#HES BAAAAAAAAACK!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shuastar · 1 month ago

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KISS 'ER UP (CHV) pt. 1

pairing: baseball player!vernon x fashion designer/fan!reader wc: 10.9k warnings: nothing for now; SLIGHTLY unrealistic meet-cute but whatever we pick and choose our battles; DO NOT meet with strangers after only knowing them for a month even if they're ridiculously hot and chwe hansol (I REPEAT DO NOT). a/n: im baaaaaaaaack!! (cue mariah carey) i am so excited to be back with a new story. this one is shorter than my wonwoo one but still (hopefully) interesting and good. ive always been a baseball fan so this is really fun for me to write up, especially with vernon as the player!! this is my first time including text message-ish things inside the story so lmk after the first part comes up if i should change the style into an actual "fake chat" picture thing that the smau's use. anyways thank u always for reading <3 taglist form here!!

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Late March was not supposed to be this cold – fleece-lined hoodie under the pink and blue jersey, thick jeans paired with Ugg boots you had stored away for the winter until just yesterday when the weather had suddenly plummeted into the lower degrees, freezing your ass off on the 28th of March.

The jam-packed stadium – open air – did nothing to chill the cold that was slowly pressing into your bones and the wind-nipped red-blushed cheeks.

Your leg bounces as you lean over your knees to squint at the pitcher from the other team – Doosan Bears – toss the fat piece of chalk to the ground, a plume of white following in its wake. Your hands are rubbing up and down your jeans as if that would warm you up in this cold.

The next batter walks out from the dugout and from your seat, you can see each and every strand of hair poking out from under Kim Mingyu’s helmet as he takes his leisurely walk to the home plate. From behind you in the main arena – where you should have been sitting until Kim Chaewon gave you her fucking floor next-to-the-dugout seat because she wanted to sit with her boyfriend in the main seats – a roar of approval echoes through the stadium. And when Mingyu taps his bat against the bruised white of the home plate, stretching his neck as he gets into position, you can hear the very loud singing of his fan chant against the announcers’ commentary of his stats throughout the season (well, throughout the last four games).

Mingyu is good. He’s tall, strong, and can hit a ball as well as any of the Doosan players combined. You nod in approval and sit back against the chair, picking up your cup of beer from the ground by your feet, sipping as Mingyu lets a ball fly through.

You can’t help but glance at the scoreboard: 3 to 1. And it’s the 5th inning. If Mingyu can get the ball into a homerun – like what everyone else was chanting behind you – it would bring home at least 3 players and this game would be in your pocket. And seriously. Doosan was falling off this year anyways, so it should only be natural that you should win, especially with last year’s All-Round Rookie of the Year (Lee Chan) and last year’s KMLB’s MVP and MIP (Lee Jihoon and Vernon Chwe).

You can only watch, only slightly anxious, as Mingyu raises his bat again, squinting against the setting sun and bright stadium lights.

It’s like a blur.

You blink once and then the ball is a millimetre from Mingyu’s swinging bat.

CRACK!!

The bat slams into the ball and Mingyu – as well as the rest of the stadium – watches for one second as it soars in the air. And before cheers can even interrupt Doosan’s boos, Mingyu is off like a flash, feet kicking up dust as he rounds first base, then second, and then third.

Your jaw unhinges ever so slightly as his ball flies well over even the furthest of Doosan’s outfielders, over their heads and into the mass of Diamond fans at the other side of the stadium.

The cheers are deafening when the ball lands perfectly in some lucky bitch’s lap, too busy filming herself on the jumbotron to actually cheer for her team. The cheers are heart-pounding when Dino, followed by Joshua, and then Mingyu race into home, their screams of delight mixing in with the fans’ booming fanchants of their names.

From where you stand, beer forgotten on the ground, hands raised as you almost violently shake the team towel, you can almost read the team’s lips as they cheer amongst themselves. Next to you, another fan screams and screams as the jumbotron switches to the disappointed scowls of the Doosan fans.

When your throat feels raw from the screaming, you slowly sit down, heart pounding in your ears and grin stretching wide.

What a way to spend a Friday night.

Suddenly, the cheers die down, replaced with a familiar sort of music that only rings from the stadium speakers during a specific segment between the 5th and 6th inning.

Your eyes flicker up to the big screen from their past position trained on the players who were just a couple of steps from the side netting right next to you.

The Kiss Cam.

You glance next to you on the left only to see a pretty girl, maybe in her teens, laughing with her friends. You bite your lip, sighing in slight disappointment as the jumbotron shows a pair of people, both flushed from one too many drinks and waving their Diamond towels until the boy seems to recognize himself on the big screen, screams, and then grabs the girl next to him by the collar of her jersey and pulls her into the sloppiest and most drunken kiss you’ve had the displeasure of ever seeing.

Really, though. If you hadn’t switched seats with Chaewon, maybe you would have heightened your chances for your first ever Kiss Cam experience. Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your jersey as the Kiss Cam picks its next victim. You swirl your beer. Five years you’ve been coming to baseball games and not once have you ever been on the Kiss Cam’s lucky victim.

“Kim Chaewon, I swear…” you mutter, pulling out your phone to text your bestfriend when the stadium suddenly erupts into ear-splitting screams. From the right of you, near the dugout, you hear a couple of chuckles.

And when you look up at the screen, expecting some romantic little couple kissing, you are met with Vernon Chwe’s god-given face.

And yours.

Stretched side by side on the big screen.

You blink owlishly before your eyes widen and your head whips to the right, only to come face to face with Vernon Chwe’s awkward sheepish grin, also slightly surprised by his sudden appearance on the Kiss Cam.

It feels like your throat is blocked – shoved with something thick and round that cuts off your speech. You don’t think you properly calculated how close you would be to the players in your seat until now.

Your eyes widen even further as you turn fully towards him, and Vernon – who was casually stretching right outside of the dugout – pauses mid-motion, blinking at the screen before bursting into surprised laughter. When he gives a little wave to the big screen, the stadium erupts and you can hear the high-pitched squeals of teenage girls in the crowd. His teammates are all over him too, hollering and nudging him like overgrown high schoolers and you can hear his laughter and his next few words stringed with disbelief: “Am I on the Kiss Cam?”

Vernon, bless his baseball soul, just smiles sheepishly, taking off his cap to run a hand through his hair as if that would somehow help him (and you!!) escape the entire stadium’s attention. As he pulls his cap back on, he gives a little shrug as if to say what can we do?, before turning back to the game, just in time for the Kiss Cam to move on.

The camera moves on.

You do not.

Your attention is still fixed on Vernon, even as the camera pans to a different set of people.

What the fuck just happened?

It seems like you’ve been staring for too long because Vernon turns, only to catch your stare, which makes him grin. You clear your throat (as if anyone is paying attention) and quickly turn your head, trying to cover your burning ears with your baseball cap, sinking further into your seat, your beer conveniently forgotten by your feet.

When you wished upon a broken star for a Kiss Cam moment, it wasn’t with a player. Not that you were complaining, of course not. But still. You would rather have a Kiss Cam with someone you could actually kiss instead of openly gawking at a dreadfully handsome player as your face is broadcasted to at least ten thousand people plus the players on the field.

“Hey.”

Your head snaps towards the voice and you nearly choke.

Vernon Chwe is against the fence, pulling the side netting down that separates your section from right outside of the dugout, just a couple feet away from your seat.

It feels like you lose your breath because holy shit there is no way someone born of natural means can look like the man who is in front of you right now. He could pass for a K-Pop idol or at least some kind of trainee with the way the light hits his cheekbones. His baseball cap is pulled over his messy hair and his baseball uniform is streaked with dirt from when he had slid Babe Ruth-style into 3rd base after Joshua had hit a middle-punt. He grins at you from under his cap like he’s talking to an old friend, not a complete stranger who was just screaming her vocal chords out when his teammate had hit a homerun.

His arms are crossed against the railing, looking at you – expression unreadable but eyes holding amusement, sparkling with some kind of curiosity.

“Me?” you ask. You clear your throat afterwards, voice oddly squeaky.

Come on, Y/n. You’ve done interviews with Vogue before. Get your shit together.

Vernon nods.

Well, Vernon Chwe is not Vogue, evidently.

His hand suddenly appears from its grasp on the ledge, his phone dangling from in between his thumb and middle finger.

When you lean forward, squinting to see his phone screen, you almost double back, falling out of your seat. Your head snaps up so quickly it almost gives you a whiplash, which Vernon evidently thinks is very funny because you see him stifle a laugh.

“Figured since the whole stadium thinks we’re a thing,” he stars, voice low enough that it only carries to you, “I might as well ask for your Instagram or something.”

You blink. “What?”

His lips curl into a half-smile.

“Can I get your Insta?” he asks, nodding to his phone. “You know, so we can at least pretend we know each other?”

“Isn’t that like, I dunno, considered a PR mess or something?” you blurt out, which Vernon also thinks is funny because he lets out a seagull-like laugh and makes a smile rise to your own face.

Your stomach flips when he smiles though.

Well, yeah, because he’s so much better looking in person and like a foot from your face, but also because holy shit Vernon Chwe just asked you for your Instagram.

And, yeah, you’re mutuals with a couple of celebrities. But that’s just a part of your job – design clothes, make clothes, sew in the details, and style it to their (your) taste. But this? This is definitely not work.

And you’re half of a mind to just pretend and ignore whatever Vernon said, act like you have a sudden bout of memory lapse. But your mouth moves before your brain does and you’re already reaching for his phone, fumbling a little as you mumble a “yeah, yeah sure,” as you type in your Instagram handle.

Vernon grins at you as you swallow, handing him his phone, now opened to the main page of your Instagram profile. When he grabs it, leaning forward just a little bit, your fingertips brush – just barely – but enough for you to retract your hand back like you are burned by a roaring flame.

When he glances down at his phone, his brows raise at your follower count.

“Dude, are you famous or something? Three point five million?” He glances up at you, almost expectantly.

You bite the inside of your cheek, mumbling sheepishly, “I’m a designer.”

“Oh cool,” he hums and you know he’s scrolling through your posts before his thumb presses against the bright blue FOLLOW button. “Very cool,” he mumbles.

And you swear he’s about to say something else but then a whistle blows. Vernon perks up, alert, at his coach’s booming voice, followed by Choi Seungcheol’s call for him.

He exhales, jumping off of the fence and stepping back, pocketing his phone.

“Gotta go,” he says. Then, with a grin, he raises a hand in a small wave, “Nice meeting you, Kiss Cam partner.”

And just like that, he’s gone, jogging to the dugout, laughing through a badly-made-up excuse about having to go to the bathroom or something as Seungcheol narrows his eyes at him.

You stare at your phone.

The most recent notification is from Instagram:

[vernonline followed you]

Holy. Shit.

Despite all your efforts to laugh it off (inside your head), you can’t help but break out into the goofiest, widest, mouth-splitting grin at the notification, staring at it in disbelief. This is definitely different from idols following you after you are asked to style them for an upcoming red carpet event. Or models following you after a particularly good photoshoot. This is Vernon Chwe. The Vernon Chwe that you saw Chaewon fangirl over after he hit two homeruns in one game during last season’s final in-season game. You’re also pretty sure you have his jersey hung up somewhere in your closet, next to the other Diamonds jersey that you forgot to wear today.

You look up from your phone, immediately tracking the bolded pink 12 that is making his way over to 2nd base for defense.

You run a hand through your hair, picking up your previously-discarded beer cup, trying to hide the enormous grin that is threatening to break out on your face.

Kiss Cam partner.

You let out a small laugh at the insanity of it.

The whistle blows for the start of the sixth inning.

And you try to forget about it. Afterall, he’s not the first professional athlete in your following.

And you do forget about it.

For a total of three days.

Because on the third day of successful forgetting, your phone lights up while you’re mid-sketch of your F/W collection that you have planned to release in August.

1 message from vernonline

You blink at the notification, a strange feeling settling in your chest.

You never expected him to text you.

I mean, after three days? You held out hope the night of the game, but he’s a professional athlete, with better things to do than entertain the Kiss Cam girl.

So you want to ignore it. It’s probably something stupid anyways. Or an accident, which seems more likely – he accidentally swiped up on your story, thinking it was someone else (if he even still followed you). Or maybe he’s drunk and you’re a booty call or something. So you want to ignore it. You really do. Plus, you’ve got to get these designs in by tomorrow morning to your assistant for her to send it off to the company.

But you find yourself clicking on the notification, tapping in your phone password to click on his icon.

And you almost laugh at the absurdity of his message.

Vernon 버논 Hey…so this happened lol [attached]

When you click on the photo, you actually laugh out loud, staring at the image for a second. Your lips twitch as the memory floods back. The picture itself is blurry: your shocked face next to Vernon who is mid-stretch next to the dugout. You can practically hear the crowd’s reaction in your head.

Except what are you supposed to say to this? You could leave him on read. Except someone about leaving him on read and never ever texting him against makes you just a little bit disappointed. So after a few more seconds of consideration – and saving the photo to your gallery – you tap out a response:

You great. my legacy.

He’s typing out a response almost immediately.

Vernon at least u looked good on camera i think thats a pretty solid legacy ngl

It’s actually abominable how your heart flutters at the words popping up on your bright phone screen. You look up from your phone, glancing around your dark and empty studio like someone is watching over your shoulder at your messages with Vernon. You feel like a teenager stuck in some really realistic Wattpad-esque rom-com.

And before you think it over, you send your response, your F/W designs completely forgotten in front of you.

You real solid if u erase the whole scared shitless portion

You cringe at your own response. You could have definitely said something more intellectual or less awkward than that.

