than one, and now seems like as good a time as any to get it off your chest. You steal a peak at Moira’s face, noting the way she remains completely composed, even in the face of such an off-color inquiry.

“So I did,” she says plainly, certainly not the type to deny responsibility or deflect accountability for her own actions. “It’s an unfortunate fact for me that my colleagues can be quite. . . Eccentric. And by that, I mean they often poke their noses in the affairs of others with something similar to reckless abandon.”

Her brows furrow now as she thinks about it, clearly agitated.

“It’s not uncommon for them to pry into my personal matters, and I was hoping to quench their overbearing interest in my romantic life by giving them a glimpse into it, —if only a false one. Like I said before, everyone there is in it for themselves. It’s all synthetic. . . An act they put on to please one another a few times a year. That night, it was my turn to do the pleasing.”

“That makes sense,” you acknowledge.

Of course it did. You weren’t expecting anything less from her of all people.

“Did it work?”

A low rumble of brief laughter resounds from her chest, —husky and divine.

“Like a charm,” she tells you. “I’m sure they’ve found another staff member to harass with their incessant yammerings about intimacy and partnership.”

“You’re not a fan of those?” You ask, and the question is punctuated by the quiet ripples of your paintbrush through water as you clean it.

Moira is silent for a few moments, as if pondering on your inquiry.

“I don’t. . . Dislike intimacy,” she replies, —though she doesn’t sound as sure of that response as she normally would have had the two of you been discussing anything else.

“Rather, I don’t dislike the idea of it,” she corrects quickly. “In practice, I suppose that’s a different story. I don’t offer my trust like candy, and for me, intimacy only follows trust.”

“I’d argue this is quite intimate,” you note softly, blending two shades of deeper purples together on her bare skin. “Does that mean I’ve won your trust?”

You fear you’re pushing your luck here, but can’t stop yourself from asking. Eventually, Moira lowers her chin a bit, seeming amused by your line of questioning.

“I suppose so.”

Bingo.

If nothing else, that was your win for the day. If nothing else, —Moira trusted you. . . And that was more than enough for the time being.

You thrive off the high of that evening for the next several days. You don’t even worry when things go silent on Moira’s end. It’s all too easy to simmer yourself down now that you know for certain she trusts you, —and it’s almost elating to hold that information so near and dear to your heart. She invites you for a drink that Saturday night, in the cooling heat of summer, and you jump at the first opportunity to see her in person again.

This time, the bar isn’t quite so run down. It might just be the fanciest one you’ve ever set foot in, and the outfit you wore that you were worried would come off as overdressed now feels like the opposite. Things like this remind you of just how different you live in comparison to Moira. . . It’s easy to forget that she’s quite wealthy, and though you’re well past your struggling artist phase, you’re far from living the way you imagine she does day in and day out.

She’s not keen on discussing work tonight, so you sit around nursing lemon drop martinis with sugar-lined rims, hanging off her every word like the admitted lovesick fool that you are.

It’s nothing profound, nothing inherently important in the grand scheme of it all. . . But it’s nice to know that her favorite season is autumn, and it’s nice to know that she can play a bit of piano. It’s then that you really understand just how much little things really do matter, even within the finite days we’re given. Especially within them.

Just like your drink, it’s slightly bittersweet.

You talk with her well into the night, eventually forgoing the bar to simply walk around under the stars and the city lights. And maybe it’s alcohol or that aforementioned trust she’s placed in you, —but she tells you that she misses her home on nights like these, and when she sees you shiver, she drapes her jacket over your shoulders and walks a little closer to you now. So close that the back of her hand brushes against yours, —once, twice, thrice— but the fourth time never comes.

Instead, she reaches out in between the hum of passing cars and the hollow breeze that swishes by, and takes your hand in her own. You don’t bother to bite back the smile that graces your lips.

That night, you consider telling her all the things you’ve been keeping bottled up inside, —all the time you’ve spent groveling over her and her unfair ability to captivate you like no other. But, a part of you is almost certain she already knows now, as if the poetry written in your heart has all but flowed right into her own from the lines in your palm.

