#to splash hot arts soup
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Hey
You’ve been recruited at Rhodes Island
Generate a random noun here, that’s your Operator codename
#Mine was Soup#I’m the operator At Soup#arknights#for bonus fun describe your operator#I think Soup is a 4 star splash caster#they have a casting label#to splash hot arts soup
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Honeyed
Summary: You hate being touched, but you might be willing to put aside your discomfort for a tattoo from Joel.
Pairing: tattoo artist!Joel Miller x f!Reader
Word count: ~11.7k
Warnings: slow build, no outbreak tattoo!au, reader has issues with touch and is mostly touch adverse, tattoos and getting tattooed (the reader only has one tattoo that is described in any detail), description of a past abusive relationship and a bad experience getting tattooed, insecurity, anxiety, loneliness, implied undefined past trauma with men, Joel gets to have both his daughters in this
A/N: We're ignoring canon and pretending like Joel can draw for this fic, thank you. I love this fic with everything I am and hope you all like it too. I'm trying something new with this header because none of the gif were giving me what I wanted, so I hope its not too cringe as I am not an aesthetic girlie. Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!
Summer is at its peak when you first happen by Joel Miller's tattoo studio.
The sky is a jewel bright, cerulean blue, the shining yellow saturation of the sun blurring the air around you in a washed out haze that reminds you of childhood summers past.
Main Street’s sidewalk is hot enough to fry an egg, hot enough to boil soup. It sends shimmering waves up from the asphalt. Blinding sunshine pierces through the tired trees that line the road, undulating waves of emerald green and twinkling golden light shifting over the pavement. The leaves wilt in the heat. A single cloud floats on the sky’s horizon.
The sun feels nice, maybe a little like you’re baking alive, but you don’t mind it. When you suck in a deep breath of that sun warmed air, you feel at home—it tastes like dust and heat and the slightly floral desert bloom.
The town, just a couple hours outside Austin, already feels more like home to you than the city ever did. It’s idyllic, lush with shaded parks, an ice cream parlor and a coffee shop, plenty of restaurants and food trucks, a walkable little main thoroughfare not far from your apartment above a bookstore.
It’s more than idyllic; it feels like a town straight out of a novel. Quiet and quaint and safe.
And, apparently, it has a tiny tattoo studio that you’d somehow missed on all your walks through town.
The shop looks a bit rustic—all raw wood tones and metal—but the art that hangs in the front windows is beautiful. Paintings that seem to be for sale hang next to artfully taken photos of healed tattoos.
You step closer, pressing a hand over your brow to block out part of the glare that rains down from the sky in glimmering waves.
The lone cloud in the sky slides over the sun in what feels like a moment of divine intervention, just for you, so you can see the displayed art properly.
It’s lovely, and your skin begins to itch and tingle with a need you know well. You know exactly what you’d ask for, from the hand of the person who’d created that which hangs in the front window.
You want—need—another tattoo. You need this person’s art to live on your skin, to make a home there.
You step back from the glass as the cloud drifts on and the sun reveals itself again, perfect golden rays slipping over your exposed skin. The world seems to filter back in to you then. The heat of the day, the hush of the breeze that does nothing to cool the air, the sweat gathering at the base of your throat.
Children shriek at the park a block over, splashing in the fountain at the center of it all, parents reclined on benches in the sun, cold lemonade close at hand. The scent of sugar and sun and fried food burns through the air.
The buzzing need only increases as you note the name of the shop and move on to the record store and then the clothing boutique, your mind still hovering in front of the studio.
As much as you would have liked to just burst in, you want more than what a walk-in appointment could probably get you. That, and you needed to do some research about the place before you decided, no matter how much your skin itched with want.
To your dismay, the tattoo shop seems to only have one artist, though it shouldn’t have surprised you, considering the size of the shop. It’s tiny and you doubt there was room for more than one artist to comfortably work there.
A fairly new instagram account lists his name as Joel Miller, owner of, and soul artist at, the studio you had passed. The shop doesn’t seem to have a website, but the few google reviews that it does have are all glowingly positive.
Bookings appear to be wide open according to the instagram bio, but a different kind of itch crawls under your skin at the thought of being tattooed by another man. Your stomach goes foamy, gives an uncomfortable lurch, at the thought of any man at all having to touch you.
You scroll through the few posts that have made their way onto the account, the last dated two days ago. And, for the first time in years, you feel the need for this person’s art on your skin begin to outweigh your aversion to touch.
There are no pictures of Joel Miller, just his art, though some of the posts give glimpses of strong hands and thick forearms. Despite yourself, arousal pools in your belly at the sight. A few scars run beneath the wiry black hair on his arms, thick veins snake beneath his skin to collect in rough, strong hands that speak to hard labor. It makes you wonder if he’d always been a tattoo artist or if he’d made a career change at some point.
Some of the captions on the posts make you snort and you have to wonder if he runs the account himself. You somehow can’t picture the owner of those hands typing out the cheesy, often pun filled, lines.
You ruminate on it for weeks, passing by the shop anytime you have to walk through town to admire the ever changing line up of photos and art pieces hung in the windows. The second week a drawing of a doe appears among the photos and paintings—big eyes wide, ears alert as she looks over her shoulder, surrounded by a thick forest bright with sun and shadow. Bumblebees hover around her alert ears.
She looks familiar but you can’t quite place why.
Sometimes you go out of your way to pass by, just to check out the new photos, even making a day of it, buying yourself an expensive iced coffee and lingering far too long in front of the window, just looking, pretending like the small shop doesn’t take up your every thought.
You spend each evening hoping for a new post to the shop’s instagram page, hoping, too, that the new post contains glimpses of more than Joel Miller’s hands.
The man remains an enigma, a mystery, and if he’s ever in the shop when you stand in the window, you never see him. You convince yourself that if you could just get a glance at him, you’d know. You’d know if you could handle being tattooed by him.
You find yourself rolling your eyes at yourself often. You avoid hugs with friends, cringe your way through having anyone unfamiliar do your hair, tense at casual accidental touch. Phantom echoes of pain and want twin themselves around your heart, slide thick and cloying around your chest, breaking your breath from your body.
It’s inexplicable, how much you crave touch and fear it. It’s terrifying, how you wonder what Joel’s hands would feel like.
Probably it would feel like everyone else’s touch always has. Like your skin is too tight, like your heart might stop beating, like there’s something wrong with you for feeling like prey near capture, like the soft press of another person's hand might start burning.
One hot afternoon, you finally find out what Joel looks like.
The heat is relentless that day as it has been for weeks, the ice cream you’d stopped for at the local parlor rapidly melting as you completed your, now weekly, routine of stopping by the tattoo studio. As unbearable as the heat is, you somehow still find it blissful. On this day, a young woman stands outside the shop cleaning the front window. The door is propped open, frigidly cold air swirling out onto the street.
“Sarah?” A voice calls from within, graveled and gruff and warm. “You ‘bout finished up out there? We need to get goin’. Tommy’s waitin’.”
The girl, who could only be Sarah, turns away from the window, swiping a few errant strands of her hair away from her forehead, her opposite hand anchoring on her hip as she answers back.
You don’t catch her response, too distracted trying to glimpse the man just inside the door.
All you’re able to see for a moment is a crop of dark hair laced with a fine sprinkling of gray before his broad shoulders that test the strength of the t-shirt he wears comes into view. Dark wash jeans fit snugly around his thighs and narrow hips, worn but well kept boots on his feet. He’s certainly handsome and looks rugged, and that both scares you and thrills you.
When you glance back up to his face, you meet his eyes. The slash of sun, a spinning shard of light falls over his gaze when he pokes his head out the door. In the warmth of the Texas sun, his eyes are cast in honeyed tones. The man you know must be Joel Miller smiles at you, one forearm lifting to brace against the doorway, the lines by his eyes crinkling up. His beard is threaded with that attractive gray too.
“Howdy,” he says and he looks like he means to say more, but something seizes your throat and you avert your eyes and keep walking, barely managing to nod back politely. You don’t dare to breathe until you’re well past his shop.
It takes you two blocks to realize the ice cream in your fist had melted over the edge of the cup and dripped over your fingers and that the man whose art you’ve been lusting over for weeks is just as pretty as his hands.
Joel noticed you the first day you lingered outside his studio.
He’d watched you cup a hand over your eyes, squinting against the glare of the sun. Your nose had scrunched up too as you gazed in at what was hung in the window.
A curl of nervousness that he couldn’t exactly place had settled hard in his gut. But you just looked, eyes filled with wonder as honeyed sunshine fell in drafts around you. He half expected a colony of bees to buzz around you, like some long forgotten god.
You’d reminded him then of a deer caught by surprise, big eyes and searching gaze pulling him in, something skittish and troublesome looming around you.
It wasn’t in Joel’s nature to bother folks on the street anyway, but he suspected if he even cracked the door open you’d go flying down the street in a cloud of warmed sun, just like a deer that hears the first snap of a branch under a hunter’s foot.
Eventually you’d moved on, and he’d tried not to feel too bad about it, not that he had any real reason to.
His hand had itched as you walked away, to pick up a paint brush or a pencil or a whittling knife.
To his surprise, you start coming back all the time. A least once a week, and sometimes it seemed like you came by just to come by, like you didn’t have any other reason to be out.
His girls notice, too, when they visit because of course they do.
Sarah is kinder about it than Ellie who tells him to man up and talk to you.
He just tells her to mind her own business, watching you look at the things he’d created with wonder and reverence. It flatters him, really, makes an embarrassing blush he’ll never admit to heat his chest. He considers himself a pretty average artist.
But each time he thinks about following Ellie’s advice, he sees your doe eyes and knows he’d frighten you.
There’s a drawing that hangs in the window now—several actually—of a doe with wide, curious eyes, not necessarily afraid but cautious. He can’t seem to stop painting, drawing, whittling deer.
One deer really, a very particular doe that bees seemed to want to follow.
He wonders if you know that that painting in the front window is of you, if you recognize yourself. You surely don’t, because you keep coming by.
“Since when are you so obsessed with deer?” Sarah asks one evening. The light has faded from the sky in an orange and red blaze, the close blanket of night wreathing the street outside, street lamps buzzing haloing yellow light in patches down the sidewalk.
“Always liked deer,” he comments, mumbling it more than anything.
Sarah rolls her eyes. “Sure.”
He’s right not to disturb you though. The day he finally gets the chance to say hello to you, when Sarah had insisted on washing the front window free of the accumulated summer dust despite his protests that he would do it, fear darts behind your eyes, nervousness seizing your shoulders. You don’t so much as look at him, head ducked, feet carrying you swiftly down the road away from him.
A thread of worry that you’d stop coming by wrapped around his chest until the next week when you’d again lodged yourself in the window, peering in at the ever rotating catalog of his work.
He figures that’s fine for now.
He’d rather you be there, unreachable on the other side of the glass, than have you disappear entirely.
You are a creature of distrust. Of longing and starved skin, of loneliness and want. You aren’t sure where those things begin and you end, you aren’t sure where it started. Maybe you had been born that way, shoved onto the Earth and into existence with a mistrust of the world that shaped you into an infinitely lonely thing, an incredibly wary thing.
There’s always been something missing inside you, that might let you bridge that chasm inside you, climb to the other side and put yourself in someone else’s hands and hope they didn’t burn the path behind you.
Maybe you are skittish and adverse to touch by nature. Maybe it started when you were a kid, with your parents who have never been tactile, not even when you were a child, not even when you were hurt or in pain.
But you aren’t sure, you have never been sure.
What you do know is that it's left behind a raw hole, aching with a loneliness you can't figure out how to battle.
The times you had slipped your heart into someone else’s palm, wet and sticky with blood, the viscera of who you are, admitting to the pain that vibrated always at a low level frequency below your skin, you regretted it.
Mostly because you’re never able to explain it. It just is. You just are.
It’s who you’ve always been, and sometimes one step forward necessitated two steps back with how much you could handle.
Touch wasn’t even always bad, sometimes it was just too much. And no one wanted or tried to understand that sometimes it just felt too good, overwhelmed you to the point of exhaustion, and sometimes to pain.
You’ve always wondered if there would ever be anyone who’s touch felt safe, felt like it belonged.
The aversion you have to touch and the deepening trust issues that grew wilder every year were only solidified by your last boyfriend, by the tattoo he carved into your skin. He confirmed everything you ever needed to know about yourself, that you were not worth cracking the code on, that no one would ever be willing to try to handle you with care, to expose you slowly, to meet you halfway. To know when you asked not to be touched that you weren’t mad or punishing them.
If he wasn’t willing to put up with you, he’d said, to figure it out, then no one else would be.
You swore off having a relationship, content in the loneliness that you were destined to have claw at your heart, at least in that way.
But with that tattoo came too a deep mistrust, an aversion to anyone getting too close to you, a swearing off, a final nail in the coffin of trying for things to be thrown back in your face. He’s the reason you moved to this tiny town, away from Austin and all the memories that he’d left in you like jagged shards of mirror, reflecting everything you didn’t want to see.
Before he tattooed you, you’d been tattooed several times before. The experience had always been good, one of the few ways you didn’t mind being touched. It had always been the making of a happy memory for you. And he had taken that from you.
He hadn’t just stolen something you loved from you, but shut the door on vulnerability or intimacy with almost anyone.
Joel Miller’s tattoo studio, his stupidly attractive hands, the deep drawl of his howdy, and most of all the beauty of his art in the front window of the shop, captures your mind, ensnares your every thought. It’s woven a net around all the thoughts and worries that normally flutter around your head and calls for them to be silent.
“All I do is think about this damn tattoo,” you say to a friend back in Austin one evening, phone squished between your shoulder and your face as you cook dinner. “Is that normal? Like, I can’t just go get one somewhere else, by anyone else.”
No one knew about the sharp fanged demons that lingered in your past. The distrust and loneliness that ate out parts of your heart, bite by bite, year by year. But Leah does know about your ex, about the tattoo on your shoulder that still aches with long healed pain.
“You said it looks like he does walk-ins, right?” She asks, not unkindly. “Why not just go talk to him for a bit,” she eases you into it. “See if it might be the right fit. I know. . .things in your past haven’t been easy. But he might be alright. I can go with you, if you think that might help.”
And that doesn’t seem so bad. Just talking to him doesn’t seem so bad. You find that you want to. Then you would know if you couldn’t be tattooed by him, no matter how much you admired his art. Leah reminds you again of the nice google reviews, the funny little captions on his instagram posts, that he is not your ex even if he is a stranger.
“He’s running a business,” she says gently. “It isn’t like then.”
She’s right, you know she is, and you miss the experience, you miss getting tattooed.
So, the next morning you brace yourself and make the now familiar walk to the little studio, picking up an iced coffee to sip on the way so you hopefully won’t be too sweaty in the early morning sun that blooms rose pink on the horizon. It gives your hands something to do too, and you fidget with the rim of the plastic lid as you walk.
When you push the door open, Joel is standing at the counter. He has glasses perched on the end of his nose and is paging through a leather bound appointment book that sits next to an ancient computer that looks as though it hasn’t been switched on in a decade.
Something about the sight makes your shoulders loosen just a bit. You certainly hadn’t expected him to look like that, domestic and relaxed and calm. His pen scratches across the paper, a landline phone slotted against his ear.
He glances up at you in the still open doorway, surprise pulling over his features for a brief moment before he makes a hasty end to the call. It makes heat crawl up your body, the way his attention latches onto you and sticks. “Hey,” he greets when he sits the phone back into the cradle, sliding the glasses off. “I’ve been wonderin’ when you’d finally come in.”
There’s something light in the rough, drawling timber of his voice, like he’s trying not to startle you, like he’s inexplicably glad you’re there.
You stiffen and he chuckles, cold air pulsing around you in the doorway before you finally step fully into the shop and let it swing closed behind you. You remain there, just inside the door, trying not to feel like a fish in a barrel, easily caught, even more easily killed. “Caught me, huh?” You try to keep your voice light, waiting for a striking arrow that would never come.
“S’alright. Thought maybe you just walked this way a lot but you always stop to look,” he gestures at the front window. “My daughter is the one that’s always changin’ it around.”
“I appreciate her efforts,” you say, taking a hesitant step forward. “I look forward to seeing the changes. Best part of my week.”
He nods, looking just a tad embarrassed, and then closes the appointment book, giving you his undivided attention. “Lookin’ to get tattooed?” His eyes trace over your exposed skin, noting the few you already have.
“Maybe,” you answer, giving a half-shrug that you hope comes across as nonchalant. “I saw on instagram that you’re, uh, taking appointments.”
“That I am,” he answers easily.
You swallow and glance around the studio. It’s as tiny as it seemed from the outside, but homely and comfortable. The walls are a deep green that remind you of forests you’ve never seen. The walls are covered in photos and art, both created and bought, the styles too different to have been made by the same person.