Again, Vernon’s reply is almost immediate. So fast that you swear he’s staring at your chat screen (like you’re not doing the same thing).

Vernon: tbh gotta give it to the cameras

You blink.

Vernon: got to talk to u and everything

Oh.

This was enormously unfair – the effect his texts have on you. He’s such a dork too, asking for your Instagram just because you came on the Kiss Cam together like he’s not a world-class baseball player. But you find yourself smiling silly at your phone, legs curled up to your chest as you type out a response.

You stare at the screen longer than you should, the words settling into something you should definitely not be overthinking. Your phone feels warm in your hands, thrumming with your heartbeat that feels a little fast under the – no, don’t overthink. The dark of your studio feels a little too quiet. You press your lips together, exhaling sharply before clicking send.

You u mean u got to text me after staring at my insta for like an hr

A beat. For a second, his bubble doesn’t appear and you swear to God you’ve scared him off or something. You’re just about to unsend your message, praying that he didn’t see it, when his message pops up.

Vernon: bold assumption i only stared for like 10 min max

You snort, hand over your mouth as you giggle like you’re texting some situationship from highschool. You hate that he’s so funny.

You: glad u had time squeeze me into ur busy schedule

Vernon: had to shift sum things around but all good being pro is not for the weak

You laugh at that. You feel some weird kind of adrenaline coursing through you as you stand up from your desk chair to migrate over to a more comfortable surface to lounge on. You feel the remnants of your grin tickling the corners of your lips and the rapid beating of your heart as you re-read Vernon’s message.

It’s worse, you think, because of how casual this seems. Because Vernon’s texting you like you weren’t some fan in the audience who was accidentally paired with him for the Kiss Cam.

You stare into the dark of your studio, your phone close to your chest. It feels weird. You’ve texted celebrities before. Hell, you could be counted as a celebrity in your own right. You had people (rare) asking you for autographs and pictures. But texting Vernon Chwe? You didn’t know. Something is different.

Vernon: so r u gna leave me on read or…..

You: seems like u have a lot of time on ur hands mr pro athlete

Vernon: nah

You: obv enough time to find the worst possible photo of me

Vernon: that was all mingyu plus its like prime meme material the internet’s alr on it

For a second you panic. Because he can’t be serious.

You: ur lying

Vernon: lmfao obv wouldnt do that to u yet….

You roll your eyes at his text but the corners of your lips betray you, twitching into that stupid silly idiot smile.

You: i block and report u

Vernon: tragic so u comin to the next game or what

You blink. Once. Twice. Three times.

He wants you there?

No, no, no, no, no, no, Y/n. Don’t get ahead of yourself.

To Vernon, you’re just another fan. Another face in the crowd. Just lucky enough to be caught up in the Kiss Cam with him.

You: u think i have enough luck for two game tickets in a row???

Vernon: bold of u to assume i wouldnt send u tickets

You: bold of u to assume i want them

Vernon: guess i am bold then lol

Your breath catches. It’s a joke, obviously, but the way your fingers hesitate over the keyboard, typing something only to backspace and delete every word you’ve written so quickly and forcefully that it actually kind of hurts your thumb.

You decide on something more neutral.

You: wdym

Vernon: ill send u season tickets whatever seat u want

You almost fall out of your couch.

You: wait be so fr rn

Vernon: bro i am

You try to ignore the bro in his message. But otherwise, season tickets? You would have bought season tickets a long time ago, except your schedule tends to change very erratically and you never saw paying upwards of one grand for only being able to attend a handful of games.

You: so am i paying or what

Vernon: on the house

You: lmfao … wait r u srs

Vernon: deadass as a dead rat

You stop. There is no way he’s telling you this right now, apart from the whole dead rat thing. Those season tickets cost at leas tone thousand the last time you checked – mostly because Chaewon begged and begged you to buy one so that you guys could attend whatever game you wanted.

Vernon: lmfao dw players r given four season tickers per season i have 1 left

For some weird reason, your heart flutters at that. He would give you his last season ticket? A girl he met just three days ago?

You’re ready for this too-good-to-be-true dream to come to an end.

But just to test your luck, you send one more text.

You: we’ll see

He doesn’t reply right away. And you’re about to shut your phone off when your phone buzzes with a new notification.

You don’t even need to actually open Instagram to read Vernon’s new text.

Vernon 버논 noted

And somehow, that leaves you smiling like a stupid idiot at your phone for way too long.

For a few days, you don’t bring it up. Neither does Vernon, though he keeps your phone buzzing in the moments you think you’ve finally forgotten about him. You text about completely random things – his god-awful practice schedule (his words, not yours), your last F/W design that you sent off to your assistant only for her to lose the drawing, making you re-draw the design, a weirdly heated debate about whether you should pour the sweet and sour sauce over the sweet and sour pork or if you should dip the pork into the sauce. And all through that, the whole season ticket thing goes unmentioned.

Until one evening, in the middle of your rerun of Hospital Playlist as you cut through a yard of fabric, your phone buzzes against the coffee table counter.

1 message from @/vernonline

Your fingers that are curled through the scissors falter, the metal blade hitching against the suddenly-rumpled fabric.

Vernon: left smth for u at the company ticket booth

You blink.

You: huh?

Vernon: season pass pick it up whenever cant have u blaming ur absence at ticket unavailability lol

You stare at your screen. It makes you mad, just a little bit, how he seems so calm while saying the most heart-fluttering things. Or maybe you’re just severely deprived of male attention or something because as you read the texts again, you feel yourself smiling. Again.

You: u sure about this?

Vernon: too late to take it back now

You: i could be the worst luck ever for your team

Vernon: nah i think ur good luck but we’ll find out

You’re out of reply options. So you just like his last message and slam your phone down on the coffee table, turning to the back of your couch. And you stay there, perfectly still, head buried into the couch cushions, legs tucked into your chest, and eyes squeezed shut as you suck in a breath and then sigh it out aggressively.

You can’t think straight.

You side-eye your half-cut fabric laying out on the coffee table. Usually, you never bring back work from your studio. It’s good, mostly. You get to have separate spaces for work and for relaxation – for home. But you had to today. Because Yerin came into the studio moaning and groaning about how the company wouldn’t get off of her ass about your first five designs coming into fruition before the end of this week. So, you brought your work back home, prepared to the moon and back to pull an all-nighter to finish this design. Or, you thought.

Because, as you sit up, cheek resting against the couch cushions, you realize something. And it comes almost as an epiphany to you.

Vernon Chwe has materialized in your life as analogous as playing with a big roaring fire.

And, as of right now, you felt no pain in sticking your hand into the flame.

Which is why you increasingly start to find yourself riding the jam-packed subway at 6:00 pm to attend his games – at least the ones you could – under the excuse that you enjoyed baseball and what kind of fan would you be if you let the season pass go to waste?

It’s warmer today, at least compared to the last game you attended. It’s a home game this time – Diamonds’ home turf. Everywhere you turn, you’re met with blue and pink, fans with player jerseys, and dangling diamond keychains designed by the team.

You slip into your regular seat by the start of the bottom half of the second inning. The plan was to get there by the start of the game, but you had some runway design stuff to go over with the venue company about installing more overhead lights.

Your phone vibrates between the 7th and 8th inning.

You don’t even need to check to see who it is, based on the rather unnerving stare you were receiving every so often from the dugout.

Vernon: ur here

You: whos to say

Vernon: i can literally see u tf

You glance up at that. You’re seated above the other team’s dugout, at a side angle from the Diamond’s dugout, where everyone is sitting right now. You squint to make out the faces of everyone under the shadow of the dugout.

A quiet scoff escapes your lips. There is no way he can see you.

You: liar liar pants on fiar

Vernon: thats sum kindergarten shit

You: we listen n we dont judge eyes on the game mr pro baseballer

Vernon: cant ur too distracting

If you aren’t in public, you would have screeched at that text. Instead, you almost drop your phone in the hurry to cover up your bright screen, as if anyone would have cared enough to take a risky peek at your phone screen.

When you peek at your phone again, Vernon has sent a flurry of crying and skull emojis, as well as a very blurry photo of you taken from, apparently, his place in the dugout.

You can feel a flush that is definitely not from the beer creep up your neck.

You: i am not afraid to block

Vernon: yeah yeah ok wtv

You: do my threats not seem real to u

Vernon: whats ur go to order for chi-maek??

Your brows raise. Chi-maek? Really? In the middle of the game? As you type out your response, you hear the distinct whistle of the ump, calling to start the 8th inning.

You: spicy glaze and whiskey highball

The scoreboard reads 7 to 4, the Diamonds winning for now. You hum as cheers from your side go up as Dokyeom goes up to pitch, a bright smile on his face as he stretches his wrists.

Your phone buzzes.

You check it a little too quick.

Vernon: whiskey highball is NOT beer but ok solid order but sadly wrong :(

You: girl what

Vernon: honey garlic w cass draft

You actually let out a laugh at that, attracting the attention of literally everyone around you because who the fuck laughs in the middle of a baseball game. Especially if you’re sitting in the VIP seats above the dugout. But you can’t seem to tear yourself away from your phone.

You: ur like those basic white girls on pinterest

Vernon: idekwtm

You: what?

Vernon: i dont even know what that means basic is undefeated

You: ok whatever u say

Vernon: n e ways u wanna test the theory after the game?

Your heart stops for a second. It’s short. Almost a nonexistent murmur of excitement that shoots through you. But it’s enough for you to freeze, swallowing down the sudden ball in your throat.

You: not a theory a fact

Vernon: same thing

You: was that an invitation?

Vernon: idk only if it worked?

You should say no.

That should be the right thing to do. Because who in the right mind goes out for chi-maek after a baseball game with a high-profile baseball player? It’s dangerous. It has the probability of being as big of a PR scare as that one time paparazzi leaked photos of you and your actor sneaky link slash hook up slash friend with a lot of benefits hand-in-hand as you left the hotel he was staying at after a particularly good photoshoot. That ended as fast as it started.

So why are you typing out this response like your life depends on it?

You: i dont approve of ur draft choice

Vernon: ill adapt

Vernon: wanna meet me at the player entrance?

You: do i like sneak in or smth??

Vernon: bruh no ill let the staff know be out 20 min after the end of the game promise

You like his promise before clicking your phone off, head dizzy, brain hurting as you dumbly look on as the teams switch offense and defense. You watch as Dokyeom hands out strikes like he’s giving out menus at a restaurant and then you watch again as Dino, Joshua, and Vernon round bases, followed by Minghao and Mingyu after he steals two bases.

Your phone is not forgotten on the table in front of you.

Until it buzzes as the game winds down.

You glance at the screen, barely registering the screams around you or the score, heart already beating just a little too fast for something as simple as a text.

Vernon: 20 min player entrance don’t ditch lmao

A huff of amusement leaves you before you can help it. You lift your phone again, thumbs tapping against the glass as the crowd around you erupts into louder cheers.

You: yeah yeah dont keep me waiting

A minute passes.

No response.

It’s funny because you expect a response.

But it’s typical, especially during a game.

So you roll your eyes, dropping your phone back into your lap, pretending to no one that your pulse hasn’t picked up, that your heart wasn’t racing, that the anticipation sitting low in your stomach doesn’t mean anything, and the way your fingers turn cold isn’t an indicator of the sudden rush of adrenaline.

It shouldn’t mean anything.

The Diamonds are winning. And that should be enough to distract you. It should be easy to stay focused on the game – it’s the 9th inning for fucks sake. The energy is electric as the team nears almost a 12 point gap between them and the Kia Tigers. It courses through the stadium – through the baseball souls of everyone except for you, it feels like. It’s the kind that makes people jump out of their seats, waving banners and jerseys, calling out players’ names like they’ve worshiped them their whole lives.

You should be caught up in it.

But instead, all you can think about is him.

All you can think about is him – the way he laughed on the call last night, asking if you were coming to the game today, lower than usual, quieter, laced with something unreadable and tired when he asked you so, you coming to the game tomorrow?

You hadn’t planned on listening.

Not really, anyways.

You had deadlines to meet and models to contract for the runway show and fabrics to sew with your team in the studio.

And yet, here you are.

The last out is made and the crowd goes wild, jumping in their seats as they sing the team song, voices booming from every stacked corner of the stadium.

You watch as Vernon jogs off the field with the rest of his teammates after a bow. A small, tiny part of you wonders if he’s going to look in your direction. He doesn’t, obviously. Doesn’t glance up at the stands or cranes his neck at the last minute to look for you.

You shouldn’t go.

You should leave. Now. While the stadium is still buzzing with the post-game high, while it’s easy to slip away unnoticed, while you can take back a decision that cannot be taken back after it’s made.

But you find yourself waiting near the players’ entrance, twenty minutes later – waiting for him.

You’re debating so hard with yourself that you almost jump out of your skin when the door to the players’ entrance suddenly opens, washing the tunnel with a soft yellow light and the chatter of voices mingling in with the steady sound of water and music.

Head raised now, you see Vernon step out into the tunnel, duffel slung over his shoulder, posture loose, and mid-laughter at something you think Seungkwan said from inside of the locker rooms.

God, he looks good.

He’s not in his uniform anymore – no crisp jersey, no fitted baseball pants, no remnants of the game that just ended, no dirt stains. Instead, he’s wearing a slightly oversized blue sweater, the bold Kenzo Paris lettering stretched across his chest, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his tight forearms. A pair of relaxed-fit black trousers sit low on his hips, leaving a sliver of skin and the monogrammed Calvin Klein logo to show as he closes the metal door.

