#I had to talk italian last week for the first time in months and only spanish kept coming out of my mouth

[quintessenceofdust88]

Nonna Rosa fixes it

Okayyy, it's officially not the weekend anymore, but only for like five minutes, so technically I'm on time! This got totally away from me, and I had to actually force myself to end it where I did. Nonna Rosa took the narrative from my hands and said 'I'll take it from here', and good for her. Not to be dramatic but I love her. Anyway, if any Italian-speaking people read this: I AM SO SORRY. This is all Collins dictionary or Google Translate, I don't speak a word of Italian and I'll be very glad to correct any mistakes you might notice ♥ I hope you guys enjoy it! if you want to know more about Nonna Rosa, send me an ask, I have looots of headcanons for her (and Tommy's childhood). Here you go:

A week after breaking up with Evan, Tommy is still feeling like shit. He can barely sleep, anything he tries to eat tastes like sawdust, and he feels like he’s living on autopilot. He goes to work, he comes back home, he tries to eat, he tries to sleep, rinse and repeat. Nothing else matters, there’s nothing else he feels like doing. He doesn’t answer Howie’s texts asking how he’s doing (he answered the first one, telling Howie not to worry about him, but can’t do more than that); he completely ignores Eddie’s invitation for Muay Thai and basketball, and he comes up with an excuse as to why he can’t make karaoke bar that Thursday. And yet, there’s one thing he can’t put off, as much as he wishes to: talking to his Nonna. 

Tommy calls his grandmother at least once a week; she still lives in Indiana, in the same house he spent most of his childhood in, and he knows his uncle Bart visits often. But he likes to hear from her himself. Visiting her was a rare occasion, and the last time he was able to was about four months ago. The minute he had stepped in, Nonna had asked him if he was ‘innamorato’, because he was looking so much happier than usual.

And he knows she’ll perceive his sadness just as quick, if not quicker. The woman has always been able to read him like an open book. She’s probably the only person alive who can; he’s always made sure to keep his layers hidden from everyone else, even from… 

Well. Doesn’t matter now, does it? 

Fact is, that if he misses his call with Nonna, it’ll be even worse. She’ll know something’s up, and he doesn’t put past her to fly across the country to check on him (he’s always been the favorite grandson and everyone knows it). So it’s best to get it over with. With a heavy sigh, he sits down on his couch (and tries not to think about how empty it feels when it’s just him in there) and rings her up, bracing himself.

“Pronto? Tommasino?” She answers the call, as always with the camera too close to her face, and that at least brings a smile to his face.

“Nonna, you need to stretch your arm a little. Remember, like Charlie showed you?” He asks with a chuckle; Charlie being his cousin’s daughter, Charlotte, who taught Nonna how to FaceTime so she could ‘see Tommasino’s pretty face more often’, in her own words. 

She stretches her arm and Tommy gets a good look at her. Nonna looks the same as always, sharp blue eyes in a soft face that’s wrinkled both from age and from a lifetime of smiles. Her hair is wrapped in hair rollers and tucked safely behind a red bandana. Tommy misses her fiercely, and wishes more than ever that he could get wrapped in one of her hugs. 

They always did wonders for him when he was a little boy who used to climb trees and get scrapes and bruises; when he was a scared eleven-year-old missing his mother (and as a grown-up he can appreciate Nonna was hurting at least as much as him, having lost her daughter, but still never let it show) and dealing with an angry abusive father; when he was a scared eighteen-year-old, before leaving the only home he’d ever known to join the Army. And when he was a scared 33-year-old man, coming out as gay to his 75 year-old-grandmother, afraid of being rejected by the one person alive who truly loved him, and Nonna had stood on her tiptoes, pulled him into one of those hugs, and told him all she ever wanted for Tommy was to see him happy, and that she would always love him. 

A hug from his grandmother had always made Tommy feel like the world was an easier place to be faced, and right now, that’s exactly what he needs. And his longing must show in his face, because she’s frowning at him, her eyes full of concern. 

“Oh, Tommasino” She says softly. “What’s wrong, bambino mio? You look so sad” She asks, and to Tommy’s horror, he finds his eyes filling up. Nonna has that way of bringing out every emotion he tries to repress.

“Everything’s wrong, Nonna, and it’s all my fault” He blurts out before he can stop himself, and the look on his grandmother’s face tells Tommy she’d be placing a sizable plate of cake and a cup of strong coffee in front of him if she could.

“You have a habit of saying things are your fault even when they aren't, so I'm afraid I'll need the entire story, my boy” She says gently, and Tommy watches as she sits down by her kitchen table (the same kitchen table where he did most of his school homework, the same kitchen table from where he always used to steal a biscotti while they were still warm), supporting her face in her hand and turning those sharp blue eyes at the phone screen. Tommy swears he can feel them pierce through his very soul. “What happened? Is it your Evanino?”

The question sends a knife right through Tommy's chest as he imagines what could have been. Gosh, Nonna would have loved Evan (who doesn't love Evan, you idiot?, he tells himself), and he knows deep in his heart Evan would have loved her as well. Every time Tommy would talk about her (which he did fairly often; he was a grandma's boy and had no shame about it), Evan would get a wistful expression on his face and tell Tommy that she sounded awesome.

He had been planning on taking Evan with him next time he managed to visit her, not wanting to introduce them through the phone. Now it's for the best he didn't; at least Nonna won't have to miss him like Tommy does.

“He… he's not mine anymore, Nonna,” He admits, his voice thick with emotion. “We broke up”

“What?! Ma comme?! You were so happy last time we talked!” She asked, and of course Tommy was happy; it was the day before their six month anniversary, and he had been so full of excitement. “Was he not happy? Is that why you're blaming yourself, Tomasino?”

A smile as bright as sunshine crosses Tommy's mind. A smile that only started to fade once Tommy told him he knew how it ended. A smile that had become his personal beacon of light in the past six months. A smile he misses like a lost limb.

“He… he was happy” He says, because that much he knows to be true; Evan was happy with him, Tommy made sure of that. His grandmother frowns at that, and Tommy doesn't blame her; the story seems convoluted, feels convoluted, even to himself, and he lived it.

“Thomas, you have to help your old grandmother, because I cannot understand what is the problem. If you were happy and he was happy, then why are you not together anymore?”

“Because he asked me to move in with him” Tommy says, and that doesn't seem to clear the situation for her. If anything, her frown deepens, and she reaches for a piece of bread, fiddling with it; Nonna could never keep her hands still, especially when she was nervous, and Tommy had inherited that from her. 

“Does that mean something different when it’s two men?” She asks, completely genuine, and that earns a surprised chuckle from Tommy. 

“No, Nonna” Tommy says, and all of a sudden the urge to laugh is gone again; it never lasts long, not after Evan. “It… It means the same”

“Very well, and you said no? That’s why he ended things?” She asks, and Tommy sighs brokenly, the memories of the night no less painful than when it happened.

“No. I… I broke up with him, Nonna. He asked me to move in with him, and I didn’t just say no. I… I broke up with him," Tommy admits with a heavy heart. 

“Tesoro, you do realize you are not making any sense? You and your boy were happy; he asked you to move in with him, and instead you broke up with him. Then you show up looking like your heart was broken and tell me it is your fault. What am I missing, bambino?”

“I have a house, Nonna!” He snaps, finally being able to voice the things that have been stewing in his heart and mind since that night. “I have a house, and he lives in a rented loft, and it makes no sense for me to move in with him!”

Nonna doesn’t answer right away. She chews thoughtfully on her bread, letting a small silence fall between the pair of them before she eventually sighs and answers him.

“Benne, you have a point, it wouldn’t make sense. But that isn’t the whole problem, is it, Tommasino?” Nonna adds shrewdly. “You could have talked it out, explained that to him. So what made you walk out of the best thing that happened to you in years?”

Tommy can always trust Nonna to lay things down exactly as they are, no matter how painful it sounds. She’s right, he did walk out of the best thing that happened to him in years, maybe ever, and it’s getting harder and harder to justify that decision to himself. 

“N-Nonna, I was… I was falling so in love with him” He tells her, and feels tears starting to prickle the corner of his eyes.

“Yes, I’ve known that since last time you were here” Nonna says impatiently. “That’s not a reason to leave, Thomas; that’s a reason to stay”

“Only if he loved me back” He says automatically, and Nonna crosses her arms, unimpressed. 

“And who says he doesn’t? Did you ask him?” She asks sharply, and Tommy sighs. This conversation is taking a completely different route than what he expected. 

“I didn’t have to, Nonna. I… I just know it, okay? I was his first relationship with a man. I cannot be the last, that’s not how it works. And I… I thought I was okay with it, that I could enjoy it while it lasted, but… But I didn’t expect to love him this much” He admits, as much to himself as to her. It’s all his fault, really, for falling so deeply, flying too close to the Sun. “I-it’s safer to break my own heart now than to let him do it when I’m way too deep to recover. N-not that I’m recovering all too well, but… could be worse” He finishes, already wiping the few tears that inconveniently decided to rush down his cheeks. 

If Tommy expects his grandmother to nod sympathetically at that and coo at him (he kinda does; she has a habit of doing that when he cries), he has another thing coming. Nonna scoffs loudly, hitting the table with her hand, strong from decades of kneading bread. The noise is enough to startle Tommy out of tears.

“Thomas Domenico Kinard, I didn’t know me and your dear Mamma, may God have her soul, had raised an estupido vigliacco!” She exclaims, her hand flailing loudly to emphasize her words. 

Tommy will be the first to admit his Italian is rusty, but he’s pretty sure she just called him a stupid coward. And. Ouch.

“Nonna!” He exclaims back, but she isn’t dissuaded. She tuts him with a sharp ‘Silenzio!’ and a raised finger, and Tommy shuts up right away. He knows that when Nonna starts, the best he can do is take the scolding, so he leans back on his couch, trying his best not to look like a chided boy who got caught stealing fruit from the neighbor’s orchard.

“You are my grandson, and I love you more than anything in this world. You are a good man with a wonderful heart, but you have one big problem, Tommaso. You always assume you know people’s feelings better than they do, and then you make your own decisions based on that without actually asking anyone. Remember when you decided I should move to California because you thought I was lonely here?” She asks, raising an eyebrow, and Tommy nods sheepishly. “Do you remember what I told you?”

“That if and when you wanted to move to California, you would let me know, but you were perfectly capable of making your own decisions” He mumbles back, the epic scolding from five years ago still fresh on his mind. 

“Esattamente. Now, I think your Evanino deserves the same courtesy. He is not a silly child, Thomas. If he wants you to be his last, if he loves you, who do you think you are to decide that he doesn’t?”

“But he never said he did,” Tommy replies stubbornly. “He… He never even told me he loved me, he just asked me to move in with him. It’s like… It’s like he wanted to prove a point, Nonna. That he could be… committed, or queer, or whatever, I don’t know. But he never said he loved me”

“Did you say it to him?” Nonna asks, and Tommy stares at her with his mouth agape. Damn this woman and her ability to ask the most uncomfortable questions. 

“N-no” He admits. “I… I was too afraid of him not saying it back”

“Hmmm” Nonna hums thoughtfully. “That’s your other problem, bambino mio. You think you don’t deserve to be loved. I blame that man for that” Nonna says with a scoff, and they both know exactly who she’s talking about; there’s no lost love between Rosa Lucciola and her ex-son-in-law, Brian Kinard, and the way he treated Tommy and his mother before she passed is the sole reason for it. 

“Well, that’s neither here nor there, Nonna” He says with a shrug, always uncomfortable when his father becomes even a small topic of conversation, but she tuts disapprovingly.

“Ah, isn’t it? Has it never occurred to you that maybe your Evanino could have the same problem? That he was as afraid as you to show his heart and have it broken?”

Tommy desperately wants to say that he thought about it, that it occurred to him; but it hasn’t. Evan is such a sunshine of a man, always so prone to smiles and loving gestures towards anyone he cares about, that Tommy never thought there could be insecurities there. Now it makes him feel selfish and stupid (or estupido as Nonna had so accurately called him). 

“Nonna…” Tommy says, his mind catching up to everything she said and a horrifying realization dawns on him. “What if he did love me back? Oh my God, did I fuck this up?!” He asks before he can stop himself. 

“Language! Do not take the Signore’s name and swear in the same sentence!” She chides him, and Tommy mutters ‘sorry’, but her look is impossibly fond. “But, well. Maybe you did; maybe you didn’t. Are you going to sit around and mope or try to find out?” Nonna challenges him. 

“W-what if he never loved me, Nonna? Or what if he did, but me walking out made him stop?” Tommy asks, not knowing which possibility scares him the most.

“What if he still does, Thomas?” Nonna counteracts. “What if he loves you and is too afraid to reach out because you already rejected him once, hm? Someone has to be brave, and he already was when he asked you to move in, bambino. Maybe it was a little impulsive, but his heart was in the right place; it was in your future together”

Tommy realizes Nonna is right. He can’t expect Evan to reach out (he realizes he was at some level, and he would have rushed to it; one call from Evan and Tommy would be right back to his life, ready to reheal his own heart when things inevitably went wrong, just for another glimpse of Evan Buckley’s personal sunshine); it’s his turn to fight for them. It’s his turn to be brave. 

“Ah, you finally realized it, hm?” Nonna says; something must be showing on his face, because there’s a satisfied smile on her face. “Fight for that boy, Thomas. Fight for your happiness, tesoro. Prove to your Nonna you are not estupido”

“Nonna, you are most definitely the best person on the planet, and I promise you didn’t raise a estupido. I’ll do right by Evan. By… By me. By both of us” Tommy promises to her, promises to himself. He blows a kiss to the screen of his cellphone, desperately wishing he could kiss her cheek in person. “Ti amo, Nonnina” (I love you, granny) 

“Ti amo, nipotini del mio cuore” (I love you, grandson of my heart) She tells him back, and a mischievous smirk appears on her face. “You better bring that boy here to try my rondelli before the year is over, you hear?”

“Dio, I hope so, Nonna” He tells her, and they say their goodbyes before hanging up. Tommy already misses her.

He holds his cellphone close to his heart, wondering if he should text Evan, but decides against it. This is too big for a text, too big for a call. He’ll go over in the morning, probably with a bouquet of flowers or whatever other extravagant gift he can come up with, ready to grovel and explain himself and beg for a second chance, even if it’s only to hear a ‘no’. Even if it’s only to let Evan yell at him and get the closure he deserves. Even if it’s only to get his already shattered heart broken into even more pieces. Tommy has to be brave.

After all, nonna and mamma didn’t raise a coward. 

(Evan doesn’t say no. And when Tommy explains, after several rounds of make-up sex, what made him change his mind, he promises to send Nonna a present. The present ends up being him and Tommy, because they go to Indiana for Christmas, and Evan falls in love with Nonna and her rondelli. Just like Tommy knew he would)

--

Tag list (let me know if I missed anyone! also if you want to be removed or only tagged in Little Blobs' Verse):

@bidisasterevankinard @unhingedangstaddict @silversky9 @music-is-the-voice-of-the-soul @asmugfirefighter @rubydaiquiri @racerchix21 @actuallyitsellie

(Although here's a lil spoiler - Nonna Rosa will probably show up in Little Blobs' verse cause I'm not ready to let go of her and she'd whack me in the head with a spoon if I didn't let her meet her great-grandchildren)

[oreegaanoo]

Got most of my art works from the drawing course back, I'm really happy with them!! Also finished the one portrait I made, I feel like I'm going to add that to my portrait project :>

[highvern]

When in Rome

Pairing: Choi Seungcheol x f!reader

Genre: fluff, smut, angst

warnings: alcohol consumption, cheating, nudity, mentions of drug use, explicit sexual acts (unprotected sex, dirty talk, oral, swallowing)

Length: ~24k

Note: excited to have this for the @svthub world tour collab! thank u to @gyuswhore for helping, @wonuvs for fact checking my shitty italian, @the-boy-meets-evil for making sure i actually finished this fic bc i live to torture her and everyone else who contributed to this over the months it took me to finally write it!

this is from cheol's pov which was a new challenge but i loved it (i will never do it again). i'll be out of town when this goes up but can't wait to read everyone's feed back!!!

Summary: After months of no contact, Seungcheol isn't sure what to expect when he sees you again at Jeonghan's wedding. He's prepared to apologize, to grovel, to bear the weight of a cold shoulder. Whatever it takes to have you back, his best friend since diapers; or whatever will ensure the last third of your trio has the best day of his life. But when he overhears the most recent development in your relationship, he must come to terms with something he was never prepared for, or risk losing you for good.

m.list

This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.

There are fewer places Seungcheol hates more than airports. Dentist offices, his grandparents’ house during the holidays when they ask about grandkids, and even the time he ran into his elementary school science teacher the first time he was buying condoms at the pharmacy, all were more favorable than the hustle and bustle of an international airport. 

Seungcheol likes to be straightforward and direct. Something that becomes seemingly at odds with the average person traveling because at the one place everyone has somewhere to be, they act as if they have all the time in the world.

But the simple thought that it's all temporary, that his personal ninth circle of hell is the only thing standing between him and a week in Italy is enough to grin and bear it. 

On the other side of the terminal, his best friends are waiting for him. It’s not as if they haven’t seen each other for long; Jeonghan and Sofie were at bar trivia last week as their last hurrah before tying the knot. As usual they wiped the floor with everyone, rousing several allegations of cheating that Jeonghan deserved. But Seungcheol is about to watch them get married and it makes him a little misty around the eyes because he loves his friends more than anything. 

The only concern, which is less of a concern and more of a titanic size anchor sinking in his gut, is that you’re one of Sofie’s bridesmaids. And you haven’t spoken to him since New Years when you revealed you were moving to New York with your boyfriend, Johnny.

Another place Seungcheol dreads, right next to the airport, is anywhere Johnny happens to be. He’s everything you aren’t: abrasive, arrogant, catty, disorganized. And those are just the traits at the front of the alphabet. 

You had a plan. A list of criteria he had to listen to over and over again after each failed date. Even the guys Seungcheol set you up with after carefully vetting didn’t seem to make the mark. It was respectable, commendable. You wouldn’t settle for anything less than “perfect.” Whatever that meant to you. 