When you squint closer, you see that a few of them have tiny plaques beneath them, etched with names and dates. Shelves line the walls filled with knick knacks and children’s drawings in frames, and what appear to be family photos. One shelf is stacked with records and coffee table books, an ancient turntable perched precariously on top. A door is propped open behind the dark wooden counter, through which you can see the actual tattooing space, clean and sterile looking.
A lone guitar is hung on the wall, and you wonder if he plays. Your imagination conjures up hands that you’ve been studying for weeks softly plucking at the strings, curling around the bridge.
It’s shameful, the way your body flushes at the thought, the ghost of strummed notes floating in the air around you.
“Darlin’?”
Joel’s voice pulls your eyes away from the guitar and back to his face. Embarrassment drops like hot coal into the pit of your belly. You like the shape of that word in his mouth.
“I just wanted to stop in and see if maybe we’d be a good fit,” you explain hastily, not thinking about the words before they fall like broken promises from your lips. “If you’d be interested in tattooing me.” Before he can open his mouth to respond, you continue, “That wasn’t what I—I don’t mean to take up any of your time. Just if you have a moment. I should have messaged maybe—”
Joel waves you down and gestures around at the empty space. “No, it’s alright, hardly got anyone comin’ through here. Next appointment ain’t ‘til this afternoon.” He reaches below the counter, callused fingers catching on another notebook which he sets on the counter with care.
You follow the motion of his hands, your eyes snapping back to his when he continues, “What are you lookin’ to get done?” The knot of anxiety in your chest loosens a little when he seems to take your nerves for concern over the piece you want done.
Joel’s hands are ones that are familiar to you now after all the times you’d spent looking at the spare pictures of them online. That want, the heat, crawls back up inside your lungs and curls up to stay, making a home among the throbbing tendon and muscle. Though you’d glimpsed him that day on the street, it's a very different experience to stand for an extended period in front of him. His voice paired with the broad set of his shoulders, the cut of his brown eyes focused on you, all adds up to something devastating.
Another vinegary squirm of nerves in your gut is accompanied by your treacherous heart squeezing tight in your chest, battering something long abused, long closed off.
“You can show me reference pictures if you’ve got ‘em,” he offers when you don’t respond again, instead just looking at him, his presence calming in a way you can’t really explain. You blink and pull out your phone, approaching the counter slowly. The ice in your half finished coffee rattles as you set it on the counter, away from the appointment book so the condensation won’t accidentally get on it.
Joel unsettles you, but not in a way that people usually unsettle you. Not in the way your ex-boyfriend had from the very beginning. Instead of feeling the need to flee, you feel the urge to stay.
You show Joel the inspiration pictures you’ve been collecting the last few weeks, swiping slowly through what you have saved in your camera roll and describing what you imagine as best you can. When you lean closer to show him, the scent of clove and cinnamon and leather washes over you. The smell makes you a little dizzy, runs circles around your head.
His brow is furrowed, concentration etched into his features. “I’ll need some time to work out some designs for ya.”
“That’s alright,” you nod, watching those rough fingers sketch broad lines in the notebook he’d pulled out.
“Sorry, sweetheart, don’t know where my manners went. I didn’t get your name,” he says, and glances up at you. “I’m Joel,” he holds out a hand.
Sweetheart. You’ll be hearing the low timber of his voice whispering that and darlin’ in your dreams, you’re sure of it.
You find yourself smiling, your mouth involuntarily pulling up at the corners. You take his hand without thinking. His hand is warm and firm; his fingers engulf yours.
He hums as he takes his hand back, pencil already between his fingers again, and you’re left feeling chilled, like there’s an empty space in the middle of your hand that needs filled. “Real pretty name y’got.”
Oh. You like the hum of pleasure in your chest that chases the nerves below your skin. It’s a pleasant kind of warm.
“You can send ‘em on to me on that. . .app,” he grumbles. And you have to laugh. Between the landline phone, the physical calendar book, and that app he sounds just like the kind of cranky that you find endearing. “Uh, just so you know if you get a reply that don’t sound like me, it’s because my daughter runs it for me.”
“Sarah,” you guess, thinking of the young woman you’d seen cleaning the window.
“Ellie, actually. She thinks she’s a goddamn comedian.” He rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss the affection lodged in his gaze. He gestures at one of the pictures framed on a shelf where two teenage girls are slotted on either side of him. “Got two of ‘em,” he clarifies. “Sarah—she does the window. You saw her that day you passed by, the taller one there in the picture.”
You tilt your head, Joel’s eyes following the motion. “They help you run this place.”
“They’re my marketing team,” he grumbles. “Self-appointed, if you couldn’t guess.”
You find yourself leaning on the counter, watching Joel’s pretty hands sketch absentmindedly. “That actually sounds like fun.”
“They seem to think so,” he agrees, glancing up at the same time you do. A touch of pink colors the high points of his cheeks. The delicate little shading makes something warm curl into your gut. “Anyway,” he clears his throat. “We don’t get a lot of foot traffic around here, you might have noticed. Ellie’s thinkin’ that account might lure people up from Austin.”
You nod. “It’s a good idea. People have traveled further for tattoos. And we aren’t too out of the way up here.”
“I take it you live around here,” he glances down again, like he finds looking at you hard.
“Not far,” you confirm. “That’s how I found you.”
He goes silent for a moment, fingers continuing to twitch around the pencil before he looks back at you. “I’ll, uh, have somethin’ to ya in a couple a’ days. You can let me know if you want any changes and we’ll set a date.”
You straighten, feeling only slightly dismissed. “Oh, yeah, sure. Thank you.” You start to turn when you remember yourself. That’s not really what you came here for. “Actually, listen, I don’t want to waste your time. You don’t need to start on anything. Not yet. I’m not sure just yet, I just wanted to meet you. I really admire your art.”
You leave it at that. Pouring out all your other issues would just make you look insane.
Joel raises a curious brow at you, waiting, a question in his eyes that he doesn’t ask as you take a step back. “Alright,” he agrees. “I won’t start on anythin’ just yet.”
“Okay,” you back further away, trying desperately not to turn and run, aware you must look odd. “I’ll see you around.”
“I hope so, honey.”
Though the tattoo shop is cold, heat that rivals the temperature outside dissolves the bones in your chest from the way his eyes linger on you.
But that want—need—is within reach now, and something tells you that you can trust him.
At least with this.
Joel sees you more often after the first day you actually come into the shop.
Well—
He supposes he sees you about the same amount, but now you actually come inside. You always pause in the doorway for half a second, those watchful doe eyes going wide, like your instincts always kick in a second too late.
But once you make it inside, you talk to him, share snippets of your life as you watch him draw, eyes focused on his hands.
You breakup the monotony of his days, those times between appointments and the few walk-ins that he does see.
Sometimes, most times, you bring him coffee from the shop at the end of the road, and he hates that you feel obligated to bring something for him. “For letting me hang around,” you always say.
Most times he feels like he’s trying not to scare you away, like one wrong move will send you bolting right back out the door. But he comes to rely on your presence, the sunshine earthy smell you bring inside with you, the cautious questions and wide eyes, the way you dart to your feet and disappear the second a sign of work for him appears, even if he wouldn’t mind you waiting, taking up room in the tiny front room.
Joel has to wonder what happened to you, if anything, or if you’re just a nervous person. Maybe it’s just in your nature to be distrustful. He doesn’t mind you coming in all the time, in fact he likes it, hates the empty spaces you now leave behind. The studio seems impossibly empty and cavernous without you around now, asking about the guitar on the wall, about where he learned to draw, about his girls.
Still, summer passes by slowly, like a jar of molasses catching sun in a window. He watches you come and go, watches you get to know him through tiny encounters that loosen your shoulders more each time you stop in.
He doesn’t tell you that he spends most evenings working on a design for that tattoo you may or may not get, that he has a dozen different versions of it clogging up his notebook.
He figures if you don’t end up getting it tattooed then he can just give you some of the sketches to keep.
Like he’d ever find a damn way to do that without feeling like a fool.
Toward the end of summer, with heat still burning up all the air in Texas and showing no signs of abating, you push the door open with your chin lifted and a smile on your face. Heat, like the rush of burning air from an oven, whips around you and into the shop.
He tells himself the heat is why his mouth suddenly feels dry. He tells himself it has nothing to do with how your ass looks in those jeans you always wear or the curve of your hips in the snug fit or the tank top that shows off your shoulders and arms and chest. All topped off with you smiling at him.
“Hey Joel,” you greet, crossing the studio in a couple strides where you deposit a cup of coffee onto the counter next to his hand. He likes the way you say his name, breathy and quick. “I think I’m ready.”
“Ready?” He questions, bewildered.
His mind takes a moment to catch up to what you mean. The tattoo. You’re ready to get your tattoo.
And Joel becomes aware that he is distinctly not ready for that. Because then what excuse will you have to stop by so often? “Right now?” He asks.
You smile. “Not at this exact moment, obviously,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “Just…generally. Whenever you have time for me. I know you’ll need time to work on a design. I’ll send the inspiration photos to the instagram account so you can look at them again.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, the notebook with your designs tucked under the counter burning a hole in the corner of his vision. “Shouldn’t take too long.”
Your smile widens. “Thanks. I can’t hang around today.” You wave a hand back in the direction of the front window, “Errands to run. I just wanted to say that I really love the new painting.”
“The—”
“The new deer. She’s beautiful. More confident than the other ones. I think, or maybe it’s the same. I really like the new one though. You’ve been doing a lot of deer lately.”
He swallows and nods. “Yep.”
Your head tilts to the side before you take a step back, anxiety pulling at your face. “Okay,” you say, your voice noticeably smaller. “Well, I’ll see you around. I’ll message Ellie.”
Before he can stop you, you’ve bolted out the door.
He sighs and rolls his shoulders back as he watches you walk down the street in the honeyed sunshine. When you’re finally out of sight, he pulls the sketchpad out and starts on yet another design.
“Dude, you’ve got it baaaaaad,” Ellie accuses as she sets a platter of fried chicken on the dining room table. “He didn’t even ask for a fucking deposit!”
“No deposit?” Sarah asks, adding a bowl of salad next to the plate. “That’s just bad business practice, dad.”
Joel rolls his eyes. “Not everyone takes deposits.”
The girls glance at each other. “Yeah, but you usually do. You told me not to ask for one!”
He grumbles under his breath, settling at the table, just glad that his girls were there at all. He’d half expected the standing weekly dinner to fizzle out once he moved out of Austin, but they always made the drive up, or he went down to them each Friday.
His girls had their own lives, Sarah still in college, Ellie still trying to find her footing as an apprentice at a tattoo studio in the city.
“Did she seem interested?”
Joel assumes Sarah is asking about the tattoo.
You seemed exactly as he’d thought. A little nervous and wary, but mostly curious and eager. He’d been blushing like a kid, the warmth you always tugged along with you into the shop no match for the air conditioning.
“Yeah,” he answers, shrugging. “Ellie’d know more than me—”
“I mean does she seem interested in you?”
Joel glances sharply up to find both his kids grinning at him. “I’m talkin’ about the damn tattoo,” he says, exhaling sharply through his nose before he reaches for a plate.
“Well, that’s obvious,” Sarah mutters with a roll of her eyes.
“Yeah, c’mon, man,” Ellie leans back in her chair. “Isn’t she there, like, every fucking day?”
Joel frowns at her. “Manners,” he reminds her.
He gets an eye roll from her too, before she tilts her chair back down onto all four legs.
“Watch it,” he says, “Your eyes are gonna get stuck like that.”
“Joel—”
“She’s nervous enough as it is,” he grumbles. “Never met someone s’damn skittish.”
“What, like a horse?”
“Like a deer,” he corrects. “She don’t need me makin’ passes at her. I think she’s just now comin’ around to the idea of trustin’ me so don’t say something stupid to her.” He directs the last bit to Ellie. “Clear?”
She spears a piece of chicken. “Clear,” she grumbles.
“I think she likes you dad,” Sarah says, primly cutting into the chicken on her own plate. “I don’t think she’d mind it.”
Ellie sends you scans of a couple designs two days after you abruptly tell Joel you’re ready to get tattooed. It’s accompanied by a message that makes something in you squirm in such a pleasant way that you worry there might be wrong with you.
the old man told me you know i manage the account for him. he’s really excited about this one and can’t wait to tattoo you. he worked on the design for weeks - ellie
Another message pops up almost immediately after the first.
don’t tell him i told you that
A warmth that has nothing to do with your open balcony door and the heat pouring into your apartment floods your veins. He’d said he’d need to work something out for you.
The two designs she sends are beautiful, and it's easy to see not only the talent but the time he put into them. Clearly he’d been working on a design since you first talked to him all those weeks ago.
Your whole body goes awash with heat, warming you pleasantly from the inside out.
You message her back to figure out the day and time, before flopping your phone face down on the couch, a nervous thrumming centering in your body. It folds your veins up into anxious little knots. The phantom echo of his low, drawling voice reverberates around your brain, the casual little sweethearts and darlin’s he throws your way kicking your heart into overdrive, a skittering pounding knocking against your ribs.
A thrill goes up your spine. At the prospect of a new tattoo, at the thought of spending so much uninterrupted time with Joel, of his hands on you.
The last thought jolts you a little.
That that’s something you’re looking forward to.
You aren’t expecting another message, not after finalizing a date only a few days in the future. But your phone buzzes again, yet another message waiting for you.
just a heads up - joel said you’ll have to sit for two or three sessions. he doesn’t want to wear you out.
Well, at the very least he was more considerate than the last man to tattoo you.
A rare rain splashes down the morning of your appointment, driving away the humidity that had curled in the air like a choking wraith the last few days and cooling the temperature down to something mild. It’s the first false start of what will always turn out to be a warm fall.
You take your time getting ready just to ease your nerves, hydrating and eating a bigger breakfast than you normally do.
In the afternoon, the walk to the studio is dreary. The street smells like petrichor and summers long gone. The gloom only makes the interior of the shop feel more cozy.
And more intimate.
When you push the door open, Joel’s daughter, Ellie, is standing at the counter complaining loudly about how old fashioned Joel is as she slowly pages through the leather bound appointment book that seems to never leave the side of the ancient computer you suspect is rarely, if ever, switched on. She seems to be logging appointments from her phone into the book.
Her eyes snap to you the moment the door swings shut, then glances at the clock. “Early,” she says. “Joel is still setting up.”
“That’s okay,” you say, pointedly sitting down on the leather sofa that takes up most of the floor space of the front room. “I can wait.”
You snap your mouth shut to avoid the waterfall of words that want to cascade from your lips. Nerves tingle under your skin, buzz lowly just beneath the surface.
Waiting makes you hot, makes heat rise from your skin in painful waves, as your anxiety continues to crest.
At the counter Ellie snaps the appointment book shut, now grumbling about Joel’s chicken scratch, when you peel off your sweatshirt. “Oh,” she says, surprised. “I didn’t know you had tattoos already.”
You jump a little, eyes flashing to the woman leaning on the dark wooden counter. Her chin is propped in her hand. You aren’t quite sure what to make of that, that she thought you didn’t have any.
“Yeah,” you stand and move closer to the counter. Maybe she’s just trying to distract you. “Why is that such a surprise?” You smile and offer her your arm. “I not look like the type?”
“Joel just said you were nervous,” she says, turning your arm in her hand, inspecting the tattoo on the top of your shoulder, and then the one that wraps around your bicep. “So I figured it was your first.”
Joel had talked to his daughter about you.
Maybe he talked to her about all his clients; she did manage the instagram account for the shop after all.
“I’m always a little uneasy beforehand.”
Your excuse is weak but Ellie doesn’t call you on it. Her eyes are latched onto the tattoo over your shoulder, the one your ex had done. You know what she’s seeing, how a few of the lines are blown out, how it healed badly.
She releases your wrist with a nod, her eyes more knowing than you would like. “Scared of the pain?”
“No,” you shake your head. “It doesn't hurt much, usually. It's relaxing more than anything.” You nod to the tattoo on your shoulder. “But, that one was the last and it did hurt and, uh, it put me off getting more for awhile.”
She looks it over for a minute, brows furrowing at what you know is shoddy work. Your gaze slides to the tattoo on Ellie’s forearm. “You don’t have to worry about that with the old man,” she informs you and releases your arm, her tone serious. “He might not look it, but he’s got a light touch.”
Before you can respond, Joel emerges from the back, rubbing his hands together as he glances between the two of you, his eyes wary. “Ellie,” he says, his voice that low gravel. “You stickin’ around, kiddo?”
“Nope.” She stabs a finger into the top of the appointment book, “Get fucking rid of this.” She grabs her jacket and hops up onto the counter, swinging herself over it, as Joel snaps at her not to. “Too late,” she chirps already out the door. “See you Friday.”
