…I’m opening myself up to requests. 

Hit me up with your requests here.

hello people! i’m struggling a bit to get back into writing, so please!! send in some songfic request! i’m dying here T-T

a-dorin:

that period when you’re in between jobs & you literally have a credit card payment due, a balance still on your rent, as well as no groceries.

i call it ✨survival mode✨

also, with that said, i will be taking drabble requests, blurb requests, literally anything for a small donation to my ko-fi

i’ll link it below if you are interested in a small donation!

Buy kenna a Coffee. ko-fi.com/kas0813

tagging some mutuals to spread the word: @daffodin@honey-beesou@fandom-gal44@agent-catfish-kenobi

All credit goes to Jimi Hendrix for this borrowed title. After way too much time (thanks to our good friend Writer’s Block and hating the first route I took with this which lead to a complete rewrite), I am finally getting back to finishing up my last two remaining requests for my milestone event. This one was requested by @something-tofightfor, who chose image 5 for Benjamin Greene x reader. In lieu of going to the actual beach, stay inside, social distance, and imagine yourself there with this sugarplum instead. I hope you enjoy!

Image prompt 5: Benjamin Greene x reader

Rating: R solely because B. Greene is one sexy mofo. If you haven’t watched Gold Digger, there are spoilers you’ll come across in this one.

Word count: 2889.

Tag list:@obscurilicious@the-blind-assassin-12@something-tofightfor@logan-deloss@lexxierave@madamrogers@yannii04@gollyderek@carlaangel86@maydayfigment@vetseras@thisisparadisemylove@malionnes@thesandbeneathmytoes@my-rosegold-soul@delos-destinations@luminex3@fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @tenhargreeves@witchygagirl@fific7@pheedraws

If you’d like to be added to/removed from my tag list, please just send me an ask or shoot me a DM.

Special thanks to @the-blind-assassin-12 for beta reading!

Once again, enjoy and thank you for reading!

Benjamin’s mouth had embarked on a journey. He’d made his way down the straight line of the back of your neck, and now was tirelessly pressing light kisses down the column of your spine. The heat of his breath was a sharp contrast to the air conditioning in the room, and he was sending literal shivers up your spine. Your eyes had fallen shut when he’d started on your neck, his long fingers threading through your hair. 

“You taste like saltwater and sunshine,” he stopped just long enough to murmur into your ear. He’d changed direction, rerouting and taking a detour up toward your other shoulder. Gathering your hair to sweep it out of his way, he ran a palm over your skin, brushing off several grains of sand that had been stuck there, reticent to let go. I understand completely, he thought to himself, a shadow of a smile curving his lips as they landed on you once again: one soft feather of a kiss followed by his mouth closing over a spot at the base of your neck, gently swiping his tongue over a patch of skin, tasting saltwater again before sucking gently, his intention to leave a mark clear.

You hummed softly, appreciatively, and grinned lazily as you opened your eyes. Benjamin hadn’t been excited about your idea for a weekend at the beach; he’d actually been a bit tight-lipped any time you’d mentioned it, which was strange– you found that Benjamin was usually forthcoming about most things, with just a short list of exceptions: his childhood, his brother Kieran, and his ex-wife Julia. 

“I never knew you had hard feelings toward the beach,” you’d joked with him good-naturedly. You’d purposely avoided the topic for three entire days, and Benjamin had finally breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that maybe you’d given up your idea of a weekend away. I’d love a weekend holiday, just one that doesn’t include sand, he’d thought to himself, every time you’d made the suggestion. But Benjamin knew it had not so much to do with sand at all. It had everything to do with Kent. 

He did everything he could to avoid returning to the area. He’d done everything possible to leave his childhood and years in Kent behind, to start a new life, and he’d succeeded in doing so. But when Benjamin thought about the place, his heart dropped and his pulse raced at the same time. He felt like the former version of himself, the name Sean White haunting him, circling over his head like a vulture. It was always there. Benjamin was, down to his bare bones, a taller version of the boy with the name he could never escape— the boy who had spent time behind bars, who had nothing, who spent the most desolate and miserable years of a life he’d love to forget—in Kent. 

                                         ***          ***         ***

“We used to spend half of the summer on the beach,” you had continued, your voice light with excitement, words spilling from your mouth quicker than usual. “We’d deviate here and there, but we spent most of our beach days in Broadstairs. Joss Bay. Just as beautiful as Botany, but without so many tourists.”

Benjamin had just watched and listened, expressionless. He wasn’t the type to keep at reading, his usual task at hand, while someone was speaking, whatever the topic… even if it was highly irritating. 

But you, well, you just laughed, getting to your knees and knee-stepping the rest of the way to where he was sitting, a high-backed and slightly-distressed armchair. The end table and lamp were perfectly-suited for his academic pursuits and cerebral hobbies. 

Benjamin’s eyes followed your movement, unable to help a small, wary shadow of a smile appear, vanishing as suddenly as it had come on. You were there then, your forearms resting atop his knees and looking up at him with wide doe-eyes, unconscious of just how beautiful you always looked from his view. 

You had only met three months ago in an otherwise empty corridor at university, but things had gone swimmingly between the pair of you. Benjamin was well aware, and quite often, that he was falling for you, hard and fast and much too much all at once.  He knew that if he wanted your relationship to progress much father— I do, I want her, I want to need her out of love, not from dependency—he’d have to tell you everything; the absolute truth. I want this, with her: the antithesis of what I thought I had with Julia. 

That thought, each time it invaded his mind, caused his heart to pound irregularly, his surroundings to tilt before his eyes. Perhaps he needed you already.

He heard the music of your laughter, the quick glossy look in his eyes vanishing within a split-second. Her smile could illuminate entire cities. 

“I know,” you continued with a slight wrinkle of your little nose, “That it’s quite popular, and the waves are rather choppy, but the sand is still white and the view…” you trailed off, shaking your head slowly as a warmth of nostalgia flooded your senses. 

You were still enamoured by the beach, as you always had been— the horseshoe shape of the coast, the white chalk cliffs, the carefree atmosphere and the smell of the saltwater. Your times there at Botany Bay in Broadstairs were some of your favorites, hands sticky with ice pops melting too quickly, briefly staining the sand. 

“What do you say, B? I’ll find a nice place to say, we’ll spend a long weekend in Kent. It’s lovely there, you—“

Benjamin spoke your name softly, but there was a strange firmness to his tone. Never one to interrupt, you were a bit caught off-guard. As he removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose, you lowered yourself down to your haunches, allowing your arms to fall from his knees to your sides. You’d seen Benjamin tired. You’d seen him dejected, frustrated over a paper or two that he’d gotten stuck writing, but this… this was something different. And perhaps you were being a bit sensitive, but your feelings were a bit hurt. 

To top things off, you didn’t know how to react to an emotion you’d never seen before from the man you’d been seeing for just three months. Operating on instinct, you just nodded— though you were thoroughly confused— and stood, offering him a soft apology as you went to your small kitchen to put the kettle on. 

Just as you placed the kettle on the stove to heat, Benjamin appeared in the doorway. You forced a smile, hoping it was convincing enough to pass. “Chamomile or lemon balm?” you asked. He took a few long strides and pulled out a chair, sitting at the table, and bit at his bottom lip. 

“Chamomile… There’s.. I’ve…” Benjamin scrubbed his hands over his face in irritation. His nerves were getting to him. Anxiety was thieving his words. “I can’t go to Kent, Y/N.”

You turned to lean against the countertop. Crossing your arms over your chest as you furrowed your brow, it was obvious you were concerned. Benjamin had grown up in Newenden, a small port village immediately north of the River Rother, as an only child. You searched his face and saw tension in the set of his jaw. The rise and fall of his chest seemed almost labored, and when he looked at you, you were startled by the look of pain in his eyes. 

“My childhood.. it wasn’t like yours.” His voice sounded thick. “My mum was not an attentive mother. All of her care was concentrated on landing her next fix, and Kieran and I—“ He stopped short and shook his head, staring down at the table, tracing a knot in the wood with his index finger. “My… brother.” He struggled with the word, his jaw flexing. 

Your eyes widened and you opened your mouth to speak, but all that spilled forth was silence. He’s lied to me. You felt your chest seize and it was like his words stole your breath from your lungs. Your heart thrummed erratically.He’sbeen lying to me.

“Older brother.” Benjamin continued, and his voice became unsteady as he went on. “Kieran had no father figure and mine was… fucking useless.” Upper lip curved in contempt, his nostrils flared in anger as the kettle began its shrill whistling. Quickly, though you felt as if you were in a haze, you darted to the side to quiet the sound, wondering how long you could keep your hands busy preparing two cups of tea. 

“When my mum died, Kieran did everything in his power to make everything normal, to watch over the two of us. We had no money and no place to go.  Just 50 quid, mate, to get us through the month. He already had a plan on how to get the money… ‘Just stand and keep watch, alright? Just keep watch.’” 

Benjamin was unaware, but he was sneering– his jaw clenched, brows knotted, his mouth set in straight line. But the part that was most jarring was the wildness in his eyes. Benjamin, what have you done? Your hands shook as you brought tea to the table, and you wondered for a moment when you’d managed to steep the tea bags. You had no recollection. Benjamin’s words were ricocheting in your head. You felt angry for being lied to, betrayed. You felt a dull ache in your chest for Benjamin and all that he’d been through. You felt a heavy guilt for unknowingly being so inconsiderate in badgering him about a beach trip. You felt like the foundation of your relationship had been cracked irreparably, like the fault lines in dry earth from an earthquake.  Setting one steaming cup of tea in front of Benjamin, you sank into a hard kitchen chair across from him.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “So I stood there, and I stood there… and I heard something and then… there was all this blood…” 

Benjamin’s voice was shaking and as you looked up at him, you saw that his face was wet with tears, droplets falling from his cheeks and onto the table. He swallowed hard. “I took the blame, Y/N. I took the blame and I paid for it and he… he let me.”

“Oh, Benjamin.” You rose from the seat you’d just taken and walked to stand in front of him. You could see the agony in his eyes; there was no way anyone could fake that. “Benjamin, I’m sorry.” Tentatively you sat on his knee, and he shook his head.

“I should’ve told you, I planned to. When’s the right time to–”

You interrupted him by wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your cheek atop the crown of his head. Your anger melted away and the only thing you wanted to do was take it away. It was impossible, you knew, so you’d have to settle for offering comfort. For being there. 

“There isn’t,” you said, frowning into his hair. You softly ran your nails over the back of his neck and the two of you sat in silence for a moment. Closing your eyes, you turned to press your lips to his head before pulling away to look down at him. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words would come out. They were stuck someplace between your heart and your throat.

“As soon as I could,” he continued, blinking tears away, “I left. I got out of Kent, and I made a new life for myself, changed my name, got a job, and an ex-wife.” Benjamin attempted to smile, but the corners of his mouth just twitched instead, and no light reached his eyes. “Shawn White follows me every step of every day and I can’t go back. I can’t.”

“I don’t know a Shawn White.” Just saying the name felt strange on your tongue, and you vowed to never speak it again. “I know Benjamin Greene. I know that he helps strange women carry loads of sketchbooks to her office.” You smiled softly, the memory of how you’d met a vivid memory in your mind. “I know that he’s a diligent student, and smart, and is a great copywriter.” Pausing, you kissed his forehead. “I know his favorite foods, the type of music he likes, that he’s funny and attentive.” Finally, you caught his eyes, a touch of sadness and sour regret still there. “I know that I care about him immensely.”

Benjamin had taken to lightly running both hands up and down your back, one on either side of your spine. He couldn’t believe your reaction, or lack thereof. There was no accusation. There was no venom in your tone, no indication that you didn’t believe him. He had confessed to you that his life was a lie, and there you were, beautiful on his lap, reassuring him of all that he was. And when you kissed him then, there was no bitter aftertaste of pity. And when Benjamin smiled afterward, it was genuine, and it reached his eyes. She’s unbelievable.

                                              ***          ***         ***

“You’re so pale. B,” you’d teased, all in good fun. “C’mere.”

You slathered Benjamin in sunscreen— SPF 45,  to be exact. He’d helped you with the hard-to-reach places of your own, his warm palms and long fingers working the lotion over your skin. 

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather spending our time in the air conditioning?” he joked, voice low in your ear. One last time, he rubbed one hand over either shoulder and leaned forward to kiss your temple. Despite the heat, you felt goosebumps popping up In gentle pricks. 

“Are you trying to make me forget about my mission? Because it’s working.” You turnED your head, narrowing your eyes playfully at Benjamin before turning your attention to the array of sandcastles littering the beach. Most of them looked more like sculpted sand dunes or ant hills more than anything else, but there were some valiant efforts all the same. Your mission was to thwart them all. 

“Really, I desperately want to impress you with my architectural skills,” you kidded. . Reaching to your right, you swiped the tote bag you’d brought down with you and pulled out a bright red, plastic sand pail. It held two smaller sand molds inside and a small, yellow shovel hung  from the bucket’s handle. You beamed triumphantly. Benjamin threw his head back in laughter. 

“What?!” Your voice dripped with feigned indignence, but his laughter was absolutely contagious. A giggle bubbled forth from your throat before it turned into full-blown laughter. “These are fully functional multipurpose tools!” You defended the vividly colorful kids’ toys as you unloaded the smaller molds from the pail. 

“You are utterly bonkers,” Benjamin said decidedly as he slid his sunglasses downward to shield his eyes. He leaned back on his readily-spread beach towel, leaning back on his elbows with his long  legs stretched out in front of him. 