When his gaze lands on you, he slows, head tilting slightly, almost amused. From under the dim tunnel lights and your position against the wall, you can see the water droplets clinging to his damp hair, curly at the edges.

“You actually showed up,” he says, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

You cross your arms, cocking a brow, trying to disguise the fluttering of your traitorous heart. “You’re two minutes overtime.”

Vernon exhales a laugh, shifting his duffel higher on his shoulder. “Hey,” he says, pulling your long sleeve top, “gimme a break,” he laughs, “just finished rounding four bases.”

You click your tongue, but you can’t stop the smile that rises to your face, following him without complaint through the tunnel. “Should’ve finished rounding the last two.”

He actually laughs at that. “C’mon. Let’s get that whiskey highball of yours. See what the hype’s really about.”

And against your better judgement, you follow.

Follow Vernon out of the tunnel and into the open and your fluttering heart.

The stadium is still buzzing as you step outside, although most of the crowd has dispersed into the subway stations. A few stragglers mill around near the gates and the smoking area blows plumes of nicotine smoke from disappointed fans, and the glow of the floodlights cast a long show across the pavement.

You pull your hood over your head, the night wind biting the tips of your ears and your cheeks as the heat of the screams from the game dies down. Staring at the ground, Vernon’s strides are long and unhurried, allowing you to fall into step beside him as the two of you continue down the sidewalk, away from the glowing lights of the stadium. The streets are quieter now, save for the occasional drunken yells of college students toppling out of bars after drinking one too many glasses of beer.

“You played well,” you say, mostly to fill the silence, but also because you feel like if you don’t say something, the rest of the night is going to be hell of a lot more awkward.

“Thanks,” Vernon replies easily, hands shoved in his pockets. “Wasn’t my best game though.” There’s a certain tinge of disappointment in his voice like the expectations are lodged in his chest.

You glance up at him, brows raised. He better be joking. “You literally hit a triple in the fifth inning.”

“Yeah, but I hesitated rounding third,” he mumbles, head bowed now. Looking at him like this, under the streetlights, walking downhill to the restaurants below the stadium hill, he looks more tired. “I should’ve pushed for home. Could’ve done it too.”

You sigh, pushing your hood off of your head to look at him fully. “Could’ve. But reminiscing on it now doesn’t change a thing. You played well.” You smile, nudging him, when you see him start to open his mouth to retort. “Just take the compliment, baseball boy.”

Vernon gives you a look – amused, a little sheepish, and if you squint in the dark, a little grateful. “Sorry. Habit.”

You hum, letting the conversation lull for a beat before clearing your throat. “So… do I get to know where we’re going or are you just leading me to an alleyway and then knifing me?”

Vernon raises a brow. “Dramatic much?”

“I like to keep things interesting.”

He lets out a soft laugh, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just a spot a few blocks away. Good chicken. Okay beer.” A pause. You can physically see his brain whirring, eyes narrowing, steps faltering. “Unless I read something wrong and you wanna back out.” He trails off with an awkward sort of laugh that dangerously makes you want to tease him more.

You roll your eyes at him instead. “Has anyone ever commented on how you dress?”

Vernon blinks. “What?” His brown eyes look stupidly like large orbs under the yellow lights.

You gesture to his pants. “Those are good – nice fit and everything. Dunno where they’re from but I like them. But the sweater?” You scrunch your nose as you do another once-over at the blue Kenzo knit. “Mid, at best. Never liked blue.”

He looks down at himself, then back at you, expression caught between disbelief and amusement. “These pants are yours.”

“Huh?” Your head tilts.

Vernon grins, all teeth, canines sinking into his bottom lip. “They’re from your brand. Bought it last week at the department store.”

You blink.

It takes a second for his words to register and you don’t even realize you’ve stopped until Vernon stops as well to look back.

He glances down at his pants like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

You blink down at his pants.

They are yours – or, well, from your design. The small cat embroidered in silver thread is your marking against the black fabric right on the waistline above the pocket. It’s from three seasons ago, from a collection even you can barely remember. It was a small, limited run – maybe fifty or so copies of all of the clothes manufactured before you had to stop production to release your S/S collection in time to work on your design for the summer red carpets. You had hoped – and still hope – to continue it, especially because it was your first comfort clothing and loungewear line – nothing flashy, nothing widely publicized. The kind of piece that only a handful of people would own, let alone remember.

But here it is. On him.

That shocks you more than the fact that the line is still in stores.

You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly unsure of what to say.

Vernon watches your reaction, his expression calm, unreadable, with a hint of a smile playing at his lips – like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you right now. Like buying those pants, he knew, would mean more to you than to him. And you swear you hear something like cute whispered from his parted lips…

But that would be ridiculous. Right? Right?

You clear your throat, forcing a scoff, pulling your hood back up over your head before he can see the blush. “Huh,” you mumble, side-eyeing him, “Guess you have some taste.”

Vernon huffs a quiet laugh, letting you catch up to him. “Guess so.”

Your heart beats a little faster than it should when you force out the next words. “Still think the blue is not your color.”

“You comin’ for my sweater?”

“I’m coming for all of your sweaters.

“Oh shut up,” he laughs. And in a second, his hand is around your wrist, warm – calloused, yes – but warm, pulling you into a side alleyway and through the door of the first shop.

It’s frustrating how hard you have to try and force your heart to stop beating at 200 beats per minute.

When you duck under the very low door frame, you’re met with dim lighting, some kind of old indie rock music playing on a record player, and a flickering old-style TY in the corner playing a muted baseball game from three seasons ago.

It’s the kind of place that only accepts cash and has their menus laminated but still gently-used, marked with changes in price and menu changes. The kind of place that offers free side menus to the locals and the owner’s favorite customers.

It suits him. Vernon Chwe.

He walks in like he’s been here a hundred other times – nods at the owner (a graying man who’s all smiles and hearty chuckles, giving Vernon a gentle pat on the back, congratulating him on the win as he walks past), bows his head when someone calls his name from across the room and waves, and slides into a booth with the ease of a regular after throwing his bags under the table, into the basket.

You stare at him from the entranceway.

“You comin’?” His voice is low, easy, barely lifting over the background hum of the restaurant.

You look at him, feet moving before you realize it. He grins up at you as you slide in on the other side. You hesitate for a fraction, though, before you drop your own bag into the basket.

You don’t know why.

Maybe it’s the surrealness of it – sitting across from Vernon Chwe, number twelve, professional athlete, rookie MVP his first season, MIP last season, fan-favorite, objectively hot man. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re not entirely sure what this is. What it’s supposed to be.

You met him officially barely four weeks ago. But you’ve known of him for years, ever since Chaewon and Hyunjin, your brother, brought you to the Diamonds’ game six seasons ago. It’s impossible not to know him if you watch even a little baseball – a name that’s followed since his rookie season, a highlight reel you’ve watched more times than you would ever admit. The player that makes other fans curse out loud when he crushes them with a walk-off double during the season.

And yet, you’re sitting here. Across from him. Like you’ve known him your entire life.

And even though you’ve sat in front of celebrities – even Cha Eunwoo for God’s sake – nothing compares to this. The rush of nerves you feel as Vernon grins, drumming against the table with his fingers, making you tuck your hair behind your ears like some high schooler.

“You’re staring,” Vernon says, amused.

You blink, shaking yourself out of it. It seems like you have to do that a lot when you’re around Vernon. “I am not.”

“You totally are.”

You huff, pushing the laminated menu in his hand so you can read it upside-down. You glance up at him from under your lashes. “So,” you hum, “you bring all your post-game dates here?”

He scoffs, brushing through his hair again, strands falling messily over his forehead. “Nah. Exclusive guest list only,” he jokes, leaning forward just a bit.

You try to ignore the fact that he doesn’t correct you on date.

“Ah,” you hum, nodding. “So I should feel honored?”

“Infinitely.”

You try to ignore the way his voice dips just ever so slightly when he says it. Try to ignore the way his eyes flicker down at your hands on the table. The way they flicker back up to your face, a little lower than your eyes, before he smiles and glances away.

“You wanna test your theory?” he asks, gesturing for a server.

You hum, “Dunno. Are you paying?”

Vernon sighs dramatically, letting the menu flop onto the table, shrugging. “Guess I have to.”

“Oh, are you complaining?” you laugh, setting your elbows on the table, placing your chin on your palms, leaning forward.

When Vernon looks back from asking for a server, you take a small itty bitty sense of pride at how his eyes widen just a fraction before he swallows and leans back a little, a shaky grin rising to his lips.

“No, never.”

Before you can respond, the owner swings by, beaming as he sets a small bowl of popcorn between the two of you, small notebook in hand.

“Hey, welcome back Vernon.”

Vernon lets him pat his back and ruffle his hair. “Glad to be back, Mr. Cho.”

The owner glances at you. And then back at Vernon. “The usual?”

Now Vernon glances at you before he nods. “Yeah. But she wants spicy glaze and a whiskey highball.” He makes a face at you – nose scrunched and mouth turned down – at your order.

The owner hums, shooting you an approving look. “Good taste. But he’ll probably be adamant about changing your mind.” He claps Vernon on the shoulder, grinning. “Says our honey garlic’s the best in the city.”

You raise a brow. “So I’ve heard.”

Vernon just shrugs, all casual as he leans back. “Basic’s undefeated.”

The owner chuckles as he pockets his notebooks and grabs the menu off of the table. “Well, I’ll let Vernon entertain and charm the shit out of you.”

And then he’s gone.

Which leaves you and Vernon alone. Again. Alone against the low murmur of the bar, filled with the steady hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter from a table of five in the back. It’s lowkey. It’s homey. And sitting across from Vernon, it makes your pulse thrum in your wrist.

“You always come here after a game?” you ask, reaching for a popcorn.

“Not always,” he replies, leaning back in the booth. “But sometimes. It’s lowkey. Quiet.”

It is. No one’s sneaking pictures. No one’s gawking, asking for signatures, coming up mid-meal, staying overtime just to walk out with him. It’s the kind of place where people mind their own business. The kind where even the most famous of celebrities can feel a little bit at ease.

When the drinks arrive, you swirl the ice before taking a sip, letting the burn of the alcohol sting a road down our throat. You clear your throat.

“You usually invite girls you’ve only met a few times out for chi-maek?”

Vernon exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You think you’re just some girl?”

Something about the way he says it makes your fingers tighten so so so impossibly tight around your glass.

“Well,” you force an easy grin, lifting your head to meet his eyes, only to find that he’s been staring at you this entire time, “I guess I was your Kiss Cam partner,” you whisper out the last part. As if saying it quieter will feel more like a wish. Like it would turn it into a dream you can relive.

His lips twitch slightly. “Yeah,” he breathes, “Kiss Cam partner.”

You hum around your drink. “Yeah and you barely know me.”

He just looks at you, unreadable, especially under this dark lighting. “You’d be surprised.”

And then the food comes before you can ask him what the hell that means, the scent of crispy fried chicken, coated in glistening glazes filling the air between you two as Mr. Cho sets the plates down with a satisfied grunt. He throws a couple more napkins down before walking off, leaving you and Vernon with two loaded guns: two platters of plates and whatever the fuck he just said five seconds ago.

You should let it go. Because maybe it’s not that deep, you know? Something he just said to tease you.

But instead, you blurt out, “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

Vernon blinks at you, momentarily caught off guard. Then, with a shrug, he reaches for a piece of chicken, biting off a piece before answering, “You know. I pay attention.”

“To what?”

“To you,” he says, “Duh.” He says it so simply, so effortlessly, that it takes you a split second to even process the words and decode it inside your brain. He doesn’t even sound embarrassed, doesn’t backtrack, take it back, or try to explain himself. It just hangs. It hangs as he reaches for his drink, as he takes a sip, and as he licks a stray drop off of his lips (which is hotter than you would like to admit).

“Okay, that’s —” you pause, suddenly unsure of what you were even going to say.

Vernon smirks, grabbing a handful of popcorn. “What? Am I wrong?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, willing away the sudden creeping of blush red to your face. “No, I just –” you shake your head, reaching for a spicy glaze drumstick to distract yourself. “Whatever,” you huff, “We’re not doing this.”

Vernon huffs a laugh but doesn’t push. Instead, he swirls his draft beer and tilts his head, gulping down the liquid.

And the conversation shifts into something easier – safer.

“You still thinking about doing those bomber jackets?” he asks, tearing a piece of chicken in half with his fingers.

You tilt your head, now intrigued. “You remember that?”

Vernon grins. “Sounded cool.”

“Huh.” You sip your drink. And even though you say to not read too much into it, you know you will. Later. When you’re at home, half-way through your shower. “Yeah. Maybe for the spring-summer collection.”

“You gonna make one for me?”

You snort. “I dunno, Chwe, think you can pull one off?”

“Think I’d look good in anything yours,” he says. Like it’s a known fact. Yours. Anything yours. It tickles the wrong set of nerves in our brain. He’s not even trying to be smooth. Just stating it like he’s commenting on the damn weather.

And you?

Well.

You weren’t expecting that.

You almost drop your drumstick, stomach flipping before you can even stop it. You open your mouth, ready to fire back some witty response until your eyes land on his pants. Again.

It seems like you repeat a lot of what you do when you’re with Vernon.

You point at his pants. “How do you even have those?”

Vernon follows your gaze, then glances back up at you, a little confused, brows furrowed. “Huh? I bought them. Like a normal person?”

“Bought them,” you parrot.

“Yeah? Why?”

You shake your head, looking down at your plate of finished bones and unfinished chicken. “Just–” you let out a small laugh, “That line was from like three seasons ago. I didn’t even know they still had it in stores. Or– or that people still bought it – wanted it, you know?”