When you turn back to Joel, those splotches of pink and cresting red are back in his cheeks and neck and you have to wonder if he heard what Ellie had said. “That girl,” he grumbles. “Come on around here, darlin’,” he gestures with a roll of his eyes. “You don’t have to climb over the counter like a wild animal.”
You round the end of the counter and follow Joel into the back room where he’s already meticulously prepped everything. He sits on a rolling stool and gestures you in front of him. “I take it you already know the drill?” He asks.
You hum in affirmation and try not to jump when his hand brushes yours. “Easy,” he mumbles, almost to himself. It doesn’t stop a flare of heat from spiking in your blood. “You already decided on your left forearm, right?”
“Yeah,” you answer, holding your arm out to him.
You wonder what it is about Joel that makes him so magnetic, that makes him feel so safe. His hand, already in a sterile glove, slides around your wrist to hold you steady while he cleans your skin thoroughly. The sharp scent of antiseptic blooms around you, chasing away the clove and leather scent that usually lingers around Joel. “You alright?” He asks, glancing up at you to watch your face.
“Yep,” you answer tightly.
“Alright,” he agrees warily, like he doesn’t quite believe you. “I’m gonna haveta shave the area.”
You nod, you already knew that, and watch him pick up a disposable pink bic razor from the tray to his left. Despite having gone through this whole thing more than a few times before, this feels different, it feels more intimate and reserved.
He drags the razor over your skin slowly, carefully, then sanitizes your skin again when he’s finished, the cool flush of the moisture against your skin almost shocking. You go back and forth about the placement of the stencil. Your body tenses when you waffle for what feels like too long. You expect him to get frustrated with you but he doesn’t. His voice remains unbothered and patient.
Maybe your standards are in hell, maybe he’s just being a proper tattoo artist like all the others that had tattooed you before your ex, but it still makes a knot form in the back of your throat.
Eventually Joel presses the stencil into your skin when you give the go ahead. He rubs at it gently, warming your chilled skin, before he peels it away. The warmth of his touch is surprisingly soothing, the loss of it leaving you cold. “If it ain’t right, we can do it again,” he says, jerking his chin at the mirror in the corner, the picture of calm. “Go on and take a look and let me know.”
You both agree the placement looks good, and then comes the moment when you have to climb onto the table and put yourself in his hands. You will have to lie there and let another person touch you, albeit professionally. It doesn’t make it any better, any easier.
Your skin is so empty, so hungry, and Joel’s attention makes you feel like wax held too close to heat.
It already feels like too much and he’s barely touched you.
A cold prickle of fear slides down your spine too, pulling your shoulders in tight. The last time you did this you—
“You comfortable?” Joel is watching you, his eyes shaded and attentive.
You nod, aware that you are the picture of uncomfortable as Joel changes his gloves. Your hands are in fists, your spine hard and tense. All the air seems to have been sucked out of the room, cold and sterile and icy in your lungs.
“I ain’t touchin’ you until you relax,” he says when he turns back to you, settling next to you on a stool, hand hovering over the tattoo gun on the tray by his elbow. “You don’t gotta—”
“I am relaxed,” you interrupt in a bite, harsher than you mean to. You grit your teeth, your hand only curling into a tighter fist.
“Sweetheart you’re as taut as a bowstring,” he says gently. “Take a couple breaths.”
You do and your heart rate slows. Now isn’t like then. Now is different. “Good,” he says and the praise slides warm against you. “I’m gonna touch you now.”
You nod and the buzz of the tattoo gun starts, his free hand curls over your fist, warm and reassuring and so present it makes tears sting at the backs of your eyes. You realize then that Joel has been touching you quite a lot, and that you haven’t exactly minded.
“Relax, I got you,” he reassures. “You’ll tell me if you need a break,” he says and it’s not a question.
You nod anyway, not sure which part you’re agreeing with.
Joel talks while he tattoos you, mainly about his kids, his two daughters who are clearly his entire world, the point that his life hinges on.
The pride in his voice, the love there, makes you smile.
Joel is much chattier than usual.
Normally you talk his ear off while he works as he silently listens and nods along. Joel is the gruff quiet type, not that you much mind. You’d expected to sit in relative silence, to listen to the rain still drumming against the roof and the low hum of the tattoo gun.
Listening to his voice is a welcome change. You would listen to him read from a dictionary.
Sarah is from his first marriage, Ellie adopted. Sarah is going to college— “Gonna be a doctor someday,” he says proudly. “For kids. Pediatrician.” Ellie is following in Joel’s footsteps, apprenticing as a tattoo artist. “Hope it's what she wants to do,” he says, equally as proud. “She’s got some art out there on the wall—well, I’ll point it out later, much better than mine—it took me long enough to make this switch.”
“What did you do before?” You ask as Joel swipes a damp paper towel across your skin. Ellie had been right, he does have a light touch, a gentle touch.
“Carpenter,” he answers, and you can’t decide if the way he squeezes your wrist is conscious or not. “Long hours, hard work.”
So you’d been right about the look of his hands. Hands that so carefully held yours as his other drew over your skin. “Mm,” you hum distractedly. “What convinced you to take the jump?”
“My girls convinced me. Gettin’ outta Austin helped. Havin’ the money to finally slow down.” He chuckles to himself. “That’s why the marketin’ is a little ridiculous. Moved all the way out here just to complain about the foot traffic.”
You find yourself smiling, watching the flex of tendon in his forearms as he works. His mouth is set in a concentrated line, a divot between his brows. “Looks like you’re doing alright.”
“We manage,” he says with a groan, straightening from his position hunched over your arm. Something in his back creaks and then cracks before he goes back to work. “Although I regret not startin’ a little younger. My brother, Tommy, manages our business now.”
“Carpentry business?”
“That’s right,” he hums, leaning in closer to your arm, his breath ghosts over your arm, goosebumps racing across your skin. You swallow and your hand clenches reflexively beneath his. “You doin’ alright?”
You wonder if he knows his hand is still cupped over yours, if he can feel the racing of your heart beneath his fingers. Maybe he did that with all his clients, just a way to steady himself and you.
You don’t expect him to be looking at you when you lift your eyes back to his face.
Heat blooms in your chest, the flutter of wings beating against your ribs. “Mhm,” you give a nervous hum, trying not to show the feathering thoughts that float like down through your mind, swirling and impossible to bat down.
“Y’have to tell me if you need to take a break.”
“I don’t,” you say quickly, wondering if you should explain yourself a little, if it would be better or worse for Joel to know exactly how fucking nerotic you are.
It shouldn’t matter if he thinks you’re crazy or not.
But it does.
“Just…I’m not so good with touch,” you admit. “I never have been and my last tattoo was…”
You aren’t sure how to phrase it, so you stop and look at his hands again. His hand swallows yours, barely any of your skin visible beneath his touch. You wait for your skin to prickle, for the urge to rip your hand away to swim up the back of your throat, but it never comes. “I’m fine, really. I’d tell you if I needed to stop.”
“I know it,” he says, not blinking, watching you carefully. “I’m just checkin’.” He looks back down, adjusting his grip before he continues, his thumb sweeping over your wrist. “Was it the one on your shoulder?”
“What?”
“The tattoo that was a bad experience?”
You suck in a deep breath through your nose and look away from the top of his head, away from the graying brown that makes your belly clench and the butterflies that live permanently in your chest swing back to life.
The breath you pull in does nothing to steady you, instead flooding your senses with the clean woodsy smell of him. It’s dizzying. “That easy to tell?” You sigh.
“Just a few of the lines are blown out,” he says, not unkindly. “Thought maybe an apprentice did it or somethin’.” Joel’s voice is mild, only lightly prying, an extended hand that you could lie a pearl truth in if you wanted to.
The nerves subside a little. “Apprentices aren’t usually that bad,” you joke.
“No,” he agrees. “Ellie’d never get ya like that. Shouldn’t be tattooing on people yet if you’re gettin’ ‘em like that.”
He doesn’t ask what actually happened, but you find yourself answering anyway. You find that his hand still securely over yours acts like an anchor rather than a weight.
“I had bruises for a couple weeks after,” you admit. “It hurt. He wanted it to hurt. And it healed really badly.”
Joel’s hand pauses, the needle lifting away from your skin, but he doesn’t look up. A long moment passes, and his voice comes out in a forced calm. “Who wanted it to hurt, honey?”
“My ex,” you say and Joel leans back, dark eyes flashing to yours. “He wasn’t my ex then, obviously. He wanted to tattoo me, but he wanted it to be his name. I wasn’t going to do that. He wanted to compromise for initials but I just…couldn’t. Something about it felt wrong. I let him—” you wave your free hand at your shoulder. “—do that. And…I don’t know what happened,” you say. “I think he wanted to brand me. He wanted to leave a piece of himself on me, whether I wanted it or not.”
Joel doesn’t say anything for a while, just blinks away from you and slowly leans over your arm again to continue working.
The tattoo your ex did is the only one that ever hurt, but Joel is gentler than you remember. Or, maybe you simply can’t remember the other times as well, pain of the most recent one blotting out the memory.
“I don’t want you to think about this like that,” Joel says eventually, not looking up. “I don’t.”
“What do you mean, Joel?”
His hand stills, his fingers flexing around your wrist, thumb subconsciously sliding against the side of your wrist. “I mean—I’m not puttin’ something of mine on you,” he says. You frown and open your mouth to protest. “I made it for you. This is yours,” he says adamantly.
You watch him for a long moment, not sure what to say, an emotion you can’t name welling up into the back of your mouth, swollen and trembling.
“I want you to think about it like that,” he says, looking up at you from beneath his lashes, his mouth a hard line. “I’m not markin’ you, because it's not mine. It’s yours. It’s for you.”
You just nod, not trusting yourself to speak.
You avert your eyes, blinking away the water that crests against the edges of your lash line.
Though you’ve been bothering Joel for the better part of the summer, you don’t really know much about him. Today is the most he’s talked, about himself or otherwise. All you know is that he makes you feel oddly safe, that he has gone out of his way to try to make you feel comfortable. You can hear the words he doesn’t say, the quiet anger that vibrates under the surface of it. What happened to you was wrong, I would not do that to you.
He wants you to believe he’s gifting you something, and you suppose he is.
You remember Ellie’s message, how she’d said he’d been working on the design for weeks. You think of every moment you spent hanging around his shop for the last few weeks while he worked on a design for you, never saying a word about it, knowing you might decide not to get tattooed.
“Joel,” you murmur, carefully lying your free hand on his shoulder. Muscle flexes beneath your hand, thick and warm. “I know you wouldn’t do that. And you know I wanted to do this, right?”
Joel’s hand squeezes yours again. “I know it,” he shrugs and leaves it at that.
Something unspoken passes between you though. He would not do that to you, but you also sense he would never let anyone else hurt you like that again either.
You watch the feathering of his lashes against his cheeks, the firm set of his mouth, the way he keeps sliding his thumb over your wrist. You study his nose, the line of scar on the bridge, the hard ridge of his brow, the wrinkle that pulls at the skin of his forehead.
“You don’t have to be mad about it,” you say. “I already have that covered. I think I’ve been angry for a long time.”
The room is quiet, the sound of rain on the roof having abated in the hours you’d been there. Joel doesn’t say anything for another long moment, the only sound his breathing and yours, the sound of the tattoo gun buzzing its familiar tune. “I could, uh, fix some of it for ya,” he offers, eventually, leaning back to study the progress he’s made on your arm. “The lines where they’re blown out, we could think of somethin’ to blend it into.”
You look away again, not able to answer around the thick knot braided into your chest. You try swallowing around it, trying desperately to think of something to say. His hand is starting to feel a little heavy on yours. The aching clawing that is two steps back begins to threaten you.
This time, unlike the others, you aren’t quite sure if you want him to stop touching you or for the feeling of his hand to melt into yours, if you’d just rather he became a part of you instead.
You decide to try to ignore it, to focus on the nice parts of it all — how warm his skin is, the calluses you can feel, the scent of his skin and hair, so close you could press your nose into him if you leaned forward a little.
“You have really nice hands,” you comment, entranced by the flex of muscle and vein and sinew even through the black nitrile gloves.
Joel glances up, his face close to yours. You can see the threads of honeyed gold and warm hazel in his eyes, almost sun-spotted “That so?” He asks with a quirk of his brow, fingers tightening over your hand.
You swallow, glancing away from his eyes to focus on anything else, and give a nervous hum.
“You still alright?” He asks, his thumb slipping back and forth over the back of your hand. “Still comfortable?” When you just nod, suddenly too anxious and warm to do anything else, he leans back and releases your hand to strip off his gloves. “Let’s take a break.”
The loss of his touch is—you aren’t sure what it is.
You just know you hate it, and that has never happened before.
“I’m alright,” you protest.
“You’re startin’ to shake, which means you’re goin’ into shock. I’m sure Ellie told you this’d take more than one session,” he says, matter of fact about it.
“She did,” you breathe.
He grunts and offers you a hand down from the table. “Let’s get you wrapped up and then I’ll take you to get somethin’ to eat.”
“Oh,” you say, surprise and that spark of warmth flooding you again. “And you do that for all your clients?”
“Just the ones I like,” he deadpans, fitting a second skin over your tattoo before giving you the usual spiel about how to care for it once the second skin was removed. You hardly listen, thinking only about how Joel said he likes you. “But I assume you know all a’ that,” he says, twisting your arm. “And ya know where to find me if somethin’ ain’t right.”
“Mhm,” you hum, trying not to let the disappointment show when he releases you again. “I’m something of an expert with tattoo care, I think.”
“Three tattoos makes you an expert?” He asks, not looking at you as he meticulously cleans up.
“Well, three that you can see.”
He turns, eyes sliding over you. You’re awash in that warm feeling again, the one that is an anchor and not a weight. “You got more than three, honey?”
You just smile and make a show of looking over the work he’d done on your arm, ignoring his question.
Joel chuckles, “What else do you have?”
“If I told you I’d have to kill you.”
He laughs again and herds you out the back room when he’s finished cleaning up, keys jangling in his fist. “Shouldn’t I pay—”
“Nope. You’ll do that when it’s done. Should just need one more session.”
“Joel really—”
But you’re already out on the street, the door firmly closed behind you. You watch him lock up and then gesture you down the street with a jerk of his head. It’s dark outside, the sky still tinged with dark blue on the horizon. The road smells like heat and rain, like damp dust and lightning.
“You really ain’t gonna tell me what other tattoos you got?”
“You really ain’t gonna let me pay?” You ask, imitating the gruff cut of his voice.
He rolls his eyes. “Alright, fine.” He walks away, leading you down the street, light from the streetlamps cartwheeling over his face, throwing his jaw and eyes into sharp relief and then plunging him into shadow. “C’mon now. You need somethin’ in you.”
You’ve never ventured into the center of town after dark. You’re always at home long before that, curled on your balcony with something to read.
Cicadas light the air with sound, the crisscross of wired lights spear butter yellow onto the pavement below where a bar is serving drinks and a local food truck still idles.
Someone has set up a speaker that folks twirl each other around to, old country music, the good kind. Others park themselves on benches, chatting and eating. It’s nice.
It makes you feel incredibly lonely, reminded of all the gaps in your life, all the places people should be, all the places love and familiarity should be.
Before you can sink into that mire, Joel’s guiding you into line with a careful hand against your back.
His palm is broad and warm, heating you from the inside out. It rivals the warmth pulsing around you, the leftover heat of the day leaching into you.
“What d’ya want?”
“Shouldn’t I get you something?” You offer. “You worked all day, I just laid there.”
“I drew a nice picture,” he retorts. “You lost blood. Pick somethin’ sugary.”
“Bossy,” you comment, feeling alight with nerves as his fingers flex against your spine.
“Mhm, that’s what Sarah and Ellie are always sayin’.”
You glance at him—at the rough cut of his jaw, the thick tendon in his throat—and swallow, nerves pinching at your belly in a way you haven’t felt in a very long time. You press back, so his hand rests more firmly against your back and hope he doesn’t notice. If he does, he doesn’t say anything, just humors you by tracing his hand up and down your spine. “Maybe they’re onto something then.”
“Definitely are.” He glances back down at you, “Pick somethin’ yet?”
You look over the menu as the line inches forward, and pick something to drink. Something sugary, as Joel had demanded.
But when he orders he makes a show of not letting you pay and ordering something for you to eat too.
“You should after sittin’ for as long as you did,” he argues when you settle at one of the picnic tables. “You don’t gotta, just thought I’d offer it.”
You and Joel face each other, one leg on either side of the bench, knees brushing. With each tiny touch, lightning zings up your spine, settles in amongst your bones and blood. You have a feeling you could lie all the bones and blood and viscera of yourself right at Joel’s feet and he wouldn’t so much as flinch.