And you are a vision, Benjamin Greene. The rest of Botany Bay— the horseshoe shape of the coast in the distance, the sapphire blue water sparkling brilliantly in the sunlight, the clean, whit expanse of sand and the picaresque pillars of chalk in your periphery— they all paled in comparison. You loved Benjamin irrevocably. 

And he felt the same way, you reminded him. “You love me, especially the utterly bonkers part,” you chided, setting your building supplies to the side. Joining him on your own beach towel, you rest your chin in your hand, propped up on your side to look down at him. You couldn’t help but press a kiss to his lips, your tongue teasing his bottom lip before pulling away. 

“Remind me again what I am?” you teased. Your eyebrows were raised in question and your mouth quirked upward in a smirk. 

Benjamin groaned in response, dropping his upper body down into his towel unceremoniously. 

“Brilliant at baiting,” he answered, rolling his head toward you. He was smiling, and your heart danced in your chest. Here you were, with Benjamin Greene in Kent, and of his own accord. You’d be returning to work soon, and he’d planned an end-of-summer beach vacation, at the very one you’d mentioned all that time ago. He’d remembered. And he was happy. 

You sat up with a burst of energy. Sliding in your own sunglasses, you readjusted the messy bun you wore atop your head. It was time to get down to business. “Now, are you going to help me build our castle before the tide rolls in?” You paused and turned your head to glance at him over your shoulder. “I can offer a promise of air conditioning as an incentive.”

Suddenly invigorated, Benjamin pushed himself up to sit as well, nudging your shoulder with his own. “Move over, Y/L/N,” he said, reaching past your legs for the lemon- yellow shovel. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

Finally, I bring to you part two of a request by @something-tofightforfor image 7 of my image prompt list, choosing season 2 Billy Russo as the subject. You can find part one, titled “Zoom”, here. Thank y’all for reading and I really hope you enjoy!

Rating:R

Word count: 2300 on the nose.

Tag list:@obscurilicious@the-blind-assassin-12@something-tofightfor@logan-deloss@lexxierave@madamrogers@yannii04@gollyderek@carlaangel86@maydayfigment@vetseras@thisisparadisemylove@malionnes@thesandbeneathmytoes@crushed-pink-petals-writes@delos-destinations@luminex3@fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes@tenhargreeves@witchygagirl@fific

As always, if you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list, just shoot me an ask or DM!

The room was spinning, tilting, like a terrible, sudden case of vertigo. You needed to sit down; you were dizzy and heady and nauseated and your hands had started to tremble. Russo. Billy’s voice echoed in your ears, over and over again and it was all you could hear. Everything else fell away. 

This was the man you had fallen in love with, a fact you’d admitted to yourself when it was the end, when he kept doing tour after tour after tour and the letters and Skype visits stopped. Everyone experienced lost love, the one that got away, and Billy was that for you. 

How did he end up here? What had happened to him— did he get injured overseas? How long had he been in the psychiatric ward at Sacred Saints? Who had he killed? 

Taking a few steps back, you sank down onto one of two hard, uncomfortable chairs against the wall, clipboard on your lap. You stared at his signature there again on that release form and cleared your throat. 

“Excuse me, of course. Mr. Russo.” His name burned your throat like straight whiskey; felt abrasive on your tongue. You harbored no hard feelings or ill will, but you had so many questions. And another one invaded your mind then, blinking on and off like a neon sign,  blinding and intrusive. Why is he pretending not to know me?

 The two of you spent years together, passing time with greasy food in a neighborhood diner and dripping ice cream cones for dessert melting in the park; you’d spent time tangled in sheets, sometimes for most of the day; you’d lose time taking picture after picture of his perfect face with your old instant Polaroid camera… pictures you had somewhere in a shoebox in your apartment, stacked with other forgotten things you couldn’t bring yourself to get rid of, collecting layers of dust. Your heart continued to race, You had to say something…  so you said the first thing that entered your mind.

“How’ve you been, Billy?”

                                           ________________

“How’ve you been, Billy?”

Howhave you been, Billy? Fucking peachy. 

“Best time of my life,” he answered, glancing at you out the sides of his eyes, his view partially obscured by his mask. It took a few moments for it  to hit him, but when it did, he immediately bristled, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. It wasn’t easy, but he stood, the barrier of the bed along with a few feet of tile flooring between them. Holding his stance, he turned to look at you straight. Billy.  He always signed as William Russo, but you had called him… 

“Billy?” He almost spat the name. It meant one of two things: either that you knew him— which was impossible, he had not one iota of an idea who she was until you volunteered to introduce yourself— or his reputation had preceded him. “You’ve been told,” he continued, jutting his chin angrily toward the windows. “Didn’t they tell you I’m afelon? A dangerous man, to myself and others. A murderer.” His lip was curled beneath his mask, heat from his anger causing beads of sweat to form at his brow. 

“Part of it’s true.” He rolled his left shoulder, feeling a satisfying crack. “I’ve killed a lot of people, I could be a dangerous man.” He paused to let out a laugh, smirking at the horror in your eyes. “I’m a Marine. Bet they didn’t tell you that part, did they?” 

His eyes flashed with anger, and you quickly attempted to diffuse the situation. Abandoning your camera in your lap, you shook your head vehemently. “I know you were a Marine.” I know what it’s like to watch you leave for another tour overseas. I know what you look like in your dress blues. I know what it’s like to live with the thought of possibly seeing you for the last time. 

“Were?” His laugh was muffled, but not enough to disguise the darkness behind it. “I’m a lieutenant. Special Forces.”  

Your heart bled for Billy then. You heard the clear conviction and pride there in his voice behind the slight anger. His accent was thicker than you remembered. And it hit you in another harsh, sudden rush of realization that Billy wasn’t pretending not to know you; he didn’t know you.

 He didn’t know a decade had passed since he’d seen you, because he had no memory of your existence, your name. The last thing he remembered was fighting in Iraq. He’d lost years of his life, a life where he’d made a name for himself in the name of corruption, a life when he’d been living on sex, money,  power, manipulation and murder. It was a life he didn’t know and a life you didn’t know either. To both yourself and Billy, it was ten years of nothingness. 

“Lieutenant.” You corrected yourself softly. There were so many questions you wanted to ask him, but you were skittish about asking. This wasn’t the Billy Russo you knew. This was a phantom of someone you used to know.  Concentrate on your work, Y/N, you told yourself. You’re here to do a job, not get yourself re-involved in Billy Russo’s life. 

With two quick strides, Billy crossed the room, sitting in the identical chair a yard away. You managed to look at him and found him peering at you intensely, a curious yet accusing look in his eyes softening into one of desperation.  You’d never seen desperation in Billy’s eyes, and it was heartbreaking to the point that your breath caught in your throat. What happened to him?

“Frank.” His voice was just a shadow louder than a whisper. “Frank Castle… I need to… do you know Frank? I need to see Frank.” Dropping his head, Billy ran a hand over the short spikes of hair on his scalp. Once upon a time, you’d had a soft spot for his hair. You wondered why it had been shaved. “Please.”

Your chest seized and felt tight like you were in a vise. You suspected that Billy wasn’t quite this open with so many people, his therapist perhaps, but why you? You were only there to take a few pictures; you should have been gone, on your way home to a glass of red wine and some reading in bed, relaxing before returning to Sacred Saints. Tomorrow was photo talking day, but something nagged at you that photos of Billy couldn’t wait. Even before you’d known who he was, you had felt that intuition. 

But things hadn’t gone to plan, weren’t going to plan. So many wrenches had been thrown into your plans that they were barely recognizable. And you knew you had to answer Billy, but how?”

“Frank Castle,” you repeated. You had just moved back home to New York recently; you’d done a lot of traveling over the years, rented a place on the West Coast close to Napa Valley for most of that time. After you were satisfied with the bulk of your portfolio when you’d come back. “How do you know Frank Castle?” You had no plans to lie to Billy, and you wouldn’t allow a wrench to be thrown in that. 

“Frankie, he’s…he’s my best friend. My brother.” Again, he dipped his head and fixed his eyes on the floor. “I have to speak to him, please help me.” 

Swallowing past a lump of emotion that had become lodged in your throat, you dreaded what you knew you had to say. “I’m sorry, Billy. I don’t know a Frank Castle.” Why would I? You were quick to add, “But I’ll… if there’s a way, I’ll try to help you. I want to help you.” 

You paused for a moment, cursing yourself for getting involved. This wasn’t just a quick, professional snap of a few photos any longer. This had turned into you, a stranger in Billy Russo’s inky black eyes, offering to see what you could dig up on this Frank Castle; this became  you, foolishly putting yourself in a position that would inevitably lead to more time spent with the man you’d once loved that had, at one time, alluded to a future with you. But the question that seemed branded in the foreground of your mind the whole time, gnawing at your nerves and on the tip of your tongue… it was ringing in your ears, constantly threatening to tumble out of your mouth: What happened, Billy? How did you end up here? 

And despite all that was happening, this unfamiliar version of Billy Russo that you were still coming to terms with– the man sitting across from you was not at all the man you’d known so many years ago– wasn’t off-putting. You weren’t frightened, and you wanted to ask him. You had all but decided to, but suddenly, you remembered you were there to do a job. You had photos to take. You needed the images you’d capture of Billy, and you were afraid that if you asked a question that was considerably personal, your initial reason for reintroducing yourself into his life purely by chance would be foiled. Swallowing the words back down with the lump that had formed in your throat, you double-checked the settings on your camera that you’d mindlessly fiddled with earlier. Everything was ready. 

“Is now a good time?” You gestured to your camera that you held in one hand.

Billy remained still for a moment, not saying a word. He was still thinking about Frank, and he was thinking about the woman in front of him who had offered to help. For what? What’s in it for her? What’s her motive?

“You help complete strangers search for people often?” he asked, and you were struck once again with the thickness of his accent. He wasn’t trying to hide it at all, and you wondered if that was intentional, or if he just didn’t care. Either way, your memory didn’t recall such a stark accent; it had always been there, but not so obviously.

His question hung heavy in the room, and slight movement caught your eye. He had leaned forward in his chair, tilting his head to the side, eyes narrowed through the two holes of his mask. The way he regarded you with suspicion unnerved you, because what was also apparent in his eyes was a calculated coldness, and even that was partially removed. Billy’s eyes were, underneath it all, empty. You felt your chest constrict, followed by an awareness that you couldn’t seem to inhale an adequate amount of air. Your thoughts were on rotation. Billy, what happened to you? 

Before you could answer, he spoke again, asking the questions that had originally popped into his head. “Why– for what? You get what?” His eyes narrowed a fraction more. “You got a motive.” 

The last of what he said wasn’t as much of a question as it was a statement. The surprise you felt was written all over your face, an unconscious raise of your eyebrows and widening of your eyes.

“A motive?” you repeated. Your expression of shock melted into one that mimicked confusion: a furrow of your brows. You felt almost dumbfounded, and you looked around the perimeter of the room. “What kind of motive could I possibly have, Billy? What could I “get” from doing it? Maybe helping someone to have some peace of mind, because it doesn’t seem like the people around here are giving you much of it.” Your voice was soft, but firm in your conviction. You felt like this man was an imposter, a total stranger. Yet,  in a contradictory manner, you were still utterly jarred at the fact that he didn’t remember you. There was no looking past it. How was it possible to be so affected by someone you no longer knew?

Billy blinked, and any shadow of emotion he’d held in his eyes was erased, replaced with the blank emptiness you’d seen when you first walked into the room. You looked away, out the window, and saw that the sun was hanging low, just over the horizon. You needed to get home. 

“I’m going to take a couple of shots if that’s okay with you. I’ll be back tomorrow to do some more work.” You turned your attention back to Billy, glancing upward into those empty eyes.  Hopefully, I’ll have some information for you.

He seemed as if he were far away, somewhere else entirely. His eyes were almost glazed over, and within two seconds, he was back again, though he wasn’t looking at you; instead, he dipped his head and ran two hands roughly over the short, dark hair on his scalp while rolling his left shoulder. Then, he raised his head and focused on you. Two tilts of his head, first to the left and then to the right, had you holding your breath. Some of his mannerisms were uncannily familiar. All at once, Billy was finally still, and with a sniff, he nodded his approval.

Finally able to do what you’d come to do originally, you held your camera to your face and peered through the viewfinder. Your heart dropped into your abdomen; Billy had once been your favorite subject to photograph, equally as attractive in any photo as he was in real time. It was he who was in full control of the camera with his defined, angular jawline, a smirk of his full lips or his dazzling, full grin that could light the entire city during a blackout. You thought you might give anything to take just one more Polaroid of that man that had been replaced with the phantom you had in focus.

I’ll work with what I have, you thought to yourself, and with the light pressure of your index finger, you pushed the shutter.

Sometimes, there’s this thing that happens and a request grows a mind of it’s own, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. This is what happened here, and the culprit is @something-tofightfor, who snatched up this image prompt and made a request before anyone else had the chance:

This one is something a little differently than I’ve done before, and with that being said, it’s quite the ride, but a fun one! Here, we see Billy as a Marine, and over a decade later, as a TBI patient. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy– there’s a lot more to come in this one!

Image prompt 7: Billy Russo x reader

Rating: R for language; possible trigger warning in mentions of crime and mental health

Word count:3530

Tag list:@obscurilicious@the-blind-assassin-12@something-tofightfor@logan-deloss@lexxierave@madamrogers@yannii04@gollyderek@carlaangel86@maydayfigment@vetseras@thisisparadisemylove@malionnes@thesandbeneathmytoes@crushed-pink-petals-writes​@delos-destinations@luminex3@fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes@tenhargreeves@witchygagirl@fific7

As always, if you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list, just shoot me an ask or DM!