It’s almost nostalgic, the way you slowly smile at the thought, wiping off your fingers with a wet tissue. You feel the alcohol flush coming on from your neck, traveling up and up to the tops of your cheeks. When you look back up at Vernon, he’s staring at you, something hazy in his eyes, leaning back against the booth, head tilted just a little bit with twitching lip corners. His drink is barely half-way finished.

The quiet that lingers between you two as you lean back, exhaling as you check your phone for the time isn’t awkward. It’s lighter, easy. Almost too easy. Like the end of the night was scripted to be exactly this – two finished glasses of highball, one half-way finished glass of draft beer, and two plates of stacked chicken bones. And Vernon. Especially Vernon.

“You done?” he asks, voice soft but carrying through to you.

You don’t realize how much you’ve drunk until it hits you now, as the conversation lulls and the way Vernon looks at you makes you blush red hot.

“Mhm,” you mumble, head lolling back against the wooden backrest of the booth.

Vernon laughs at that, sliding out, grabbing all three of your guys’ bags, slinging them over his shoulder. When he stands, the dim overhead light casting a shadow down his body, you look up, head craning to see his face.

It’s unfair, really. To look up, half-drunk, to see Vernon’s face. It takes everything in you not to grin deliriously, as if he’s some walking meal, waiting to be devoured. He looks less tired than he did when he first stepped out of the locker room. Or maybe you’re telling yourself that, trying to convince yourself that you’ve impacted Vernon Chwe’s life in positive ways. If not for a long time, then at least for a while. For the hour and a half it took for you to walk down the hill and eat your chicken.

He outstretches a hand to you.

You instead grab the table edge, hauling yourself up.

If you grabbed his hand, you’re afraid you would never let go.

If Vernon thinks it’s weird, he doesn’t comment on it, instead leading you out the door of the restaurant, your bag in his hand, warmth lingering by your back.

The restaurant door swings shut behind you and the night air is crisp against your skin, a welcome contrast to the blazing warmth in your cheeks. You stretch your arms above your head, exhaling slowly, slowly, and beside you, Vernon shoves his hands into his pockets as the two of you start walking down the sloping sidewalk.

Seoul feels different at this hour. It’s calmer, the usual chaos of honking horns, snail-like traffic, and roar of car engines almost silent under the round moon overhead. A streetlight flickers as you pass under it, dimming – if only for a second – the light around you and Vernon, who had almost naturally slipped over to your left side, walking along the road-side of the pavement.

“I’ll take the subway,” you say, breaking the quiet, more to yourself than anything. As if saying something out loud will break the tension you feel. “Should be fine.”

Vernon makes a noise that can only be described as a scoff. “You’re not taking the subway.”

You glance at him, almost blurting out something else. Instead, you settle on, “Why not?”

“It’s late,” he replies simply, still looking ahead. “You should take the bus.”

You snort. “How is the bus any better?”

“It’s above ground.”

“Oh, wow, really?” You deadpan.

He gives you a look, the corner of his mouth twitching as he reshoulders your bag and his duffle. You want to reach out and take your bag off his shoulder, but you’re afraid it might break whatever you have going on right now.

“You know what I mean,” he says.

You do. But you also know that he probably doesn’t see the deeper meaning in his words. At least, not like you do.

“I can handle myself,” you say, lifting a fist into the air (though rather slowly). “I’m scrappy.”

Vernon looks wholly unimpressed. “Uh-huh.”

“You doubt me?”

“Feel like you’d trip over air or something.”

You gasp, “No, I would not!”

“Really?”

You can’t answer that because at that moment, your foot catches on an uneven part of the pavement (not air!) and you stumble forward. That seems to break you out of your tipsy haze, your eyes widening a fraction and you think you’re about to fall face first onto the brick pavement when, all of a sudden, a firm arm is around your waist before you can even register that you’re falling. The grip is firm, strong, steady, and you can feel the warmth of the palm through your hoodie.

You glance up.

And you freeze.

“So scrappy,” he murmurs, shaking his head with a little smile that plays on his lips that should be illegal to look upon if you wanted your heart from further falling.

You open your mouth, ready to argue, but whatever you’re about to say dies on your tongue. The way he looks at you – brows slightly raised, lips just barely curved, the streetlight hitting his nose, cheekbones, jaw – sends something off-kilter, almost killing, in your chest. He’s too close (or maybe not close enough), and for the (not) first time tonight, you feel yourself at an actual loss for words.

What are you even supposed to say? Thanks for catching me? Or would hey, lean down so I can kiss you silly lol! work better in this case? Or maybe a small murmured haha cool work better?

The streetlight flickers above you again, like it’s counting down your blessings of time before Vernon actually lets go or your brain goes haywire and you actually do pull him in for a drunken kiss in a late-night stupor.

“Thanks,” you mumble, voice coming out a little weaker than you’d like.

Vernon rights you. “Don’t drink too much.” It comes out a little scolding but still light.

“S fine,” you say, “ ‘S not like I’m a pro baseball player or anything.”

Vernon exhales a quiet laugh, but his grip lingers on your waist a fraction of a second longer before he lets go. “Still. Can’t have you passin’ out drunk on me.”

You clear your throat, forcing your feet to move again. The bus stop is just up ahead, and with every step, you feel the weight of his presence beside you, the ghost of his lingering touch against your waist.

The short walk down to the bus stop is quiet. Like both of you don’t really know what to say or even if you did, how to say it. As you slow to a stop, you look down at your feet – the way your ragged jeans drag just slightly across the top of your shoes and the way your trousers let the bright Nike logo on Vernon’s stand out.

Vernon rocks back on his heels, hands shoved in his pockets. He looks at you and then far away, like he wants to say something.

You don’t push, instead gently taking your bag from his shoulder, slipping your arms through it.

Suddenly, he clears his throat, looking at the bus stop’s LED sign. “Come to the next game,” he says, casual, like it’s not a big deal.

You blink at him. “What?”

“You have the season pass,” he continues, looking out towards the dark road like this is a passing thought to him. Like he doesn’t know that to you, it’s him asking to see you again – an opportunity for you to see him again. And a small (big) part of your heart wonders if he’ll ask you to chicken and beer like tonight.

Something in your stomach flips.

And it’s definitely not the beer.

You hesitate, just for a second.

Then, finally, you nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

Vernon nods too, like he’s satisfied with your answer, like he expected you to say yes. Like he would have kept asking until you did.

Vernon shifts his weight from one foot to the other, eyes flicking toward the road where your bus is approaching in the distance, the headlights bright in the dark and the numbers bold against the windshield. His hands are still in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed, but there’s something unreadable in his expression—like he’s about to say something else but decides against it.

Instead, he nods, the ghost of a pleased smile playing at his lips. “See you at the game.”

For a second you think he’s going to do something. In your drunken stupor, you hope that he’ll lean down, hug you, hold you, kiss you.

But then he turns to leave.

And for some reason – some weird, messed up, fucked up reason – you don’t think. You just move.

And before he can take one more step, you reach out, fingers finding place around his wrist, wrapped in sports tape. It has him startling, jolting at the sudden contact, turning to face you with widened eyes. Then, before your brain can catch up to your body, you close the space between you, fingers falling from his wrist so that your arms can loop around his built waist. Your cheek finds brief comfort against his chest, catching the faint scent of his cologne – or shampoo or aftershave – vanilla and a little floral and musk.

Vernon stills. Freezes. Stops.

For a second, he doesn’t react at all. Caught off guard, shocked, surprised, whatever the fuck his unreadable brain is feeling. And then, slowly, to match your arms, his arms come up, hands settling tentatively – very tentatively – against your back. They’re big. Warm. Solid as they gently press you just the merest inch closer to him as he exhales. His breaths are quiet, like maybe he’s been holding his breath this whole time and letting it go in multiple quiet sighs. His chin finds the top of your head, gently resting. Like he’s scared to hold you any tighter.

So you let him keep his distance.

“Thanks for tonight,” you murmur against the fabric of his sweater.

You don’t tell him that you left a project unfinished to come meet him. Or that you needed to get back to your studio two hours ago.

Instead, you pull back. Because if Vernon is scared of holding you tighter, you’re scared that if you hold him any longer, you won’t let go.

And then his response comes, quieter than before.

“Anytime.”

You step away, at arm’s distance now. You can still feel the lingering warmth where his hands met your back. He looks at you for a beat longer, eyes dark as almonds under the streetlights, mouth slightly parted like there’s something else he wants to say.

But then the glowing headlights of your bus roll to a stop beside you, glowing bold N1128 blinking against the windshield. And the moment dissolves into the rumble of the engine and the hiss of the doors opening.

You step down off of the curb, your fingers curling at your sides.

You give him a smile.

“I’ll see you.”

Vernon nods once, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “Yeah. See you.”

And he stands there, still, eyes training ambiguously between you and the rest of the darkened road as you climb into the bus, the card scanner beeping as you press your phone against the reader. And he stands there, still, as you slide into a seat by the window, bag in your lap, as you watch him, standing, as the bus rolls away. And now you watch as he disappears down the street, your heart beating a little too fast, a little too loud, and a little too much in your chest.

Your forehead meets the chilled glass of the bus window, warm breath hot against your hand that supports your chin. Your phone is gripped tight in your hand and the smooth rumble of the bus and the gentle music playing inside does nothing to soothe your thoughts.

You swallow, eyes squeezing shut as you try to push out the way Vernon’s chin met the top of your head; the way his hands felt splayed across your back; the way his breath was light against your hair; the way he caught you as he fell.

This is wrong.

You repeat it like a mantra inside your alcohol-thickened skull. Your muddled brain. Your disastrous, highschool crush-reverted brain.

This is wrong. This is wrong. This is wrong.

And wrong for all the right reasons.

But a pang of selfishness courses through you when you find yourself asking your own brain why this is wrong. Can’t a girl have a crush? Can’t a girl dream? Is it because he’s high profile? An up-and-coming star? All-rounder? Because you’re different? Infinitely?

Or because at the end of the day, you feel like he’ll never see you the same way?

Your forehead bangs against the glass as bone and skin meet the hard surface again.

And then your phone vibrates.

You glance down at your illuminated screen. And you can almost scoff – in amusement and ridiculousness.

Vernon 버논 text me back when u get home safe thx 4 tonight needed it

You squeeze your eyes shut again.

He really needed to stop texting you like this.

: ̗̀➛ 🇰🇮🇸🇸 ❜🇪🇷 🇺🇵 @astrobebba ; @ayupfrogg ; @steamyjaehyun @chwenott ; @toplinehyunjin ; @syluslittlecrows

#seventeen #vernon #vernon chwe #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #seventeen smut #seventeen fic #vernon x reader #vernon smut #vernon fluff #seventeen baseball! au #baseball player!vernon #kiss er up!!#seventeen fics #svt fic #svt x reader #why am i lowkey obsessed with my own writing and rereading stuff #gia's long fics

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devilmademewriteit · 2 years ago

Text

If You Lie Down With Me

pairing: (pre-ellie) dbf!joel miller x fem!afab!reader

summary: there’s only one guy in all of boston that can get you a morning after pill. unfortunately, on top of being a huge asshole, Joel Miller also happens to be your dad’s closest peer.

warnings: rough sex / smut (masturbation, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content; unprotected sex; light choking & restraint; light dom/sub dynamic; fem afab reader; reader has long-ish hair (that gets touched); plot-typical violence (guns, death); plot deviations (no Tess); medication ingestion; pet names (baby, sweetheart, angel); dubcon (slight intoxication, power imbalance, no explicit consent).

word count: 6.5k+

no use of y/n in this fic

alright y’all I’m baaaaAAAaack! so this is basically the other version of Dark But Just a Game that I started back when I was writing it & figured I’d finish it to get out of my hiatus. like any devilmademewriteit fic, it’s dark and nasty and deprived like meeeeeee <3 hope u enjoy !

don’t forget to reblog, check out my masterlist, sign up for the taglist, & leave any comments / feedback / & suggestions!

(ps: new part of Salvatore up next !)

—

“three times the guy I ever thought I would meet, so don't say you're over me when we both know that you lie”

— lana del rey, ‘If You Lie Down With Me’

—

Fuck.

Waking up to a racing heart, a pounding head, and a stomach swimming with nausea was never ideal, although it was always a better experience alone — when you could squint and hiss at the light slicing through the weaknesses in the drapes without hearing your groans echoed by a lower, louder, and annoyingly more pitiful voice.

Right. What was his name?

Jared? Jordan? Jermaine?

Ah, who cares.

If he’d wanted a safe place to nurse his hangover, he shouldn’t have fallen asleep in your bed. Sure, the odds of dad being conscious at this hour (especially the odds after a party like last night’s) were Kate Moss — no, Rolling Stones — slim, but the man would get up at some point, meaning that this poor J-whatever was likely sleeping through his only window of escape from certain homicide.

You whisper. You shake him gently. You gingerly tap the roundness of his bicep.

Huh — Not bad.

You congratulate last-night-you for reeling in this morning’s good-looking catch.

Still… nothing. Not a twitch. Nary a croaked ‘lemmesleep’ graces your ears.

After loosing an exasperated sigh and running through your options, you decide to take the most effective (and least girl-next-door) route. The corner of your elbow collides with his ribs, and the boy jumps up, his loose, blonde curls as wild as his eyes, searching the room for his attacker.

You want to smile at the scene, but the motion hurts your head.

“Y’gotta go,” you croak out, thumbs rubbing circles against your aching temples.

He collapses onto his back, copying your movement with his own fingers to his brow. “God. I feel like shit.”

