#|| one day is hell; the next day's the dawn || { about // james }

[livesinthebalance]

// Well, @quick-drawn, you asked these questions a while ago, but I'm finally getting around to answering them and you're about to find out exactly how alike James and Jesse really are, if there's anything we haven't discussed to this point.

JAMES VALDEZ

Did they have a good childhood? What are fond memories they have of it? What’s a bad memory?

James' childhood was… A bit of a mixed bag. His worst memory is probably from the time he was six, the night his mamá , Esperanza, came home late from work. His dad was a violent alcoholic—one of the reasons that James seldom touches the stuff. Thankfully, it wasn't a bad incident, but it was the first time his mother wasn't there to draw his attention and bear the brunt of it. James still, despite his young age, remembers his mother finding him in his room, trying to stop crying. She packed the most important things into a duffelbag that night and they left while his father was passed out in his armchair to go to his aunt's house and stay with her for a while. He never saw the man again after that. One of the better memories [ or, at least, one of the more humorous ones ] is how his little sister—because his mother realized she was pregnant not long after they left—got her name. Calista Valdez was named 'Calista' because a young James told his mamá that the newborn baby looked ugly, and his mamá pointed out to him that babies usually do but that she has no doubt that this baby will be just as beautiful as her first.

What were they like at school? Did they enjoy it? Did they finish? What level of higher education did they reach? What subjects did they enjoy? Which did they hate?

James hated school. Canonically, this genius drank some liquid soap to make himself sick once to get out of going to school. [ He did not count on HOW sick he would get and never did that again BUT the point stands. ] I feel like that says plenty. But, honestly, saying that he hated school in its entirety isn't exactly true. He enjoyed learning and had the ability to soak up knowledge like a sponge, a skill that he has retained into the current day. What he didn't enjoy was the bullying and the pettiness from the other kids, aimed at him and others. He didn't enjoy teachers who were so insecure in their ability to teach anything outside of the curriculum that they would eventually stop calling on him when he raised his hand to ask a question, and then would make him pull a card when he finally grew impatient and blurted out the question. He hated the childish politics of school. He hated how hard his mamá—a single mother—had to work to put him and his sister through school with everything they needed. James only made it as far as graduating high school. He joined the military as a means of trying to get through college, mostly because his mamá wanted so much for him to go, but that never happened because she died and then he spiraled hard and ended up working for the cartel that he made his way out of after getting himself, and only himself, caught by Overwatch. As far as favorite subjects go, I feel like he was such a geek. He loved history and he enjoyed the practicality of math. He did not have the patience for Literature as he didn't really have the patience—or time, considering he took on a job as soon as he was old enough to help his mother—to really sit down and read. He also didn't much care for Grammar, because he thought it was completely stupid to have to diagram a sentence, because when are you ever going to have to do that in the real world. [ Even as a child, James was always fairly practically minded, after all. ]

Are they good at cooking? Do they enjoy it? What do others think of their cooking?

He cannot cook and you should never let him near a stove ever if you value the money you put into your food. HOWEVER, he is great if you set him at a grill in the backyard. Some of the best food you will ever taste, honestly. Why he can grill but not cook is anyone's guess. He can't really tell you either.

What is their sleeping pattern like? Do they snore? What do they like to sleep on? A soft or hard mattress?

Ha. Hahaha. Ha ha. Ha. Sleeping pattern would imply that James sleeps. I have a whole headcanon post on his original, canon blog about his sleep. I will edit it and link it HERE after I post because I don't want to lose what I've typed so far and I don't trust my browser not to kick it and reload. As far as what do they like to sleep on, if James sleeps, he can sleep almost anywhere. What he likes to sleep on is a fairly firm mattress with ton of blankets and more than a few pillows.

What is their biggest fear? What in general scares them? How do they act when they’re scared?

This is a difficult one to answer. If I had to summarize James' biggest fear, I would say the overarching umbrella would be Loss. Loss of CONTROL. Loss of people. Loss of ABILITY due to his NERVE DAMAGE. [ But Failure and not being Enough are very close seconds. I also have some headcanons about that, and I'll link them HERE as well. ] And how does he react when he's scared? Badly, would be the first word that comes to mind. Mainly, fear for him tends to come out as Anger. It's never Lay Hands On Somebody—aside from maybe grabbing them by the front of their shirt to bring them in close to get their attention, or unless the other person took a swing. Sometimes it's a Cold, Seething Anger. Sometimes it's a Loud Mad Anger. Regardless, fear seldom ever displays as clearly evident fear. It is almost always Anger. [ That is usually directed at himself because of the very fears that place second. ]

[wzrd-wheezes]

Not Half Bad - Marauders x Reader

AN - I'm a few minutes early but happy valentine's day, my loves. I wanted to post something that wasn't crazy romantic because I know today can be pretty lonely. So, enjoy some platonic marauders x reader fluff. This is my first time writing anything like this so please let me know what you think. 1.7k words.

Y/N startled awake, her head throbbing and her eyes swollen from tears. She groaned softly, feeling the weight of exhaustion as she rubbed her face, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. Then, the unmistakable sound echoed through her apartment again.

Bang, bang, bang. 

With a resigned sigh, Y/N muttered curses under her breath before she shuffled towards the front door. The harsh hallway light made her squint as she opened the door, taking a moment to register the trio standing before her. 

“Come on, you. Out of the way, we’ve got some serious work to do!” James declared, gently nudging Y/N aside to enter her apartment, with Remus and Sirius following close behind. 

“What the hell are you doing? It’s practically the crack of dawn!” She exclaimed; her voice still thick with sleep. 

“Oh, yeah? And you’d know what time of day it was, would you?” Sirius teased, theatrically throwing open her curtains, allowing light to flood into the room for the first time in days. 

“We’re on damage control. Y’know, since we haven’t heard from you in almost a week.” Remus explained, heading straight into the kitchen and flicking the kettle on. 

Y/N sighed heavily, feeling a pang of guilt for having shut off herself off from her friends after her recent break up. The end of her relationship had hit her harder than she had ever anticipated, leaving her feeling raw and vulnerable. She hadn’t felt up to facing her friends properly. She had shot them a quick message briefly explaining the situation before shutting off her phone and finding solace in her own company as she grappled with the emotional fallout.  

Remus busied himself in the kitchen while he waited for the kettle to boil. He had a tea towel swung over his shoulder as he started washing the dishes that had been piling up in the sink. James was getting the living room straight, opening windows, clearing up the endless piles of scrunched up tissues and fluffing up the sofa cushions.  

“You don’t have to do all this – I'm fine!” Y/N protested. 

“Stop fussing and just let us help you,” Sirius chimed in, poking his head around the doorway from where he was in the bathroom, “Now, get in here because I’ve just run you a bath.”  

Y/N’s protests died on her lips as she relented, allowing herself to be guided into the bathroom by Sirius’s firm but caring insistence. The soothing scent of lavender filled the air as she stepped into the room. Sirius shut the door behind her, allowing some privacy. He had set her some fresh towels and clean clothes on the side, even going as far as to light a few candles. Y/N let out a sigh as she sank into the tub, the warm water washing over her tired body. 

After a while, Y/N emerged from the bathroom feeling a bit lighter. She smiled at the three boys, appreciating their practical gestures of support. They had practically cleaned her whole apartment while she was in the bath. It had taken a bit of a hit in the week that she had been moping around. Remus had set her a steaming mug of tea on the coffee table, and she took it into her hands eagerly. 

“Feeling better?” he asked, patting the spot on the sofa next to him. 

“Much better. Thanks for the rescue” she smiled at each of them, “I owe you guys one.” 

“Nonsense.” James dismissed with a wave of his hand, “That’s what friends are for. Plus, I’ve been dying to bring out my superhero cape.” 

Remus snorted into his tea, “Superhero cape? More like a tea towel tied around your neck, mate.” 

“Hey, it’s all about the dramatic effect, Moony. You should try it some time.” James mock-glared at him. 

“I’d pay good money to see that.” Y/N laughed. 

“You nearly did!” Sirius remarked, “I literally had to pry it from around his neck before you got out of the bath.” 

Y/N burst into laughter at the mental image, shaking her head in amusement, “I can only imagine the heroic struggle.” She said, grinning at James, who rolled his eyes with a good natured sigh. 

“Yeah, well, it was a valiant effort on his part,” James admitted, earning a playful elbow jab from Sirius.  

It was the first time in a good week or so, that Y/N had laughed properly. She felt her spirits lift with each passing moment, the heaviness that had weighed in her heart for the last week beginning to fade. Their light-hearted banter and playful antics had a way of lifting her spirits, offering a welcomed distraction from her recent troubles. It was only when the boys stood up to leave that the empty feeling in the pit of her stomach started to return.  

Sirius noticed her face fall when they started getting ready to leave, each of them shrugging on their coats and slipping into their shoes.  

“Don’t worry, we’re coming back.” Sirius reassured her. 

“Yeah, you didn’t think that you could get rid of us that easily, did you?” Remus chuckled. 

“We’ve just got to nip out to get some stuff but then we’ll be back.” James promised. 

“What stuff?” she questioned.  

“Ask us no questions and we’ll tell you no lies.” James quipped, playfully tapping her on the nose before swiftly exiting.  

A bemused smile played on her lips as she watched her friends disappear. Although they had only been around at her flat for a few hours, it felt eerily empty now that they had gone. Collapsing onto the sofa, she reached for her phone, hesitating before finally switching it on after days of deliberate avoidance. There was the expected flurry of messages from her friends and family checking in on her and she made a mental note to reply to them later on. She quickly deleted a particularly nasty text from her ex before she gave herself chance to read it properly. As the screen blinked back up at her, the date glared back with unexpected significance.  

Valentine’s Day. 

The realisation hit her and stirred up memories and emotions that she had been trying to suppress. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of loneliness as she thought back to past Valentine’s Day spent with her now ex-partner. For a moment, she regretted even switching on her phone; ignorance might have been bliss on a day like today. Tears prickled in her eyes and she bit down on her lip in a futile attempt to hold back the flood of emotions.  

Just as she had been earlier that morning, she was brought back to reality by the door of her apartment swinging open and James, Remus and Sirius bustling back inside.  

“Told you we wouldn’t be long!” James said brightly, though the look soon dropped from his face the second his eyes fell on Y/N. 

“Oh, no! What’s happened? Everything okay?” Sirius rushed over and crouched in front of her, so his face was level to where she was slumped on the sofa. 

“It’s silly,” she sniffled, “I turned on my phone because obviously I’ve been avoiding it for ages and I saw the date. It’s just... overwhelming.” 

Remus moved to sit beside her, his presence a comforting anchor as he place a hand on her shoulder. 

“It’s not silly at all, Y/N. Valentine’s Day can be shit. Especially after everything you’ve been through.” he said softly, offering her a sympathetic smile. 

James signed, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped closer, “We came over today because... well we didn’t want you to spend Valentine’s Day alone. We didn’t realise that you didn't even know what day it was. We’ve kind of fucked up really, haven’t we?”  

“Don’t be daft.” Y/N wiped the tears away with her sleeve, “You’ve already cheered me up so much just by being here.” 

“Let’s not stop now then, eh?” Sirius said, patting her affectionately on the head as he stood up, “We’ve got plenty more planned for this evening. Why don’t you go get yourself freshened up while we get set up in here?” 

Y/N smiled gratefully and obliged, making her way to the bathroom. She splashed her face with cool water, letting it wash away the remnants of tears that clung to her skin. As she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she forced a smile onto her face in an attempt to make herself feel better. She quickly ran her hands through her hair and smoothed out the wrinkles in her clothes. 

In the other room, the boys had sprung to action. James rummaged through the bags of shopping, his brows furrowed in concentration as he set about preparing dinner. Remus, ever the organiser, rearranged the furniture to create a cosier and more comfortable set up for them. Sirius, with his flair for the dramatic, set about lighting candles and pulled an assortment of decorations from his bag to add a festive touch to the occasion. 

As Y/N stepped out of the bathroom, her eyes widened in surprise at the transformation that had taken place in the living room. The warm glow of candlelight danced across the walls, casting soft shadows across the room. Tears of gratitude welled in her eyes and with a shaky breath she made her way to join them. 

“Speechless, huh?” Sirius joked gently, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. 

Y/N managed a watery smile, “I don’t even know what to say.” 

“Nothing needs to be said.” James stepped in from the kitchen, floral apron tied around his waist.  

“Just know that we’ve got your back always, yeah?” Remus chimed in.  

With a grateful nod, Y/N settled into her seat at the table, feeling a sense of peace wash over her.  

“Nice apron, James.” Y/N teased, unable to contain her laughter.  

“What can I say? Real men wear floral.” he quipped, setting down plates of food in front of each of them.  

“Ah! I almost forgot!” Sirius stood up quickly from the table and disappeared into the other room.  

He returned a few moments later, holding a bouquet of flowers. He presented them to her with a flourish. Y/N gasped in response. 

“You really didn’t have to!” she protested, her voice filled with gratitude, “You’ve already done so much for me today!” 

“We wanted to.” Remus smiled. 

“Besides, we’d be pretty crappy mates if we let you go a whole Valentine’s Day without flowers.” Sirius chuckled. 

“Yeah, it’s practically a cardinal sin to neglect such an important tradition.” Remus nodded in agreement.  

“See? We’re not completely useless, are we?” James nudged her, grinning. 

“Nah, you’re not half bad.” she beamed back at them, “I might even go as far as to say that you’re the best.” 

[zeldahime]

Highway to Pail Day 2

[Day 1] [Next] @do-it-with-style-events

February 2: You can always trust someone who works at a music shop. They give sound advice.

Aziraphale had known dear Caroline for forty-five years, and he knew she was suspicious. Humans usually were, after about twenty or twenty-five years of acquaintance, and she was no mere acquaintance. To her credit and his relief, she kept her suspicions to herself, never so much as alluding to his corporation's failure to age a day while she herself grew from a confident young woman serving on the home front to a raucous grandmother and pillar of the community.

He also knew she was suspicious for another reason. A reason with beautiful red hair currently cut in an atrocious bowl cut, trying to get his long, delicate fingers on the only thing that could actually kill him. This was suspicion that he knew Caroline felt was well within her jurisdiction, as the unofficial denmother of Whickber Street. He was not really one of her charges, but as she had told him so many times, he was something close to family. And human families, he knew from millennia of living among them and hearing their stories, meddled in each others' romantic affairs.

Caroline and Crowley hadn't often met, but they'd pass each other on occasion, if Caroline closing up The Small Back Room coincided with Crowley coming round to the bookshop to collaborate on paperwork. Aziraphale had never introduced them, but Caroline had always been sharp as a tack. He'd been mentioning Crowley offhand to her for twenty years before they were reunited during the war, and the very first time she saw a red-haired man in a sharp suit enter the locked bookshop after curfew in 1943 and not come out again until morning, she'd cheekily gifted him a small cake and ribbed him gently about his night.

She referred to him as "your Crowley," when she spoke of him. It always made him feel a little warmer, even though it wasn't true. Crowley was Hell's, just as Aziraphale was Heaven's. What Crowley might want was irrelevant and what Aziraphale wanted was even less of a possible consideration.

Caroline had been the first person to ask him about Crowley's activities in Soho, a month ago. "Your Crowley," she had told him with raised eyebrows, "asked our Jenny if she knew anyone who could lever themselves down into a secure facility on a rope. She pointed him to the BDSM hall on Duck Lane." She rapped her knuckles on the desk. "What is he up to, Mr. Fell?"

He hadn't answered, but whatever look was on her face must have told her something, because she had just tsked at him a bit and said, "Whatever he's doing, Fell, he's going to get someone hurt. If this is about that fight you had that you talk about, the one before he left, it's best time to try to fix the root." She had winked. "And maybe that will keep him from leaving before dawn like he does. Everyone knows you've a flat upstairs; nobody needs to know there's only one bedroom in it."

Meddlesome old woman, his Caroline Service. Aziraphale adored her.

Aziraphale had asked around, of course; he knew already, but what he heard confirmed it. Crowley was planning to rob a church, get holy water.

Caroline was right. He had to get to the root of that fight in 1862, one hundred and five years before. Crowley had asked for the only weapon in Creation that could really hurt him. Did Aziraphale trust him with it?

Did Aziraphale trust Crowley with his life?

Well. That question had been answered in 1941, he had thought. But—

No, it hadn't been. Aziraphale trusted Crowley with Aziraphale's life, but that hadn't been the argument. The argument had been about whether Aziraphale trusted Crowley with Crowley's life.

He took his favorite flask, solid and leak-proof and decorated with his personal tartan, and headed to St. James' Park to gather some water from the duck pond to bless. If he was going to give Crowley a suicide pill, Aziraphale would at least make sure it was his own holiness that would kill Crowley, not the impersonal, clinical holiness of a Heaven that had already cast him out.

[moonchildreads]

small town

Chapter 20 - Self Control

IN THIS CHAPTER: The last high school party, apple flavored Kool-Aid, and Andy gets what he deserves [10.3k]

WARNINGS: underaged drinking, mentions of drug use (weed), slut shaming, a little misunderstanding (gets resolved really quickly), suggestive themes? (very mild, eddie's just a little bit wired, okay?)

A/N: i know i'm a day late, i'm sorry T.T someone got fired at my job and i'm supposed to handle their shit now because my boss is kinda cheap. it is what it is. BUT. hopefully this chapter makes up for my tardiness because as you can probably tell from the banner, the slow burn is officially boiling, you guys! enjoy <3

masterlist - prev - next | playlist

In the night, no control Through the wall something's breaking

Saturday, May 31st - 1986

Dottie was pacing like a nervous dog in a cage, feet hitting the soft rug in front of her closet with each step she took. It was the first Saturday in a long time that she hadn't spent in a blissful domestic bubble with Eddie and she was feeling downright antsy. The night before, once Hellfire had officially said goodbye to its Class of '86, the two teens had sat themselves in a booth at the back of The Hideaway with burgers, fries, and milkshakes, and something had finally clicked into place for her. There was no longer a specific need for them to spend so much time together anymore - no more exams to study for, no more books to read or worksheets to fill, and yet there they were still, on a Friday night, getting food together like usual. Sitting opposite of Eddie in that booth, watching him try to lick ketchup from the corner of his mouth and not reaching the smudge with the tip of his tongue, it dawned on Dottie that she had never loved anyone the way she loved him.

It wasn't that Dottie hadn't loved throughout her life, because truthfully she had. She had loved her Dad first, tiny fingers wrapping around a big thumb when she was just a few hours old. She'd loved her Grandparents, all four of them equally, but maybe no one should tell them that Grandma Jo leaving after a visit would always cause the biggest sobs to escape her tiny toddler body. She'd loved her Uncle Johnny, always cuddling up to him while they lived together, not really understanding that he wasn't actually her Uncle until it was too late to start calling him anything else. She'd loved her friends back in New York, even though she knew now that they hadn't loved her back in return. Hell, she'd loved Tyler, or else it wouldn't have hurt as much as it did when he broke her heart. Dottie wasn't someone that didn't know what loving meant or felt like, but the way she loved Eddie was unlike any other kind of love she had ever experienced before, and she knew she had to tell him sometime soon or she'd regret it for the rest of her life.

But first, there was prom, and graduation, and most pressingly, a party for which she had absolutely no idea of what she was going to wear, hence the continuous pacing. James, tired of hearing the back and forth on the wooden floors for the last fifteen minutes, came into his daughter's bedroom resigned to play stylist for the night like he'd done so many times before. Keeping up with the latest trends for the sake of his little girl was a full time job he had long ago learned to love.

"Do you know what Nancy is gonna wear?" he asked, sitting down at the end of Dottie’s bed.

"No, I didn't think to ask. But she always looks so pretty, Dad, I can't look like a bum."

"How about you tell me what you don't want to wear and we can start from there, okay?"

Thirty minutes later, Dottie had an outfit laid out where James had been sitting and she was doing her makeup in a hurry before Nancy picked her up. The plan was simple: go to the party, say hi to Chrissy and thank her for the invite, hang out with Nancy for a bit, meet up with the boys, and if the party sucked, head over to Jeff's for a movie night. He'd rented Ghoulies and Weird Science for the weekend and he still hadn't seen either, so it seemed as good a backup plan as any. Besides, movie nights had always meant sharing a blanket with Eddie and cozying up to him when she got sleepy. No matter what ended up happening, she knew her night wouldn't be completely terrible.

"Honey? Are you done yet? Nancy is here!" James yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

"I'll be down in a second!" she hurried to put on her clothes and ran down the stairs to meet her friend, crossbody bag bouncing behind her and hitting her backside.

She found Nancy politely making small talk with her Dad on the foyer; James had gone to school with her mom Karen and had fond memories of sharing a desk with her throughout their many years at Hawkins’ various academic buildings. They hadn't exactly been friends, but they always were on good terms and had even worked on a few projects together, namely one about growing sprouts from beans in mason jars when they were in middle school.

"Hey! Sorry for making you wait," Dottie said, stopping to hug Nancy who was better prepared to receive it than she had been in the school’s bathroom a day before.

"You're fine, don't worry about the time," Nancy reassured her. "There aren't any schedules to keep at these parties, everyone just comes and goes when they want to."

"Oh, good to know that we can just leave whenever if it sucks."

"Speaking of that," James said, getting his daughter's attention. "Call me if you're staying at Jeff's, okay? I'll come pick you up tomorrow."

"Donny can drop me off, you don’t gotta come," she waved her hand nonchalantly.

"Okay, but call me anyway so I know where you are. Take care you two, don't get too wild."

"Dad, seriously," Dottie rolled her eyes, exasperated but not without fondness. She knew he worried too much, but after all they’d been through, she couldn't blame him.

"Have a good night, Mr. Burke, it was nice to meet you," Nancy said, heading out with Dottie at her heels.

"You too, Nancy. Say hi to your parents for me, will you?"

The girls got into Nancy's car and drove away towards Loch Nora, the radio playing The Rolling Stones’ Harlem Shuffle softly in the background. They talked about random things, filling the empty space with the kind of anxious but lighthearted conversations one would have with someone they don’t know very well yet. So far their budding friendship had proved satisfactory for both girls, and they were willing to put in the effort to get to know one another better, even when that meant having to venture outside the comfort zone The Weekly Streak’s newsroom provided. During the ride Nancy complimented Dottie's outfit, and in turn, she had loudly admired hers, prompting the blue-eyed girl to admit she'd borrowed the shiny jacket with padded shoulders from her Mom’s wardrobe. After a good-natured laugh, Dottie admitted she had stolen her dress from her Mom’s closet too and Nancy told her her Mom had good taste. When they parked across the street from Jason Carver's house however, the friendly chatter ceased and both girls stared at the two-storey rising in front of them with apprehension.

"I'm so nervous," Dottie admitted, watching the colors spilling from the fairy lights inside the living room paint the veranda red, then green, then blue, and finally back to red.

"Me too," Nancy said, taking a shaky breath. "But we got this. How bad can it be?"

"Yeah. You’re right. It’ll be fun," Dottie nodded, and arm in arm they ventured inside the packed house in search of good old teenage normalcy.

Neither Nancy nor Dottie were having the slightest bit of fun. After a few shouted-over-loud-music hellos to some familiar faces, they had found themselves in Jason’s kitchen, nursing cups of a strange brown concoction that didn’t smell good and tasted even worse. Dottie wasn’t much of a drinker, and apparently Nancy wasn’t either, citing that the last time she’d gotten drunk, she’d embarrassed herself so badly she’d rather not have a repeat. The jocks and popular kids disagreed heavily with that assessment, and were having a lot of fun with two kegs in the backyard next to the pool. Dottie had suggested they venture out, sit by the water where it wasn’t as stuffy, but Nancy had quickly directed her into the kitchen where they ran into Marcie Hurley, an acquaintance from the newspaper club. Marcie was a lovely tall girl with a bold pixie cut; she was currently slightly intoxicated but full of ideas for stories to run in the last edition of The Weekly Streak before summer holidays started. Nancy pretended to listen to her with her utmost attention, but Dottie could tell by the way her eyes were glazed over that she was definitely calculating how much more she’d have to hear before she could get away without coming across as rude. Two girls Dottie didn’t know walked into the kitchen searching for something fruity to drink when they said something that caught her attention.

“What do you mean Munson said no?” one of the girls was saying.

“He said he wasn’t selling tonight! Which is honestly such bullshit, he was smoking with some other guys, he definitely had something on him,” the second girl said, pouring vodka into a cup.

“Show him your tits, maybe he’ll share with you.”

“Ew, I’m not that desperate!” the first one laughed loudly.

Dottie scowled immediately. She’d once gotten curious about him dealing and asked him a couple of questions, like how did he get into selling and if he was allowed to smoke his own product. Eddie hadn’t been particularly proud of his answers, but she told him she didn’t mind: the money helped pay for some bills around the trailer and put food onto their table. It wasn’t like he was dealing hard stuff or was some kind of mafia lord moving tons of product, for fuck’s sake. People talked about him like he had his thumb on the illegal underground in Hawkins when in reality, he was just a teen selling weed and a couple of pills here and there to a few fellow students at parties. Dottie hoped he’d never done something as gross as asking a girl to show him her body in exchange for a couple of hits of a shitty joint. She liked to believe she knew Eddie, and in her opinion he’d never do something like that, but teenagers had never been particularly known for making good choices. Nancy was already looking at her when she turned around, a knowing smile on her face. She nodded towards the door once, and after a whispered “thank you” off Dottie went in search of her friends.

The boys were enjoying the fresh air and sharing a smoke on the veranda at the front of the house, not really ready to go inside and face the music just yet. Donny had picked up Gareth and Jeff on his way to the party, but Eddie had arrived solo just a few minutes after them. They were talking about music, as they often did, when Dottie opened the front door and jumped on Jeff’s back, who flinched in surprise.

“Fucking hell, Dot, you’re gonna kill me someday if you keep doing that,” he said, rubbing his chest.

“I was worried you guys weren’t gonna show up,” she admitted, hanging onto his shoulders. He leaned his weight into her, hands wrapping around her loose wrists like they were backpack straps to keep her in place as they swayed side to side.

“Party sucks that much?” Donny asked, passing along the joint to Gareth.

“I mean, it’s not like I know a lot of people here. I’ve been hearing Nancy talk to other girls all night, and I think she’s as fed up as me.”

“Wanna ditch?” Jeff asked.

“We’re not leaving until I drink my fuckin’ weight in rich people’s beer,” Gareth declared, giving the cig to Eddie who took a long drag and put the roach out on the underside of the railing he was leaning against.

“If you want beer, there are a bunch of cans in the kitchen but you gotta fish them out of the cooler and someone spilled something green in there. It’s kinda gross,” Dottie grimaced.

“What? No keg?”

“Actually, there’s two in the backyard but the basketball team took ownership of one and I think the football team was doing handstands on top of the other one.”

“That’s so fucking lame,” Donny scoffed.

“Well then, who’s down for fishing?” Jeff looked at the guys, and Gareth shrugged, putting his hands in his jean pockets and following him inside.

“You coming?” Donny asked Eddie who didn’t move from his spot.

“Nah, gonna smoke a cig first. You go ahead,” he said, getting his Camels out of his front pocket.

Donny headed back inside and then it was just Dottie and Eddie under the moonlight, the tiny lamp above the front door doing nothing to shield them from the darkness. Eddie smiled, putting the cigarettes back in his pocket and opening his arms so Dottie could sheepishly tuck herself into him. She felt like she could finally breathe easy when feeling his chest rising up and down under her cheek, his warmth seeping into her bones.

“Too many people?” he asked knowingly, cupping the back of her head with one of his hands. Her fingers drew patterns on the soft cotton of his shirt.

“Mhm,” she nodded. “This is nice.”

“Yeah? You like my shirt?”

“Smells good,” she laughed. He smelled like Old Spice aftershave and laundry detergent.

“Why, thank you for noticing I showered, princess,” he said, grinning. “You look pretty. This your Mom’s dress?”

“Yeah,” she beamed, looking down at her shift baby blue dress. “I didn’t know what to wear so I just played it safe. The socks are new though,” she lifted her leg to show her white ankle socks with frills under her black kitten heels.

“So cute,” Eddie pouted theatrically, making her slap his chest in return. “No, really. You look nice.”

“Thanks,” she settled back against him, cheeks burning.

They enjoyed each other’s presence for a few seconds when the front door opened with a bang, an overexcited and red-eyed Chrissy Cunningham spilling out from the inside, her giggles following her as she skipped towards them in tune with the music coming from the speakers in the living room.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asked, a mischievous grin gracing her fairy-like features.

“Hey, Chris,” Eddie smiled, still holding onto Dottie as she turned in his arms to take a look at the newcomer. “How was your latest purchase?

“It was so good. Valerie, Julie and I just smoked a joint each in the bathroom,” she whispered conspiratorially, making Dottie laugh.

“Oh my. What would Jason say if he knew you were hotboxing his shower?” Eddie matched her tone.

“What Jason doesn’t know won’t hurt him. D’you want to smoke with us later, Dot? Only girls allowed.”

“Sorry, I’m not really a smoker,” Dottie said, feeling a little bit dumb. “But I’ll take you up on that Queen song you promised me yesterday if you wanna dance.”

“Oh my God, yes!” Chrissy grabbed her arm and pulled her out of Eddie’s grasp. “She’s mine now, Ed!”

“I can see that. I’m gonna go get a beer,” Eddie said, following them inside. “Have fun, ladies!”

“We will!”