Billy smiled like he’d never seen the atrocities of war. He grinned, and he showcased perfectly straight, unnaturally white teeth. His expression always reached his eyes, dark eyelashes framing his lids and accentuating the slight upturning of the corner of each, the left and the right. His jaw, strong and angular, could cut glass. Billy Russo was so organically gorgeous, so naturally photogenic, it was frustrating. 

“People spend all of their money and years of their lives to maybe get photographed for a damn JC Penney catalog, yet here you are putting zero effort forth and looking like this.” You stopped fanning the instant Polaroid, took one more look, and rolled your eyes, offering the photograph to Billy. “Take a look, George Clooney.”

Billy smirked and plucked the photo from your fingers, giving it a quick glance before handing it back. “Imagine how much better they’d come out if you let me buy you a real camera. What’s your brand, Y/N? Nikon? Canon?” Billy turned toward you, his palms skimming down the length of your arms. “You want somethin’ digital?” 

You cocked your head at Billy. His hands had dropped to your hips. “Polaroid. Classic. I’m all about instant gratification, Russo.”

Billy laughed in a deep timbre, pulling you closer and into a lingering hug. “One day,” he spoke into your hair. “When you grow into having patience… patience waiting for me until that next time I come home… I’m buying you that camera.” His New York accent was coming through strong, and that tended to happen when Billy really believed in something. You tightened your arms that were circled around his middle and pressed your cheek to Billy’s chest, listening for his heartbeat. 

As you listened to that rhythm, your face fell and your posture deflated with your exhale. You slumped your shoulders and your arms dropped from Billy’s midsection, but you continued to linger in his arms. He always made sure to speak as if coming back was a guarantee; as if fighting on the front lines in Kandahar was just a normal trip overseas. You swallowed past a lump that had formed in your throat. You wouldn’t succumb to it in front of Billy. Not yet. 

He was attuned to your posture, however small the shift in the way you carried yourself may be. Billy was attentive— he knew things about you, little nuances, unconscious mannerisms or habits, why you hated steak fries but loved waffle fries. There was a file in his brain, one specifically dedicated to you. He cared about you, your well-being and your happiness… yourlife. And he was a part of it, an essential part, whether he knew it or not. When he was gone, across oceans and continents and hemispheres, he took that essential part of your life with him. 

It wasn’t lost on you that you were long past the falling head-over-heels, missing meals because your thoughts were all- consuming, dreamy-eyed and irrevocably smitten phase of what you had with Billy. You cared about him a lot, maybe more than he cared about you. The two of you had never exchanged “I love you”s; it was very rare and circumstantial the handful of times you or Billy talked about the future. And he’d made nods toward that precarious, never guaranteed place twice in just the last 10 minutes. 

Lifting your head, you looked up at him, that woozy feeling of being drunk with one look into his darkened eyes very akin to that intoxicating feeling that came with love. “I’m holding you to that, Lieutenant.” 

                                                     *****     *****

You’d snagged a job with a popular psychiatric publication, and you chalked it all up to luck. Between your blog, business cards, spending all of your free time (and money) advertising, and networking with anyone who’d pay the smallest bit of attention, your name had been mentioned to a person with serious media connections. A random, brief phone call during a leisurely shoot one afternoon in the park resulted in a request for a viewing of your portfolio. Deemed “supremely impressive”, you were hired for a very specific field job.

That was how you ended up at Sacred Saints Hospital, deep in the heart of New York City.

New York was home, yet you’d been away for a good amount of time, traveling to build up your portfolio. The health facility you were to feature in the job you’d be hired for was a well-known facility. Sacred Saints was expansive, offering physical health services—surgery and recovery, intensive care, extensive stay— as well as mental health services and rehabilitation. Your goal for the piece was to photograph a host of mental health-centered techniques and options while still presenting patients as “normal” human beings, human beings that were not untouchable and should not be stigmatized. 

The challenge was going to be finding a balance between clear, clinical photos and those of therapy at work versus the personal aspect of mental health care. Whatever got written wasn’t up to you, but one of your niches was getting shots of moments that captured emotion: someone throwing their head back in laughter, a person staring blankly, eyes full with tears of grief. You could only hope those shots would provoke receptive emotions in their viewers. Photography was deeply personal work when allowed to be. It was also a matter of legality in many situations, and this was one of them. 

You needed clearance. The publication had kicked things off by securing permissions from the hospital– you’d been issued a temporary badge for security issues, identification and such, and being cleared to enter the wards. The rest of what was required was consent from patients being photographed. The latter was much trickier given certain mental disabilities and the quick unpredictability that came with some personality disorders and brain injuries, but it was necessary, no exception. Day 1 was mostly dedicated to obtaining patient consent. 

You treaded lightly. These people were still mothers, sons, sisters, uncles, still human… still people. They had the right of integrity, and you weren’t there to take that from them; you were there to bring awareness to the public, to remind everyone on the outside that the people inside of this facility were no different than those that read the magazine… that humanity is something every person deserves and should be given. 

You were satisfied with your work for the afternoon, which had been surprisingly productive. A small stack of patient consent forms had been signed, and if you could get one to two more, you could start with your favorite part of the job– the actual photography– the next day. 

Not merely content but happy, you walked along the tile floor of the main corridor with your camera hanging around your neck. The glint of artificial light reflecting off something shiny grabbed your attention; it was a badge on a policeman’s uniform, just above his left chest pocket. You felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. Another deputy appeared from the threshold of what appeared to be the same room and your footsteps quickened, your shoulders and head held higher as you approached them. As far as you’d seen, there were no other rooms guarded by any sort of law enforcement official on the ward. Your mouth was dry in anticipation; you knew you had to get into that room, to do all you could to coerce the patient to be photographed. It was blatantly obvious they had something no one else at Sacred Saints did, and that something needed to be captured on film. With a professional nod and a smile, you greeted the policemen, showing them your temporary badge of secured access and offering a short summary of what your goal was. 

“I did notice you’re the only two officials on the ward,” you added, coming toward the end of your hopefully successful allowed entry of the room to your right. You’d only gotten one quick glance through the square-paned window set in the patient’s door and the only thing you could make out was dark hair, cropped close to the skull. 

One of the deputies, a short and stocky male with a no-nonsense expression, eyed you with one raised brow. “We ain’t here for fun, lady. He’s convicted of multiple felonies, including several counts of murder for starters. This ain’t the circus… though the asshole looks like a sideshow freak.” He elbowed his partner in a jovial manner, the two of them snickering.

You narrowed your eyes at both officials, a total lack of any sort of amusement apparent on your face. You were seriously doubting this level of holding guard was necessary, as if these two clowns were serving a purpose standing outside of this person’s room dehumanizing him to a stranger. 

“I understand he’s a felon, officer, but the two of you seem like competent individuals.” Taking a long stride to peek more closely into the patient’s room, the taller of the guards stepped in front of you. Holding up your hand, you continued to speak. “It seems he’s restrained to the bed, his arms and legs are strapped like he’s in a straight-jacket. What harm can he possibly do in such a position?” 

The steeled look you’d been given by the cop attempting to block you from entering softened marginally as you stated the obvious. The patient couldn’t move from the bed, convicted felon or not. He was utterly powerless.

“You ain’t gonna get nothin’, lady,” the first man you’d encountered piped up. “He claims he got no clue why he’s in here, don’t remember, nothin’.” This policeman’s thick Brooklyn accent gave you some sort of uneasy deja vu, but you couldn’t put together the pieces, what it was a reminder of. 

“I just want to ask if I can take his picture. No coercion, a simple yes or no question. It won’t take longer than five minutes, if that long, and you can see the entire interaction if you open those blinds.” There were windows the length of the room on either side, though the view was obstructed by cheap, plastic blinds, drawn so no outside view was available.

Both officers looked extremely bored, ready for you to get out of their hair and scamper away in defeat. You weren’t giving in, and you stood even with them, brows raised just a fraction in anticipation. The cops shared an exasperated glance, and the one standing in your way moved to the side. “We can see all we need through the door, ma’am.” 

Of course you can, you thought to yourself bitterly. This man doesn’t have the freedom to move anything more than his head.

“You’re wastin’ your time even askin’.” You turned your head to look blankly to the cop from Brooklyn, his increasingly stupid, know-it-all commentary really starting to irk you. 

“It’s my time to waste, officer.” You managed to plaster a forced smile on your face, taking another step toward the door. “I’ll take it from here, thank you.” You spoke to the less obnoxious deputy only. Your hand already on the doorknob, you stepped inside the room within half a second, closing the door with a soft click behind you.

                                                   *****       *****

He hated being strapped to this goddamnbed. He hated that his goddamnface hurt. He hated that he couldn’t fucking sleep because of those fuckingdreams, and he hated every goddamn thing about this fucking place. The cops guarding his room twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week; the nurses who tiptoed around his room, terrified; that stupid bitch of a doctor who wanted him to finger-paint like he was in kindergarten; that woman who was always at the foot of his bed, just standing there and staring with a self-righteous smirk of contempt and satisfaction. All of it was a living hell, but he hated nothing more than to be strapped to this goddamnbed.

He could hear voices outside his room; the useless cops, no doubt, and also the voice of a female. Everything was muted, words muffled; he couldn’t hear actual words, but he could hear sound and tone. Who was the woman this time? Was it Dr. Dumont? The mystery woman who watched him sleep? A nurse, perhaps? Whoever it was, Billy didn’t want to be bothered or provoked… but maybe whoever it was would unstrap him. He could ask Dr. Dumont, or scare a nurse into asking for him. God, he wanted to walk, he wanted to go to the fucking gym, he wanted to look outside. Anything but these same four, drab walls, the smells and sights and sounds of Sacred Saints hospital.

With a click of his door opening, in walked a woman he’d not seen before. Who is this? Billy was in thought immediately, but the question he’d asked himself  didn’t unnerve him that much anymore. People were always in and out; some repeat offenders, some he’d never seen before and would probably never see again, if he had any luck in his new joke of a life. But the one person that should have been there, that was never there, was Frank– his best friend, his brother, the only family he’d ever had. Where is Frank? 

Nobody ever answered him. He just continued to wonder, to ask, to hope. Desperately, he attempted to push the question from his mind, peering at the woman who had just entered his room. At least she ain’t a repeat offender. 

He’d never seen her before, and through his suspicion and wariness, he didn’t fail to notice that that she was extremely attractive. In another life, he’d stride over to her, get her number, and her legs would be wrapped around him that same night. She’d be writing beneath him, screaming his name. In another life, Billy,he thought bitterly. In another life.

                                                   *****        *****

There was already a small pit of sympathy that had settled deep down in your chest. This man had obviously done some terrible things, but who knew what had been haunting his mind then, what was haunting it now. There were no excuses that needed to be made for him, but to be talked about and ridiculed by men of the law that stood just outside his door… that would be dehumanizing for anyone. 

As you opened the door cautiously, stepping inside in the same fashion, you kept a shadow of a smile on your face and somehow kept it from faltering. Not because he was confined, strapped to his bed— you’d seen that through that small excuse of a window paned with plastic in his door— but because there wasn’t a man looking at you as you’d expected; it was a phantom.

A stark white, generic plastic mask was pulled down over his face, and all you could see that reminded you that this was indeed a human being were his short spikes of black hair. And as you got closer, you felt your heart quicken at the stark contrast of inky black and blinding white between eyes and mask. 

You kept your wits about you, but couldn’t help but think how badly you wanted those cops to be wrong, how badly you wanted and needed a photo of this man— how this was what you felt deep in your soul that you were trying to convey. This opportunity was fated; nothing this perfect happened by chance.

Just as you spoke a hello, a loud rapping at the door interrupted your pending introduction and in walked an older woman, wearing scrubs, clogs on her feet that squeaked over the flooring with each step. She held a small paper medicine cup in one hand, a drink of water in the other. She set both down on a bedside table. 

“Time to get you out of this.” She reached out and roughly tugged at the restraints, a deafening sound of the pulling back of more Velcro than you’d ever seen in your lifetime. The man in the bed pushed himself up, still not saying a word as he was given medication. “The Tylenol you requested.” With a turning of his head, the man lifted his mask just enough for a quick swallowing of the pills, still revealing nothing. As he turned back to face you, he rolled his neck to the right, then the left. You briefly wondered what the mask meant to the patient as the nurse took his trash. Nodding at you briskly, she quickly left the room, leaving the two of you alone. 

The stranger in front of you was tall, the length of the bed he lay in, and rail thin— skeletal, even. There was nothing imposing about him, no danger or peril in the air. From the little you’d seen, you couldn’t imagine this man as being dangerous at all, much less a felon, a murderer. But he was quiet— so quiet. Not one utterance, one word, one sound since you’d entered the room. You wondered if this was a tactic, a technique, or a result of his TBI. 

Greeting him again, you got down to business by introducing yourself, explaining why you were there. “I’m Y/N, and I’m a photographer. I was assigned to take photographs for a periodical, and wanted to ask if you’d mind if I took a few pictures.” You spoke in a professional manner, kept your voice amicable, and spoke at a volume just shy of what you considered “normal”. You felt the need to keep the patient placated, at ease, and you wanted the cops to hear nothing you said.

“I have a release form, I’d just need your name and signature, and if you choose, your photo won’t have to be captioned and your name never mentioned. I only need the information for your release. Nothing more.” You gestured to the clipboard you held, the thin stack of release forms secured there, and tried not to look as hopeful as you felt. 