Despite muttering your agreement, you let your eyelashes flutter closed and your weight turn you away from last night’s paramour: no use figuring out who he is after the (f)act — that just makes it personal.

After a few breaths, the boy moves back up to a shakey sitting position.

Probably sourcing for his clothes.

He reeks of booze and sex — but then again, so do you. His roughened, unfamiliar tenor climbs to barely above a whisper, “Z’something stuck on my leg… blood, or something…”

His interrupting your suffering comes as a deeply unwelcome annoyance, so you try to sort him out to clear him out: “Prolly just the condom,” you mumble, rolling back onto your shoulders, reluctantly supervising his movements.

He lifts up fully, sitting criss-cross and pulling his calf towards him.

“No,” he tries to laugh but succumbs to the nausea, settling for a low breath instead, “S’blood, dude, from beer darts — and I didn’t use a condom.”

Your eyes immediately dart over, settling on his naked, wretched, shivering form. He notices your ire and the hitching of your throat, immediately defensive.

“I asked if you wanted to.”

Unfortunately, he had. The memories of your drunken entanglement start to resurface inside your mind. “It just feels better without one.” This time, you curse last-night-you for being such a careless, inconsiderate, horny bastard.

You’re making problems for me, girl.

“J’s get out.”

J-whatever spares no time complying, collecting his few strewn belongings and staggering out the front door. Once it slides shut, so too do your poor, weary eyes.

Shit.

There goes the afternoon.

Getting your hands on condoms in the QZ was at least fifteen times easier than snatching a morning after pill. Those were a hot commodity, especially among the younger, less responsible crowds.

Luckily for you, as a member of aforementioned younger, less responsible crowds, you knew where your best chances lay in finding whatever it was you needed (if what you needed was deeply immoral or wholly illegal). Unluckily for you, that ‘best chance’ happened to be your dad’s closest and longest-running business partner: temperamental, judgemental, frustratingly competent, Joel ‘Local Asshole’ Miller.

But that could all be dealt with after another eight hours of sleep.

—

Opportunity strikes sooner than expected.

Miller’s in your living room by the time you wake up, the low rumble of his southern baritone recognizable even through the closed door. After scrambling to throw on some clothes, you press an ear to the chipping paint, hoping to determine the number of bodies gathered in your home.

Not many. Just Miller (and the old man, of course).

The latter’s presence bodes ill for you. This would all have to be done in secret, which was not an uncommon strategy where ever the former was involved. No one dealt with Joel Miller to conduct clean-cut, wholesome activities. No one was calling him up for a spare copy of the holy book.

No, getting him alone was essential.

A drink slams down on the counter. After a good, patient ten minutes, you hear your father (‘s rather crude way of) excusing himself to the washroom and heavy-set footsteps decrescendoing down the hall.

This is it.

You slip through the door.

At first, your company takes no notice of you, his eyes still glued to the maps and papers littering the counter before him.

Then, a low grumble: “fun night?”

His voice makes you weak in the knees — an involuntary, near ritual-like response you’d noticed around your mid teens and hadn’t managed to kick yet.

You swallow before responding. “Yes.”

It’s all you manage to muster. Miller finally looks up, wincing slightly as his back straightens. He looks tired, at least more than usual, with his wild, grey-streaked hair tousled and the lines by his mouth cutting deep into his skin.

You’re sure you don’t look much better, a suspicion proven by the man’s slowly spreading, barely-noticeable smirk. That gaze makes you self conscious, mute; your right hand snakes up, absent-mindedly dragging a fallen bra strap back to its proper position.

“So, what was his name?”

He’s teasing, sure, but Miller was there last night. He’d always had sharper perceptions than your father did, especially — and ironically — when it came to you. That skill tended to squander your confidence as the daughter of a modern-day mafia-boss and the owner of a hard, violent heart.

Rushed by the sound of your father’s footsteps, you default to honesty.

“I don’t remember.”

“Try.”

“Josh.”

Amusement flits across his stern expression. “Again.”

“Jamie.”

“Warmer.”

“J-J-something—”

“Gettin’ colder, sweetheart—”

“I need the pill.”

It just tumbles out, an exasperated, desperate plea. Miller, a bit taken aback by your candor, drains of his previous playfulness. You almost notice the split second those dark eyes glaze over. For a second, you’re almost convinced he’s distracted by his imagination’s recreations of the act that had you making such a request.

You almost notice the tingling between your thighs.

He stares. You stare back.

Fuck.

It was moments like this that made you wish Tess was still around. Oh, she wouldn’t be any kinder — no, not at all — but she’d certainly be more professional. Tess was all work, no play. Joel was…

You’re enjoying this, you bastard. You’re enjoying that I’m cornered like this, aren’t you?

The bathroom handle clicks when it turns, and your heart drops into your toes.

Maybe Miller really wasn’t going to help you. Maybe he didn’t have the pill and you’d just embarrassed yourself for nothing. Or, maybe he did, but preferred outing you to your dad at the very first opportunity — letting him deal with you the only way he knew how.

Your fears seem confirmed: his eyes leave the grace of your own, trailing back to his big, splayed hands on the countertop. Unwelcome tears burn the corners of your eyes as the panic begins to set in, as footsteps begin to fall…

“Mine. Tonight.”

It’s low and rushed, but it’s clear, cutting off to the sound of your father lumbering in. A man who saw, thought, and lived through transactions, he’s (thankfully) blissfully ignorant of the tension collapsing around him.

“Morning,” he throws your way.

A taunt, of course — it was well past noon.

You nod in acknowledgement, slowly backing into the doorway of your sacred, beckoning room. They resume their conversation from before, letting you sink into irrelevance.

Before shutting yourself in, you catch a few of Miller’s hushed words. They’re spoken casually to your father but, you later decide, surely meant for you:

“Not that one kid — Jeremy — don’t trust him.”

The door seals (well, not seals… it creaks on its rusty hinges and squeezes into its shrinking frame), and relief courses through you, reaching the very tips of your fingers.

That only lasts a minute.

Soon, you’re negotiating with the rising anxiety of being at Miller’s place alone, asking for his help with a problem that could’ve been avoided if you’d only kept your legs shut.

Alone with Miller, the both of you knowing that you hadn’t.

Crawling back under your covers, you begrudgingly make a vow of celibacy. If this was the cost of attention and a (potential) mid-range orgasm, you were about to become very frugal.

Dreams come easy, but they don’t come sweet.

Flashes of last night’s sins overlay Joel Miller’s unintelligible speech, his voice from the next room over lulling you into a rather confusing, disturbed sleep.

—

At nighttime, it’s a short walk to his building.

Down this alley, past this street, up this back stairwell. Part of being in with Boston’s seedy underbelly gained you access to the best and most up-to-date intel; by the age of twelve, you could run the safest — well, least policed — post-curfew routes from memory.

(Which had come in handy in situations a lot more dire than this.)

Sneaking in was easy, although you cursed him for being so preoccupied during the day. Coming in at this hour required some delicate maneuvers through a half-shattered window, and a less-than-graceful leap down left you with a nick on your cheekbone and a shallow cut along the side of your hand.

Thankfully, the blood mostly dries on your walk up the six or eight or ten flights of stairs. You don’t resent the exercise; it feels good to move, putting the jitters building in every still moment in abeyance.

Still moments like the kind that passes after a barely-audible, coded knock delivered by a girl sucking on the side of her hand, almost wishing for the door not to open.

It does.

He’s in jeans — dirty jeans, dusty — and a simple flannel. It’s Miller — it’s Miller at his most Joel-Miller-like-ness.

So why am I so fucking nervous?

He holds the door open, brows knitting at the sight of your hand in your mouth.

“Window,” You offer.

He mouthes a silent ‘ah,’ before leaning forward to duck his head out the door and, in the process, somewhat sandwiching you against his chest.

Maybe it’s because he smells like forest-fires, but your skin burns red-hot.

Miller looks both ways, checking the status of the hall (empty), then nudges you into the dim light of his place with the weight of his hand against your lower back.

The door shuts behind you.

You’d been here at least a million times before, but the thoughts rising now feel so… new. The jacket strewn on the side of the sagging sofa is his — Joel Miller has sat at this table and showered, slept, fucked inside these walls.

Cut it out. It’s just ‘cause you’re alone. And older.

But what about it, now that you were alone and older?

Old enough to know what goes on between a man and a woman and a little bit of desperation at just the right amounts… and there sure was a lot of him, and some desperation, too…

“Nervous?”

Your feet hit the floor, all thoughts evaporating at the sound of his word. Blushing, you try to de-code his taunt, spoken with playfulness and too much condescension.

“Wh — what’d you — nervous for what? No.”

He’s already across the room, sifting through a box of miscellaneous items. A yellowed lamp shade catches his side-profile, illuminates the smirk spreading across his face. Then, a low command:

“Relax,” and your spine settles, acceding to his wish. “Some girls get nervous, y’know, takin’ it the first time.”

Oh.

You clear your throat, daring to take a step into his place, incensed enough to trace the indents and stab-marks decorating his kitchen table.

“No.”

You’re taken aback by the accuracy and the strength underpinning your answer. It’s true, you aren’t afraid, and hadn’t been afraid of much in a very long while.

What’s a Joel Miller to your best friend’s public hanging? What’s he to a dozen rows of semi automatics raining down on your zigzagging toes? What’s he to a period cramp?

Like a bolt of lightning hitting you in the chest, that cocky, gauche and indelicate rebel you’d grown into reappears.

“I’ve been told I take things pretty well my first time.” The tension rises — this time, at your command — just as Joel does, carrying a leather pouch in his right hand. “And it’s not, anyways,” you add for good measure.

The leather drops onto the marked-up table. Joel crosses his arms.

“Not sellin’ me on givin’ you one of these, sweetheart.”

He gestures to the bag.

A mock-frown as you draw closer to him. His eyes, although severe, reflect the playfulness dancing in your own.

“Why not?” You ask, voice dripping with false innocence.

Joel’s gaze doesn’t stray as it hardens, focused on your own. “They’re for accidents, mistakes, attacks,” he explains, deep and dangerous, “Not girls who can’t keep their pretty lil’ legs together.”

Oof.

On one hand, it sounds like he’s genuinely chastising you for your careless behaviour. But, on the other, he sounds jealous, taunting, hungry.

I’ll play that hand.

Sleeping all day had left you wide awake, and that long-time, school-girl crush on the man before you was dying for content to fantasize about. Even if he pushed you off, you’d get to feel the weight of his hands on your body, right?

So, you return with a taunt of your own: “You think my legs are pretty?”

He shakes his head, his signature scowl spreading as he mostly ignores you. “I think you should at least use condoms,” a breath, “N’ know their first names.”

Ouch.

“I usually do.” you murmur, “and it broke last night.”

“Bullshit.”

“What do you mean, bullshit?”

Joel sighs and lowers himself into one of the four old, rickety chairs lining the table. His hand comes up to his temples and you notice how his legs, exhausted, part.

The man doesn’t deign to respond.

Irritation begins to well in your core, sneaking through your arms and up into your throat. The muscle in your jaw must be twitching like crazy.

How does he know? How the fuck does he always know?

Across the QZ, as a skilled liar and born and bred bandit, people tended to hold whatever image of you that you’d crafted for them.

Not Joel. Never Joel.

He saw through you in a way that had always felt… intimate. It was one of the reasons, you guessed, he didn’t dare spend too much time alone with you and why you’d always been curious about him (as a man, of course). Now, there was no avoiding your obvious vulnerability from either of you — you were stripped bare, your dressings in his hand.

It makes you want to flee as much as it makes you want to leap into his arms.

You snatch up the pouch, opening it up to find a mass of differently coloured and shaped pills. Rifling through, you ignore Joel’s stare boring into your hands’ erratic search.

“Yellow ones,” he says.

“I know what they look like,” you retort.

“‘Course you do.”

He moves faster than he should be able to.

One moment, your palm is slicing through the air, headed straight for the highest point of his cheek. The next, you’re facedown on the table. Your attacking hand is caged in by a much larger, much stronger one, pinned to the decaying wood; the other, he pins behind your back. Pills litter the floor — Joel’s boot crunches into a wayward one as he adjusts himself behind you, leaning over your struggling, smaller frame, immobilizing you with his weight.

“Let go of me—” you hiss, words smothered by the wooden surface pressed to your profile.

“—Shut up ‘n listen,” he commands, leaning over to tower over his trapped victim. “Try that again n’I’ll do worse’n kill you. Understand?”

Despite the authenticity of his threat, a strangled laugh wracks your lungs.

“Gonna turn me in for contraband, Miller? Watch them gun me down in the square?”

You smile through your heavy breaths. There, behind your hips, is a growing movement indicative of some other kind of punishment he’s got in mind.

“Or,” you continue on coyly, “Give me another reason to need that pill?”

Joel pauses, untangling your meaning.

Then, an exasperated scoff. His hold tightens on your wrist and you wince. “You always thinkin’ of the fastest way to get a man to fuck you?”

“Only when his cock’s pressed against my ass.”

He goes quiet — only for a moment. Somewhere outside, rounds echo through the night.

“Z’that what you want?” His voice is deep and threatening, promising of the kind of hard, mind-numbing fuck you’d been craving for weeks.

After a hard swallow, you nod, catching the raise of his eyebrows in your periphery.

A moment passes as he mulls over your answer. Only your shallow, anticipatory breaths populate the quiet space.

“Alright.”

And he lets go.

Heart racing, wrists aching, you flip around to his neutral, impenetrable expression.

“Get down on your knees.”

Without taking a moment to decide whether you’re living anything more than just a really fucked up dream, you sink to your knees, folding your hands in your lap (to stop them from shaking). Before you, Joel’s bulge twitches while he watches you yielding to submission, and you try to ignore the excitement building between your own two legs.