Weed affects different people in different ways. That was a fact Dottie knew after spending so much time with the members of Corroded Coffin, better known as her best friends. Donny was always virtually the same after a good session, just got very thirsty. Eddie would get deep and thoughtful, and once the effects were gone, he’d get so hungry he’d eat drywall if it was the only thing around. Gareth, like Chrissy, would get giggly once he hit that sweet spot. It was like drinking, Donny had told her once. Everyone had a different tolerance, and most of the time taking a few hits of a shared joint wouldn’t be enough to change anyone’s personality significantly. There were other people like Jeff, for example, who had a very low tolerance and had decided to stop smoking altogether after realizing he’d get panicky and his clothes would always start itching each time he indulged in the vice with his friends. None of them had ever questioned him or pressured him to smoke after that, the same way that they didn’t pressure Dottie to smoke or drink when they were doing it around her. They’d always smoke outside, and Dottie and Jeff were free to lounge around on the couch and talk about anything and everything until they all regrouped inside again. Watching Chrissy be so carefree and joyful made Dottie think that maybe she’d enjoy being invited to one of their movie nights some day.

Chrissy, on the other hand, was a girl on a mission. There were no movie nights being planned in her head; she was instead focused on getting information out of Dottie to relay to Eddie at his earliest convenience. Chrissy liked Dottie, she really did. She liked how kind and attentive she was despite always walking around with an anxiety cloud above her head. She liked how she dressed, with her vintage clothing and big earrings Chrissy couldn’t wear because it’d be dangerous for a cheerleader to be tossed around with hoops or fun acrylic shapes dangling from her ears. She liked how she made Eddie feel, and Chrissy liked Eddie very much, so that just cemented Dottie in her mind as a good person to have around. And so, the blonde lulled her into a sense of comradery with heartfelt compliments and wild dances, trying to get to the bottom of the question she’d had swirling around in her brain for two months now: do you like my friend or is he wasting his time to end with his heart broken? To her credit, what came out of her mouth was much more subtle than that.

“Eddie’s awesome, isn’t he?” Chrissy asked, casting her line into the sea and waiting for Dottie to bite.

“Yeah, he’s great!”

“He was so right about us being friends! I’m so happy you came!”

“Well, thank you for inviting me!” Dottie smiled at her, and Chrissy squeezed her hand in response.

The party was in full swing now. Nancy had found a couple of classmates she got along with and finally managed to escape Marcie’s insistent newspaper talk; she looked much more happy talking to them near the door to the backyard than she’d looked like back in the kitchen. Donny, Gareth and Jeff were fishing out beer cans from the cooler and passing them along to people that normally ignored them in the hallways, their bravery for sticking their hands into the horrid green liquid making them the heroes of underaged teens trying to get unbearably drunk before inevitably throwing up all over Mrs. Carver’s bushes. Eddie stood to a side, near the archway that led to the stairs where bubblegum pink eyeshadow Marianne from his Sociology class had just disappeared up to with his lovesick boyfriend trailing behind her, much to his friends’ jeers and claps. The metalhead had a barely sipped on beer in his hand and hearts in his eyes as he watched Dottie and Chrissy spin around in the middle of the living room, singing along to Top 40 hits and dodging couples making out.

Eddie had never felt happy at a house party before. He’d usually drop by, deal a little bit from the back of his van, and speed away either to Jeff’s house to hang out with his friends or back towards his trailer where he’d smoke and fuck around with his guitar until he’d fall asleep on his tummy with his jeans still on. But standing there, seeing his friends being treated like normal people instead of the dirt beneath a shoe, he felt happy at a party for once in his life. He felt like a normal teenager, like everyone else in the Hawkins High Class of ‘86 saying goodbye to a long school year and hello to the unforgettable summer ahead. Chrissy made a suggestive face at him while dancing around with Dottie and Eddie laughed.

“Hey, Munson!” a familiar voice said, coming to clap his shoulder and snapping him out of his trance.

“Hey, Foster. How are you doing?”

“Weird seeing you here,” Kyle Foster of the Yearbook Club said, looking friendly but fidgety. “You never sell inside at these things.”

“Not selling tonight, man. Just enjoying the beer,” he lifted his can above waist level to demonstrate.

“Ah, dude, that sucks. I had a twenty with your name on it,” he clicked his tongue. “But if our deal still stands, I guess in a couple of weeks you’ll have a bag with my name on it.”

“I’m a man of my word, Foster,” Eddie smirked, shoving his hand into his pocket. “But here, for your troubles.”

He produced a tightly rolled joint from inside his packet of Camels and extended it to Kyle, who looked at him like he’d grown two heads. Never in his entire time being Eddie’s customer had he sold him a pre-roll, much less one that he had intended to smoke himself at some point. He eyed him curiously, not making any moves to pluck it out of the dealer’s hand.

“You sure about that, Munson?” he asked, giving him the chance to recant his offer.

“Yeah, you can have it. I’m not gonna smoke it and I’m feeling generous tonight. Just don’t send anyone else my way, okay? It’s the only one I had.”

“Y-yeah, man, sure! Thanks,” Kyle smiled, grabbing his prize for holding a polite conversation with the town’s freak who felt like less and less of a monster as the school year came to a close. “Here, take the twenty anyways,” he pulled a single bill from his back pocket. “Sorry about, y’know, that whole thing. See you when the yearbooks come out!”

And with that, he shoved the note into Eddie’s hand and left towards the backyard, probably in search of a borrowed lighter to spark up in a corner of Jason Carver’s lush garden. Eddie looked down at his hand, snorted, and put the twenty bucks away to spend another day. Maybe he’d get Dottie a strawberry milkshake like he’d done the day before, only to watch her eyes light up at the first taste and indulge in her pleas because it’s so good, Ed, you gotta try this! They make them with real strawberries! Chrissy found his eyes again over Dottie’s shoulder and stuck her tongue out at him. He clutched his chest like he had been hurt by her, overdramatic as always, and Dottie twirled Chrissy around breaking their eye contact. The songs changed but the girls stayed dancing and he kept on watching them with a satisfied smile on his face. It was a shame, really, that Eddie often became blind whenever he saw the girl he was in love with being truly, completely happy, because if he didn’t, he would have noticed one Andy fucking Humphrey staring at him like he could make the dumb metalhead drop dead in a heartbeat just by looking at him.

Jason Carver wasn’t the typical high school bully you’d see in films. Truthfully, he wasn’t even a bully; he just kept quiet while his friends did all the fucked up things the basketball team was infamous for. He was known as someone who would fly off the handle quickly, but not without reason. He took freshmen and sophomores under his wing, taught them what being a good teammate looked like, gave them a family within the walls of Hawkins High as part of his team. Jason was, if anything else failed, extremely protective and fiercely loyal to his own, and expected the same considerations to be returned to him. So when Andy, one of his best friends since elementary, came running to tell him that The Freak of Hawkins High was trying to flirt with his girlfriend in front of everyone, Jason had no reason to doubt him. Why would he, when Andy had been nothing but reliable all this time?

“What do you think you’re doing, creep?” Jason told Eddie, his tone low, trying not to call too much attention to themselves. Chrissy didn’t need to see this, she didn’t have to know she was being ogled by a pervert under his own roof.

“Drinking your beer, Carver, what does it look like I’m doing?” Eddie said with a sour tone, and instantly knew that had been the wrong answer.

“Yeah? What makes you think you’re welcome in my house?”

“Chill, man, I got invited, same as everyone else.”

“Who would want you here?” Chance Peterson said, appearing at Jason’s shoulder. This was bad.

“Uh, his girlfriend? Just like everyone else?” Eddie deadpanned, putting his can of beer on a ledge and lifting his palms. “Look, I’m really not looking to cause any trouble tonight-”

“Why would Chrissy invite you? You aren’t friends,” Patrick asked, and Eddie held back a scoff. He was willing to bet he knew Chrissy, the real Chrissy, more than any of these meatheads did.

“She invited all the seniors, that’s all there is to it. I’m a senior too-”

“Yeah, a senior citizen, you freak,” Chance said. “Why don’t you go home early and leave us actual seniors alone, huh? What is this, your tenth time trying to graduate?”

“See Peterson, I always knew you didn’t know how to count, but didn’t think you would be so bad at it. Should have known though, it’s not like anyone expects you to do anything that isn’t playing around with your balls. Now why don’t you back off and let your captain here and I have a civil conversation, alright?” Eddie looked down at Chance who narrowed his eyes at him, but Jason threw his arm out to stop him from moving forward.

“We’re not having a conversation, Munson. Back off my girlfriend or leave.”

“I’m not interested in your fuckin’ girlfriend, Carver,” Eddie said, bewildered.

“You say that, but you sure were looking at her before we walked in,” Andy said, stepping around his friends to stand next to Jason. “Wanna explain that?”

“Is looking at someone a goddamn crime now? Can’t exactly leave my eyes at home, you dumbass,” Eddie said, getting loud.

“So you were looking at Chrissy!” Jason yelled.

“No, I wasn’t! Believe it or not, not everyone is fuckin’ in love with your girlfriend, man!”

“Hey, what’s going on here?” Donny flanked Eddie, his voice booming over the sound of the music.

“Back off, dude, what’s your deal?” Gareth threatened Chance when he shoulder-checked him.

People were starting to catch on now, curious eyes looking around for the latest gossip. Jason and Eddie yelling at each other wasn’t exactly new, but both groups of friends having a screaming match at a house party? Now, that was juicy. As everyone started insulting and trying to intimidate each other, Eddie looked around trying to find Dottie in the crowd. She was still dancing with Chrissy, oblivious to the conflict, and now another cheerleader had joined them; he was pretty sure she was a junior and her name was Valerie.

“Hey! Stop looking at her, asshole!” Andy said, grabbing Eddie’s hair and turning his head back towards the imminent fight.

Andy’s voice was loud enough to startle the girls and make them look their way. Chrissy and Valerie paled instantly, hurrying forward to try to contain the scene before it turned truly ugly, leaving a path open behind them for Dottie to follow. Chrissy grabbed Jason’s arm and tried pulling him away when Eddie turned to Dottie and shook his head, his curls still in Andy’s grasp.

“It’s okay, Dot, stay over there!” he told her, not wanting to get her involved and hurt.

But it was too late, because Andy, as stupid as he was, caught on pretty quickly. He hadn’t recognized her before, all dolled up and giggly while she danced with Chrissy and Valerie. He’d simply assumed she was one of their friends, maybe even a junior he hadn’t really paid too much attention to while in school. Insistent on Eddie perving on Chrissy, he’d missed a crucial detail: that the unknown girl she was dancing with was the same girl that had threatened him in the AP Spanish classroom just a week ago. The same one that had told him to stay away from the Hellfire Club. That girl wasn’t Chrissy’s friend, she was a freak, merely blending in with the rest of the school population because she didn’t wear dark colors and leather. Andy turned on her so quickly she didn’t have time to heed Eddie’s warning before he was spewing venom towards her.

“I see now, freak,” Andy said, letting go of Eddie’s hair with a shove and stepping towards Dottie. “You weren’t looking at Chrissy, you were looking at your bitch.”

“What the fuck did you just call me?” Dottie said, angrily.

“That’s what you are, isn’t it? The freak’s little bitch. That’s why you came after me last week, huh?” Andy was seething. “Did he tell you to do that?”

“You brought that on your own by being a smug idiot,” she told him, not backing down from the fight even though she was terrified of him.

“Wait, what are you talking about?” Patrick asked.

“This slut tried to tell Mr. Lorenzo that I cheated on a test if I didn’t leave her friends alone,” Andy explained, once again looking smug. Everyone was watching them now. “Said I was gonna lose my ride to college, acted all flirty and shit. What is it, honey? The freak not giving it to you good enough? Do they all share you, like the big whore you a-”

“Fuck!”

Dottie hadn’t hesitated. Instead, she’d just simply punched him right in the face with her right fist, thumb on the outside like her Grandpa Ken had taught her when they were boxing in his backyard one summer, hitting pillows and humming along to the Rocky theme song while Grandma Caroline made fresh lemonade. The crack that followed the punch was deafening. All chatter ceased and the music was turned off - if a needle were to hit the floor, it would have been so easily heard in the silence that followed her expletive. It had hurt for him, yes, something was definitely broken, but the impact on her knuckles had split the delicate skin covering them, not used to being treated so roughly by colliding against a jock’s bones. Andy pinched his nose with pain, blood starting to pour down his cupid’s bow.

“Wait, no!” Chrissy gasped, as Andy reached over to take someone’s beer can out of their hand and emptied it on Dottie’s head, throwing it away once it was empty. The metal clang on the floor until it hit someone’s shoe.

“What the fuck?” Gareth managed to say, before Eddie launched himself and pushed Andy away from Dottie who just stood there clutching at her hand and looking at the floor in shock.

Her Mom’s dress was ruined, sticky liquid dripping from her hair onto the soft fabric, staining everything as it went down, down, down onto her thighs and legs until it reached her socks. She smelled like an alcoholic and her fingers hurt. She felt empty, adrenaline leaving her body as she shivered while everything around her dissolved into utter chaos. The Hellfire Club and the basketball team were yelling and pushing each other once again, people rushing to get out of their way so they wouldn’t get hit. With the reflexes of someone used to being on alert, Nancy grabbed Dottie’s arm and yanked her aside just in time for Andy to push Eddie off himself and into a side table. Eddie hit the floor with a sickening crunch, but what made everyone stop the brawl was the sound of the lamp on top cracking into a million little pieces right next to the couch.

“Jason, stop this!” Chrissy pleaded, hanging onto his arm.

Andy, not one to be deterred, snapped his head towards Dottie, not caring that Nancy threw an arm out to cover her with her own body. He raised his hand, fully on board with hurting either of them to make a point, when Jason finally snapped into action and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him into Patrick’s arms who instantly held him in place, Chance coming over to help.

“Are you crazy?” Jason yelled at his friend. “We don’t hit women!”

He turned just in time to see Chrissy helping Eddie up, the two of them muttering to each other softly, looking a lot more friendly than he liked. His eye twitched once and he looked at Hellfire as they huddled closer to each other and started inching towards the exit, Nancy and Chrissy herding them out.

“Get out of my fucking house!” Jason told them, like they weren’t already trying to leave.

“Gladly,” Donny said, closing the door behind them and shielding them from further aggressions.

“You guys, I am so sorry,” Chrissy was saying, not knowing who to direct it to first.

“It’s okay, Chris. Not your fault your boyfriend has shithead friends,” Eddie said, patting her shoulder in comfort.

“Still, I should have-,” she cut herself off because there was nothing she could have done; the basketball team and the Hellfire Club were destined to hate each other until the end of time. She turned to Dottie instead. “Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah, I think so. My hand hurts,” she sniffed. “I’m sorry we ruined your party.”

“Oh, please, that party sucked,” Chrissy snorted. “The most fun I had all night was when we were dancing with Val.”

“Come on, let’s get you home,” Donny said, guiding Dottie towards his car.

“I can drive her, I brought her here,” Nancy offered, giving him half a smile. She wasn’t friends with the guys, but she knew enough about them through Mike to have at the very least positive feelings towards them. Besides, it wasn’t like Jonathan hadn’t also been an outcast back when he was still in Hawkins. She knew what that was like.

“No, no,” Dottie hurried to say. “You should both go back to the party. Eddie can drive me, Don, I don’t want to ruin your car.”

“Are you sure?” Chrissy said, not wanting to leave her in such a vulnerable state.

“Yes, I’m sure. Go back inside, it’s your party,” she squeezed the blonde’s hand. “I had fun dancing with you, thank you for inviting me.”

“Maybe we can do it again some day? Just us girls?” Chrissy said, eyes full of hope.

“I’d love that,” Dottie said, and she really meant it.

“Okay, then… let’s go back inside, Nancy. Bye guys, drive safe,” Chrissy waved at them, pulling her cardigan closed and both girls disappeared back into the house.

“Is this a bad time to say that I stole a case of beers?” Gareth said, lifting a 12-pack and bringing some much needed humor to the situation.

“Let’s go back to mine then, we can sneak in through the basement door,” Jeff proposed, and Donny nodded.

“I’m… I’m gonna pass, guys,” Eddie said. “I’ll take her home and head back to the trailer. My ass kinda hurts.”

“Have fun without us, okay? I’m sorry I ruined it,” Dottie said, tears swimming in her eyes. Whether it was because of the shame or the pain in her hand, no one knew but no one asked her either.

“Hey now, you didn’t ruin anything. We’ve got an awesome story to tell the kids someday,” Donny laughed.

“Yeah! We’ll be like: Auntie Dot broke a jock’s nose back in high school because he called her names,” Jeff said, putting on an old man voice and Dottie chuckled wetly.

“Come on, let’s go,” Eddie said, guiding her towards his van with a hand on her lower back.

“I should sit in the back, I’m gonna get your seats dirty,” Dottie said.

“Don’t even think about it, there’s no seatbelts in the back,” he said, climbing in and rummaging around for the tarp they covered Gareth’s drumset with when they moved it for gigs.

The music from inside the house was booming again when Donny’s car pulled into the street and the boys left, saying goodbye by honking twice. Eddie covered the front seat with the tarp and helped her get in, clicking the seatbelt for her in place and jogging to get to the driver’s side. Dottie stared out the window as Eddie turned the van on and backed up into the street, waving at a defeated Chrissy who was looking out from the living room’s window. When Eddie stopped at the first intersection, Dottie turned to look at him.

“Ed?” she asked in a shaky voice. “Can you take me to yours instead?”

The trailer was empty with all the lights turned off when they arrived, which was unusual for a Saturday night. Wayne had always had weekends off, after all, he had a kid at home to take care of and nobody was an asshole enough to ask an old man to come in during his time away with his family. Still, as Eddie kneeled down next to the entrance to help Dottie undo her heel buckles, she looked around while holding onto his shoulders and found herself missing her Mr. Wayne. Eddie had asked her in the van why she didn’t want to go home, and she had simply replied she didn’t want to tell her Dad she’d gotten into a fight just yet. She’d failed to mention that she was expecting Wayne to give her the parental comfort she needed, but without the grounding she was sure she was gonna get from her own father.

“He’s at the plant,” Eddie said, guessing her silent inquiry. “He’s doing extra time this weekend so he can take a couple of days off for graduation.”

“That’s really sweet,” she smiled, stepping out of her shoes now that he’d gotten them unbuckled. The beer that had dripped down her legs had stained the tops of her socks.

“Wait here, okay? I’ll get the shower running for you, the knobs are… well, they’re stupid,” he shrugged with resignation. “You can call your Dad if you want, tell him where you are.”

He started the shower for her while she dialed home, James picking up after a few long rings. He listened to her talk quietly while getting her a towel and clean clothes; she hadn’t exactly asked, but Eddie got confirmation that she wanted to spend the night when he heard her lie to her Dad about being at Jeff’s and having a movie night. Eddie wasn’t about to complain about her not mentioning she was with him if it meant he could sleep next to her for a full night. He went back into the bathroom, lowered the toilet’s lid and put the things he’d gathered for her on top before opening the mirror cabinet and pulling out a new toothbrush along with a packet of makeup wipes. She hung up and walked into the small bathroom after him, looking at the items in his hands with a quirked eyebrow.

“I wear eyeliner for our gigs sometimes,” he admitted. “It always looks like shit, but if it’s good enough for Ozzy, it’s good enough for me.”

“Maybe I can teach you how to do it right sometime,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting into half a smile.

“Maybe you should just do my makeup so I don’t poke my eye out.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll do your makeup next time.”

“Kick your clothes out the door when you take them off, I’ll throw them in the washing machine for you,” he said, and left her to her devices.

He went back into his bedroom to give her privacy and get changed into his own PJs, which consisted of an old ratty t-shirt with a couple of holes around the neck and plaid pants he was sure had belonged to Wayne at some point in their lives. While he busied himself changing his sheets into fresh ones, putting her clothes in the washer and making his bedroom look somewhat presentable, Dottie tried to hurry up in the shower, not wanting to use up all the water. Still, she couldn’t help but take her time appreciating the fact that Eddie actually owned conditioner and that the green apple smell that surrounded him in the mornings belonged to the big bottle of shampoo in the corner of the tub. She washed all the beer off her skin and hair and, feeling a lot more like herself, wrapped her body into the soft off-white towel he’d gotten for her, standing at the mirror to rid herself of her make up as best as she could. She brushed her hair quickly, scrunching her curls into the towel to remove the excessive moisture, and brushed her teeth making a note to buy him a new toothbrush to replace the one she’d used. Timidly, she also reached for his deodorant, reasoning that it was better to use it than to stink up his clothes and bed with her sweat.

She was studying herself in the small mirror, not entirely believing that she was wearing Eddie’s clothes, when she realized the light scabbing on her knuckles had probably loosened up with the water and they were all bloody again like she’d never cleaned them up in the first place. Poking her head out of the bathroom, she directed her voice towards his bedroom where she could hear him pottering about.

“Eddie?” she called.

“Yeah?”

“D’you have any bandages? My hand’s bleeding again.”

“Uh, lemme see,” he pushed the door open and rummaged around in the sink cabinet, grabbing a little bag that contained their first aid supplies. “Come, sit on the bed,” he instructed, and she did as he asked without a word.

He kneeled in front of her and inspected her right hand, closing each finger carefully and pressing on parts of her palm to see if anything hurt. Nothing seemed to be permanently broken, so reached over to his bedside table where a cup of water sat and gave her an ibuprofen to help with the swelling before moving on with his next task. She watched him as he worked diligently to clean the scrapes, long thick fingers fluttering softly on her skin.

“What’s the diagnosis, doc?” Dottie asked.

“I’m getting a weird déjà vu here, princess,” he chuckled. “You need to stop getting into trouble before I get into pre-med.”

“Can’t help it. Trouble’s my middle name.”

“I thought it was Ann?” Eddie said, laughing.

Truthfully, he was joking around to hide the fact that he had been losing his mind since she’d opened the bathroom door and came out all rosy-cheeked, smelling like him and wearing his clothes. He’d given her one of his old shirts, a white one he hardly ever used anymore with a Garfield print at the front and his blue checkered boxers, not expecting them to look as big on her as they did. The hem of the shirt almost covered the shorts, and the short sleeves went past her elbows. The less was said about his gray socks that bunched up at her heel, the better, and he tried not to think about the fact that he knew she wasn’t wearing a bra because he’d had the most mortifying pleasure of throwing the cute cotton garment into his washing machine fifteen minutes earlier. Eddie was wrapping up her knuckles with a long piece of gauze when he noticed she’d gone strangely quiet. He looked up at her face to find her teary-eyed and chewing on a wobbly lip.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, holding onto her hand. “Is it too tight?”

“Is that… what everyone thinks about me?” she whispered, like she was afraid of asking out loud.

“I- I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, darling.”

“Wh-what Andy said. About me being… does everyone think I’m a slut?”

“What? No! Of course not!” he stuck the gauze in place with a piece of medical tape and lifted himself onto his knees between her legs to hug her. “Dot, he didn’t even know who you were until tonight, he was just talking out of his ass.”

“I’m not a whore,” she muttered into his shoulder. “I promise I’m not.”

“Darling, what are you on about, huh?” he grabbed her face with two hands and brought her eyes to his. “I know you’re not. You could sleep with half this town and I still wouldn’t think you’re a whore. You- you can do whatever you want with whoever you want! I know you, you’re… Dot, you’re so fucking nice to me, to all of us, and the only reason Andy said that bullshit about you is because you’re friends with the freaks.”

“I’m not,” she said, and he looked at her in question. “I’m not friends with the freaks. I am a freak.”

“Hell yeah you are,” Eddie smiled. “You are a freak, and you shouldn’t let what that piece of shit said get to you, okay? You broke his fucking nose because he talked shit about you, Dot. You’re so fucking amazing.”

It was probably the way Eddie was looking at her like she’d hung the moon and all the stars, or maybe it was the way he was holding onto her face with a gentleness no one associated with the rugged metalhead, fingers extending under her ears and into her damp hair, thumbs on her cheeks. It was most definitely the way he always took care of her, how he cleaned her wounds like she was the most fragile thing on Earth and how he never hesitated to pull her into his arms whenever she needed a hug without questioning her reasons. But honestly, it was most likely the fact that he was so close to her, his warm breath mingling with her minty one, that had her leaning forward and pecking his lips with hers in the most chaste kiss she’d ever given to anyone in her entire life.

She tried pulling away as fast as she had leaned in, she really tried to, but Eddie felt like he had been struck by a live wire and instinctively chased her mouth with his own, still cupping her face but moving one of his hands to tangle into her hair, finally taking a hold of the proverbial carrot dangling in front of him. He was kissing her - Eddie Munson was kissing Dottie Burke and he couldn’t get enough of it - he needed more, he needed to consume her and she to him until there was nothing left for anyone to see. He grabbed onto her bare thigh to pull himself up and she whimpered, the walls of the illusion suddenly crashing around him. She’d just tearfully asked him if the town thought she was a whore, and his way of reassuring her, had been to deny it and then make a move on her. Eddie jumped back so quickly he fell onto his bruised ass and hissed in pain.

“Fuck, Dot, I’m- I’m so sorry!” he pleaded, leaving her dumbfounded and glazy-eyed.

He’d fucked up. He’d ruined everything. With his eagerness, he’d jumped the gun and now his plan was ruined, and she probably, maybe, definitely thought he was a fucking pervert trying to get into her pants, and yes, he very much would like to do that but not like this. Not before she knew he would quite literally die for her, not before he’d confessed to her the profound love he felt and had finally become the kind of man she deserved to have. Dottie looked at him not understanding what had just happened, but when she moved to get off the bed and closer to him, he jumped off the floor and put even more distance between them.

“I’m so sorry, we shouldn’t- fuck, I didn’t-”

“Eddie, it’s fine-

“No, it’s not fine!” his hands tangled in his own hair while he tried to find the words to explain himself. “This is all wrong, goddamnit-”

“Eddie, calm down-”

“Fuck, Chrissy is gonna kill me, I’m such a fucking idiot-”

“Ch-Chrissy?” Dottie whispered, but he didn’t hear her in the middle of his freakout.

Oh. Oh. She was so stupid. She couldn’t even blame him, she’d been influenced by her aunts and by Gareth - and of course, who wouldn’t be in love with Chrissy Cunningham, Head Cheerleader and Queen of Hawkins High? She was so kind, and friendly, with her gorgeous eyes and warm smiles. And by his own admission, if she was going to kill him, well, that certainly meant she returned Eddie’s affections, did it not? She’d be an idiot not to love Eddie back because Eddie was so loveable. Sweet, silly, wonderful Eddie who had just kissed his best friend and regretted it deeply. She had to get out of there if there was any hope of saving their friendship.

“I’m so sorry,” Dottie said, rushing out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.

“Dot, wait!” Eddie followed her. He had to fix this, he had to tell her, he was gonna tell her- “What are you doing?”

“I’m really so sorry, Eddie, I didn’t know,” she got her damp clothes out of the washing machine; the cycle had probably ended in the middle of his upset rant and neither of them had heard it.

“Where are you going? It’s midnight!” he watched her shove her feet into her heels, not bothering with fastening the buckles before she opened his front door. He had to act fast or he was going to lose her forever.

“Eddie, please,” she asked, tears pooling in her eyes again, voice broken. “I just want to go home. Everything’s fine, I’ll see you on Monday-”

“No!” he threw himself onto the door, closing it again effectively locking her in. “Y-you can’t leave like this! What are you gonna do, walk home in your heels? Are you insane?”

“Please, I’m sorry,” she sobbed, breaking his heart into a million tiny pieces. “We can forget this all happened, please, just let me go!”

“No!”

“Eddie!”

“No! We need to talk about this!”

“There’s nothing to talk about! I didn’t know you were dating her, just let me-”

“Wait, what?” It was Eddie’s turn to be confused. “I’m not dating anyone, what are you talking about?”

“I’m not fucking deaf, Ed! You just said Chrissy was gonna kill you!”

“Yes, but that’s not- Fuck! That’s not what I meant! She’s dating Jason Carver, for fuck’s sake!”

“It’s okay if you like her, she’s fucking perfect-” she babbled, fat tears leaving tracks on her cheeks.

“You’re fucking perfect! God, fuck, this is not what I-” Eddie took the clothes out of her arms and threw them into the living room, pulling her into his arms again.

“Eddie, what the fuck?!” she shrieked, trying to get away from him but he held on tight, throwing her onto his shoulder and sitting her down onto the kitchen counter.

“I made Kool-Aid!”

“What? I don’t want fucking Kool-Aid-”

“Just stop arguing!” he yelled, effectively shutting her up. “I made apple Kool-Aid.”

“...I love apple Kool-Aid,” she said, for lack of a better response.

“I know,” he said, leaning back and looking at her sitting between his arms, palms on the cold surface of his kitchen countertop. “That’s why I keep buying it. For you.”

An ugly sob bubbled up out of her throat and she hid her face in her hands. She wasn’t strong enough to keep fighting with him, and when he hugged her again, fingers tangling back under her ears, she simply bowed her head and cried harder. Eddie kissed her hair and held her, letting her release all the pent up emotions that were swirling in her mind. When she breathed a little bit easier, he looked at her, drying her tears with his thumbs.

“Can I trust you to stay here while I get the Kool-Aid?” he asked, softly.