This could be it— the photo, the one that would give you more exposure, and more importantly, the one that would evoke emotion and draw readers in. The humanity and recognition for these patients that you were initially working to capture could very well be debunked by this one photo of a man who was desperately trying to shroud his humanness. Then again, the obvious contrast could be striking. That, however, was ultimately left up to the writer.

Your attention was captured as the man in the bed slowly tilted his head to the side, regarding you through the cut-out eye holes of the plastic mask. The color of his eyes were jarring, almost black, and they bored into you with a type of intensity you’d never encountered before. Your pulse quickened and you could feel the pounding of your heart against your chest. He’s convicted of multiple felonies, including several murders for starters. You remembered the policeman with the Brooklyn accent, his warning, and just as you felt a cold, creeping fear crawling up your spine, you remembered the rest of what had been said: This ain’t the circus, even though the asshole looks like a circus freak.  Your fear twisted into determination, and you didn’t shy away from his stare; in fact, your posture shifted as you stood up straighter, never looking away from this masked man. 

“You got a pen?” The voice was muffled by the barrier of his mask, the tone was deep and rough from disuse. He also had somewhat of a Brooklyn accent and his voice sounded vaguely familiar… you rationalized that you didn’t know this person, and perhaps the voice just reminded you of that arrogant prick of a cop you’d had the pleasure of meeting just outside. In response to his question, however, your triumph skyrocketed. You knew your emphatic nod was eager. 

“Yes, right here.” You calmly took the few steps to his bedside, keeping in mind to not ambush a TBI patient with sudden movement. Holding out the clipboard, you referenced points of the release to be filled in with the pen he’d asked for. “All I need is your name, printed here, today’s date, and your signature here. This second box can be checked, stating you do not want to be identified as the subject of this photo at any time.” 

He took the pen and clipboard and you began to toy with your camera, adjusting the focus, the drive mode, and the aperture. Your fingers were quick, working deftly, and you peeked once through the viewfinder for verification. In the silence of the room, you heard the faint sound of pen scratching over paper, and then, the clipboard was raised, pen laid on top. Holding back a beaming smile was difficult, but you managed as you were given back the clipboard, this time with a signed release. 

“Thank you, Mr—“ You glanced down at the information he’d given you, and your heart seized in your chest. William Russo. It was there in clear print, block letters you recognized from your past, a signature so familiar you’d know it  anywhere… the certain curving of the R and perfect circle of the O. Your stomach lurched and a wave of nausea washed over you, and then, your voice was stolen and replaced with his own as he finished for you. 

“Russo.”

Here’s another filled request, and it’s about our traveling music man with a heart of gold, soul of fire, and fingers of a true virtuoso– none other than Ryan Brenner. And what a life he has to write about! This was requested by the lovely @witchygagirl​ as follows: 

This one is actually unrelated to A Familiar Face or my other related one-shots, so it’s a stand-alone piece! Thank you for reading, as always, and enjoy!

Image prompt 11: Ryan Brenner x reader

Rating: PG for fluff and more fluff, with a side of fluff. 

Word count: 1879

Tag list:@obscurilicious​@the-blind-assassin-12​@something-tofightfor​@logan-deloss​@lexxierave​@madamrogers​@yannii04​@gollyderek​@carlaangel86​@bicevans​@maydayfigment​@thisisparadisemylove​@malionnes​@thesandbeneathmytoes​@crushed-pink-petals-writes​@delos-destinations​@luminex3​@tenhargreeves​@fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes​ @fific7

As always, if you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list, just shoot me an ask or DM.

Special thanks to @something-tofightfor​ for beta reading!

“I went to the depot, looked up at the stars. Cried, some train don’t come, there’ll be some walkin’ done.”

When Ryan strummed his guitar, it was magic. The music floated through the air in D and A minor, an arpeggio of time that was broken down and descended. If you closed your eyes, you were sitting outside in Mississippi on a balmy summer night, dewy grass dampening your skirt as you watched fireflies blink out of time while you drank homemade moonshine. It was 1931 and Prohibition was in full swing, but your daddy didn’t care and neither did his backwoods friends. 

Ryan’s smooth-as-silk voice and long fingers dancing and picking guitar strings was your backdrop, and you’d always find your eyes fluttering shut during that one particular song, fully invested in your daydream. A small smile would tug at the corners of your lips, and Ryan knew why. You’d told him about your little fantasy late one night after too much Bayou Teche. You’d gotten it shipped to chill inside the refrigerator until Ryan arrived, and by the time he was gone, each of you had halved the beer until all you had left was empty,  brown glass bottles. 

The Geeshie Wiley tune was one of Ryan’s standards when he was off busking between hopping freight trains to his next destination. He played covers mostly, and most people seemed to recognize Last Kind Words, even with a male voice singing the lyrics.  You’d heard him play it dozens of times, whether out on the street surrounded by a small audience or the comfort of your front porch steps. No matter how many times, you were always transported back in time. 

It had been a humid, cloudy night in May, spring melting into summer as you sat next to Ryan on your old wooden porch swing, hung by rusted wooden chains. Your eyes were heavy; you were drowsy and instead of Ryan’s guitar in his lap, it was a small black book and a old, chewed up PaperMate pen— no frills, clear plastic showing an ink cartridge that was two-thirds used up, cap off and stuck on the pen’s end. 

Your eyes had drifted shut, your head resting on Ryan’s right shoulder. Almost asleep, you felt Ryan’s weight shift and the swing beneath you sway out of time. Eyelids popping open, you lifted your head as Ryan sat back upright, a scrap of sheet music pinned between his thumb and long, tattooed index finger. You saw that the paper was singed at the edges and just a partial page— less than half, the ink beginning to fade. Always learning about Ryan, you smiled softly as he tucked it back between two blank pages of his book. 

“I didn’t know you could read sheet music,” you spoke, Ryan’s head turning to look at you. 

“A little… sorry I woke you up, Y/N.” The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile as he looked at you with those eyes a few shades darker than chestnut. Reaching up, he softly brushed wayward hair behind your ear. 

Drowsy eyes meeting his own, you shook your head. “I didn’t realize I fell asleep… what’s the song?”

Ryan closed his book, capped his pen, and the swing tilted as he set his notebook on the stained wooden planks of the porch. When he was upright again, he shifted in order to wrap an arm around your shoulder and pull you closer. You breathed in deeply, always trying to memorize his scent– the organic smell of the outdoors, tinged with soap from his shower. He kissed the crown of your head before answering.

“ ‘S one that you know,” he spoke softly, in a low voice. The music of night– the chirping of crickets, croaking of frogs, screeching of owls and rustles of leaves under the tiny feet of rodents all went unnoticed when he spoke. It was no matter that his voice was barely above a whisper. “I’d be bold enough to say it’s even a favorite… might be a favorite of mine if I was forced to pick.” 

You thought for a moment, a small furrow settling in your brow. “That’s pretty general, Brenner. You sing Happy Birthday, and it would be my favorite.” 

Ryan only responded with a chuckle; he was really playing this game. With a slight squeeze of your shoulder, he finally spoke, but only to set one ground rule: “Only yes or no questions, Y/N.”

The smile he’d put on your face grew into a grin; there was an infinite list of things you loved about Ryan Brenner, and his moments of playfulness were high up there. They accompanied your love for his introspective nature, the fearless lifestyle he lived with a streak of adventure, how his overgrown hair tended to fall over his forehead in the same spot, how his voice transported you to another time… another time.

“Last Kind Words,” you guessed, putting just enough distance between the two of you to look up at his face and gauge a reaction. Ryan’s lips quirked, and his brow raised slightly in appreciation. 

“I didn’t know you read sheet music,” he joked lightly, punctuating the recycling of your words with a wink. 

It was the littlest of things that still uncaged the butterflies in your stomach, the familiar fluttering of their painted wings flickering in your abdomen. All it took was an unconscious hum, or a quick meeting of your eyes with his… a wink to make you feel like you could fly.

“Do I win a performance?” Catching his eyes with yours, you knew he would see the ‘I love you’ there without words. Ryan was in tune with everything he was presented, attentive and never distracted. You paused, the look in your eyes changing from one of pride and internal laughter to a slight curiousness. 

“You know the song,” you thought aloud, obviously introspective, “What’s a little scrap of its sheet music for? Burned at the ends, at that.”

Ryan hummed, and for one beat of time, you saw a faraway nostalgia in his eyes. “Somthin’ I’ve been carryin’ with me since I left Virginia.” Ryan never referred to home as anything other than Virginia. “Used to be a full sheet, too.” 

You knew that there was a significance; a story. How much Ryan would reveal was the only mystery, and something you’d grown to appreciate. He expressed closeness and intimacy in his own, unique ways that you had learned to understand. And Ryan continued. 

“When I was… let’s say, younger than ten, my grampa found me hidin’ in the garage strummin’ on his guitar. I was already figurin’ I was  gettin’ the belt, but he just came an’ he sat down. ‘You don’t learn chords, boy, you don’t bother touchin’ it, ya hear?’ Later that night, he gave me this sheet, just part of the song, didn’t say nothin’.” He’d averted his eyes, found a thread in his jeans to pick at. “An’ when I was older, I started learnin’ chords.” 

The nightsong began to get louder, you thought, as Ryan finished his story. Male crickets were getting more desperate for mates; so were the frogs; nocturnal predators were getting anxious for their prey. 

“I’d hopped a train, got past the point of anyone findin’ me and it was the dead of winter. I was makin’ a fire, or tryin’, but the wind was howlin’, I was throwin’ things in the tin I was usin’ to keep that fire goin’ an’ I grabbed that along with a bunch’a stuff that didn’t matter. That’s the rest of the story.”

Finally, Ryan abandoned that loose thread from his denim jeans. Head still ducked, he lifted his gaze to meet yours. You offered him a shadow of a smile, searching his warm brown eyes. 

Then, you took his hand, and with both of yours, turned it around. You surveyed his palm calloused from hopping trains, fingertips rough from guitar strings. You traced the lines of his palm— first the head line, located in the center, then his life line, and finally his heart line. Glancing up at him, your eyes landed on his lips, the small and almost undetectable smile of wonder crooking the corners of his mouth upward. His smile was contagious. 

Turning his palm over to look at the back of his hand, you redirected your attention to his long fingers— tattooed horizontal lines just below his top knuckles, vertical ones inked between the bottom two. You brushed the pad of your thumb over  the length of his index finger before lifting his hand to your lips and gently peppering tiny kisses over each of his fingertips.

In response, he gently took his hand back to use his index finger in lifting your chin. Everything I’ll ever need, he thought to himself in absolute certainty. She’s everything. Ryan drank in the color of your eyes, the slight slope of your nose, the shape and curve of your mouth. His eyes lingered there for a moment, and he used his finger to lift your chin higher. 

Without hesitation, his mouth was on yours, passion and tenderness combined in the way your lips met. Ryan coaxed your mouth open with his tongue and a small, satisfied noise tumbled from your mouth into his, your heart rate skyrocketing. When he pulled back to catch his breath, he kissed the tip of your nose and then your temple, feeling the slight, rhythmic beating of your heart against his lips. 

“We should go inside,” he suggested with a slight nod to the door. Tongue darting out to wet his lips, he gave your shoulders one last squeeze before sliding his arm from around your shoulders. “I have a craving, Y/N.” Your eyes widened in anticipation as Ryan paused, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “For a root beer float.”

Laughter spilled from your mouth, Ryan following suit with chuckling of his own. “Ryan Brenner.” You attempted saying his name in a firm tone, but failed. “You’ll get that root beer float, but not without payment first. You owe me a song for being such a damn good guesser, if I remember correctly.” It was your turn to smirk back at him, raising your eyebrows in faux haughtiness. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied readily, nodding as he did so. “Guitar’s inside.” 

You stood from the swing and held out your hand. Ryan stood too, black notebook holding a memory in one hand,  and in sliding his fingers between yours, love held in the other. The two of you made the few steps to the door as you sang lines of the song he’d be trading for ice cream. 

“The Mississippi River, you know it’s deep and wide. I can stand right here, see my babe from the other side.” 

Your voice didn’t transport you to the riverbank in the way his did, but you knew Ryan would guide you in your journey through space and time just as soon as he held his guitar in his lap and slid on his fingerpick. As always, you were ready, imagining the flickering of fireflies reflecting off the river, anticipating the antiseptic taste of unlawful moonshine, and waiting for the magic to begin.

This request features CEO and founder of Anvil, Billy Russo, ruminating on life and other things, and who doesn’t want another peek into this mastermind’s brain? The request for this was made by the amazingly fierce @gollyderek as follows: 

As a disclaimer, I delved into this having every intention to somehow get Billy Russo into a fluffy situation, but this was the outcome. Either way, I hope y’all like what I’ve come up with. Thank you for reading!

Image prompt 1: Billy Russo x reader

Trigger warning: mentions of murder, sex

Rating:PG13-R due to triggers above as well as language 

Word count:873

Tag list:@obscurilicious@the-blind-assassin-12@something-tofightfor@logan-deloss@lexxierave@madamrogers@yannii04@gollyderek@carlaangel86@bicevans@maydayfigment@thisisparadisemylove@malionnes@thesandbeneathmytoes@crushed-pink-petals-writes@delos-destinations@luminex3@tenhargreeves

Follower event tag list:@fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes​@breanime​

As always, if you’d like to be added to/removed from my tag list, just shoot me an ask!

Thanks to @delos-destinations​ and @the-blind-assassin-12​ for beta reading.