His eyes burn into yours: black, starved, weighty. He tells you to shut your own and you do, unable to resist the tone of his command. Within the self-imposed darkness, Joel’s following order — ‘open your mouth,’ — parts your lips as if they were under his spell. You wonder what you must look like to him, needy and ready to receive whatever you’re given.

He speaks again.

“Show me your tongue, angel.”

The gruffness punctuating his arousal doesn’t let you stand a chance. You let your mouth fall open wider.

Next, there’s rustling. You try to remember whether or not he’d had on a belt, listening and failing to hear the soft clinks of a buckle coming undone.

Too soon, something wraps around your chin — thick, calloused fingers — and the pressure of a thumb running down the middle of your tongue sends a rush of electricity down every stacked vertebrae. It’s slow, tantalizingly slow, as if the man were trying to memorize the feel of every groove, ridge, and bud on his leisurely way out.

When Joel drops his hand, a small weight remains at the back of your throat.

“Close.”

You do, opening your eyes to meet his own: severe and wanting — or wanting for severity?

It’s a pill. That much is obvious once the taste begins to spread, bitter and chemical and totally gag-worthy. He follows up with ‘swallow’ for his own sick enjoyment; by the time he says it, it’s clear that you already have.

What kind of game is this, Miller?

Your cheeks burn when your company kneels down. He places his big, broad hand partly on your neck, partly to the side of your jaw, and you’re still too taken aback to tear it off. The feel of his rough palm against your racing pulse silences every urge to enact revenge. Words don’t come — too quickly forgotten on one’s knees.

“You’re way too easy for your own good, sweetheart,” he near-whispers, shooting to kill in a blow packed tight with condescension. “Don’t let me see you here again.”

And that’s it: your cue to get lost.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Miller pulls away from your reddening skin, straightening to stand. You follow suit soon after, heart pumping lead, tongue bruised by the memory of his touch (more overwhelming than the metallic residue dripping down your throat).

He turns, running a few fingers through his hair. It’s the last look you get before resigning yourself to the journey back home.

Still, before turning the rusted handle, in a brief moment of respite, of clarity, you seize the final word:

“I’m only ‘easy’ when I’m drunk. Or interested.”

Silence courses through the room as Joel registers the meaning behind your confession.

“Goodnight, Miller.”

With that, you see yourself into the hallway, checking its status before tearing into the stairwell.

You barely breathe.

He wanted me — he had to have wanted me.

Miller was a pragmatic player; surely, he’d only bother to play with toys he liked like that… right?

Right?

Unable to clear your head or cool the heat radiating through your core, you take the long way home, the distant sounds of a war between rivals soothing the cacophony of noise swimming between your ears.

—

For the next two weeks, all you’re able to think about is him.

You think about him when he’s gone and when he’s in the room, grumbling in hushed tones to your father. You think about him when you’re unable to fall asleep, letting your hands slip beneath the waistband of your shorts, imagining your own fingers as thick, tan ones running through the warmth between your legs.

He takes no notice of you — a fact you deeply resent. Even in your skimpiest clothing, he’s like a damn horse with blinders on. You decide, in the past weeks, he’d either acquired the patience of Job or purged every sinful craving from his system when he’d stuck his fingers down your throat.

Naturally, you’re more than happy when, at breakfast (two in the afternoon), your father gives you the heads up about tonight’s gathering at the Bar (which was really just an asbestos-ridden basement equipped with enough prohibition-style gadgets and architecture to host a good ‘strategic meeting’ every other month).

“Everyone’s gonna be there,” he mumbles. “Need you to keep your ears open. Had to take a couple rats out last week…”

Everyone’s gonna be there.

Smiling to yourself, your thoughts start to spin out. Business, distractions, booze. Tonight would host a million opportunities for you to get him alone.

Hope blooms through your chest.

Do your worst, Miller.

—

“Man, I wish we could’ve experienced cocktails. Straight hooch is ass.”

A peer named Mel, just a year older than yourself, cringes as she sips on whatever murky liquor’s found its way into her cup.

You don’t mind the taste so much, having grown mostly immune to its taste and burn. In fact, you’d come to welcome the subsequent lapse in breath and judgement.

There was little else in this world that made you feel alive.

“Mhm,” you respond absent-mindedly, looking for a familiar scowl among the mass of scowls peppering the crowd.

A sigh to your right. “Always awesome, having your attention.”

The criticism snaps you back into your body. You smile sheepishly at your friend, apologizing through a wince.

She shrugs, her raggedy, pin-decorated jacket jingling with the movement. “S’okay. Known you long enough to know that look.”

For that, she receives a quizzical glance.

Mel comes back with a scoff. “No victims tonight?”

“Oh god,” you shoot her a look of disgust. “Do you mind not using such weird vocabulary? Make me sound like a predator.”

As the words tumble out, you zero in on the object of your search. There he is: eyebrows knit together in concentration, drink in hand, unsurprisingly (and annoyingly) in conversation with your father. A few other stragglers are in the mix, too, but they’re easily overlooked. Time slows to a full stop in his wake —only for the briefest of seconds —

“Well since the last guy actually wound up dead a week later, I think it’s fitting.”

Once again, Mel’s managed to wrangle your interest.

You stare blankly into her onyx eyes, ringlets falling through molasses around her face. “Jeremy?”

And she’s bewildered. “You didn’t hear?”

This time, both of your heads turn in the same direction.

“Ratted to FEDRA about the storehouse off tenth,” she explains, gesturing towards Miller and your father with a tilt of her head. Famous for her bravery, she stoops into your shoulder, averting his gaze and speaking under her breath, “Judging by the way they found him, my guess is it was mostly Miller’s stuff.”

It’s as if she’d screamed it.

The subject of your conversation turns to face you right as your company’s words drift off. Despite the level of noise, the amount of people, and the cloudiness of the air, you’re trapped in the corridor of your mutual stare, cornered.

The challenge, the knowing marking his expression.

“I need some air.”

You twist into the body standing behind you, shoving row after row of criminal scum out of the way. Mel doesn’t follow — she’d never hung around to comfort you, only to inform you. A mutual, typical relationship for the age, and just how things worked in the QZ.

You slam into the door, stomping into a deserted, silent alley, empty save for a few drunk strays. Your lips begin to tingle and a scream builds inside your lungs. Stalking blindly into the night, unsure of your direction, alone in half a top and a plain, ass-length skirt, shivering despite the warmth of the air…

You’re practically begging for trouble.

Just as your eyes catch the numbers on the old, rusted street sign above, just as you realize you’re on a monitored street tonight, only safe after curfew every other Monday and Wednesday, you’re grabbed by the waist, pulled into the space between two buildings, and shoved into a sheltered nook.

A dim, yellow light clicks on automatically. There’s a door (chained closed) leading into the building to your left and darkness to your right.

And there’s Joel Miller above you, his expression indeterminable.

“You asshole,” you barely hear yourself breathe over the sound of the blood rushing in your ears before lunging forward in a useless attempt to, once again, strike his profile.

He catches your wrist, no doubt having anticipated the attack. It’s written on your face, in your eyes, in your shallow, uneven inhalations. He takes your other hand before you’ve even thought to use it, lifting it above your head and slamming it against the old stucco behind you.

“You’re violent,” he says flatly.

He tightens his hold when you struggle against it. “Proud of yourself, yeah? You’re a killer.”

That inspires a slight smirk. You half expect him to return with an ‘as if you didn’t already know that.’

Instead, he says, “Sweetheart, you didn’t even know his name.”

“You should’ve told me.”

And that’s the real source of this anger: it’s rage at being the last to know.

And for what? To protect your feelings? Since when had anyone in your life bothered to do that?

“And don’t call me ‘sweetheart’,” you add for good measure.

You’d wanted him to touch you so badly for weeks now, but here, scorned at being left in the dark and confused at the death of a paramour, you only want to get free.

“And what’d he call you?” He spits, leaning down and in, inadvertently pressing his thigh between your legs — when his breath grazes the skin of your ear, it causes them to part (against your better judgement). “Got lots of names, right?” He continues to tease, “Heard your boyfriend’s pretty one for you before I shut him up — ‘that fuckin’ slut,’ f’I’m rememberin’ right.”

Despite your rage-shakes, you’re warming at the core, Joel’s pressure against it dizzying your already-addled head. It confuses you, makes the scorn easier to access.

“How did I come up, Miller?” You exhale, jutting your chin towards him. “Couldn’t help asking for all the dirty little details, could you?”

He smiles, and the act lacks any sort of kindness. “‘Lot easier gettin’ him alone once he thought he was meetin’ you.” Joel slams your wrist harder into the wall when you try to wriggle away. “Not sure you wanna keep making that kind of impression, angel.”

It’s hard to rationalize with him so close, as his pet-names echoe inside your head. He’d used your name to enact gang-law violence on a boy who’d been inside you, and yet, all you can think, all you can hear, is the way ‘sweetheart’ sounds tumbling off his lips.

“Fucking let me go, Miller,” you manage to exasperate, resenting the begging edge to every word. “I don’t need another abstinence lecture from you.”

Kicking one ankle off balance, Joel turns you around, pressing your stomach to the wall, your back into his chest. Ignoring your whines and pitiful struggle, he wraps a free hand around your neck, pushing your head against his collarbone. Your stomach erupts with butterflies as the rough pad of his thumb traces the front of your throat.

Yes — no — yes, he wants me — no, no, this is wrong, this is so wrong —

“‘Be wasted on you, anyways,” he says, rough and earnest, like his hand sliding down your chest, your breasts, your stomach, “Startin’ to realize if I can’t fix your dad’s mistakes…” and he’s finding the hem of your skirt and yanking it up, bunching the fabric around your hips —

“Might as well take advantage of them.”

He moves hungrily. He’s everywhere, sliding into your underwear and across your breasts, his big arms and suffocating biceps enveloping your entire frame.

“Joel—”

But he claps a hand over your mouth, silencing any hope of your pleas being effective.

“Think I haven’t seen you? Your lil’ looks…” a low laugh, “n’ those fuckin’ clothes?” God, the rumble, the sheer want in his voice hammers at your initial resistance, and you feel yourself welcoming the feel of his thick, long fingers, sliding between your wet folds. You’re clay, melting against the curved, firm wall of his chest.

You mewl pathetically into his palm.

Another low laugh wracks his lungs, dances at the top of your ear.

“Knew you’d be this wet for me.”

“Knew since you got down on your knees,” Joel continues, uncovering your mouth only to ease a few fingers between your lips — lips that part as though commanded, and a mouth that welcomes and caresses whatever it receives, “‘N opened this pretty lil’ mouth for me to fuck it. Can’t close my eyes without seein’ you like that — so fuckin’ needy.” He exhales from between his teeth, signalling his approval while you suck him down to the knuckles.

His fingers tease your clit and you give him your thanks by pleasuring those of his other hand.

When his hands move, it’s to hold you steady and balanced as he drags your underwear down your legs. That thick, heavy cloud of arousal hides any and all rational thoughts from view.

And he knows. He knows you’re past the point of no return, restraining you only out of his desire to rather than out of a real need to. He knows from the whine you breathe at the loss of his hand against your clit, moving to work at his belt buckle instead.

“Gonna use a condom?” You breathe, emboldened by your clearing senses at the temporary lack of stimulation.

At first, you think he’s missed your taunt.

He backs up, pulling your hips along with him until the tips of your fingers are no longer touching the decaying wall before you. Joel pulls you upright and against him with an arm around your waist and a hand around your throat, turning your head and tilting it back to meet your eyes.

You grasp onto his forearms, failing to stand, unable to breathe. His hardness digs into your back, and his cruel eyes show you just how much pleasure he takes in your struggle.

“Don’t like to waste ‘em,” he finally answers, rocking his cock against your spine, “But I will if you beg. You gonna beg?”

He manipulates your answer, fingers moving to your red-hot core — he barely grazes the nerves, only dancing over the needy flesh. You can’t tear your eyes from him either, tethered to your body through his gaze.

Joel Miller was a frustrating lover.

“N-no,” is your answer, slightly strangled and softly stuttered.

He smiles. “S’what I thought.” Then, “Show me what you can do, angel,” he coos, lips just inches away from yours, his hold on your body relaxing —

“Use your pretty lil’ hands n’ put my cock where you want it most.”

And you both know exactly where that is.

After a nod, Joel allows you to bend forward slowly — it’s like moving through honey. Your legs burn with effort as you reach between your legs to wrap a hand around his thick, hard length.

Christ, he’s huge.

He groans when you touch him and uses his own hand to help guide his tip between your folds. One hand holds your waist, fingers extended under your ribs to support your weight in a skilled show of experience.

With his tip at your aching entrance, you try to lean back, to slide yourself slowly down his many inches.

But Joel doesn’t allow it.

He pushes into you in one go, clicking his tongue at your strangled gasp —

The man hadn’t even bothered to open you up with his fingers.

“Ah, c’mon,” he condescends, “You can take it.”

Then he’s setting a hard pace, hands moving from your hips to your ribs to your biceps to your hair to your neck — anywhere he wanted to go, he went. One eventually comes to the front of your throat, tilting your eyes back and up towards the ceiling. Every one of his thrusts arches your back further until you’re contorting into a half-moon shape, standing only by the grace of his support.

And it feels so good. Joel fills you up to the brim, takes you to heaven and floods your ears with hymns, punishes you in the kind of way you’d only experienced in dreams.

Words tumble out, but they’re filled with nothingness. “Joel,” “fuck,” and “yesohgodyes,” quickly become staples of your vocabulary.