At a bar, three years ago, Johnny approached you. Seungcheol watched from across the table as you mentally ran over your checklist. Johnny met the physical ones: tall, good hygiene, well kept appearance. The other things would need more investigation. What did he do for work? Was he close with his family? Kids? Opinions on cheating at bar trivia?

The more Seungcheol learned about Johnny after your detailed debrief from a few dates the more confused he became. Johnny worked in banking. You hated finance bros and called them scum of the dating pool. He was an only child and only talked to his parents on holidays and birthdays. You had grand dreams of close grandparents and houses full of cousins. He didn’t want kids. You did. He didn’t think bar trivia was that serious. Seungcheol watched you threaten Jeonghan’s life on more than one occasion over the use of Shazam during the music round. Johnny was everything you said you didn’t want. 

And then you followed him across the country after two years of dating cut with three breakups. 

It didn’t make sense. 

When Seungcheol pulled you aside after you announced you’d be moving, trying to figure why you thought living with the man who once asked if you really needed to wash bath towels if you only use them when you’re already clean, you told him to mind his business. Later that night, after enough drinks to make everything blurry, you two got into a screaming match on the sidewalk with your shared friends attempting to play referee. It was the last time you two spoke. 

In over twenty five years of friendship, founded on the backs of elementary school shenanigans under a reign of terror of one Jeonghan Yoon, you and Seungcheol’s real fights can be counted on one hand. 

The sixth grade field trip where you and Jeonghan left him out, senior year of highschool when the girl Seungcheol took to prom argued about his parents taking more pictures with you than her, and junior year of college when Seungcheol caught you making out with his frat brother after ditching him under the guise of having a stomach bug. That was it. Three fights, all of which were resolved within a week because as stubborn as you both are, you’re best friends. 

Five and a half months of not speaking, except when you called Seungcheol in the middle of the night without leaving a message and when he tried calling you back in the morning you didn’t answer. Not until a month later when he finally swallowed his pride and texted a half hearted apology to which you responded with a quarter of forgiveness. That was it. 

But Seungcheol won’t dwell. He refuses to make things awkward for Jeonghan and Sofie during the most special week of their lives. Knowing you, you’ve probably already come to the same resolution. The only person you’re closer to than Seungcheol is Jeonghan with Sofie a close second. If there is anyone you two will agree to put aside an argument for, it's them.

The sun has already begun setting when he makes it through customs and out towards the Arrivals, painting everything in buttery yellow. 

“SEUNGCHEOOOOOOOOOLLLLLL!” Sofie screams, hands cupped around her mouth.

She’s half outside the cherry red sports car. An Intermeccanica Italia Spyder because Seungcheol knows three things in life: expensive watches, expensive whiskey, and expensive cars. Sofie’s family happened to have plenty of the last and Seungcheol assumed the first two as well.

When Sofie became his study partner in law school she ended up following him on Instagram. He assumed from the way she carried herself, perfect posture with tailored clothes and an ‘air of society’ as you called it, that she was well off. But then, during a late night gossip session, you and he did a deep dive and found out Sofie wasn’t just well off. Her family had more money than God. 

But everything on the surface was a contrast to who Sofie really was. Heiress to a fortune but studied more than anyone in their class just to graduate second. Perfect posture and tailored clothes are a stark contrast to her favorite bar where she’d outdrink anyone, and cheer when the prize for trivia was cheap plastic margarita glasses.

Or right now, where she belts Seungcheol’s name again like some drunk frat boy while sitting in a car worth more than his life.

Seungcheol jogs to where she waits, already smiling. 

“I would have brought a ‘Welcome back from rehab’ sign but my mom thought you’d be embarrassed,” Sofie says as she hugs him over the console. 

“At least make it ‘welcome home from prison’ so people won’t walk in my way.”

“I’ll make sure Jeonghan remembers you have a preference,” she calls over the wind. 

Technically, the house (which is really a mansion) is almost an hour from the airport. With Sofie’s driving it only takes twenty minutes in which Seungcheol thinks he might need to start going to church. 

The pebbled driveway crunches underneath the tires as they approach the imposing building he’d call home for the weekend.

In the evening light, the house is more daunting. An imposing stone facade rises from the ground, akin to a small castle than an actual home. Smooth stone with detailed carvings, windows with huge shutters, and on the top floor, a balcony, fenced with wrought iron, juts out.

Even after years of seeing pictures, Seungcheol still can’t believe his friend grew up here. He can’t believe it actually exists and isn’t some set from a historical drama.

Sofie throws the car in park right in front of the door before jumping out. 

“By the way, there were some issues with one of the rooms.” Sofie drops her voice, “My aunt and uncle are fighting again, so I hope you don’t mind sharing?”

Seungcheol knows most of the guys coming to the wedding. Worst case scenario he’s stuck in a twin size bunk bed with a weird cousin. And with how busy he’ll be as best man, his room will be for sleep and not much else. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Perfect! Just leave your stuff, everyones out back.” Sofie pushes him as hard as she can manage which isn’t much at all given she’s five foot nothing. 

The garden is filled with bodies upon bodies crowded together, some old, some young. Seungcheol recognizes a few faces in the mix: Soonyoung, Joshua, Seungkwan. More friends from law school. Jeonghan’s sister waves from across the way. Everyone seems to be paying attention to whatever is happening at the iron garden table. 

And then, like a scene in a movie, everyone parts for a second and time freezes. 

Seungcheol would recognize you anywhere. Even if he can’t see your face, he knows it's you. The curve of your shoulders, the tilt of your head. The bark of laughter as your chin drops forward. He knows it's you and the weight in his stomach lightens and leadens in an odd cycle.

He missed you.

Then everything comes back into real time. Wine and cards. Then he sees the chips on the table, your stack to the side significantly higher than anyone else's. 

Months of ruminating over what he’d do when reunited fly out the window. Seungcheol doesn’t waste a minute as he approaches, hand on the back of your chair as he peeks over your head to sneak a glance at your hand.

“Who let you talk them into poker?”

You’re already smiling when you tilt back to look at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Oh, how he missed you.

“She said she didn’t know how to play,” an old man grumbles from the side. 

Seungcheol doesn’t recognize him but he’s got the same expression as all the people you’ve sharked before: mildly impressed and slightly murderous. Two other guys sit at the table, one old enough to be his grandfather looks almost proud. Seokmin fills that last seat, head in his hands at being swindled so easily. 

“I said,” you start, throwing your gaze to him. “I hadn’t played in a while.” 

You look back up at Seungcheol for some kind of support. Eyes round and innocent in a way you both know you’re not. Pool, cards, darts, any game a man a few drinks in could beat you at was easy fodder for your con. Usually it ended with free drinks, sometimes money, but mostly it’s Seungcheol playing referee for the disillusioned guys you swindled while wearing a bright grin. 

Tossing a few chips towards the three men at table with a smart ‘don’t spend it all in one place,’ you rise and throw your arms around Seungcheol like everything is normal. 

“Hi,” you whisper into his neck.

Seungcheol’s hands are already curled around your waist, pulling you in tight. “Hi.”

“I missed you.”

Seungcheol doesn’t think to question the sudden rush of familiarity after months of silence. Every fight in your long friendship ended this way; you both stew and stew until one day things snap back to normal. It’s how it’s always been.

“I see that you can’t even greet your best friend.” Jeonghan coughs from the side.

Seungcheol squeezes you tighter at the jab. It’s Jeonghan’s wedding but Seungcheol saw him last week when dropping the couple off at the airport to come here. He’s far more interested in dragging out his reunion with you as long as possible. “I’m in the middle of that actually.”

He scoffs in response, walking away. “Whatever, I see too much of you anyway.” 

There’s glasses of wine waiting when you break apart. Seungcheol keeps closeby, not that you seem eager to go anywhere. His staring is obvious but he doesn’t care. You’re really here and the cold shoulder he expected to find is nowhere to be found.

Another two hours of celebrating, filled with drunken toasts and more card games with Sofie’s family that only end with you digging into their pockets even deeper, fly by before the exhaustion of a day starting in one continent and ending in another catches up to him. You’re too busy arguing over if Jeonghan cheated in the last round to notice Seungcheol slipping away from the table and towards the door leading inside.

Sofie is in the kitchen just beyond, another bottle of wine sloshing in hand as she talks animatedly on the phone. “Okay, look. I am on vacation. I’m about to get married. I literally left notes for everything I'm not working on during my wedding week. Figure it out. Bye.”

She hangs up without response, tossing her phone on the counter before taking a swig straight from the bottle.

“Good?” Seungcheol asks.

“Oh, you know, just the usual. I leave and suddenly no one knows how to do their job.” Sofie rolls her eyes. “What’s up? Need another glass?”

She raises the same bottle and the thought of more wine nearly turns his stomach.  

Seungcheol brushes her off, moving to the sink and rinsing his glass with finality. “I think I’m gonna crash for the night.”

“Really?” she asks. “But the party just started!”

“For you maybe, some of us have been cramped on a plane all day.” He feels it. In his back and knees. The cramp in his neck from passing out halfway through and waking up bent at ninety degrees. And the hours he spent agonizing through emails with the inflight WiFi because even on vacation he can’t sit still for more than one minute. But now it’s a ticking time bomb before he curls up in a chair and passes out until morning.

Sofie snatches his glass before shooing him away from the sink and taking his place. “I forgot you’re an old man now.”

“You’re the same age as me?”

“Anyway,” she sings. “I know we promised you’d have your own room but—”

“That’s fine. I really don’t mind rooming with one of the guys.”

“Well… you and Y/N were the only ones not sharing and she said she wouldn’t mind for the weekend.”

“Huh?”

“I thought it wouldn’t be a big deal! Seokmin and Kwan agreed to share and room with Josh so things are pretty tight but I can see if we can switch things around and—”

“No, if she’s okay with it then it's fine.” Seungcheol says. “We just haven’t talked since, you know?”

Sofie seems to soften at that. “I know. But it looked like everything was fine outside.”

“Yeah,” Seungcheol sighs. “I missed her.” 

“I know she missed you too.”

“She said that?”

“Oh please, neither of you have to say anything, you’re both pathetic,” she says while pouring another glass. “But I think this weekend will be good for you guys! Like old times.”

Old times. Before the fight. Before you moved away.

“Yeah, just like old times… At least we aren’t sharing a bed, right?” He jokes. 

“Actually,” Sofie grimaces. 

The one solace Seungcheol is gifted is the bed is massive. Almost the entire room is dominated by the plush mattress, a dresser, and a chair in the corner. He considers sleeping in that instead for all of a minute before realizing you probably wouldn’t let him and the absolute torture it’ll do to his neck. 

At least the forced proximity won’t be awkward since you’ve silently agreed to leave the past behind you. He can’t imagine Sofie would consider this solution if you were still mad at him, even if it was her wedding week. The realization lightens the weight on his shoulders an ounce more.

Seungcheol throws his bag down at the foot of the bed. It’s no big deal; sharing a room with you. Childhood sleepovers had been the norm, a few nights in college you’d shared a clunky old twin bed when you both were too drunk to find your ways home separately. Your first apartment together, when you two had to share a mattress on the floor for the first weeks because all your money went into paying rent, flash in his head. Old times.

Thirty minutes later, freshly showered and in clean clothes, Seungcheol heads back downstairs for a glass of water before bed.

He remembers where the kitchen is after Sofie’s short tour, trapezing through the huge house easily. Behind different closed doors he catches glimpses of pre-sleep conversations: couples spitting harsh whispers to each other, a few cartoonish voices reading bedtime stories to an audience of childish giggles. But when he reaches the threshold of his destination Seungcheol stumbles into an entirely different atmosphere.

“You haven’t told him yet?”

“No. I didn’t feel like the kind of thing to say over text,” you whisper.

“Well you could have called him!”

“And say what? ‘Hey Cheol, I know we haven’t talked in months because we got into a huge fight about my boyfriend but Johnny and I–’”

Seungcheol strains his ears to hear the rest of your sentence but fails to decipher anything before Jeonghan’s voice cuts in. Whatever ‘it’ is, you seem keen on keeping it a secret.

“Just tell him.” Jeonghan says through a mouthful of something. “I’m sure he’ll be happy.”

His mind races with a million possibilities, all related to Johnny, all things you wouldn’t have told your best friend of over twenty years because of some stupid fight. Something you don’t know how to tell him over the phone, something you need to tell in person.

The realization strikes like lightning.

You and Johnny are engaged.

Thirst forgotten, Seungcheol turns back the way he came. He thinks through the new information as he stumbles up the stairs.

How could you not tell him? How could he make you feel like you couldn’t tell him? How long have you been hiding this? And why did Jeonghan and Sofie know before he did? Was everyone in on the secret and he was the odd man out?

You and Johnny weren’t even that serious when you moved away; or, that's what Seungcheol thought. In all honesty he fully believed it was some joke when you told him. A drunken practical joke taken too far but you didn’t laugh when he did. There was no punchline to share. The boxes were packed away and then the moving truck came and you left with it. 

Everything else hits him in the seclusion of the bedroom. Your shared room. He doesn’t even have the luxury of coming to terms with your latest surprise in private. 

Seungcheol isn’t happy. He is, but because you’re you, argument aside. The past few months are the longest you’ve ever gone without each other and seeing you again lifted a weight off his chest he’d come accustomed to in months of silence. 

It’s an easy decision. If Johnny makes you happy enough to tie your lives together then Seungcheol can bite his tongue. You’re his best friend and by default he’d never think anyone was good enough for you but if you loved Johnny, if you were this serious about him, then Seungcheol would support you.

Even if it meant there would always be a Johnny sized ravine between you.

Seungcheol wakes far before the sun breaches the horizon. The room still washed in the shadows of early dawn grants him some peace to think over his own conflicts with the news, your quiet snores a backing track from across the bed.

On your side facing him, Seungcheol gets the first good look at you in what feels like forever. Even with the size of the bed barely a foot of space separates your bodies. You hand twisted in the hem of his shirt like even in your sleep you can’t stand to be apart more than necessary.

You look ridiculous; hair a mess and limbs splayed. But your face is soft in sleep, eyelashes fanned on your cheeks and lips in a pout. 

There’s an odd flutter in his stomach. He wasn't lying when he said he missed you. But now things are complicated. 

He hadn’t slept at all last night; mind constantly replaying the conversation he heard in the kitchen, formulating his reaction when you finally let him in on the ‘surprise.’

Perhaps under different circumstances he wouldn’t struggle with news. Seungcheol wants you to be happy. Johnny is the problem in the scenario. They never got along, barely spoke outside of the few times forced circumstances required them to. Seungcheol was polite. Johnny was polite. 

Seungcheol wanted to kill him and he’s certain Johnny felt the same.

Relationships naturally take priority over time but Johnny seemed to creep in and choke Seungcheol out of all the places he’d been firmly planted for years. Another reason he isn’t happy.

Monday night Bachelor? Canceled, because Johnny plays beer league softball with his friends and you started going to that.

No more sleepovers at Seungcheol’s after a night out because ‘it makes Johnny uncomfortable.’ Fair complaint. Seungcheol wouldn’t appreciate his girlfriend sleeping over at a guy's house after drinking if the roles were reversed. But Seungcheol isn’t some guy and you were his best friend before you were Johnny’s girlfriend.

Traditions at Christmas felt hollow without you. The first one you spent meeting Johnny’s family in Minnesota you texted Seungcheol the entire time about how cold it was, how they were a 5k on a holiday type family despite the fact there was three feet of snow outside. 

All small details that mean everything to Seungcheol, never meant as much to you. 

And that’s why he doesn’t like Johnny. Because he made Seungcheol realize that.

It’s not that you and Johnny didn’t work. Seungcheol just couldn’t wrap his head around why you wanted to overlook all the glaring differences to make it work.

But pointing that out left him with a cold shoulder lasting six months so he plans to keep his mouth shut.

You tried talking to him before bed but gave up when he pretended to be asleep. It took everything he had not to give in and talk into the early morning. Six months was more than enough ground to cover for you two to catch up; he was promoted, you had an entirely new life in another city that he wanted to hear all about. His insane neighbor from across the hall, who you both are sure sells drugs, is actually a preschool teacher (mysteries of the universe). And he knows you probably have kooky neighbors of your own in New York.

But, in all honesty, he didn’t want to hear stories with Johnny’s name attached. Wasn’t ready to hear you say you’re engaged. It’s one thing to know it. But the second the words leave your lips then it’s real. Then Johnny is here to stay and it's only a matter of time before you two are arguing again.

Especially when everything said months ago was still fresh in his mind. Words he’d stand by no matter what. But Seungcheol has figured out that there are conversations he’s allowed to have with you and ones that should never see the light of day if your friendship is to survive. Johnny is one, the other is a memory from college that remains vivid no matter how hard he tries to forget.

But this weekend wasn’t about you and him, it's about Sofie and Jeonghan. If Seungcheol can dive into focusing on them, maybe he’ll survive.

Today is the one day reserved for sightseeing before ‘the inevitably disorganized shit show of an Italian wedding’ as Sofie puts it. 

Seungcheol has already seen some of the big things thanks to his study abroad in undergrad: the Colosseum, the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon. So for today, he'll stick by whatever you want to do. You’re the building nerd architect.

When he finally finds the willpower to roll away, carefully extracting your grip on him before ducking from the sheets, you stir enough to release a sleepy whine in protest before burying back under the blanket. 

It’s odd but he notices you’re not wearing a ring. Seungcheol looked closely if you took it off before bed but nothing stands out in the bathroom or on the dresser. He assumes you took it off to make the weekend about Sofie and Jeonghan rather than yourself. It’s something you would do. Or maybe it’s at the jeweler’s for repairs. Maybe Johnny had gaudy taste and bought a ring so flashy you refused to wear it. 

Seungcheol doesn’t know but it strikes him as strange.

The kitchen is already bustling with life even at such an early hour. Family and friends trickle in one by one, joining Seungcheol at the table with cups of coffee and munching on fruit and biscuits as their hangovers ebb. Quickly, the peace he preserved in the early quiet melts into loud laughter and a million buzzing conversations.