Billy stood straight as a rod, shoulders squared and chin slightly lifted. He held a glass tumbler of amber brandy in one hand, sipping leisurely as he looked out at the New York skyline from the large picture windows that presented quite a view, casting varying streams of sunlight and shadow over the hardwood flooring of his penthouse. Silhouette outlined with sunlight, an ethereal glow was cast along the planes of his body. He’d already discarded his suit jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his pristine, white button- up, Hermès tie still in a perfect Windsor knot at the base of his neck. 

Narrowing his eyes, Billy peered at a flash of color that caught his eye. Following the slow floating of a hot air balloon far in the distance, he lifted his brandy to his lips, drinking the remainder of what had been left. Fucking Central Park idyllic tourist bullshit. His lip curled in disdain as he continued to stare, only turning away long enough to pour more Courvoisier from his decanter. 

It had been a fuck of a long time since he’d thought about you. You, with your smile that rivaled his, your deep dimples and long, black eyelashes. You, with your laugh that sounded like the music of a wind chime, thick hair that always gave off a slight scent of apple from your shampoo. You, with your never ending legs, your perfect ass, your heels that dug into his back as he rolled his hips into yours; you, who could make him twitch just by moaning his name. 

He knew he had to stop fucking you when he kept having the invasive thought that it wouldn’t be terrible if you stayed overnight. He knew he had to avoid you;  he’d taken you as his plus-one to several high-profile events, and he began to think of you as his date instead of jaw-dropping eye candy on his arm that he’d discard after the gala was over and the sex was done. Billy was having thoughtsandurges that he refused to give into. He had to leave you by the wayside because those ideas you’d put into his head without words were dangerous. 

Billy had never shied away from danger; he seeked it, encouraged it. He craved danger, it was the only element in his life that he needed. Danger was always there, never a disappointment. It was an integral part of his work, and it wasn’t left at Anvil. When he came home, on the rare instances when he was off-duty, danger followed. It was like a second shadow Billy carried with him. 

Danger… Billy lived  it. But the danger you brought along with you wasn’t the version Billy had ever encountered. He’d never allowed himself to get involved in love. It was an obstacle that would do nothing but get in his way. He was a very busy, very rich workaholic. Love would get in the way of his work, his reputation, the lifestyle he’d built for himself and enjoyed. Love would push aside the prospect of other women moaning his name while gripping his sheets. 

Even if Billy entertained the idea of love— which he didn’t— he absolutely knew that he didn’t have the capacity. He was emotionally unavailable, and as charming as he was, he was aware of the emptiness in his eyes, every day, during his morning routine, looking in the mirror as he deftly tied a flawless Windsor knot just before smoothing gel into his hair. He had no reaction to the vacancy there; it was the very antithesis of the wild, inky black, almost maniacal hatred that consumed his eyes during and after completing a task that had to be done. A self-satisfied look a grandiosity followed, but the impassibility eventually returned. 

He was born unloved by a father he never knew and a mother— only in a strict, biological sense, nothing more— who loved meth more than she ever thought about loving her son. Billy had never felt love and was incapable of giving something he’d never had. 

Billy inhaled deeply through his nose. He rolled his neck side-to-side, shrugged each shoulder in an attempt to reset himself. He exhaled slowly but felt his jaw flex, his nostrils flare in irritation and disgust. The ice in his tumbler was melting into the brandy, diluting it’s kick. After one more long sip, he turned and walked away from the window, the view, that fucking hot air balloon carrying nothing but delusion.

He would have rented one of those, maybe, if you’d asked him to, for an anniversary or birthday or something to do on a Friday night. He could have, but he didn’t. Billy Russo had to stay grounded, present, waiting, calculating, succeeding. Fuck if he’d ever contemplate the allowance of abandoning those things and losing his head for any sort of clouding in his mind. It was entirely unfathomable. The danger that sank its claws into Billy and attached itself to his life with permanence was ground-level, and as he turned to walk away, it was there, large and distorted, looming in front of him. Danger was the one thing that preceded Billy. And Billy always followed.

Heat Wave

This drabble turned 2000+ word one shot is brought to you by this fantastic request from @the-blind-assassin-12​:

This took forever and took a completely different direction than the one I had planned. Thank y’all for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Image prompt 8: Ryan Brenner x reader (related to Bah, HumbugandIn the Line of Fire (part two) which can both be found in my masterlist)

Rating: PG for slight language

Word count: 2167

Tag list:@obscurilicious​@the-blind-assassin-12​@something-tofightfor​@logan-deloss​@lexxierave​@madamrogers​@yannii04​@gollyderek​@carlaangel86​@bicevans​@maydayfigment​@thisisparadisemylove​@malionnes​@thesandbeneathmytoes​@crushed-pink-petals-writes​@delos-destinations​

Follower event tag list:@luminex3​@fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes​@witchygagirl​@breanime​

If anyone would like to be added to/removed from my permanent tag list, just shoot me an ask!

When you’d left home at the crack of dawn for a job interview— which had gone surprisingly well thanks to Starbucks and an extra shot of espresso— you’d needed something far warmer than the lightweight blazer you’d grabbed on your way out the door. Now, just before noon, you had shed your blazer that had proven to be insufficient earlier, yet you still felt hot in just your sleeveless blouse and pencil skirt. You thought a perk of moving farther up north would be the mild, temperate climate. It was your first Indian summer, though you’d lived in the area for a year, and you had decided it was bullshit. What had happened to the cool, crisp autumn you’d fallen in love with a year ago?

When you pulled open the heavy glass door of the post office, a cold blast of air  but your skin, and you stepped inside quickly. The air conditioning felt absolutely fantastic, and you briefly wondered if people would notice if you lingered for awhile, just to soak up the cool temperature, maybe until you were even a little chilly.

You smiled at the thought as you arrived at your box, smack in the middle of the wall of post office boxes belonging to other people. There was a wall of boxes on your left, another on the back wall— yours on the right—and there were more just down the corridor. You rummaged in your bag to find the tiny brass key for P.O. Box 257, tucked away in a zippered compartment in your purse. After the third time it had fallen off your key ring, you decided to hide it away in a more safe, reliable place. 

After locating your key and unlocking your box, you stared at the unexpected abundance of envelopes that had piled up over the last week.  Who knew so many people still send paper mail?  It took two times reaching into the small box to pull out every piece of mail, mostly tuning out to be junk or credit card companies offering you low interest rates. Only then was the box empty— almost. Retrieving the one remaining piece of mail at the bottom of your box, you smiled as you realized who it was from, locking the box back before giving the postcard a good look. It was rare that Ryan sent you postcards.

They were usually letters tucked away inside envelopes, words hidden for only you to see. The decorative side of the card displayed a vintage style print, a drawing of a wooden fence leading out onto a beach of white sand bordering sky blue waters. Welcome to Orange Beach! it boasted in a series of light green block letters, fading into yellow. 

You flipped the card around to see Ryan’s familiar handwriting, a mixture of print that sometimes led off to a few letters of scrawled script:

Just passing through. All the sunshine brings you to mind. See you soon. 

You could hear the cadence of his voice, the dropping off of the G at the end of certain  words, the slight twang that tugged at his pronunciation of vowels. Your smile grew into a grin as you glanced at the postmark, reading September 3rd. Your eyes widened into saucers as you recalled today’s date. Ryan’s postcard must have gotten lost in the shuffle of the mail circuit— the post date was over two weeks ago. 

You shrugged it off and secured your key back into the small pocket on the inside of your purse just before tucking Ryan’s postcard inside. With an armful of the rest of your mail, you braced yourself for the assault of the inevitable sweltering  heat.

 Fucking Indian summer. 

                                             ***          ***          ***

Ryan was just passing through after a rousing five days in Virginia,  where he’d met up with Georgie. Where he was going next was still on the table. Instead of restless, he felt fulfilled, still riding the high of busking with his close friend, both of them splitting the money they’d made halfway. He and Georgie played well together, and it usually paid off. He’d shedded his coat and hoodie, managing to stuff the hoodie into his pack and hang the thicker layer around one of the straps of the large bag. His ever-present guitar case, the black leather wearing off around the edges, was clutched tightly in his right hand as he paused near a crosswalk. Squinting in the sunlight, he was grateful for the small shadow the bill of his cap provided.  With the transition of the streetlights from green to yellow to red, he crossed the street and walked one more block to reach the post office. 

He was low on stamps, had just two left to be exact. Ryan kept in touch with a handful of people and had a flip phone, but he preferred writing letters. They felt more personal, gave him the time to think about what he was saying and write them in a way that he’d stumble on while talking. There were also times when his phone would be dead for days. 

It was mid-July, the thick of the summer, and he could feel beads of sweat forming along his forehead, though it was before noon. The old government building was once red-bricked, but had been washed with white in order to modernize the place. The upkeep added a nice touch as well, neatly trimmed bushes contrasting against the bright paint. He pulled at the metal handle on the right of a set of non-paned French doors, the temperature of the air inside bringing instant relief. The building was eerily quiet, the only sounds lowered voices at one end of the building, the light scraping of paper against metal as patrons picked up their mail. Turning toward the sounds of conversation, he walked down the corridor and turned with the layout of the building. 

He was surprised at the line of people waiting, a few solitary people in casual attire, one or two dressed in clothing appropriate for the workplace littered between. There was a mother with a stroller holding a sleeping toddler, an elderly couple, and one woman alone in front of him. He nodded politely as you turned your head to the side in curiosity in order to see what type of brave soul had come up behind you to patiently wait for their turn. You saw a man who was about your age, and offered him a friendly smile, turning around to face him.

Ryan instantly found you absolutely stunning. Your smile brightened your entire face, your features all striking, as if they’d been hand-picked specifically for you.. 

“Good morning,” you said, greeting him casually as if the two of you had been acquainted a long time ago, old friends. “How about that heat wave?”

Ryan chuckled, surprised at your unaffected manner and genuine friendliness. He noticed the way you surveyed his clothing, eyes quickly glancing to your guitar case before lifting to  his face again. Your expression hadn’t changed or faltered a bit, that smile still in place. That was a rarity, something Ryan hadn’t come across in quite some time. 

He returned your smile with a slightly crooked smile of his own. There’s some thin’ about this woman, he thought to himself.  She’s authentic. A good heart, a kind soul. A fire burning within her. Ryan thought that if she was burning bright, he’d volunteer to stand a bit too close to her flames and would pay no mind to the sharp sting of a burn. 

“Mornin’,” he replied good-naturedly. “I think I’m used to all sorts of weather, but then a heat wave hits and reminds me I’m wrong.” Ryan looked at you with warm eyes, spoke with a low drawl that made you weak. “Name’s Ryan, pleasure to meet you.”

                                          ***       ***         ***

It was eerily quiet when you got home, but the silence was just what you needed. You felt like you needed about three showers to wash away the sweat and sticky humidity that clung to your skin, and the only thing that delayed you was the kicking off of your shoes and dumping your purse and mail onto your couch. 

After your shower, water temperature lukewarm at best, you felt human again, revitalized. You’ve mulled around ideas for dinner in the back of your mind, made a quick detour into your bedroom, and returned to that couch you’d tossed your things upon, holding a shoebox. Opening the box as you sat and balancing it in your lap, you reached for your purse, pulling out the postcard you’d received, albeit two weeks too late. 

Lifting the thick stack of envelopes that were quickly outgrowing their box, you slipped the postcard picture-down into the bottom of the shoebox. Smiling softly, you brought your legs up, crossing them like a child, and plucked several envelopes from the middle of your stack, devouring the letters that you’d read dozens of times before. 

Y/N, 

Made a quick decision to hop off in New Orleans before heading off toward Chicago. The train station here is directly connected to a streetcar line that leads straight into the French quarter. Maybe I’ll take a ride next time. Maybe you’ll take one with me. 

I thought about you most of the day, the way you’d stop to listen to a three-piece zydeco band in Jackson square. I imagine how you’d look with powdered sugar on the tip of your nose from beignets, and the slow nod of approval when you taste real, authentic gumbo. 

I heard the roaring of a streetcar clacking over its tracks and knew that I needed to write to you that very  second. I miss you, Y/n. Wish it was me & you riding that streetcar to wherever it would take us. 

                                                                                           Ryan 

Have you ever been to Vegas, Y/N? Beyond all the neon lights, the ritzy hotels and big-name shows, the electricity of the city shifts. Contrary to what other people might think, it’s a great place to play music, beyond the strip, along a street lined with benches and a slight change of pace..  more of a scenic, less chaotic feeling. People stop, and they listen. Really listen. Sometimes I’ll get accolades instead of money, but that’s what it’s all about— telling stories with hope that people can enjoy them and relate.

It’s time for me to go out for the day. Can’t wait until you’re the audience I’m singing to. 

                                                                                          Ryan

Y/N, 

I’m just writing to tell you that Memphis not only has the best bbq, but also the best peach cobbler. Georgia’s got nothing on Tennessee. 

                                                                                             Ryan

Sometimes, when you really thought about it in retrospect, it was wild. In the space of time that you and Ryan shared as a unit, an entire human could be born; the biology of. growing from cells into a living, breathing, viable human being. An entire new life could be created. 

And throughout the last nine months, you, with Ryan’s help, had created a new life of your own. You had a boyfriend, one who was absent far more than he was around, yet managed to never weaken his connection. No matter where in the country Ryan’s trains took him, he’d write. There was no way for you to write back to a man with no address, not in a manner of space and time anyway. But in your new life, none of it was liner. The only time that mattered was when Ryan was there with you, and that was when he got your letters. You always responded, saving your words to give to him next time. 