Dottie nodded, so he moved away from her to get the pitcher out of the fridge. He filled a mug first, watching her legs swinging lightly back and forth while she sniffled and picked at her nails, and stopped before filling the next one. She saw him frown and look around the kitchen before finding what he was looking for: a yellow ceramic mug with a gnome playing the accordion on the front. A couple of weeks ago, the teens had been studying in the trailer on the small table in the kitchen, and Dottie had mentioned to Wayne she was gonna get him a hat with her college logo when she was in Michigan so he could add it to his collection. He’d glowed at that, joking that he was gonna tell everyone his niece was a genius and that he’d leave her her favorite mug in his will in return. The two of them had spent around 30 minutes going through every mug until she decided on one, all while Eddie worked on his homework with a dumb smile on his face. She’d picked a yellow mug with gnome playing the accordion on the front, the very same mug Eddie was now gently putting into her hands filled with apple Kool-Aid he allegedly kept buying because he knew it was her fave flavor.

They sipped their juice in silence until Dottie calmed down, holding onto the mug with both hands for comfort. Eddie stood there, waiting for her to say anything and when it became clear she was not gonna be the first one to talk, he put his mug down and turned to her, pulling on the hem of her borrowed boxers.

“Hey,” he said, ducking his head down to look her into the eyes. She made a small sound of acknowledgment but kept staring at the liquid between her hands. “I’m not dating anyone.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t like Chrissy,” he kept going.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“Yes, I do. I really fucking do,” he took her mug out of her hands and ducked a bit more. “Dot, look at me. Please.”

“Eddie, it’s fine-”

“I’m kind of insanely in love with you.”

“What?” Dottie breathed out, eyes widening.

“Darling, I haven’t been able to even look at anyone else since the day I met you. I’m so fucking obsessed with you it’s actually embarrassing,” he smiled at her, finally hitting her with the full force of his confession.

“You… you like me?”

“Mhm,” he nodded, lifting her hand and kissing her gauze covered knuckles. “Chrissy has been helping me plan how to ask you out. We’re not secretly dating, she knows I’m crazy about you.”

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t know,” Dottie murmured, ashamed that she’d jumped the gun with her conclusions.

“You couldn’t know, that was the whole point,” he chuckled. “I was gonna ask you out after graduation, I wanted to have our diplomas and everything but then you kissed me and… you’re awfully impatient, has anyone ever told you that?”

“God, I’m an idiot,” she laughed, hitting her forehead with her palm. “How long had you been planning that?”

“Since around your birthday,” he admitted, and she groaned. “I would have asked you earlier but I wanted to set things straight before, y’know? I wanted to graduate first, maybe get a job, I dunno… Give you what you deserve. Instead you get… this,” he waved his hand around. “Sorry.”

“Eddie, I’m so in love with you, it’s not even funny. What are you talking about?”

“What?”

“Oh my god, we’re both idiots!” Dottie groaned again, and he laughed in disbelief.

“You’re in love with me?”

“Yes! Why did you think I kissed you?!”

“I mean, I kinda figured out you liked me, but love, darling, that’s… That’s a lot.”

“You just said you are “kinda insanely in love” with me, what do you mean it’s a lot?” she looked at him like he had just told her the sky was green.

“Well, yeah, but- that’s different! I’m me!”

“Okay, what the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t know, I just- fuck, I love you and I really, really want to kiss you right now. Would that be okay, darling? Can I kiss you?”

She shook her head at him like he had just said the stupidest thing on Earth and wrapped her arms around him, bringing him forward and pressing their lips together again. Eddie laughed against her mouth, hands coming up to cup the sides of her jaw, thumbs rubbing circles into her skin. They kissed with no hurry and no other motives than to just kiss, savoring the moment like a cold sip of water after a long race. There were no more places to hide, no more shadows lurking in the background. It was just them under the mismatched light bulbs in the Munson kitchen, two mugs and a pitcher filled with Kool-Aid, and limbs tangling with one another, scratching an itch that had once seemed impossible to relieve.

Eddie moved his lips from hers to her cheek, up her nose and eyelids until he reached her forehead and stayed there, just breathing in and basking in the knowledge that they’d jumped off a cliff together and had landed on the other side unscathed. There were so many conversations to be had, so many things to be said, but this was more than okay for him now. This was enough, and for the first time in his whole life, he was enough. Dottie’s hands moved under his shirt, lightly running her short nails over his skin, the motion calming and grounding him. He was hers, and she was his, and there was nothing else that mattered anymore. The waters were calm. The locked padlocks remained in place, but the keys weren’t forgotten or hidden anymore. She felt at peace in a way she had never once felt before, knowing that no matter what came next, they would face it together. She yawned once, burrowing further into his skin, and he chuckled.

“Wanna go to bed now?” he asked, softly.

“Yes, please,” she replied.

Eddie helped her off the counter and let her get comfy in his room while he finished getting ready for bed, turning all the lights off and brushing his teeth with a dazed expression on his face. He found her tucked in on the left side of his bed, the one closest to the wall and realized that he could get used to this so easily. He was sure that once she went home the next day, he’d have trouble falling asleep until she was back next to him, nuzzling into his chest and wearing his clothes. They cuddled in silence, soft touches in the darkness, just exploring skin and calming rapid heartbeats with innocent caresses that revealed just how much they’d longed for this. There would be time for bolder actions, but tonight they just wanted to hold each other tight and never let go. Eddie, however, had one more question to ask before sleep could whisk them away to Dreamland.

“Darling?”

“Mhm?”

“I don’t want to, like, ruin the moment, but… what happens now?”

“Dunno. What do you want to happen?” she asked, moving her leg on top of his so he could shuffle closer to her.

“Can we maybe not tell people this happened so I can ask you out like I planned?” he said, shyly. “I just… I want to do things right with you. I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“You’re not fucking anything up, Ed. But sure, we can pretend this didn’t happen and I’ll act surprised when you ask me out,” she rolled her eyes playfully.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” he squeezed her closer. “I meant it more like… not telling the guys? You can tell your Dad if you want, though.”

“How about this?” she said, reaching up and kissing his jaw sweetly. “We don’t tell anyone anything, and my Dad doesn’t get an aneurysm every time he sees you. Sound good?”

“You want to lie to your Dad?”

“Not forever. We can tell him before I leave for college. You’re gonna come see me, right?” Dottie asked, hopeful.

“Baby, Michigan is only three hours away. They’re gonna think I’m your roommate with how often I’m gonna be there,” he pecked her hairline.

“Baby?”

“Just trying it on. D’you like it?”

“I love it. And I love you.”

“Fuck, I’ll never get tired of that. I love you,” he chuckled, leaning in to kiss her. “Okay, we won’t tell anyone so your Dad doesn’t murder me.”

“I have one condition though.”

“Okay?”

“I still get to kiss you when we’re alone.”

“You just want me to be your dirty little secret, don’t you?” Eddie joked, poking her side.

“I’ll be yours too if that helps,” she said, cheekily.

“Oh, don’t tempt me with a good time, princess,” he said with a mischievous tone. “Who knows? Might be fun to sneak around all summer.”

Half an hour later, when they were finally falling asleep between soft kisses and whispered sweet nothings, they both agreed that a little bit of teenage disobedience might just be the missing piece they didn’t know they were looking for to complete their perfect summer before officially being adults. After all, it always looked so much fun in movies, right?

taglist (comment below or send me an ask if you want to be added!): @munsonology @kurdtbean @every1lovesanunderdog @eg-dr3amer3

[dragon-swords-prophecies]

NaNoWriMo 2023 Day 30: Herald At Dawn

***I'm doing half a nano (25k not 50k) cause I have too much other shit to do (school)***

Today's Word Count/Today's Goal Word Count: 629/625

Total Word Count: 25,004/25k

Goal Word Count: 25k

Snippet:

In his traditional fashion, Leo was sitting crossed legged on top of his desk. Alex was on a chair, elbow leaning on the desk next to her. James was across the semicircle from her, in the middle of what one would call the flat part if it was drawn out onto paper, where everyone could see him. It was, all in all, a fairly casual meeting. “Alright, folks,” he said, gathering the attention of everybody in the room. “We all know about the murders, yes?” Murmurs of assent came from the assembled flock of journalists.

Notes: ''assembled flock of journalists'' is a contender for my favorite sentence in this whole story, i think. also. it's done. well, no, its not, there is a hell of a lot of plot left to go, but you know. the goal is done. I did it. now imma go and finish my history project. see you in a couple days for a wrap up/whats next post (also, new writeblr intro coming soon, hopefully by christmas).

Taglist (ask to be +/-): @thelaughingstag @gr3y-heron @another-white-void @amethyst-aster

[captainpuffin1]

Yebba - Dawn

I discovered Yebba in the way that a lot of probably did, which was through some of her notable collars with well known artists, from Ed Sheeran (“Best Part of Me”), to Drake (“Yebba’s Heartbreak”). She tended to be a highlight of both the song and the album as a whole for me, so I went and checked out some of her music in order to see what her solo stuff was like. I ended up listening to her 2021 debut album “Dawn”, which ended up being a fantastic album.

Yebba manages to show herself as a fantastic writer on here. The main theme of the album is grief and recovery. A lot of the writing is influenced by Yebba’s grief caused by the death of her mother and how Yebba is trying to recover from that grief. The writing ends up laying the groundwork for a ton of emotionally charged songs that essentially see Yebba slowly move on from the grief she’s trapped in while other things in life keep getting thrown at her, like crumbling relationships, watching friends get into some horrific situations, and just trying to not let the grief fully take over her every move. Just about every song on here manages to be fantastic because of just the writing on it alone, and it’s impressive to see Yebba show herself as this good of a writer at this early part of her career.

The production on this album was mainly done by Mark Ronson, so it’s not too much of a shock that the production on here is great. Mark is fantastic when it comes to creating the type of Soul music that takes influence from older sounds and combining it with a modern sound (Hell, just look at his contributions to Amy Winehouse’s music). This album takes some of it’s influence from the 90s and 2000s Neo-Soul sound (Hell, her love for D’Angelo’s album “Voodoo” helped lead to some of the musicians involved with that album like Questlove and James Posyer being involved with this album too.), and in the usual Mark Ronson fashion, is able to create an album that manages to sound just as beautiful and intricate as the albums it was inspired from. However, Mark isn’t the only producer on here. Other people like Yebba herself, Ricky Damien, and Thomas Brenneck also take the production helm on a good chunk of the album alongside Mark, and the song “Love Came Down” also features production from producers like KAYTRANADA and Hudson Mohawke, who help make the song lighten up the mood of what’s mostly a pretty depressing album. Every producer on here manages to do a spectacular job creating this album and perfectly fit next to Yebba’s unique take on Neo-Soul.

The two vocal guests on here are also really good. A$AP Rocky has a great verse on the stellar track “Far Away”, and Smino has a decent verse on the song “Louie Bag”

Yebba’s debut album “Dawn” both makes for a great first impression of her music, plus it shows Yebba fully come into her own with some fantastic writing and amazing production that pays homage to the golden days of Neo-Soul, along with some fantastic vocal performances from Yebba and guests. If you want to check out some insanely underrated Neo-Soul, then give “Dawn” a listen.

BEST: One More Smile, Distance, Far Away (feat. A$AP Rocky), Stand, How Many Years, Boomerang, Paranoia Purple, October Sky

WORST: N/A

10/10

[muirmarie]

i am Thinking (i am scheming)

recovery

strip poker (i mean this is what it says on the tin, tbh. mccoy is so emotional he's actually incredibly hard for kirk to read, meanwhile kirk can read spock like a gd book. spock is solely focused on at least beating mccoy. mccoy isn't playing to win, he's playing to make them lose. rampant cheating is involved.)

golden hour (mccoy gives spock an old camera. spock becomes obsessed w/ being able to capture emotions in the viewfinder that he won't allow himself to say. james t kirk in the golden light of the dawn. you could make a religion out of that.)

vulnerability (*eta - operation annihilate where vulcans don't have a second set of eyelids, and mccoy works himself half to death for three weeks to figure out a way to cure him anyway, and then they all have to deal with the fallout. (this'll probably be the next one)()

sandwich (mccoy is in the middle because i yam who i yam. *eta - this might be a 5+1 space forgetties stories actually tbh. aka 5 times spock and kirk thought they were dating mccoy, and 1 time where mccoy gives in to the inevitable - OR maybe i'll move that to something else and use this for frottage LMAO we'll see idk idk*)

why does janice keep bringing 3 meals to kirk's quarters (this is for NON-sexy reasons initially!! and then it turns out the entire ship is taking bets on when they're going to admit to being in a relationship. they extremely are not. but then they're hyper-aware of how everyone's perceiving them. and then they still aren't. and then they are.)

a fourth wheel (hmmm 4/5(chapel?)+1 one of the rest of the main crew feeling like a fourth wheel on various things. the 1 is when they're all hanging out together and just glad to see the triumvirate happy)

cave(s) (might use the story i'm actually writing right now tbh. alternatively the dubcon all my yesterdays that i've been thinking about. mccoy doesn't want spock like /this/. but he doesn't stop him. doesn't try to stop him. doesn't want to consider the idea that if he tried to stop him, he might not be able to. doesn't know how they could walk away from that. far better not to try.)

mccoy makes breakfast (eh probably self-explanatory - *eta - i know what i'm doing w/ this. bones can never tell jim no.*)

late night walk (i have been on too many late night walks to not have a sketch of an emotion for this.)

chained to the bed (...mccoy is going to be the one chained. but proooobably in a. hmm. in a less than friendly situation. and then rescued. i don't have a plot for this, i just know who i am.)

scotty doesn't know (i mean honestly the comedy of scotty just being like "love hanging out with the guys" while the guys keep smooching and he keeps missing it entirely? writes itself. [narrator: it did not write itself])

free space (is that gonna be the spock & mccoy can hear each other's thoughts story??? all signs point to yes. this one will be long.)

bdsm (mccoy does NOT want to hurt kirk, and it's spock who has to kind of sit him down and be like. remember how you're so big on releasing emotions? have you considered this is what jim needs help with? and mccoy genuinely turning out to to be the best, most loving dom? and GENERALLY spock is just. chillin. supportively. but then one time he. needs. it as well. i have never written anything like this before, but i think i can swing it.)

flexibility (*eta - ummm mccoy is mistaken for a courtesan (a highly respected profession on this planet) and due to translation hijinks this isn't discovered right away, so there's some shenanigans, meanwhile mccoy is living his best life getting makeup tips and teaching the planet's courtesans yoga (which is where the prompt comes in lmao))

create or destroy - obsessed w/ this, have no idea what i'm gonna do with it tho

war (*eta - some thoughts here*)

justice (something something the justice tarot card. something something the balance of the scales. something probably sketching the outline but only in relief. something something group character study)

rager (lmao hell yeah. make that vulcan do a keg stand!!!! idk i'll figure this out)

time loop (mccoy dies and kirk breaks his hand on a wall. kirk dies to save mccoy and mccoy breaks his hand on spock's face for not stopping him. spock dies, and he doesn't have to see what happens next, because the day resets. the day keeps resetting. mccoy keeps dying.) (time loops my genuine beloveds)

planet vulcan (*eta - tentatively thinking a sequel to it ends or it doesn't, where they do take their trip to vulcan, both for shore leave AND to pick up ambassador sarek and amanda to bring them to [spoiler for the original fic] for talks - and fyi [spoiler] was RIGHT he IS gonna be [spoiler]*)

hayride (i bet there's a corn maze, too. i bet jim gets hay fever. i bet bones keeps teasing spock about bobbing for apples, and then to his surprise spock actually does it, and mccoy takes one look at spock's damp hair and stretched mouth and throat bobbing as he swallows, and just about dies. kirk is EXTREMELY handsy w/ both of them on the hayride (he's a little drugged up from the meds re: the hayfever). they somehow convince mccoy to get his face painted. there is some sort of game of skill/chance and spock wins them both a small stuffed toy.)

going to a banquet (*eta - actually this has to be tarsus iv related, doesn't it??? yeah.* - actually wait this could maybe be a sequel to 'do you love your neighbor' - i've said before i think a sequel where the crew of the avery gets to be big damn heroes could be fun, and having them at a banquet with mccoy is just......yeah - yeah you get me*)

sun dog (oooof two halos of reflected sunlight on either side of the sun?????? you give this to me???? you give me james t kirk as the sun and his two best friends on either side of him??? mythology, maybe. space mythology. the stories they tell of you when you're dead. the ways you survive. the ways you don't survive but your story does. your love does. the story of your love. it survives.)

caretaking (if i don't find a way to make this h/c with a hurt bones then truly what am i even doing here. taking care of the caretaker. that's the stuff. - *eta actually i might make this that (inherent consent issues, mccoy/everyone, mccoy/spock/kirk) mccoy gets a magical healing cock one tbh. maybe not tho since even tho it ends triumvirate it really is a love letter to bones/everyone. we'll see*)

Here's your updated Mcspirk Bingo Card! Please don't forget to tag the blog in any creations you post. :)

*_*

Thank you again for doing this!

[onlylifeordeath]

PICKING UP THE PIECES

[ This is a brief-ish one-shot following the events of 2.12, as written by me. // tw; blood tw; injuries ]

The train yard went bad in a way that he had not anticipated.

He never would have suspected that Teresa Mendoza would align herself with a street gang. He never would have suspected that she would be able to marshal such firepower on such short notice. He never would have suspected that she would attack them or––more specifically––James as the two had seemed friendly. At least, they did before Chicago.

What’s more, he never would have suspected that she would be able to formulate a plan that could rival James.

Almost.

Charger had never suspected.

But James had.

[ more below the cut ]

Charger had thought it overkill to painstakingly reproduce El Santo’s mark on bags identical to those containing the actual coke. He thought it bordering on the ridiculous to fill them all, bag for bag, with lactose powder. It seemed too much time and effort for an impossible outcome.

‘ Nothing is impossible. Especially when it involves Teresa. She made mistakes, and now she’s desperate. Do you remember what desperate people are capable of? ‘cause I do. ’

He remembers. Of course he does. The things they saw aren’t easily forgotten, if ever they could be. Even years later, he still jolts awake, screaming on the worst nights, waking disoriented, confused by his bed and by the lack of sand and by the quiet.

So, he remembers, but he hadn’t fully grasped exactly how desperate Teresa was or how clever she could be if given reason and opportunity.

But, of course, James knew. He knew and he prepared for it, planned for it as he plans for any foreseeable complication and outcome. The man is, as ever he has been, meticulous.

When the impossible had proved possible after all, it was James’ precautions that prevented disaster. At the end of the night, they were in the clear, both the cash and the coke in their possession and under heavy guard at the secondary location James had selected so that they could prepare for transport to Devon Finch.

With everyone else already returned, the next time the door opens, Charger turns toward it with a smile, ready to congratulate James on his victory, but… all it takes is a glance to know that it wasn’t without a price. The only questions are: how high a price? and had James been prepared to pay it?

His smile fades to an expression of thinly-veiled concern, but he merely watches and waits for James to issue the newest orders, even with his face half-covered in blood. His own, if Charger had to venture a guess.

When the orders are given, he bides his time until at last James retreats to his makeshift office.

Then he makes his approach, first aid kit tucked under one arm.

As he expected, James moves around the small space, gathering what he would require for the next step of the plan. The thought that a first aid kit might be one such necessity either has not yet occurred to him or, more likely, it is being deliberately ignored in favor of more ‘pressing’ matters.

Some things never change.

“James, you’re bleeding,” he states, so matter-of-fact, from his place in the doorway, leaned against the frame.

“Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

There is no sharpness to the retort, none of the irritation that had turned swiftly to anger earlier in the night. There isn’t even the disappointment that had been directed with the lethal precision of a sniper at him after he lost Camila.

No, there is only a familiar emptiness to his voice and to his eyes, a fact Charger notices despite James’ deliberate attempts to avoid meeting his stare. This he has seen too many times from James, and he knows the sorts of triggers that cause it.

He will need to proceed with caution.

“You are,” he affirms, as though he needs to do so.

With his usual nonchalant, even stride, he crosses to the wooden table currently functioning as a desk and he drops the first aid kit on it. Briefly, James’ gaze flicks to the offending bag before he continues his current task.

“I’m busy.”

“Somehow I think this will not stop the blood.”

“It can wait.”

“James.”

There is an edge to his own voice, a note of command that finally gets James to look at him. There are hurricanes raging in those dark eyes now and for a moment Charger thinks he may have a fight on his hands. He mentally prepares himself for the battle that seems will ensue, braces himself to weather James’ wrath for a third time in one night.

Yet… just as quickly as the storm surges… it dissipates and James bows his head and exhales a heavy breathe before he all but slumps into the chair behind him, whatever tension that had been keeping him on his feet abandoning him. Still Charger does not move, not until he sees that almost imperceptible nod.

Then and only then does he step around the desk to take a seat upon it, pulling the med kit to him and flipping open the flap.

As he gathers his materials, he squints and cants his head to one side, trying to get a better look at the damage.

“… What happened?”

“FUCKing Pote happened,” James answers and there’s a petulance with which the words are spoken that might have drawn a laugh from Charger in any other situation. This, however, is not it.

“He tried to blow my head off through a window with a shotgun.”

Charger winces at that, realizing that must be the cause for the scatter pattern of what cuts and scrapes he can discern from the blood. The glass must have exploded with the shot, flying through the air as shrapnel and catching him.

It’s a miracle that the damage hadn’t been worse, or that the shattered pieces were all that had caught him––considering how protective Pote seems to be of Teresa.

Charger watches as stormy eyes once more flash to the ground, his hands clasped, pinching at the skin between thumb and forefinger on the other hand. It’s an old tell. A sign of agitation. A sign that he’s trying to ground himself, to remind himself to breathe, to focus, to center.

He won’t push him.

For the moment, he says nothing as he sets out his supplies exactly as he likes them, ready to be used as he needs them. Next he reaches for the lamp on the other end of the desk, bringing it closer and removing the shade to allow more light.

When he does speak, he remains to the matter at hand, his tone softer now, not wanting to further agitate him.

“Hey. C’mon. Look at me so we can clean this blood off your face, okay?”

It takes a few beats longer than he would like, but finally James raises his head again, though his eyes remain quite decidedly downcast.  [ He can’t hide behind his sunglasses now. ]

Charger adjusts the lamp and then careful yet firm fingers turn his face to better illuminate the wounds.

He lets out a low whistle at the sight before him and clicks his tongue. Pote had not been playing games.

James was fortunate indeed.

“Seems like your cheek got the worst of it, but the glass got your forehead and your neck, too… and… your ear, pero… Creo que es solamente una herida menor… ”

With that, he turns and takes up the cleaning solution and pours it onto a cloth… then he looks at James, expectant.

The fact that it takes as long as it does continues to concern him, as does the fact that when James does look at him––apparently realizing that Charger hadn’t moved to the next step yet––he seems puzzled for a moment before the reason occurs to him.

There’s the slightest wry upturn to a corner of his mouth despite himself, and his right hand moves to grasp the edge of the seat. Charger snorts but at last begins to clean.

Charger focuses on his task, occasionally offering a brief but sincere sorry when he would aggravate one of the scrapes and cause James to wince.

He notices when James starts watching him. Someone would have to be oblivious––he’s convinced––to not notice James looking at them, always with such intensity as though by that alone he might understand them, might read their minds.

He doesn’t ask, however. James will either say something or he won’t.

… but Charger is certainly relieved when he does.

“… I was a mile out of line tonight, Lorenzo,” he begins with a sigh, and Charger—Lorenzo—knows from years of experience that if his face wasn’t currently cut to hell, he’d have dragged his hand over it. As it is, his jaw clenches, and he looks away for a brief moment, and Lorenzo doesn't push for any explanation. He’s moderately certain of the reason for the statement. He can wait patiently for James to get his thoughts together and to continue at his own pace.

“… There was nothing else you could have done about Camila…” he says with a single shake of his head and a frown as he looks to him once more. “There were too many of them. If you had interfered, the only difference to the outcome is that you’d have gotten yourself killed. You made the right call, and I was wrong.”

“Es been a rough day, hermano. A rough few days,” Lorenzo answers with a shrug and that’s that. So far as he is concerned, there is nothing to forgive, and there’s nothing more to say about it.

Another matter, however………

He considers, debates, tries to decide whether or not to give voice to what he suspected from the moment James entered the building.

“……… Did you see her?”

The effect of the question is immediate.

His jaw clenches once more and his shoulders tense, expression hardening. Not certain that he’ll receive an answer—or that he’ll like it even if he does—he applies a sizable bandage to James’ cheek and then he stands and begins to clean up the mess.

“… She was there,” James admits at last, and there’s that sharpness again.

“… An’ you talked to her? Wha’ did she say?”

“She wanted me to betray Camila. To throw away my reputation and everything I helped to build.”

“An’ she thought that you would?” Lorenzo questions in disbelief, eyebrows rising. “Wha’ did she try to offer you?”

There’s a sneer at that and James releases the edge of the chair so that he can cross his arms over his chest instead, a spectacular scowl on his face.

“She goes from smuggling cocaine to an airport to thinking she has some revolutionary, new ideas for how to run the cocaine industry, and she thought that I would betray Camila to work for her.”

“¿de veras?”

“Yeah. Really.”

“An’ that’s all she said? I mean, Camila no es perfecta, pero, she just said ‘betray Camila an’ come work for me because I know better’?”

His question is met by a heavy silence, and that is Lorenzo’s answer that, no, that had not been all that she said, but as the quiet stretches, it becomes clear to him that James is not inclined to share whatever else had been discussed.

He redirects.

“Pues… Anyway. What’s next?”

“… We follow through on the deal with Devon and get El Santo paid while we chase down leads on Camila.”

Once more, Lorenzo hesitates before he speaks, uncertain if he should poke at this particular sore spot again, but he can’t seem to stop himself. The interaction hadn’t rattled James for no reason, and having to do this to her didn’t leave him hollowed out because he hates her and doesn’t care what happens.

Lorenzo just wants to verify that he’s thought this through to its likely conclusion, as he would any other scenario, that his anger—and whatever else might be swirling beneath the surface—isn’t blinding him to potential consequences.

“…… And Teresa?”

“What about her?”

“Well, we have the cash and the coke, so… what if she tries to take her shipment to Devon?”

He watches as James huffs a laugh and shakes his head, almost baring his teeth in his agitation.

“Regardless of how much she thinks she wants to be in this game, she won’t take lactose powder to Devon. Even she wouldn’t make that kind of gamble. She knows what he’s capable of. It would be suicide.”

It’s a reasonable enough answer, and Lorenzo can almost let it go.

Almost.

“… An’ you’re sure she’ll test it?”

That… that gives James pause, and it’s evident when that line appears between his eyebrows and his arms uncross… if only that he can clasp his hands, trying to appear relaxed.

He’s pinching at his hand again.

“… Of course she will,” he says at last, but there’s a bluster to it that makes Lorenzo wonder who he’s telling.

“She may not be cut out for the business, but she’s smart. And she’s observant. How many times has she seen us test the product? Every shipment, right?”

“That’s right.”

Lorenzo’s agreement does not smooth those lines from his brother’s face. Now that the doubt is there, it seems determined to remain.

“……… She knows better. She’ll check it.”

But what if she doesn’t?

Another sound that’s just a little too sharp to be a laugh follows.

“She's probably already figured out that it’s fake.”

She has Pote with her. Pote will make sure she checks it.

“She and Pote will be pissed, but they’ll regroup.”

But what if she doesn’t check it?

“And if she is serious, then she’s already planning her next move, trying to find the next pawn in her game. She’ll be fine. She always is.”

[snackhobi]

pairing: jimin x reader / word count: 9.1k / genre: smut (NSFW, 18+)

summary: you wouldn’t mind your cute neighbour being such a shameless fuckboy if a) the walls weren’t so thin and b) he didn’t seem intent on adding you as another notch in his bedpost. 

but there’s only so much you can resist park jimin, especially once he gets that peach involved.

warnings: sexually explicit content, Jimin being completely shameless/a lowkey ho, messy peach eating, mentions of masturbation, oral sex (m + f receiving), overstimulation, protected sex, multiple orgasms (f), dirty talk and some cursing, hmm I think that’s it?

a/n: I was so close to calling this ‘jimin and the f*cking peach’ as some terrible homage to ‘james and the giant peach’ 😂🤧 as always I would like to thank @hobi-gif for beta reading this, putting up with me having a meltdown at her, and encouraging me to write smut at work rather than doing my job, ty queen xoxo

--

It’s official. Park Jimin is the neighbour from hell.

He’d tricked you, to start with. With those cherubic features, those doe eyes, and his cute little smile? He looks like an angel. A sweet, innocent angel, one who’d knocked shyly on your door and presented you with a small selection of chocolates when he’d moved into the apartment next to yours. Your heart had gone boom boom at the sight of that cute smile, the slip of teeth, the way his lovely face had scrunched up. 

Nowadays, whenever you see that face, you want to punch it.

Well. Not punch it. Maybe slap it a little. Because Park Jimin is a fiend. 

Your studio apartment is cheap for many reasons. The plumbing is creaky and the heating isn’t exactly great but those are small sacrifices for such low rent—ones you’re willing to make. Creaking doesn’t bother you and throw blankets exist for a reason, right? You get a balcony and a parking spot, which is more than you can say for a lot of other places in this price range, so you’ll take the negatives for these positives.

But you’d give up all the things you love about this cheap flat for some sound proofing.

Because Park Jimin fucks. 

A lot. 