You melt into the chair beside him, eyes barely open as you snag his cup and scowl after finding it already drained.

“Coffee?” you mumble.

Seungcheol pushes his plate of unfinished fruit and a half finished pastry you way. “Sofie’s mom is brewing more. But it’s strong.”

“Oh trust me, I know,” you say around a mouthful of jam and dough. “I drank a full cup the first day I got here and felt like Sonic.”

“That’s how you know it’s good.”

“You’re insane.”

“What are your plans for today?”

“So there's this church, the Santa Maria Sopra della Minerva. It’s near the Pantheon!” you ramble, peeling another orange. “It’s just beautiful and it's got a statue by Michelangelo next to the altar and the design is incredible.”

Seungcheol can’t help but laugh at your enthusiasm. A city filled with ancient buildings and history is right up your alley. 

He remembers how you pouted when he came back from his trip in college after yours to Venice was canceled due to ‘not enough student interest.’ The only thing that managed to quell your anger was all the pictures Seungcheol took with you in mind. Close ups of the tiniest details about ancient designs tour guides pointed out to disinterested business majors but he knew you’d care if you’d been there. If you were there then you’d probably be leading the tour yourself whether the guide liked it or not.

“Mind if I come with?” he asks over his fresh cup of coffee.

“Duh,” you roll your eyes with a smile. “I waited for you to get here to go.”

Sofie’s uncle, the one not under threat of murder by his wife, agrees to drive you both out. He drives at full speed from the second he hits the gas pedal. With the windows down. The breeze is as nice as a wind tunnel and cuts off everything Zio Berto tries to point out except for his screams at other drivers. 

On the other side of the back seat, you’re turning green. Seungcheol is glad the window is already down because if you get sick, he will too. And Sofie would refuse any payment for the cleaning fee, Seungcheol is morally opposed to ruining such a nice car with vomit.

The city whips past outside the windows, cobblestone streets slowly growing more crowded as the car edges closer to the center city. Berto finally slows down to avoid pedestrians and mopeds but only by a fraction. He doesn’t seem to share Seungcheol’s concern about body fluids clashing with the car design.

Finally, after what feels like a century, the car jerks to a stop. You don’t even pretend to be polite and exit immediately, hands on your knees while dry heaving for air.

“I’ll be around. Have fun!” Berto calls from the driver's seat. “Call me when you’re ready to head back.”

Seungcheol waves him off and when he turns back where you were standing, you’re already gone; circling the elephant obelisk in the center of the cobblestone courtyard.

“Isn’t it so cool?” You gush, snapping photos.

The exterior of the building is unassuming. Flat sandstone brick without much detail but you see the things that are important. In a few minutes you’ll be in tour guide mode, pointing out the smallest crack no one would see unless they already studied the church's history in depth.

“Soooo cool,” he jests. He appraises the statue with you, turning his head this way and that. 

You slap his shoulder, “Don’t be a jerk!”

“Okay, okay. Give me the tour.”

“It was built on the ruins of a temple of Isis.”

“Okay, and why the elephant?”

“The obelisk was taken from the Church of San Stefano del Cacco down that way,” you point. “It's originally from Sais in Egypt but got moved all the way here. The elephant was commissioned by the pope to display it based on a book that was popular at the time.”

“Interesting.” 

You point at the inscription on the plinth before continuing, “that’s from the book.”

Sapientis Aegypti insculptas obelisco figuras ab elephanto, belluarum fortissima, gestari quisquis hic vides, documentum intellege robustae mentis esse solidam sapientiam sustinere.

“Whoever you are, who sees here the figures of the Egyptian wise man carved on the obelisk carried by the elephant, the strongest of wild animals, understand the symbolism to be that a strong mind supports firm wisdom,” you translate. 

“I didn’t know you read latin.”

“I don’t. It’s in English on the other side,” you laugh. “But I do know, the guy who designed the statue made it look like it's farting because the pope told him to change the design from what he originally wanted.”

“Really?”

“Yep. He said having it stand on four legs was dangerous so the sculptor added the saddle and a cube at the base, but he also made its butt face the convent so the friars would have to see its ass every time they came out.”

“Wow.”

Seungcheol circles the statue and sure enough the tail is angled to look like it's blowing wind.

“I’m pretty sure it’s a lie but I’d like to think people were that petty hundreds of years ago. Now all people do is subtweet and post vague Instagram stories. I want someone to hate me so much they design an entire statue just to minorly inconvenience me each morning.”

You’re fully of facts Seungcheol would never know. It’s one of the best parts of visiting places with you. It’s not just some building or some random statue. You give the architecture a new life.

Seungcheol’s mind flashes back to the first time he accompanied you and Johnny to a monument back home. In the five minutes you’d been there, he realized Johnny truly did not care about your interests.

The look on your face that day told him you realized Johnny didn’t care either.

It’s the same pact everyone that moves to D.C. makes to visit all the museums and monuments and landmarks. Good intentions with zero realistic goals. Except you’re stubborn and the drive to say you did something means Seungcheol has tagged along to thirty out of the one hundred and fifteen on your list. Johnny missed most either from work trips or some other excuse and the one Seungcheol missed had been the only one Johnny came to because of the flu.

Safe to say the first time visiting together was a shit show. Johnny didn’t pretend to evaluate the ‘important’ parts, didn’t ask questions or bother reading the placards detailing events of significance, raced through the entire thing to leave you and Seungcheol behind. It’s not like you or Seungcheol were overwhelmed with beauty and needed hours but Johnny finished his round after less than thirty minutes and told you to text him when you were done. 

So Seungcheol did the only thing he could to get back at Johnny without upsetting you: walked as slow as possible, pointing out things he knew you’d know more about, and dragging things out so Johnny was stuck waiting in the frigid winter wind outside to suffer.

You knew what he was doing, obvious from the way you hook your arm through his and give an affection squeeze. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes but you both pushed through.

Thank whatever powers be that Johnny wasn’t here now.

“See the windows?” you ask, pointing to the three different sized circular windows hanging over the main doorways. 

“Yeah,” he nods.

“Well you can’t tell from here but they’re rose tinted.”

Seungcheol tries to see what you’re talking about but the windows are dark and covered in some kind of lacquer that makes them look gray and dusty rather than pink.

“And why is that important, Professor Y/L/N?”

“Because it’s the only medieval church in Rome like that!” 

You continue rambling off facts, talking a mile a minute as your point at different things and walk Seungcheol around the exterior. A few other people's ears perk up as you go on about how the details had been done over and over; first Romanesque, then Gothic then, some guy named Carlo Maderno added Baroque designs inside, and friars who put in stained glass windows.

By the time you take a breath, the crowd has taken a closer interest in the windows and the elephant statue due to your brief history. A few look at the flood plaques which are some of the best preserved records the city has.

Seungcheol hangs onto every word. He doesn’t care about the old church, it’s an interesting bit of history sure but he could be outside any church in Rome and have the same reaction. He cares about the church because you care. And your passion about old windows and flood markers make it the most interesting place in the world right now.

“Go stand on the steps so I can take your picture,” you demand.

“Do I have to?” Seungcheol jokingly complains.

“Just go.”

Seungcheol poses as you direct, flashing a few silly poses you laugh at. He manages to wrangle you into taking a few photos as well. Ones that will probably be sent to your mom and never see the light of day other than her Facebook. Your Instagram is reserved for, in order: buildings, animals, food, and the rare picture of you with friends at some sort of occasion (wedding, graduation, the time Jeonghan broke his leg drunk on a city scooter and ended up in the ER). 

You’re in the middle of pretending to hold the Leaning Tower of Pisa when someone approaches Seungcheol.

“Would you like us to take your photo?” an elderly woman asks. She is a quintessential tourist: fanny pack, camera around her neck, sun burnt around the ears. A man in a matching shirt approaches with her, donning the same gear and pink tinge. Seungcheol recognizes them from a few minutes prior when you gave your lecture about elephant butts and petty sculptors.

“Sure, thank you.”

He hands over his phone and joins you on the steps. You both pose like normal adults, smiles plastered on your face while Seungcheol gives you bunny ears and you pull his hair.

“Beautiful couple!”

“Oh, we’re not…” You both object.

“We’re on our second honeymoon.” The man croons at his wife, chuffed when she rolls her eyes and focuses on the camera screen. “You two?”

“We’re here for a wedding.”

“Wow! Married in Rome,” the wife gasps. “How romantic.”

It isn’t the first time you two have been mistaken for a couple. Anytime you’re with him or Jeonghan someone assumes you’re dating. Occasionally, you’d play it up, make an entire story about how you met, how long you’ve been together, biting your tongues the entire time as each detail is more ludicrous than the last.

Jeonghan takes the cake as the most ridiculous. Two tornado chasers that ran into each other ten years ago and never let go. Him and Seungcheol, not you. Which really threw the waitress off. Never mind the fact you all were sophomores in college, high as kites and stuffing yourselves full of hashbrowns in a greasy spoon diner for Seungcheol’s birthday.

“Did you two meet here?” the husband asks.

“Oh no, we actually met in a competitive bowling league,” you fib, wrapping your arm through Seungcheol’s.

What the hell?

“Romantic!” The wife belts like she actually believes nothing could inspire love like sharing shoes with countless strangers and cheap beer.

Seungcheol would take the piss under any other circumstances. Except this time you’re actually engaged and the last time you two pretend to be a couple was when you fake proposed to him in a fancy restaurant to score free champagne and dessert to celebrate the end of law school.

“Would you mind taking a few of us?” the man asks.

You snap a few pictures on the wife’s phone and after more coos of ‘romantic!’ and a few thank yous they melt into the crowd.

“Alright, let's go inside.”

“Lead the way.” Seungcheol feels more awkward than before, cheeks red but not from the sun beating down

Upon entering the church, he discovers the inside is much more interesting than the outside. Holy water stoups are held up by marble. Two statues flank the entrance. There’s more things to see than Seungcheol’s brain can handle but he follows behind you, mind lingering on the scene outside.

“‘My husband’?” Seungcheol asks.

“What? We won’t see them again. Who cares?”

Probably your own fiancé but just as Seungcheol opens his mouth a priest silences him with a sharp, “SHH!”

Passing through a high stone archway, you enter the nave. The ceiling, cobalt and gold with motifs of  biblical figures and cherubs, rises high above. 

“Look!” you whisper. “Isn’t it cool?”

Your point at a marble Jesus wearing a bronze loin cloth.

Cool isn’t the word he’d choose but he goes with it.

“Michelangelo started it but two other people had to finish it for him.”

“Oh.”

“But people still call it Michelangelo’s statue because it’s more impressive. Besides, he did most of it before his apprentice took over.”

He observes the paintings and statues, the stone work that bulges from the walls like they’re trying to come alive and escape their immortal capture. There’s even a tomb and shrine with incredible detail. 

It takes two hours to see everything and another thirty minutes to make your way out of the church because you both keep catching missed signs or there's some tiny piece of the ceiling with an odd detail.

He missed this.

Outside, you open your phone and look at the message from Sofie. She made the recommendation to come down here and gave an extensive list of everything else to be done in the area. There’s so many options it would take at least a week to see half of them.

“This hotel has a rooftop restaurant that’s supposed to have a good view of St. Peters,” you say.

The restaurant would have a great view of the city, if it wasn’t shut down for renovations. The staff don’t even let you near the elevator before you’re both swept outside and back on the street.

“Well…” Seungcheol starts.

“Should we call Berto?”

He doesn’t want to. Partially because Berto’s driving might kill him and also because he doesn’t want to end his time with you just yet. One of the things he missed about you living in the same city was weekends in museums for hours. Now that he has it again, he hesitates to cut the time short.

“Wait, I think we’re near one of the parks we visited when I came in college.”

“Oh my god,” you gasp sarcastically. “Did you study abroad? I never knew!”

“Shut up.”

Seungcheol pulls out his phone and dials Berto’s number. “Hey, Berto. No, we're good, everything is fine. But I was wondering how far away is Villa Borghese from us? Oh really? Would you be able to come drop us off? Awesome. Thanks man.”

“Well?”

“He’ll be here in five.”

Five minutes turns into fifteen and in that time Seungcheol burns out. Jetlag and the dull thrums of city streets make him sleepy. You sit in front of him on a bench outside the church. He thought he was better at hiding it but he’s pretty sure if he sits down, he’ll fall asleep.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you ask once Berto arrives. “We can go back to the house if you want.”

There’s an unofficial official itinerary for today.

Anything before four is fair game. After that there is a welcome cocktail party at a fancy restaurant in the city one of the De Luca’s family friends own.

If Seungcheol doesn’t go home now then it’ll be a close call to nap and shower in time. Not that Sofie is exceptionally punctual about things like that but Seungcheol is.

“I don’t want you not to see stuff just because I’m tired.”

“Cheol, I’ve been here all week with Sofie and Han. I promise this was the only thing left on my list of stuff to do. Anything else would have been a bonus.”

“Only if you're sure.”

“We can always come back again. I’m pretty sure Sofie’s mom is decorating a room for me.”

Yeah, because most men are fine with their fiancée taking international trips with another man. Not that you’d listen or Johnny has the balls to say something about it. But Seungcheol knows the chances of coming back here together, like this, are slim to nonexistent.

“Alright. But you can’t bring it up in an argument.”

“I can and I will.” The corner of you mouth twitches as your head shakes before opening the back seat for him. “Now get in the car, old-timer.” 

Seungcheol falls asleep on your shoulder in a blink. Berto is quiet (or the open windows drown him out enough that Seungcheol can pretend) and the heat of your body next to his lulls his heart. It’s not a peaceful rest and his neck is killing him by the time Berto pulls into the driveway, but it’s nice.

Seungcheol beelines for the bathroom while you slip into the kitchen. Something about centerpieces or napkins or tablecloths; he isn’t really sure but Sofie’s mom says it's urgent so he goes upstairs alone, showers in record time, and dives under the covers.

His dreams are filled with blue and gold elephants, He wakes to the sound of your voice blended with the sound of water.

You’re singing. More so humming some off key melody that bounces off the shower tiles and echoes straight into his brain. It drags him in that liminal space between waking and dreaming where anything is possible. Maybe he’s still dreaming. Of you and him, back when you shared an apartment and things weren’t so complicated. When there weren’t secrets and omissions and he didn’t have to bite his tongue.

His eyes stay closed, refusing to budge until the last minute.

The shower turns off but the humming continues, louder now that you’re out of the bathroom and collecting your things.

You must think Seungcheol is still asleep because when his eyes slit open, only enough to decipher your hazy silhouette, you’re in nothing but a towel. A very very tiny towel that hides nothing but the necessary bits and even then only barely. 

He can’t wake up now. Not when you bend over to look in your suitcase for Seungcheol closed his eyes just in time. But it doesn’t stop his brain from latching on to every sound in the quiet of the room; the humming tickling across your lips, the wet thump! of your towel on the ground. Oh god, now you’re not even wearing a towel. 

Seungcheol won’t be that friend. He never has. Or has always tried not to be. But teenage hormones make a young boy’s brain untamable so it’d be a lie to say he’s never thought of you like that. But despite his feelings, Seungcheol has made sure they never became a factor in your friendship.

Even though there is a peace of his soul that will always belong to you.

So he pretends to be asleep, forcibly controlling his breathing while you shuffle around the room none the wiser to his rising predicament.

Finally, you disappear back into the bathroom to change and Seungcheol’s lungs stretch with air until they burn.

You look pretty. Objectively. You glow in the late afternoon sun pouring in from the window, a ditsy floral print dress of orange and cream that hugging your figure; delicate collar bones on display under the flimsy straps and the column of your neck bare save for the necklace you’ve worn everyday since your parents bought it for your sixteenth birthday.

“C’mon sleepy head,” you whisper.

Seungcheol is thrilled his gawking is easily disguised as jetlag.

He changes in the bathroom. Taking a moment to grip the sink, his reflection stares back in the mirror. It’s the exhaustion and dehydration making his brain muddle. Nothing to do with you or him.

It’s fine. Everything is perfectly fine.

The downstairs foyer is in complete chaos but Sofie commands the room like she always does from the top of the stairway.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen. Are you ready?” She yells like a WWE announcer.

Cheers rise up from the gaggle of adults. Cousins, friends, parents, aunts and uncles. Most of them Seungcheol has never seen before and is pretty sure neither have Jeonghan or Sofie but it’s fine. The more the merrier.

Except when different cars end up filled to the brim and you end up sitting on Seungcheol’s lap instead of a seat.

His heart leaps with every bump, yo

ur hair flying into his face and leaving the sweet smell of perfume to flood his senses. Seungcheol can’t even think about that because Sofie’s Zia Linda puts her husband's driving to shame.

At some point you nearly fly out the open window–Why does no one believe in keeping the windows up?– and Seungcheol is forced to wrap an arm around your waist to keep you from ending up a part of the cobblestone road.

“Sorry,” you say. The squeeze at his arm tells him your thankful at least something is stopping you from becoming roadkill.

“It’s fine.”

If you notice his strained breath, you don’t say anything.

The rooftop restaurant is gigantic but with everyone it feels small and crowded. Below, all of Rome spreads out. Lights twinkle in the distance and the moon is heavy overhead, ready for a night of revelry. It’s a welcome party so things are casual, finger foods and drinks flow heavily while everyone mingles.

Sofie and Jeonghan laugh at their own table, holding court with family and friends that flood in and out with congratulations. They’re good at it. Jeonghan ventures on the more introverted side but Sofie could have a meaningful conversation with a pile of rocks. 

You're off at another table, talking with Soonyoung and Seungkwan, a second glass of wine in hand. Laughter rings out and he feels drawn to it like a siren call. It was foolish to worry that the scar from Johnny wouldn’t heal over eventually. All you two needed was time.

Seungcheol barely leaves your side during the party. You dance and drink and dance some more until you’re both left in a heap at the same table by the dance floor. Soonyoung and Seokmin provide ample distraction, taking to the floor to do…something Seungcheol hesitates to call dancing because it resembles a child's idea of a circus. 