Next time. You slid folded paper back into envelopes, a grin breaking into your face as you heard the sound of heavy boots over your wooden porch. Dropping Ryan’s letters back into the shoebox right on time, you replaced the lid as the door opened and shut. There was a soft thudding of his guitar case being set into a corner, and you stood to pad through the house in bare feet. 

You met Ryan in the kitchen, watching him down almost an entire cold bottle of water. You adored this man who had needed to buy stamps while stopped in your town, stepping into the post office you’d been waiting in, all by chance. You had never been happier than when Ryan was home. 

“Good afternoon,” you greeted him. As he set aside his bottle of water, you rose to your tiptoes to give him a kiss, his lips chilled from the water. Snaking your arms around him, you leaned back and looked at him, a playful glint in your eyes. “How about that heat wave?”

Here is the result of this request  in which you’ll get a peek into the mind of Billy Russo before it became broken. This one took a lot of deliberation because our Billy is a lot more than just a pretty face! As always, thank you for reading (and thanks to @luminex3 for the request). Enjoy!

Images prompt 9: Billy Russo x reader (requested by the fabulous @luminex3)

Rating: PG-13

Trigger warning: Mentions of blood and death

Word count: 765

Tag list: @obscurilicious@the-blind-assassin-12@something-tofightfor@logan-deloss@lexxierave@madamrogers@yannii04@gollyderek@carlaangel86@bicevans@maydayfigment@thisisparadisemylove@malionnes@thesandbeneathmytoes@crushed-pink-petals-writes@delos-destinations

Follower event tag list:@luminex3@fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes@witchygagirl@breanime

If anyone wants to be added to/removed from my permanent tag list, please shoot me an ask!

And the most special of thank you’s to @its-my-little-dumpster-fire for talking about this with me and helping with the most impossble-to-title-fic ever.

The scent that surrounded him was overwhelming. 

Billy Russo was dressed in all black, tucked away several meters into the forest. The sun was struggling to rise above the horizon, held hostage by lurid, impenetrable ashen fog. The air was thick and moist, holding the promise of eventual rain, but what really struck Billy above all else was the smell. 

He was acclimated to overcast days in New York, the drizzle of summer rain that brought smoke steaming off asphalt; in contrast,  winter’s unrelenting sleet or snow so violent, it stung your skin. He was used to the terrain in Kandahar, the rocky clay under his boots, earth split from a combination of stark under-hydration and scorching heat…  the almost immediate temperature change between dry, blistering heat to numbingly raw cold. Sand pelting skin courtesy of a dust storm was nothing compared to the punishment of nightfall in the desert. 

But this place, thick with vegetation and moist with dew, stunk of bitter, wet earth. The pungent smell of wood rot was so strong it was almost assaulting. It completely surrounded Billy, and he sniffed with a curled lip, waiting as some of his crew remained in the cabin, golden light from large windows glowing in the distance. 

It was another job on home soil, which was exactly what Billy wanted for Anvil; the specific job a security mission for the wealthy, a family whose patriarch was dipping his toes into politics. Billy had met with the man at an earlier date, discussing options and having a walk-through of the cabin alone. Now that the mission was being carried out, he’d come out with his crew periodically when he wasn’t at the office. Sometimes he’d choose to work alongside them, and other times, he’d hang low and observe. It gave him security that he’d hired the best of the best, that none of his employees were cutting corners… and it gave him time to think.

Sometimes, too much goddamn time led to too much goddamn thinking. 

Undetectable in his dark clothing, he leaned back against the trunk of an old pine tree, its bark scratching roughly at the back of his shirt. Crossing his arms over his chest, Billy fought to keep his mind clear and focused as he narrowed his eyes at the faraway glow of artificial light through the fog. In the quiet stillness of early morning, the collective buzzing of crickets fading away to a silent reprieve just before the birds started their dawn chorus, he was alone with his thoughts. There was no one there to ask or pry, and so Billy conceded to allow his mind to wander. Still gazing toward the vacation cabin shrouded in a dismal grey, the thought tucked away in the faraway corners of his mind crept into the forefront. Billy wondered if he could ever live a life likened to the dawn. 

He wondered if he could settle into a life where he had the leisure to sit outside with a cup of black coffee and watch the sun rise, not while on alert in the desert or going through his morning routine— just being. He wondered if he could ever be suited for so-called “normalcy”— a life where the only things dying were flowers on the table or the last burning embers of a fire. 

The thought was cut off by the realization that he would never live a Norman Rockwell Americana life— he couldn’t. There was no chance. He was stuck in the life he was blackmailed into, one that was stained by blood and death. There was no room in that for frills like second thoughts or regret. 

The first calls of birdsong brought him back to the present, and he pushed his weight from the trunk of the towering pine, straightening his posture. He rolled his shoulders back and tilted his head to the left, then the right. The satisfying cracking of his neck was reminiscent of the sound of a neck snapping before life was cut off by death. There was only the absence of the weight of a corpse thudding onto flooring separating one sound from the other. 

Lifting his chin, Billy began his short trek back to clear land, leaving behind him the droplets of dew and scent of molded earth along with the idea of a life he would never live. Yet as he walked, fallen, dead leaves underfoot, Billy once again reconciled with the fact that he needed the life he’d ultimately made for himself. He needed that life as much as it needed him. 

Here, you’ll get another glimpse into the life of one non-gold digger, Mr. Benjamin Greene, in the form of another series of little moments that all leads up to something much bigger. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Image prompt 10: Benjamin Greene x reader (requested by the lovely @breanime)

Rating: PG-13ish for mentions of nudity

Word count: 1712

Tag list:@obscurilicious@the-blind-assassin-12@something-tofightfor@logan-deloss@lexxierave@madamrogers@yannii04@gollyderek@carlaangel86@bicevans@maydayfigment@thisisparadisemylove@ladyofnaps@malionnes@thesandbeneathmytoes@crushed-pink-petals-writes

Follower event tag list:@luminex3@fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes@witchygagirl@breanime 

If anyone wants to be added to/removed from my tag list, please just send me an ask!

Special thanks to @the-blind-assassin-12 for beta reading a little bit of this one!

This is related to all other Benjamin Greene x reader fics, which can all be found in my masterlist.

You woke up smiling. Eyes swollen from sleep, you rubbed at them with balled up fists, clearing morning residue from the corners. Reaching upward, you wiggled your fingers as you stretched your arms, feeling the overnight stiffness melt away from your fingertips to your shoulder blades. Your eyes were still adjusting to the sunlight streaming in between the slats of the blinds covering your windows. Pale yellow light decorated the floor in long parallel lines, breaking up the shadows. Benjamin’s soft snores as his chest rose and fell were the only sounds hindering the house from complete silence. It was tranquil. Perfect. 

Rolling onto your right side, you admired the beautiful bouquet of flowers Benjamin had surprised you with the night before. It was bright with spring blooms, pink tulips and pure white irises; pale peach miniature roses, striking orchids, and daffodils the color of the bright sunshine. Eucalyptus leaves and tiny blooms of sweet pea and chamomile as fillers, the arrangement was quite fragrant. It was colorful and different; definitely not the typical flower bouquet. 

“I chose them all,” Benjamin had told you just after bursting in the door, the bouquet wrapped in paper, all long stems and pops of color and a kiss in greeting. “Nothing pre-arranged said Y/N.” He offered the bouquet to you, a slight flushing of his cheeks as he did so. “You’re stunning and remarkable and an amalgamation of beautiful things all mixed perfectly.” He nodded to the flowers, tickling your nose with sweet aromas. “They suit you; they’re mostly wildflowers.”

Your eyes shone with awe and the threat of tears. The wrapping around Benjamin’s hand-picked array crinkled as you carefully accepted them. “You’ve stolen my words,” you said as you glanced down at the flowers. You’d have time to admire them later, but for the time being you were entirely enamored with Benjamin. “Have I forgotten something? Is today significant?” Your brows knitted together in worry as you searched your mind.

“No,” Benjamin said with a chuckle. “Just a Saturday.” He regarded your face, the top knot you wore your hair in, your old oversized university t-shirt and boxer shorts. “You’ve been working.” It was more of a statement than a question. 

“Just finished,” you replied with a smile. “Thank you. Let’s get them in a vase, yeah?” You held out the flowers for Benjamin to take, freeing your hands so you could rummage in the cupboards under the sink. 

You climbed out of bed quietly, making an effort trying not to wake Benjamin. After making a cup of tea, you rummaged around making little to no noise until you found what you were looking for. Using your drawing board as a makeshift tray, you piled the remainder of your supplies on top: pastel paper, tape, and your collection of Prismacolor pastels, as well as colored pencils to outline. Your cup of tea was also precariously balanced atop; your mind had been so trained on your task at hand that you hadn’t thought about the clattering of the cup. Thankfully, Benjamin was a fairly heavy sleeper. 

Once back in the bedroom, you smiled at you peeled over at Benjamin, who hadn’t moved a muscle. Carefully, you placed your drawing board on the floor before sitting down beside it, first placing your tea to the side after taking a sip. Your pastels were put to the side, colored pencils placed in your lap, and you tore off four tiny pieces of tape to secure your pastel paper to your drawing board. Smoothing your hand over the paper, you paid attention to the way it felt beneath your palm, the toothy surface of the paper that was akin to the feeling of sandpaper, only finer. 

You gazed up at your bouquet. You’d all but memorized the way they were arranged in the case, which flowers had thicker stems, how bright the yellow of the daffodils were, how saturated the pink petals of the tulips, the shadows the larger blooms cast over the sweet pea and chamomile. Precariously, you opened the tin your pencils were arranged in, squinting your eyes as you regarded the flowers, then peering into your lap. Your pencils were just used for a rough sketching, an outlining of sorts that would be completely obscured by the pastels as you worked. It had been awhile since you’d  been inspired to play with color, the time to mull over saturation and warmth versus cool, to meticulously muck over the stark difference it was to shadow with pastels instead of charcoal. 

Your thoughts regarding color always started and ended with Benjamin’s eyes, the particular deep, warm brown of his irises, the chestnut undertones and flecks of gold within them. They were a color, you thought, that not even legendary artists could get just right. You loved the way they darkened even more with desire, when his mind was full of nothing except all the different ways he could devour you. 

After about five minutes of sketching later, you looked up from your work and over to Benjamin, who was very much awake, just watching you. You’d been so immersed in your work, you’d missed the change in his breathing. He smiled at you, creases forming at the outer corners of his eyes. “Good morning, love. You should come back to bed.”

Benjamin’s smile was contagious. Since the two of you had met, his smile had always drawn out your own; the expression held with it warmth, affection, and sometimes a bit of mischief. Your smile was broken by laughter at Benjamin’s invitation. 

“I’m working,” you said simply, still wearing a residual smile. Repositioning himself, Benjamin propped himself upward over the pillows. He glanced to the array of supplies around you, garnering that you were playing with color, and color had absolutely nothing to do with charcoal. He raised his brows just a shadow, yet you didn’t have to look up to witness it. Youknew Benjamin Greene. 

“Congratulations on the new job, Y/N! Now, come back to bed and allow me to congratulate you properly.” And there was that smile, the one with a bit of mischief mixed in. 

Playing as if you were toying with the idea, you glanced longing over at your pastels, untouched as of yet. Without another word, you began clearing your lap of kelly green and sunshine yellow, candy apple red and tangerine orange. The pencils slid easily back into their tin container. You heard the rustling of bedsheets as you turned your back and bent to pile your things back into your old drawing board. 

You righted yourself back upward and stretched toward the ceiling, straightening your spine. You turned back toward the bed, but were captured by a pair of strong arms instead. You hugged Benjamin tight around his middle and your eyelashes fluttered against his bare chest as he placed a lingering kiss to your crown. 

“What are you working on, Ms. Kahlo?” Frieda, is it?” A warm breath of laughter followed the slight tickling of your eyelashes over his skin and Benjamin relished in those small, unconscious touches. He held you for a moment longer until you pulled back to nod toward your bouquet.

“Hand-picked flowers by a bloke called Benjamin… something-or-other. He has a good eye for colour, yeah? His name really should be renowned, the surname, too. Benjamin  is just too common a name, but so is Britney and everyone knows when the name is uttered, exactly who you’re talking about… oh, baby, baby.” 

Your impression left a lot to be desired, but that just added to the level of ridiculously adorable you’d hit without trying, and a loud timbre of laughter bounced off the bedroom walls. “I love you, Y/N.”

Your smirk was completely erased as your jaw dropped and your mind whirled. He…what did he just say? It couldn’t have been— he had never—

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sudden beat of silence throughout the house, just as it had been an hour before. He dipped his head in an effort to catch your eyes. You looked up to see his own, much darker ones, filled with worry. 

“That’s… that’s what the flowers were for, Y/N. I had a bit of… something prepared, just a rambling of things that have made me realize over time that…” His hands slid down your arms, around the curving of your hips and waist, down to the small of your back. “But I was late and I could tell you were working. You were beautifully smudged but I wanted you to hear it. To know. It just wasn’t the right time, and—“

“Benjamin.” Your voice was a whisper as your hands rose to gently press against his chest, but firmly enough for his hands to fall from your back as he took a step back. “Y/N, I’m—“

You turned to see the hurt in his eyes, as if his heart had been pulverized. Turning away, your own heart seizing in your chest, you clutched the frayed ends of your old t-shirt, fabric bunching between your fingers as you lifted it up and over your head. Your hair tumbled down and over your shoulders and you bent to rid yourself of the boxer shorts, pushing them down and stepping out of them. Finally, you slipped between the sheets, the cool material sending a pleasant chill over and under your naked body. 