He’d been nothing but lovely for the first few weeks. You’d barely been aware of his existence, minus when you could hear him in the bathroom—your flats are mirrored, rooms sharing walls, so you’d been washing your face when you’d heard his shower start up and then the sound of his dulcet tones drifting through the wall. That had actually been really nice; Jimin can hit some high notes, and it had been a pleasant backdrop as you’d cleansed your face. It had been another bullet point you’d added to the list of things you thought were cute about him (along with his face, his laugh, his smile), and you’d stupidly started to develop a tiny little crush on this boy-next-door, thinking him some soft, kind thing.

But then he’d started to have people over.

You’ve lost count of how many days you’ve had to listen to the moans and gasps that echo through your walls. You can’t escape from it. As a freelance programmer, you’re pretty much always working from home, so it’s not like you can get away from the sounds of pleasure that shudder through Jimin’s flat and into your own.

It’s never consistent, either. There’s not a single hour of the day that’s off limits to Park Jimin. Morning, afternoon, night; the boy is always ready to go, apparently. And judging from the sounds through the walls? He never leaves anyone unsatisfied either.

Which, like, fine. People fuck. You get it. You’re not judging. You just wish it wasn’t so loud. You have to sleep, for God’s sake. But it’s not like you can knock on a new neighbour’s door and be like hey, I appreciate you have an incredibly active sex life, but can you keep it down, please?

So you’d bit your tongue. You’d gritted your teeth to bear it. You’d still smile at Jimin if you ever passed in the hallway, acknowledged him with a small nod, exchanged pleasantries, all the neighbourly stuff that you’d do with anyone. You’d just invested in some good earplugs and thought that was it.

And then Jimin had started doing his morning yoga routine outside. 

You start each day with a cup of tea on your balcony, watering your hydrangeas and enjoying the dawn sun that lifts up over the horizon alongside your plants. It’s a small, singular moment of quiet in an otherwise dull day and you treasure that serenity.

Well. Treasured. Past tense. Because Jimin has invaded this part of your life, too.

The first time Jimin had unrolled his yoga mat on the balcony adjacent to yours, he’d been dressed in a deceptively unassuming outfit—a loose white t-shirt and leggings that hugged every inch of his calves and thighs and shapely ass, which you had pointedly Not Looked At. He’d tilted his head at you with a smug little smile flickering at the edge of his lips, and when he’d greeted you good morning, you’d responded in turn, even if you were still annoyed at how he’d interrupted your afternoon nap the day before with the sound of his headboard smacking into the wall repeatedly. You were still fairly new neighbours and you still felt like you had to be polite, even if he was starting to fray your nerves.

And then he’d started to bend. 

Now, you’ll be the first to admit that you don’t know much about yoga. But you’d swear Jimin was choosing poses that did the utmost to display his flexibility, the flex of his muscles and twist of his limbs, balancing his body on his arms before easing into a pose that had him bent in two, head towards his toes—and with how he had his back to you this meant you got full glimpse of his ass, straining against his leggings, the way his loose shirt slipped up his body to reveal the lines of his stomach and chest, how his face was still twisted into that little smirk even if it was upside down.

Staring at you.

You’d promptly stopped watering your hydrangeas and walked inside your flat, shutting the sliding door behind you.

Jimin is relentless.

He’s pretty and he knows it. All that shy, new-kid-on-the-block innocence he’d had initially is completely gone, and all he does is flirt, flirt, flirt. He winks at you. Stands a little too close whenever you talk. Lets his eyes flicker down to your lips, trail over every inch of you, lashes fluttering when he catches you watching, unashamed and unabashed. He frequently just… hangs around on his balcony. Not topless, no, but he may as well be, his thotty muscle tees doing nothing to hide him from your eyes.

(The worst thing, though, is when you catch him unawares. When he’s tired and clearly not expecting you to be awake, too, his eyes sleepy and his hair ruffled; a little vulnerable, a lot softer than he usually presents himself. Curled up on the small seat on his balcony with a hot drink in his hand, phone in the other, his screen throwing blue-tinted light over the easing lines of his features.

You wish Jimin was like that all the time. But the second he sees you, his eyes flicker, and his brows lift, and his mouth curls, and once again you rue the day you had a fuckboy move in next door to you.)

It’s not that Jimin isn’t hot. It’s not that you wouldn’t fuck him, either. But you have no interest in being some sort of convenient hook-up for him, purely there by circumstance, fate, whatever you want to call it. You dread to think of him sending you haha wyd x texts whenever he feels like having sex and you just happen to be nearby. So you weather all of his obvious come-ons and swerve him something chronic, even if he seems intent on making his attraction to you obvious.

You’ve been managing it for months. But as time goes on, your patience wears thinner and thinner, an atom-thick layer of fortitude the only thing keeping you from grabbing Park Jimin and kissing him and/or killing him. It doesn’t help that you haven’t fucked for a while now, and you’re reminded of this every time you hear another pornstar moan through the wall (the people Jimin brings home seem to like hamming it up for effect), every time you see another mosaic of hickeys laid across the column of Jimin’s gorgeous throat, every time you see the way his yoga outfits do nothing to protect the delicious shape of his body from your eyes.

You dig your fingers into your palms. It’s fine. It’s okay. You can handle Park Jimin and his overt sexual energy, oozing out of him almost every second of every day.

It’s a little harder to handle how he still seems sweet despite his fuckboy nature. How he picks your parcels up for you. How he lets you use his laundry detergent when you run out. How he lets you keep food in his fridge when yours breaks down and you have to wait for a replacement. How he sheds that fuckboy facade whenever it seems like you genuinely need help, how you’ve heard his soft phone calls through the wall, to his friends, his family, sweet and kind and supportive.

Park Jimin is a multi-dimensional being, for sure, and maybe you sometimes wish he was actually genuinely interested in you as a person and not as a lay, so you could peel back those layers to the lovely core at the centre of his being.

But it’s fine. You can handle this stupid yearning and pining. You can handle the knowledge that Park Jimin is a genuine gentleman who just happens to like fucking, is open in his desire for it, and is apparently Very Good at it. It’s difficult, but you can do it.

You can do it.

The date you set up with someone from Tinder ends up being disappointing and lacklustre. You’d escaped before dessert, unable to put up with one more second of this asshole going on and on about stocks, and investments, and trading, or whatever, cursing the day you’d decided to swipe on him. You’re so sick of your luck (or lack thereof) with guys. (At least the food had been nice.)

Of course Jimin sees you schlepping your way back into your apartment, disappointment obvious in the line of your shoulders and lips; it doesn’t take a genius to clock your date outfit, cute as it is, makeup and hair soft. But the night has barely begun and here you are, stepping back into your flat. Alone. 

“Bad date?” Jimin asks, voice gentle, and you just snort.

“Just like the rest of them,” you reply with a small sigh, before shutting your door quietly behind you, missing the look on your neighbour’s face.

Jimin, to his credit, eases off after this. You’re not sure if it’s due to a misplaced sense of pity or something, but even if he still smiles and flirts lightly with you, it’s less… salacious. Still there, still obvious, just a little softer. You hate how this has you feeling grateful towards him, because he’s still got so many fuckboy tendencies that it should outweigh this gentler side of his flirtation, but your traitorous heart still goes gooey every time Jimin smiles at you.

But then. 

But then.

There’s that fucking peach.

You’re just chilling on your balcony, sipping at a glass of lemonade in the warmth of the afternoon when you hear Jimin’s door sliding open. You flick your eyes over at the sound, watching the way Jimin slips out onto his own balcony, how he throws something up in the air and catches it with ease, a flick of the wrist, a curl of the fingers each time he catches it again.

He hasn’t had any fuckbuddies over for a while. A few weeks, almost a month. It’s the longest Jimin’s gone without having sex for as long as he’s started having people over and you’d been sort of concerned. Which, yeah, you know it sounds super weird when you think about it, especially considering how much you complain about Jimin to your friends—help, my fuckboy neighbour hasn’t fucked anyone in nearly a month so I’m worried if his dick has fallen off or something.

(Well, actually, you know his dick is still attached, based off the little gasps and moans he lets out whenever he pleasures himself in lieu of fucking someone else. You’ll take this secret to the grave but those noises that Jimin lets out have been the melody you use to reach your own peaks, although you’re a lot quieter than he is whenever you touch yourself, biting your lip and muffling the wet sounds of your fingers thrusting into your cunt under layers of blankets. You’d never give Jimin the satisfaction of knowing that the mental image of him fucking into his fist and cumming over his stomach and chest is what throws you over your own edge, toe-curling orgasms that shake through your body in time with Jimin’s own.)

Anyway. He looks loose limbed and relaxed when he saunters into view, utterly unsurprised by your presence behind your window box of hydrangeas, giving you his usual, sultry smile. 

He’s started to ramp up his flirtations again. This smirk is one which you’ve learned not to respond to. You just stare levelly back at him, unimpressed as you start to water your flowers, which does nothing to dissuade him. It never does. He clearly revels in the challenge.

Jimin keeps his eyes locked with yours as he lifts his hand to his lips. You catch a glimpse of what he was throwing and catching—a ripe, flush peach, tiny droplets of water shimmering on its fuzz, freshly washed.

And then he starts to eat it.

The peach yields immediately to the press of his teeth. Juice bursts out of its softness, running down his lips, his chin; he makes no moves to wipe it away, the lewd sound of his slurps as he curls his tongue into the fruit, messy and sweet.

It’s shameless. He’s shameless. His gaze is unwavering as he stares at you, his mouth glistening with the peach’s juices, the only sound the wet smack of his lips and tongue as he licks up the honeyed liquid that drips from his skin, curving around the fruit as he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing.

Water’s been trickling from your small can onto the hydrangeas, cascading over the plants; the soil is waterlogged now, but you haven’t noticed, fixated on the way Jimin is looking at you as he wantonly eats out this peach.

Drip drip, goes the watering can.

Drip drip, goes the peach.

By the time there’s nothing more than the pit in his hand, Jimin is a mess. His fingers and mouth and chin shine with peach juice, eyes dark and heavy as he watches the way you drink the sight of him in, the way his tongue slowly drags over his full lips, catching the sweetness that lingers.

The second he puts his tongue to his fingers to get the stickiness on them, that’s it. You watch the way he sucks his fingers into his mouth and promptly put the watering can down and turn on your heel to walk inside, slamming the balcony door shut behind you.

You’re done. You’re only human. You’ve spent months with Jimin parading himself in front of you, seen the way he contorts his body every morning in an unnecessarily complex sun salutation, listened to the way his voice rises when he cums; the peach is the metaphorical cherry on top, and you’re just. Over. It. 

You hammer your palms against your neighbour's door, rap-rap-rapping on the wood, your blood rising and your heart thudding in your chest, every part of you tense, wound up, pent up. The door swings open to reveal Jimin, his chin still slick with sweet peach, lips curling up in a self-satisfied smile when he sees you.

“Park Jimin.” Your voice shakes and you hate yourself for it, hate the way Jimin’s eyes glitter at the sound, the little hitch in your breath. “You are a fucking menace, you know that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says. He leans against the doorframe, effortlessly gorgeous, hip cocked, head tilted. He lifts his hand, and there’s a heavy moment of tension as you watch him slowly swipe a thumb over the last remnant of juice on his chin, before his tongue lolls out of his mouth and he licks the final taste of peach from his fingers.

When you grab hold of his collar his expression shifts from something coy into something far more self satisfied, months of his brazen come-ons finally culminating in this—you, shoving him backwards into his apartment, kicking the door shut behind you.

“I swear,” you say. “I swear to God—”

“You swear? I can think of better things you could be doing with your mouth,” Jimin says, and then laughs when you scowl at him. “Damn, you’re so hot when you’re mad.”

“You are infuriating,” you bite out, and Jimin just laughs again, his whole body shaking, every part of him still loose and relaxed even as you continue to tighten your grip on his clothing, feeling every motion of his body under your hands. You hate how pretty he is, even now, utterly unafraid of your frustration—the brightness of his eyes and his smile, that undercurrent to it all, the way his hands slide so smoothly around your waist, your hips, sliding down to grope at your ass.

“I know,” he agrees, still giggling, and then he kisses you.

Jimin dives straight in, no holds barred, and you immediately melt into putty under his touch. He lets out a hum of satisfaction into your mouth as your hands go lax and slide down his chest. You can still taste the peach on his lips, his tongue, licking into his mouth.

You’ve thought about this mouth more times than you’d like to admit: the full swell of his lips, the little curve of his cupid’s bow, how it’d feel pressed against your own, and honestly? It’s so much better than you’d let yourself imagine it to be.

He nips at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue, and you bite off a gasp when he pulls you forward, grinding against you. You shudder. Jimin’s mouth is a pleased curve against your own before he pulls away, murmuring in your ear in a voice that’s equal parts sultry and sweet.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing the sensitive skin of your jaw just under your earlobe, making you shiver. “Just relax. You’re always so tense.”

“Maybe that’s because my neighbour keeps me up all night,” you say, but your voice is weak, no strength behind your words, breath stolen out of you at the way Jimin starts to trail his lips down your neck, across your throat. “I find that constantly getting my sleep interrupted—oh, oh—”

Jimin sucks at the hollow of your neck, the delicate skin there so sensitive to his touch, the warmth of his lips magnified, every nerve ending alight with pleasure. Your hands have slid into his hair and you unintentionally tighten your grasp, fingers tugging at his dark locks, and Jimin bares his teeth against your skin.

It’s maybe a little embarrassing how wet you are just from a little making out. But after months of Jimin teasing you and putting you on edge, coupled with how long it’s been since you've had sex? You’re allowed to be a little desperate. All the small frustrations you were about to voice die on your tongue, slipping away from you as Jimin starts to walk you backwards with a confidence that shows just how often he’s done this—leading people to his bed, never taking his hands off you.

By the time Jimin eases you to lie down, you feel breathless. He hovers above you with that satisfied smile flickering at the edge of his lips, taking in the sight of you, finally underneath him—lips kiss swollen, exquisite, all the sharp words on your tongue softened and gone, goosebumps trailing down your skin. You tug at his collar, which catches him off guard; he sways forward and almost hits his face against yours, but before he can spend too long looking smug at your desperation you capture his lips again. You melt into the mattress, hooking a foot over his calf and revelling in the weight of him between your legs, your hips flush, and how hard he’s getting through those stupidly tight leggings of his.

When he grinds against you, the outline of his cock pressed up against your cunt, an embarrassing whine leaves your lips and trembles against Jimin’s own. Jimin goes still before pulling away from the open-mouthed kiss and when you see the expression on his face you slap a hand over your mouth, burning with shame.

“Oh.” He sounds delighted. “You’re noisy, huh?”

“Shut up,” you say, though your words are muffled against your palm. He grinds down again, a slow and deep roll of his hips that lets you feel how hard he is, and a noise shudders out the back of your throat, audible around your hand.

“It’s hot.” There’s that little smirk on Jimin’s lovely lips, every inch of him dripping self confidence. He knows how you’re entirely at his mercy, in spite of your words; your voice is weak. “You’re normally so quiet.”

“Some of us try to be considerate and think about our neighbours.”

Jimin just smiles, pulling your hand away from your mouth before gently kissing your palm, a motion that’s surprisingly tender and makes you pause. 

“Trust me.” His voice is low. “I do think about my neighbour.”

Your breath hitches when he slides his free hand under your shirt, trailing his fingers over the softness of your stomach. He pulls the fabric up, letting his gaze rove over the bared skin. The way Jimin looks at you makes you feel like you’re the only woman in the world, like he’s never seen anyone prettier.

You wonder if he looks at his other fuckbuddies like this.

The thought slides away from you as Jimin dips his head and starts to kiss your throat again. You tilt your head back as his lips trail across the soft skin, his hands coming to rest under your breasts, contained as they are by your bra; once he coaxes you to sit up, it only takes him a few moments to strip your upper body, kneeling between your spread legs as he starts to trail his hands over the parts of you that are now bared to him.

“Pretty,” he says. You’d roll your eyes if he didn’t sound so reverent, and also if you weren’t distracted by the way he flicks his thumbs over your hardening nipples, your core clenching as he does, biting your lip to stop yourself from making a sound. A frown flits across Jimin’s face and he lifts one of those thumbs away from your breast, dragging your lip away from your teeth, letting his grasp linger so your lips are parted. ���Don’t do that. I've been waiting for months to hear you properly.”

Before you can reply, he kisses you again, licking into your mouth and swallowing down the noise you make when he drags his hand between the valley of your breasts, down your stomach and settling between your legs, running his fingers over your cunt, the feeling dulled by layers of fabric even though he presses with intent. Your hips jolt at the sensation, and Jimin repeats the motion, dragging the fabric across your flushed lips.

“Jimin.” Your voice is a gasp against his mouth, and you can’t keep the pleading out of your tone, desperation bleeding into every letter of your words. “Please.”

He just hums, sounding pleased, and a breath of surprise escapes you as he pushes you back against the pillows. He wastes no time in getting to his prize, drawing a scattered constellation of kisses that trail across your chest, your nipples, your stomach, the line of your hip bones as you lift up so he can pull your shorts and underwear off. You’re entirely naked underneath him, bare and wet, cunt flushed and shining, and Jimin groans at the sight.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, fingers digging into your thighs as he pulls your legs wider. Your cheeks burn as Jimin stares at your pussy, but you can’t help but feel a pulse of self-satisfaction at the visible twitch of his cock in his stupid yoga leggings. “You’re so wet.”

You should probably feel embarrassed, but by now you’ve thrown all your previous inhibition to the winds. You’ve ended up somewhere you’d privately sworn you were never going to—in Park Jimin’s bed, leaned up against his pillows, laid out for him to touch and take and have, every inch of you desperate for it. There’s nothing in your brain or body but arousal and need. So instead of letting out a snip of a remark you just cant your hips towards him, another pleading sound slipping from your lips.

He gives you what you want. He dips his head and trails his lips and tongue down, down, down, wet and hot, until they press against your cunt. He looks at you with the same hooded eyes as earlier, motions of his mouth an echo of his peach eating, sloppy and messy; he’s unabashed in the way he slides his mouth over you, lips slick and tongue hot, sliding over every sensitive inch—sucking your clit, licking your folds, burying his face between your legs and drinking up every sweet drip of your juices. 

You can’t help but make noise. Small gasps that slide into moans of pleasure, hitches in your breath that make your chest jump and your breasts shake; Jimin lets out noises too, muffled against your cunt, sounds that let you know he’s enjoying himself almost as much as you. It’s honestly pretty fucking hot, the way your own pleasure seems to turn him on, how he chases that feeling, eyes blown as he takes in every one of your reactions, repeating the motions that are affecting you the most.

The sight of him between your legs has you tensing. He continues to stare up at you, the curve of your stomach when you bow towards him, the fall of your breasts, which he slides his hands over, cupping them in his palms, pinching your hardened buds, layering sensation on sensation, never taking his mouth off you.

When he presses one finger inside, and then another, both thrusting firm and deep as he mouths at your clit, you tangle a hand into his hair. He watches the way your hips jump from the sensation of his tongue directly on your clit, and does it again, and again, your voice crescendoing from the explosion of sensation, how it’s too much, before he circles his lips around it and sucks messily. Your brain registering nothing but his lips and tongue against you, the hands that are trailing up and down your sides and still skimming across your breasts.

You’re not even aware of the words that are falling from your lips, oh fuck, yes, Jimin, there, oh, the way your grasp tightens in his dark hair, your hips bucking against his mouth as you can feel your orgasm approaching. The pleasure keeps building, flames fanning brighter and brighter as Jimin buries his mouth even further in between your legs, fingers speeding up as you gasp.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” you chant, voice getting higher. “I’m gonna cum, I’m cumming, oh—”

Your words slide into a moan as your back arches and your thighs tighten around Jimin’s head and you cum. Jimin continues to finger fuck you through it, your cunt pulsating around him as he keeps licking and sucking at your clit, his gaze fixed on your face as your eyes squeeze shut and your mouth falls open and every line of your body sings of the pleasure that Jimin has given to you. Even when your legs and hips start to jolt from oversensitivity and you cry out at each ripple of his tongue against you, he’s relentless, almost cruel in how he watches you writhe from a mixture of pain and overextended pleasure.

You're sobbing by the time Jimin pulls his mouth away from your cunt, tears pooling in the corner of your eyes, body shaking as you try to suck in air. He thrusts his fingers into you one more time, slow and deep, watching the way you turn your head into the pillow and muffle a gasp against it. 

“I knew you'd look and sound gorgeous when you cum,” he says, and though you feel boneless from your post-orgasm high, you can’t help a little huff escaping your lips. Jimin clearly catches the sound, quiet as it is against the linen of his pillowcase, and takes your chin in his hand to turn his face towards you. His fingers are slick with your arousal, wet against your skin.

“You sound like you’re reading off the script to a porno,” you murmur.

One of his eyebrows arches. “Oh? You don’t think I’m just speaking my mind?” Those fingers move away from your chin and trace over the swell of your bottom lip; you let your mouth fall open and swallow them down, licking the taste of yourself off Jimin’s skin. “You don’t think that I’ve been thinking about how pretty you’d look as I fucked into you, begging for me to let you cum again and again?”

Your tongue stutters against his fingers and your core clenches at his words, the dark undercurrent underneath them, and Jimin’s expression shifts as he notices.

“You really have no idea, do you?” He runs his fingertips over your tastebuds, saliva starting to pool in your mouth, the slide so wet and messy. “Who do you think I picture whenever I touch myself? Who do you think I was wishing was in my bed every time I took someone else home?”

You nip at his fingers, running the edge of your teeth along his knuckles from equal parts surprise and disbelief at his words. You find it impossible to believe that he really means that, but then you realise—recently, on the few occasions you’d bumped into Jimin in the hall when he’d had one of his lays trailing behind him, for as different and unique each of them was, each one of them had shared some sort of trait with you. Hair colour, eyes, the set of their lips, the shape of their face; once, you’d heard a girl giggling through the wall before it had trailed off into a moan, and you’d done a literal double take at how much she’d sounded like you. Similar, but not exactly the same, a slightly off-tone echo of the sound that spills from your own lips whenever you laugh.

And the emptiness in his bed had only started after the night that he’d seen the way you’d trailed into your apartment with discontent heavy around your shoulders, disappointed at that awful Tinder date.

Oh, fuck.

“You’re shameless,” you say, words a little garbled around Jimin’s fingers, but you know he understands.

“No, I’m not,” he replies, a small smirk curling up the corner of his lips. It should be illegal: the way he has such soft features that can turn so quickly into something sharper and entirely sensual, eyes hooded, lips flushed, the column of his throat so lovely and graceful as he tilts his head to one side. “I just know what I want and don’t try to hide it. What’s shameless about that? I know you want me too, but you always deny yourself the things you want. Don’t you?”

You hate that you’ve been so transparent in your attraction to him. Because the truth of the matter is that for as much as Jimin frustrates you with his entire existence, you do want him. After all—you wouldn’t be naked underneath him, still trembling from the aftershocks of a deep orgasm, if you didn’t.

“You’re not always as quiet as you think, you know,” he adds, pulling his fingers out of your mouth and enjoying the way your eyes widen at his words. You thought he couldn’t hear you through the wall, but it seems like you were wrong.

Before you can say anything in reply, though, he grinds down. Without your clothes in the way you can feel the drag of his yoga pants against your cunt, how the wetness of your cum and Jimin’s spit soaks into the fabric, his hard cock hot, and you let out a whine. He still has yet to remove any of his clothes and you want to  see them off so he’s finally naked. You’ve seen enough of his bare skin over the months to have a pretty good idea of what that looks like, but you want to see the real thing.

Jimin seems just as eager to shed his clothes, yielding to your grasping hands and carelessly throwing his top aside; you end up straddling his waist and kissing down his chest in an imitation of his motions earlier, letting your fingers trail over the lean muscle from his yoga and dance. When you tongue at one of his nipples and he gasps, you feel euphoric. He’s unfairly beautiful, from the lovely collarbones to the flex of his shoulders and arms and the line of his chest and stomach, delicate and somehow entirely masculine. You still sort of want to slap him, but settle with kissing the hollow of his neck instead, digging your fingers into his ribs as you roll your hips down against him.

His own hips buck up. You can tell that he’s desperate to be inside you, but you want to taste him first. 

When you slide down his body and settle between his legs, you hook your fingers into the tight waistband of those stupid leggings and tug them down. Jimin hisses through his teeth as you let the material settle just under his hips, baring the top of his briefs to you, how his cock strains against them, the patch of wetness at the head, darkening the fabric.

You don’t strip him. Not completely. You just hook your fingers into those dark blue briefs and pull them down just enough to reveal the flushed head of his cock, wet with precum. You let your tongue flick out to catch that salty bitterness, and Jimin bites off a curse at the almost shy licks you start to lave across his slit, circling around the weeping head.

Hearing Jimin’s gasps without the wall in the way is honestly an experience. Before, whenever he had people over, they usually drowned him out, theatrical wails and groans overpowering his far more natural noises, but now there’s nothing to prevent you from hearing the way his breath hitches in his throat or the way he moans. Even the smallest things have him letting slip sounds, a noise escaping him as you coax him to lift his hips so you can finally, finally peel those leggings and briefs off, dragging over the hardness of his cock as you do. You want to take in the sight of him fully naked, give it the proper attention it deserves, but then you feel his cock throb in your hand and you can’t stop yourself from immediately lowering your mouth to it again.

His whole body shudders. You let your jaw fall open as you take him in, tongue curling around him, hands touching every part of him that isn’t in your mouth, making sure there’s no part of  him that isn’t receiving attention. His eyes are wide under the mess of his fringe, hair falling over his forehead as he watches the way you run your lips down the side of his cock before sucking one of his balls into your mouth, circling his length with your hands, a twisting rise and fall in the motion as you drink down the noise of surprised pleasure that drops from his lips.

Jimin’s fingers have been tangled in your hair but he lets you control the flow. The sounds of you swallowing him down into your mouth as you bob your head are obscene, wet and messy, but you can still hear how his voice starts to rise, how his fingers tighten against your scalp, and you know he’s close when he tugs you upwards and drags your lips away from his cock. 

Jimin pulls you towards him and you settle against his chest as you start to kiss again, shivering at the way he rolls his tongue in your mouth. This time when Jimin rolls his hips, there’s nothing between your skin and his, dragging the underside of his cock across your flushed lower lips, the slide between your folds and against your clit making you shiver.

“Condoms?” 

You’re breathless, and Jimin quirks a smile at you.

“Top drawer,” he answers. Of course they would be, in easy reach whenever he needs them. 

You lean forwards to reach for the bedside table and Jimin takes the opportunity to circle a hand around your breast and capture a nipple in his mouth, ignoring the way you bite back a surprised noise, staring up at you with almost innocent eyes as he sucks at your skin in the way he’s worked out that you like best. Your hands are a fumble as you pull a condom out of the pack, ripping the sachet away from the others, a bottle of lube rolling into your grasp. You try to focus on your task and not the sensation of Jimin switching attention to your other breast, cupping the swell of flesh in his hand and drawing his teeth gently across your skin.

“You’re insatiable,” you mutter, and Jimin laughs before he kisses between your breasts. 

“I’ve been wanting to fuck you since we first met,” he says, utterly unrepentant. “I don't want to take my mouth off you.”

“Insatiable,” you repeat, but you’re flustered. Even if you know he’s not lying, and you’re naked and straddling his hips, the taste of his lips and cock now familiar on your tongue, it’s… kind of incredible to think that the gorgeous Park Jimin has been lusting after you for that long. 

Or lusting after you at all, really.

But as you tear the foil of the condom, the look he levels at you is burning with desire, roaming over you, every inch of your nakedness, every movement of your body. His hands rest at your waist, thumbs rubbing over your skin as you hold his cock in one hand and roll the condom down with the other, letting your fingers circle his length, dragging your touch over the heat of him and revelling in the way he twitches. As much as you’ve thought of Jimin as a fuckboy, you know that he wouldn’t lie just to get someone in his bed, so as unbelievable as his words are, every single one of his actions backs up what he’s said: he wants you.

You don't notice how soft his gaze is as you take time to warm the lube in your hands, even though you’re desperate to feel him finally slide home. You've always been so considerate, even when he knows you've been frustrated at him, and that's evident now, in this small thing.

You spread the warmed lube over his covered cock, pumping it in your hand to get him slick and ready, loving the way he hisses though his teeth. He has to stop his hips from bucking up as you line his cockhead up with your entrance, his fingers digging into your sides as you hover in place.

“Come on,” Jimin urges. “Give it to me.”

“Insatiable,” you repeat, one last time, then you bend your knees.

You finally ease yourself down and onto his cock. You both let out moans; Jimin, finally feeling the wet heat of you around him, and you, falling into the sensation of him stretching you open, snug inside you, slowly splitting you open as you take him in, inch by inch, until you’re sitting on his hips and he’s fully buried in your cunt.

It’s been a while since you’ve had someone inside you. You grind downwards, rolling your hips, biting your lip at the sensation. Jimin’s chest expands as he sucks in a sharp breath, and you roll your hips again, a hand bracing on one of his lovely, thick thighs, the other resting just under his stomach as you lean back and arch your spine. You lift your hips, easy and slow, and then fall, Jimin’s cock dragging and pressing against your inner walls, a gasp shuddering out of your lips at the electric feeling.

Again and again, noises of pleasure drip from your mouth as you ride him, head tilting back at the sensations rippling through your body and across your skin, the apartment full of the sounds of your sex—the moans, the wet thrust of Jimin’s cock into your cunt, the praise that falls from his lips, months of feeling pouring from his lips. How pretty you are, how gorgeous, how well you’re taking his cock, how wet and tight you are around him; all the things he’s been thinking about, come to life, his hips snapping into yours as a sharp cry cuts through your lips at the sudden change of pace.