Dancing, food, and wine leave him feeling loose and sleepy. You’re not much better, head on his shoulder and hand tangled with his across your knees.

“Cheol?”

“Yeah?”

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

His shirt is unbuttoned, sleeves rolled high. In the back of the car on the ride home, you trace the muscle of his forearms draped over your waist until it lulls him to sleep.

Back at the house, you, Sofie, Jeonghan, and Seungcheol throw out sleepy goodnights and I love you’s before retreating to your separate corners of the house. Jeonghan is technically staying in a room in the same wing as you two (Sofie’s house is big enough to have an east and west wing which still shocks him). Something about family tradition and bad luck for the wedding but Jeonghan follows his fiancée like a shadow to her room at the opposite end of the house without theatrics.

And then there’s just you two.

You lean on each other the entire walk up, like you need the other support or you’ll crumble to the floor and sleep there. Honestly, it’s not a bad idea. Seungcheol has slept in worse places.

The stairs present their own challenges. You go first, Seungcheol right behind in case you fall backwards which has happened enough times that it’s become a habit to walk this way when alcohol is involved. But it doesn’t solve the issue of you tripping up.

Which you do with an effortless lack of grace on the last step.

“Oh, shit!” you giggle.

Seungcheol laughs so hard his knees buckle and he flops on the floor next to you like a dying fish.

“Shhh!” you slur, finger pressed to his lips. “People are sleeping.”

But you're cackling now and he can’t breathe from the painful quaking laughter rooting in his belly. He’s on his back, and you prop up on your arm to loom over him. Twin smiles breaking your faces, eyes watering with drunken mirth.

You go silent first, tracing his features silently like they must be committed to memory. Seungcheol does the same. You’re exactly the same as the day you left. Except for the vacation glow from being here for the past week. He recognizes all the parts of you he’s known for a lifetime. The silver scar on your chin from learning to ride a bike and crashing into a tree. The color of your eyes. The blush of your mouth.

The finger pressed to his lips traces along the plump flesh, then his chin, then it circles the back of his head and you’re ducking down.

Alarms go off in Seungcheol’s head screaming: 

DANGER! DANGER! THIS IS NOT WHAT FRIENDS DO! DANGER!

“Wow, it’s late,” he laughs horsley as he rolls away and to his feet. 

You jump away, dazed for a second before laughing as well. “Yeah, let’s um…let’s go to bed.”

He can’t quite read your expression. Several  emotions swirl across your face but Seungcheol can barely look at you without feeling his face heat so he doesn’t linger. 

Seungcheol takes the bathroom after you finish, rushing through his night time routine in sober silence. 

You're drunk. That’s the only reason you’re trying to kiss him. Or he had something on his mouth and you can’t find the words to tell him. It was a mistake. A momentary lapse of judgment that didn’t mean anything.

It wasn’t even a fraction of an almost kiss. Your noses barely touched, it doesn’t count.

When he comes back into the room, you’re curled up on the bed in your pajamas asleep.

Seungcheol circles to the other side, slipping under the covers and getting comfortable. The room feels smaller after what just happened. But it wasn’t a big deal. Nothing happened. You both were drunk and missed each other. You never would have kissed him.

Despite the fact the first, and only, time you two kissed was in very similar circumstances.

Rolling over, you find him and cuddle into his chest. Seungcheol opens his arms for you on instinct. 

“Did you have fun today?” you ask into his collarbone. The vibration of your voice tickles but it’s dulled from Seungcheol’s heart thudding wildly.

“Yeah.”

His hand smooths the back of your hair, down your back. You readjust, throwing a leg over his own and pulling him in tight.

“Good,” you say around a yawn. “Me too.”

Seungcheol tamps down the piece of him that wants to indulge in this. Just holding you, pretending things outside the door don’t exist and it’s just you and him and no one else. 

But he can’t do that.

“You know,” he starts. “I’m happy for you no matter what, right? You and Johnny…I’m happy for you.”

Seungcheol waits for a response that will never come because you’re out cold, snoring against his chest.

You’re still asleep when Seungcheol wakes around noon. Sometime in the night you shifted to the far side of the bed, taking the blanket with you. He doesn’t try to wake you, still confused at exactly what happened last night.

Seungcheol isn’t naive. He knows what women look like when they want to be kissed, when they're thinking about how his mouth will feel against theirs. Usually he revels in it; loves the flare to his ego, the chance to tease before giving in.

But to see the expression on your face sent him into a panic. He’s seen it once before, indulged in it, and it ruined his life for the better part of college. Lips parted, eyes glassy as you stared. All the telltale signs were there: the lift of your chin, hands twisted in his shirt, eyes drooped low.

And the worst part was you did all that despite having a fiance waiting back home none the wiser. Even if Seungcheol couldn’t stand Johnny, he’d never do that. Never allow you to do that. 

Even if he wanted nothing more than to feel your lips on his.

He heads as far away as he can. Turns out it’s down stairs for breakfast. Sofie is at the kitchen table, typing on her laptop.

“Morning,” Seungcheol croaks.

“You look like shit. Wild night?”

“Just some old timers thinking they’re twenty one again.”

“What assholes.” She laughs. “How's Y/N?”

Seungcheol freezes like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. Sofie couldn’t know what almost but certainly didn’t happen in the hallway last night. “She’ll probably need an exorcism but she’ll survive.”

“By the way, I meant to give her this last night but everything was crazy. Can you pass it off? Jeonghan and I have to take my grandma to lunch and she’s already called twice sooooo…”

“Yeah, go. Have fun.”

Sofie is up and out before he can blink, a tiny piece of cardstock left in her place.

Kira Long

Artisan Jeweler

Her social media and number are at the bottom but Seungcheol doesn’t need more information.

He hides around the villa most of the day. Catching up with the guys around the pool, feigning fatigue when you come out to join. The gardens are big enough for him to disappear into for a few hours before he needs to go and get ready.

Unfortunately, that also means you are getting ready. 

A leg.

That’s all Seungcheol sees when he opens the door.

Your leg specifically, propped on the dresser while you apply lotion in nothing but that damn skimpy towel designed to torture him.

“AH!” you shriek, shocked by his sudden entrance. 

“I’m sorry!” he shouts.

The fabric unravels around your chest and suddenly you're naked and Seungcheol is not looking. 

“What the fuck? Have you ever heard of knocking?”

He’s not.

“Why are you naked?”

The ceiling is very interesting. 

“Because I wanted to scare you.” you scream sarcastically. The door to the hallway is still open. Seungcheol either stays in with you or goes back out because it can’t stay open much longer. He makes the fatal mistake of locking himself inside with you. “Because I thought you’d knock, you fucker! Jesus fucking Christ, turn around.”

Seungcheol saw you naked. 

He hides in the bathroom like a wimp until it’s time to leave.

—

It’s a short walk to the church down the street for the rehearsal ceremony. It’s all a blur given the million and one things flying through his brain; most of them you. You in your towel. The fact you’re engaged. You looking at him like you’re dying to be kissed. The fact you’re engaged. How everyone has assumed you’re a couple this entire weekend and you’ve played along. The fact you are engaged to a man that isn’t him and Seungcheol can’t help but feel bitter about it for a completely different reason than he ever thought he would be. 

Luckily, the ceremony is only planned to last less than an hour. He knows he isn’t subtle but he tries to grin and bear it for his friends. He can see the same sentiment in you. Your smile doesn’t quite fit but Seungcheol can’t think about what it could be about. 

“Do you take this man…”

Was it his rejection? It wouldn’t make sense if it was. You’re his best friend but not even that dictates cheating. You weren’t the type; in your own words cheating was more pathetic than ghosting someone as a form of break up. 

He doesn’t get it.

“I always love you even though you sleep like a princess, my love,” Sofie gushes.

“And I’ll forgive you for snoring like an old man, love of my life.” Jeonghan fires back.

They’re saving their real vows, the one Seungcheol helped Jeonghan with, for the ceremony. Even with all the confusion swirling in his head, he can’t wait for Sofie to hear what Jeonghan has in store.

The priest is less than impressed but moves forward like he can’t wait to have them out of his congregation as fast as possible.

“Okay, and you two leave and the wedding party follows…”

Seungcheol offers his arm to the Maid of Honor, Maria, guiding her back down the aisle where Jeonghan and Sofie bicker. You follow with Seokmin, break away the second it's polite with some excuse about needing the bathroom before you dissolve into the crowd.

The dinner is back at the house. The outside is lined with chairs crowded around tables covered in exploding bouquets and candles. Family members and friends weave to and fro, drinks and food flowing heavily.

You’re talking to Seokmin in the corner of the courtyard, a glass of wine already in your hand as you laugh along to whatever the other man said. 

“So Sofie said you’re a lawyer?” Maria asks. 

“Yeah, that’s how we became friends. I actually was the one who introduced her and Jeonghan.”

“Wow, so you’re a lawyer and a matchmaker.” 

Seungcheol laughs at the compliment. Introducing Sofie and Jeonghan had been a complete accident with unintended consequences. “I wouldn’t say that. I thought Sofie would strangle him the first time they met.”

“Oh, I heard all about that. When Sofie told me they started dating I thought she must’ve meant a different Jeonghan.”

Maria makes good company through the first rounds of drinks before dinner is served. She takes his focus away from you, how your leg presses against his under the table. She grew up down the road, went to school with Sofie all the way through undergrad. Her boyfriend, Jihoon, is a surgeon back in Seattle while she works in marketing. Unfortunately getting time off for a second year resident verges on impossible so he couldn’t come to the wedding.

“You two are so cute together, how long have you been dating?” Maria asks before taking a swig of her drink.

“Oh we’re not together,” Seungcheol corrects swiftly.

You give a tense nod of agreement. 

“Really?”

“Yep. We grew up together. She’s like my sister.” 

He sounds like an asshole. The words are bile but there can be no room for incorrect interpretations. This weekend had been nothing but confusing so far. Seungcheol needs to set himself straight on where he stands with you.

“Oh,” Maria nods. “Okay. So Y/N, are you dating anyone?”

“Actually I—”

Your response fizzles out because Jeonghan’s dad rises from his seat for a speech.

“I want to take a moment to express my deepest appreciation to everyone here this weekend to celebrate Sofie and Jeonghan. I remember the first time he told us about her, how happy he was and thought ‘oh this poor girl doesn’t know what she’s gotten herself into’.” There’s a smatter of laughter throughout the room. Sofie leans into Jeonghan’s shoulder and he places a kiss on her temple. “But then I met Sofie and I can say, without a doubt, there are very few people more perfect for each other than those two. Sofie, welcome to our family.”

Dinner passes, course after course and more wine until Seungcheol physically can’t have any more. You and Maria hit it off, rambling about Jihoon’s two cats and the abandoned kitten that hangs out around his work he’s trying to bribe into coming home. You barely look at him during the conversation but he prefers it.

Dessert comes with coffee and then everyone dissolves. Some stay around the tables to chat and drink and laugh, others help clean up. But Seungcheol, Jeonghan, and the groom's party head for the back gardens, Seungkwan already queueing up the song for one last practice.

It’s tradition, in southern Italy at least, for the groom to serenade his bride-to-be the night before their wedding. Seungcheol couldn’t believe Jeonghan was planning to go through with such tradition but he’s seen the man do more for Sofie than he thought he was capable of so it shouldn’t come as a shock.

The warm summer air does good for his mood, as does laughing with the guys when Soonyoung and Seungkwan get into a wrestling match after debating if they step-shuffle for three or four counts. But they all agree with four because it’s easier to remember.

The top floor balcony at the front of the house turns out to be Sofie’s room. The light floods out of the open doors, and two sets of giggles pour down to where they stand.

Jeonghan cups his hands around his mouth and calls, “Juliet, Juliet! Let down your hair!” 

“That’s not the saying.” Seungcheol corrects. 

“Shut up, I’m talking to my wife.”

“That’s not the saying!” Sofie laughs from above. 

You and Sofie peek over the side of the iron terrace, grins already splitting your faces. You knew what was happening. It’s why you whisked Sofie away with whatever distraction you could think of while the men gathered outside for a quick last minute dry run. Something about broken heels and needing to borrow a pair of shoes.

“Sofie Cosima De Luca, you are the love of my life.” Jeonghan yells. He’s drunk on love (and a lot of champagne). “I can’t wait to marry you tomorrow. I just hope after this you still want to marry me. Hit it!”

The obscenely large speaker Seungcheol carried out starts humming the instrumental to Sofie and Jeonghan’s song. The very one Jeonghan drunkenly serenaded her with in a dingy bar, back when she didn’t believe he could handle a serious relationship and he was hopelessly wrapped around her finger.

“I’ve got sunshineeeeeeee on a cloudy day…” Jeonghan croons.

“Oh my god,” Sofie cackles.

Everyone else joins in, harmonizing in the back along with the choreo Seungkwan and Soonyoung came up with. A simple side step with occasional jazz hands (much to Soonyoung’s tipsy dismay). “I guess you’d say what can make me feel this way?” 

“MY GIRL,” Jeonghan belts his line, smiling dumbly.

You’re watching the shenanigans unfold, smiling as well. But while you're looking at everyone else, the only person Seungcheol can look at is you; the way your eyes gleam in the moonlight, your chin tipping back to laugh when Jeonghan’s voice cracks. You’re breathtaking. For a brief moment, barely a passing thought in the roaring river of his brain focused on his cue to sing and side step when needed, Seungcheol imagines what it would be like if you two were the only ones around.

Chalking it up to the moment, Seungcheol thinks about anything else as they finish the performance.

The music dwindles away and all that's left is Jeonghan staring up at his future wife as the rest of the group takes exaggerated bows. Other guest peek from windows or the edge of the drive way, cheering loudly.

“Bravi! Bravissimi!” Sofie cries as you both clap. “Can I make a request?”

Jeonghan nods like an eager puppy in response.

“Sing the Thong Song!” you both request through giggles.

“That's for after the wedding.” Jeonghan winks.

Time for Seungcheol to do his best man duties and prevent Jeonghan from making a complete ass of himself. "Alright Casanova, let’s go.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow!” Jeonghan calls over his shoulder, fighting against everyone ushering him away.

“Don’t be late!” Sofie demands.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

After returning Jeonghan to his room for the night, Seungcheol heads back to his completely unprepared to see you again. Too many feelings swirl in his head. Feelings he thought he finally left back in college.

He remembers only a few key events of his early childhood. When he lost his first tooth, when he broke his arm for the first time, and his soccer game at four years old when Jeonghan and he rubbed dirt in each other's faces and rolled in the grass instead of playing. But other than that, his life has been distinctly divided into two parts: before you, and after you. He remembers when you marched into the first day of second grade with a sparkly blue bookbag much too big for your little body. You went to the front of the class, introduced yourself loud and proud, and then looked around the room like you were daring anyone to say something back. 

And like any other childhood friendship is made, you sat at Seungcheol and Jeonghan’s table and asked if they wanted to be your friend. Without even considering the options, they both agreed. From then on out you’d always been Seungcheol, Jeonghan, and YN. Friends in elementary school, all through middle school, and even into the far reaches of highschool when Seungcheol played sports all year while you and Jeonghan did theater. It never occurred to any of you to be apart. Until Jeonghan stayed home to attend university in your hometown. And then it was Seungcheol and YN. Jeonghan came to visit when he could and vice versa. But at university it was you two against the world.

The first time Seungcheol realized he liked you was in third grade after you dumped chocolate milk on Jeonghan’s head because he put a bug in your lunchbox. He married you on the playground and made mud pies to celebrate. And then in high school when Seungcheol realized you weren’t just a girl but a pretty girl and the hormones of his teenage body latched onto that fact and plagued his dreams with the information. 

And he never did anything about that crush because he knew it wasn’t worth losing you to act on those silly notions. They passed just like he thought, melted away as time went on and you both dated other people. 

But that night freshman year of college…

It doesn’t matter. 

Because you have a fiancé and Seungcheol is happy for you.

The sound of running water echoes from the bathroom as Seungcheol enters your shared room. At least it delays the inevitable awkwardness. 

Or he thought it would.

“Hey, Cheol?” you call from the door.

“Yeah?”

“I forgot my clothes. Can you bring them to me?”

“Ugh, yeah.” Seungcheol scrambles for the pile of clean pajamas at the corner of the bed, snatching them up and stepping closer to the door that separates you. “Here.”

Mind caught on other things – like not remember that he caught a glimpse of you make last night, barely a second, no real detail except creamy skin and details his brained filled in on its own accord to his own chagrin – Seungcheol trips over his own feet and slams into the piece of wood head first.

The only thing stopping the door from flying straight into the wall is you.

“Shit!” you exclaim following a ricocheting ‘thump.’ “What the fuck, Cheol?”

Clutching his forehead, Seungcheol is oblivious to the tangle of limbs you’ve both collapsed into. 

“Fuck, sorry.” He blinks against the stark brightness of the overhead light. You’re clutching at your face, hands cupped around your nose and eyes filled with tears. “Here let me see.”

Your eyes crack open enough to glare at him, narrow and rimmed red. As if he didn’t feel awful enough.

Without a second thought, he strokes across the curve of your knee soothingly. “I won’t touch it, I just wanna make sure it isn’t broken.”

A hand shakenly falls away to unveil your perfectly fine nose. Seungcheol tips your chin up, moving in for a closer look just in case. But everything is fine. You’re not even bleeding, just a runny nose that definitely hurts worse than it looks. 

The initial rush of panic ebbs only to be replaced with awareness. Seungcheol is kneeling between your legs, your towel is definitely too short, and the beads of water caught on your collarbone are down right taunting him. He needs to get away.

Now.

“Oh my god,” he gasps, moving back.

Your face morphs into horror at his tone. “What?”

“You’ve got a huge bat in the cave.” Seungcheol rises to his feet, offering you a hand up while ignoring the way your chest struggles against the tie of the towel as you come to your feet as well.

“Fuck you,” you laugh, pushing him away. “Give me my clothes and get the fuck out.”

Seungcheol does just that. As the lock latches back he’s left alone with nothing but thoughts of you.