As summer moves both far too slow and much too fast all in a single breath, Moira becomes a semi-frequent guest in your studio. Sometimes she simply watches as you work on canvas, and at others, she becomes the canvas herself. You have a little collection of photographs of her now, —posed according to your will, displaying her painted arms in the process. It must be hours upon hours now that you've spent gracing her skin with your brushes, listening to her tell you about her day; the good and bad parts.

She leaves out the finer details, not wanting to bore you with the intricacies of a job one could only understand through years of training and experience. Still, you know more than you probably should about her research, and you're there when the scientific community at large decides that she's a perfect fit for their next public enemy.

For how harsh the punishment is, you'd think she would have been more upset, —but she remained indifferent to it all, as if taking it in stride was the only way she knew how to cope with it. Moira asked that if you stumbled across any articles of her, you pay them no mind. . . And you didn't. Maybe that was a naive choice, but her work was only your concern to a certain extent, and you were already well aware that she was prone to bending ethical guidelines. At the end of the day, you knew her as a woman rather than a scientist, and that was that.

You have to admit, it’s a little tortuous seeing her so often, being constantly reminded of just how hard you’ve fallen, and yet never having the courage to act on it. You often hype yourself up, readying yourself to shoot your shot, —but as soon as Moira is actually in front of you, all the confidence you’d spent the prior day and night building up all but crumbles to your feet in pathetic little pieces.

You sit with her at that cafe again, sipping on lattes together in the early afternoon. She seems more relaxed today than she is most of the time, —like something amazing has happened, though she hasn’t told you what. If anything even happened at all. For a moment, you let yourself believe that she’s just happy to be here with you.

The new employee of the quaint shop slips you a napkin with some scribbled numbers on it, and you feel a sense of deja vu. It wasn’t too long ago that Moira gave you her phone number in much the same way.

“His number, I presume?” Moira inquires.

You nod.

“I was wondering when he’d decide to make a move,” she laughs. “He’s had his eyes on you since you sat down.”

“O-Oh?” You utter, heat rising to your cheeks, “—Has he? I didn’t notice.”

You were a little distracted by the way she held the handle of her cup, though you’re keen on keeping that particular detail to yourself.

“Indeed,” she confirms. “So, any plans to take him up on it?”

“Ah. . . No, I don’t think so,” you shake your head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered and all, I just. . .”

“He isn’t to your liking?” Moira guesses.

She’s so nonchalant about this that it’s close to driving you wild.

“I don’t know that I’d say it like that,” you mumble.

“He’s not your type, then?” She revises.

“I don’t think I have any specific type,” you answer.

“Perhaps there’s someone else?”

Your face falls and it doesn’t go unnoticed no matter how quickly you right yourself. There’s no hiding that it’s the case now, —but you have a feeling she already knows as much. She’d known it for days, weeks, —maybe months. Maybe she knew you were falling for her before you yourself had the wherewithal to pick up on it.

“Something like that,” you mutter, taking a long, drawn out sip of your drink.

Something like that.

She doesn’t press it any further, letting it drop completely for the time being. You part ways as you exit the cafe, and while she spends the rest of her day in her lab, you meddle about your studio, unable to keep your focus steady enough to get much done.

Perhaps there’s someone else. . .

You sigh deeply, frustrated and overwhelmed. If there was ever a time when you wished she’d be as blunt as she always seems to be, —it’s now. A part of you is certain even rejection would hurt less than this; less than the unknown. You’re sick of sitting in this pit of misty grey indifference, stuck in limbo, always waiting for the right time (that never actually comes.)

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. “Fuck.”

You feel pathetically underproductive, sitting against the wall in your studio as the sun begins to set. You’ve done so little, but your mind has been racing for hours, and there’s still no sure-fire way you’ve found to reason yourself out of this mess. Telling her how you feel is always an option, but there’s a risk there that you’re just not comfortable with as things stand now. Moira pushes and pulls, and you don’t know what to make of it.

She makes that choice for you, as expected of her.

When your phone buzzes, lighting up with her name on the screen, you’re close to jumping out of your skin. It says so little, but it makes you feel so much.

Dinner?

Though you’re not particularly hungry despite having eaten very little all day, you quickly agree, if for no other reason than to bask in her presence and soak her in for everything she’s worth (which is more than any simple number could ever do justice, no matter how large.) For the sake of having an idea of how to dress, you ask where.

My place.