The pleasure’s been steadily building between your legs again, warm and unrushed, but then Jimin flips you without warning, fluid and graceful. Your eyes are wide as you end up on your back, Jimin’s hands braced either side of your head as he looks down at you with those dark, dark eyes of his. He thrusts forwards and your hands fly up to grab at him, your entire body shifting up the mattress at the force of his movements. His eyebrows are drawn together as he starts to drive himself into you, unapologetic in how aggressive he’s being, each thrust pushing the air out of your lungs in harried little gasps that shake the air between you.

The sound of his headboard slamming into the wall, a noise that’s been haunting you each time you’ve been trying to sleep or relax, is one you don’t even register. All you can think about is Jimin, Jimin, Jimin, caught up in the way there’s sweat beading across his forehead, strands of his dark hair sticking to it, the intense look in his eyes, the way his full lips are parted, small ah-ah-ahs falling from his lips in time with his thrusts, your body tightening around him each time he slides home.

You can’t remember the last time you were fucked this good. Jimin reads the language of your body with ease, knowing exactly when to lean back and trail a hand over your hips, circling his thumb over your swollen clit, the slide over that bundle of nerves messy from the mix of cum and lube and spit that’s laid slick across you. Each fluid roll of his hips is perfectly timed with the press of his thumb, your thighs going tense and your pussy clenching around Jimin’s hot cock as you start to reach another peak of pleasure.

“Cum for me, baby.” Jimin sounds breathless. “Let me see how pretty you are when you cum around my cock.”

Normally dirty talk seems so ham-handed and stuttering, but the words fall out of Jimin’s lips  as natural as breathing, thoughtless. Stirring your arousal even further. He’s gripping your hips, pulling you down each time he presses up, and you circle your fingers around his wrist as his other hand is occupied with rubbing at your most sensitive part, tightening your hold as you feel another orgasm approaching.

“Jimin.” Your voice is a keen. “I'm so close, please, there, right there, theretherethere—”

You can't blame Jimin's other partners for being so noisy. The sound you let out is just as loud, maybe even louder, Jimin continuing to snap his hip forwards as you cum hard, a drawn out moan that crescendos as you pulsate around Jimin's cock, still hard inside you. He watches the way you writhe beneath him, tangling his fingers with yours when you reach for him and swallowing the end of your moan in a surprisingly sweet kiss, his lips gentle against yours as he slows to a stop before you become too sensitive.

Your voice is a quiet murmur against his lips. “How have you not cum yet?”

His eyes squeeze into a smile as he laughs, light and bright, the sound so sweet. “I've got stamina for days, darling,” he says, oozing that trademark arrogance you’ve gotten used to.

You clench as hard as you can around him and feel smug when he bites off a shocked curse, his smug facade broken. You can’t help but laugh at his expression, scandalised at it is, though your giggle cuts into a gasp when he pinches one of your nipples and then soothes it with his thumb. He seems amused by the look on your face and then laughs in turn, the two of you dissolving into laughter that’s edged with pleasure, your motions shifting his length inside you.

When the laughter trails off, Jimin stays smiling down at you. You draw your hands over his body, tracing all that smooth skin, and he touches the back of your hands with gentle fingers. There's a beat of silence but it's not an uncomfortable one, the air light after your shared giggles. It's… really nice. It's nice and soft and sweet, just like the expression on Jimin's face, tender, even if he's still buried inside you.

You feel so empty when he slips out, already missing the thickness of his cock when it seems as though he’s about to coax you to roll onto your front. Your hands are still linked with his and you tighten your fingers, making him pause.

“I want to see your face,” you confess quietly. It’s probably too much to ask of him but you feel like if you’re turned away from each other then you’ll feel like nothing more than a fucktoy. Just another warm body in Jimin’s bed. You don’t want that.

Jimin stares at you, surprise written across his features before his expression softens. 

"Okay, baby," he murmurs indulgently. The small pet name sounds so sweet in his mouth. "We can stay like this."

He lets your hands go so that he can reach for a pillow that ends settled under your ass, tilting your hips up towards him. You’re not as flexible as he is—maybe you should start doing yoga too—but Jimin doesn’t push you far, hitching your legs up and draping your calves over his shoulders, leaning towards you so that the back of your thighs are warm against his chest. He's bent forward, face hovering above yours, so much skin-on-skin contact that your entire body feels warmed by him.

When he slides back in, you can feel the change in angle immediately. The head of his cock brushes over your g-spot and you suck in a sharp breath; Jimin notices, of course, aiming to hit it again, and again.

It feels good, of course. Amazing. But as much as you’d be happy for Jimin to make you cum again, you’d rather see him fall apart. 

You dig your nails into his shoulder blades, turning your head so you can press kisses along the line of his jaw, murmuring into his ear.

“Are you going to let me see you cum?” 

Jimin’s hips stutter as your words curl out of your mouth, warm against his skin. You’ve been picturing Park Jimin’s o-face for an endless amount of weeks and you’re ready to finally see the real thing.

“Cum on me,” you say, and then choke in a sob of air as Jimin responds with a sharp snap of his hips. “I want you to cum on me, Jimin, please.”

Your begging is shameless and you know it. Jimin’s face is so close to yours in this position and you can see how blown his pupils are, how his mouth is flushed from your kisses and how he’s been biting at them, his teeth digging into his lip as he starts to get faster, sloppier in his thrusts. It feels so good to know that you’re making him feel like this, that he’s reaching the peak of his pleasure with his body against yours, inside you, above you; he might have had other people in this position in the past, but right now it’s you who’s making Park Jimin come apart. 

You urge him onwards with large, pleading eyes, rocking down on his cock each time he thrusts forward, begging the whole time. Pleading for him to cum, to give it to you, to cover you. Jimin obviously likes you loud and desperate, and you're more than willing to give him what he wants.

He slips out of you, fumbling with the condom and carelessly tossing it aside before he starts to pump his cock, hungry to reach his peak as he fucks into his fist. You let your legs fall open as you watch the way his body tenses, his brows drawn together and little breaths falling out of his mouth, barely audible over the wet slide of his cock in his hand. You run your hands over your body, across the swell of your breasts, down your stomach, dipping between your legs, trying to look as arousing as possible, anything to throw Jimin over the edge.

"I've imagined you cumming for months," you confess, words thoughtlessly falling from your lips. "On me, inside me, in my mouth—"

Park Jimin’s o-face is just as gorgeous as the rest of him.

You love how noisy he is. He paints your stomach with his cum, ropes of white spattering across the soft skin of your stomach and hips as he rides out his orgasm, moaning as he continues to milk his twitching cock. It’s so fucking hot, honestly, as is the expression on his face when you swipe your fingers through his cum and lift it to your lips, mouth filled with salt and warm.

“Fuck.” He’s breathless, panting. “You’re unbelievable.”

You let out a small scoff, but it’s edged with affection. “Says the man who was ready to fuck me six ways to Sunday,” you say. “If anyone’s the unbelievable one here, it’s you.”

“I can last longer, but you’re just so hot,” Jimin says. You respond by curling your fingers at him, beckoning him towards you, and you end up sharing a series of messy kisses. 

You were, honestly, genuinely angry when you'd stepped into his apartment earlier, even if that irritation had been rounded out with arousal and desire. Now, though, you feel thoroughly boneless and content, loose limbed on Jimin's mattress, his lips and tongue moving against your own.

He leans too far forwards and smears his own cooling cum against his stomach. He doesn’t seem bothered, though. You’re the one who has to coax him to clean up, though with the way he looks at your still naked body, you know he would happily launch straight into a second round of fucking so he can add more cum to the canvas of your skin.

He really is insatiable, apparently, when it comes to you.

Even so, you wonder if Jimin’s going to kick you out now that he’s finally had a taste of you. He doesn't. He keeps you close, your body pressed against his side in a way that feels far more intimate than you would have expected.

“Are you hungry?” Jimin breaks the soft silence.

You’ve been trailing nonsensical patterns over his chest but pause when he says this. “Hm?”

“Are you hungry?” Jimin repeats, and there’s a cheeky smile flickering at the edge of his lips. “I have some more peaches in the fridge, if you’d like one.”

“That peach.” Your voice is an embarrassed hiss and your cheeks burn, but Jimin just laughs, boyish and bright as you slap halfheartedly at him. “That was just unfair. Who eats fruit like that?”

“Someone who’s trying to make it obvious that he’s imagining the peach is his neighbour’s pussy instead.” He’s so brazen. “And it clearly worked, didn’t it?”

It had worked. It's annoyingly effective, actually; thinking about the way Jimin had been staring at you as he tongue fucked that peach has arousal shooting through you, even after being so thoroughly fucked by him.

“Yeah, now you’ve had me,” you say. “What do you plan to do next?”

Jimin goes quiet. You wonder if you’ve misstepped, but then he sweeps his hand down the curve of your spine, goosebumps appearing in the wake of his touch.

“I was planning on asking if you wanted to go out for lunch,” he says, his voice so sweet, miles away from the fuckboy persona he usually puts on. This is the softer Park Jimin that you’ve caught glimpses of when he’s unaware, the side of him you wished he’d show more often—revealed to you, now. “Then, if you said yes, I was going to take you out on a date. If that date went well, then I was going to ask if you’d like to go on another one with me. And then another.”

One thing you know about Park Jimin is this: he doesn’t do dates. Each of his lays are one time affairs, no attachments made, no real connection beyond the physical act of sex. Your heart rate picks up.

“Obviously we’d fuck between dates,” he adds, raising his eyebrows at you in a way that’s so exaggerated that it makes you laugh. Of course. Jimin likes to fuck. “Unless you didn’t want to, but there are only so many peaches I can eat, you know?”

“So if I said I didn't want to fuck, and you ran out of peaches, what would you do?” 

Your question seems casual and light but Jimin isn't stupid. He knows what you're really asking. Is he genuinely interested in something more exclusive, or would you just become another notch in his bedpost if he grew tired of waiting for you to spread your legs again?

"I can always buy more peaches."

You stare at him. He's looking at you levelly, a small smile on his face that's a little cocky but mostly warm. And, well, you know he's already gone without other partners for you, even before he'd gotten you in his bed. Park Jimin is serious about you, it seems. He'll wait.

You mouth at his collarbones, tasting the salt of sweat as you kiss and lick at his skin.

"After lunch, we can go back to my apartment, if you want," you whisper against his throat.

Just because Jimin's willing to wait doesn't mean you're going to force him to, especially as you're still as hungry for him as he is for you. 

His hands squeeze your sides as you end up kissing again. You feel soft and ripe and sweet, easing under the touch of Jimin's hands and mouth.

"I still think you're a fucking menace, though," you add, and Jimin laughs so hard the bed shakes, still utterly unrepentant and entirely yours.

--

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​ 

[livesinthebalance]

What does James do when he feels trapped? Either physically, emotionally or mentally, is he a fighter? A runner? Does he engage recklessly or play it safe? Given the chance, would he leave a situation even if it was 'wrong', given the fact that nobody would be hurt in his absence? How does he decide to make these calls?

{ @chronal-anomaly​ }

The different aspects of 'trapped’ you mention have different answers, so I’m separating them.

If he feels trapped physically, he is absolutely a fighter. He will fight until his last breath because he sure as hell isn’t going down without a fight. If someone wants to trap him, good luck to them. It’s never wise to corner a wolf.

If he feels trapped emotionally or mentally? He’s not really a fighter or a runner. Typically, he’s just resigned. He resigns himself to whatever it is, because––usually––if it’s something that has him feeling that way, there isn’t a fight or flight. There’s just what it is, an irrefutable fact, an unchangeable situation. Fighting or running won’t fix anything about it. Only make it worse. So he resigns himself or he endures until the problem resolves itself, or there’s an opportunity to resolve it.

As far as how he engages, James is about as close to reliable and safe as you can get in his lines of business. He researches like no one else and does his best to have at least some loose idea of a plan for any scenario of a situation. With the cartel and going to a drug deal? He will know every escape route, every street, every location where the police cars usually set up, knows the best places to disappear into crowds at different times of the day, et cetera. With Blackwatch on a mission? Same applies. He will know every player, every potential complication that he can think of that might arise, every exit route, every obstacle that will need to be overcome or evaded entirely. He does not roll the dice with the lives of those around him. 

James is very much driven by loyalty, no matter where he is. It’s who he is at his core. He will never abandon those he considers to be his people, even at risk to himself. The only thing that could make him leave a situation is when he feels that it doesn’t align with his values, and even then, it often takes that negatively impacting one of those that he considers one of his people before he will take action. Leaving the cartel? Probably had to do with one of his guys getting killed or with Lorenzo––who is like a brother to him––urging James that they need to get out, and that James would have to go first. Leaving Blackwatch? It was 100% over what happened with Jesse and how it happened. You can criticize him, mistreat him, get him all kinds of twisted up mentally and emotionally, but if you harm his people or allow harm to be done to them? He’s done. You crossed a line, and he won’t be party to it.

[spxllcxstxr]

The Marauders Taking Care of You When You’re Sick • Headcanon

(GIF not mine)

Warnings: food and eating mention, unspecified sickness, these are so fucking short so I’m sorry about that

Request: can I request marauders headcanons where reader is sick and they take care of them?:( — anon

A.N: yes these are the hcs that tumblr deleted lmao, anywayyyyyy, I hope you’re feeling a bit better sick anon, sending all of my love ❤️, made these gender neutral and inclusive, so let me know if I need to change anything! Enjoy!

You wake up at the crack of dawn feeling like complete and utter rubbish

Your nose is stuffed

And your throat is scratchy

It’s terrible

Your bed is suffocating you, too hot and too cold at the same time

Your dorm room isn’t any better, the sliver of sunlight coming in through the curtains and the snoring coming from your dorm mates is hell

There’s no possible way you can make it to classes today

Muscles ache and skin just doesn’t feel right

Sirius joins you in your room right after breakfast, skipping first period to check in on you

“You look ghastly, (Y/n).”

“Thanks Sirius, because that’s what I want to hear.” You give him your best glare

“Well you weren’t at breakfast so I wanted to see what was up.”

He looks at you, concern flashing through his grey eyes

He spends the rest of the period by your side, finger tips tracing shapes over your hand

Sirius tells you about some gossip and hums his favorite Muggle songs to take your mind off of things

You manage to drift off right before he leaves, and he presses a kiss you the top of your head

Sirius tells the rest of the boys about your condition, and James is the one who checks in on you next

He brings up food from the Kitchens, saltine crackers and simple soup, along with your favorite tea

“You need to eat, love, that’s how you’ll feel better.”

“But I’m not hungry, Jamie...” You shake your head at him, still tired

“Please? Eat for me?” James will pout at you, his big hazel eyes pleading from behind his glasses

And of course you cave, because who can deny that James Potter pout?

“Here comes the Hippogriff...”

“Shut the fuck up, James.”

Remus doesn’t visit you until the end of the day because he was determined to collect all of the notes you missed and all of your assignments

When he does come up, it’s with more tea and medicine from the Hospital Wing

“Oh darling...”

He kisses your forehead and bundles you up when you’re too cold and cools you down with a spell when you’re too hot

He reads you to sleep

And the boys don’t leave your side at the end of the day, too concerned about you to go back to their own beds

Hand holding and cuddles all night

If you need something, they’re always willing to go down into the Kitchens or the Hospital Wing to get it for you

Because the four of you are practically glued together at the hips, don’t be surprised when at least one of them ends up sick a few days after

You’ll just have to be prepared to take care of them

•

All Character Taglist: @sexysirius @amourtentiaa @mullthingsoverinthehotwater

[voiceless-terror]

Perchance to Dream

@aspecarchivesweek Day Three: Drinks

Characters: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James

Jon comes out to Martin. Twice.

(Ft. Kiss-Averse Jonathan Sims and Hamlet References)

__________

“Ugh, no thank you.”

Martin pauses. Sasha and Tim titter behind their hands.

And Jon, well. He’s got a look of vehement disgust written across his features, not unlike when he’s laying into what he claims is a fabricated statement. Martin can feel his face turning red at the words.

Getting Jon to come out for drinks had been the hard part. It’s one month into his tenure as Head Archivist, and everyone’s starting to feel the scope of the task ahead of them. Tim thought a ‘monthiversary’ drink was in order, and the only way to get Jon to come out was to threaten him with some sort of ill begotten information, the likes of which Martin couldn’t hear behind the closed door. Ten minutes later, Jon emerged, looking grumpier than usual (and very dashing) with a scarf around his neck. And now he sat next to him in the cozy pub booth, Martin trying very hard to remain stock-still because Jon’s leaning into his side. Perhaps he’s cold? Either way, Martin isn’t going to discourage it. 

But then he’d had a few drinks and they all loosened up; even Jon’s laugh came easier. And Martin- well, Martin’s opening up a bit more than usual, chattering about his time in the library and bolstered by the smiles he receives in turn. Tim changed track to the personal, regaling them with his latest outdoor adventure while Sasha and Jon gave witty, sarcastic commentary. But then Tim directed the conversation towards him, and they seemed relatively interested in his poetry. He even felt comfortable enough to rattle out a few lines from his phone in a desperate hope to impress, and he stupidly chose one that referenced ‘lips like a rosebud’ and Jon reacts like he’s read a particularly saucy bit of a smut novel aloud. How embarrassing. 

“Whew,” Tim whistles lowly, folding his arms behind his neck with an exaggerated wince. “Harsh, boss.”

“No, that’s not it,” Jon says, shaking his head and putting a hand on Martin’s arm. Putting a hand on Martin’s arm. Putting a hand- “Martin, your poetry is fine, if a bit derivative.” Jon thinks his poetry is fine and he’s got his small, fine-boned hand on Martin’s arm and god, he’s got a poem about that too, somewhere in his phone-

Tim guffaws, slamming a hand on the table and startling Sasha. “What a compliment!”

“It’s just…kissing. Lips. Ugh.” Jon smashes his fork rather violently into a dumpling, sending bits of food flying across the table, one of which hit Tim directly above his eye. “I eat with my mouth.”

“Wise observation.”

“Very astute of you.”

Martin would join in on the banter but Jon’s hand is still on his arm and his warm weight is pressing into his side. Honestly, what’s Jon playing at? He could rip the poetry to shreds in front of him but as long as that hand remains on his arm he’d just sit there, not saying a word. Hell, he’d probably even agree.

“So the bossman doesn’t like kisses,” Tim says, taking an obnoxiously loud sip of whatever fruity beverage he’d decided on. “Is that why you ripped down all of my mistletoe back in research?”

Jon. Mistletoe. Hand still on arm.

“I don’t like any of it,” Jon says, removing his hand from Martin’s arm to make a decisive gesture across the table which nearly sent his drink flying. He instantly misses the pressure but the warmth is still there, burning through his sleeve. Jon looks incredibly drunk, now that Martin’s got a better angle to view his flushed cheeks and bright eyes and lips- “All that touching. I don’t understand why everyone’s so hung up on it. No thank you, not for me.”

A brief flash of understanding lights Sasha’s eyes but Martin’s not in a place to decipher it. He’s not sure if it’s the drink or the Jon-of-it-all that’s impeding him. He’s never seen him so relaxed, so animated about something that’s not work. He can’t even focus on the words coming out of Jon’s mouth at the moment.

But Sasha leans forward- once she’s got an idea in her head, she won’t let go until she’s seen it through. Martin recognizes that look. “You’re asexual, then?”

“Mm,” Jon mumbles, his head tilting back dangerously as he puts on an affected, exaggerated voice. “Man delights not me, no, nor woman neither.”

And then Martin’s gone, suddenly struck by a vision of teenage Jon, silhouetted on a stage by a dramatic spotlight, reciting Shakespeare like a born thespian- look, Martin despises theater, but even he’s not immune to Hamlet. In a dream world he’d be Ophelia, no, not Ophelia, idiot- maybe he’s a stage hand, or no, he helps Jon with his quick changes, that’s a job, right? So caught up is he in this pseudo-high school fantasy that the words being said don’t actually dawn on him until a full minute later, when Tim’s laughter reaches a crescendo.

“Boss, did you seriously just come out via Shakespeare?”

Jon’s not even denying it, giving a lazy, good-natured smile in response. Fuck. Here he is, having some stupid fantasy over his boss who is very much right next to him and very much not interested. God, is he taking advantage? He jumps to the side, trying desperately to put a few more inches of space between them for Jon’s comfort when that small hand comes back to his arm, the sudden and strong grip stopping him in his tracks. 

“No!” Jon’s voice is low, those dark eyes so intense. Martin can feel his face go scarlet from his gaze alone. “This is nice. I like it.”

Tim and Sasha share an evil little smile and Martin’s out of commission, the night’s revelations and Jon’s insistent snuggling having taken their toll. He couldn’t tell you what happened after that, how many drinks were shared or how he got home. All he remembers is the feel of Jon’s hand on his arm, his insistent closeness, and the sound of his laugh whenever Tim teased him.

The next day Jon comes in late, looking about as bad as the rest of them felt. From the way he interacts with them, it’s likely that he doesn’t even remember last night, what he did or what he said. Martin tries not to let it sting, and goes back to work, knowing there’s a side of Jon that he’ll likely never see again.

__________

“Martin, we have to...talk, if that’s alright.” 

Martin pauses, a lump building in his throat. “Okay.”

He settles in on Daisy’s lumpy couch, trying not to let his apprehension show. It’s been a week since Jon got him out of the Lonely and they’re still adjusting, but Martin likes to think they’re settling into a nice routine. There’s such a natural ease to their domesticity; they had their differences, sure, but he’s never seen the man so soft and unguarded, puttering around the cottage, making sure everything’s nice and comfortable for the two of them. And of course, there’s the bed situation. Only one, like in all the cliché fanfiction Martin had taken to reading back when he lived in the Archives and his biggest problem was worms. Maybe Jon doesn’t want to share anymore? He’s been strangely distant the past day, keeping space between them and hovering about in a nervous manner. He goes back through their interactions, trying to think of what he could’ve done wrong.

Jon sits down next to him, his face showing his own apprehension. “I know we’ve been getting...close, this past week. But if we’re going to ah, have an, er- well, you know, relationship- there’s some things you need to know.” Relationship. Jon thinks they're in a relationship. Martin didn’t want to put a label to it, too afraid it would shatter the fragile trust they built. But to be in a relationship with Jon, well, that’s something he’s always dreamed of, right?

So he relaxes minutely, tries not to show the utter joy he feels at the words. “Alright. What’s up?”

Jon takes a steadying breath, looking so oddly grave that Martin immediately wants to take him into his arms. “I don’t...well, I’m asexual. So I’m not really interested…” he makes a vague gesture down towards Martin’s crotch and then freezes, clearly embarrassed by the crudeness of the action. “I’m not interested in all of...that. Or kissing, for that matter. It’s just a personal boundary for me, if that’s alright.”

Oh. Martin blinks, taking in Jon’s serious countenance and hopeful eyes and while he wants to match it, he can’t control the laughter that bubbles out of his throat. “Oh-oh Jon-”

Jon immediately blanches, his brow furrowing in confusion and probably hurt. “W-What? What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry! Fuck-it’s, it’s not that, that’s fine, it’s just-” Martin tries desperately to keep his laughter under control and fails. Christ, he can’t breathe. “Man delights not me, no, nor woman neither!” 

“Why are you quoting Shakespeare?” Jon’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind. Perhaps he has.

“Because you did, you daft thing!” Martin’s shoulders shake with the effort of containing himself, and he wipes a tear from his eye. He immediately puts a hand on Jon’s arm, a mirror’s reflection of that night at the bar and yet it’s still his hand that burns. “Jon, it’s fine. I already know. You told us over drinks my first month in the Archives.”

Jon’s face takes on that peculiar look of confusion and concentration that Martin loves, as if he’s searching his mind or maybe even the Eye for information. “I-oh. Oh!” He puts his head in his hands with a groan, ignoring Martin’s comforting pats to the back. “How embarrassing.”

“It was adorable.”

“No it wasn’t,” Jon whines into his hands even as he leans into Martin’s touch.

“It was,” Martin assures him, drawing him close to his side and letting him lean his head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I laughed- you were just so serious, I couldn’t help it-”

“Yes, well,” Jon sighed, settling into his arms, the beginnings of a smile on his face. “It’s fine. As long you’re alright with…”

“More than alright.” It’s Jon, of course it’s alright. Being here with him, in their little shabby oasis- well, it’s more than enough. They sit there in silence for some time, Martin enjoying the closeness of the man he’d fought so hard to protect finally in his arms. He’s starting to think they just might be alright. He smiles to himself, perching his chin on top of Jon’s head.

“To be or not to be-”

“Shut up, Martin.”

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28741983

[jbarneswilson]

No. 7 "Is it fair to say that you read the love letter and this means yes?"

Please and thank you ❤🌜

hello dear sweet infinitely patient @aniluwho90, thank you so much for sending this ask and thank you so much for understanding. i took some artistic license with this prompt and i really hope that it lives up to your expectations. 😊

as requested:

7. "Is it fair to say that you read the love letter and this means yes?"

Sarah clutches the carefully wrapped cardboard box close as she inches forward in line. She checks the label for the umpteenth time. It still reads: “ATTN: PVT SAMUEL T WILSON, PVT JAMES B BARNES c/o JOINT BASE SAN ANTONIO-LACKLAND”. Just like it did the last time she checked. And the time before that.

This may well be the world’s most important care package. Certainly no other package has ever carried what lays nestled inside hers, between the extra deodorants and bottle of cocoa butter lotion for Sam so he doesn’t get ashy. A letter addressed solely to one Bucky Barnes. Her big brother’s best friend and the boy who’s taken up every last inch of her heart since the day she met him.

The temptation to rip open the package and pull the letter out rises with every minute she waits to be called. She eyes the triple layer of extra thick tape sealing it shut, cursing her past self for anticipating just this sort of cowardice.

She takes a deep, centering breath and reminds herself fortune favors the bold when the clerk calls out, “I’ll take whoever’s next at Window Two!”

“Hi there,” Sarah grins as she walks up.

The clerk doesn’t even bother to look away from his computer screen, just asks flatly, “Domestic or international?”

“Um, air force base? Is that a category? My brother and his best friend are at basic training for another month so I made them a care package.” She sets the box on the counter, one hand resting protectively on the top of it. “I hope they—”

“Which base?” the clerk sighs heavily.

*

Passing Sam’s room, she ducks her head in and smiles at the sight of him spread diagonally across the bed, snoring in the pre-dawn light.

Sarah’s glad to have him home but she can’t help wondering why he arrived alone yesterday. And where Bucky is… and if her letter scared him away.

She shakes off the thought as she grabs her lunchbox out of the fridge and heads down to the dock. Disastrous love life or not, there are crab pots and nets to bring in.

The drive to the dock is the perfect length for a pep talk and she bounces her way onto the boat, ready to take on the day. She loses a year off her life when she opens the door to the cabin and sees a tall, dark shape leaning against the helm.

“Oh my Lord!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he smiles ruefully as he picks up her lunchbox and sets it on the dash behind the helm. “I just wanted to talk to you alone and figured I’d find you here.”

“Is it fair to say you want to talk to me alone because you read my letter?”

“Letter? What letter? I don’t recall any… oh! You mean that love letter you snuck in with that care package?”

Trying to shrug casually while her heart climbs into her throat, Sarah says, “Yeah, s’pose I do.”

He leans back against the helm, jams his hands in his jeans pockets and looks down at the floor. “I can’t say I knew as soon as you did. Hell, I was only eight and girls were full of cooties. But then there was that summer ma packed me ‘n Becca off to Indiana… we came back and you were, God, you shot up two feet I swear. And you weren’t just Sam’s little sister any more. You were,” he chuckles and shakes his head at himself, “you were everything I thought about and I tried so hard to fight it. ‘Cuz what could I possibly offer you that you couldn’t get for yourself?”

“Everything,” she whispers.

“Then I read your letter and…” He looks up at her, eyes blazing, voice tight with emotion, “No one’s ever seen me the way you do.”

She isn’t sure who moves first, she just knows she’s suddenly exactly where she’s always wanted to be: Pulled tight against him as he kisses the daylights out of her.

When he finally lets her up for air, she murmurs languidly, “I take it this means ‘yes’.”

Kissing the tip of her nose, he smiles and says, “Absolutely.”

send me a fluffy dialogue prompt!

[theeslytherinslut]

12 Grimmauld Place (5/?)

Pairings: Sirius Black (post Azkaban) x reader, Remus Lupin x reader’s brother, Sirius Black x Slytherin!reader 

Word Count: 2,909

Warnings: lil angsty

A/N: The longest chapter yet and it’s entirely in Sirius’ perspective! Hope I wasn’t too far off from his inner monologue. Also lots of spicy Tonks cause I love her. 

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 6

Sirius’ POV

Feeling intrusive, I caught Tonks’ eyes as Remus and Y/N hugged each other, her sobbing into his shoulder. With a quick twitch, I signaled to her that we let them have a moment. She nodded and followed me into the living room. 

“Still haven’t gotten around to cleaning anything, have you?” she teased, gesturing to the layer of dirt and dust that seemed to cover every inch of the house. 

“Whenever you feel up to joining in...” I teased back. 

“Well, it looks like you’ll have Y/N to help you with that,” she responded, raising her eyebrows at me in a funny way. 

“What?” I asked. 