“Right,” you say, picking at one of the tacos he’d ordered. “I can see why you have such nice reviews on google if you’re taking your clients out on your dime after tattooing them.”
“I wouldn’t say you’re that,” he scoffs.
“Mm,” you nod, not sure exactly what he means by that. “What does that make me then?”
You glance up at him and Joel just stares at you for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. “You really not gonna tell me about your other tattoos?” He ignores your question to go back to his own.
“Nope,” you take a sip of the lemonade you’d ordered. Despite what you said to Joel, you are exhausted, muscles still trembling in little starts, and the sugar does help. “But you can guess.”
You know he won’t try to guess. He’s too gentlemanly, too mindful of his manners to go around pointing at body parts and guessing if there might be something inked there.
Joel raises a brow, taking a bite of his own taco. “Are you using my manners against me?”
You shrug, smiling. “Maybe.”
“That ain’t playin’ fair,” he accuses, leaning in, the inside of his jean clad thigh brushing against the outside of yours. Your belly clenches, the center of you suddenly aching.
“Who said anything about fair?” You manage. “Do you have any hidden tattoos?”
He shakes his head and glances briefly up, like he’s asking for patience from the stars. But he doesn’t answer your question.
It makes you smile. “Fine, you can keep yours a secret. I won’t pry,” you tease.
“Mhm,” he grumbles again, ignoring your jibe. “You’re mighty brave tonight.”
And suddenly your teasing feels dangerous, falls flat against the stone shore of Joel. The air seems to go frosty, a shiver raking down your spine as you shuffle back a little, suddenly aware of how close you are, how very brave you’ve been. You aren’t sure when Joel started to feel familiar to you.
Since you first met him, you suppose. You’ve carved out a place on that rocky shore whether he wanted you to or not.
“Sorry,” you say, starting to stand, thinking of how annoying you must have been all evening, all day, every single day you’ve taken up his time. You let him comfort you, plied him with trauma you’ve barely touched yourself, let him buy you something to eat against your better judgment when clearly it’s his manners that made him do so. “Don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’ll message Ellie to figure out the second session. Thanks for everything. You didn’t have to—”
“Your hip,” Joel says, curling his hand around your wrist so you can’t move any further away than you already have. You pause, your mind spinning as he clutches you gently.
His voice is steady, like you’re a spooked animal that might dart away at any moment.
“What?”
“I bet you one of your other tattoos is on your hip,” he drawls.
He squeezes your wrist again, now familiar and comforting. You fight the urge to pull your hand away, and instead let the feeling of his skin sink into yours, no cheap plastic gloves separating you now. You can properly feel the calluses on his fingertips, the catch of them against your skin, the soft center of his palm and the lines carved into his skin.
“No,” you lower yourself to the bench again, a tentative smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “None on my hip.”
“How many other one’s you got?” His hand stays around yours.
“Two, not including my new one,” you say, laying a hand over the ink, your skin warm under your hand. “That’s my prettiest one, for sure. And it’s not even done.”
Joel ignores your compliment entirely, like he always seems to. His eyes rove over you, trying to guess the places you were inked, trying to picture it you would guess. It makes you squirm, the thought of him trying to imagine your bare skin, all the hidden places you might be tattooed.
He nods, his gaze heavy on you.
“I’ll just have to keep guessin’ then,” he says, taking a long sip from your cup of lemonade.
You glance away and bite the inside of your cheek. “You’ll be guessing a long time, I think.”
“I’ve got time.” He releases your arm when you start to squirm under his attention, chest burning, lungs compressed into too small a space. Your chest doesn’t seem large enough to contain the feelings beating to life in your heart. “So long as you keep comin’ by.”
A smile pulls at your mouth again, feeling unreasonably charmed. “Okay, fine, I’ll tell you what they are, but not where they are.”
“I ain’t askin’ you to,” he says, even as a smile tugs at the corners of his lips, mustache twitching, like this concession is the only thing he’s ever wanted for.
“One is a honeybee,” you answer. “The other is antlers.”
Joel goes still and doesn’t say anything for a moment. “A bee?” He asks, like he’s never heard of the creature before. “And…antlers. Like a deer?”
“Yeah, like a deer. With flowers and vines and moss all tangled around it.”
“Huh.”
“What? Don’t like deer?” You smile. “Funny isn't it? You’ve been drawing them a lot the past few months.”
He eyes you and then shakes his head, “Don’t like ‘em? Jesus Christ, no. I think I’m gettin’ to be real partial to deer.”
💞 Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞
#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#tlou fanfiction#the last of us#the last of us fanfiction#joel miller#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters
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Fabulous Friday
Today was a fantastic day. My sister came to town. We have so much fun together, we laugh ourselves silly, and we just get each other. Gosh, that’s good for my soul. We tried to take selfie.
Our hair is telling you that it was a rainy day. The McGlaughn girl hair is more reliable than doppler radar. My Twinkie colored hair (half yellow, half white) is the bane of my existence, but I’m determined to see it through. I’m a granny, don’t judge me. Look at my lovely sister. She’s always had flawless skin, ringlets, and an adventurous soul. She’s what you’d call a once-in-a-lifetime woman. Unsinkable.
Anywayyyy, today has apparently been all about FOOD. I feel like I never want to eat again. We had lunch at Earth Tones Cafe and gobbled up their Chesapeake Artichoke Bagel. It’s an open-faced toasted bagel topped with a mixture of artichoke hearts, spinach, cream cheese, mozzarella, parm, red pepper flakes, and Old Bay seasoning. Holy Cow. Earth Tones is a vegan cafe but this did not feel like a healthy choice....delicious, yes, but probably not on the American Heart Associations recommended list. We made a couple of stops around town and our final stop was Craft Bakery because Mickey had asked me to bring him one of their maple-vanilla lattes. Well, who goes into a bakery and just buys coffee? Not this girl. Two toffee bars, two blackout cookies, and one brown sugar and cinnamon pop-tart later, we left. I tell myself that I only buy baked goods as decor. I love having a few things under this cake dome, just because it’s pretty.
That doesn’t explain why there’s a blackout cookie missing. I won’t touch the toffee bars or the pop-tart but those deep chocolate cookies with a sprinkle of sea salt....they call to me. I wish she’d stop making them. My thighs can’t take it.
That said, my thighs walked me right up the steps to the Culinary Arts Center to collect the bowl I painted a couple of weeks ago. I’d participated in a fundraiser by paying to paint a bowl, and part of the price included a container of soup from Shore Gourmet when I picked up my bowl. The bowls had been fired and I ran by to get mine. My bowl turned out okay (I didn’t have enough time!) but I’m very pleased with the soup I chose. Perfect for these chilly, wet days.
YUM!
After the tasty lunch and that chocolate cookie, I figured I’d better make a veggie heavy dinner. Taco bowls with cauliflower rice! My stovetop was busy. Black beans simmered with onion, salt, cumin, a couple splashes of hot sauce, and a little water, cauliflower rice in a skillet sautéing with a sprinkle of salt and a blast of chili powder (fresh cilantro would is perfect in this, but I didn’t have any handy), and another skillet with lean ground turkey seasoned with all the taco spices.
Add some veggies and it’s a tasty bowl!
This is one of my favorite quick dinners - full of flavor and checks most boxes for a healthy dinner meal. Bonus, there’s usually enough left for lunch.
Thankfully, tomorrow morning we’re scheduled for a guided hike (more of a walk) at the arboretum. Always informational, but mostly I need to log some steps (and eat some salads). I’m hoping that all of the laughing today counts as an ab workout. If only. If that counted as a workout I’d be thin as a rail with washboard abs. I laugh a lot but those blackout cookies don’t care.
That’s it, my wonderful Friday - time with my sister and too much food. I’m a lucky duck. I hope that your Friday has been good for your soul. If not, I hope the weekend fills the gap. If all else fails, eat a cookie.
Sending out some love tonight. Take what you need.
Stay safe, stay well.
Nancy
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As an art historian, my job is to look askance at words such as “masterpiece”, and to question the canon of “great art”. In my spare time, I have also sprayed chalk paint on civic structures in protest at the lack of action on climate. So at first I expected to view the latest attacks on art as shocking but justifiable. After all, do these attacks not also reveal the fragility of what we hold dear? Do they not make us think about what we want to save for the next generation? Yet the answer to these questions, I decided, is mostly no. Instead, these attacks feel part of a helpless careering towards climate chaos.
As splash after splash of acidic liquid hits the glass casings of art works by Van Gogh, Monet, Klimt, and now Emily Carr, everyone around the world who sees the photographs and footage is going through the same mental process: an astonished intake of breath, followed by the realisation that everything is actually fine. The art work is safe behind glass, tightly sealed by expert conservators. What looks dangerous is a mere spectacle, not a reality.
So much depends on context. In 2022, this mixture of fear and complacency is becoming a habit. It is all around us in the ongoing pandemic, and it is also fuelling climate breakdown. We are all aware of the disaster of climate breakdown, and most of us are fearful or worried, according to the recent census. But our governments are acting as if there is no rush. If the last few years have proven anything, it is that many people find it possible to be scared about a future of storms, floods, and unliveable temperatures – and also to decide that they need to buy a bigger car anyway.
Learning to live in fear and complacency is an art; it takes practice. The Covid-19 pandemic was a terrifying warm-up, and the Just Stop Oil protests are now helping us keep it up. The protests prove that in an age of supersize institutions, even culture’s most raw and fragile expressions of existence can be set behind sealed glass, such that real disasters seem almost impossible other than as spectacle. They prove that the experts have everything in hand; that despite terrifying appearances, we don’t need to worry.
As the repeated attacks on art begin to bore us, they prove what many people have come to believe: that the system will save us. Somehow. Because it has to. Surely someone, somewhere will have thought of this or that eventuality. My house won’t just fall into the sea. The migration of a billion people from unliveably hot places will just be images on the telly.
Writing not as an art historian, but as someone trying to resist the lure of complacency, I implore Just Stop Oil and other anti-art protesters to stop their performative attacks for this simple reason. So long as you keep on throwing soup at protective glass around great art works, you will just keep proving again and again, that “the system” will save us. But eventually it won’t. One day, the seal around the protective glass will not work, and then at last you will have proven disasters do and can happen, and not just in images.
Unfortunately, at that point your protests will lose all support.
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April 27, Day 117/118
Day 117 2015
#snapple #realfacts #facts #children #growth #spring #interesting #picoftheday #project365 #day117
But I wilt in summertime!!!
Day 118 2016
Our family likes to create. My brother did this in high school.
#painting #art #create #paint #colors #shadesofspring #pastels #picoftheday #project365 #day118
Day 117 2017
Hot tub soup bowl...
#mcalisters #soup #breadbowl #lunch #yum #sweettea #texas #bruce #shark #gooddaybruce #findingnemo #april #picoftheday #project365 #day117
Good God that looks amazing, I could eat that right now!
Day 117 2018
Ten-Petal Anemone (Anemone berlandieri)
#tenpetalanemone #flowers #wildflowers #petals #sepals #flora #texas #spring #nature #outdoors #april #bouquet #picoftheday #project365 #day117
Day 117 2019
On the hunt for morning snacks!
#pup #puppy #dog #dogsofinstagram #hunt #sniff #search #thenoseknows #nose #smell #nationalsenseofsmellday #april #april27 #2019 #nationalday #nationaldaycalendar #picoftheday #project365 #day117
Day 118 2020
Waiting for some inspiration to come out of this thing!
#creativityblockssuck #art #create #nikon #camera #thingsthatstartwithc #april #april27 #2020 #picoftheday #project365 #day118
Day 117 2021
A bunch of garden phlox for you
#gardenphlox #phlox #flowers #pink #bright #pretty #nature #outdoors #april #april27 #2021 #picoftheday #project365 #day117
Day 117 2022
What better place to perch
#bug #flower #spring #color #april #april27 #2022 #picoftheday #project365 #day117
Day 117 2023
This makes the best pictures! 💙
#beach #water #splash #wave #bluesky #nature #magnus #magnifywater #april #april27 #2023 #picoftheday #project365 #day117
Day 118 2024
Haven’t had dew in awhile so I had to dig one out from last November! No filters or enhancements and look how it glitters. 🤩
#dew #dailytheme #grass #morninglight #glitters #fromthearchives #april #april27 #2023 #picoftheday #project365 #day118
It's a good thing I have plenty to choose from in the archives!
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i'm having too much fun...!
one piece chapter 44!
this splash art is cute. it makes me really, really want apple juice. i love apple juice...
anyway, we're jumping back in to the story with luffy trying to bargain with zeff.
honestly i'm on zeff's side here, luffy. like, you did fuck up pretty damn bad!
if luffy wasnt a rubber man this would have probably killed him, so that's kind of fucked up too
the debate is rather spirited!
and then we get introduced to yet another new guy!
i love how leg hair is always an important detail in this manga.
god damn this is relatable.
anyway, patty discovers sanji in the middle of doing whatever the fuck he was doing to ironfuck, and is not real jazzed about it.
the girls are fighting!
now THAT'S what i call service!!!
i probably should not encourage sanji's behavior, but having worked in food service and other retail positions, i'm 100% on his side
anyway, this place is also falling the fuck apart
what a gosh dang mess!
this is fucking awesome
there's so much i could say here, but luffy's response being "it sure is noisy in here..." is the most luffy response. bro truly does not think thoughts
that's probably bad
yeah, seems bad.
at least theyre not hypocrites. they see some dude come in and shoot a guy and theyre like "well as long as he's paying!"
some hot soup and a bandaid, please!
i really want to be a customer here, too.
lmfao at zeff just being like "oh yeah go ahead and kill the non-paying customer but don't fuck up my tables! goddamn"
"i was planning to pay you in farts"
ironcock finally gave up realizing this crew truly doesn't give a fuck, you're gonna eat your damn food and you're gonna like it and you're gonna pay and leave. and that's that
some nice human compassion, feeding him some fried rice on the ground like the dog he is
"i was farting so much because i was dying"
what a good chapter!!!!!! i loved it and i must immediately move onto the next
closing thoughts:
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I’ve finally figured out why I don’t consider AI art to be real art
Since AI art has become a hot topic, I’ve always been on the “it’s not real art” side but I could never properly articulate why…
But I’ve finally got it!
Art is not the outcome, it’s the process. Art is the physical act of creation; the end product doesn’t actually matter (at least in terms of it being “art”). All other art forms, painting, drawing, digital, sewing, ceramics, metal and wood working, and even non-tangible forms of art like music and dance, etc, involve an actual hands-on creation process, whereas ai art doesn’t.
The most action involved in ai art is giving it a prompt but even then I could do the same to someone who can draw but I wouldn’t be considered the artist of the piece because I wasn’t involved in the actual process of making it. Art being a process is also why the Campbell soup photo and a bunch of splashes of paint on a canvas are considered art because regardless of what the final piece is, it is the act of making that classifies it as art. AI art doesn’t count as art because there is no process, there is no act, there is no true creation.
Art is grammatically a noun, but realistically it is a verb, an action, something you do. What is actually made is just a byproduct of the art.
#there’s also the whole art theft thing too#but that’s not what I’m talking about here#art#ai art#ai art is not art#creation#mini rant
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How to Eat Ramen in Japanese Style?
We may be partial, but we believe that ramen is one of the most enjoyable foods at a Japanese food restaurant. The more bowls of ramen you eat as you perfect the not-so-subtle art of slurping at the top Japanese restaurants, the more delicious it becomes.
There are additional risks associated with ramen and good Japanese food near me. The hot soup might burn your lips, the slippery noodles can cause major splashback, and when precisely should you add the toppings?
As specialists Ichiran ramen USA consumption, we have documented thousands of hours of practice (it's a tough job, but someone has to do it) in Japan and the United States. To assist you in having the greatest, most authentic experience every time you dine, we've outlined the top tips for eating ramen the Japanese way at a noodle soup restaurant near me.
What Equipment is Required to Eat Ramen?
There are three main tools required to enjoy ramen and good Japanese food in the Japanese manner.
Ramen Bowl
Different ramen restaurants in Japan will serve the best Japanese food NYC in various forms and sizes, depending on how they want their customers to enjoy it. At least seven different bowl forms are listed by one Japanese ceramic artisan, all of which may be further shaped into other versions to bring out the best of what's in the bowl.
Your ramen bowl should be large enough to fit a regular 17-ounce serving of toppings, noodles, and soup.
Naturally, the larger the bowl, the more you can fit within. Many ramen cooks, however, aim for three-quarters ramen in one bowl, but this varies from store to shop. You want to be able to appreciate the ramen's appearance while sitting back from the bowl, yet without the risk of spillage.