“I think we have another thing to celebrate,” you spoke finally. Your eyes shined, not with tears but absolute awe. Benjamin blinked, one, two, three times as he strode to the opposite side of the bed and crawled in beside you. 

“You don’t—“

“Shhh.” You hushed him by lightly touching your finger to his lips. The man before you was simply exquisite. “I love you, Benjamin Greene. It’s been for awhile now.”

Shock passed over his features briefly. Before he could say another word, you took his cheeks in your hands, meeting him halfway for a long, lingering, deep kiss. He smiled against your lips and pulled your body atop his own, skin to skin. Drinking you in with darkened eyes, he kissed along the curve of your shoulder. “Show me how much, Y/N.”

You never finished your sketch.

Who wants a little peek into the life of our favorite musician to brighten their Monday? Look no further! I hope y’all enjoy, and as always, thank you for reading!

Image prompt 6:Ryan Brenner x reader (requested by @thisisparadisemylove)

Rating: PG due to absolute and adorable fluff.

Word count:1946

Tag list:@dylanobrusso@obscurilicious@the-blind-assassin-12@something-tofightfor@ms-delos@lexxierave@madamrogers@yannii04@gollyderek@carlaangel86@bicevans@maydayfigment@thisisparadisemylove@ladyofnaps@malionnes@thesandbeneathmytoes@crushed-pink-petals-writes

Follower event tag list:@luminex3@fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes@witchygagirl@breanime

If you’d like to be added to/removed from my tag list, please just send me an ask!

This is related to (later down the line) A Familiar Face, which can be found in my masterlist.

The air in the city was dense and heavy. Before you could take anything in, to appreciate your time there, you had to train your lungs to breathe in the atmosphere; it was imperative to get acclimated to the moisture that hung invisibly around you. It was so thick, the humidity was almost strangling.

But when you hit that point where you could breathe again, to inhale that air with ease, the sensations surrounding you were breathtaking. 

The uneven, crumbling brick paving the sidewalks were littered with people: tourists with strands of colorful beads hanging from their necks, carrying styrofoam cups; older couples holding hands while taking leisurely strolls; giggling teenagers ducking into shops with signs in the windows boasting shrunken heads and Voodoo dolls. The air carried with it succulent smells from various restaurants, and dance troupes occupied the middle of narrow streets to entertain. People spray-painted in metallic tones from head to toe stood frozen like statues, so still it was as if they weren’t breathing. Depending which street you were on, the energy around you would flip between an electric buzz or a warm leisure–  the kind that was the reason behind the city being coined The Big Easy. 

But one constant in New Orleans, whether in the French Quarter, down Magazine Street, or lost just beyond the corner of Decatur and St. Peters’ expanse of the French Market—crowded with vendors selling silver jewelry or art, fresh vegetables and homemade soaps offered in booths at the farmers’ market further down the street, or finding hidden treasures buried deep at the flea market adjacent to the famous Cafe du Monde— was the music. 

Street performers playing various flavors of music occupied almost every street corner in the New Orleans area. But Royal Street— Ryan had told you it was pronounced roy-AL, like a duo of two male names sewn together— that was where the real music was, the music with heart and soul and life, no matter the sweltering heat and thick, suffocating humidity. Thirteen blocks through the French Quarter and several leading down toward Frenchman Street was the city’s epicenter of live music. It was where Ryan wanted to take you. 

“There’re all types of musicians down here, Y/N,” Ryan said, excitement apparent. Soft-spoken by default unless he was singing, full-bodied and soul on fire, Ryan’s smooth, soft drawl was a pleasure to hear, even if you had to strain to hear sometimes. But the enthusiasm of what he was set to explore with you— to share with you— added volume to his voice, thickened his drawl just a touch, and shifted his intonation to the point that his words sounded more like song than speak. “Jazz is the front-runner but you name it, and you’re goin’ to hear it.  I reckon there ain’t a place like it anywhere else in the world.”

Ryan tore his eyes from a two-story brick building, balconies adored by wrought-iron and punctuated with lush hanging plants. You’d read that most of the businesses in this part of the city hailed in structures that were built centuries ago. You smiled as your attention turned to Ryan’s face, lit up with a wide, Cheshire-like grin. His happiness was your happiness, and when he gifted you with that big, toothy, genuine smile,, you felt like a Mega Millions winner. You knew you’d hit the jackpot with this man. 

He’d ditched his pack in the bed and breakfast you’d booked days before, despite his protests.

”This was my idea, Y/N. “

“But I wanted to come.”

Slowly nodding his head in agreement,  Ryan gently pointed out, “I asked you to join me—“

“And I accepted.”

He eyed you with his eyebrows quirked, and you continued. “You let me come with you, and youlet me live life your way for a few days. It’s been exhilarating and uncertain and I feel more alive than I have in a long time.” Your eyes were full of sincerity, and Ryan took a few steps toward you, only stopping as stood right in front of you. He reached to tuck your hair behind your ear. “So letme find us a warm bed to sleep in and cold air conditioning to lay under.”

Finally, he conceded. “If that’s what you want, Y/N, you know you got it. But I gotta tell you, it’s not a usual part of my way of livin’.”

You bit your bottom lip thoughtfully and narrowed your eyes playfully. “Maybe it’s your way of livin’ with me.”

He’d left his pack, but still carried his guitar case. His tattooed fingers were laced with yours as the two of you walked; you had a destination: the flea market just a few blocks away. But first, Ryan wanted to take a slight detour. 

“I really want to experience the music. Appreciate it. Take our time, if that’s alright.” 

You’d nodded immediately, agreeing with him. You wanted the same thing, wanted to be there with Ryan and join him in his elation and opinions and feel a bit of that love he felt for music. 

“And I know you want to go to the flea market—“

“I need to go to the flea market.” You interjected, and he laughed. You shrugged. and he shook his head 

“You’re somethin’ else.” The slight smell of coffee wafted through the air, and as the smell became stronger, it took on an almost sweet scent. Applause broke out from somewhere ahead of you, momentarily drowning out an increasingly loud dissonance of chatter. 

“You know, I think you’ve told me that before. Once or twice.” Before Ryan could answer, you found yourselves standing just outside the open-air, renowned Cafe du Monde. The scent, the chatter, and the perfect, faraway backdrop of a nearby trumpeter’s solo version of When the Saints Go Marching In was classic New Orleans. You felt a sense of nostalgia wash over you, and you knew at that exact moment that this city, so full of culture and history, art and Cajun food, voodoo and ghost tours, jazz and zydeco and blues and swing and swamp pop— this city meant something to you, and it was your first time visiting. 

Ryan gently led you to an occupied table, smack in the middle of the cafe. He pulled out your chair for you with a boyish smile before sitting in the chair across the small table, guitar case close by his side. He leaned forward on his elbows so you could hear over the noise. 

“The menu’s not your traditional menu,” Ryan warned you. His eyes danced from across the table, and he added, “Not that New Orleans skimps on tradition, but they do it their own way. ‘S their style.”

You found yourself leaning in as well, caught you in the cadence of Ryan’s voice as well as his words. Ryan wasn’t a huge talker, he didn’t need to be, but when he got on a roll about music or traveling or something that he was passionate about, he spoke up more than usual and you loved those moments. This was one of them. 

“ ‘Bout a half-dozen choices to choose from. It’s slim pickin’s, but you can’t go wrong with what they’re offerin’.”” Ryan had been to New Orleans many times; there was just no other place like it. He held up his left hand, calloused fingertips and vertical lines inked between mid and lower knuckles of each finger. “You’ve got coffee—cafe au lait. Fresh-squeezed orange juice, milk…”

You had started to shake your head as Ryan went on. He stopped before he rattled off a variety of sodas and coffee over ice; he knew what you were saying without words, and had known as much before he spoke. The two of you shared a smile, intimate with understanding. Opening your mouth to share a sentiment, you were stalled as a waitress appeared tableside, vibrant purple hair pulled back and piled atop her head. She was around your age and looked frazzled. You smiled at her. Many days at the diner had you in the same state at some point. 

“A cafe au lait and order of beignets, please,” Ryan said politely, inclining his chin to order while looking at the server, not just rattling off what he wanted. He was always attentive, and actually talking to someone rather than at them was something you valued at work. Ryan just did so naturally without a second thought. “Same for my girl here.” He looked at you adoringly with an expression asking for confirmation.

“You got it,” you said, meeting Ryan’s eyes for a beat of time, then looking to the waitress and nodding appreciatively. “Thank you.” 

In his typical fashion, Ryan followed immediately, offering the woman a small smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”

When she turned to walk away and Ryan’s attention was yours again, he immediately noticed the way the corners of your lips turned upward. He looked at you as you appreciated his features from across the table. 

“I’ll wait,” he teased gently. Leaning back in his chair, his long legs stretched out as much as possible beneath the table without invading your space, you nudged his knee with your own. 

“Wait for what?” It was a rhetorical question; it was all in your expression, the way you sometimes got as quiet as Ryan himself and just looked at him like he hung the moon. Ryan had called you his girl, and you supposed it was true, but to hear him say it was another thing entirely. He had you reeling. It took you a moment to get back on track. “I was just thinking about your thank you ma’am. How it sounded familiar, and how someone else is bringing us coffee instead of me bringing it to you… which, in hindsight,  is why we’re here. Together. It’s all come full circle in a sense.”

It seemed like a lifetime ago. As you and Ryan enjoyed your beignets, you relished in little memories, and that was what made your relationship so special. Ryan had taught you just how important simplicity was. He laughed as you balked, tasting your cafe au lait without adding sugar first, forgetting there was chicory in the drink. You stood from your chair to brush powdered sugar from a beignet out of the scruff on his chin. He taught you the difference between zydeco and swamp pop, and insisted on paying for your coffee and beignets. 

“There you go again, Ryan Brenner. Fighting me over sweets and tips, bringing it right back to the beginning. You’d finally made it to the flea market, but before you could walk in, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you close, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You let out a sigh.

“I like the present much better, Y/N,” he said, speaking into your ear. Your shoulder shrugged involuntary, his whiskers and breath tickling your ear.  “The beginning was real nice, but this,” he paused, pressing his lips to your temple, “What we have now, it’s been on my mind since that first cup of coffee.” You looked up at him with a look of awe; it was a confession he’d never made before, and it felt like the perfect moment for him to do so, there in this huge flea market in New Orleans. You had words on the tip of your tongue, but they were stuck there. 

When you didn’t reply, Ryan just smiled down at you. It was one of those small, simple, yet significant moments. You’d had so many with him. He let his arm fall from your waist to link his fingers with yours again, leading your further inside. “You make a damn good cup of coffee, Y/N.”

150 Followers Event Masterlist

The rules for this event were as follows: 

1. Choose animagenumbered 1-12
2. Send an ask with the numbered image of your choosing and I’ll write a drabble featuring Billy Russo, Ryan Brenner, or Benjamin Greene, whomever you choose!
3. An asterisk (*) denotes a WIP.

• Shadowboxer(Billy Russo x reader, image 1)
• Swan Song (Billy Russo x reader, image 2)
• Chasing Losses (Billy Russo x reader, image 3)
• Masterpiece (Benjamin Greene x reader, image 4)
• Castles Made of Sand(Benjamin Greene x reader, image 5)
• Back to the Beginning (Ryan Brenner x reader, image 6)
• Flash: Zoom (part 1) , Focus (part 2), Snap (part 3) (Billy Russo x reader, image 7)*
• Heat Wave (Ryan Brenner x reader, image 8)
• What Could Never Be (Billy Russo, image 9)
• He Loves Me(Benjamin Greene x reader, image 10)
• Mississippi Delta Magic (Ryan Brenner x reader, image 11)
• Rooted(Benjamin Greene x reader, image12)

All twelve images have been requested, which means requests for this event are officially closed! Thank you for following and reading and requesting, it means a lot, and I hope everyone likes what I come up with! I love y’all! 

I’ve been writing and re-writing and changing versions of this story since May 9th. I wrote I don’t know how many fics between, and I not one idea why this took me so long, but it’s finally here. The lovely @obscuriliciousrequestedimage 12 with Benjamin Greene x reader. 

That being said, aside from a little more coming for Flash (featuring the irreplaceable Billy Russo), this wraps up my follower event. Thank you allso much for participating, for requesting and reading and hopefully enjoying what I’ve come up with. It means the world to me, from the bottom of my heart!

Image prompt 12 :Benjamin Greene x reader

Rating:PG

Word count: 2890 of pure fluff

Tag list:@obscurilicious@the-blind-assassin-12@something-tofightfor@logan-deloss@lexxierave@madamrogers@yannii04@gollyderek@carlaangel86@maydayfigment@vetseras@thisisparadisemylove@malionnes@thesandbeneathmytoes@delos-destinations@luminex3@fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes@tenhargreeves@witchygagirl@fific7@pheedraws@my-rosegold-soul@russobill

If you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list, please just send me an ask or shoot me a DM!

Special thanks to @something-tofightfor for beta reading this monstrosity far too many times.

I hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!

You were filthy and so was Benjamin. The two of you were seated on the ground outside, caked with soil and dirt and laughing and grinning like fools. In front of you was a small pile of vegetables. But they weren’t just any vegetables. They weren’t bought at a farmers market or picked up from a grocery store. They were, of course grown, but home grown, at your home, and by you and Benjamin. They were planted and nurtured and cultivated by the two of you together, and despite his playful reservations and general eye-rolling in the beginning phases, you and Benjamin— neither of you having any knowledge about gardening whatsoever— had successfully grown vegetables. And you found the irony of it all hilarious. 