“Y/N,” she looked at me meaningfully. But not knowing what she meant, I stared blankly back. “You men--it’s a wonder you make it up in the morning by yourselves...Obviously, her flat is no longer safe. She’ll have to stay out of sight for a while too. What better place to both be safe and stay out of sight than here?” 

“Stay here?” I asked dumbly. Sure, I figured she’d stay the night, but it never occurred to me that this would be the best place for her. But now that Tonks pointed it out, it did make sense. Not like she could go back to her blown flat; besides, she was vulnerable there. Vulnerable and alone. 

“Yes, cousin. Are you alright?” she laughed at my bewildered state, but I didn’t find it so funny. It was difficult to ignore my feelings for her when I wasn’t seeing her every day. How was I supposed to manage now? 

At school, it was easier to manage. In the hallways, I’d look at anyone but her, smirking at any girl I caught looking at me, any sort of distraction. But when Moony wanted to go have a chat with her, well, I’d have to plainly look away, instead contenting myself with glaring at passing male members of her house, daring any of them to speak up or look at her. 

Remus had made his views very clear in the year of her arrival. He’d been gushing about since first year, always saying how she’d enjoy something or another. I still remember her terrified face during Sorting dissolving into a bright smile when her eyes found us seated at the Gryffindor table. Remus waved excitedly at her from his seat, the rest of us doing the same--all hoping she’d soon join us. However, upon seeing the rest of us with him, her face turned bright red, and her eyes went terrified once more. Before I could even shoot her a reassuring smile, she’d turned back to McGonagall. Unfortunately, she’d been placed in Slytherin, something we never let poor Moony forget. That night in the common rooms after everyone else had long gone to bed, he’d made us all swear to never lay a finger on her--to essentially be another three big brothers--never to look at her in any sort of way. Of course we all made the promise, but I couldn’t honor it. 

I still found myself scouring the Great Hall for her face at mealtimes, ducking around shelves in the library in between classes looking for her. I always made sure to be on my best behavior in front of Remus, but behind his back, my eyes couldn’t wait to hungrily devour his sister. Her witty remarks as some Gryffindor teased her, her filthy mouth when a fellow Slytherin made the wrong comment--and just when I thought I couldn’t fall for her any more deeply, I’d caught her hexing a Gryffindor in the corridor. The poor bloke came out a few seconds later, clutching his jaw and nose, both of which were expanding at an alarming rate. She came skipping round the next moment, smiling broadly at her achievement. It was all I could do not to kiss her right then. 

“Sirius?” Tonks asked, pulling me from my memories. 

“Sorry, yes?” I asked, trying not to appear as anxious about it all as I was. 

“What’s your problem?” she asked. Looking at her, I weighed my options. On the one hand, the only living soul who knew about how I felt about Y/N was now no longer, in fact, living. On the other, keeping it such a secret allowed me to continue in my friendship with Moony. Lovely as she was, I couldn’t have anything come between us. Not when we were the only ones left. 

“I--” I started to begin the story, but upon remembering James, I stopped. “Nothing.” 

“Sirius,” Tonks started, an offended look on her face. “I am your cousin. You tell me right now, or I’ll go get Remus, and he will.” 

“You would, wouldn’t you,” I said, a fond smile coming on my face as I looked at her. 

“I most certainly would.” she threatened. With her hands on her hips, I was suddenly reminded strongly of Mrs. Weasley, which only made my smile bigger. “Now, go on and tell me, you grinning git!”

“Alright, lower your voice. Can you keep a secret?” I asked, looking at my hands. 

“Course I can,” she indignantly responded. 

“Well, there’s a, a slight--er, problem, with Y/N staying,” I said quietly, keeping an ear out for her sniffles. 

“Problem? What problem? Not like you don’t have enough rooms. Or is it you fancy her or something?” she said, laughing. I kept quiet, and after a moment or two, realization began dawning on her face. 

“Oh, but Sirius, she’s Remus’ sister!” Tonks said, looking at me scoldingly. 

“Don’t you think I know that, Nymphadora?” I barked, angry that she responded the way I feared.

At the sound of her birth name, her hair began burning bright red, and I retreated. 

“Sorry, it’s just--I know, okay? I’m very much well aware of the fact she is Remus’ sister. Why do you think I’ve kept my distance all these years?” I said. 

“Likely cause you were in Azkaban,” she pointed out. I gave her a nasty look, and she smiled softly. “Next time, don’t use my full name.”

I rolled my eyes and began anxiously pacing the floors. This was wrong; this was all wrong. The one girl Remus said was off-limits. All he let me get away with all those years at Hogwarts. With a fresh pang of guilt, I recalled a put-out looking Remus looking at me while I talked to a tall, blonde Ravenclaw during Charms. It was only years after I learned he’d had a thing for her--but to my defense, I’d have backed off without a complaint if he’d only told me. 

“All these years?” Tonks said, liking working things out in her head. “Surely that doesn’t mean...since Hogwarts?” 

“Yes,” I admitted miserably. “Since her first year.” 

“First year?” she shouted. 

“Keep down your voice.” I hissed at her, pausing to hear Remus speaking softly to Y/N. 

“Sorry,” she winced. “But really, since first year and you’ve never said anything?” 

“Well, I couldn’t. Remus made us all swear to leave her alone--and bloody hell, was that a job. After school, it was easier, once I was able to keep my distance. Out of sight, out of mind, as the Muggles say. Sorry, you know how Arthur loves his Muggles.” I laughed as she gave me a funny look. “And then--as you so astutely pointed out--I was in Azkaban. So it really hasn’t been a problem these last few years.” 

“But now she’s living in your house,” she pointed out. 

“Precisely,” I responded, running a hand over the scruff on my face. She remained quiet, looking thoughtful for a few minutes before responding. 

“Well, this is just bloody ridiculous. You’ve got to do something,” she said. 

“Do something? Do what? How could I betray Remus like that? He’s the only one left, Tonks. How am I supposed to betray him this way, especially after James, and then all the time apart, and then managing to let Peter slip through our fingers? I can’t do this to him.” I reasoned, beginning to harden my resolve. 

“Oh, you are bloody ridiculous, you know that?” she sighed, running her fingers through her now bubblegum-pink hair. 

“Excuse me?” I said, stopping my pacing to glare at her. 

“Bloody ridiculous!” she repeated, “Sirius, that was years ago. That was a feeble promise forced to be made by an older brother before his friends got horny and couldn’t think straight.” 

“What?” I said, pulling a face as I considered her words. 

“Remus made you all promise that so young so she wouldn’t become a plaything of yours, especially when the both of you turned out to be such whores.” Tonks laughed. 

“Whores? I was not a whore! And certainly not James, why after fifth year I don’t think I ever heard so much as a comment about any girl besides Lily.” I defended the both of us, vaguely aware of how I’d ridiculously brought my hands to my hips in indignation. 

“Sirius, you’re family, you know I love you--but Merlin, you were the biggest sodding slut the whole of Gryffindor has ever seen! I’d bet there isn’t a room in the castle you haven’t done something naughty in.” she laughed once more. I opened my mouth to protest, but couldn’t come up with a room fast enough--only proving her point. 

“Now, you two are not schoolchildren anymore. You are a grown man, Sirius. There’s no need to honor such a trivial and unnecessary pact.” She took a step towards me and put her hand on my cheek, dropping her voice. “Think of how much you’ve suffered, Sirius. Think of what you’ve lost; think of who you have lost. Remus has suffered the same loss. He lost James just as you did, but he also lost you. He thought you’d gone bad, thought Peter dead--James and Lily were dead. And then, years later, you return--innocent. You came back to him, and he, you. Things like that change a man. I’m sure there’s no one on this planet he trusts more with his sister than you. Don’t sacrifice your happiness for one more minute, cousin. Especially not when things look so similar to how they looked before, back when it all went wrong. Don’t waste another minute; I’m not going to either.” 

Shaken at her words, I remained quiet for a few moments. So much had changed since that night in Gryffindor tower. Maybe he wouldn’t mind the idea so much anymore. Besides, he trusted me enough to keep her safe.

My happiness...I’d never given the idea much thought, never considered it much of a possibility after being imprisoned. Never had reason to since. But now, my brain was swimming with possibilities. 

“Hang on,” I said, remembering the end of her monologue. “You aren’t going to either?”

She cursed under her breath before looking at me.

“Noticed that, did you?” she grimaced. I merely looked at her expectantly. “Alright, fine. Can you keep a secret?” 

“I mean, if I outed you, you could just out me,” I pointed out.

“True, alright. Well, it’s Remus,” she whispered, avoiding my eyes. 

“You and Remus?” I asked, frowning in thought. 

“And what about it?” she said, looking at me testily. 

“Well, nothing really. It’s just I never thought about it...are you sure?” I asked after a moment. I loved them both, but the thought had never even crossed my mind once. Surely if there was something between my cousin and my best friend, I’d have suspected something by now. 

“Of course I’m sure, you git,” she hissed at me. 

“So then why aren’t you together?” I asked. I couldn’t think of any reason they shouldn’t be if they both felt that way. Not like I had a sit down with the lot of them about not dating her. 

“Because he too is being ridiculous. Refuses to even look at me most of the time. Says I’m too young, says I deserve better than him.” 

“Better than Moony? Good luck with that one, cousin.” I laughed, shaking my head at the thought. 

“That’s what I keep saying, but he’ll hear none of it. Says I deserve better than a shabby, poor old werewolf.” she rolled her eyes. 

“Is that really what he thinks of himself as? A shabby old werewolf?” I asked, sad for my friend. If anybody deserved happiness, it was Remus. Before she could answer, we heard him calling. 

“Pads?” I suddenly heard. He entered the room alone, smiling softly at the two of us. 

“Hey, mate.” I smiled at him, opening my arms once more. Remus had always grudgingly accepted my affection, which only made me more inclined to give it knowing it bothered him. And as I knew he would, he rolled his eyes and smiled as he accepted. 

“Perhaps we should stay...” Remus said, looking to Tonks and then back to the kitchen. 

“Ooh no, you don’t. We’ve got to go, cut up sister or not. Besides, who better to take care of her than Sirius? Isn’t as if he’s got anything better to do. Perhaps she could persuade him in actually cleaning something in this wretched house.” Tonks added, gesturing to filth. I glared at her but remained silent; she was right. The house was filthy, but it was painful enough to be here, let alone restore the bloody thing.

“Suppose you’re right...” Remus said after a moment, “Take good care of her, Pads.” 

“Course I will, Moony. Always took good care of you, didn’t I?” I jeered.

“Not bloody likely! And don’t you go taking credit for that, that was all Madam Pomfrey,” he scolded, wagging his finger at me like he used to as a Prefect. “The group of you could hardly stand to sit still in the hospital wing for half an hour, let alone get me through a transformation!” As Remus told his story, Tonks looked at him with a funny look, and with an alarming pang, I realized Y/N often shot me the very same look. Did that mean she felt for me as Tonks felt for Remus? 

“That is bang out of order, mate! I worked hard at becoming an Animagi! Took years, it did. Don’t remember seeing Madam Pomfrey out trotting about with a teenage werewolf. Besides, kept your arse out of trouble!” I bantered back, smiling jovially. 

“Oh, it just as easily could’ve gotten me in trouble,” Remus shook his head at the memories.

“But it didn’t, did it?” I teased, “You know you loved it just as much as we did, Moony. Try as you might to remain all high and mighty. Ickle Prefect Moony,” I jeered, poking at him as he laughed. 

“Alright, alright. C’mon, let’s go before the two of you really start down memory lane. We’ve got to meet Dumbledore.” Tonks said, gently steering Remus towards the door. 

“Hang on, you’re going to Hogwarts?” I asked. I couldn’t help but be jealous. 

“Briefly. That wretch woman gets nosy when we’re there for more than a quick pop in.” Remus said; the disgusted look on his face told me he meant Umbridge. 

“Ah, well, say hello to Harry for me if you see him. I hear the little scamp likes roaming round nearly as much as we did.” I smiled after them. 

“That he does; I still remember catching him with that map...I don’t even know how he got ahold of it. James would’ve been so proud, out in the dark corridors taunting Snape. Like father, like son.” Remus smiled fondly at the memory before hanging his head slightly and ambling off to join Tonks. My chest hurt at the mention of James and Harry, and I was once more painfully reminded of my solitude. What I wouldn’t give to see James again...

I followed them to the door, waving goodbye as the two of them popped out of sight. I stared longingly at the spot where they’d disapparted. 

Standing in place, I gave myself a moment to gather my thoughts before returning to the kitchen. 

Tonks had made many good points, but were they just good because I was looking for any kind of reason to be with her? Did they actually make sense, or was I just looking for an out?

Remus had only made us promise once in the wee hours of the morning in the Gryffindor common room. Besides, if family was off-limits, well, that made him a right hypocrite, didn’t it? He did leave her here with me though, with the promise I’d take good care of her. That meant, to some degree, Remus trusted me with her. Would I be breaking that trust by going with my gut with Y/N? 

Good and evil continued to argue on my shoulders, but if I waited for a decision, I might be here for years. 

What’s more, was she even interested in me? I mean, sure, I’d caught her staring in school--but that was years ago; a lot had changed since then. But then there was the blush that always colored her cheeks every time I said something cheeky, the relief on her face when I’d met her in the port key room. Surely she wouldn’t let someone she detested bathe her, right? 

I resolved to simply flirt. If that went well, then she felt something too. And if she felt something too...well, let me not get ahead of myself. 

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

Taglist: @geeksareunique @fredweasleysbitchh  @green-intervention​ @stopbeingcurious

[onlylifeordeath]

Being canon-divergent, I just need to share that this is how mine and @duskregrets ‘s scene went last night (along with some other major changes like Santiago the Boaz Wrangler doing his job and temporarily preventing the Judge’s death) because we were robbed.

I also must point out that James’ thoughts when Dumas CALLED HIM OUT like that were:

… Oh. Oh no. Oh FUCK. GodDAMMIT.

Yes, despite knowing that he cares for Teresa and that he does have feelings for her, this is the first moment he realized that he’s Actually In Love™️ with her. Because the boy is Dense and he is a Professional™️ with Denial. It’s easier and safer than acknowledging some truths.

[tippedbykreider]

your love is my turning page | c. kreider

Word count: 17,700 Warnings: Mentions of death, grief, sex, mention of breakdown of previous relationship, mentions of infidelity. Author’s note: This was the first long-fic I ever wrote and to say that I was proud of it is an understatement. I’ve made some minor additions to this and hope you all enjoy it second time around as much as you did the first time. Fic title is from ‘Turning Page’ by Sleeping at Last Summary: Chris Kreider doesn’t believe in fate but a chance meeting in a Manhattan bookstore opens his mind, and his heart, to things he has only ever read about in the books he loves so much.

*

‘We are asleep until we fall in love’ – Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace.

Sometimes in life there are moments where everything changes, suddenly and unexpectedly and in ways that make it impossible to be the same person that you were before. It’s a bit like a storm, sweeping in and rearranging your life completely to a point beyond recognition, where everything changes and you’re left with a choice: mourn what was lost or use it as an opportunity to rebuild and come back stronger than before.

That was the dilemma Roseanna Williams faced after the man she thought she’d grow old with turned out to be nothing more than a huge disappointment. She should have seen it coming if she was to be completely honest with herself, years of waiting for him to outgrow what she presumed to be a teenage phase yielded nothing but frustration and a growing sense of impatience. If you asked any of her close friends and family they would tell you that she should have done it years ago but it never was as easy as just walking away, not when it came to the man whom she had been with since the tender age of fifteen. After she’d graduated university and completed her teaching degree, she was itching and ready for them both to take the next step in their relationship, to make more of a commitment, hell, even get married, but every attempt at an adult discussion about their future was met with resistance and a string of excuses.  The realisation suddenly began to dawn on her that maybe he was a lost cause and that she was wasting the best years of her life by waiting on him to get his shit together. The final straw came when she’d come home early from a teaching conference and found him in bed with someone she had considered to be a friend. That was when the flood defences failed and all the water she’d been ignoring for so long came rushing in, destroying everything she thought she knew and leaving her shaken to the core and gasping for breath. 

It started as a spark of an idea, moving away and getting a fresh start, London perhaps, or maybe somewhere further North. Exeter held too many memories now, the hurt and betrayal burying all of the wonderful times she’d had in the city that had always been her home. She’d discussed it at length with her parents who, while saddened at the prospect of their youngest daughter moving away, encouraged her to pursue whatever would make her the happiest. The spark caught, much like it always did whenever Rosie set her mind to something and before she knew it she was applying for a United States work visa and looking for places to live in New York City. All that was left to do was to pack up her life and trust in the magic of new beginnings.

That was how she ended up in Brooklyn, New York, teaching English Literature at a local high school. It was a different kind of life, one that took her a couple of years to get used to and while Rosie wasn’t quite confident enough yet to call herself a New Yorker, she definitely felt like she had found somewhere that she could call home. That feeling started as a seed, growing roots and leaves every time she would get off the subway at the right stop or find a new coffee shop to try until eventually she could rattle off her favourite places to get an Americano or the best places to get pizza. Her family and friends loved it, naturally, having the perfect reason to come and visit the Big Apple and Rosie loving nothing more than having the opportunity to show off the city she’d grown to adore.

Of course, there were parts of her old life that she missed. How could she not? She missed her family and her university friends. She missed afternoon teas with Devonshire clotted cream and summer days spent at the beach in Torquay. ‘You can always come home, love,’ her mother would say and that was completely true and while a part of her would always yearn for the smell of the sea or the cry of a gull on a soft summer breeze and while her roots were very much planted in Devonshire soil, her heart belonged to New York City.

She’d developed somewhat of a routine during the first couple of years that she’d lived in Brooklyn and it was one that hadn’t changed much, loving nothing more than taking the subway to Manhattan on weekends to spend the day checking out all the small independently run bookstores (when she wasn’t drowning in unmarked papers, of course). This particular late-October Saturday had started much like the others; she allowed herself a well-deserved lie-in after a hectic week of teaching and a bottle of Sangiovese the previous night, savouring her first cup of coffee like it was the first she’d had in months while she set about watering her house plants. A shower that lasted entirely too long, which doubled as a Fleetwood Mac tribute concert that she was sure her neighbours appreciated, was next on the agenda before she finally bundled herself up to face a chilly Autumn day in the city. 

She’d stopped off at her favourite coffee shop on the way to the station and chatted with the young barista, Laura, behind the counter, whom she’d grown to know over the months since Laura had started working there. She’d learned that Laura was planning a trip to Europe next Summer and offered some suggestions of places in England to visit, making sure to get her to promise to not just visit London. With her take-out coffee cradled in her hands, the cup serving her well as a much needed hand-warmer, the late-morning had Rosie heading towards Westsider Books, a favourite haunt of hers that she couldn’t help but keep coming back to. She had no reason at all to think that going to that store was going to prove to be another one of those moments that she could look back on as being a defining moment in her story, but with a push of the door, every star and planet aligned that set her on a course that would change her life forever.

*

Christopher James Kreider was a self-confessed simple man, despite his career choice and the lifestyle that came with it seeming to be anything but. He was incredibly thankful for the certain level of anonymity that came with living in a place like New York; certainly, there were times where he would be recognised and would be stopped for a picture or autograph, but in the sea of a-list celebrities that called the city home, he was just a small fish and was happiest when he was flying under the radar. The kind of life afforded by being a professional athlete playing in the National Hockey League was one that he wasn’t sure he would ever get used to. Sure, he had a sweeping Tribeca apartment that he called home, he had a nice car, he went to work wearing expensive suits and could afford to eat out in the city anywhere he wanted, but the reality of it all was that he was most at ease sprawled out on his couch with a good book and a bottle of wine.

His teammates affectionately called him the hockey Renaissance man, a nod to his impressive pursuits off the ice, but it was never a name that sat comfortably with him. As far as he was concerned, he was just Chris, there was nothing special about him and his ability to deflect praise or compliments was nothing short of reflexive. His days off during the season were few and far between and he was always keen to make the most of the time afforded to him. An early start and cup of coffee usually preceded a quick workout, followed by a shower, a second coffee and a crossword puzzle while he decided how he was going to spend his day. Sometimes he wanted nothing more than to stay within the sanctuary of his apartment and read Hemingway until the sun began to dip below the skyline, other times he would venture out into the city and check out the new exhibit down at the art gallery in Soho before finding somewhere quiet to enjoy a good cup of coffee.

The season had gotten off to a decent enough start, the chemistry between the team seeming to grow with each game and Chris hitting his stride early on. He’d just returned from a three game trip in Canada and despite the slight fatigue he was feeling, he was eager to get out into the city. He wasn’t in the market for anything in particular but there was a lot of joy to be found in rummaging through old record shops or second hand book stores, at least in Chris’s opinion anyway. There was something so special about a pre-loved record or book, he thought, each had their own tale to tell and each held a special place in someone’s heart at one point or another. There were barely any new editions of books on his bookshelves, some so tatty and worn that their bindings were stringy and the pages threatened to abscond if held the wrong way.

Chris was a creature of habit and it was something that he would freely admit. He often visited the stores closest to home, not often venturing further than Midtown, but with nothing but time he found himself on the 1 train and headed towards Upper West Side, Westsider Books his destination of choice. The first thing he noticed upon entering wasn’t the towering shelves that stacked books upon books but the unmistakable scent of vellichor, that grassy, almost vanilla aroma that felt a lot like coming home. The owner offered a friendly smile before nodding towards the vast collection of books.

“There’s fiction all down here, poetry’s at the back and non-fiction’s upstairs. Let me know if there’s something in particular you’re lookin’ for, I know there’s a lotta books in here.”

“Thank you,” Chris replied. “Do you have any Russian literature in at all?”

“We sure do, whatever we’ve got is on the third shelf from the back there, on your left.”

“Perfect, thanks a lot for your help.”

Chris offered the man behind the counter a smile and headed deeper into the shop, stopping in front of an impressive looking collection of Russian classics. It was easy to get lost in the volumes on the shelves, flicking through pages of different editions, some of them older than he’d ever seen before. There was one book in particular though that caught his eye, unassuming and inconspicuous enough, nestled between War and Peace and the Death of Ivan Ilyich. He reached out to touch the navy blue leather but was suddenly caught off-guard by the sensation of cold fingers knocking against his own.

“God, I’m so sorry, I was completely in my own world there.”

His eyes flicked to his right towards the source of the voice, soft and feminine with an accent that he knew not to be local. Rosie hadn’t even noticed him, which now that she was taking in his appearance properly didn’t exactly understand how she’d missed him standing beside her. He was well over six foot, she noted, and impossibly broad, but the thing that stood out to her the most about him was the unmistakable kindness in his hazel eyes, a tranquil grove of moss covered trees with their different shades of bark.

“No, no, you’re good. It’s me, big clumsy oaf over here,” he trailed off with a soft laugh, a slight heat rising in his cheeks now that he was really seeing her, with her eyes that were as blue as a summer sky and hair that reflected the colour of the autumn leaves outside.

“Did you want Anna Karenina?” Rosie asked, nodding towards the shelves.

“Oh, um, it’s okay, you go for it,” he smiled at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that gave him a kind of softness, a familiarity almost.

“Please, I insist,” Rosie reached for the book and took it from its resting place amongst the other Tolstoy works, handing it to Chris. “I already have three different editions of this, if I took home a fourth I think an intervention would need to be staged.”

Rosie grinned as Chris laughed, the sound full and rich to her ears, while he took the book from her hands and tucked it under his arm.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” He started, his eyes flitting across her features before they settled to meet her gaze. Her grin had faded into a warm smile that reached all the way up to her eyes and she was surveying him with an almost curiosity, one that he found himself matching. “I’m sorry, I know you probably get asked this all the time,” he continued, with an endearing kind of sheepishness that kept the corners of Rosie’s mouth lifted upwards, “but I gotta ask about the accent. I wanna say British but I don’t want to come across like a stereotypically ignorant American if I’m wrong.”

“Oh it’s okay,” Rosie chuckled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “you’re only the third person to ask me today.”

Chris could tell from the sparkle in her eye and the smirk on her lips that she meant no malice in her reply and made an exaggerated cringing grimace in return.

“God, I know. I’m sorry. You must get sick of it.”

“I mean, if I had a dollar for every time someone asked I’d be a very rich lady, but yeah, your ears don’t deceive you, I’m British. Actually from Exeter in Devon specifically, which is like South West England and now I realise that that probably means nothing to you,” she laughed as she caught the slightly vacant expression that had graced his features while she had been explaining her place of birth.

“I know, I’m sorry. I guess I really am a stereotypical ignorant American.”

Rosie responded with a gentle shake of her head as she spoke, “Nah, I wouldn’t say so. I couldn’t tell you the first thing about the rest of the States, it took me longer than I care to admit to just not get lost going two or three blocks down.”

Chris smiled, both at her kindness and the gentle lilt of her accent. “So are you here visiting, or?”

Rosie shook her head again, the auburn waves shaking and falling about her face in a way that had Chris’s smile doubling.

“Well, I’m visiting Manhattan, but I live in the city, been here coming up five years now.”

“Yeah? And you like it?”

Rosie’s smile sparked at the corner of her mouth until it spread like wildfire and lit up the whole of her face. Chris couldn’t help but notice how beautiful it made her look, that kind of smile that was so undeniably authentic and genuine and yet so incredibly rare in a city as big as New York; but there it was, right in front of him and warm like sunshine.

“I love it here,” the affection in her voice clear as day. “It’s so different from anything back home and in the best possible way.”

Chris got the impression from her seemingly deliberate choice of words that there was a story there, but the classic literature aisle didn’t really seem like the time and place to get into it with someone he’d just met, nor did he want to assume that she would even offer that tale to him freely. Instead, he took the book out from under his arm and held it out to her.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take this home with you?”

“I’m positive. ‘Live in the needs of the day’ as Tolstoy would say and I don’t really need that book. I’m sure you’ll give it a wonderful home.”

She met his eyes briefly, her stomach flip-flopping at the softness she found there, and gave him a warm smile that matched the one he was wearing. Chris wasn’t sure what had made him feel so bold. Perhaps it was the feeling of being so completely at ease with her, despite not even knowing her name and despite having known her for a mere five minutes, or perhaps it was the gentleness in her eyes. He didn’t spend too much of his time thinking about it as the words were out of his mouth before he could second guess them.

“At least let me buy you a coffee as a thank you.”

“Do you buy all the women you meet in bookshops coffee?” Rosie quipped without missing a beat.

“Damn, you caught me.”

Rosie laughed, easy and free with her head tipped back and Chris knew in that moment that he needed this woman in his life in some way, the sound bright and rich like the first sip of coffee in the morning or the first rays of summer sunshine filtering through curtains. He was still surveying her with an easy grin as she shuffled on her feet slightly, deciding whether she was going to let her head or her heart reign supreme today.

“I don’t usually make a habit of getting coffee with strangers,” the small smile still playing on her lips despite the tentative nature of her words.

Chris instinctively offered his hand out for her to shake.

“Well, I’m Christopher and you are?”

Rosie placed her hand in his, the smile on her face doubling in size at his kindness as she shook his hand, and tried to ignore the way her heart started to race at how warm and easy his touch felt.

“Rosie, or Roseanna if we’re using our Sunday names.”

“Nice to meet you, Rosie,” Chris said, his tone gentler than was probably necessary in the moment but it had Rosie feeling more relaxed in his presence by the second. “See, we’re not strangers anymore.”

“No, I don’t suppose we are. Alright then, Christopher, I accept your proposal of coffee and if you turn out to be an axe murderer then I hope you enjoy the book.”

It wasn’t very often that Rosie let curiosity get the better of her but there was something telling her to surrender to this moment in front of her, to let her heart win for once and throw caution to the wind. There was something about Chris and his aura that made it incredibly easy to ignore that prudent and wary voice in the back of her head that would usually call for rational and cautious thinking in situations such as this one, the voice that is often nurtured during childhood by parents and adults alike to help keep you safe from harm, the voice that would warn you about the dangers of strangers. Chris was a stranger, this was, of course, an undisputed fact, but Rosie didn’t feel like she was in any danger with this man. She guessed that it had an awful lot to do with the genuine warmth that seemed to radiate from him that made her feel less like she was with a someone she’d just met in a book shop and more like she was catching up with an old friend. It was incredibly rare that she felt so at ease with someone, let alone a man she knew nothing about except for his name, but she’d grow to learn that that was just the magic of Chris, his sincerity and kindness always radiating from him like the glow of an open fire on a cold winter’s night.

“I can say with absolute certainty that I’m not an axe murderer,” he grinned. “But if it would make you feel better I was planning on taking you to Irving Farm, y’know, so you can check in with someone if you wanted.”

That simple gesture alone told Rosie all she needed to know about Chris, the fact he was so cognizant of how a woman might be feeling going to get coffee with a man she’d just met. It was that thoughtfulness and that tingle of curiosity and wonder that had her following him to the counter and waiting as he paid for his book before they both ventured back out into the chilly air and towards the café. Making small talk on the short walk there was incredibly easy, the effortless nature of their conversation not lost on either of them and as they sat down opposite each other in a quiet corner of the shop, shedding their coats and scarves, Chris took the opportunity to really appreciate the beauty of the woman in front of him.

She was classically pretty, he thought, with her auburn locks freed from the confines of the scarf she had been wearing and the slight ruddiness to her cheeks from the way the cold air had kissed them during their short walk. But more than that, it was the way her presence seemed to uplift him in a way he hadn’t ever experienced before. Chris was an incredibly practical and logical man and the idea of kindred spirits wasn’t something that he subscribed to, but there was just something about Rosie. It was a sense of familiarity and a feeling often only felt between two people who had known each other for years. It was a feeling that, unbeknownst to him, Rosie shared too, not quite being able to remember a time where she was able to enthusiastically discuss literature at such great lengths with someone.