Ramen bowls are usually made of ceramic, although they can also be made of plastic, melamine, steel, or even wood. Ceramic bowls will retain your ramen the hottest for the longest time, but they are also the hottest to touch, so be careful!
Chopsticks
Whatever your chopstick skills, we encourage using them when eating ramen. Chopsticks are ideal for lifting ramen noodles high out of the bowl for aeration (and admiration).
You may use them as a two-pronged lever to feed the noodles into your mouth. This keeps the noodles from flying about and splashing you as you slurp.
If you can slurp with a fork and pick up noodles with only a spoon, you are a ramen hero.
Ramen Soup Spoon
In Japanese, the traditional ramen spoon is called chirirenge, which means "fallen lotus petal." With a groove in the handle that leads to the base.
While the handle has a bend, the groove is really a spot for you to put your finger, so you may squeeze the spoon between your index and thumb. You may have also seen an otama jakushi, a shallow wooden ladle with a longer handle.
The spoon should be in your left hand and the chopsticks in your right. Keep the spoon below your trail of noodles as you remove them from the dish So that they fall on the spoon instead of the soup and all over your partner.
Some people like to put a little mouthful of ramen in the spoon, then take a bite that way. Visit the best Japanese restaurant New York and enjoy different Japanese foods like ramen!
#Japanese food restaurant#top Japanese restaurants#best Japanese food Nyc#best Japanese restaurant New York#ichiran ramen usa
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Ruined Plans (Boyfriend!Soft!Bakugou x Reader)
Art credit: @/lin00240506 on Twitter
Warnings: just fluff. oh, and cursing cause it’s boom boy.
Synopsis: You get sick on the day of Bakugou’s birthday and he’s forced to take care of you. He has a hard time convincing you that it’s not a chore like you are led to believe but this circumstance opens up the window of opportunity for him to approach you with an issue he’s had a long time with your place. And it’s time to settle it once and for all.
Words: 2.2k
Opening the door to your flat, your body shook as a wave of violent coughs racked through and you sniffled, rubbing your eyes to make sure you were seeing this clearly.
Your boyfriend was standing there, trembling in anger.
“Katsuki?” You sniffled, rubbing your already red and chafed eyes, fighting through the nausea to see if you were imagining things. “Wha—”
He shoved past you without an invitation, angrily storming into the kitchen where he knew you kept your pots and pans.
Nope, definitely not your imagination.
Banging it onto the stovetop, Bakugou splashed water everywhere as he threw several things together faster than your foggy mind could process.
Wrapped up in a fluffy throw you had tossed around your shoulders when answering the doorbell, you waddled over to him. By the time you got there, you kind of pieced together what he was doing.
“You’re makin’ me zoup?” You asked, your stuffy nose making it hard to form your words properly but after years of dealing with you, he understood you perfectly.
Unfortunately.
“You dumbass.” Bakugou spat as he furiously chopped up carrots, spinach, and several other vegetables at an inhuman speed, dumping in a can of chicken broth you were sure you didn’t buy. “If you’re sick then why the fuck didn’t you tell me? You made me fucking wait outside.���
You pouted, bowing your head in defeat. Today was his birthday. You had texted him the day before where he should go the next morning to begin his adventure that you had planned out but you had come down with something bad and was bed-ridden up until a few minutes ago.
It had completely slipped your foggy mind.
“... ‘m sowee.” You mumbled guiltily.
He flicked your forehead none too forgivingly as he turned down the heat to let the soup simmer for a few minutes. “Idiot.”
You whined, cradling your forehead, which you were sure had a red mark on it. You grabbed a tissue and blew your nose, watching him through bleary eyes as he continued to stir the soup for you to eat.
He knew you didn’t like drinking tea so this was the best way to go anytime you got sick, a surefire way to get something hot in your stomach and also ensure that you ate a decent meal. Especially since you were so bad at taking care of yourself.
After yelling at you to take a seat on the couch, Bakugou angrily tucked the blankets around you and ordered you to sleep.
“Buf arn’t you makin me fud?” You said, nose all messed up from your cold and your boyfriend scoffed.
“‘Course I am, dumbass.” He snorted haughtily. “If I don’t, then you’ll just feel like shit.”
“But… I alweady fewl wike shit.” You groaned, tossing your head back on the couch as your vision swam.
Bakugou snorted. “Point fucking made.”
You felt terrible and not just because of your fever. It was his birthday and you had planned the whole day out for him. Days that he took off were rare and far in between. You were going to take full advantage of it but it seemed like you would have to wait until next year.
Internally, you were kicking yourself for being so foolish and setting things up outside so late at night yesterday. But your job didn’t allow a lot of freedom and had pretty strict scheduling so the only time you had to decorate was after your shift and by then it was already dark.
In hindsight, you should’ve at least worn a jacket or something but you weren’t thinking about anything else other than the preparations for your boyfriend’s birthday.
Bakugou set down a hot bowl of miso soup and you sneezed. He sent you a look, wrinkling his nose in concentration before spinning on his heel and marching into the hallway where the thermostat was.
You sniffled and grabbed a tissue from the box on the coffee table, blowing your nose loudly. You didn’t know it was possible to descend into madness overnight but now it was official. You were going to die.
“You’re not going to fucking die, dumbass.” A disgruntled call came from around the corner and you cringed.
Oops. You must’ve been more delirious than you thought if you said that out loud.
Your glassy eyes clumsily followed him as he walked back into the room. You squinted. It could be your sick mind playing tricks on you because you were ill but you swore he looked like he was ready to explode.
“Stupid, fucking thing.” Bakugou seethed as he stomped back in the room only to yank out the drawer he knew had batteries before marching back.
He had nearly broken the damn thing because it didn’t work right. He had already told you that you needed to find a new place, this area was crawling with crime and nothing in this building worked right no matter how many times you fixed it. He was going fucking crazy and you were the one that was living in this hell hole.
Bakugou angrily put the new batteries in even though he knew you literally just changed them the other day. He punched it, snarling when that brought the screen back to life. This thing zapped the energy of the batteries like nothing else and it was disgusting. He hated it.
He hated everything about this place.
And he was 100% sure you got sick because of that draft coming through the broken window. It was irreparable, the previous renters destroyed almost everything in the small 500 square foot apartment. Even if you had been out the night before, it shouldn’t have been enough of a problem that the heavy blankets you had couldn’t solve.
Your hands inched towards the soup as you wondered where Bakugou went and what was taking him so long. Shrugging it off, you reached for the bowl only to yelp as you burned yourself.
Heavy footsteps pounded closer until Bakugou rounded the corner, his eyes wild.
“What the fuck did you do?!”
You whimpered and he immediately took a less abrasive stance.
“Dumbass.” He muttered as he treated the burn on your palm. It wasn’t serious enough to go to the hospital for but you should’ve been more careful handling things. You were so clumsy it was a wonder how you hadn’t managed to meet death yet.
Well, that’s what he was there for. To keep you from harm.
“K-Katsu…” You whispered, your eyelids feeling strangely heavy all of the sudden. “... ‘m tired…”
“Go to sleep then, idiot.” He ground out, pushing up to his feet only for your hand to stop him.
You didn’t say it aloud but your eyes pleaded for him to stay. You couldn’t bear to say it, knowing full well he could catch the cold that you had and would be unable to work or see you for a prolonged period of time while he healed but in that moment, you wanted nothing more than for him to at least be with you.
Bakugou sighed to himself. You were stubborn to a fault.
Your eyes widened as your hazy mind registered him climbing on the sofa behind you, bundling you up in his arms as he wrapped another blanket securely around you. He was cuddling you.
He never did that.
“... Katuski?!” You exclaimed.
He burrowed his face into your neck. “Shut up.”
A beat passed before you sniffled again, the water works starting as your emotions bubbled over.
“... ‘m really sowee.” You mumbled, guilt weighing heavy on your heart. This was supposed to be his day and instead he was here, taking care of you. You felt like you were ruining everything.
Bakugou’s arms curled around you tighter and he growled against your feverish skin without caution. He didn’t give a damn if he got sick. “It’s fine.”
“But—”
He scowled, already knowing what you were about to say. “I don’t fucking care about all of that shit.”
That much you knew was true. He never was one to care about celebrating any big days, let alone his own birthday. The plans you had made for him was your own idea and he begrudgingly went along with it because it was you.
Hell, the only reason why he took today off was because you insisted. And now he knew it was because of all of that stuff you had planned.
All those things he wouldn’t actually do today because he was going to be too busy taking care of you.
But even though you felt terrible and your nose wouldn’t stop running, you felt strangely soothed by how fast he rushed over the instant you didn’t answer your phone, knowing that something was wrong. He always did have deadly accurate intuition when it came to you.
And you were thankful that even though it was supposed to be his day, he was here and taking care of you because you mattered to him.
The whole day, Bakugou took care of you and not once did he complain. He let you rest while he took care of all the chores and patched up your window yet again while making a couple of phone calls in hushed tones to avoid waking you up. After all, he knew what he was signing up for the day he said yes to being your boyfriend.
He didn’t leave your apartment until he knew you were better. He had an emergency bag of stuff over at your place so staying wasn’t a problem.
He did fucking hate it when he had to leave for work because you would be all alone and those times he made you promise to text you if the symptoms got worse.
It had taken a week for you to fully get over your little cold.
Bakugou was this close to taking you to the doctor’s after it worsened but you adamantly refused, claiming that you would get over it soon enough. He just needed to give it some time.
Patience never was your boyfriend’s strong suit and he nearly destroyed your favorite plushie after the first few days of nothing changing.
But after you got over it and were back better than ever, he stomped up to you when you were making dinner and stuck his face close to yours.
“Move in with me.” Bakugou demanded, the tips of his ears pink but he didn’t back down even as your jaw dropped in shock.
“You’re joking.”
If he was upset by your answer, he didn’t show it.
He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. “Did I fucking stutter?”
You gaped like a fish as the knife slipped from your grasp and clattered on the cutting board. “N-No, but—”
“It’s settled then.” He declared bluntly, taking none of your shit today. Your shitty landlord was going to go to hell for ripping you off and he was filing a claim or some shit with the city and taking him to court to get your money back. The conditions of your apartment were atrocious.
“But what about—”
“What?” Bakugou snapped, wondering what possible reason you could have for declining him. He knew you were uneasy that the front door never closed or locked properly, always wary of people breaking in when he wasn’t here.
Couldn’t you see that his heart hurt to see you struggling so bad?
Taking a deep breath to collect your thoughts and figure out just what you were trying to say, you started. “It’ll be wrong of me to move in with you when I don’t have a job that makes as much as yours does, I can’t contribute what it cost to house me.”
He lived in a higher-end neighborhood, one that you couldn’t afford to help pay the rent for if you were to move in with him.
You didn’t want to leech off of him, that wasn’t how you were raised.
Bakugou growled, crowding you against the counter and his eyes narrowed angrily.
“That’s why I said to fucking move in with me.” He spat, caging you between his arms and his hands slammed down on the counter behind you.
You shook your head, opening your mouth to object again when he cut you off.
“That means that I fucking take care of you.” He hissed, frustrated that you couldn’t get that fact through your pretty little head.
Bakugou’s eyes softened at your shocked silence and he rested his hands on your waist, nudging your cheek with his nose as he dropped a kiss on your shoulder.
“Let me take care of you.” He said with a slight plea in his voice, his vermilion eyes locking on yours as his jaw clenched determinedly. “I promise I’ll protect you.”
You didn’t say anything for a second, completely stunned by his generosity and how he made no attempt to hide how willing he was to do this for you.
That didn’t mean you were going to stop working towards your goal of being able to provide for yourself. But if anything, this step taken would drive you more to get there as fast as you could.
Because you did see a long-term future with him. And you wanted to do just as much for him as he had already done for you.
“... Thank you.” You whispered and one of Bakugou’s rare and genuine smiles quirked on the edge of his mouth.
“Dumbass.”
#soft bakugou#bakugou x reader#soft bakugou x reader#bnha#mha#boku no hero academia#my hero academia#bakugou#bakugou x reader oneshot#bakugou x sick reader#bakugou oneshot#bakugou fanfiction#bakugou fluff#bakugou x reader fluff#my hero academia bakugou#bnha bakugou#bnha bakugou x reader#bnhacity
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A hug and chicken noodle soup: Takashi x Reader
Feel better @ohshcscenerios <3
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Maybe love was as simple as a hug and chicken noodle soup.
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Takashi Morinozuka x Reader
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: None
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Takashi was not used to being disobeyed.
The national martial arts champion, head of his own security firm, and father of three was used to holding power in his massive hands, for the room to fall silent at his command. He made the decisions, though with valid input from others, but he was the top dog, the one on whose authority they relied. Respect emanated from his veins, care and courage were his pedestal. When he gave an order, it was for the greater good of his company, or the safety of those he loved.
So when he returned home to find you washing the dishes, he was absolutely livid.
Not at your disobedience, per se. He was used to your sass, your jokes, your spitfire ways. Fourteen years of marriage would do that to a person, especially one as easygoing as him. But at your abject defiance, going against his advice for your own good--did you not trust him?
“What are you doing?”
You dropped the cup you were washing, the water splashing against your apron and the wall in retaliation. Soap bubbles clung to your arms, and with your deer-in-headlights stare, one would have thought he had just caught you stealing the Hope Diamond rather than just a simple chore.
“Takashi, I…” you sputter, wiping strands of hair away from your face. They had escaped from the bundle atop your head and creased your neck and forehead, though sticking with sweat or water he couldn’t be sure. If it were sweat, so help him, he was going to tie you down to the bed himself.
He left the shadows of the threshold and walked noiselessly towards you, groceries weighing heavily in his hands. You dare not move, pinned to the spot by his steely gaze. Your husband was a quiet man, not often prone to outbursts of emotions despite a wildly passionate heart. But like a predator towards prey, he came closer, until you saw the disappointment lining his brow.
Disappointment was always worse than anger.
But when he approached you, so close you could feel the energy radiating off his skin, so close but not touching, all that was left in his eyes was concern, a worried quirk on his lips that left knots in your stomach. Kindness framed him as he set down the groceries, took a towel, and wiped down your arms, leaving them soft and dry.
“I thought I told you to get some rest, love,” he whispered.
You swallowed, wincing at the ache in your throat. “I tried, I really did, but this was the only time I could get some chores done,” you whined. “The kids are with your parents this weekend, and it’s finally quiet and I can do stuff without worrying about watching them--”
“My parents took the children because you’re sick,” he responded, voice measured and even. His tone was stark, hands lingering on your wrist. Not tight enough to bruise, but enough to remind you of his strength. “You need to rest. I told you I would do the dishes once I got back.”
“But I--”
“Darling.”
His eyes flickered with hurt, and though he was never a man prone to begging, he would do anything to stop you hurting. Every weak inhale you took he felt in his own lungs, trapped and weak and congested. With the raging fever you were sporting this morning, it was a wonder you were even standing right now.
With a sigh, you let the dish fall into the puddle and stepped off your footstool--everything in this house was freakishly tall to accommodate his height--as he untied your apron, hanging it on the peg behind you. While his hands wandered around your waist, enjoying how you felt in his embrace, he bent to press a kiss behind your ear.
“I hate it when you’re hurting,” he murmured.
His warm voice broke through the gauze wrapping around your brain, and you sighed, relaxing against his chest. So warm, the only stable thing in your swimming vision.
“There’s nothing you can do about it,” you said.
“Yes there is.” He scooped you up in his arms, bridal style, and smashed his mouth against your neck, kissing and nuzzling your sweaty skin. “Go to bed, and I’ll make you some soup.”
Despite your squeals, broken and congested before they left your mouth, hiccupped and weak, you didn’t push him away, finally letting him baby you into bed. He walked seamlessly to your bedroom and pulled back the covers with you still clinging to his neck. As he lowered you down, you could have cried at how soft the sheets felt, cool silk against your sore muscles, warmth immediately drawing you into sleep. He layered the blankets on top of you before walking to the other side of the bed, climbing in and drawing the sheets around him before spooning you back against his chest.
His arms were rapture in and of themselves, an escape from your burning head and weak lungs, so tight and strong that you knew he would keep you safe from any sickness trying to harm you. His gentle breaths against your ear calmed your heart, tickling that part of your brain that sparked with love. Even as his lips traveled across your cheek you could barely find the energy to scold him.
“Taka,” you whined, as seriously as your hoarse voice would let you. “Stop...you’ll get sick…”
“I’ll be fine,” he whispered, smooth and comforting like chocolate or rain. Another kiss to your temple, slicking down to the underside of your jaw. “My body has been through worse.”
Though that much was true, it still irritated you. How could he reprimand you for disobeying him and then not even listen when you do the same?
“‘S not the same,” you mumble. “Being shot is a different kind of pain, I’d imagine.”