And so it goes. You get her address and she tells you to swing around by 7:30. You’re there by 7:28, spending the last two minutes outside her door, preparing yourself for whatever is to happen next. This building is incredible, —clearly high-class and unsuitable for the average working person based on price alone. You’d expect nothing less of Moira.

The outside pales in comparison to the inside, however. Her bookshelves are filled to the brim with titles, —some academically inclined, and others more for pleasure (though you’re not certain Moira would see much of a difference between the two.) She greets you in her typical attire, dress pants and a white button-up, although the top two buttons are undone tonight and her hair lacks any form of styling. You’re staring as she sits you down at a table overlooking the city, but you can’t help it, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. There’s something about her tonight that has your heart shivering in your chest.

“Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes,” she tells you. “Feel free to look around. I don’t mind what you touch as long as it isn’t broken.”

There’s a twinge of a smile on her lips and eyeliner slightly smudged beside her eyes. This is probably the closest you’ve come to seeing Moira in her rawest state, topping even the version of her you saw that night at the bar. It seems like that was so long ago now, but also feels like it was just yesterday somehow.

“You’re cooking?” You inquire.

“I dabble,” she replies. “It’s a necessary skill. I’m no Michelin star chef, mind you, but I can manage a proper meal.”

She hasn’t even set the food before you yet, and you already know she’s being far too humble. In the meantime, she pours you a glass of champagne, apologizing for the fact that it’s all she has on hand besides whiskey. You think nothing of it. If you didn’t know better, you’d consider this a date. . . And maybe you will, if only to yourself.

While she’s off in the kitchen, you run your fingers along the many book spines of her collection, imagining what she’d look like just sitting near a window in this place, a cup of tea resting near her, those elegant fingers flipping through pages.

Dinner is mostly quiet, but delicious. As you’d guessed, she was certainly being humble about her own culinary skills. She takes your compliments with lilted smirks. Moira seems more comfortable here, which makes sense. . . This is where she lives, after all, where she sleeps and spends a fair amount of time (you’re assuming) when she’s not in the lab or off doing something with you. She keeps her space impeccably neat.

You ask about the things strewn about her place, —about some of the awards she displays on a shelf all to themselves. It’s pressed into a corner, like she isn’t much proud they’re even there. She doesn’t seem to mind telling the tales, but doesn’t jump at the opportunity; like she’s doing it to quench your curiosity rather than stroke her own ego. She gives you a few book recommendations after gauging your tastes, —offers to let you borrow her copies, and you tell her you might just take her up on the offer, even if you won’t.

“It’s a bit late,” she says at a quarter past ten, “I hadn’t meant to keep you so long.”

But she doesn’t apologize for it, and Moira doesn’t seem sorry at all.

“I can drive you home,” she continues, “—or I could walk with you.”

She leans in a bit closer now, and you swallow nervously. You’re convinced you’re misconstruing something, but her lips are so near to your ear that you can almost feel them ghost against your skin.

“Or you’re welcome to stay,” she says softly, “if you’d like.”

You’re scared she can feel your heart hammering away in your chest. A part of you wants to just do as she’s offering, —stay the night with her, let her crawl under your skin, let her wrap you up in her arms and melt into her. But you’re not certain you’re ready for that yet. It’s a leap, and the both of you know what happens between adults when the lights dim and you stay over.

When you say nothing, she places one of those beautiful, elegant hands on the side of your face, cupping your cheek. You never really knew Moira could be that gentle. She waits, watching as your eyes flicker about for a moment, then leans closer; almost touching, but not. Like she’s waiting for permission or rejection. You meet her gaze, then let it flicker off nervously, and a smirk grows on her face.

Moira’s lips fall just to the side of your own, pressing a light kiss to the corner of your mouth. She leans back, standing to her full height, letting her hand linger on your face before pulling away. You were hesitant, and she could feel it.

“Goodnight,” she says, —as if she already knew how this night was going to end.

She’s not upset, and you let yourself smile up at her.

“Goodnight, Moira.”

This thing with her is intoxicating. It’s like a drug, and it’s getting in the way of everything. You’re finding it difficult to even be in her presence now without your eyes wandering or thoughts sneaking off somewhere they need not be. You fantasize about her more than you’d like to admit.