He remembers. That night you two have never spoken about. And probably would never discuss even under the threat of life and limb. A drunk kiss, in the stuffy bar that didn’t care if your IDs were fake as long as you had money.

Seungcheol remembers the way you felt in his lap, the taste of your mouth, the breathy whine against his lips when he first pulled away from the kiss. Maybe that last detail was a hallucination but it felt real. The heat of your body haunted Seungcheol for the week after it happened. 

Not even Jeonghan knew about it. 

And he’d rather die than open that can of worms. The first time Seungcheol had a crush on you in high school, he swallowed those feelings and never let them see the light of day. Because you’re his best friend, his longest friend, and if it was between the risk of losing you from his feelings (that he was certain would fade eventually despite the fact they never have) or keeping you in his life, then he’d stay silent if it killed him.

It’s your turn to disappear the next morning. You’re side of the bed is long cooled by the time Seungcheol’s alarm goes off, a piece of him gone with it. 

His dreams hadn’t helped. A faceless woman, not even sounds or sights or tangible things he could identify. But he knows the feeling. That alluring warmth of a body firm against his own, the kind that leaves him aching when he wants up. Seungcheol knows it's you. It’s the same images that have plagued his subconscious since adolescence when he’d wake up to messy boxers and the inability to look you in the face for days after.

Feelings he’s long suppressed came out last night. Seeing you in the window, in the bathroom, it’s all too much. And now it chases him into sleep; the one place he thought he might have peace.

Luckily your absence means there's no awkward explanation of why he’s hard. The trip to the bathroom is more of dejected desperation than eager need. Seungcheol hops into the shower and takes care of it, careful to keep his thought as abstract as possible or risk you popping up in his fantasy. Dreaming about you is damning enough. He doesn’t need to add to the guilt weighing on his conscience.

The rhythm of the water lulls his brain into a cycle. He can’t do this. He can’t go another minute 

He can’t even survive Jeonghan’s wedding. How he will sit through yours with a grin will be a true test of his acting ability.

But that is future Seungcheol’s problem. Right now he needs to get through today and then tomorrow and after that he’ll be on a plane back home where he can ruminate in the isolated confines of his apartment. 

He just needs to focus on one thing at a time. 

Right now, it’s getting downstairs in the next ten minutes or risk losing tee time with Jeonghan and the other groomsmen. 

There’s only two people he’d ever turn to in a time like this, except he can’t talk to either of them because one is the problem and the other is getting married in a few hours. The last thing Jeonghan needs is to hear about an issue between his two best friends.

Which is why he’s the first to pick up Seungcheol’s mood. 

“You look like shit,” Jeonghan greets. 

The other mill about the kitchen, snagging leftover pastries and fruit. Usually Seungcheol is the first to show up, not the last. But Soonyoung still seems to be missing.

“Thanks.” 

“Rough night?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Well if you’re tired you can always join the girls at the spa.” Jeonghan offers. “Sofie said they’re doing mud baths.”

The wedding isn’t until this afternoon leaving the entire morning free. So the boys play golf while the girls go soak in mud.

“That sounds…horrible.”

“I know,” Jeonghan nods. “Alright gentlemen, let's head out.”

Seungcheol eats shit the entire morning. He usually scores around seventy five but he’s destined to break well over a hundred today and even Jeonghan pretends he doesn’t notice. 

“Do you ever think about why nothing happened between you and Y/N?” Jeonghan asks right as Seungcheol prepares to swing.

Kicking a man when he’s down is more of a guideline for his best friend rather than something to avoid.

Seungcheol’s shot flies wide, straight into a fairway bunker a good thirty yards behind everyone else’s ball. He watches for another solid minute, deflating.  “No.” 

“If you’re gonna lie, at least make it believable.” Jeonghan chides, setting up his own tee.

“I’m not lying.”

“Humor me. It’s my wedding day and I’m trying not to freak out.” 

“You’re freaked out?” 

“Dude, of course I’m freaked out. We’ve never gone more than a few hours without talking since we started dating and I haven’t seen her since last night. So just let me focus on something else,” Jeonghan sighs.

Seungcheol thinks about his next words wisely. Jeonghan can smell bullshit a thousand miles away, and playing mind games right now feels a little unfair. “I don’t wonder why nothing happened anymore.” 

“Lying again but whatever.”  Jeonghan grabs for his drive and lines up the shot.

“Why are you asking?” 

“I don’t know. Everyone thought you two would end up together eventually and then you didn’t. I’ve got a lot of people asking and I wanted an official response because you’re not exactly subtle and she isn’t stupid.”

Jeonghan’s shot lands square on the first cut, fifty yards ahead of Seungcheol’s ball. 

“Yeah, well.” Seungcheol huffs. “If she noticed, she never said anything.”

“Okay but did you ever say anything?” 

Jeonghan hands his club over to his catty before they start towards their respective zones. Seungcheol and his friend trailing behind.

Seungcheol argues. “You just said I wasn’t subtle?”

“You aren’t,” Jeonghan snorts. “But Y/N is about as impressionable as rock.”

“Did you think something was gonna happen?”

Seungcheol reaches his ball first. All the other guys are further ahead but Jeonghan sticks by.

“No.” Jeonghan says. “But I know you kissed her.”

Seungcheol turns to the other man, mouth gaped in shock. “How the fuck did you know that? Did she tell you?”

“I KNEW IT.” Jeonghan points at him like a little kid tattling on his friend. “ I fucking knew it! Sofie owes me fifty bucks.”

“What?”

“Y/N is a better liar than you, I’ll give her that but I knew something was off that first week I came to visit. I knew you didn’t have the balls to sleep with her so I must have been something else.”

Jeonghan asked you if you remember the kiss. Jeonghan and Sofie know you kissed. You remember the kiss. But you never said anything. If that doesn’t solidify Seungcheol firmly in the friendzone then nothing else would.

“You made a bet with your fiancée on whether your best friends kissed or not?” Seungcheol shakes his head in disbelief.

“You’ll understand when you have a successful relationship.” Jeonghan touts.

The catty hands over Seungcheol’s driver. He looks about Seungcheol’s age, maybe younger, and by the look on his face he’s trying very hard to pretend he isn’t listening to the unfolding drama. 

Another person to witness how hopeless he is. Great.

“It doesn’t matter. It was a mistake.”

“You never know,”  Jeonghan shrugs, following his catty further up the fairway and ending the conversation.

Back at the house, you’re nowhere to be seen while Seungcheol showers and changes. It’s for the best. No sleep, a horrible golf game, and now all the feelings that returned over the weekend have left him with nothing but a foul mood. 

Every step is dragged out so he doesn’t have to pretend you two are fine. He can’t afford another blow out right now because today is meant to be for Jeonghan and Sofie. Even if Jeonghan thought he should talk about it, Seungcheol couldn’t do it anymore. He wouldn’t do it anymore. But the time it takes leaves his head spinning out of control.

You’re pretending nothing is wrong. Cuddling up to him, calling him your husband. You nearly kissed him. You would’ve if he didn’t stop you. You always said cheating was worse than heartbreak but now here you are, capitalizing on his feelings for whatever satisfaction you selfishly crave; using Seungcheol to hurt your fiancé in secret. Who you seem dedicated to pretending doesn’t exist. 

It’s a nasty cycle. Feeling used, disbelief of who you’ve turned into in months away, that piece of him that always craved something more with you flowering only to wilt because it’s not real. 

You don’t want Seungcheol.

You never have.

The wedding party gathers outside the church. Sofie is tucked away in a private room until her grand entrance. She wanted everyone to be surprised, leaving her bridesmaids to mingle with the groomsmen until it was time to for the ceremony to start.

The lavender bridesmaid dress is nothing special. A tie at the top keeps the entire thing up, the front void of any details. The open back adds a flash of skin but other than that there isn’t much to it. But you’re wearing it and Seungcheol can feel his heart jerk as the fabric flows around your curves. The universe is taunting him with what he’ll never have.

He doesn’t stare despite the fact that every time he blinks his gaze automatically searches for you. It’s hard to ignore the only person he sees in a crowded room. Even if he’s pissed at you.

You excuse yourself from Seokmin, creeping over to where Seungcheol stands with a grin. “You clean up nice.”

“Thanks,” he nods.

“Is something wrong?’ 

A shot of annoyance flashes through him. Now is not the place. Last time he felt like this, you two got in a screaming match on a snowy sidewalk. “No.”

You shake your head, hand coming to rest on his arm in an act of comfort. “Are you sure? Because you’ve been acting weird.”

Betrayed by his own body. Half of him wants to get on the next flight home and block your number so he can forget all of this. It wouldn’t work. The times tried anything remotely of the sort only leave him in circling thoughts day and night.

The other half of him wants to wrap you in his arms and take whatever you're willing to give him. The half that could act like Johnny didn’t exist, at least not in this little bubble where nothing else exists but you and him. Because he's selfish and he’s been in love with you for years and he would never expect something in return for his feelings but he can’t take it any more.

But he can’t pretend anymore.

Pretending he’s never been jealous of your boyfriends, and that the night in college when you kissed meant nothing. That it didn’t flood his brain everytime he looked at you; that it didn’t leave more questions than answers. He’s been pretending everything has been fine, that seeing you asleep on his chest doesn’t make his heart hurt, and that he was stronger than the temptation to kiss you last night.

He remembers that night with clarity despite how drunk he was. Thought it meant you felt the same way he had for years.

“Cheers to finally being adults!” you scream, tequila shot raised over head.

Seungcheol laughs. Nothing is that funny but he’s nineteen and drunk in a dingy college bar with his best friend . “Adults!”

Someone passes by and knocks you forward, straight into Seungcheol's chest where you keep laughing as you look up at him.

You’re close. Closer than ever before. He could count all your eyelashes if there weren’t four of you floating in his vision. But Seungcheol doesn’t need to see clearly. Not when you’re already kissing him.

He’s kissing you.

It’s sloppy and drunk but his brain doesn’t think in big picture. It’s all feeling. Your hand in his shirt, a sweet sigh against his chin when you break away for a second just to come right back. Your mouth tastes like alcohol and lime and he’s never had anything better sweep across his tongue.

Thank god for the booth because you’re in his lap now, grinding against the seam of his jeans until he’s hard and when you finally realize you say his name.

And then Seungcheol pulls away, turns his head, and vomits before blacking out.

He hates that he thinks about it. He thinks about it all the time. What if? But there’s no more what ifs. There's only right now. Just you and him and the widening space in between that's become unnavigable. 

“I’m acting weird? I’m not the one rubbing herself all over me, calling me her husband to strangers, and trying to kiss me.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I can’t believe you would do something like this. Why would you put me in this position? Do you think it’s funny?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m happy for you, really. I just think it’s best if we don’t talk for a while. I think you need to sort things out with your fiance.”

Now that seems to get your attention. “Seungcheol, what—”

The music swells from the organ inside, cueing the ceremony and effectively silencing your questions. 

Good. It’s better that way. Seungcheol is weak for you in all the ways that matter and he knows if he had to stand there for another minute then your hurt expression is all it would take for him to fold and pretend he never said anything.

You join the other bridesmaids and Seungcheol ducks inside the church after the wedding planner opens the doors. One by one the other groomsmen walk in: Joshua, Seungkwan, Soonyoung, and finally Seokmin. Each line up further down Jeonghan’s side. Then the bridesmaids follow. 

Sofie’s cousin, who Seungcheol met once, glides down the aisle followed by another taller cousin who looks nearly identical. Then it’s Sofie’s roommate from college, Mona who Josh had been trying to get with all weekend.

You walk up the aisle, a smile plastered on your face but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You won’t look in his direction. 

Everything is slipping through his fingers and you both have to pretend they aren’t.

Everyone turns to watch Maria, and then Sofie. But the only person Seungcheol is paying attention to is you. 

The ceremony flies by. Sofie cries, Jeonghan cries. 

Sofie cries even harder when Jeonghan recites his vows in Italian. It’s odd, watching his two friends who usually are the couple laughing in the corner, be so vulnerable. Declaring their love for each other in front of a few hundred people.

“Sofie, sin dal primo momento in cui ti ho incontrata, sapevo che ti avrei voluta nella mia vita per sempre. Che tu mi amassi o odiassi, per me andava bene, perché significava che avresti pensato a me tanto quanto io pensavo a te. Mi hai dato il privilegio di chiamarti mia, e non posso aspettare di farlo per il resto delle nostre vite.”

Six months of using Seungcheol as practice, along with Sofie’s cousin, and he sounds decent. Jeonghan wouldn’t win any awards for his language skills but everyone’s faces melt around the room. Even the people that don’t know a word of what he’s say can feel the earnest dedication he has to Sofie. Even Seungcheol gets misty eyed.

“Io, Jeonghan, prendo te, Sofie, come mia sposa e prometto di esserti fedele sempre, nella gioia e nel dolore, nella salute e nella malattia, e di amarti e onorarti tutti i giorni della mia vita.”

“I, Sofie, take you, Jeonghan, as my husband and promise to be faithful to you always, in joy and in pain, in health and in sickness, and to love you and every day honor you, for the rest of my life.”

Then they kiss and Sofie screams something along the lines of “we’re married, bitches!” much to the priest demise before exiting the church. 

From there it’s chaos. 

The entire wedding party is corralled for endless pictures while everyone else heads back to the villa for the reception. You don’t look at him and Seungcheol refuses to acknowledge you until your parents are forcing you two together for awkward pictures like its high school prom.

By the time it’s over and he gets to the reception, the party is in full swing and the sun is setting.

Dinner is a blur. He makes his toast, short and sweet like Jeonghan told him to. The night progresses and people flood the cleared area serving as a makeshift dance floor in the center of the courtyard.

Seungcheol sips his wine. Three glasses in an hour because he isn’t sure what to do with his hands when his obligatory dance with Maria is over and he’s avoided being dragged on the floor by one of Sofie’s more zealous aunts because she herself demands a dance.

“How does it feel to be Mrs. Yoon?”

Sofie turns to watch Jeonghan twirls her great grandmother. Or more like Nonna Cosima leads him. She’s surprisingly spry for someone pushing triple digits. “I think he’s gonna be a great first husband.”

His gaze settles on you, Seokmin leading you across the floor in a ridiculous fashion. The younger man is trying hard to make you laugh and it seems to be working.

“She thinks you’re mad at her,” Sofie says.

“Maybe I am.”

“Care to share with the class?” She prods but Seungcheol doesn’t break, using the ending of the song to find a table at the edge of the makeshift dance floor. “Fine, but I feel like if you’re gonna pout at my wedding I should at least know why. Especially because I owe Han fifty bucks because you can’t lie to save your life.”

Seungcheol is mad. But mostly at himself. For tricking himself into thinking maybe, just maybe, there could be something more. That in all the improbable universes you returned his feelings, this would be one. 

And he did all that knowing you’re dedicated to someone else who is so entirely wrong for you.

“What did she tell you?” Seungcheol asks. 

“That’s not how this works. No pay, no play.”

He studies Sofie for a minute. She’s good at keeping her cards close but she knows about you and Johnny. It wouldn’t be a far leep to assume she knows about everything else.

“God, you sound like Jeonghan.”

“Have you and Y/N talked? Like, really talked, since you got here?” There's a weight at the end of that sentence but Sofie doesn’t elaborate. 

“Care to be more specific?” he asks, grabbing for another glass.

“I’ll take that as a no then.” Sofie takes the seat beside him.

His chest tightens. This is it. 

“About her and Johnny?”

“So she did say something…” Sofie fishes.

“No she didn’t. But I heard you guys in the kitchen the night I got in.”

“You did?” she gasps. “And you didn’t say anything to her about it?”

His jaw ticks in annoyance. “What’s there to say? ‘Congrats on your engagement, you’re too good for him’? I don’t think that's what she’d wa—”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Sofie throws her hands up, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. All around the party continues. “You think Y/N is engaged? To who?”

“Johnny! Who else?”

Her drink sloshes over the sides of her wine glass, narrowly missing the white gown and falling to the cobblestone. “Oh my god, you’re an idiot!”

“Excuse me?”

“She’s not engaged, you dipshit,” she goes on. “Oh my god, you’re both so stupid. I told Han, I told him we should’ve said something.”

“What?” he says quietly.

Sofie continues as if Seungcheol hasn’t spoken at all, “I can’t believe she hasn’t told you.”

“Told me what?”

“She broke up with him!”

She broke up with him. She (you) broke up with him (Johnny). You and Johnny are done. It’s like he’s hearing the news from underwater.

“She broke up with him.” He repeats dumbly.

Someone cheers and then applause follows but Seungcheol is lost in his mind. You and Johnny aren’t engaged. You two aren’t even dating. Haven’t been. 

“When?”

Sofie’s face softens. She knows. The first time he introduced you to Sofie she assumed you two were dating. She didn’t like Johnny for a lot of the same reasons Seungcheol did, but also because she thought you two were meant to be together. “A week after she moved.”

That phone call the week after you moved. It must’ve been something to do with you and Johnny. But why didn’t you answer messages the next morning? Why would you break up with Johnny and then refuse to tell him? Why would you let Seungcheol think he was being used as the other man?

“So this entire week…”

“She was supposed to tell you. I told her to tell you months ago but does she listen to me? Nope.”

“Do you know why?”

“Now that is something she needs to tell you.” Seungcheol looks where you're dancing with Seokmin. Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes but you laugh when the man dips you almost to the floor and struggles to lift you back up. “But first you need to apologize.”

“Is it that bad?”

“When I imagined someone crying at my wedding it wasn’t because of you.”

Seungcheol winces, “She cried?”

“Yep. You owe me a nice ass wedding gift for that one.”

“Sofie, I’m sorry I—” he tries to apologize. 

“Cheol, don’t worry about it.” She pats his arm. “It was actually a nice distraction from the insanity this week.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“It really is.” Sofie rises from the table, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing tray. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my husband owes me a dance. And Cheol?”

“Yeah?”

“You should tell her how you feel.”