Piled haphazardly in front of you were long orange carrots, radishes just a shade shy of mulberry, and beetroot so caked with dirt, they resembled potatoes. You’d even been able to gather a couple of your zucchini , and your radishes were close to being ready for picking as well. 

“We were born with green thumbs. We just didn’t know until now.” You turned to Benjamin and grinned, happiness shining in your eyes, and it was unmistakably obvious how genuine it was.

Your relationship with the man was different than anything you’d experienced before. Benjamin wasn’t one that never had tricks up his sleeve, but he didn’t base time with you on grand gestures. He didn’t get annoyed when he came home with plans to take you to an impromptu dinner and you were covered in charcoal dust. Benjamin understood that the smallest of moments, the most mundane of activities, the parts of life that could be seen as tedious or necessary, didn’t have to feel that way. There was always room to spin things into something more meaningful. An infinite amount of room. 

You could be just as ingenuitive and impulsive as Benjamin was. There was never a dull moment, never a lack of surprise. The garden the both of you sat in front of in awe, the soil and mud that you’d both be scrubbing off in the shower until the water grew cold was an impulsive idea, and on your part. You’d woken up one Tuesday morning with the idea that you had to plant a garden. 

“Benjamin,” you’d said, sleepily, scooting closer toward him as morning light streamed through the windows and gauzy curtains. White sunlight bathed the floor in swaths, and as you curled up to press your body against his back, the idea struck you. It was a eureka moment, the kind you saw on old Saturday morning cartoons that was always accompanied with a lightbulb turning on. 

“B,” you repeated, so alert it was as if you’d had several cups of the morning coffee you hadn’t bothered to make quite yet, “B, let’s plant a garden.”

 It hadn’t taken too long for Benjamin to agree, though you’d given him time to wake up and eat breakfast first. You couldn’t believe he actually conceded, yet he laid out a disclaimer of sorts beforehand: he was not, under any circumstances, a gardener. That washer thing. I was never allowed to help, not even to assist by handing over a tool.  Far be it for me to taint her process just by being there.  For Benjamin, just stepping foot into Julia’s greenhouse garnered a look of annoyance and feeling of intrusion. It had made the idea of ever venturing into any sort of agricultural task turn sour… that was, until you had mentioned it. Benjamin was convinced that anything you touched was magic, like you’d been sprinkled with fairy dust– a reason you’d laughed about once that had turned into a childish inside joke.  Who were you to debunk a theory that worked so well in your favor?

But you weren’t a gardener either, you reminded him. And I’m not her, you added silently. I’m nothing like her. Any and all expertise you’d had with plant life was either in sketching them or bringing your work outside instead of staying  cooped up in your studio.

“We can learn together,” you promised, your voice bright and a glimmer of excitement shining in your eyes. Benjamin had pulled you close, your cheek pressed to his chest, and he kissed the crown of your head, lingering there to breathe in the scent of your shampoo , entirely as enticing and unique as you were. 

“You’re entirely aware that I can’t say no to you.” One corner of his mouth turned upward into a half-smile. You looked up at him through your eyelashes, blinking innocently 

“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Greene?” He leaned down to kiss you again, and you playfully darted from his arms, laughing as you turned to walk away. You turned your head to shoot him a wink followed by a cheeky grin. “You’re not ever meant to, B.”

                                                ****   ****   ****

“Why did you choose root vegetables?!” 

Standing upright and, wiping at your hairline with the back of your hand, you surveyed your work so far. The raised beds you and Benjamin built before planting hadn’t been too difficult, yet he built twice as much as you had, and  in the same amount of time. “Are you sure you’ve not done this before?”

Squinting up at you from where he was squatting, Benjamin shrugged in a joking manner. “I did my research. And because root vegetables are some of the most difficult to cultivate and grow… and especially to plant.”

You threw up your arms in defeat and brushed your soiled hands against your denim-clad thighs. “Unbelievable!” You were smirking,  however, as you turned to walk inside for bottles of water. “

“Go big or go home,” Benjamin called after you. 

You called back to him,“I’m already here!”

Just an hour later, you and Benjamin had managed to plant several plots of seeds: his chosen root vegetables of radishes, beetroot and carrots, and rutabaga. You’d picked up zucchini and cucumber seeds as well, but decided to save those for planting the next day. Gardening was hard work.  After a bit of clean-up, you kissed Benjamin’s face, wiped soil from his cheek, and went inside to clean yourself up.  After a hot shower, you promptly fell asleep across the bed, towel still wrapped around you.

Because of your impromptu accidental nap, you woke around 11:30. Now that you were awake and Benjamin was asleep, you had time; you were working on a surprise for Benjamin. It was an idea that had entered your mind the moment you’d started to pluck packets of seeds off the shelf the morning prior. Another eureka moment, which seemed to be occurring much more often in regard to this entire gardening thing . 

Garden markers seemed necessary, but aesthetics were important in your artist’s mind. Regular, plain garden markers just wouldn’t do, so you’d decided to mix things up a bit.

Benjamin had  fallen asleep sitting up in bed, glasses askew and a textbook in his lap. You seized the opportunity, stopping by your chaotic supply closet and pulling out several plastic bags. You put a great amount of effort into keeping the rustling to a minimum as you sneaked outside onto the front porch. 

The sky was clear— stars shining down like glitter dusted in the sky, the new moon beautifully bright. The temperature was mild, even a bit chilly when a breeze blew, and there was no humidity to hinder paint drying. One by one, you carefully slid each wooden garden marker from its bag, softly speaking to yourself as you lined them up, side-by-side. 

“Radishes… carrots, beetroot, rutabaga…zucchini, cucumber.” You sat back on your heels, eyeing the six blank signs you were turning into plant markers. Peeking into the remainder of the plastic bags, you removed paint, brushes, and other essentials, arranging them to your right. “Radishes, you’re up first,” you said under your breath, and with one swipe of red paint, you were off. In just over one hour, you were finished, each garden sign pushed off to the side and left outdoors to dry. Paint, brushes, and the like were gathered together and put back in the closet-meticulously - as to not disturb Benjamin, whom you were sure was still asleep.

When you tiptoed back into your bedroom, Benjamin was just as you’d left him. You lifted his book from his lap, closing it and gently laying it on his bedside table.Then, you attempted to slide his glasses the rest of the way off his face without waking him were unsuccessful. 

He stirred, and you froze for a moment. He was still asleep. Gently laying his glasses atop his book, you clicked off his lamp and climbed into bed, Benjamin rolled onto his side and scooped you closer, your back against his chest. You fell asleep almost instantly, muscles slightly nagging with ache as your breathing fell in time with his.

                                              ****   ****   ****

You were awakened with the slight prickling of a beard to your skin and warm, tiny kisses peppered over your cheek. Instead of your usual morning groan, you smiled and hummed in contentment, eyes still closed. Sleepily, you shifted to face him and your grin faded with a puckering of your lips, waiting expectantly. He kissed you softly once, following it up with a loud, playful smacking of his mouth on yours. 

“Coffee?” you offered. Before Benjamin had answered, you were already making your way back across the bed and planting your feet on the hardwood floor. “You stay here, coffee in bed seems essential today.” 

You were using liquid fuel as an excuse to sneak outside and peek at your handiwork, maybe even put each plant marker in place if you worked quickly.  Yawning as you set the coffee pot to brew, you semi-quietly slipped outside, leaving the door open slightly. The morning was balmy, but not humid. Catching sight of the work you’d done last night, you tiptoed across the porch and glanced down at the painted signs with a small smile. Sketching with charcoal might have been your favorite, the most honed artistic craft you indulged in, but painting brought a different sort of tranquility. You’d taken enough classes while working toward your degree that you were comfortable with painting, and it showed in your handiwork. 

The faint aroma of brewing coffee tickled your nose, but you had just enough time. Your muddy shoes from the day before were just to the side of the door, and you slipped them on quickly before stacking the wooden planks and carrying them down the steps and in the direction of the garden. The first plot of seeds were radishes, and you carefully chose a spot that wouldn’t affect Benjamin’s work.. Placing the remaining five signs on the ground, you stepped around the beds the both of you had raised. You realized then, as you swore you could feel someone watching you, that you’d probably need some sort of shovel or other garden tool to break up the dirt and secure the markers in place. 

“Coffee’s ready.” Benjamin’s voice called out, and you stood upright quickly. Shit. 

You waved at him sheepishly and made your way back toward the house. “I need to work on my timing, obviously,” you replied as you walked, your calf muscles and quads screaming with each step. “Are you as sore as I am?” you asked him. 

You slipped out of your dirty shoes as quickly as you’d put them on before, leaving them where you’d found them before approaching Benjamin,  the man holding a mug of steaming coffee in each hand. Holding out the one that was lighter with creamer, he looked down at you with a quirked brow and crooked half-smile. “Gardening without me? Were you sabotaging my radishes, Y/N?” His expression changed then into one of widened dark eyes and a slightly open mouth, and you laughed at Benjamin’s dramatics as you sat with your coffee on the top step leading to the ground. You patted the stone step you settled on, signaling for Benjamin to join you. 

“You’ve foiled my plan!”  You may have still had a touch of sleepiness in your voice, but you felt completely awake, excited about what you’d done for him. Taking a tentative sip of the hot liquid, you angled your legs to the right as Benjamin joined you, naturally turning toward him. “Today, radish sabotage. Tomorrow, it’s the carrots. I’ve got an entire schedule made out. I’m quite the seasoned saboteur, you know.”

Benjamin was amused, eyebrows quirked and his mouth curled upward into a smirk. He allowed himself to shamelessly stare, his eyes surveying your face before roaming down the rest of you, your legs exposed in the old pair of shorts you wore that were once a pair of sweatpants. You stared back, watching him and smiling over the rim of your coffee mug. Finally, his eyes moved back upward, catching yours. 

“Are you checking me out, Benjamin Greene?” He responded with a cheeky grin, taking your mug from you and setting it to the side with his.  “Hey!” you protested as he stood and reached behind you for his shoes. You reached over him to take your coffee back, but Benjamin was too quick for you. In one swift motion, he scooped you into his arms, kissed your lips, and threw you over his shoulder, proceeding to walk toward your newly-planted garden. 

You burst into laughter, your ponytail hanging in your face and you kicked your legs just once in the air.  “Benjamin! I haven’t got any shoes on…” He stopped as he reached the area of the yard the two of you had dug up and raised into beds just the day before. You just sort of hung there for a moment, gently batting your fists against his lower back, saying his name again. 

He readjusted you until he was holding you in his arms again, and he looked down at you with absolute love and adoration in his eyes. 

“I was wondering what you were doing out here at midnight.” 

You grinned up at him, shrugging sheepishly. “I didn’t want to wake you,” you laughed. Obviously, he’d only been half-asleep. 

Benjamin looked down at the ground, nodding toward the wooden signs you’d painted the night before laying haphazardly on the ground. They’d come out nicely, the names of your vegetables in their infancy painted in poppy red, vivid blue, kelly green. Your gaze followed his, just glancing at the plant markers you’d personalized. 

“Who put those there? What a nice gift,” you teased. You were actually very pleased at how they’d come out. They looked much better in the morning sunlight than they had as you painted by moonlight and then dim porch light that hung from the porch ceiling. 

When you looked back up at Benjamin to gauge his reaction, he met you with a kiss to your lips. You sighed against his mouth as he teased with his tongue, coaxing you to do the same. He tasted like coffee, diluted with just a drop of milk and too much sugar.  When he pulled back, you were breathless.

                                                  ****  ****  ****

Lying back in the grass, you squinted upwards at the sun as you smiled. You were already sprinkled with dirt, so lying down and getting soil and grass stains on the back of your clothes wasn’t any matter. It struck you again how ironic it was that you and Benjamin had actually planted a garden and, with no help, raised and cultivated vegetables. They’d actually thrived. 

You caught Benjamin’s eye, and he laid back in the grass beside you. He offered you a wink when he got settled. 

“All the pulling roots tired you out, Y/N?” he teased, punctuating his question with a peck to the tip of your nose.  Turning your head to the side, leaves undoubtedly stuck in your hair, you felt your heart swelling with love for the man lying beside you. 

Without thinking, you tangled your fingers with his and said what was on your mind. “Why don’t we sow some more seeds?” You frowned momentarily. That sounded not at all like what you were actually thinking.  “Or… why don’t you sow some permanently… here?” The space you called your own was quaint, but you were sure you had enough room to tuck away Benjamin’s belongings. He spent more time at your place than he did at his own, anyway, and it just made sense.  “After all, you’ve got a garden to tend to now.”

Benjamin stayed still for a moment, just searching your face, appreciating every feature, and then without warning, rolled over and hovered over you. You pursed your lips, suppressing a laugh. 

“You’ll decorate my moving boxes?” he asked, warm chestnut eyes shining. “You’ve got leftover paint, a closet full of art supplies. Perhaps some glitter to add a touch of pizazz.” His voice was low, his words tinted with laughter, but you could tell by the expression on his face that he was happy.

“I take that as a yes.” Your grin lit up your entire face. “Even better than I did those plant markers,” you promised.And with a simple raise of your head to seal the deal with a kiss, Benjamin readily reciprocated, then whispered in your ear.

“You’re too good to me, Y/N.”I hope you’ve got room for all my books.”

I have a little bit more work to get done tonight, and then I’m going to try to work on some other small drabble requests. Feel free to send them in! (Could be fluffy or smutty )