And now, you know that she must like you to, —at least to a certain extent. There’s plenty you aren’t certain of, plenty you’ll likely overthink in the future, but. . . You want this. You want her. You’ve known that for weeks, and now the only question left is what the hell you’re going to do about it.

You tell yourself the next time she comes onto you, you’ll accept her advances more readily. You’ll ask for the kiss she silently offers, tell her you want to stay the night. . . Maybe you’ll take the initiative, grab her by the ivory button-up and stand on the tips of your toes to press your lips against her mouth, even if it’s somewhat out of your character.

But then what?

What happens after, when the heat has cooled down, when the water’s stopped boiling, —when her dry luster has dimmed and you’re tired of being tossed to the wayside everytime she’s set her mind to something else? What happens when you’ve fallen down the list of her priorities and she has a million and one things to think about before she ever gets to you?

What happens when you run out of excuses to make for her. . . ?

And why doesn’t that seem to matter to you as much as you know it should?

You wonder if that’s what it means to love someone. . . To know that there are parts of her you’ll likely wretch at the sight of, to know that there are facets of her that you’ll find absolutely fucking repulsive, —and you’ll love her in spite of it, just as you do now.

Or maybe you’re just a lovesick fool.

She kissed you a few nights later in your shabby little studio. Your eyes had flickered from the roses you were painting on her arm to the glimmering red and blue of her irises that still shone even in the yellow lighting of the dying bulb above your heads, and then to the bow of her lips. Moira reached out, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear, as if this was how she’d chosen to test the waters. Your stare was so tender, and even she, in all of her romantic ineptness, could see that you were practically begging for her to make the first move so you wouldn’t have to be the one to break the ice.

You felt one of her fingernails trace your jawline from chin to lobe, then back down again. She cupped your cheek that time around, her surprisingly smooth palm sitting warmly against your skin.

You’ll never forget the way she paused just then, or the way she met your gaze just to lean in closer, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips before she asked simply: “May I?”

And even when you were still uncertain of what that really meant, —uncertain of what she’d do in the moments that followed your approval, if only naively, you gave her a nod, because you trusted her.

Her lips were soft and imperfect, and her lipstick wasn’t the type she could kiss with and leave nothing of the remnants behind. The reddish-orange color left an imprint on your mouth, faintly, of course, but it was there. It served as proof that what happened wasn’t just in your imagination anymore. You felt your heart stutter when she pulled away, and your head was swimming.

Since then, you’ve gotten that same feeling more times than you can count. Sometimes, it seems to live in the marrow of your bones. You had it for hours on end the first night you spent with her, all but glistening in afterglow under your worn-out covers. She never complained about the quainter life you lived, even though it often paled in comparison to her own. Moira held you just the same whether on your creaky frame and dreary mattress or on the king-sized bed in her luxury apartment that overlooked the cityscape.

You get that feeling when she takes your hand in her own, —when she traces shapes and cursive letters against your flesh under humble moonlight. You get it when she peels you apart, when she looks inside your chest with a single glance, when she soothes your deepest flaws simply because she can.

And it’s not always perfect. Sometimes she’s snippy, sometimes you’re sensitive, and sometimes you sleep in the spare room of her apartment just to make room for your thoughts. Sometimes she doesn’t call when she knows she’ll be working late, and sometimes you don’t see her for a few days when her workload piles up too high and she shacks up in her laboratory. Sometimes she forgets to make the most of every moment, and sometimes you shut her out when you know deep down that you shouldn’t.

But there’s always love to be found, —no matter where you are. She attends company banquets with you on her arm, just to show you off like a prize. You sit and watch her with stars in your eyes when she cooks, when she reads, when she paints the press-on nails she wears like claws for protection. She makes your coffee for you in the mornings, memorizes the way you like it, and keeps the additives on hand (even when she drinks hers straight from the pot.) You make her your greatest source of inspiration, filling in page after page of her likeness, never tiring of a single thing.

It’s not always easy. Love never really is, —not even in most of the movies these days. But as Moira crawls into her bed, —your bed—, the bed you share now more nights than not, her hair ever so slightly longer now than on the night you first met, she drapes a thin arm over your waist and welcomes your warmth, pulling you closer, smelling faintly of the perfume you gave her for her birthday, —you’re certain some things are not just meant to be, but are meant to be maintained: and this love is one of them.

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