Seungcheol takes his chance at Sofie’s departure. With the change in music Seokmin bows out and you're left on the dance floor alone. Cast in the soft glow of garden lights and candles, you’re tragically beautiful. Soft around the edges in a dreamy haze. Seungcheol feels like he’s intruding by approaching you but he needs to apologize before you both return to your separate corners of the country tomorrow night.

“Hey,” he greets.

You look at him apprehensively, eyes dark, before speaking. “Hi.”

You’re just as petty as Seungcheol so he knows if you’re speaking to him then there's some kind of hope he hasn’t completely ruined your friendship. But it could also mean you’re about to rip him a new one in front of everyone for not the first time in his life.

Hopefully, it’s the former.

“Mind a walk?”

“We’re at a wedding.”

Jeonghan and Sofie curl tightly around each other at the center of the courtyard. It’s clear from the way both their faces soften, lax grins reaching their ears, that the world has stopped spinning just for them.

“I’m pretty sure we could light them on fire right now and they wouldn’t notice. Besides, Sofie gave me her blessing,” he jokes but you don’t laugh.

“Fine,” you say before stalking towards one of the paths leading to more secluded parts of the house.

People drape across different parts of the villa as you two walk in silence to find some privacy. The gardens are full of chatting elders, kids running around in the dark or falling asleep in some adults' holds. After ten minutes with no luck at seclusion, Seungcheol has half a mind to go back to your room and talk it out but he doesn’t. The idea itself freezes his blood.

It’s not until you're deeper into the maze of shrubs and bushes that the voices and music fade. The silence is so tense he might shatter under the pressure.

You whip around to face him, still five paces ahead. 

“What did you want to talk about?” you deadpan.

Seungcheol thought through every thing he wanted to say, all the questions and whys and what ifs he’d collected during this trip but they abandoned him now that they have the chance to be answered. Instead, all that comes out of him is a shaky,  “I’m sorry.”

You wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t. He’s apologizing for more than he could put in words and he’d list them off until the sun comes up if he starts now.

“Okay. Is that all?” you ask.

“Sofie told me about Johnny.”

You blanche. “She did?”

“Yeah, she did.”

“What did she tell you?” your arms draw tightly around your center. Like you’re holding your heart from spilling out your chest. 

Seungcheol regurgitates the limited facts Sofie shared, which is that Johnny hasn’t been in the picture for months and you never deemed him worthy of that information.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I tried. But you didn’t answer your phone and I felt so stupid afterwards and… I just couldn’t do it.”

It hits a nerve deep in his heart. How could it have been easier to spend months pretending he didn’t exist then tell him your relationship ended? More anger slips through. The nasty kind that makes him say things he doesn’t mean but Seungcheol tries to reign it in.

“So you just ignored me and thought that’d solve all our problems?” 

“No!’

“Then why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I moved cities for a guy I didn’t even like that much! I changed my entire life for him just to prove a point. Because you were right about him and I was wrong and only took a fucking week to realize that after I screwed everything up. I should have listened to you but—”

“So you lied to me because you didn't want me to say ‘I told you so’?” Seungcheol fumes. “Are you serious?”

“I didn’t lie to you!” you object.

“Yes you did! You stopped talking to me for months! Months. I can’t even remember we went a week without talking but you dropped off the face of the planet,” he rants. “I thought you were happy in New York with Johnny but apparently I’m the last to know anything. If you had just told me I wouldn’t have said anything. I would have gone up there and moved you back home myself.”

“I don’t want you to fix my mistakes!”

“Then what do you want? Because from where I’m standing I have no idea. All week you’ve been acting weird and because you didn’t tell me I thought you were using me to cheat on your boyfriend. How do you think that makes me feel?”

“I didn’t mean to. Things just kept happening and I got swept up before I could tell you.”

Seungcheol was nothing more than a meaningless distraction, a rebound.

“So it didn’t mean anything to you?” he asks.

“No!” you cry. “I was just distracted.”

“Distracted? Are you serious?”

“You know what? Forget it. You don’t want to listen to me, you just want to be mad and yell.”

You’re right. Seungcheol does want to be mad and yell and pull his own hair out because what you’re saying isn’t helping untangle the knotted mess of his brain. It’s making it worse. Your confessions are watering that seed of hope in his chest despite the fact he knows nothing will ever happen. Even with Johnny out of the picture.

“Why did you break up with Johnny?”

“I—” Your eyes close. Pulled tight like you’re finding the courage to tell Seungcheol some dark secret. “He…” you swallow. “I broke up with him because…”

Seungcheol tenses, prepared for the absolute worst. You moved your entire life for the guy and broke up with him a handful of days later. There had to be a reason. “Because why? Did he do something?”

“No!” you correct. “I wish he did, I probably wouldn’t have felt like such a bitch but he didn’t do anything at all. I just realized we didn’t work.”

“You didn’t ‘work’?”

I told you so, indeed.

“Yeah. It’s kinda difficult to be with someone when you're in love with someone else,” you reply.

Suddenly, Seungcheol wishes he never brought it up. Another guy. One that isn’t him. Again. He’s the other man. Those gut feelings, the nagging voice at the back of his head that reminded him time and time again you couldn’t feel the same has its own ‘I told you so’ moment.

But that’s not what makes him feel horrible. He’d suffer from overthinking as long as needed just so you wouldn’t look so ashamed. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Seugncheol waits for you to elaborate. More silence except for the crunch of your shoes across the stone walkway. A bench comes into view and you slip into one of the spots before speaking again.

“I…I always wondered why those dates never worked out. Like, I would like someone but then they didn’t want the same things or they’d want the same things but I didn’t want them. And I guess Johnny was my last ditch effort because maybe if I knew from the beginning things weren’t gonna work out then I’d never be disappointed.”

Seungcheol isn’t sure what to say so he stays quiet.

“And I thought I could just live with it. Knowing I didn’t have what Jeonghan and Sofie have. Like who actually gets that in their life? But…”

“But?”

“But then I realized that there was only one guy my whole life that’s actually been everything I wanted and I was comparing everyone to him.”

“Who?”

“You.”

Him. You’ve compared every guy you’ve dated to him. He’s the person you want, the man you’ve measured everyone up to and found them wanting.

You’re in love with Seungcheol. You broke up with your boyfriend for Seungcheol.

You love him back.

“It’s fine, if you don’t feel that way about me. I’m okay with it. I wasn’t planning to tell you because I expected anything. I just… part of the reason I didn’t say anything is I know you don’t think about me like that but this week I thought— I don’t know what I thought. But I didn’t want to lie to you anymore.”

“You…what?”

“Let’s just agree to pretend this never happened, okay? We should get back to the party.” You move to rush past him but Seungcheol hooks an arm around your torso, light enough you could break through if you really wanted to but you stop all the same.

There is no way in hell you drop that bomb on him and leave him to deal with the aftermath alone.

His voice is unrecognizable to his own ears. “You broke up with Johnny because of me?”

“Yeah,” you swallow. You refuse to look at him, focusing on the neatly clipped grass your heels sink into.

“Because you’re in love with me.” 

You flounder. It isn’t a question. It’s a fact.

“How long?” Seungcheol presses.

“What?”

“How long have you been in love with me?”

“It's always been you.”

Seungcheol’s heart detonates into a million pieces.

“You?” His pulse is sprinting. You’re in love with him. Have been. Maybe as long as he’s been in love with. Impossible for it to be longer because there's no moment in time when Seungcheol didn’t carry his feelings for you like an old friend. “You didn’t say anything.”

Your eyes are wet again, more tears he wants to brush away but he can’t do anything but stare. “I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.”

“You wouldn’t have,” he whispers back.

“What's supposed to mean?”

Your nose brushes along his, eyes soft as you glance at his mouth. 

Seungcheol won’t let himself kiss you yet. He can’t. The first time he feels your lips on his in years has to be in private because he shakes at the idea of it, a part of him chips away from just imagining even the most chaste brush. But mostly because he’s terrified that once he starts, he knows he won’t be able to stop.

“Do you remember that night in college?” he asks. You’re stunned speechless by the abrupt shift in topic but the words fall out of his mouth before he can think of a better way to say what needs to be said. He continues, “when we did a million shots and you kissed me?”

You snap back, slapping a hand on his chest and nearly teetering to the ground. “You bitch! You kissed me!”

“So you do remember!”

“Of course I remember,” you declare. “I thought you didn’t remember.”

You remember. You remember how his mouth tasted, how you ground into his lap, the feeling of his hands on your ass. All of it sticks with you like it stuck to him.

“Trust me, I remember.”

“Well, why didn’t you say anything?” you huff.

“I was going to but you told me you started dating whatever-his-name before I could.”

“Because I thought you didn’t like me back!”

“I’ve liked you since the first day I met you.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“You should’ve said something.” The admonishment means nothing. Not with the way you smile at him. It makes his heart soar, hope bursting at the seams. 

“I didn’t even know you realized I was a dude until college, why would I say something?”

“Trust me, I knew you were a guy way before college.”

“And we’re back to the original question: why didn’t you say anything?”

It's ridiculous. Utterly comical and unimportant of who said what when because they’re being said now and Seungcheol never has to pretend he isn’t hopelessly in love with you ever again.

You cozy up into his chest, fingers tracing the collar of his shirt. “Wow, barely five minutes we’re already fighting.”

“We’re not fighting.” His lips burn the word into your hairline, arms wrapping around your frame so his fingers can finally, finally, trace the bared skin of your back.

“Oh really?” You laugh. “Then what are we doing, oh wise one?”

“We’re having a spirited conversation over the fact you kissed me and never said anything.”

“And now we’re fighting over whether or not we’re fighting.”

“We’re not fighting.”

“You’re exhausting.” Your eyes roll. He can’t see it, not with how you duck into his neck, but he knows you did it. Because Seungcheol knows you better than anyone else.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“And you kissed me.”

“Well then there's only one way to settle this.”

“Which is?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer. If Jeonghan could be lit on fire and not think of anyone but his wife, then the world could fall to dust and the only thing on Seungcheol’s mind is the way your mouth feels against his.

It’s light at first. Airy because you’re both still laughing over arguing if you’re fighting or not. But then Seungcheol loses his balance and you help by curling a hand around his shoulder but refuse to stop kissing him and the world blinks out of existence for a second.

All the cliches start making sense. Two halves of a whole, puzzle pieces slipping together, all the things poets could say in a million more eloquent ways than him.

But Seungcheol feels at home for the first time in his life.

It’s not easy maneuvering a full grown woman up and into his lap. It’s especially not easy because you’re you and you’re more stubborn than anyone he’s met in his life which means you object to every step, huff and puff at a brief second of broken contact, but the second he spins you around and drags over his lap you melt.

Your tongue glides along his, sending a tsunami of want through his bones. You whimper. Or maybe he does. Seungcheol can’t tell what's up and what's down right now. He finds the open back of your dress and relishes in the arch of your spine, the choppy breath he can feel beneath his palms.

The silk bow holding your dress up teases his hand as Seungcheol traces the notches of your spine. No one would see. No one except him and the moon and the stars who’ve all stopped to watch. He wants to. God, he wants to but he doesn’t.

You tug at his hair and your name floods his tongue like a curse. 

Draped across his lap in nothing but thin satin, you can feel all of him. How his cock hardens against the back of your thighs, shaky breathes in his lungs wrecking into your own chest. You're not wearing a bra. None of that tape or the sticky thing you’d leave hanging in the bathroom when you lived together. Seungcheol knows because he thumbs over the soft swell of your chest and you respond with a rock of hips that leaves his mouth watering.

The last time he kissed you, that fateful night freshman year of college, Seungcheol thought about it every night for months. He thought about it in the shower, in his bed. His mind would wander towards the memory during class and when he walked around campus.

Now he’ll think about this for the rest of his life.

A shrieking laugh almost sends you to the ground in haste to break away, but Seungcheol catches you in time. 

“Um…” you choke. Your lips are swollen, eyes a little dazed.

“We should go back inside.”

“Yeah.”

“Just, give me a minute.”

“Why?” Your smile grows steadily as you press more firmly into his predicament.

“I have an issue right now.”

“What kind of issue, Cheolie?” you stare at him through your lashes, finger tracing down the front of his shirt until you reach the button of his pants.

“Oh God,” he grunts as the heel of your hand rocks into him. “You’re actually evil.”

Your lips trace over his jaw, sucking and nipping at the lobe of his ear until he shudders. “Don’t you want me?” 

“I do,” he breaths. “Shit.”

His hand squeezes across your ass, your breasts, mindful of how much freedom you’re giving him. To feel you like this, to touch you the way he’s wanted to for years. 

“Then have me,” you moan. 

“Don’t say stuff like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me to fuck you right here.”

“But I do want you to fuck me.” Your hand is in his pants. “Right.” A tight squeeze on his cock. “Here.” He ruts into the next one.

His insides spark with a hot kind of electricity at the idea of you jerking him off where anyone could see. But he wants to touch you. And that he doesn’t want anyone else to even imagine. He’s shared you enough with the world. 

Seungcheol wants a piece of you that's just for him right now.

“Fuck, okay. Stop.”

“What’s wrong?”

“We’re going back inside.”

“Oh?”

Seungcheol doesn’t give into your obvious goading. It’ll just waste more time. Give you another chance to wring him out to dry and he knows if you get his pants down far enough it’s game over for the both of you. 

He rushes you through the garden, all but dragging you behind him in his haste to get you somewhere secluded. He’d settle for a broom closet at this point. Anywhere he can have you alone.

But you won’t go down without a fight.

You slow to a near stop, whining, “My feet hurt.”

Seungcheol leads you back over another stone bench, immediately kneeling and grabbing your ankle. The pebbles of the path dig into his knee but the slit of silk revealing your bare legs is a good distraction.

“Alright, Cinderella. Let’s get these off,” he jokes. The buckle is delicate and keeps slipping from between his fingers no thanks to your help.

“I can do it myself!”

You try to kick him off but Seungcheol catches your calf easily. Instead of focusing on the teasing stretch of skin, he watches the way your nose wrinkles indignantly after thwarting your attempt to catch him off guard. You’re cute. Probably because he’s in love with you and the rush from knowing you love him back has him feeling a million miles tall.

“Cheol?”

“Yeah?”

Pulling your foot into his lap, Seungcheol brushed his fingers against the knob of your ankle. The tiny buckle that refuses to come undone. Your shaking doesn’t help much.

“Cold?” he asks.

You nod furiously. Warmth hangs in the air but Seungcheol won’t assume your comfort; the silk you're wrapped in doesn’t provide much coverage against the elements. It doesn’t provide him any protection from a wild imagination fueled from years of pining. Without a thought, he shakes off his jacket and hands it to you before moving back to your shoe.

Looming over him, Seungcheol feels your breath hit his forehead. He wants to look up but you’re too close. Too tempting. 

He finally undoes one shoe, then the other. But you don’t say anything and neither does he from his spot between your legs. It’d be easy. So easy to bunch your skirt around your waist, part your legs, and make you cum on his finger. Then his mouth. Then his cock.

You’re thinking the same thing. A hiccup of breath rustling the hair on his forehead, your hands stroking the muscles of his neck give you away. 

But when he starts, he knows he won’t be able to start. He’ll want nothing less than all of you. Give all of himself to you. If you’ll have him.

But a hard stone bench isn’t the place to worship your body the way you deserve. He’d be a gentleman. Even if it killed him to wait any longer. You were worth waiting for. Seungcheol would wait a million more lifetimes if he got to feel like this again.

No shoes means he’s carrying you the rest of the way. He’s done it before and you’re not that heavy but he’s been drinking. And then there's the matter of all the blood in his body heading south, so he struggles more than usual.

“You’re sure you’ve got it?” you cling on for dear life when he nearly stumbles under the first step.

“Sorry, I haven’t been carrying a lot of full grown women around lately.”

“I thought you were looking a little small,” you goad.

“Small?” he objects.

“Yeah, small.” You squeeze over his biceps and his chest like you two aren’t sneaking around a packed mansion where anyone could stumble by. His resolve slips further out of reach at the dig of your nails. “Been skipping the gym lately?”

He feigns dropping you, laughing when you scramble for hold under threat of falling flat on your ass.

“Asshole!” you laugh.

Things fizzle back to comfortable silence. Your companions are far off laughs and the loud music from the courtyard. The garden is all but abandoned, not a single soul in sight. It makes it all too tempting to find another bench and take up what was interrupted earlier. The heat of your breath against his ear with each giggled whisper didn’t help. Neither did the warm weight of your thighs in his hold or the firm press of your chest against his back. 

It’s a mistake to look over his shoulder. Your eyes shine in the moonlight as you stare back, a smile lifting the corner of your lips.

Seungcheol focuses back on the hallway, double checking for any passersby. There’s nothing indecent about a man giving a woman a tipsy piggy back ride. 

But there is something entirely inappropriate about how hard he is while doing so.

And Seungcheol knows you know. Or if you don’t then the universe has a personal investment in his suffering. Every step is more difficult than the last because your thighs squeeze around his torso, and your hands find their way down his chest, and then there’s the giggling every time he back tracks because a drunken guest stumbles by on the way to their own room.

You’re sneaking around like two idiot teenagers and it might kill him from lack of blood to his brain.

But Seungcheol wouldn’t have it any other way.

He pauses at the last staircase to catch his breath. There’s no reason you’re still on his back other than the fact he doesn’t want to let you go and the position is the only reason he hasn’t found a dark corner to do whatever you please yet.

“Awww poor Seungcheol, tired already,” you coo. 

Your teasing tone makes his blood boil, worse how you readjust your hold with more squeeze and stretching that leaves him with nothing but horribly inappropriate thoughts of what you’ll do after he gets up the stairs.

Finally, the hallway housing your room appears and he can’t get through the door fast enough. 

You're pressed flat between the door and his body in a blink, fully at Seungcheol’s mercy as he kisses you again. 

“Wait,” you mutter.

Seungcheol sucks along your bottom lip. You pull him closer, arching into his chest. Your stomach is soft against the gentle grinds of his cock. He doesn’t want to wait anymore.

“We—hmmm,” you sigh. “Need to talk about this.” 