Takashi chuckled against your neck. Your mind traced over the diagram of his body, the scars stretching across his chest and neck, dyeing his hands and striping through his legs. His line of work was dangerous, full of deceit and corruption, but you knew he’d never have it any other way. “You’re right, my love. A bullet hurts like hell.” He wrapped you so tight you almost couldn’t breathe, but you welcomed the loving suffocation. “But I’d take them all over again if it meant you and our little ones were safe.”
Grisly and gruesome though his words were, they comforted you, lulled you into the security that he worked so hard to provide. Though you prayed it would never come to it, you knew he would lay down his life in a second to ensure yours or your children’s happiness. He even showed his love in less extreme ways--for example, forcing you to rest, holding you as you slept, even at the risk of his own health.
Over and over again you were amazed at the selfless love of the man you married.
Before you could even stop it, the tears were falling from your eyes, stinging the hot skin of your cheeks. Your heart felt full to bursting, and its hammering through your chest didn’t help at all. The world felt full of sunlight yet you clinched your eyes shut to keep in the tears, but they didn’t fool him.
Takashi felt you shake and quickly turned you over onto your back, laying you beneath him as he hovered above, one hand wiping your tears as the other held fast to your waist. “Look at me,” he whispered, the urgency in his voice making your eyes pop open. He stroked your cheek, running his finger along your nose, cooing and shushing until your gaze met his. And as soon as you saw that beautiful smile split his tan face, you knew everything would be okay.
“There she is,” he whispered, tenderly stroking beneath your eye. “Does it hurt that badly?”
“No,” you whispered. “It’s not the fever. It’s the feeling of being loved so terribly.”
Never a man of words, he furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I love you so, so much.” A dry sob creases out your throat. “I’m so glad I married you, and I’m so glad you’re the father of my kids, and I’m so glad I not only know, but get to love such a wonderful man for the rest of my life.”
He chuckled at your delirious confession, words he had all heard before but sounded more tender in the context of your sickness. Such tenderness in your voice soothed the aches and quells of his body, the wounds he had sustained inside and out during his life, until all that was left was you with a rag and antiseptic and a bandage. He adored you so deeply that though he wanted to hear you say more, it was imperative that you rest.
“I’m so blessed to have you by my side. I love you,” he whispered, giving you a gentle kiss. He frowned at how hot your lips were and resigned himself for the afternoon. “Go to sleep, beloved. When you wake, I’ll make you soup.”
“Okay,” you mumbled, the crying finally tuckering you out. Pliantly, you rolled back over onto your side, and he laid back behind you, guiding your head to rest against his bicep and laying his other arm over your waist. As you drifted back off to sleep, you could only think of one thing.
Love really could be as simple as a hug and chicken noodle soup.
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Kofi
#ouran high school host club#takashi morinozuka#takashi x reader#mori x reader#takashi morinozuka x reader#ohshc
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Chapter 149 Expert Review Time
Hey gamers what’s up time for another CHAPTER 👏 REVIEW 👏
It was looking kinda bleak last time for pretty much everyone so I’m hoping things improved this time around, but it seems Murata and ONE are kinda going through their “I’m going to put my characters through the MOST” phase so… that feels unlikely. But nevertheless… still excited to see my favorite boys.
The 10000th Psychic Sister cover. Murata, I’m begging you. There’s literally like 30 other characters to choose from. I know you like drawing boobs but imma need you to put the pencil down for a minute and take a walk because this just ain’t IT.
“Summer is coming” it is July. Summer has been here for ten years. I’m so fucking hot all the time. Everything has been evaporated out of me and I’m literally a raisin.
The Psychic Sisters covers are just so devoid of life a lot of the time… I wouldn’t mind if it was them fighting or engaging in everyday activities but when they’re posed for the camera and deliberately placed there to look sexy it just sucks all the human out of them. The cover/splash page is a great chance to show characters in a new light!!! It’s mostly set away from the story so you can do whatever you want! Choosing to make 80 fanservice covers is just wasted opportunity for what could be additional character development. It’s gotten to a point where even the smegma-slinging bitchboys on Reddit are complaining about the excessive sexy covers…. When PussySlayer384756 complains that there’s too much tittage being shown, that’s how you KNOW we’ve got a problem. Now, idk how the fan climate is in Japan but I can’t imagine they’re feeling much different over there either.
Also, her anatomy is… janky. Her tit is bigger than her head, her belly is too long, and she’s got like 4 spare ribs. Like, I’m by no means an art expert but it doesn’t take a chef to know the soup is shit, you know what I mean? I feel like page after page of Murata drawing obscene muscle men has made him rusty on what should be (somewhat) normal-looking people.
Darkshine learns what TRUE peak male performance looks like.
You’ve gotta wonder how Darkshine even got to the S-Class to begin with when he pussies out of nearly every single fight… except the one where the opponent was literal water. Everyone says that he just joined the association for additional validation, and I believe it… this boy is not cut out for actual hero-ing. 99% Of the time HE’S the one who needs a hero.
It kinda bothers me how useless he’s been post-Garou fight, especially when we spent like an entire chapter trying to console his ass. I get that’s part of his character and development… but it’s begun to slow things down. We get it. We don’t need to see him be insecure every time a new enemy pops up. One was enough. We would’ve gotten the same effect if he just sat out the entire time post-consolation, because everything that’s happened to him on the surface has been kinda redundant.
Here comes the boooyyy 🎶🎶
Nice callback. I’m glad Metal Bat is finally here. Bitch runs slow as fuck.
It’s nice to see him act on his own agency instead of orders from the hero association. He’s clearly much happier when helping out on his own accord, and has a ton of initiative too. The chapter he got with just he and King meeting up and slingshotting themselves to the fight was really a breath of fresh air from all of the fighting. It’s moments like these where ONE remembers that people like OPM for the characters, and not necessarily the pretty action sequences. I really like this duo. I like Metal Bat. I like it when they’re given time to be themselves and not just vessels for the next fight scene.
I know I said I wanted the heroes to die but Murata I’m begging you please don’t kill the child. You can kill Puri, though. I hate that fucker.
Child Emperor regularly visiting and eating with Bofoi even despite being his lab assistant would be a lot cuter if Bofoi wasn’t the human equivalent to a dog turd. I might’ve overstated that… seems like Bofoi is just using him as an errand boy. The clear lack of respect he has for CE is very indicative of his character and is not necessarily a bad thing plot-wise, but I would still like to beat him with a cane. Additionally, it’s clear that he’s not going to help the heroes here. At least, I don’t think so. His “fuck them kids” attitude seems to be a pretty big pillar in the building of his character and I doubt ONE would jeopardize that just because he’s written himself into a corner. Oh, well. We’ll see.
It’s very sweet that even when near death, CE still thinks of Zombieman. Aaaaghh it’s so GOOD when the characters actually LIKE each other. I know realistically not everyone is gonna be friends but man… it would be a lot cooler if we got more insight on their chemistry. Pleaz have more Metal Bat-and-King-esque chapters. I wanna see how everyone gets along.
Also, the concept of Puri just manifesting drilling powers and carving through solid rock with nothing else but pure strength and determination is so funny. A little convenient, sure, but I really don’t care because it’s actually done well. Their reunion scene is hilarious. More stuff like this pleaz….
I don’t even know what to say about Genos here. Dude, I know you made an oath to protect Tatsumaki or whatever, but there’s no shame in a good bail. You can’t even bail anymore because your damn legs are gone. See, this is what happens when you make promises. The secret to keeping your legs intact is doing the bare minimum. Hope this helps ❤️
He’s making a valiant effort but… I’m afraid he just ain’t gonna do much while roleplaying as a worm. Maybe he’ll make a chrysalis and come out as a butterfly. Wait, that’s caterpillars. Fuck. TATSUMAKI IS A GONER, BRO. WE NEED YOU TO BE THE DEUTERAGONIST!! IF YOU DIE WE LOSE 70% OF MERCH SALES NOOOOOOOO
Local man has a heart attack in front of thousands of little monsters and somehow saves the world, more at 5.
King I’m begging you please get that shit checked out that’s not NORMAL.
Yeah, I like this conclusion. Very tasteful cliffhanger. I mean we know King ain’t gonna do shit but SOMEHOW black sperm is gonna get punted like the little cumstain he is. Can’t wait to see the events that unfold next chapter… it seems like every scene that involves King turns out to be really funny and I’m super looking forward to black sperm seeing Jesus.
Also, a little off-topic but I just really like the way Murata inked his pants. Got a real comic book feel to it. I mean, he’s just really good at drawing clothes overall (save for Fubuki’s body-tight dress that is 100% not how women’s clothing works but I digress). Fucker understands fabric physics like I understand how to make a bomb ass chicken parm. I respect it.
In conclusion, lower everyone’s expectations of you and you might get to keep your arms and legs. This has been Life Lessons from Forrest. You now owe me 50$.
#one punch man#opm#zombieman#metal bat#child emperor#king#manga spoilers#I mean not really it’s been out for like two weeks now (I think)#Genos#Tatsumaki#puri puri prisoner#meta
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i gotta sleep soon so ive decided i will finally dump a buncha my headcanons here aswell adfhsf
theyre all in here but im gonna copy paste them as a post as well because i wanna
ill be updating the doc a lot but i probably wont edit the post much
notes
slight spoilers but not much? i dont think?
mono is written to be the tallest because rcg is more like a bonus i guess? but she is the tallest + oldest (this goes for other similar things written abt six, mono and/or rk)
some of these are more like what-if scenarios (ex. modern stuff mentioned like cars) that could fit maybe in an au of sorts rather than entirely canon
all links are safe
Six
she/it/they
ADHD
Tasteblind, but sensitive to certain food textures
Shortest by a lot, youngest but not by much
Zero sense of time
Likes lullabies, gets Mono to sing them to her (likes to make up her own versions sometimes)
Short attention span, unless she’s insanely invested in something
Definitely bites ice cream
Uses Mono like a cat tree, climbs all over him, loves to sit up on his shoulders or just literally drape herself around his neck like a scarf (Mono eventually gets used to it, but she still can’t stay there for long or it starts to hurt) (possibly a little random but think like .. them + )
Likes most toys but hates dolls, usually tears them apart/messes with them for fun
Not a huge fan of rain, but the sound is calming, and she loves the aftermath, which includes the smell, dew on grass, just how everything looks, worms and snails coming out of hiding, and splashing in puddles
Likes teddy bears (big and cuddly, plus, reminds her of Mono)
You are not immune to her puppy eyes. Raincoat Girl is probably the only person who is
Collects things a lot, gets attached to certain items for a random amount of time
When she learns a new phrase or word, she loves to repeat it to herself ( not really in the “ look at me i learned a new word and i'm gonna use it all the time “ type way, she just finds it entertaining, kinda like vocal stimming )
Does a similar thing when she finds something that someone else said funny, mocks them by repeating it and giggling
Likes making "nests" out of her stuff
Definitely occasionally runs on all fours, it's usually not for too long though.
Most of the time it’s momentarily while she's already in the middle of sprinting, to give herself a boost with a bound or two, or if she trips or feels herself falling forward while running she'll shift onto all fours which is is how she originally developed that "reflex", to prevent herself from falling while running, but eventually she started using it a little more often
She can also just walk normally on all fours too but she usually only uses it while running
She likes to show off her object collections to Mono, he’s very supportive :]
Loves long car rides, as well as Runaway
Brings mono gifts (usually dead rats, birds, etc. or bizzare objects from her collection that reminded her of him for whatever reason)
Hates drinks like soda or sparkling water, anything fizzy is a no-no
Likes shiny things
Her pupils widen (that cat thing) when she sees something interesting, or something/someone she likes
Plus her eyes shine in the dark / in photos sometimes, they usually look red
Mono gave Six their lighter
Heterochromia, their right eye is a dark, reddish brown, the other is milky white
Always chewing on stuff
Fidgets lots, stim buddies with Mono
Six stims by rocking on her feet, bouncing, cracking her fingers and shaking fists most often
She also vocal stims lots, mostly by repeating animal noises
It’s got tons of freckles
She likes to sing, and is very good at it but doesnt get to very often
it’s favorite things to sing are hypno and sunshine
( 11:11 hypno, sunshine )
Not super into arts, but loves to draw, and is very fascinated by origami
Often refers to Mono as a nerd (affectionate) (also sometimes dork)
Purrs, growls, hisses etc.
Because she doesn't talk much, she adapts more animal-like ways of communication, not only vocally but also physical stuff (slow blinking, headbutting stuff, mostly cat-like traits and reflexes. also she likes to drop stuff off of shelves and tables just bc its fun)
Doesn't know her own strength a lot of the time
Very touch starved (they all are) even if she doesn't realise it
Flinches and/or swats others away when touched
Eventually they get used to Mono, he's the only person that can touch her at all, but she still has limits
No sense of others personal space though
She’s great at tracking things, mostly small animals
Super ticklish, not very happy that Mono found out
Very visual memory
She really loves all types of music, ranges from things like 100 gecs type stuff, to calm instrumental kinda things, literally anything with maybe a few exceptions
Shark teeth, very sharp, loves making dents in stuff with them
Cat-like claws too (retractable maybe?? why not.. it usually has them out though)
Love-hate relationship with snow, they find it weird and kind of icky, but Mono teaches her how to make snow angels, forts and snowmen, and she loves snowball fights (Mono regrets teaching them about those though), plus she adores going back inside and just drinking hot chocolate with Mono and sometimes other friends :]
Mono
he/she
Tallest of the three, oldest as well
Colorblind
He has vitiligo
Loves all sorts if arts and crafts, often drags Six into making stuff with him
Her hair is very soft, even if it doesn't look like it
Very touchy-feely, with others and with objects
Knows and respects others boundaries. Six does not
He will often push his own boundaries though
He’s very protective, usually feels the need to put others safety and health in front of her own
A little naive, will protect even if she isn’t getting anything in return from the person(s)
Likes skirts!
Mono loves to learn about his friends and their personalities, strengths, weaknesses etc. to use for their own benefit! For example, he has a different way to cheer up each friend, and does his best to include them in stuff he thinks they'll also like
Loves any happy sounding music the most, but listens to lots of other stuff too (a few songs that remind me of him not lyric-wise but like, sounds like he'd listen to them, are She Wants Me (to be loved), Dancing in my Room, Sunday Best and Sunkissed type stuff, I don’t know music genres so)
Favorite drink is probably coffee
Loves all sorts of soup!!
Has lots of nicknames for Six! Mostly uses kitty and shortcake (it hates them but gets used to them, only from Mono though; some of the other kids use them to get on her nerves, doesn’t end well for them)
Love loves bugs! Six likes them too, but isn't as interested as Mono and Runaway (she likes to eat them)
Runaway
he/they
Almost as tall as Mono, noticable difference though
He loves chocolate milk and tea
Probably the most reasonable out of the three
Despite this, he still likes to annoy them (mostly Six)
Similarly to Six, he sucks at keeping track of the time
Likes goldfish snacks a lot
His nomes are always nearby when he is
Really likes coloring books and puzzles
They love the sound of pianos, not the best at playing it but likes messing with them in his free time with Six (their rare bonding moments)
Loves any instruments really, pianos are just his favorite
Has the biggest sweet tooth
Also loves bugs!! Mono and him are bug buddies
His favorite bugs are caterpillars and butterflies, he isn’t a very big fan of spiders though (Mono didn’t used to mind them, but after the hand incidents in the hospital, he finds them icky; too similar)
Bonus; RCG
she/they
Tallest as well as oldest (again, not oldest by much though)
Big sister vibes
Super supportive
Usually in charge of keeping others in line, doesn’t mind a little chaos here and there though (even if it doesn’t usually end well)
Also has a few freckles, not nearly as much as Six
Lots of energy that often rubs off on the others when she’s around
Probably the most responsible, great with kids younger than her
Loves teaching the others how to do stuff, has the longest attention span which makes it easier
Very playful and teasing, but still knows and respects boundaries when it comes to that kinda stuff
Gets easily stressed out and nervous when she doesn't know what to do, as she feels like she always has to be responsible
aaaand thats all 4 now! i might do more characters like comic kids if i get enough ideas but thatll be in the doc if i ever do
pleas share with me ur hcs and ideas too!!!! if u wanna i would love 2 see them!!
#six rambles#like i said i update the doc#but prob wont update the post with it#not very often atleast#little nightmares#little nightmares 2#very little nightmares#vln#headcanons#six#mono#runaway kid#the girl in the yellow raincoat#long post
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Family Portraits
For @fjoresterweek Day 3: Family
Read it on ao3
The walls of the Lavorre Estate are full of art of many varieties. It is a veritable explosion of colour and decor on nearly every wall. One wall however, is the favoured place of both of the owners, as it is the wall where family portraits are hung. Above a comfortable, plush couch with cushions worn in from many nights of use, this particular series of works hangs. They are all clearly done by the same artist, though the expertise improves through the newer pieces. It is a veritable art gallery display, a life's work of the history of their family.