“So come on,” Chris said over his cup of coffee after they’d settled at a table in a quiet corner of the café. “You were able to quote Anna Karenina from memory, is there a particular reason for that or have I managed to find an even bigger book nerd than I am?”

Rosie smirked as she took a sip from her cup, eyes sparkling as she surveyed Chris. “I am a pretty big book nerd, but no, I actually teach literature.”

Chris’s eyebrows raised as an impressed little smirk pulled the corner of his lips upwards. He set his cup down and clasped his hands in front of him on the table.

“Forgive me for being bold here and by all means tell me to mind my own damn business, but what exactly makes a British literature teacher cross an ocean and put roots down in New York City?”

Rosie paused for a moment, chewing over her words in her mind.

“A vague sense of wanderlust, I guess,” she began carefully. “I don’t know, there was just… a lot of stuff that happened in my life and it felt like a good time for a fresh start while I was still young enough and brave enough to do it.”

“I’m sorry if that was too personal,” Chris looked at her apologetically, the slight flicker of sadness that had appeared in her eyes too prominent to ignore. “I didn’t mean to bring any painful memories back for you by prying.”

“It’s absolutely fine. All the diversity, all the charm and all the beauty of life are made up of light and shade, right?”

“You really love that book, don’t you?” Chris asked her softly, recognising the quote from the book currently sitting in the brown paper bag by his feet immediately, and with a gleam in his eye.

“It’s one of my favourites,” Rosie replied. “It’s probably up there with Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, Pride and Prejudice and For Whom the Bell Tolls.”

“You like Hemingway?” Chris’s eyes crinkled with his grin and shone with excitement as she nodded in agreement. “I love Hemingway,” he added. “He’s easily my favourite author.”

Rosie leaned forward in her seat and rested her arms on the table with her cup still cradled in her hands, Chris mirroring her action, like two school children about to share a secret.

“I love the beautiful simplicity of his writing. It’s direct but without losing any of the emotion or feeling. Like, don’t get me wrong, Russian literature and authors like Tolkien are wonderful and they certainly have their part to play, but sometimes there’s just no need for pages and pages just to get a point across. That’s the beauty of Hemingway, the straightforwardness of it.”

“Yes!” Chris exclaimed, his face lighting up. “That’s exactly it. Take The Old Man and the Sea as an example, that book is what? Twenty-seven thousand words? But the feeling and the message that he’s able to get across, it’s amazing. God, I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve read that book.”

“A favourite of yours, then?”

Chris nodded as he picked up his mug. “Without a doubt, followed closely by For Whom the Bell Tolls and An Immovable Feast.”

He punctuated his statement with a wink and a smile, savouring the way Rosie’s face would ignite with pure joy as she laughed.

“Perhaps we should compare notes,” she mused behind her coffee.

“Is that you saying you wanna meet up again?” Chris asked, a cocky grin on his face.

“What if it is?” She countered quickly, a twinkle in her eye that had Chris’s heart thundering in his chest.

“Then I think you’d better take my number.”

 *

The weeks passed and autumn collapsed into winter, the first frosts clinging to everything and covering the city in opaline glitter. Rosie’s schedule had begun to slow following the initial insanity of the beginning of the academic year as things started to wind down for the holidays. She’d spent a lot of her free time preparing for her annual trip home to England to spend Christmas with her family, something that she looked forward to all year. Whatever time was left was spent reading or catching up with Chris, who had been equally busy with his work as a professional hockey player. He’d mentioned this to her briefly and in passing during their phone calls, which certainly explained why his schedule was often so all over the place, but the concept was so alien to Rosie that she didn’t feel the need to pry further. Growing up in Devon meant that her exposure to a sport like ice hockey was next to nothing, her knowledge extending as far as movies such as The Mighty Ducks would afford. In fact, when she thought about it, she didn’t know anybody who played sports professionally in any capacity and so while she was intrigued by Chris and the story behind how he came to be in such a career in a city like New York (knowing him to be from Massachusetts originally), she also knew that he was so much more than all of the stereotypes she’d heard associated with professional athletes.

He wasn’t a big, dumb jock, far from it actually. Chris was incredibly intelligent, philosophical in ways she admired so much but with an endearing and quick sense of humour. His thirst for knowledge and appreciation for the world around him was unlike any she’d ever seen and it somehow made him more handsome than any of his classically good-looking physical features. There was an intrigue, of course, surrounding him and his job, but Rosie also knew that he would offer that part of himself to her in time and when he felt most comfortable doing so. She imagined that he didn’t always get to have the luxury of authentic meetings with people who didn’t already know about him and his job, and for all the lovely moments he’d already given her in their growing friendship, she wanted to pay him back in kind by not forcing anything on him that he wasn’t yet ready to talk about.

It was incredible really, how easy it was for her to fall into friendship with Chris, made only easier with each discovery of a new shared interest. Their texts would often consist of them sending things the other might find interesting such as a new book or a new song to listen to. Hearing from him was something that she found herself looking forward to, especially appreciating when he would take time out of his day while he was away from home to check in with her and catch up.

As the end of the semester creeped closer, Rosie found herself surrounded by gifts she had already wrapped ahead of her trip home and a small pile of clothes, the open suitcase on the bed still empty despite her best intentions. She always found packing incredibly dull (although admittedly not as bad as unpacking once she returned to New York) and would often preoccupy herself with anything and everything to avoid doing it, which always resulted in a stressful last-minute packing situation that she was keen to avoid this year. She stood with her hands on her hips as she surveyed the situation in front of her, deciding the best way in which to go about organising her suitcase, when her phone vibrated against her dressing table. Unable to contain the flicker of a smile that tugged at her mouth as she saw the Caller ID flash with Chris’s name, she answered.

“Hey, you.”

She could hear what sounded like a group of very rowdy men in the background in what she could only assume was a bar.

“I need you to help settle a debate.”

Rosie smiled as she cradled her phone between her cheek and her shoulder, using her free hands to pick up a pair of jeans and place them into the suitcase.

“Sounds serious.”

“Oh it is and we’re at a deadlock over here so your opinion decides it, I hope you can handle that kind of pressure,” Chris teased.

“Oh, Christopher, I was born ready.”

“Alright, but this is like legit serious stuff.”

“Out with it, Chris,” Rosie laughed.

“Crunchy or smooth?”

“Excuse me?” Rosie asked with an incredulous look on her face that she knew Chris would’ve laughed at had he been able to see her.

“Peanut butter,” he clarified. “Crunchy or smooth?”

“Wow,” Rosie deadpanned. “And here I was thinking you were about to ask me something incredibly philosophical.”

“Oh come on, Ro, don’t leave me hanging here.”

“I suppose if I had to choose, I’d probably go with smooth.”

“Ha!” Chris exclaimed, causing Rosie to jump. “She said smooth, looks like you’re the one with the weird peanut butter preferences, Foxy.”

Rosie furrowed her brow at the incoherent shouting and cheering in the background as she put more clothes into her suitcase.

“I’m so confused right now.”

She listened as the sound of raucous chatter faded into a faint buzz and Chris’s voice came back through the speaker clearer yet softer than it had been before.

“Sorry about that, the guys can get a little excitable sometimes.”

“Rookies had too many beers?”

“Yeah,” Chris breathed. “Something like that. How’re you doin’ anyway? Things settled for you at work?”

“Yeah,” she replied softly, perching herself on the edge of her bed, careful not to knock any of the small wrapped packages onto the floor. “I got all of those papers turned round and the results were actually kind of encouraging, which was nice.”

“That’s probably because they’ve got a good teacher.”

“Oh my god, stop,” Rosie blushed, thankful that he couldn’t see the interesting shade of pink her face had turned.

Chris’s reply was unexpected, somehow managing to knock her back a bit with the sincerity and softness in his tone that seemed more intimate than perhaps their current level of friendship afforded.

“I mean it, Ro. I know you know your stuff. They’re lucky to have someone like you teaching them.”

His words hung in the air around Rosie for a few seconds while she processed them, or rather, while she started to analyse the tenderness in his tone that she was sure she hadn’t imagined. He didn’t give her too long to get lost in it though as he was speaking again before she had a chance to truly unpack her thoughts.

“So things have settled down for you, yeah?”

“Um, yeah.. Yeah. I’ve just been packing for my trip back home,” Rosie replied, picking up one of the small gift-wrapped boxes and examining it for no particular reason.

“Right, of course. When is it you fly?”

“December twenty-first, fly back into JFK on the fourth of January.”

“I’ll be in California when you get back,” he said, a hint of disappointment in his voice. “But it’d be great to see you before you go to England. Maybe dinner or coffee?”

“That would be really nice, Chris,” the smile evident in her voice to Chris even through the phone.

“Great, we’ll arrange something once I’m back in the city at the end of the week.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Chris hesitated, not quite ready to say goodbye but knowing that he should probably get back to the others and leave Rosie to the rest of her evening. He knew he had to though, even if it did make his chest ache for reasons he didn’t quite understand.

“I’ll let you get on with your packing,” he half-sighed.

“Please don’t feel like you need to,” Rosie replied with the faintest hint of a plea.

“I do because if I don’t you’ll never finish packing your suitcase.”

There it was, that easy teasing that had become a defining feature of their friendship in just the few weeks they’d known each other and had managed to shift the atmosphere between them from something that neither could quite put their finger on to one that was much more playful and familiar.

Rosie groaned exaggeratedly, earning her a hearty chuckle from Chris.

“But I hate packing,” she whined.

“Welcome to being an adult, suck it up, Buttercup.”

“You’re mean.”

Despite her words, Chris knew that there was no truth in them and he also knew that she herself didn’t believe them, which made the playful back-and-forth banter between the two of them come easily.

“No, I’m Chris.”

“Oh my god!” Rosie laughed, exasperated. “I’m hanging up now, goodbye!”

Chris’s rich chuckle was the last thing she heard before she ended the call and tossed her phone onto her pillows, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of his humour before turning her attention back to the pile of clothes by her suitcase.

 *

Christmas went as quickly as it came, passing in such a blur that it had Rosie questioning if she’d had any time off at all. It didn’t take her long to settle back into the groove of things though, it never did, and by the time the frosts of winter began to thaw, the warm glow of the festive season was nothing more than a cheerful memory. Much like the first beautiful petals of spring, Chris and Rosie’s friendship continued to blossom.

Rosie would have been lying if she said that she didn’t wish their schedules would match up more. A particularly busy January for Chris meant that they hadn’t had chance to meet since just before Christmas and it had Rosie wondering just what exactly Chris’s job entailed. It wasn’t really something that had come up during their phone calls and it was something that she felt deserved to be done face-to-face rather than over a text message, because truth be told, she didn’t have the first idea when it came to ice hockey. Keen to know more about the man that was fast becoming somebody she considered to be a close friend, she resolved to ask him the next time they met for coffee.

“So are you ever going to tell me about this big, shiny career of yours or am I supposed to just keep thinking you’re some James Bond of professional hockey,” she mused as she broke off a piece of blueberry muffin and popped it into her mouth.

Chris blushed slightly as he took a drawn out sip of coffee.

“I mean, yeah, sure. What do you wanna know?”

He set his cup down and clasped his hands on the table in front of him, the flicker of nervousness extinguished quickly by the kindness that rested within her eyes.

“Well,” she started. “I believe I’ve mentioned before that the only hockey I knew of before meeting you was the field hockey they made us play at secondary school. So, everything I guess? Oh, and I’m going to need you to explain like I’m five.”

Chris couldn’t help but chuckle at the good-natured smirk on her face and ran a hand along the stubble at his jaw.

“Alright, well. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to start from the top. I played hockey in high school, then went to Boston College, they have a really good collegiate hockey programme there and it’s a good school to boot. I got drafted in 2009 by the New York Rangers then I signed my first contract with them in 2012, been here ever since.”

“So you must be bloody good at hockey then,” Rosie said after swallowing her coffee which made the pink tinge to Chris’s cheeks even more prominent.

“I mean, I’m not terrible.”

Rosie grinned at him and at his humility which she had come to know as being one of Chris’s prominent traits. “And your schedule? I know it’s a bit mental but what does an average day look like for you?”

“That depends,” Chris replied. “Are we talking an off-day? Game day? Away trip?”

“All of the above?” Rosie laughed.

“My days off I still like to get a work-out in, even if it’s just a small one. But other than that? I don’t know, maybe meet incredible women from Devon in bookshops?”

It was Rosie’s turn to have her cheeks flush, especially with the way Chris was looking at her with an unreadable look in his eyes. Chris continued though, despite the thundering in his chest at how beautiful she looked in that moment.

“Game days I’ll usually get up, go to practice. I try and take a nap in the afternoon before I have to go down to the Garden to get ready for the game and it’s much the same if I’m away on the road. We usually practice before we travel to wherever it is we’re headed.”

“That sounds incredibly full-on.”

“It is,” Chris agreed. “But it really makes you appreciate the time at home and the moments of stillness. Why’d you think I love getting lost in a good book so much?”

“Because, in the words of Dr Seuss, ‘the more you read, the more things you’ll know. The more you learn, the more places you’ll go.’”

Chris looked at her softly, a warm smile on his face. “Spoken like a true teacher.”

“So come on then,” she blushed, steering the conversation away from herself and back to him. “You went to Boston College, right? What did you end up studying?”

“Communications,” Chris said as he finished taking a sip of coffee. “I uh, it was really important to my mom for me to finish my degree so I kept plugging away at it even after I went pro.”

“Wow,” Rosie looked at him, clearly impressed. “That’s incredible, Chris. I mean, getting a degree is a hard enough slog when you’re doing it full time, but to do it while you’re travelling here there and everywhere? That’s no easy feat.”

It was Chris’s turn to blush now, too humble and too modest to be able to accept the praise Rosie was giving him.

“I knew how much it meant to my mom and I just wanted to make her happy, that and I was too stubborn to not finish something I’d started.”

“Your birthday is the end of April, right?” She said rather suddenly but as if something had clicked in the back of her mind.

“Yeah, April 30th. Why? You been googling me?”

“Oh it’s nothing really,” she said quickly, face flushing and suddenly aware of how stupid it would sound to him if she actually said it out loud. “And for the record, I haven’t googled you, I just remembered you mentioning your birthday last time we met up.”

“Nah, you can’t just do that,” he chuckled softly. “Come on, what were you gonna say?”

“Well,” she started, her fingers and eyes finding the coffee cup in front of her, anything to avoid the part where he looked at her like she was mad. “I was just gonna say that you really are a typical Taurus.”

Chris leaned forward in his seat, hands settling just shy of hers but the almost contact enough to make her skin spark.

“That so?” he mused. “You big into your astrology?”

“No, well yes, sort of,” she rushed and Chris could tell that she was almost ashamed of the admission. “I don’t read magazine horoscopes or anything like that because they really are a load of bollocks. But natal charts and stuff like that? I find them totally fascinating. I um, I’m kind of into crystal healing, I sage my apartment, I know it’s nuts.”

“No it’s not,” Chris took her hand then, the need to reassure her and ground her in a moment where she felt vulnerable and exposed. “Is it something that I believe in personally? No, not really. But truthfully I don’t know anything about it either. If it makes you happy then it really doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. Maybe you could tell me more about it over dinner or something?”

Rosie looked at him thoughtfully, so appreciative of him in that moment and that ineffable gift of his to make her feel valued and listened to. It was that and all the other wonderful little facets of himself that he was showing her that had her agreeing to his proposal of dinner. She thought about the level of bravery that it must have taken for him to talk about that other side of his life, the side that she knew nothing about, no matter how small or trifling it might have seemed to anyone else. While she might not have had the first clue when it came to the sport or could even truly comprehend what Chris’s life was like, she understood that it must be incredibly difficult for somebody in his situation to forge true and meaningful relationships with people, friendly or otherwise, because when it feels like someone you have just met thinks they already know everything about you, it’s incredibly hard to let the guard come down and let people get close. That is what Chris appreciated the most about Rosie, though, the fact that she hadn’t the faintest idea who number 20 of the New York Rangers was. Every conversation they’d ever shared and every question she’d ever asked came from a genuine and altruistic desire to get to know him better. Even now, as she encouraged him to share that other part of him, that so many others defined him by, it came only from a place of pure and innocent curiosity. She asked about his job much in the same way she would ask an accountant or doctor about theirs.

Being able to have that conversation with her about his life and his job only served to strengthen the bond that they shared and he was incredibly thankful for Rosie’s understanding and willingness to fit her schedule and life around his. As the months passed and summer fast approached, Chris found himself for the first time reluctant to escape the stifling heat of the city after the season had ended. He was enjoying being able to spend more time with Rosie now that the school year had come to a close and he was shocked to learn that even after living in the city for close to six years at that point, she still hadn’t explored all of Manhattan. Their days were filled with walks around the West Village, Midtown or Tribeca and having lunches at tiny hole-in-the wall cafés where they would show each other the books they had picked up in whatever shop they’d found themselves in that morning.

It was that time shared together that made it incredibly easy for Rosie to become a stable fixture in Chris’s life with evenings spent at each other’s apartments having dinner and sharing wine. Rosie had learned quickly that Chris was a capable cook and Chris loved nothing more than when Rosie would cook pasta for him, even if it wasn’t exactly his nutritionist’s dream. It was easy to relax in that kind of way around her, forgetting the strict food regime every once in a while to really savour the beef ragu she made that he loved so much, always washed down with a couple of bottles of Sangiovese shared between them and finished with a homemade tiramisu. It was wholesome, much like she was with the softness of her curves and her insouciant attitude when it came to her looks. That was not to say that she didn’t make an effort, that wasn’t the case at all, for she would always look so put together and incredibly beautiful whenever Chris would see her, but she was the kind of woman who wouldn’t think twice about letting herself indulge in a slice of cake with her coffee or get too hung up on the calorie content of a pasta carbonara, which was a quality that Chris found to be both incredibly refreshing and endearing.

The natural quality of their relationship should have made it incredibly easy for Rosie to give in to those feelings she found beginning to settle in her chest. Chris was a wonderful man, that much was undeniably true and it should have been simple to confront the ache she felt whenever he went away. But if there was one thing Rosie had learned in her life, it was that if you expect too much, if you put people on pedestals that were too high, you would find yourself being disappointed. That was a simple fact of life. People were just that, people, capable of making mistakes. They were not divine beings, no matter how much we saw them as such through our own eyes. It was that idea alone that startled her; that a man such as Chris could be capable of disappointing her by the pure reasoning of the human condition and that was a thought that she couldn’t bear. So she pushed it down, down and down until it was quieter than a whisper. But even whispers can’t be ignored forever, and so with each comment from Chris’s friends about how happy he was since meeting her or each time her skin would spark at the feeling of his hand on the small of her back, the whisper grew, growing and growing with every team event she attended on his arm or every party he asked her along to, until it was a shout.

Relationships had never been something to come easy to Chris, he was too careful and too private; the gnawing feeling in his stomach that told him there was always some ulterior motive was often too arresting to ignore. It should have frightened him, the way Rosie came into his life and smashed through every wall he’d ever built without even doing much at all, but it didn’t. Rather than look at all the bricks and the rubble and be unnerved by the ease in which she was able to coax his vulnerability out of him, he found himself inspired, determined even, to build something truly beautiful with her. Chris knew that he would have to find a way to navigate these feelings with her, cognizant of the need to not throw her into the deep end and shock her system. Rosie deserved better than that because this wasn’t just about him and his feelings, it was about them and their relationship, what it was now and what it could be.

She was brilliant, in every way a person could be, beautiful and with a passion that glowed like the fiery tresses of her hair under a New York sunset. She was bold and sharp as a tack, keeping him on his toes in a way that no one else had ever been able to and he was sure that no one else would ever again. It was late night conversations where they were three bottles of wine deep talking about philosophy and ethics or her reading silently while he played guitar, it was listening to Pearl Jam with her whenever she cooked or Billy Joel when they were curled up together on the sofa, debating whether Radiohead or Nirvana was more influential in the grunge music scene. Hell, it was even looking up his birth chart, even though he didn’t believe in astrology, because there was just something about the way she said ‘You’re such a typical Sagittarius moon.’ Her warmth and her kindness always managed to ground him in moments where he would feel himself slipping, as sure as the moon rises and sets each night, especially once the season had restarted and those niggling insecurities would rear up and settle heavily in his chest, and yet he could tell that she never really knew the exact power that she held. She had his heart completely, whether she was aware of it or not and that was something that Chris hoped would never change. She’d slotted into his life like she had always belonged there, like she had always been there and that feeling only seemed to grow inside of Chris with every dinner they shared with his friends and every time he would see her face in the stands of MSG.

*

The week before Christmas brought an uncharacteristically early winter storm to New York unlike any Chris had ever seen throughout his whole time living there, forcing the city to a standstill and grounding flights, which meant that for the first time since moving to the States, Rosie wasn’t going to be home for Christmas. The idea of her spending the holiday alone in her apartment made Chris’s heart ache and so that was how Rosie ended up in his Tribeca apartment on Christmas Eve, bundled up with him on the sofa under a blanket, each with a mug of homemade mulled wine. The Muppet’s A Christmas Carol played quietly through the tv, one of Rosie’s Christmas Eve traditions that he would never dream of denying her, although, no matter what he would later admit to, he spent more time observing the gentle expression on her face as she got lost in the nostalgia of it all than he did actually paying attention to the screen. She felt him though, not even needing to take her eyes off the movie to know that he was watching her.

“You’re missing all the good bits,” she smirked.

“It’s okay, I’ve read the book. I know what happens.”

There was a slight grit to his tone that Rosie couldn’t quite place but crawled under her skin and kindled a small flame in her stomach all the same.

“But there were no Muppets in the book.” She turned to face him then and took in the expression within his eyes, darker than she’d ever seen them before. “Kermit really brings Dickens’ story to life.”

“I mean, Beaker steals it for me but we’ll agree to disagree.”

The air thickened around them and Rosie took a long sip of her wine, longer than perhaps she should have, but she needed to swallow away the tightness in her throat from the way Chris was looking at her. Like planets to a sun, Rosie found herself drawn to him, suddenly feeling him everywhere despite the fact they were at opposite ends of his couch. It was that gravity that had her shuffling towards him, crawling into his space in the same way she had crawled into his heart. He was warm, she thought, comfortingly so and the worn hoody on his body felt soft and had the familiar, soothing scent that was so uniquely Chris. Perhaps that is what had her curling into his side and resting her head on his shoulder and perhaps that new-found closeness was what had him pressing his lips into her hair.

There was no way either of them could deny what this was between them, the spark too bright to ignore. Rosie knew that they weren’t just friends, she knew that and she knew that Chris felt it too, that was why his face was turned towards hers, his lips impossibly close so that all she needed to do was tilt her head and give in to what her heart was crying out for. But her head was a cruel mistress indeed and it was that irrational but crippling fear of eventual disappointment that made her clear her throat and scoot back a shade, giving herself some much needed breathing room.

Chris exhaled quietly, the deflation leaving him on the breath. It was almost frustrating how close they were, the finish line within touching distance and yet they always seemed to stop short of it. Chris was there, he was there waiting and willing her to take those last few steps and cross it with him but he knew that he couldn’t force this, nor did he want to either. She had to want it for herself and Chris knew, as he looked at her sitting there chewing on her bottom lip with her brows knitted together in pensive thought, that she was worth the wait, even if it took a lifetime.

The post-holiday back to work rush was one that was felt universally. Those first few weeks always seemed to feel as though there was never enough hours in the day to get everything done and it was no different for Chris and Rosie, both caught up in their jobs to really sit and digest the moment between them at Christmas. Christmas Day had been incredibly busy with Chris hosting a couple of the younger players for dinner and no sooner had the festivities ended he was packing a bag ready to depart for Washington the following morning. They both knew that they had a lot of things to discuss, because that’s what adults did, they talked about their feelings in a healthy and open way, but as the busy-ness of their schedules ramped up, the hours slipped away and turned into days. Days spanned into weeks and weeks turned into months and before either of them knew it, the moment seemed so distant in the rear-view mirror, that it almost felt weird to bring it back up.

 *

The hockey season ended for Chris some time during May, the Rangers making it as far as the second round of the playoffs but unable to close it out after seven hard fought games. The disappointment sat heavy in his chest, much like it always did after losses like these, but he would have been a fool not to notice the way that it didn’t hang all about him in the way it had previous years. Of course, the wound still cut deep but without the festering ache of poison and he knew the antidote was the woman who had swept into his life nearly two years prior. 

It was remarkable really, how she came into his world like that. It was an event that Chris had always described as being purely serendipitous but the longer he spent with Rosie, the more he began to wonder if there was something else at play, hell, even fate perhaps. He had prided himself on being a shrewd man, his practicality something that had always defined him and guided his thoughts and actions, but whenever he thought about them and their relationship, he had to believe that it was more than just some happy accident. Rosie was pure magic, in every sense of the word, always having an uncanny ability to know what he needed before he even did and making him relax in ways he had never previously allowed himself to. It was cliché to say, but Chris genuinely believed that he had never lived until he met her and slowly, over the course of the last year, maybe even longer, the love songs on the radio made a little bit more sense and every love story he’d ever read sat a little bit differently in his heart. He knew that he was going to have to find a way to truly make her his, because despite all of the times where he felt like he could’ve just grabbed her face and kissed her, despite all of the unspoken feelings that had surfaced at Christmas, and despite the fact that they hadn’t yet managed to talk about them, the dynamic between them both after their almost kiss hadn’t changed at all except in the small way that he found himself having to stop himself from holding her in the way that he wanted to more often than not.

He thought about the one night she’d almost burst with excitement over their dinner at her apartment when he told her he had finally sat down and read Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, remembering the wind-scattered waves in her eyes and so sure that if anyone was brave enough to enter their depths, all else would blur and they would fall so deeply in love that they’d choose to stay there, no matter what, because he knew for certain that he had befallen that very fate. He recalled thinking that if that was the last thing he was to ever see, he would surely die a happy man. She had recited her favourite quote to him that he thought to be beautiful at the time but now hitting him like a freight train and knocking all of the wind out of his sails. It crawled through his skin and into his veins until he felt it coursing through his body until it had made a home within his very soul:

‘Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every part of your body… for that is just being in love, which any of us can convince ourselves that we are. Love itself is what is left over, when being in love has burned away.’

It was those words that had his feet carrying him to his car and those words that had him driving from his apartment to her home in Brooklyn and it was those words that had him standing outside of her front door ready to offer his heart to her. He knocked, more out of habit than anything, the key she had given him a few months ago being turned over between his fingers as he waited and the anxiety beginning to rise with each second that passed without her appearing at the door. He exhaled before finally putting the key into the lock, certain that she was home despite the fact that his visit was unplanned and unannounced.

“Rosie?” he called out into the hallway. “Are you there?”

The silence was unsettling and completely uncharacteristic, made worse by the fact that her car was parked outside in its usual spot and the fact that he could’ve sworn she’d mentioned during their phone call the night before that she was planning on having a day at home to do laundry and catch up on all of those less-important chores she didn’t have the time to do during the school year. 

‘Maybe she’s not home after all’, he thought after a couple of minutes without a reply, more to soothe his own anxiety more than anything else. ‘She’s obviously decided to go out for a walk somewhere. That must be it.’ He was just about to turn away and leave, suddenly aware of how intrusive his presence in her home was when she clearly wasn’t there, when he was certain he heard her voice call his name.

“Rosie?”

A sob drifted down the hallway, muted but no less full of raw pain and anguish that had his legs carrying him towards the sound in big, long strides until it brought him to her bedroom where the door stood slightly ajar. He slowly pushed it open with an exhale of a breath he hadn’t felt being held within his lungs and his heart lurched at the sight of her curled up on her bed sobbing into her pillow. To go to her was instinctive, his soul called out to hers in a desperate attempt to soothe whatever pain she was in and he found himself kneeling at the side of her bed with his long fingers smoothing back the titian strands that had fallen into her face and clung to her tears.

“Ro, what happened?”

She didn’t answer him, couldn’t answer him, in fact, and so he moved onto the bed, gathering her up into his arms and held her close to his chest while he rubbed circles on her back, murmuring softly into her hair to try and still her sobs. He felt the way she clung on to him like she was drowning and he was the life-preserver and pressed gentle kisses against her forehead until her crying was no more than quiet sniffles.

“Rosie, sweetheart, talk to me. What happened? Are you okay?”

“My grandma,” she choked out against the fabric of his t-shirt. “My grandma died.”

Chris closed his eyes and exhaled as the second wave of tears took her, holding her steadfast against him and saying nothing other than reassuring her that he was there for her. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that for, with her still impossibly close to him long after she’d finished crying herself hollow, until after the tears had dried and all that was left was the crippling deadweight of grief. It was Chris that spoke out into the new but deafening silence, his voice barely audible and a little rough from his own emotion that sat threateningly high in his throat.

“I’m so sorry, Rosie…”

The tiny exhale that passed Rosie’s lips had Chris’s heart breaking in two for her. Her reply small and full of defeat. “She’d had dementia for a while… Didn’t really know who any of us were,” she sniffled, dangerously close to losing it again. “Every time I went back home it was like she had to learn who I was all over again. I know that this was the kindest thing to happen but-”

Chris kissed her forehead as she choked back a sob, a wordless assurance that she didn’t need to say another word and a quiet understanding of the pain and emptiness that she was drowning in. 