Seungcheol pulls away from your mouth, trailing scorching kisses down your neck that leave you shivering. “What about it? I love you, you love me. Feels like that's all there is to it.” 

The second he says it, Seungcheol knows he’s wrong. But he doesn’t want to think about the fine details. He’s never done long distance but you’re only a train ride away. 

“Cheol.” You prod a finger into his collarbone until he dips back.

“I mean it’ll suck being in different cities but it’s not forever right? We’ll figure it out.”

You dip your chin. “I’m not staying in New York.”

“Oh. That’s—” he cups your cheek, pulling your gaze to his. “I’ll go wherever you need me.”

You smile up at him and everything goes blank. In that moment, he vows to do anything you ever ask if it means you’ll keep looking at him like that.

“I’m moving back to D.C.” You kiss the words into his palm, eyes never leaving his.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” You smile. “Sofie’s friend needed a roommate and my job agreed to let me go remote so…”

“When do you move back?”

“Two months. They want to wait until the busy season is over.”

“But then you’re back. For good?”

“For good.”

It feels like you're promising a whole lot more.. 

You have Seungcheol for good too. As long as you want him, he’s yours. Probably for long after too. 

He’s so happy, it burns across his skin. It can’t be contained. This is all real. He fights the urge to pinch himself because not even in the wildest of his dreams did he think this was possible. 

"When you come back home.” Home he thinks. Home with him. Where you belong. “We're going on a date. And you're going to let me pay, and woo you, and take care of you because I love you. Okay?”

Your hands twine around his shoulders before you respond with a nod, “Okay.”

In the privacy of your room, you’re the one that tugs the knot holding your dress up. The silk slips down your chest revealing inch after inch of what he’s only dreamed off. When it pools around your waist, Seungcheol almost falls to his knees.

You shiver in the cool bedroom air. His eyes drink in the way your nipples peek under his gaze. Every inhale shakes in your lungs and he thinks this might just be enough for him to die peacefully. The silk trickles like water down your figure until you're left standing in nothing but skimpy panties.

“Fuck,” he curses.

Your hands flash to cover your chest, “What?”

“No, don’t,” Seungcheol reassures. His hands find yours, tracing along your thumb. “You’re just…”

“Just?” you ask.

“Wow.”

“I’m wow?” you laugh. 

Seungcheol takes another step into your space. And then another and another, your dress crumbling to the floor and leaving behind nothing but the thin band of your underwear for him to remove. Your knees hit the mattress and he follows you down into the cushion.

You're soft and warm like afternoon sunlight on a winter day under his wandering hands.

“You’re wow,” he responds, angling your chin so your mouth can meet his, noses grazing against one another.

You don’t have the patience to hear Seungcheol ramble about how perfect you are. Instead, you drag him into a desperate kiss, tongue teasing his. He’ll wax poetically later. Right now he wants to give you whatever you demand.

More kissing, the prickle of your teeth along his lip, and Seungcheol is pretty sure he’s never been harder in his life. It’s humbling and exhilarating all at once. Ready to crumble into nothing from some light petting.

He takes his revenge on the curve of your shoulder and it turns out to be extra sensitive. Every nip and suck along your collarbone leaves you panting, hands scratching up his back for some relief. He wonders what else is sensitive.

He laves against your nipple in maddening slowness. You torture him as well, ankles locking at the base of his spine while you grind against him and make more noises he’ll commit to memory forever.

 “God,” you whine when Seungcheol finally breaks and rocks down into the tempting heat of your core.

He needs more. 

“Do you think about this?” he grunts with another torturous press. He could come like this. You could come from this. Two adults, reduced to dry humping like horny teenagers.

“I think about you all the time,” you gasp.

“What do you think about?”

“You.”

Seungcheol snickers, “More specific.”

“Touching me, kissing me. Anywhere. Everywhere.”

A swell of neanderthal pride blooms in his heart. The image of you, touching yourself with his name on your lips breaks another piece of his self control that wants to savor this.

“Here?” he kisses the swell of your breast, waiting for a nod to move on. 

“Here?” A suck on your nipple again until the bed sheets threaten to rip from your hold.

“Here?” A bite at your hip bone.

His fingers part your core, wet at first contact even over your panties. “What about here?”

“Everywhere. I’ve thought about you touching me everywhere.” You sound like you might start crying if he doesn’t fulfill that fantasy soon. 

But he’s dying to know every little thought you’ve ever had about him. If you think about him a fraction as much as he thinks about you. Not just like this, but when he sees a building he’d never think twice about and know you’d have something to say about the construction of the window arches, or when he walks through the park and sees two dogs meeting for the first time and can hear your voice whisper ‘best friends!’ like you’re right beside him. You’re in everything. Every part of who he is.

Your panties come off and he licks between your legs slowly, savoring every part he can while you twitch and curl beneath him. 

“Cheol,” you whine.

There's no need to elaborate. He feels it too.

Your back bows under his touch, and Seungcheol watches you touch yourself with rapt attention. You grab your breasts and squeeze, nipples visible between fingers. 

He sucks your clit, tongue lashing at the sensitive nub. A million times Seungcheol thought about doing this and never did his brain imagine the sounds you’d make, the way you taste, the rough tub at his hair. You're hot and wet under his mouth and all Seungcheol wants is more, more, more.

“Tell me how it feels.”

“So good—fuck—it’s so good,” you gasps as he fucks your opening with his tongue, collection your flavor.

His finger wedges inside your tight walls. You angle your hips, sinking them deeper. Seungcheol pauses for only a moment before giving you a second one. The sting across his scalp from your frantic tugging leaves him straining against the zipper of his slacks.

He cups your ass, dragging you closer to the edge of the bed where he kneels. Your legs spread wider to grant him the space to  savor the pink of your folds under his tongue without obstruction.

Your pitch rises, moaning through a third finger joining the mix and a rough lap of his tongue that has you kicking the sheets.. He can feel it; your end just over the hill. A few vulgar flicks of his tongue and its release in long waves that make you keen his name horsley. 

You melt into a boneless heap. Occasional twitches of muscles flooding with pleasure the only sign of life.

Seungcheol mouths up your stomach, sucking a nipple between his teeth for a second before moving on to your mouth. If all you want to do tonight is kiss and let Seungcheol worship your pussy, then he’ll oblige. But the way pull at his clothes hints at what you want. He draws you back into his lap, your body hot against his, mouth coaxing yours open. 

“Good?”

You giggle against his mouth. “I can’t feel my toes.”

He can’t stop touching you. Probably won’t ever stop now that he knows what it means to call you his. To know your body. You’re no better. Your hands rake through his hair, goosebumps erupting as you tug him exactly where you want.

The soft lines of your throat, the intoxicating taste of sweat and perfume flooding his tongue. It’s better than anything his sorry excuse for an imagination could come up with.

You tug at his shirt, up and up until it’s forgotten on the floor. Your bare chest against his lights an inferno of want. Seungcheol pushes apart your limp thighs, making space for himself to grind against your sensitive core through his own trousers. 

Seungcheol remembers a crucial fact as you slip a hand in his pants and tease his leaking cock.

“Wait,” he mutters into your jaw.

You don’t stop, slowly jerking him off, teeth cutting into the vein on his neck. “What?’

Seungcheol savors your touch before responding, thrusting through your first with blind want. “I don’t have condoms.”

“Oh.”

“I can go and try to find some but I—” he rambles. 

“Cheol.”

“—everyone is probably still at the party so—”

You shut him up with a hand over his mouth, “I’m on birth control and I’m clean.”

“Oh.”

Oh. Seungcheol’s brain swims with lewd imagination; you stuffed with his cum, pussy stretched and worn from his cock. Feeling you raw, again and again until your helpless sweaty messes. 

“Unless you want to use them then that's fine!” you hastily supply.

He cups your face, smiling as you ramble about how okay you are with using condoms. Your face is warm, eyes avoidant while you enthusiastically declare you want to do whatever makes him comfortable. Which is an entirely new problem because if your goal is to make him comfortable, then neither of you will be leaving this bed for the foreseeable future and at some point people will start looking for you.

Seungcheol rolls over. You take advantage of the opportunity for free command of his lap, forcing his pants down until he’s as bare as you. He preens under your wide eye stare, ego flaring under your wide eye stare. Leaning back on his palms, he grows cocky from your silence.

“Like what you see?” Seungcheol goads.

Your gaze cuts to his, eyebrows arched in your own challenge. A flare of fear zaps up his spine. 

He loves it.

Seungcheol is accustomed to taking the lead in bed. Some girls want him to be domineering, others prefer to sit back while he naturally takes the reins. 

But you’ve butt heads with him in every aspect of life, hopefully this would be no different. He’s hoping you might even try telling him exactly how you want him.

“You’re so hard for me,” you whisper. Your hand reaches out, thumbing at the leaking head of his cock with seductive confidence. 

Seungcheol nods in agreement at a loss of words under your touch.

Your head cocks to the side curiously, empty hand slipping between your thighs, making space for the head of his cock to nudge against your clit. “Do you wanna fuck me?” 

He nods again.

“Good,” you smile. You hide in his neck, nosing along the tense muscles straining to break out from his skin. “I thought about you fucking me like this. When we were in high school. I thought—I wanted you to be the first.”

“Really?” he asked dazedly. 

Your first. Not Stoner Ricky from Calculus. But him. You wanted Seungcheol to have you first, possible be the only one for each other. It’s a lie if he didn’t think of you in the back of his mom’s car while Tiffany Something took his virginity. Your lips, your voice instead of her nasally pornographic sounds, when he came it was only because he closed his eyes and thought of you. 

He tells you that and earns a deep bite on his shoulder. 

You continue, “I’d watch porn or read those smut books, and I always pictured it was you.”

“God.”

You sink on his cock, pussy stretched on his length, stars flaring across your vision. There's not enough air in the room to breathe through the tight squeeze wrecking your guts. You’re in the position of control but Seungcheol can already see submission gaining control. You won’t admit you can handle his cock but pride warms his veins at how much energy it takes for your stunted rhythm. 

“Fuck,” you curse.

 “Yeah? Feels good having your pussy stuff with my cock?” Your nails bite into his chest in response. Pink lines flare in their wake, one he hopes are still there tomorrow. 

Seungcheol drags you into a kiss, a dirty culmination of teeth and tongue and your satisfied sighs and his needy grunts. You suck at his lips, focused on that rather than riding him. 

“Taping out already?” 

You ignore the dig. It takes the barest twinge of his arm and you’re rolling on your back, legs spread in invitation. He sinks into the space reserved just for him, sliding deeper than before. Now he’s the one that needs a moment. Squeezed to death between your walls is the sweet torture he’s ever experienced, the wet sloppy drag of your cunt, bare for him and him alone. 

It’s an act of bravery to pull out for the sake of thrusting back in. If he was confident enough you could get off without his hips sinking deeper then he’d never do it, content to keep his cock wedge inside you and play with your clit and tits until you cry from the pleasure. But he really wants to fuck you. 

“God, feels so good.” You break. He keeps his pace steady, building you up until you muster a way to squeeze him tighter and his skins on fire. 

He hoists your leg up, a deeper stretch that leaves him muttering about how good you feel. The wet slap of your cunt grows louder, sloppy clashes of his pelvis against yours.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, stomach caving. The urge to cum is nipping at his heels but Seungcheol is better than that. Better than a quick fuck, at least for this first time. He wants to hear more of your sounds, fold you in every position he can imagine.

“More,” you grunt. “Fuck me harder, baby.”

He gives you what you ask for; plowing you into the mattress until the headboard slaps against the wall. “You like that?”

“Love it—shit. I love it.” You prop yourself up, shoving a hand between your bodies to swipe messy strokes across your clit. Seungcheol collects more sounds from the back of your throat, rough growls and stuttered squeaks. His cock is heavy in your guts, soaked with your arousal and his cum.

Your mouth finds his. Panting breath and loose tangles of lips. It’s a race against time with his vision bleached white. Your stomach caves with effort to meet each stroke with one of your own. 

“I love you,” he groans. 

You clench at his words, growing wetter if possible. Flailing against the bed, he hooks your other knee under his elbow and presses flat, pinning you down under his mercy. “I love you,” you whine back. “I-I—”

Your orgasm floods your veins, brain fuzzy and disconnected from anything beyond Seungcheol. He takes over the circles around your clit. Calloused fingers providing sick friction until you can’t take anymore.

“Wanna feel you come, Cheolie. Please,” you beg.

Something snaps and he’s rushing to pull out, jerking off over your stomach with your hand to help.

Rope after rope shines in the dim moonlight. He can’t even try to pretend the thrill of cumming inside isn’t on the forefront of his mind as the drips of his spend stare back at him. But you look like a fantasy come true cover in his cum, skinned flushed, eyes glazed and chest heaving. His own Venus come to life.

He pushes back in, spent cock sensitive to the squeeze of your cunt. Seungcheol doesn't want to be anywhere else. Now that he has you, he can't imagine a moment without you.

Sinking the weight of his hips, your legs lock him in. A combination of cum, sweat, arousal, and a few tears sticks between your sweltering bodies. Neither of you care, too enamored with cataloguing every bare inch of skin with in reach of your mouths.

‘Ugh,'' you groan. “I need a shower.” 

In the bathroom, where so many horrible dangerous thoughts have plagued Seungcheol since the start of this trip, it’s peaceful. The thrum of the shower drowns out any sound beyond your sleepy huffs and his hums of content. 

As the water heats you press him into the edge of the sink, kissing him as if there's all the time in the world to do just that. That seed of need that has been growing steadily in his gut since he kissed you in the garden comes alive again. You seem to ignore the prod at your thigh though so Seungcheol ignores it too and shepherds you into the stall.

He washes your back with soapy hands and you coif his hair into a shampoo mohawk and it’s feel right no matter how ridiculous he probably looks. You twist every time he touches your waist, shrieking in laughter because you hate being tickled.

Seungcheol is happy. It floods his veins, shoots through the tips of his fingers tracing your hip, forcing a content grin on his lips despite the fatigue of the day. He rests his forehead against your own and takes his first deep breath since New Years.

“I don’t want this to change anything."

“What?” you pull away.

“No!” Seugncehol shouts, wincing at the voluming. “Not—I didn’t mean that I just meant…I-I want you to feel like you can tell me anything. No more secrets. Okay? No matter what changes between us you're still my best friend. If I'm acting like an ass I want you to tell me. If you change your mind then-"

You watch him, features softening. “I won't."

You distract him with your own touches; it’s nice at first. Then it’s nothing short of blissful agony. Teasing nails across his stomach and sides, firm against his body in a way that leaves him weak and wanting. His heart thuds sporadically under your lips as his cock swells against your stomach.

“Y/N,” he sighs.

You kneel in front of him, smirking at how easy he is. You rub his cock with a slick grip. Your mouth comes into play slowly; kissing his hip, then his thigh, your tongue drags up the side until you suck the head between your lips and Seungcheol almost collapses.

You hold his thighs, guiding him further down your throat until there's no more space and you gag. He isn’t sure what to do with his hands but it doesn’t matter because he’s cumming. Fast.

Without missing a beat, you swallow everything he gives you. 

“Oh god—fuck.”

“Good?” you ask, still licking against the head of his cock.

Rather than answer the obvious, he pulls you to your feet with a gentle kiss to your forehead. He’ll make it up to you back in bed. For right now, you curl into his chest, tracing shapes into his collarbone as the water slowly turns cold. 

He pats you dry, ruffling your hair in the humid bathroom with all the time in the world before dragging you back to bed. You snuggle under the covers, still naked. Seungcheol joins immediately, rolling on top of you and caging his arms on either side of your head.

“Hi,” you smile from underneath him.

He can’t help but grin back. “Hi.”

You make love slowly this time. Your back to his chest, Seungcheol curled around you like a second skin, whispering his adoration in your ear until you lurch and cum with a cry. Then he does it again. And one more time because nothing is better than the taste of his name on your tongue.

This time, when Seungcheol finishes, it’s inside you. And when he tries to pull out, you protest with a sleepy threat before slipping into the land of dreams.

“Well, well, well,” Jeonghan tsks from the foot of the bed. “What do we have here?”

You’re still curled in Seungcheol’s arms, bare skin on bare skin only obscured by the blanket he had half a mind to drag over your two in the early hours of the morning. He’s still inside you for Christ Sake. 

And yet Jeonghan and Sofie stand like two cats who caught the canary; unperturbed by the state of things. More like they’re delighted.

It might go down as the shortest honeymoon in history because Seungcheol is going to murder them.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a boat in Greece somewhere?” Seungcheol croaks, pulling you closer and forcing the blanket overhead. Maybe if he ignores them long enough they’ll go away.

“We were just leaving and wanted to say goodbye since some people decided to ditch our wedding. Now I see why.”

“Jeonghan,” you croak.

Jeonghan preens smugly. “Yes, whore?” 

 “Get out or I’ll show Sofie that video of you from Halloween.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“What video from Halloween?” Sofie asks.

“Jeonghan,” you warn. You’ll do it. The video of Jeonghan sobbing in a party city wig about how much he liked Sofie before they started dating is one of the few pieces of blackmail against him. 

“Fine. But when I’m back next month I want an explanation.”

“What video from Halloween?” She asks again as Jeonghan pushes her out the door.

“I hate him,” you say.

Seungcheol hums his agreement against your shoulder, tracing the skin with his lips until you shiver. “Me too.”

“Now, are you gonna do something about that,” you rock back into his pelvis, a tight squeeze around his cock he bucks into. “Or can I get up?”

“Roll over.”

Seungcheol fucks you for the nth time in so few hours. You whine and whimper and melt into the mattress under his weight, face buried in the pillows in an effort to stay quiet. He doesn’t care that the sun is heavy in the sky and half the house must be able to hear the way he groans around the syllables of your name. 

He doesn’t care one bit.

Seungcheol has seen you in plenty of relationships, been in several of his own, but he’s never been in a relationship with you.

Turns out all the daydreaming and what-ifs couldn't come close to reality.

It’s better.