He laughs whenever you sob, grows harder every time you moan, restrains you when you try to run away.

The hand around your throat tightens, digging unforgivably into the flesh as you start to let go, as your walls begin to clench and flutter appreciatively around his cock.

“M’I making you happy, sweetheart? My cock making you smile?” He asks gruffly, pulling you back into his chest. Joel readjusts you into whatever shape you need to be in at the new angle, hips still slamming into your ass. Struggling to stand on your tiptoes, he steadies you with his arms and his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look up into his rugged face.

“Mmhm,” is all you can offer him, the pitch jumping up halfway through when the head of his cock grazes that perfect spot inside your cunt.

He doesn’t let up.

“Show me, baby—” he commands, out of breath, too, but not nearly as tortured as you, “—Show me your smile.”

You do your best, smiling up at him, degrading yourself even more at the hands of Joel-fucking-Miller. And he eats it up, loves the way your grin turns into a bitten lip and knit eyebrows over closed eyes, slowing his thrusts to rock even deeper inside you.

You moan something unintelligible, and a laugh rustles through your tangled hair.

“Am I makin’ you come?”

You nod, feeling that familiar rush of pressure blooming somewhere within that throbbing bundle of nerves under his spell.

He smirks in pride and victory, the last look you get before your head falls against his shoulder, your muscles going lax as the peak builds, as your half-sobs grow louder.

“S’it, baby, tell ‘em,” he coos, nipping and sucking the skin on the side of your throat. “Gonna tell the whole street how you take it like a good lil’ slut.”

His fingers fall to your clit, enticing you right over the edge. You vision blurs and your legs shake, but Joel talks you through your orgasm, sweet nothings starting with, “S’right — show me — yes, fuck — good girl…”

And then —

He stops.

You whine, stars dancing before your eyes as the mean, mean man inside you refuses to fuck you through your climax.

“Joel,” you plead, grinding back against him in a pathetic show of need, “Come with me.”

He does the opposite, sliding himself out of your sore opening. You turn to face him, restoring your balance with hands against his chest, gazing up at him in desire-stricken reproach.

“Use your mouth,” he says, voice gruff at your ruined sight and from his own hand on his cock, keeping his arousal level, “Not gettin’ any more help from me.”

It’s unclear whether ‘help’ means pills or his cock, but you assume both to be safe.

You try to argue (having spent the last few weeks dreaming of Joel dripping down your legs) but he just won’t budge.

Then, his voice softens.

“You know your dad’d kill me, angel.”

And it’s really the sweetness of his tone that does it.

Sinking to your knees, it’s déjà vu when you open wide for him, steadying your shaking knees with both hands on his half clothed, half naked hips. Gravel and debris dig painfully into your bare knees, but you ignore the sting, smiling instead at the taste of yourself on Joel’s cock, lips sliding adoringly down the thick length of it.

He groans his approval, tangling his fingers in your hair to help guide your movements.

As you take him in again and again and again, pleasing every inch of him, he chokes out a laugh.

“Never seen you so quiet,” he muses (mostly to himself), caressing your cheekbone with his free hand —

“Gagged by an old man’s cock.”

You pull off, pumping him with both hands, asking breathlessly, “Are you all so big?”

He smiles, eyes darkening at the dirty compliment. “Give you a few numbers n’ you can tell me.”

God, he’s beautiful from down here.

You hold his attention and lick a slow stripe down the underside of his cock, half-grinning up at his lust-filled expression.

“I only want yours, Joel Miller.”

An uneasy inhale as you take him back in, his brows furrowing and his cock growing impossibly harder. Your words please him, he returns by groaning orders and praises like: “S’all yours, baby — take it all — take aaall that dick — good fuckin’ girl.”

He’s so close and you know it, moaning in submission at his hand’s pressure against the back of your head. With your nose crunched into his abdomen, you hold your throat open for him to use it however he pleases — reduced to nothing more than the man’s plaything.

There’s a low “ah, fuck,” from above, and then you finally know what Joel Miller tastes like.

It’s better than the Plan B.

You hear nothing beyond his recovering breaths, feel nothing past pride, lust, and exhaustion.

Eventually, he loosens his grip. You pull off of him delicately, drawing a groan from between his gritted teeth when you make sure to suck every last drop of his seed into your mouth.

Sitting back on your ankles, you roll your head up to face him.

He swipes a thumb under your lips, clearing the saliva connecting you to his softening cock.

“Still mad at me?” He asks.

You’d be crazy to say yes.

“Only for pulling out.”

You note the twitch at the corner of his mustache.

Joel helps you back on your feet, using one hand to pull you up by your arm and another to arrange himself back to decency.

You adjust your shirt; Joel fixes your skirt. It’s a strange kind of silence settling inside this pocket at the side of a random, ruined building.

Then, your company clears his throat, that mask of seriousness falling over his expression once again.

“You gonna be smart?”

What ever could he mean?

Stay away from him? Stay away from men? Practice abstinence? Use protection?

Either way, you’re not one to make promises you know you can’t keep.

You cross your arms.

“No.”

He sighs.

Well, looks like things are already back to normal.

His face softens and he shakes his head, already regretting his next words. “Just — just come find me, then. I won’t do… this again, but — but I’ll help.”

You frown.

“What do you mean, ‘this’?”

He stares down into your accusatory eyes with a look you’d received many times from him, one screaming, “get real.”

“Fine,” you mutter, breaking eye-contact, “Thank you.”

With a stoic nod, he walks around you, heading back into the night. You try, in vain, to watch him go in silence — god knows you had some thinking to get to — and find that, instead of getting it out of your system, the entanglement had only left you wanting for more.

And more and more.

“Is this what you meant?” and you hear his footsteps halt, “When you told me you’d do worse than kill me? When I tried to hit you?”

It comes out before you can help it, and you twist around to face his still, broad shoulders.

You can hear the smile teasing his lips as he utters the words.

“Why are you askin’ me that?”

Still facing his back, you break into a smile of your own. “So I’ll know what I have to do to get you to do it again.”

You watch him shake his head, grey-streaked ripples in the low light.

“Try your best not to find out, angel.”

With that, he disappears into the darkness, leaving you in the flickering doorway. Thighs aching, heart racing, you take a deep breath, trying to memorize the feeling of what it felt to have them taken from you by Joel Miller.

A feeling you’d chase.

—

Put your red boots on

Baby, giddy up

Baby wants a dance

Baby gets her way

Dreamy nights

Talk to me with that whiskey breath

Twirl me twice

I'll treat you like a holiday

And don't say you're over me

When we both know that you ain't

Don't say you're over me

Baby, it's already too late

Just do what you do best with me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like a ballerina, super high

Dance me all around the moon

Light me up like the 4th of July

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When we both know that you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

When you lie down right next to me

Get your jacket on

Be a gentleman

Get into your truck

And pick me up at eight

'Cause we were built for

The long haul freight train

Burnt by fire

Without trial like a stowaway

And don't say you're over me

When they all know that you ain't

If you lay down right next to me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like ballerina super high

Dance me all around the moon

Like six times 'til I'm sick and I cry

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When they all know that you're lying

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

When you lie down right next to me

—

TAGLIST (cont’d in reblogs): @millllenniawrites @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @silkiers @jupitersmoon-cal @supernaturaldean67 @peqchsoup @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @fruitcupsworld @mads-grace4 @killerrxger @niallsbunny @snowyarcher @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @bbyanarchist @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0 @redhotkitchen @isitselfishifwetalkaboutmeagain @pseudonymist @goldengrapejuice @soullumii @kamcrazy123 @wclverine

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normaltothemax · 1 year ago

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In Jason’s experience, there was nothing after death. No heaven, no hell, no purgatory—nothing like what Dean had described. He’d died for the first time and there had just been a whole lot of nothingness. He’d died, and then he’d woken up in his coffin six months later. Whether that was because he’d been an atheist at the time and heaven and hell were only for believers, or whether he just couldn’t remember an afterlife because he’d come back wrong, he couldn’t be sure.

Because, if what Dean described was true, there was a heaven. There was a purgatory. And there was most definitely a hell. So what did it say about Jason that he never saw any of it? Not the first time he’d died and not this time. One moment he was closing his eyes on Dean’s distraught face and the next…nothing. Again. Just a comforting blackness and a far away sense of peace.

Just another way in which Jason was wrong, he supposed.

He didn’t know how long it lasted. Minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years—he had no sense of time. There’d been Dean’s face, then the nothingness, then…he could swear he heard a voice. A voice he hadn’t heard since he was a little kid, whispering in his ear.

Your work’s not over yet, sweetheart.

Jason’s back arched as he gasped like a man drowned, eyes flying open, chest heaving for the air it’d been deprived of for so long. Frightened, confused, disoriented, his eyes darted around him, taking in his surroundings but not truly seeing anything. Just lights and colours, shapes and blobs. Everything was too bright, too loud, too much after the nothingness.

He didn’t know where he was or what was going on. Didn’t know who he was with, if they were good or if they were bad, but he was pretty sure someone was there. Thought someone might be speaking to him. Everything was too muddled together for him to figure out what, though. He struggled to…to move or fight or do something.

He wasn’t sure what.

But this was wrong. He didn’t know why he knew that, only that he was certain of it. There should be nothing. Nothing, or a dark, confined space. Those were the two things that made sense to his struggling mind. Last time—last time, what?—there’d been…there’d been a box, right? He’d been in a box. But he wasn’t…where was…who…?

“D-Dean?” he croaked, voice rough with disuse. He was still panting, still desperately trying to catch his breath, like he’d just run ten miles in ten minutes, but that was Dean, right next to him. He could make out his features now. That was Dean, and Dean meant he was safe, but Dean also meant something was wrong. He just couldn’t quite remember what.

--- dean knew it was happening. he didn't want to know, oh god he didn't want to know, but he could see it coming. how many times had he watched the light leave someone's eyes? how many times had someone died in his arms? now it was happening to the last person he ever wanted to say goodbye to.

he had made it to jason, but just barely. there was so much blood. fuck, so much. he didn't even care he was just kneeling down in it, his hand holding jason's as tightly as he could, as if he could give him a few extra precious seconds just by willing it through that hold alone. his throat was tight, like with every ragged breath jason took it stole some of his own air.

the kid went to speak, his kid, and he barely even sounded like the strong sure vigilante that had practically kicked down the door to dean's heart. of course he was making him promise no deals. of course this god damn fucking kid knew him inside and out. dean let out a little laugh, almost hysterical. "when did you get to know me so damn well, huh?" his free hand brushed the hair from jason's forehead and he swallowed thickly with a nod. "no deals. i promise." he couldn't stop the tear that trailed hot down his face. he was trying so hard to hold it together for him.

he didn't have to hold it together long, though. with those last mumbled words dean knew jason was gone and dean crumbled. "no, no, no, no, no," he repeated over and over sobbing. he didn't even have a chance to say it back. "i love you," he whispered his face pressed into the red fabric he knew so well, his arms cradling his boy as close as he could. this wasn't how it was supposed to go. jason was supposed to out live him by a long shot. dean was supposed to wake up and make him breakfast. he was supposed to be there to give him a hard time about not wearing body armor. jason was supposed to make fun of him when he got his ass handed to him by a ghost. they were supposed to work on the impala together. he was supposed to be there. he was supposed to be safe.

by the time dean was finally able to get up he felt completely numb. he had no awareness of time passing at all. it could have been hours that he sat there for all he knew but he didn't care. that didn't matter anyway. it wasn't where his mind was at. he carefully carried jason's body to the impala, dean gently laid him in the back seat and draped his jacket over him. there would be no hunter's funeral for his boy, for his son, because regardless of his promise (that he would be keeping) he was going to bring jason back. he'd find a way. he was done letting people he loved go.

#therebetterbepie #✦ ic: jason todd #✦ verse: masks & monsters (jason todd)#✦ thread: back to life 2.0 (jason todd & dean winchester)#tw: death #he's baaaaaaaaack #he's freaking out and very very disoriented and confused #total sensory overload rn too #but he's back baybee!

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rebelfell · 2 months ago

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They're baaaaaaaaack… (she said, as though they ever leave her brain) 18+, MDNI 3.2k

older!fem!Harrington!reader x eddie munson

cw: a little angst to keep happily ever after interesting

continued from here, index here

Eddie sort of hates these faculty parties.

He likes the ones you throw. At the house, with the professors from your department you actually like. Everyone sits on the patio looking out at the garden, all of them ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the dreamy space Eddie has painstakingly curated—the ivy that climbs the fence; the plentiful plants and flowers that attract bees and butterflies; the willow tree that shades the hammock; the stone pavers leading to it from the patio and fire pit.

Honestly, your backyard is his masterpiece.

You light the tiki torches to keep the bugs at bay and the string lights flicker on when it gets dark. Music trickles outside through the speakers you pushed up to the open window and Eddie pokes his head out when he comes home from work, waving at your guests who titter excitedly.

It’s mostly older women, lots of heads of pure silver and white. Thick-framed glasses on beaded chains; velvet shawls with long fringe that drape off their shoulders; funky patterned skirts that swish around their legs; enamel bangles that clack together when they talk with their hands.

He comes back out once he’s showered and changed his clothes, bringing with him a new bottle of wine to replace the one you’ve already finished. He refills all their glasses and you crane your neck back for a kiss when he gets around to you. Both of you smile into it as the ladies start clucking and squawking excitedly, galvanized like a gaggle of middle schoolers.

Eddie knows they like to tease you about him, calling him your ‘boy-toy.’

Not so secretly, he loves it.