“When are you flying home?” He murmured softly.

“I’m going to try and get a flight home for tomorrow, Thursday at the latest.”

“It’s gonna be expensive to try and get something that short notice, Ro.”

“That’s why I have savings,” Rosie gave a small, almost robotic shrug as she wiped her face, the emotion quickly being forced back down into her stomach as she turned her focus towards the things that she could control to keep herself from spiralling into hysterics again. “In case of an emergency.”

“Let me pay for your flight home,” Chris offered. “Please, it’s the least I can do.”

“You know I can’t accept that, honey.”

Chris had been friends with Rosie long enough to be familiar with the fact she often used terms of endearment whenever she was talking to him, but even now, especially now, with all those feelings of complete clarity about her and about them and their relationship that sat in his chest, it still managed to knock him back a bit and make his heart swell even in a moment as awful as this one. 

“Why not?”

He knew that this was a situation where he shouldn’t push too hard, that she would either pull away from him or direct all of that grief and emotion his way, like a cornered animal seconds away from deciding whether to fight or bolt. He knew he shouldn’t push this but he needed to do something, the overwhelming demand coming from his heart to make this right and fix this for her too much to ignore.

“Because I’m not your problem, Chris,” Rosie said, completely deflated. “Because this doesn’t need to be your problem.”

“I want to help, Ro, please. Please let me help. Please let me help fix this.” He was pleading with her and while a part of Rosie understood his desire to make this better for her, the swirling hurricane of emotions inside of her was reaching a fever pitch and, unable to make sense of it all, she found herself directing her howling gales towards the one thing she should have been holding on to.

“This isn’t something you can fix, Chris! You can’t fix this, you can’t make this right and you can’t bring her back!”

She stood with her fists balled tightly, the pain on her face as she sobbed and the realisation that she was right cutting through Chris like a knife. He had never been one to lose his nerve in a crisis, always the dependable one, always the stoic one. He was the guy people could rely on when things were shitty and it was something he prided himself on, but seeing her in front of him, shattered and in agony, knowing that he would have to sit this one out until she’d had a chance to process everything, left him feeling weak and powerless.

He watched her in stunned silence, unable to articulate feelings that he couldn’t make sense of. She was standing no more than three meters away from him but the distance between them felt like it stretched light-years. He couldn’t let her go to England with that hanging between the two of them, that ocean that would separate them felt like she would slip into another universe entirely and leave him with too much uncertainty about how things would be once she got back to New York. She didn’t give him a choice, though, her voice sounding abstract and unlike her own as she spoke into the void between them.

“I’m sorry, I just… I think I need to be alone right now. I need to wrap my head around this and it,” she paused for a moment, a shaky sigh filling the space. “It’s not fair on you for me to throw my emotions at you like this.”

“Rosie,” he spoke her name like a prayer, an oblique supplication that she heard but couldn’t accept.

“Please, Christopher. I know that you just want to help and, Christ, I appreciate you so much but I can’t accept your money, that’s just not my way, and I need to process this in my own way. I promise you though, I’ll let you know when I’m leaving for the UK and I swear that I’ll keep in touch.”

He hated it, all of it, but he loved her and he knew that she needed this, no matter how much it killed him to have to let her do things her own way. So that’s how he found himself nodding and respecting her request before folding her into his arms and pressing a kiss to her temple that he hoped would convey all of the affection and love that he held for her. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to cry as he drove back to his apartment and prayed to whoever was listening that she would be okay and that they would be okay, because if he lost that magic, if he lost her, he would have nothing.

It was two days later when Rosie reached out to say that she was at the airport waiting for her flight back to England, those forty-eight hours without talking to her the longest he’d ever endured. She assured him that while she was still not in a great place herself, that they were okay and that she appreciated everything he had offered to do for her. The messages were shorter than Chris was used to but it did help to make that feeling of distance between them feel a little less insurmountable than before.

*

June would usually have him heading to his coastal home in Connecticut or making the trip back to Massachusetts to be with his family, but he instead found himself lingering in New York, although with Rosie in England indefinitely he wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t committed to definite summer plans. If he really thought about it, though, really gave it more than a second’s thought and was completely honest with himself, he knew that he was waiting for her. He didn’t want to go home to Boxford and for her to come back to a city without him there. He wanted to be the one to welcome her back, pick her up from the airport and wrap her up in a hug that would have her never doubting how he truly felt about her. But really, when he spent time dissecting that desire to be there for her when she got back to New York, it actually stemmed from a desire to be with her, period. That was what had him picking up the phone and scrolling through his contacts, not even giving it a second thought when he hit that ‘call’ button but the guilt instantaneous when a sleepy voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Shit, I’m sorry. I completely forgot about the time difference,” Chris exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck.

“You never call without texting first. What’s on your mind?”

Chris sighed into the receiver, using the pause to gather his thoughts into some kind of semblance of coherence rather than dumping them all out in one go.

“I don’t even fucking know anymore, Mika.”

Mika’s tone shifted as the last remnants of sleep fell away, taking on the familiar quality that seemed to be reserved only for Chris. “Did something happen between you and Rosie?”

“Not really?” Chris offered, unsure of the answer to Mika’s question himself. “It’s just… It feels wrong, all of this.”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down. What feels wrong? I thought you loved her.”

“That’s just it, Mika,” Chris exhaled. “I do, fuck, I love her so much and the fact that she’s there and I’m here-”

Chris’s deep sigh through the receiver had Mika sitting up in bed, his next words spoken with such a surety as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“So go to her.”

“What?”

Mika laughed so softly that it was barely audible, shaking his head despite Chris not being able to see him.

“Y’know, for someone so smart you really are dumb sometimes.”

“Okay, first of all, ouch,” Chris grumbled. “Second of all, rude. Thirdly, what’re you getting at exactly?”

“What I’m getting at,” groused Mika, too tired from being woken up in the wee hours of the morning to have any great level of patience. “Is that you should book a flight and get your ass to the UK.”

“Just like that? Just go?”

“Yes, Jesus, Chris. I don’t know what else you want me to say, man, it’s three in the morning here and Irma will kick my ass if I wake her up.”

“Right, yeah,” Chris mumbled, the guilt at waking up his friend rearing its head again. “Sorry, I know I shoulda thought about the time difference.”

“The only reason you have to be sorry is if you don’t pack a bag as soon as we’re done talking and go get on the next fucking plane to England.”

Chris paused, long enough to gather his thoughts but not long enough for Mika to be concerned.

“I guess I’ll let you know when I land then.”

“Give her a hug from me, Chris,” Mika said with complete sincerity.

“‘Course I will, and Mika?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks, man.”

Mika smiled into the darkness of his bedroom before answering softly, “anytime.”

 *

Chris had never been to England before and he wasn’t afraid to admit that his geography knowledge of the country was somewhat lacking, so to say that this trip was going to be a baptism of fire would have been entirely accurate. He was a confident enough driver, if he were to say so himself, but he’d have been a big fat liar (to put it in Rosie’s words) if he didn’t admit that the prospect of driving the 160 miles from London Heathrow to Exeter, on the wrong side of the road he might add, filled him with a little bit of dread. But if there was a woman worth braving the complete absurdity of a roundabout for, it was Rosie.

He couldn’t help but feel like he was going behind her back a little bit, using the excuse of wanting to send flowers to her as a means to get her parents’ address when he’d spoken to her on the phone the previous morning. He hoped that she would be able to forgive his little deception and see the purity of his intentions behind it, although he did pick up some flowers on the way to her parents’ house from the small hotel he was staying at, wanting to fulfil that part of the bargain at least. His heart thundered in his chest as he turned into a quiet residential street that the GPS was signalling as being his destination. He pulled up outside the house, checking, double checking and triple checking that he had the right address before he shut off the car engine and got out, grabbing the large bouquet of flowers off the back seat. He can’t ever remember a time that his palms were this clammy or where his legs felt like they were about to give way from under him quite like they did at that moment as he walked up the short driveway to the front door.

He rubbed his free hand on the front of his jeans, taking a settling breath before he knocked on the door, unsure of what to expect when it opened. His eyebrows raised in surprise when an older looking gentleman answered, who looked equally surprised to see a slightly dishevelled looking, six foot three stranger on his doorstep.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Chris spoke, thankful that he was at least able to find his strong voice despite the distraction of his heart hammering in his chest.

“Alright there, mate?” the man greeted, with an accent that Chris noted to be far stronger than Rosie’s. “You lost or summat?”

“I hope not,” Chris laughed more out of nerves than anything else. “I’m actually here to see Roseanna.”

He hadn’t meant to sound so unsure of himself, his statement coming out as more of a question and nothing at all like his normal confident self. The older man didn’t seem to pay too much notice to it though, instead breaking into a smile that Chris recognised as being near enough identical to Rosie’s and gestured for him to come inside the house. 

“She’s just got back from walkin’ the dog, I’ll get ‘er for you.”

Chris watched as the man disappeared the short way down the hallway and called Rosie’s name into the kitchen, unable to stop the grin from forming on his face as he heard her voice reply to the man he had assumed to be her father.

“Someone’s ‘ere to see you, love, what? No, I don’t know who he is… maybe one of your university mates,” he turned back to give Chris a friendly nod before adding, “she’ll be right with you.”

Sure enough, no sooner were the words out of his mouth did Rosie appear in the doorway at the end of the hall, all red cheeks and light freckles from the sunshine. She stopped dead in her tracks, her face switching from total surprise at the sight in front of her to overwhelming joy before finally settling on complete disbelief at the realisation that Chris was standing right in front of her in the home she grew up in. Her legs instinctively carried her into his waiting arms, tears starting to fall before she could even register what was happening. Chris was certain that he would never forget the way she held onto him in that moment, with her face buried into his chest and her arms tight around his back.

“What are you doing here?” She finally managed, bringing her teary eyes up to meet Chris’s. “How? When?”

His only response was to kiss her forehead sweetly, holding her against his body like she was about to float away.

“I wanted to be here for you. I know you have your family but, God, it just didn’t feel right to be back in New York.” He stepped back from her a fraction so that he could offer the blooms he was still holding to her. “And I believe I promised you some flowers.”

“I thought you were sorting them with a local florist not travelling across the Atlantic to hand deliver them,” she laughed through her tears, a hand coming up to whack his chest lightly. “You are completely ridiculous, Christopher James Kreider.”

“Anything to see you smile, Ro.”

He kissed her hair before taking her outstretched hand and followed her as she led him into the kitchen to meet her family for the first time.

 *

The next few days had Chris feeling a little bit like a spare part. Rosie and her family were busy with the last minute preparations for the funeral and Chris wished that he could do more to help out but, just like always, Rosie managed to allay his worries and settle his heart by assuring him that his presence alone was enough. They’d spent their free time taking in the sights of South Devon, Rosie relishing the opportunity to show him around the place she grew up and all of her favourite spots. He particularly enjoyed the day they spent down in a place called Torquay, the beauty of the ocean and the way the sun kissed her hair had him feeling bold enough to reach for her hand as they walked along the sea-front while enjoying an ice cream each.

On the day of the funeral, Chris made himself completely indispensable to Rosie and her family, nothing being too much trouble. He held Rosie tightly throughout the ceremony, never once letting her go and whispered words of comfort to her as she said her final goodbyes to the grandmother she loved so much before they exited the church. He stayed by her side throughout the wake at her request. The emotional rawness of the day had her feeling more vulnerable than she would have liked but there was something about the way Chris’s hand rested above her knee as they sat around the table that had her feeling more grounded and centred than she knew she would’ve been had he not been there. It was easy for her to go back to Chris’s hotel with him, the emotions of the day still weighed heavy on her and she couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping alone.

The gravity of those feelings wasn’t lost on Rosie and she knew that sooner or later she’d have to really take a step back and take a good look at her relationship with Chris and what it all meant. It was easier to be dishonest with herself and keep up the pretence that they were just friends because if she let herself think about them being anything else for too long she would feel her chest tighten and hear her heart start to whoosh in her ears. Was it childish? Absolutely, but she’d be damned if she let herself get hurt by a man again. Her self-preservation mechanism had been working like a charm so far and if it wasn’t broken then why fix it? It wasn’t completely infallible though and after two bottles of Chianti and the way the lamplight accentuated the softness in his eyes, Rosie found herself slipping. 

“What’s on your mind?” He whispered, fingers finding her chin to bring her thousand yard stare away from the wall and back to his searching gaze.

“Everything,” she sighed softly. “It’s loud in my head tonight.”

“Is there one thing in particular that you can pick out?”

He took the wine glass that she was cradling and set it down on the table, taking her hands in his and rubbing his thumbs gently across her knuckles.

“Not really, today has just been a lot.”

Chris nodded in understanding, not wanting to pry further and cognizant of the emotional strenuity of the day. Instead he pulled her closer, nestling her into his side and pressing a gentle kiss to her hair.

“I still can’t believe you came all this way for me,” she murmured.

“Why darling,” Chris started, Rosie immediately recognising the quote as being Hemingway. “I don’t live at all when I’m not with you.”

She tilted her head up towards him, her lips impossibly close to his as her fingers danced along the stubble at his jaw and swallowed down the nerves that had lodged in her throat. She closed her eyes, so close to giving in to her heart and letting it win, for better or worse. Chris had been dreaming of this moment though, longing for it with every close call and missed opportunity. This is how it should’ve been at Christmas and all of the team events he’d the delight of having her on his arm, but instead he let himself chicken out, the fear of spooking her and losing her too much to allow himself to take the risk. But now, he had Rosie right there. She was impossibly close and all around him and he knew that if he didn’t take that leap and place his lips on hers, he might never get that chance again and that is what had him brushing his lips lightly across hers, his fingers finding a home amongst the loose copper curls that were glowing like hot coals in the low light of the room.

Instinct took over and had Rosie arching her body into him, her hands reaching up into his hair to muss the short curls. Even with her body pressed against his, Chris needed her closer, his big arms looping around her and pulling her into his lap. He kissed her desperately, a kiss to make up for all the kisses they should have already shared and all the words that should have been spoken. It should have terrified him, how easy it was to be with her like this and how easy the push and pull of it was, neither taking more than they were giving in the moment. This was what Boris Pasternak meant when he said ‘you and I, it’s as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven and sent to Earth together to see if we know what we were taught., Chris was sure of it because nothing could compare to how Rosie’s lips felt against his and the feeling of her hands on his skin. Her kiss was heaven and her eyes felt like home and Chris knew in that moment that he needed all of her.

As he carried her to bed, Rosie thought about how right being in his arms felt. It was a strong sense of belonging that she couldn’t ever remember having with anyone else - ‘whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same’, she thought. He spoke her name against her ear like a prayer, all the love and want for her conveyed in one simple word while he removed her dress with tender hands. Her body was laid on display for him like a canvas, his mouth was the paintbrush and Chris knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life painting a masterpiece onto her skin with his lips.

They moved together between the sheets as sure as the gentle waves that lap against the shore, her hands never feeling more at home than they did running up his back and over his shoulders before settling against the broad plains of his chest. Her every breath and every moan sounded like an aria to his ears and his name tumbling from her lips with every thrust of his hips was met with a moan of hers. He thought she could never look as good as she did underneath him, blooming like a rose, until he found himself on his back with her above him, her hair falling around them both like a curtain and her mouth panting against his as she rolled her hips. His hands made a home at the dip of her waist, guiding her in her movements but never taking the reins from her, giving her the control they both knew she needed in the moment.

It was intuitive, really, the way she was rocking her hips into his and the steady build of pressure in her stomach had her chanting Chris’s name like an incantation. He saw on her face the exact moment that the coil snapped, moaning as she fluttered and tightened around him and brought his hips up to meet hers as she rode the wave of her orgasm.

“I’m with you,” he murmured against her neck.

“Please, Chris. I need you.”

“I’ve got you, Ro. I’ve got you.”

She turned her face to meet his lips in a deep kiss, Chris moaning into her mouth as he spilled inside of her with stuttering hips. Rosie let out a contented sigh as she kissed him through his release, her chest pressed against his and her fingers playing with whatever ends of his hair she could reach. They stayed that way long after he’d gone soft inside of her, content to just bask in the afterglow of the moment as Chris’s fingers traced up and down her back. Rosie knew that she needed to have a frank discussion with Chris about her feelings but now didn’t seem like the right time for that. The sudden realisation that things would never be the same and that there was no going back to the way things were after this embedded itself like a seed, but Rosie let herself surrender to the feeling of safety and security Chris’s arms offered her before it could take root. She nestled herself against his side, her head resting on his chest with her eyes closed, and let his heartbeat be the gentle lullaby to lead her into the beautiful twilight.

 *

Chris awoke to the feeling of Rosie snug and secure within his arms, a peaceful look resting on her features that gave her an angelic quality. He let his mind wander to the night before and allowed the love he felt for her run wild through his veins and fill every corner of his mind, body and soul. For so long it had just been him and hockey, never subscribing to the idea that a person needed a relationship to be complete. But as he looked down and saw his entire world resting within his arms, he realised that he had been right all along. It wasn’t a relationship that made a person complete. It was love. That all-consuming wildfire that burns everything else away until there is nothing left but a new-beginning. He remembered the quote from Corelli that Rosie loved so much and felt everything fall into place. He felt like he’d waited a million years for this feeling and now that he felt it consume him like wildfire, he knew that he would have waited a million more, just as long as he had the privilege of being hers. It was surrendering all that he had ever been for everything that she was, for every kiss and every touch. Her love was his turning page and loving her was the greatest and best thing that he would ever do in his life, he was sure of it.

He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, eyes crinkling with his smile as she stirred.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he whispered against her hair. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” she croaked, voice still thick with sleep. “What time is it?”

Chris looked over her shoulder at the clock on the nightstand. “Just gone eight-thirty.”

“Oh, okay.”

She furrowed her brows again, suddenly feeling Chris everywhere as pieces of the night before flooded her consciousness as she fully emerged from sleep and into the waking world. She was naked, she registered, and so was he and she was blindsided by an abrupt awareness that a definite line had been crossed that they could never go back from. It was that recognition of their friendship never being the same again that had her rolling away from Chris without warning. She was out of bed before he could even register what was happening, gathering up her clothes and dressing quickly without as much as a word.

“Rosie?” Chris was sitting up now, a slight waver to his voice as he spoke her name. “What are you doing?”

“I have to go,” she mumbled, an almost robotic edge to her tone that had Chris jumping out of bed and throwing on a pair of sweatpants, already catching up to her racing thoughts without her needing to say another word. He rushed to the door that she was making a beeline for, stepping in front of it and reaching desperately for her hands.

“Don’t do this, Ro… Please, don’t run from this.”

“Chris,” she warned, the emotion sitting dangerously high in her throat and her eyes glossing over with tears.

“What’re you so afraid of? I know you feel it too, Rosie. I know you do.”

“Chris, please,” she tried to brush past him but Chris wouldn’t let this moment slip through his fingers, not this time.

“No, we’re not doin’ this anymore. We’re not gonna spend the rest of our lives pretending that we’re just friends because we’re not, Rosie. I don’t think we have been for a long time- look at me, Ro, please.”

Chris saw the flicker of hesitation cross her face but the desperation in his voice was too much for her to ignore. She brought her eyes up to meet his and saw a fire burning within them that she had never seen before.

“I love you, Rosie. You have to know that by now.”

She shook her head vehemently, the tears she had managed so far to keep at bay finally slipping out and onto her cheeks.

“Don’t,” she whimpered. “Don’t say shit you don’t mean.”

“Who says I don’t mean it?” He brought his hands to cup her face to keep her eyes on him. “You? Do you think I’d travel across an ocean to be here with you now if I didn’t love you?”

Rosie answered only with a sniffle, the feeling of his touch along her skin anchoring her in a moment where she felt like she was drowning in a sea of every repressed emotion and feeling from the last eighteen months.

“But what if this doesn’t work? What if we’re better as friends?”

“I know you don’t believe that,” he wiped away the tears on her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “I know that you’ve been hurt before and I know that you’re scared. But you can’t keep holding on to the past, Ro, because if you do you’ll miss out on what’s right in front of you.”

“It’s not the loving you part that’s hard Chris,” she whispered. “It’s admitting to myself that it happened at all that is. I’ve had all these defences that have worked to keep me from getting hurt for so long but it was like you didn’t even see them at all, like they were meant for others while you had your very own door. I’ve spent so long asking myself why that is and come up with nothing. Do you know how terrifying that is?”

He kissed her forehead softly in response before pulling back to look into her eyes, making sure that she saw him, felt him, heard him. “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

The corners of Rosie’s mouth quirked up into a smile despite her tears and her doubts, her favourite passage from Pride and Prejudice never sounding as good as it did coming from Chris’s mouth and extinguishing every fear she was holding within her heart. She closed her eyes and nodded, her lips connecting with his in a kiss that could’ve stopped the world from turning. She gave herself to him completely and surrendered to the overwhelming love that burned within her for him. There were no words that could convey to Chris just how much he meant to her but she hoped that ones from Rupi Kaur would do it justice:

“You might not have been my first love, but you were the love that made all the other loves irrelevant.”

Chris smiled against her mouth and kissed away every fear and worry until there was nothing left but him and her and the love they had for each other.

 *

Life continued much as it had before, a testament really to the relationship that Chris and Rosie already shared and the official label did nothing more than earn them a chorus of “it’s about time” from their friends and had Mika looking incredibly smug for the next few months. The passage of time only served to make their relationship stronger, both able to give themselves completely without the uncertainty of their feelings looming over them or holding them back. Rosie often found herself being struck by the easiness of their relationship and she never once found herself questioning Chris’s commitment to her and what they had. When he asked her how she would feel about ending the lease on her Brooklyn apartment and moving into his place in Manhattan she didn’t have to give it a second thought. Everything about it felt natural and they were both ready to take that next defining step in their relationship. Once Rosie’s belongings and houseplants were moved in, Chris couldn’t help but feel as if they had always been there, like his apartment was finally complete and that it was the home he had always imagined it would eventually be.

Of course, there were bumps in the road, both of them had been on their own for so long that they were set in their ways at first, but their disagreements never lasted long, their shared knack for communication often diffusing the situation before it had chance to grow arms and legs. The adjustment was harder for Chris in some ways, especially when things on the ice weren’t going so well and he would retreat into himself or misdirect his frustrations towards Rosie with a sharper tone than was necessary, but she stood firm, never one to suffer fools and for that Chris was eternally grateful. They complimented each other in ways they couldn’t even have imagined, Chris able to pull Rosie out of her own head when the world weighed heavy on her shoulders and Rosie never afraid to put Chris in his place when he needed it. As the months rolled into years and their love went from strength to strength, Chris knew for certain that she was it for him and there was nothing he wanted more than to start and end the day with Rosie for all of the days to come.

 *

Rosie looked at Chris with confusion as their Uber pulled up outside Westsider Books one early September evening. There was a faint glow of lights inside but it didn’t look as if the shop was open and Rosie couldn’t understand why Chris had brought her here when she was sure they closed at five.

“I didn’t realise this place opened late,” she said as Chris opened her car door and offered his hand to help her out of the car.

“I think it’s just a one-time thing,” he replied as he thanked the driver and closed the door. He placed a hand on the small of Rosie’s back and guided her towards the shop entrance, pushing the door open and gesturing for Rosie to go in ahead of him. Rosie wasn’t exactly sure what she was expecting to find inside, but hundreds of glittering fairy lights, candles and more flowers than she could count wasn’t even on the list.

“Chris?” she breathed, turning to look at him.

“If you were to list your top three favourite books of all time off the top of your head,” he started, wrapping his arms around her waist. “What would they be?”

“Christopher…”

“Come on, Ro,” he grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the way she loved so much. “Just... play along… Please, for me?”

“Alright, well…” she conceded with a gentle sigh. “Off the top of my head I would probably say Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, For Whom the Bell Tolls and Pride and Prejudice.”

Chris’s smile somehow managed to double in size, the soft glow of the string lights and candles had his eyes sparkling like smoky quartz, the lush green flecks that usually lived among the dark bark of his irises hidden by the low light. He knew she would say that, of course, knowing her with an intimacy that even after all their years of friendship and the years of loving her still managed to knock him back a bit. He took her hand then, leading her along the aisle before stopping in front of a shelf with a dozen hand-tied sunflowers. He reached out and took a book from the shelf.

“Captain Corelli’s Mandolin by Louis de Bernières,” he murmured, passing the book to Rosie with an easy grin. “Go on, open it.”

He watched as she opened the cover of the book, her face softening at the sight of a delicate pendant necklace nestled between the pages. A small silver fern leaf hung at the end of the thin chain, a nod to the many houseplants she had brought into his home when she moved in that he had playfully grumbled about but in all actuality loved.

“Chris, it’s beautiful.”

He gently took the necklace from her hands and spun Rosie around, draping the chain across her chest and fastening it behind her neck with sure fingers before turning her back to face him, his eyes falling to the pendant that glimmered in the low light of the room.

“It looks gorgeous on you,” he smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Right, what was the next book? For Whom the Bell Tolls, right?”

“Chris, what is all this?” Rosie asked softly, taking Chris’s outstretched hand and following him down the next aisle to another shelf. He ignored her question, simply picking up the book and handing it to her.

“I love that you love Hemingway almost as much as I do,” he whispered softly. “Almost. You have no idea how much it means to me that I get to share that enjoyment with you and I want us to keep making memories together and sharing enjoyment of the things we love.” He watched her expectantly, waiting for her to open the book to reveal the piece of paper he’d folded in there. He took the book from her hands so that she could open it.

Rosie’s eyes widened as she read what she realised to be an itinerary for a trip to Europe next summer.

“I’ve only been to a couple of places in Europe,” Chris started. “And I figured who better to show me around than the girl who’s visited near enough every country on that continent?”

Rosie was unable to contain her sniffles by this point, overwhelmed at the thought and preparation that Chris had put in, not only in the trip to Europe, but this whole evening as well. She shook her head gently as she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face into his chest.

“This is too much, Chris, you shouldn’t have.”

He pulled back from her just far enough to get her eyes on his, his face set with an expression that held all the love in the world.

“Ah, ah, there’s still one more book, which if I’m not mistaken is your all-time favourite and you, Roseanna Williams, are worth all the good things in this world.”

Her slung his arm over her shoulders and pulled her into his side as they walked back towards the front of the shop, Rosie gently wiping the tears away from her eyes. Pride and Prejudice sat pride of place in the middle of a small table, the book surrounded by petals. Chris gave her an encouraging look and stepped back as she picked it up, taking a small envelope from out of the book before setting it back down again. Her eyes found her name on the front of the envelope in Chris’s unmistakable handwriting before turning it over in her hands and opening it, pulling out what appeared to be a letter. She took a steadying breath as she began to read.

My dearest Rosie,

There will never be the words to adequately express just how much you mean to me or how grateful I am to have found you. You are everything that I didn’t even know I was searching for, that I didn’t even know I needed.

I never believed in fate, every happy accident is just that. A happy accident. Coincidence. Right place, right time. But you, you have opened my eyes to the idea of pure magic because how can a love like ours be founded on pure coincidence alone? How can a soul yearn for someone they had never met? I know now that the reason I found myself in this very book store on that day you came into my life was because your soul was calling me here.

In you I have everything I’ll ever need. No matter where my career takes me, no matter what lies ahead, as long as I have you I have everything. I love you more than anything else in this world, you have given me a higher purpose and I will spend the rest of my life making you happy if you’ll let me.

All my love, Always

Chris

We would be together and have our books and at night be warm in bed together with the windows open and the stars bright - E. Hemingway.

Rosie closed her eyes and let her tears fall onto her cheeks as she clutched the letter to her chest.

“Chris…”

“I’m gonna need you to open your eyes, babe,” Chris chuckled softly.

Rosie smiled as she allowed her eyes to drift open, her hand immediately coming up to her mouth as she stifled an unexpected sob at the sight of Chris down on one knee in front of her, a ring box open in his hand that looked as if it contained an entire galaxy of glittering stars.

“Ro, I can’t even remember what my life was like without you in it, I didn’t even know that I was in the dark. Until I saw your smile. It was only then that I realised and now I never want to live a single day without the warmth and light of your love. It’s us, babe. It’s always been us and it’s always been you, since the day we met. I didn’t even realise I was waiting for you and now that I have you, everything is as it should be. I love you, Rosie. I’ve always loved you and I would be the happiest and luckiest man on Earth with you as my wife. Marry me, babe?”

Rosie sank slowly to her knees in front of Chris, her hands reaching up and cupping his face as her tears fell. In front of her was a man who had given her everything, who had helped her to let go of the past and right now, he was offering her a future brighter and more wonderful than anything she could’ve ever imagined and never dared to dream she would have.

“Oh god, please tell me those are happy tears.”

She cut him off with a kiss, a kiss that gave Chris his answer without her even needing to say it. She kissed him with everything she had, kissed him with all of the love that coursed through her veins, kissed him until her lungs were gasping for air and she finally had to pull away, resting her forehead against his with her hands stroking along his jaw.

“Yes,” Rosie whispered. “A million times, yes.”

As Chris slid the ring onto Rosie’s finger, he took the opportunity to look into those eyes of hers that he’d grown to love so much. It was there that he saw their future, all of their hopes and dreams and the promise of all the joy in their lives that was to come and as her arms wrapped tightly around him, Chris felt their souls sigh as they folded into one another. Chris couldn’t tell what the future had in store for them both, but no matter where their path together would lead them, it was in her embrace that he found solace and it was in her heart that he found a home.