The first such portrait is small, set in a wooden frame, with a scratch or dent here or there. It seems as if it would be just about the right size to fit into a pocket of a well known, pink haversack. This piece features Marion Lavorre in a simple and beautiful purple gown. Her hair is down, as it often was when she was taking the evening off to spend time with her daughter and she is smiling brightly whilst leaning over the shoulder of a young Jester Lavorre. Jester smiles proudly alongside her mama. You would place the blue tiefling at about age 16, though the anatomy is not quite right in a few places and, if you look closely, you might get the sense that the artist may have faced the challenge of having to paint herself, which meant her model was ever moving. The pigments are slightly faded from time and wear, as it seems likely that this portrait was taken as a momento through a long journey, but the love in the portrait remains eternal nevertheless.
The next piece is a series of sketches that have been set together in one glass frame. The bold charcoal and ink lines on the pale parchment offer a stark contrast to the muted and worn colours of the previous portrait. There is a variety of sketches and styles that were chosen to be featured, some more formal and others more like doodles. You see Mollymauk Tealeaf in a detailed side profile, looking up to the sky. Caleb Widogast with Frumpkin wrapped around his neck, a serious expression colouring his features - likely drawn while he was identifying some item or another. A sketch of Nott and a sketch of Veth wearing similar expressions, artfully placed side by side creating a mirror effect. Next is Fjord, wearing an utterly ridiculous captain's hat with an earnest and serious expression that emphasizes the comedic effect; this one featuring a small sketched heart in the corner. There is a detailed drawing of Yasha wreathed in beautiful flowers, it has the slightest wrinkle and smudge where a grateful tear had been shed over it. Next Caduceus, drawn with a soft smile and little doodles of mushrooms and tea bags surrounding him cheerfully. Several versions of Beau drawn with action lines and body shapes sketched through, showing the artistry of her motion as Jester had tried to capture one of her favourite martial arts sequences. Then there's Jester’s first draft design for her high priestess gown at Traveller con. Finally, Essek smiling shyly over a bowl full of soup. The pages overlap in places but if you looked close enough, one might just be able to see the inky scrawl through the page above that reads “Hot Boi likes hot soup!”. These pieces had been lovingly chosen from Jester’s sketchbook at the time, and though the works were made using simple materials, they weave together and flow to form a larger picture of the quiet acts of kindness and attention that had forged these travelling companions into a family.
Next is a large canvas that is bursting with bright colours. The Mighty Nein are wearing their highest quality clothes, once purchased for an upscale party, and posed amongst the blooming grove. The landscape itself is a masterpiece in it’s own right, but Jester has taken great care and attention to paint each of the member of their little family in all of their colourful glory to match. Every detail of the painting has been meticulously filled in with the kind of care and attention that came from at last having leisure time and wanting to commemorate a great victory.
Essek floats under the shade of a tree with a parasol still artfully posed as much for fashion as for function. He is subtly holding the hand of Caleb who appears next to him in a stark contrast to the grubby and bearded man with a thousand burdens depicted in the first sketch. This Caleb wears a beautiful set of robes, his chest is raised in pride as he poses amongst his family, and his clean shaven appearance compounded with the removal of some of his looming worries, makes it appear almost as if he had aged in reverse. Caleb has a hand placed on Veth’s shoulder who poses with her crossbow out, a hand on her hip, and a gleaming smile that displays all of her “normal amount of teeth”. Yeza is standing beside her with a shy smile, Luc raised on his shoulders with a gleaming grin that matches his mother’s. He is showing off his own crossbow as well. Next to the Brenatto family is Beau who has a snarky grin, and is holding her tie, clearly still loving her formal suit. Yasha has an arm around her and is looking down at Beau with eyes that convey just how much she cherishes the opportunity to hold her at all. Her long hair has been lovingly woven with flowers from the garden and they stand out in a bright contrast to her otherwise monochrome appearance. Jester appears gleefully next to her, surrounded by her large family and utterly glowing with joy. Fjord has an arm around her waist and appears to be posed rather comically like most captains one might see on the cover of a romance novel. It is easy to believe the artist may have taken some creative license in how he was portrayed. Filling out the entire rest of the canvas is the Clay family. Caduceus stands in the centre, looking perfectly at home with the large family around him. As they Clays didn’t own much in the way of formal clothes, Caduceus is starkly contrasted by their somewhat humble appearances but there is no denying the beautiful familial connection amongst them is more beautiful to see than any formal attire. Then at last, down in the front, lying languidly across the grass in a rather suggestive pose, is Kingsley. It seems that he was not one to miss an opportunity to be portrayed beautifully and he is posing rather dramatically with a flower between his teeth. All told this portrait is clearly the centrepiece of the space with it’s boisterous colours and even more boisterous personalities.
Next on the wall, there is a small piece of Fjord and Jester in a suit and wedding gown. It is surprisingly simple. The pair are touching their foreheads together and looking utterly content. The love is the real feature of this piece and it doesn't require much else. There is however, a rumor that there is a small dick hidden in the embroidery of her wedding gown if you look close enough, but so far only Caduceus has discovered it’s location and he and Jester have been very tightlipped about it, so the hidden dick remains a mystery to most.
The portrait after this is Jester and Fjord holding two tiefling babies and one half orc toddler of varying colours and slightly different ages. The new parents are showing off their freshly adopted children with all the pride they can muster. The next section of the wall features a mix of solo paintings or drawings of the children as they have aged, interspersed with art projects that had clearly been done by the children themselves that had earned a place on the wall.
There is another group portrait of the Lavorre family that features Babadon and Marion, Fjord and Jester, and all 3 children who now appeared to be just coming into their teenage years. Though some years have passed, the pride with which Jester and Fjord display their children has not lessened.
Next there is a tall painting of a day at the beach. This painting would have taken hours of meticulous care to put together but it was clearly a masterwork. Each figure is in action, having a lovely day on the beach. It was painted to commemorate a favourite family reunion and has been captured with near perfect accuracy.
Caduceus is featured standing by the ocean’s edge with two small children climbing over him that anyone who knew Beau and Yasha would recognize as their children. He is dangling a third, that is recognizable as the youngest Brenatto, by an ankle over the water, doomed to be dunked below but laughing gleefully about it.
Fjord is nearby, playfully controlling water to splash a group of teenagers that include Luc and one of his younger sister’s Caley as well as all of Fjord and Jester’s children (Artie, Ruby and Vandran) who are laughing and raising their hands in defense. Ruby is beginning to manipulate a wave of her own, likely to return the favour. Fjord’s beard and hair are getting to be mostly grey at this point, his body taking on a little more sag than it used to, but the playful glint in his eye remains the same.
Beau and Yasha are nearby, playing a game of chicken against Kingsley and Marius (on again off again lovers) in the shallows. Beau and Kingsley are nearly nose to nose as they grit their teeth in an attempt to knock one another off.
On the sand, they had set up a large canvas tent to block the sun and in it there were various towels and chairs and snacks. A hammock is hung next to it and Caleb, long grey hair up in topknot, with his still reddish vacation beard, has fallen asleep in a patch of sunlight with a book across his chest. The many cats that he and Essek foster appear to have agreed with his idea as he has four cat’s lounging lazily on and around him, soaking up the warmth of the perfect sun patch.
Jester, much longer in the horns, and Essek, who looks much the same as he always has, are painting one another's nails in the shade and Essek is laughing while Jester appears to whisper some secret story to him.
Finally, Yeza can be seen holding Veth’s hand as she delicately dips a singular toe in the water from the relative safety of some large boulders.
It is a work of art that is destined to become a family heirloom.
Betwixt the paintings on this wall, hang other artful details. There is a cross stitch piece made by Yasha that is covered in embroidered flowers and reads “Open your heart to chaos”. There is a small, ceramic unicorn perched on it’s own tiny shelf. There is a scarf that Caleb had knit for Jester, several years prior when Essek had convinced him that knitting would be good for his anxiety, hung with care between two paintings. There is a crayon drawing of the traveller’s symbol, drawn by a child who was unwittingly inventing a whole religion on the spot. There is the green bow, once tied around the neck of a weasel who has finally been begrudgingly allowed to return to the fey wild as he is no longer needed.
Inevitably, Jester will get the itch to add another piece, and then it will be a week-long process of arranging and rearranging the wall again until it is just so. As it stands now, however, with many old friends piled onto their comfortable couch, sharing tea from a grave once more, catching up on one another’s lives, what the kids are up to, etc. this wall is indeed the perfect background for their small family reunions that are becoming more and more regular as a few of their members age.
Jester glances through their history and smiles a small smile just for herself.
“So Luc goes up to Ludines and says-”
“Jester, what are you staring at?” Yasha cuts in.
“Oh just looking at the art.”
“I still haven’t found that damned dick!” Caleb shouts standing to inspect their wedding portrait once more and the room bursts into amicable laughter and they zoom off on yet another tangent.
Yes... it is perfect.
#fjorester#mighty nein#critical role#crit role#critical role fanfic#m9#cr 2#mighty nein as family#found family#real family too!#jester lavorre#fjord
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Tending to a Wounded Heart
Fandom: Mystic Messenger
Word Count: 3363
Rating: T
Summary: A look into how MC feels regarding Yoosung's eye injury in the months following the Mint Eye incident.
Note: This is my piece for @mysme-rbb where I got to collab with the amazing @littleaipom. The idea about MC tending to Yoosung's wounded eye came from her, and from there, we explore how both MC and Yoosung dealt with his injury in the months following the incident. It was such a pleasure working with her and a fun experience for sure! Be sure to check out her art too! It's wholesome, heartfelt, and guaranteed to pull at your heartstrings :'))
Read on AO3.
~*~*~*~*~
Every time MC looked at Yoosung, a lump formed at the back of her throat. She tried to ignore it, tried to tell herself that she was over-thinking again. Yoosung always said that it was no big deal, that he could still see well enough with his good eye. But what if it was a big deal? MC suspected that with how often she spotted him groping blindly for things on his left side, or the way he had to pay extra attention when going down the stairs.
“I'm alright, MC,” he’d always say whenever she voiced her concern. “I got this for protecting you. If that had been a LOLOL raid, this’d be my badge of honor.”
If that had been a LOLOL raid, Yoosung wouldn’t have retained an actual injury. She tried to tell him that, to help him with menial tasks; it was the least she could do to ease his burden. But Yoosung always smiled and waved it off, saying there was no need and he could do it himself. MC's heart broke a little every time she saw that.
Today was a surprise visit, a concern-in-disguise, as MC told herself that Yoosung needed to consume healthier meals. So that's what she did, coming up to his apartment carrying a bag filled with freshly-cooked kimchi, grilled mackerel, and hot chicken soup. She wouldn’t say she was the best cook, but her mother had taught her the basics of a healthy meal, and she hoped they suited Yoosung’s palates. It was to her surprise, however, when she spotted him walking out of his apartment building with a big black trash bag in hand, sporting his left side.
Her heart constricted. MC paused midstep, watching him cross the pavement to the garbage dumpster on the side of the building. A limp on his left leg; Yoosung reached the dumpster, lifted the heavy bag, then tossed it inside. He sighed, stretching his back then stretching his arms, rolling his shoulders and neck. He massaged his left thigh, and MC thought she saw a glimmer of pain cross his features. Then he turned around, and for whatever reason, MC stepped back behind the bushes, keeping her eyes on his back as he made his way inside the building.
When Yoosung stumbled on the first step up the stairwell, MC half-moved, then stopped. She’d… probably just be a nuisance, wouldn't she? Her worry would only stress him more. But to see him so weak and vulnerable… Her fingers twitched. MC bit her lower lip and watched as Yoosung let out a soft curse, one hand gripping the railing hard to keep himself from falling flat on his face. Then he straightened his back and sighed once more, gingerly rolling his left ankle before he slowly, and painstakingly, climbed the stairs, keeping his good eye fixed downward on the steps.
She waited until he was out of sight, then waited another five minutes or so until she was sure he was back at his room. MC strode inside the building and up the stairwell to the third floor. The thought that Yoosung had to make this climb every day, up and down, with only one good eye, while still refusing any form of help, made her teeth grit.
She reached his door, then rang the bell. His voice came from inside, telling her to wait. A moment later, the door opened, and Yoosung stood in the doorway. The bandage covering his left eye was half-worn, and MC made a mental note to change it later. Good thing she came after all. The other eye—the good eye—widened at the sight of her, before it glinted, his face breaking into a bright smile. “MC!” His radiant beam teased an involuntary smile out of her.
“I brought you lunch,” she said as he let her in. “I hope that’s okay.”
That was awesome, he said. He wouldn’t have to go out and buy lunch, and, most of all, he got to save money. The innocent grin made her chuckle.
Yoosung’s studio apartment was on the small side, but big enough for a college student. A short hall that immediately opened up to the living area—a combination of bedroom and kitchen in one place. His bed was positioned at the farthest corner by the window, with his desk, computer set, and bookshelves on the other side of it. Just around the corner of the hall was the small kitchen counter, with the small electric stove, small refrigerator, and cupboards overhead. The small dining table acted as a partition between the kitchen and the rest of the apartment, and that was where MC set her bag down. Yoosung's eye sparkled when she took box after steaming box from the bag.
“It’s not much, but I hope you’ll like it."
“Of course I will. You made it.”
A little smile graced her lips. She looked at the clock on the wall. “It's not lunchtime yet though. Is it okay if I put these here first?”
“Sure. Let me get you something to drink. Is coffee good? I was just going to make some for myself.” He moved to the cupboards before she could say anything, then groped blindly for the coffee bag.
That little twinge of pain again. “Hey,” she said, “let me make the coffee.”
But Yoosung only chuckled, the soft, breathy chuckle that, in another occasion, would have sent her heart fluttering. “You’re the guest. I can't let you do that.”
But you’re hurt, MC wanted to say. You’re hurt, and I’m your girlfriend. Please let me do something to help, even if it’s just making you coffee.
He found the grounds next to the teabags, then told her to sit as he went to the coffee maker. She would, but there was an unease in her heart that refused to quiet down. So she kept watch, with one eye at least, as Yoosung poured water into the machine and added coffee grounds above the filter. At the touch of a button, the machine whirred and shook, and coffee began dripping into the pot beneath it. Then, as though noticing her gaze, he looked over his shoulder and met her eyes. Her heart leaped at the flash of his disarming smile.
Maybe he was right. Maybe she was being paranoid. Only having one good eye didn’t mean Yoosung couldn’t do menial tasks like brewing coffee, or climbing down the stairs. MC reassured herself that everything was alright, forced herself to take her eyes off Yoosung's back and resumed taking out the boxes. She was setting her lunch bag down on the floor when trouble occurred in a sharp hiss.
Something crashed. MC whipped her head up and saw Yoosung retracting his left hand then sucking it between his lips. Broken glass scattered over the countertop. What remained of the coffee pot now lay amongst a puddle of freshly-brewed black coffee, splashed across the counter and dripping onto the floor.
In the blink of an eye, MC had reached Yoosung’s side. She grabbed his hand, and he jumped, going tense when her grip turned hard.
“MC…” he tried to say. His hand was burned red, blisters already forming on the back of it. No cuts, thank God. Yoosung attempted to pull away but MC’s hold was firm. “It’s just a little burn,” he said again, even as his fingers twitched, hand strained under the pain.
“Water.”
MC shut off his protests. She brought him to the sink, then turned the tap water on over his burned hand. Yoosung hissed and winced, but he’d stopped struggling, the cool water slowly easing away the pain and the heat. Silence stretched between them, thick and palpable.
“I told you I’d make the coffee.”
Her voice was barely loud enough for him to hear, but he'd heard, and he called her name, the gentleness almost enough to draw her gaze to him, to let herself be lulled by that easy grin again. MC's lips wavered. She bit her tongue and gritted her teeth, forcing back the tears threatening to spill.
No more.
“MC?” He bent over, trying to catch her eyes under her bangs.
“What am I to you?” Her voice was uncharacteristically cold. He stopped. “I’m your girlfriend. Don't I mean anything to you?”
“What are you—?”
She tightened her grip. Yoosung flinched and almost backed up, but her hold rooted him to the spot. MC whipped her head at him, eyes flashing with anger, hurt, frustration, guilt.
“I’m your girlfriend!” So much vehemence. So much force. As if that single sentence was the reason everything happened. “But you wouldn’t—you're pushing me away! Keeping me in the dark; acting tough when you’re clearly in pain! Don’t you know how that makes me feel?” Her breath hitched. Her sight blurred. “You hurt your eye because of me!”
The dam broke. Angry tears burst free. She glared through them, glared until his one bright violet eye widened. In surprise? In realization? She didn't know. MC swallowed past the lump in her throat as tears after tears streamed down her face.