It was always casual and relaxed. They’d insist Eddie join them and everyone would chatter with ease into the evening. And by the time they found the bottom of that second bottle and the record you put on had ended, at least one of them would catch Eddie’s eye and mime playing guitar until he went inside to fetch his old acoustic and serenade the group with old standards.

Then, after they all went home, you tumbled into bed so blissfully tipsy you’d just kiss and kiss and kiss until you were so tired you nearly fell asleep still wearing your clothes on top of the covers.

Those nights he liked. Not like these.

These mixer things weren’t explicitly mandatory, but it was deeply frowned upon for you to miss them. They didn’t happen all that often, usually spaced out just far enough that Eddie had time to forget what a pain in his ass they were. And it wasn’t like you made him go, he just didn’t like to relinquish a night with you so easily. So 9 times out of 10, he opted in of his own accord.

All the departments came together in a big hall that was somehow drafty and stuffy all at once, and it only got stuffier the longer some of these blowhards prattled on about nothing.

And no one said a single word to Eddie all night.

It reminded him of those rarified times that he’d stumbled into a pep rally, either purelyby accident or because of an admittedly ill-advised crush on a certain cheerleader. Even without doing much of anything, without saying a word, they all looked down their noses like he just didn’t belong.

Nobody recognized him outside of his coveralls, headphones, and aviators. In his sport coat and glasses with his hair hanging loose around his shoulders, he felt a little like Clark Kent. And he tried to act like he was supposed to be there, but it was near impossible without you by his side.

You had been, at the start of the evening. But everyone seemed to want a piece of you tonight... None more so than professor Dickus Maximus.

He was a classics professor, specializing in Ancient Rome. He had a strong, square jaw dusted with greying scruff and a head of tousled, swoopy curls—dark and streaked intermittently with wisps of white. His upper lip was topped by a dense mustache that only made his stupid Disney prince smile all the more roguish and disarming.

Eddie had only interacted with him once, but it was enough to seal his disdain.

The days he worked on campus, he always took his lunch break during your office hours so he could eat with you while you worked. Your office was small, but it had a big window that let in lots of light in the afternoon. Once he’d wolfed down whatever food he brought, Eddie stretched out on your loveseat and more often than not took a little nap in the sun like an overgrown cat.

He’d just started to kick his feet up when there was a knock at the door and whoever was on the other side had started to push it open before you even told them to come in.

Eddie jumped up, feeling his cheeks beginning to flush with heat. But you’d hardly looked up from the papers strewn across your desk before you were smiling at the guy standing in your office.

You greeted him with more familiarity than Eddie had seen you use with some other colleagues, a warmth in your smile and voice he couldn’t help but notice. It made his shoulders stiffen as he straightened his back and his stance widened, trying to take up more space in the room.

You noticed, but gave it no acknowledgement beyond a brief wrinkling of your brow.

“Marc, this is Eddie, my b—”

“Ah, yes. The new groundskeeper, right? I’ve seen you around. Marc Acacius, nice to meet you.”

Extending a large hand, Marc took his eyes off you for the first time since he came into the room. “Yeah,” Eddie answered, his voice as tight as his grip when they shook, “that’s me.”

With a quick smile, he dropped Eddie’s hand and his gaze swept right back to you. “Just checking if you’re coming tonight. Ramsey wants a head count, he’s convinced we need more food.”

“I’ll be there,” you nodded, “but I’m not eating if he’s pushing his daughter’s catering again.”

Marc let out a deep and hearty laugh at that, tipping back and putting his whole body into it, even though it barely constituted a joke. When he straightened, his eyes cut to the side once more.

“Just an informal little get-together,” he explained, shooting a sardonic smile in Eddie’s direction. “They’re exceedingly dull, but we try to make the most of them,” he added, eyes twinkling when they landed back on you in a way that made Eddie’s blood bubble in his veins.

“I’ll see you later, then,” you told Marc, smile shrinking when you saw the look on Eddie’s face.

That big, stupid hand of his raised once again in a broad wave as he turned to go, only to stop and look back over at Eddie, snapping his fingers.

“You know, there’s some shrubberies over by our building that need some cleaning up,” he said. “Think we could get that taken care of, chief?”

The way he asked wasn’t overtly condescending. It practically passed for congenial. But it made Eddie feel like his coveralls were full of fire ants. His neck burned hot with scorn and he could feel his chest puffing up as he crossed his arms in front of it and glared back at him.

“Sure,” he answered sharply, teeth grinding behind the word. “On it.”

Marc just smirked and tossed you another wave before disappearing down the hall. Eddie kicked the door closed behind him, wishing he could have slammed it.

“What a tool,” he groused.

“He can be,” you agreed. “I guess teaching about narcissistic, bloodthirsty Roman emperors driven insane by syphilis makes him look a lot better.”

Your attempt at joking fell flat, the words coming out too tight as you stood from your desk chair. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, a long pause making the hairs on the back of Eddie’s neck stand up and blood rush in his ears.

“But, uhh…just in the interest of full disclosure… we kind of had a thing.”

“A th—” Eddie sputtered as he whipped his head back around, “What kind of thing?”

You shrugged, staring down at the papers on your desk as you started to shuffle them together.

“We used to go for drinks after work. Sometimes it lead to more, but it wasn’t anything serious.”

“So you’ve…you guys have…”

Eddie didn’t need to finish asking before the look on your face gave him his answer.

“Well…yeah. But again, it wasn’t—”

“Was he good?” Eddie snapped. Was he better than me? his brain feels like screaming.

You paused at your filing cabinet, the folder in your hand hovering above its space in the drawer.

“Is that really what you want to ask?” you replied.

Eddie’s jaw ticked, but he inhaled the deepest breath he could manage through flaring nostrils. “No,” he finally answered. Still stilted, but a little more calm now. “I just don’t…why him?”

Just asking made his skin feel itchy. That guy was such the total opposite of everything Eddie thought you would be interested in. He was so self-involved and self-important—so much so that it edged into being pompous. Smarmy, even. He looked like he wore tweed those jackets with patches on the elbows, and he smelled like the cologne samples Eddie used to rip out of Wayne’s old man magazines—stuff like sandalwood and frankincense and other shit from the bible.

But then maybe Eddie didn’t want to see all of the things you had in common. Same profession, more than likely similar interests. Similar incomes. Similar levels of intelligence. And while he was older than you, your ages were a hell of a lot closer than yours and Eddie’s were.

He was nothing like Eddie…or maybe Eddie was nothing like him.

You sighed a little sadly as you came around your desk. You didn’t reach for him, sitting against the edge instead so he had the space to come to you if he wanted to. And he did, but not yet.

“Does it matter?” you asked. “Weren’t you with other people while we were…you know.”

Eddie didn’t answer. He could only look at his boots guiltily. Neither of you liked to think about that awful gap in your story; that time when you didn’t know what he was doing or spending his time. When he didn't know whether you were thinking of him, or if he vacated your mind.

He hated it, honestly.

This was so not how he saw this afternoon going. He had spent most of his day looking forward to seeing you, distracting himself from the drudgery of spreading sod by thinking about that tight little pencil skirt you laid out last night to wear to work today. He’d pictured himself bunching it around your hips after he sat you on your desk and hauled your ass right up to the edge.

Wondering if he got you worked up enough you’d be willing to blow off the rest of your classes.

He was only just now seeing you in it fully and it was doing things to his brain, even mid-spiral. But now he couldn’t help but let the image of Marc’s stupid handsome face leak into his fantasy.

Fuck, what if you’d hooked up with him in your office? What if your little loveseat earned its name from him bending you over it? What if he’d gotten on his knees for you and made you cum all over your own desk? What if Eddie had tried it and all you could do was think of him?

You cleared your throat, surprising Eddie when you held out your hand for him to take. His arm felt like lead, but he still lifted it and let you curl your fingers around his, giving a gentle tug.

“I think maybe we should talk about this later? After you’ve had a minute?”

Eddie was still sulking, but he nodded as he moved closer. “Yeah,” he said. “That’d be good.”

That fight was ages ago. About as ancient as the stuff on Marc’s syllabus.

You’d blown off the party entirely and met Eddie back at his apartment instead. He was calmer by then, especially after taking a machete to those shrubberies and pretending they were Marc’s face. And he got your reasoning that you didn’t intend for him to find out like that, you just didn’t want to lie or hide anything from him. Ever.

Which he had to admit was nice to hear.

But not as nice as hearing that it literally meant nothing to you. That the only reason you even entertained the idea was because you knew implicitly it would never turn into more.

And then you’d made up by letting him finally see you in that pencil skirt and nothing else.

Still, ancient as it was, Eddie couldn’t help but feel like he’d been plopped right back into that day, right back into those same feelings just seeing the two of you standing together.

He closes his fist around the napkin in his hand, smashing the dry and flavorless cookie he’d been nibbling on the past hour, and flung it in the trash on his way over to you. Your eyes meet his as he swoops in, smoothing his hand up your back to rest just below the nape of your neck.

Subtle enough that it’s not tacky, but still obvious enough to be sure Marc sees.

“Getting kind of late,” Eddie hums from behind you, not even looking at the man he’s interrupted. Your glossed lips spread in a shiny smile, easily reading the level stare he’s giving you.

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” you nod.

You drain the last swallow of wine from the tiny plastic cup in your hand and place it down on the emptied refreshments table, barely waving goodbye to Marc as Eddie pulls you away. He slides his hand down your spine until it settles at the small of your back and he guides you forward, glaring over his shoulder back at Marc one final time just to make sure that he’s watching.

Their eyes meet and Eddie seethes.

That’s right, motherfucker, he thinks. Mine.

Campus is eerily quiet, your footsteps on the sidewalk echoing as you pass under the lights lining the path. The air has a chill bite that does little to temper the burn rising in Eddie’s cheeks.

“Thanks for saving me,” you coo as you’re making your way to the staff parking lot. “I would have been bored to tears if you hadn’t come.”

“Doubt it,” Eddie mutters under his breath before he can stop himself.

“What do you mean?” you ask, a little sadly.

He just shrugs, his shoulders bristling as he shoves his fists deep in his jacket pockets. It’s brown suede, lighter and thinner than his leather jacket. He loves it because you bought it for him, but he almost wishes he was in the other one.

It felt weightier, more impenetrable.

More like armor.

“Nothing,” Eddie grumbles. “I just don’t get why he has to be all over you like that.”

Without realizing it, his feet start to speed up, like he’s trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and this night, and you find yourself trailing behind as you ask, “Who?”

“Fuckin’ Marc,” Eddie sneers.

He doesn’t recognize the voice coming out of him, all snippy and pissy. That’s not how he talks to you. It’s not how he ever wants to talk to you. So why the fuck is that what he’s doing?

“Hey,” you say, taking his elbow and pulling on it so he’s back in step with you. His fists squeeze tighter inside of his pockets, but his gait slows. “What’s going on here? Are you really mad?”

Yes, Eddie thought bitterly.

“No,” he replies with a frown.

A puff of air pushes out through your nose in a snort. “Oh, well, that was convincing.”

In spite of himself, Eddie can’t help the corner of his mouth twitching up into a tiny smile. You slip your hand through his arm, fingers curling around his bicep to stop him and turn him towards you.

“M’sorry,” he mutters, looking at his feet. “I know you said it didn’t mean anything, I just…”

Eddie exhales sharply, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. Finally, he looks up to find himself staring into your eyes. They’re trained on his face, patient and waiting.

“I fucking hate him. I hate seeing you with him, I hate thinking about you with him—I hate him.”

“Oh, Eddie…”

He’d heard his name sighed in exasperation a lot. Teachers sick of homework turned in smudged and torn, even if all the work was correct. His friends when he made a big bad too challenging, keeping them from moving on in the campaign. Wayne finding the ashtray overflowing with butts after he had reminded Eddie to empty it. Girls—cheerleaders—when he asked if he could take them out on a real date instead of subsisting on shadowy, clandestine hook-ups inside his van.

But that’s not the way you say it.

There’s too much fondness in your voice, too much care for him in your soft eyes, your touch too gentle as you reach out a hand to cradle his jaw. He flinches microscopically at your touch. Burning cheek numbed by the wind getting warmed back up by the heart of your palm.

He doesn’t realize until you touch him that he was shaking. Shivering, either from the cold or from the rush of adrenaline he got from finally getting to say how much he despised that guy.

Except now that he’s said it out loud…he doesn’t think this has anything to do with Marc after all.

He inhales slowly and lets out a big breath. Your thumb strokes his stubble, your eyes drawn to the miniscule number of grays that shine silver under the street light as you’re brushing them.

“I don’t mind that you were with him,” he admits at last. “But I hate that you weren’t with me.”

Eyes shining with the beginning of tears, he looks into yours and finds them in the same state. You blink furiously fast, trying to clear them and clamber to throw your arms around him.

Wrapped tight around his neck, hugging him as close as you can so you can whisper in his ear,

“I hate that I wasn’t with you, too.”

The two of you stand there for a long moment, curled around one another’s bodies as you sway gently. Eddie imagines the song you’re dancing to in his head; one you introduced him to and loved to put on whenever he was having a bad day, or just feeling a little combative.

It grounds him. Brings him back to the thing that matters, the only one that does. You and him.

And you tell him the same thing you’d told him the night of that fight. In the same solid, affirming tone that silenced all the unkind thoughts about himself flying around inside Eddie’s head.

“He’s not you,” you whisper, giving him another tight squeeze. “Not even close.”

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I wanted to keep the song referenced vague, but this is what I hear when I think of them. Not at all influenced by severance taking over my brain permanently, nope, nuh-uh, neeeeever

#eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things

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