If only Yoosung hadn't gone with Seven that time…
When Seven had gotten the bomb situation at Rika's apartment under control, she'd thought the worst had past. But then Jaehee had received suspicious emails and someone had begun stalking Zen—though, given how popular the actor was, that shouldn't have raised alarms. But after the bomb, they'd all been paranoid, prompting Seven to investigate the emails' source. Everyone, including Yoosung, had been under the impression that those developments had been connected, and that, in turn, had led to the thought that MC's life was still in danger. So when Seven had finally found leads to a place called Mint Eye, Yoosung had offered to come with him.
She should've felt something was amiss; should've stopped him from going when he'd called to let her know. But MC knew, even as the thought kept haunting her mind for the months following it, that Yoosung would have gone with Seven whether or not her life had been at stake. That was just the person he was. He cared about his friends more than his life. And if Yoosung hadn't been there, Seven might not have escaped the place unscathed. MC knew he would have blamed himself for that.
Her hold loosened. MC hung her head, stepping back. “It’s my fault.” Her voice was quiet, broken, shaking. “And you're not giving me any chances to apologize.”
Silence fell. She moved away to fetch the first-aid kit from the bathroom. When she returned, Yoosung was still at the kitchen sink, burned hand held still beneath the pouring water.
She called him, and he jumped, as though coming out of a trance. She nodded toward the bed, lifting the first-aid kit box to emphasize her intention. He fumbled then, turning the tap water off and reaching for a rag to… wipe the messy counter maybe. But MC called again, and he discarded the rag and rounded the dining table where his steaming lunch still waited. MC dragged the desk chair to the bed and sat as Yoosung settled in front of her, jittery, tense, nervous. She set the box down on the low-lying table next to her and opened it.
The tap water should have cooled his hand, but the blisters looked nasty. She searched for burn ointments in the box, found it next to the bandages, then applied it to Yoosung’s hand, gently, carefully. Yoosung hissed, biting his lower lip, and still he acted like the tough guy he was not. So MC pressed a little harder on his tender skin. He gasped. “MC!” His eye flashed, but his indignation quickly died when he remembered her earlier outburst. Silence fell again.
“I’m changing the bandage.”
She reached up and around his head, finding the edge then unwinding the dirty gauze. She felt his gaze follow her, felt it waver and hesitate; saw, from the corner of her eyes, his mouth opening at the beginning of something. But he closed it before anything came out. Yoosung averted his gaze, fidgeting under her touch.
“If you hate the idea of me helping you so much, the least you could've done is take care of your eye properly. What if it gets infected?” MC scoffed, soft, under her breath. “And you call yourself a vet student.”
He mumbled something that sounded like "I don't hate it," but it was too quiet, and he made no effort to say it louder, so MC let him be. As the last of the bandage came off, a half-healed jagged scar greeted MC's eyes, stretching from his eyebrow to just above his cheek bone. Short enough to think that he had gotten away before anything serious happened, but the hacker had to have some skills with the knife, because even with the short gash, he had inflicted permanent damage on Yoosung's eye.
The doctor had done a marvelous job stitching everything together; MC could imagine it wouldn’t even leave a scar once everything healed. But now it was red and looking tender. When was the last time Yoosung changed the bandage? He flinched when MC applied the disinfectant and antibiotics ointment, flinched again when she wrapped the eye with a fresh gauze then held it in place. He kept his good eye down throughout the whole process, his fingers twitching before he clasped them together.
It wasn't until MC closed the first-aid kit and made to throw the used bandage that Yoosung caught her arm. “MC,” he called, hesitant. She glanced at him, at the way he hung his head, or the firm yet lax hold he had on her arm. She could pull away, but she settled back down. He fumbled with his words then, stammering as he tried to find the right thing to say, and MC stayed and waited, because he was holding her hand and she wanted to give him this chance.
“It’s not your fault,” was the first thing he said. The muscles along her jaws twitched. “No—I—I mean—um—” He pressed his lips, eyes darting away as he drew back into himself, looking so small that MC almost felt sorry. Or maybe she did feel sorry. Despite the pain it’d caused her, she knew he’d never meant any harm. The thought made her anger subside. The tension left her in a quiet sigh.
“Is it so hard to ask for help?” she asked. MC looked down at the hand on her wrist. She slipped out of his grasp, then turned his right hand palm-up, holding it, cradling it. He was so precious to her. Why couldn’t he see that? Why couldn’t he realize that him hurting also caused her pain? That, no matter what he said, she had a role in getting him blind.
Permanently damaged. The first time she heard that, when Seven broke down in front of them, she didn’t know what to think, what to feel. Everything had gone muted. The lights had gone dim.
Her fault.
It had been like a chant, or a curse. When MC saw him entering the party with a bandage covering one eye, she had forgotten how to breathe. Even though he’d said that it was no big deal, that everything was over and done with, that she was safe and that was all that mattered.
“What if you got hurt even more? Broke your leg or cut your hand—” she flicked an eye to his left hand, “—burned your hand. Is one eye not enough? Would you wait until you lose a limb before you accept people’s help?”
Would you still say it was nothing even then?
MC choked. Her chest felt tight, suffocating. Why couldn’t he see that?
On her lap, Yoosung had enveloped her hand in his. She noticed his burned finger too late, too close to her face. He wiped her tears, the touch featherlight, gentle, careful.
“I never meant to make you cry.” It was a soft murmur, remorse flickering across his eye. “I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing. That I was protecting you. That I needed to be strong, to act like everything is alright, so you wouldn’t feel guilty.” His jaws clenched, Yoosung shuddered in a quiet breath.
When he said nothing more, MC swallowed her sigh. "Did you know that by refusing help, when it is clear that you need one, you only put the other person in a difficult position?" she asked. "I was in a difficult position. I'm your girlfriend. I know we met through unusual circumstances, and we still barely know each other, but… the way you pushed me away…" Her hold on his hand tightened. "It felt like you didn't need me, that you were saying this was my fault."
"That’s not what I intended—"
"But that's how I perceived it."
They stared at each other, mouths pursed as they fought to contain their confusion and frustration. MC was the first to break eye contact, dropping her gaze to their joined hands. She brushed the back of his hand with her thumb.
The clock ticked, the seconds dragging long and slow until MC wondered how much time had passed, though in reality, one minute had barely gone by. In front of her, Yoosung sat still, stoic as a statue. She felt his gaze but refused to meet it. When at last he spoke, his voice was contrite:
"I'm sorry I made you feel that way." He returned the strength of her hold, prompting her to look up. "I didn't realize. I'm sorry." He shifted his gaze downward, an apologetic crease to his face. "I guess… I don't know, I guess I didn't want to appear weak in front of you. Like you said, we've only just known each other, and I didn't… I didn't want to look so pathetic. Losing an eye—after all that bravado I had when I asked you to be my girlfriend." He gave a self-deprecating scoff. "I was upset, to say the least. Distressed. Angry. But the thought that I did it for you, that I lost an eye for someone I love… it made it worthwhile, bearable. So I thought that I shouldn't mope or whine or complain, because this is my badge of honor, and I should wear it proudly."
The clock ticked again. Yoosung didn't lift his eyes.
"There's nothing wrong with whining," MC said. "In fact, you should whine. You lost an eye, for God's sake! It's only natural that you'd be distressed. But for you to have to deal with all of that yourself… That's not what I want. That's not what any of us want. The others—they've been worried about you too. You've been too cheerful. You act like nothing is wrong when something certainly is. And I understand wanting to appear strong in front of people, I do, but we're your friends! I'm your girlfriend. Shouldn't you trust us to help you figure all this out?"
Yoosung pressed his lips together. "I'm sorry."
She tugged at his hand. "Don't do that again!"
"I know. I'm sorry."
Her throat closed up again. More tears welled in her eyes. Before MC realized what she was doing, she had pulled Yoosung into her arms, crushing him in a tight embrace as sobs overtook her. It was a moment before his arms snaked around her, slowly encompassing her entire being. He whispered "I'm sorry" over and over to her ear. "I'm sorry, I won't do it again, I'm sorry."
When they finally broke free, both of them smiled. She stood up then, reaching for him with one hand winding around and resting on the back of his head. Her lips landed over the softness of his bangs in a gentle kiss, and Yoosung broke into a contented smile.
“Thanks, MC.”
MC pulled away and tilted her head to the side. “For what?”
With the aches of their argument behind them, he reached for her hand, intertwining his fingers in hers. He met her gaze, his eye crinkling as his smile grew into a brilliant beam.
“For being here for me.”
~ END ~
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~Rainy Day~
(Man I’ve decided to combat baby fever by making some more of this Au. It’s been a while since I’ve written for it anyway so why not! Also you may notice the art I’ve drawn for this kiddo. It’s true his design differs from reader to reader. How he looks skin and hair wise is based entirely off your mind. But for me, I’ve drawn what I think he’d look like if I were Y/N myself.)
Au: Kaishi
Part: Sixteen
Theme: Fluff
A deep sullen sigh escaped as he sat on his knees and stared at the rain running down the window. He had long since lost his interest in pretending the drops were racing and now he was at the rock bottom of bordem itself. He leaned forward and pressed his chubby cheek against the window along with his ear so he could listen closely to the sound of rain hitting the roof. It could almost soothe him to sleep had it not been for the input from his father on the couch.
“Brat, get your face off the window. Not only are you making it dirty with your dead skin and oils, but you’re also making yourself dirty from the possible germs it holds.” Kai spoke as he flipped the page of the book he was reading. effortlessly. “But I’m boooooooooored!” Kaishi drew out the word with a lengthy groan as his face slid down the window. Kai rolled his eyes and closed the book. “Then go do your homework.” He placed the book down and watched his son slug across the room to sit next to him on the couch. “I already did all of my work for today AND tomorrow too. I even did my bonus work.” Kai sighed and reached into his pocket to pull out a handkerchief. He began rubbing off the side of Kaishi’s face that was on the window as he spoke. “Alright then watch TV, or something. Go play with your toys, read something, or maybe help Pops tidy up the study. There’s a lot of stuff to do so cut out that complaining will you?” The boy grumbled under his breath and crossed his arms in annoyance. “I don’t want to do any of that stuff. I’m way too bored for that junk.”
“Watch it.” Kai thumped his nose.
“Did I hear someone say they were bored?” You spoke as your head popped out from around the corner of the hallway entrance. The picture of both your son and husband’s eyes lighting up when seeing you was something you’d never get over. “What’s ailing you hmmm baby?” You took a seat on the other side of Kaishi and opened your arms for him to scurry into your lap. “I’m so super bored and daddy hasn’t given me any good advice.” You laughed at the way Kai scoffed. “Hmm well, it’s a rainy day huh. Why don’t you go puddle stomping?” Kaishi tilted his head at this, meanwhile Kai was shaking his head rapidly in the background. You smiled and continued explaining to you son while your husband sat in the background with a look of defeat. “Puddle stomping is something I used to do with my mom/dad/guardian when I was a little kid. It’s nothing big or serious but it was still really fun yknow? All you do is find puddles and take the biggest stomps you can! The bigger the stomp, the more fun the splash is! The best part of puddle stomping is when you come back inside from it. You take a warm bath and dry off with warm towels that were put in the clothes dryer. You can then have warm soup or hot chocolate depending on the weather. I always wanted an ice cream Sunday myself.” Kaishi’s wide eyes seemed to sparkle in excitement. He whipped his head around and practically shouted at Kai. “DADDY TAKE ME PUDDLE STOMPING PRETTY PLEASE!!!!!!!!”
“Nope! Absolutely not! The entire act in itself is filthy. Think of all that nasty water that’s out in the streets. Not to mention the mud and dirt. That’s why I never did it myself, and I would’ve preferred if you never knew about the activity.” Kai paused to glare at you while you snickered to yourself. “Y/N, you do it.”
“Me? Well I’d love to but I’m busy today.”
“BS, no you aren’t.”
“Am too. I’ve got to get groceries.”
“Make Chrono do it.”
“Chrono is off today and I don’t want to bother the others. Why don’t you do it, my loving husband?”
“I’ve got paperwork to do.”
“Oh? That same paperwork you told me you finished earlier then?”
“...Well, Pops can do it then.”
“Nope, I’m taking Pops with me because he has a clinic appointment today.”
Kai groaned in defeat and Kaishi hopped off the couch. “Yes!!!” He rushed down the hallway to fetch his new raincoat and boots you got him last week. Once alone, Kai moved to smother you in a too tight hug. “You think you’re slick huh? Oh you’ll pay for this one later, Angel.” You wiggled out of his grasp and planted a kiss on his cheek, admiring the small pink that began dusting his cheeks. “Oh I’m so scared, oooo oh no!” You exaggerated before heading off to find Pops with a laugh. As you went down the hall, Kaishi came out of it wearing his rainy day attire. “Okay I’m ready!” Kai sighed and pulled his fluffy hood over his head. “You get 20 minutes of this madness and then it’s straight to the bathroom to clean yourself up, got it?” Kai ordered as he grabbed his large black umbrella. He passed a small blue umbrella with white polka dots and a red hook handle to Kaishi. “Thank you daddy!” The boy held the umbrella close, nearly shivering from excitement. “One more thing.” Kai paused with his hand on the door knob. “You stay close by y side out here. I don’t want you taking off running and getting hurt, okay?” Kaishi nodded in agreement and watched excitedly as his dad opened the doorway and ushered for him to leave. “The boy walked outside to the front, popped open his umbrella and waited until Kai followed along with it. “There, number one! It’s really big!” Kaishi pointed at a large puddle in the grass by the end of the driveway gate. “Go on then. I’ll stay back a bit so I don’t get subjected to this madness.” Kai watched his son rush to the puddle and basically leap into it. The cute giggling almost made up for the fact he was outside in the rain right now. He sighed and followed behind Kaishi as they exited the yard and walked down the sidewalk of their neighborhood. Kaishi took a break from the puddles to slow down and walk alongside his father and enjoy the rain for a bit. “Daddy, why come you never did puddle splashing as a kid?” Kaishi asked with curiosity. “It’s puddle stomping, brat. And the reason is the same as I said earlier: it’s disgusting.” Kai sighed and looked over at the flower bushes that grew alongside the fence line this way. It brought back a few memories of when Pops would walk him home with an umbrella after his school fights. “Daddy, you really hate germs huh.”
“Absolutely.”
“Well then what did you do for fun during a rainy day?”
“Shogi. I’d play it with Pops a lot. It’s why I’m so good at it right now. No one can beat me. Not even the old man himself.”
“Will you teach me to play Shogi one day?”
“Kai thought to himself for a second before smiling and putting his free hand on the top of Kaishi’s hooded head. “I suppose. If it’ll please you then I will.” Kaishi smiled widely and leaned onto his fathers touch before gasping and pointing ahead of himself again. “Big one spotted ahead!!!!” He rushed and jumped into the puddle repeatedly, unknowing to the fact that his father had slipped out the cell phone.
He smiled to himself and slipped his phone in his pocket. “Alright that’s enough. It’s been well past 20 minutes so let’s pack it up and get inside.” He directed before turning to walk away. He smiled to himself under his mask at the sound of pattering rain boots squeaking to catch up to him. Once inside, both boys hung their wet jackets up at the doorway hook and placed the umbrellas in the holder. Kaishi went to his room to pick out pajamas while Kai went to run some warm bath water. He looked up at the picture on the wall and stared at it for a bit while the water trickled from the bath spout. The picture was a baby photo of Kaishi wearing an oversized bath towel and smiling widely. Kai suddenly felt a lot less annoyed with today and a ton more thankful with the memories he was able to make. Kids grow up so fast, right?
While Kaishi was taking a bath, Kai was preparing two cups of Sundays. How could he honestly resist joining in on the sweet icy treat? “Hope you’re making one for me too?” Your voice suddenly appeared as you entered from running errands with Pops. “Done already? It hasn’t even been all that long. How did you get everything done so soon?” Kai questioned as you pulled out a spare cup for your ice cream Sunday. “I never said how many groceries I needed to get. I only said that I needed to shop.” You winked at him and he rolled his eyes. “Of course you’d trick me.” Kai scoffed before filling your glass with ice cream first. “You’re home!!!” Kaishi shouted as he rushed up to sit in your lap and hug your neck. “And daddy is making the ice cream thingy too?! This is the best rainy day ever! Thank you daddy!!!” Kai smiled beneath his mask at his little family. You guys always brought out the fluff in this man.
“Go ahead and make room for me too. I’d love a Sunday.” Pops smiled as he entered the kitchen as well.
#kaishi#kaishi Au#au#overhaul#bnha#mha#boku no hero academia#my hero academia#yakuza#shie hassaikai#kai chisaki#chisaki kai
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