Most things are still the same. You two still bicker about everything. He finds your hair all over his apartment. His clothes magically disappear from his closet only to turn up at your place. You call him a stubborn jackass and he calls you a drama queen (both in regards to how he loads the dishwasher).

And he loves that even while dating you two refuse to change. 

But Seungcheol also loves all the new things. The firsts you get to share.

The first time you visit home as a couple, your mom spots him kissing along your knuckles as you approach the house and she starts crying. Loudly. He spots his dad hand his mom twenty bucks but not before your dad hands over another ten.

Apparently, everyone was waiting for this to happen. 

His dad claps him on the shoulder and your dad shakes his hand and suddenly he’s no longer Seungcheol, childhood best friend who lived down the street. He is Seungcheol, boyfriend. He’s known your parents since he was in elementary school and his mom texts you more frequently than her own son.

But none that matters because, at the ripe age of thirty, you two are banned from sleeping over during the visit for the first time in your lives.

He’s got a suspicion it’s because none of them know how to handle their kids finally dating. You and Seungcheol have never been normal but they’re trying. 

Even if he sneaks out like he’s a teenager and climbs into your window in the dead of night. Now that's a fantasy come to life.

Back in the city Seungcheol discovers more ways things have changed.

You spend almost every night at Seungcheol’s apartment. When your sublease ends after four months there isn’t a big production about moving in with him. You had a key since he moved into the place years ago. Your stuff ends up in his spare room, which becomes ‘your’ room but you both call it the guest room and it's a new level of domesticity he’s never had.

In the mornings, you find him in the bathroom if he forgot to drop a good morning kiss on your forehead (something he’s started doing on purpose because you totter in with your eyes still closed and pajamas wrinkled, diving straight into his chest and grumbling incoherently until he gives in). It’s enough to make his heart squeeze even after the hundredth time). 

Or how you constantly find a reason to touch him. Curled around his back while he makes dinner, shimmying under his arm when he’s reading case files on the couch. A hand through his hair while you cuddle in bed. Your shared bed, in your shared apartment. Which he is embarrassingly giddy about but you are too and that makes him feel better. You meet for lunch, at either of your offices, and he can see the instinct to drop into his lap making your fingers twitch but only because his own flex with the urge to pull you in first.

The first time you go to a baseball game together and end up on the kiss cam and he doesn’t have to pretend to not notice or awkwardly wait for the cameraman to catch the hint, because you’re kissing him until his ears grow hot and the crowd hoots wildly.

In the best way possible it’s weird. He doesn’t know how to date someone he’s been in love with for as long as he can remember. A lot of it feels like being friends. Like whatever was there before is the bones and all the new things filled in the empty space between.

There isn’t really a guide or set timeline but you’re figuring it out. 

And Jeonghan helps. In his own Jeonghan way.

“You guys have been softcore dating since highschool. Just think of it like dogs. You’ve dated for a year now, right? That's like seven years for your guys.”

Seungcheol will tell you later tonight, after you’ve said yes, how the last part of your trio gave his blessing. How Sofie helped him pick the ring (which was really Seungcheol picking the ring and her providing moral support via muzzling her husband).

But for right now, he watches you across the table, laughing at something the waiter said, the weight of the velvet box burning a hole in his pocket.

And he knows the next first you have together will be the best one yet.

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[meangirls-imagines]

Leap of Faith

Description: Part 2 to "Best Friends?" The roommates call an audible when they see how much the aftermath of the Incident™️ is affecting both girls. Help comes in the form of the Murray family.

WARNINGS: buckle up, this is a 2.4k word RIDE, realizations of love, reader being sad, sports injury (reader breaks her ankle), first kisses.

a month.

that's how long it had been since what leighton had deemed "d-day".

this was the longest she had ever gone without talking to y/n and leighton was hurting. she broke things off with alicia after the incident happened. it wasn't pretty. 

hurtful things were said, alicia flipped a coffee table and had to be escorted out of the dorm building by jackson, who kimberly luckily had at the ready when things turned south.

her roommates could see this was taking a toll on the blonde, the trio trying their best to keep leighton's spirits up. whitney was really the only one who got to see how it was affecting both girls. 

y/n, in whitney's opinion, was doing worse than leighton was. whitney rarely saw the girl outside of practice and the one class they had together. she had heard through the grapevine that y/n hadn't slept in days, maybe weeks. all she had been doing was going to class, practice and the gym.

had she tried to talk to y/n? yes. but to no avail. the girl had brushed her off every single attempt. whitney had no idea what to do. she talked to bela and kimberly and they formed a plan.

they were going to get the girls together.

leighton was pleasantly surprised when she saw her dad and nico sitting outside her dorm on a bench, seemingly waiting for her. she walked up to them and immediately was pulled into a hug by nico.

"leighton! there's my beautiful sister." the blonde was confused but hugged her brother back. once he released her, her dad pulled her into his arms. "hi guys. not that i'm not happy to see you, but what are you doing here?" the two shared a secret look with each other. "we wanted to visit and say hi. your mom is here too, but she went to talk to the kappa president about something."

the blonde looked suspicious but shrugged it off. the two men kept talking as they guided leighton to their suv that was parked near by, planning on taking her to lunch. the blonde allowed them to, finally relaxing for the first time in weeks. 

y/n shot another ball into the back of the net at full force. practice had ended over an hour ago and she was still kicking penalty shots, trying to get her frustration out. her body was exhausted and threatened to shut down at any moment, but y/n stayed fueled with energy drinks. she had jogged after the ball she had been practicing with when a voice yelled out.

"i knew you'd be here." 

y/n froze. she hadn't heard that voice in a while. she slowly turned to see a woman taking off a pair of designer sunglasses, staring into y/n's soul.

there she stood, in all her glory. mimi murray. y/n audibly gulped at the woman staring at her. she slowly walked towards the woman, kinda like a scared puppy. the woman looked at y/n and cupped her cheeks. "have you been sleeping? eating?" y/n opened her mouth to answer when mimi put her hand up to stop her. 

"no. you don't need to answer, i already know. grab your stuff. we have plans." y/n nodded and quickly grabbed her stuff, not wanting to disappoint the woman more than she probably had.

with leighton, nico, and henry, the trio were out eating at an italian restaurant half an hour away from campus. the two men noticed how quiet leighton had gotten, asking her if everything was okay. she spilled everything to them, the men looking at her sadly. "leighton, i'm gonna be honest with you, i'm surprised it took you this long to catch on."

leighton looked at her dad surprised. "what do you mean?" her dad sighed. "i had a feeling a while ago that she had feelings for you. and then the feeling was confirmed last year. remember when that alex guy came to our house to ask you to prom?" leighton frowned. "yeah?"

y/n and leighton were hanging out in the living room of the murray household. since it was the spring, soccer season had taken over most of y/n's schedule, leaving her barely any room to hang out with the blonde. so, every rare weekend that y/n had off, she spent at leighton's house. 

as the two sat on the couch cuddling and watching a movie, the doorbell rang. thinking it was one of nico's friends, the girls ignored it. until leighton's dad came in. "hey leight, there's someone here for you." confused, the two girls got up, walking to the front door where alex hightower stood at leighton's door with a huge sign and a bag of leighton's favorite treats. the sign read "it would be a treat if you went to prom with me". y/n's heart dropped to her stomach as leighton smiled at the boy, accepting his invite. 

she was hoping to gather enough courage to ask leighton if she just wanted to go together as friends. she visibly deflated as leighton spoke excitedly with alex about prom plans. henry was standing off to the side watching it all unfold. he saw how y/n reacted to the proposal and his heart broke a little bit. 

alex eventually left as leighton dragged y/n up to her room to have the girl help her plan her dress. henry saw as y/n plastered on a fake smile and allowed the girl to drag her up the stairs. 

when he woke up the next morning, y/n had already left. a few weeks later, as leighton danced with her date and scanned the room looking for y/n, her heart breaking when she didn't see her anywhere. y/n sat at home alone, looking on instagram and seeing how happy leighton looked. in that moment, y/n made sure that leighton kept that happiness with her, no matter how much it hurt her.

leighton's heart broke at the revelation. she had no idea she was the reason y/n didn't go to prom. it broke even more when she thought of y/n wanting to ask her to prom. she definitely would've had the perfect prom with y/n. nico and henry looked at leighton. nico spoke up. "leighton, y/n has been in love with you since you guys met. she has dedicated this friendship to making you happy, even though it kills her. and i think you love her too."

leighton was crying at this point. henry scooting closer to her and pulling his daughter into his side. "leighton, honey. you wanna know what i think you should do?" the blonde sniffled and nodded. "take the leap. go after her. you two are made for each other. you need each other more than you know. take the first step and get your girl." leighton sniffled and nodded. 

they paid for lunch and headed back to campus. on the drive back, ideas ran through leighton's head on how she could take the leap. a light bulb went off in her head and she smiled. 

she knew exactly what to do.

with mimi and y/n, the older woman took the girl to the best spa in town. after she had received a mysterious phone call from leighton's roommate, she listened as the girl told her what happened between y/n and her daughter and how y/n wasn't taking care of herself. her protective mom side came out and she cancelled any meetings she had for the rest of the day and headed to essex. 

now, the two sat in the steam room together, fresh out of their swedish massage sessions. mimi decided to break the ice first. "so, what happened between you and leighton?" y/n froze again. "we had a fight last month. i haven't talked to her since." mimi nodded. "did this fight have to do with the fact that you're in love with my daughter?"

y/n's head whipped around to look at the older woman nervously. "w-what?" mimi looked at the girl smirking. "i know more than you think. i also know that my daughter is also in love with you." y/n's jaw dropped. "no she doesn't. she's dating someone else." mimi shook her head. "nope. she called me the night you guys had the fight and told me that she broke up with that anna girl." 

y/n chuckled. "you mean alicia?" mimi waved the girl off. "same thing. she told me that the breakup didn't go well with alicia." y/n's heart dropped to her stomach at the thought of what might've happened. she shook her head. "so what if she broke up with her? she's not in love with me." mimi sighed. "yes she is. don't you remember what happened a couple of years ago?"

leighton murray was NOT a school spirit person. 

except when it came to y/n. 

when it came to y/n, leighton and her parents would be in the front row of the stands. leighton would be draped in whatever jersey y/n wasn't wearing, her soccer letterman, and the blonde would even go the extra mile and paint her face in school colors. she loved watching y/n play soccer. especially when y/n got extra sweaty. (leighton would daydream about other instances where y/n would be sweaty but she would never admit that.) 

this certain game, spence was playing their cross town rivals, st. john academy. the game was intense, both teams receiving multiple cards before halftime. y/n was getting pushed around and tackled more than usual and every time she hit the ground, leighton would lose a little off her life.

it all culminated in the 40th minute of the game. y/n was sprinting down the field with the ball at her feet, no defenders in front of her, ready to put spence in the lead. a defender from st. john had caught up to her and slid into a dirty tackle. y/n was blindsided as the defender's cleat came in at full speed and force to y/n's ankle.

there was a pop, a scream, and a thud as y/n fell in a heap to the ground, not before bouncing her head off the field. leighton couldn't breathe. she squeezed nico's hand extremely tight as the boy tried to calm her down. the second the ref waved her hand for the medics, leighton was out of her seat, sprinting to the field. 

coach smith met her at the sideline and ran over to y/n with her. the girl was writhing in pain on the ground, tears streaming from her face. the medics began prepping her ankle to transport her to the hospital. leighton kneeled next to her head. "y/n. hey, you're gonna be okay. i promise." the blonde took y/n's hand, squeezing it gently to let her know she was there. y/n squeezed back as her head pounded and her ankle throbbed. 

the medics eventually moved her to the ambulance where leighton demanded to ride with them, texting her parents to meet them at the hospital.

leighton never left y/n's side during her recovery. so when senior year rolled around, leighton was where she always was, front row, letterman on, watching her best friend take the field for the last time in her high school career. 

y/n was pulled out of the vivid flashback by mimi. "i knew leighton was in love with you when that happened. she was glued to your side that whole year you recovered. she had multiple guys ask her out on dates and she always shot them down. she always drove you to physical therapy. i knew then that if leighton, who refused to go near one of us when we're sick, was doing all of this for you being hurt, she loved you." 

y/n's heart raced. maybe mimi was right. but, had she ruined it with the fight they had last month? mimi noticed the hesitation on her face and stood. y/n looked at her confused. "where are you going?" mimi turned and smiled at the girl. "i'm taking you back to campus to get your girl."

y/n walked back to her dorm, more relaxed than when she left that morning. maybe she would sleep on it and make a decision from there. she pulled her keys out to unlock the door, eagerly wanting to get into bed. when she opened the door, the sight before her took her breath away.

leighton had crafted a blanket fort in the common room of y/n's dorm, fairy lights and all. y/n could see that leighton had gotten her favorite takeout, including dessert, she had a bottle of wine (that she convinced her dad to buy), and her laptop had disney plus queued up with the movie they always watched together, cinderella.

y/n looked at the blonde, who stood nervously by the couch. she was wearing one of y/n's soccer hoodies and some sweatpants. y/n had never seen her look more beautiful than she did in that moment. leighton smiled shyly at her. "hi. i know you're probably still mad at me but i've missed you and i couldn't stay away from you any longer so i did all this so hopefully you would forgive me? it's totally cool if you don't-"

y/n strode across the room and pulled leighton into her arms. she was taller than the blonde so she buried her face in leighton's hair. the blonde relaxed into y/n's arms, tucking her face in the crook of her neck. "i missed you too bubbles." leighton smiled at the nickname. they pulled away from the hug as leighton looked up at y/n. 

in a last second idea, leighton leaned up and kissed y/n, catching the girl off guard. y/n quickly relaxed into the kiss, sparks flying behind her eyes. the two kissed for a few minutes and pulled away. 

"i love you. i think i always have but i was too scared to admit it. but i've always had this weird feeling when i'm with you. i can't explain it, but i know it's a good feeling. and it's a feeling i don't want to ever lose. i wanna be yours, y/n. forever, if you'll have me."

y/n smiled wide and pulled leighton in for another kiss, this one more passionate than the last. "you have no idea how long i've waited to hear those words, bubbles." leighton smiled at the girl. "well, buttercup, get ready to hear them forever." the two kissed again, their passion slowly bleeding into the night.

the couple could never figure out what came over leighton's family to show up that day. 

they would find out years later.

in a speech, surrounded by their friends and loved ones.

with matching rings on their left hands.

[joonie-beanie]

Side-Gig | [Peter B. Parker x Reader]

Pairing: Peter B. Parker x Reader

Summary: Peter gets worried about your apparent “side-gig” and goes snooping, only to discover your side-gig is writing Spiderman smut on commission.

Contents: Fluff, Smut, Consensual Sex, Pussy Eating, Banter, Friends to Lovers???

Author’s Note: I swore off posting fics on tumblr, but since this is just a one-shot, I figured why not. I think Peter B is charming, had to write a lil smth smth for him. And by that, I mean a 7.1k wordcount fic.

You and Peter Parker are friends. Not best friends, but pretty good friends. 

You like to say you’ve looked out for each other over the years. You don’t talk all the time, but it’s kind of an unspoken promise that when one of you needs someone to lean on, the other person will be there.

Which is why, when Peter and MJ separate, you make a point of inviting Peter over for meals. 

At first, he turns you down every time you ask, and you know it’s because he’s wallowing—depressed about his situation. And that’s understandable. You can’t exactly say you know what he’s feeling, but if you put yourself in his shoes, you’re sure you’d be a little bit fucked up about everything too.

Therefore, you give him a little space—wait for things to settle and for Peter to come around. 

Except, Peter takes it all way worse than you expect—going radio silent after your third invite in two months. Then, you really start to get worried (and also a little mad that he’s ghosting you).

So, you manage to scrounge up his new address using some internet-sleuthing skills, and show up at his door. When he opens it, he’s dressed in a greasy wife-beater, worn-out gray sweats, and white socks with a hole in the toe.

“Jesus Christ, Peter.”

You spend that evening scolding Peter and letting him cry it all out—handing him tissue after tissue as he blubbers about everything on his mind. When he’s finally done, he apologizes for ignoring your last call, and thanks you for looking out for him.

With a smile, you assure him you’ll always have his back, and that now he really has to come over for dinner, because he owes you.

Laughing, Peter agrees. And luckily, he sticks to his word.

Since then, you and Peter make a point of doing dinner twice a month—typically at your place, sometimes out at a restaurant, but never at Peter’s. Not until he deep cleans his messy apartment, and you know that won’t be happening anytime soon.

Tonight, you’re at a restaurant of your choice—a local Italian joint. Peter arrives late, per normal, and you wave him over when you see him walk in the front door. He immediately spots you and hurries over, his eyes darting to the plate of bruschetta you’d ordered for the table, that now only has two pieces left.

“Aw, that’s not fair,” he says, sliding into the booth across from you. He immediately reaches for one, shoving it into his mouth. You shrug, not sorry.

“That’s what you get for always being late. And if I waited for you, I’d be hangry by now. So really, you should be thanking me.”

“Uh-huh,” Peter says with a roll of his eyes, picking up the menu to see what it is he wants. 

“So, how have you been? I know we just saw each other two weeks ago, but—how’s work?”

You sigh at Peter’s question, resting your chin against your palm.

“Fine, I guess. Work is cutting hours since things are slow right now, so I’m gonna be pretty strapped for cash the next month or two.”

Peter blinks at your response, staring at you over the edge of the menu.

“Should we be here then? We could just get the check now and go down the street to the bodega—”

“No—no, it’s fine,” you reassure him, taking a sip from your glass. From the look of it, Peter can tell the glass is filled with rum and coke—your simple, yet timeless go-to. 

“This is kind of my last hurrah, y’know? Gotta get one last plate of carbonara in before I’m eating ramen and eggs for the next few months.”

“I dunno about that,” Peter responds. “Eggs are pretty expensive now—you might have to settle for canned tuna.”

You roll your eyes at him, yet can’t help the little giggle that escapes you.

“You’re the worst.”

“I know,” he says with a smile.

The waitress wanders back over, and you and Peter put in your orders. Peter also opts to get a drink (after all, if you’re drinking, why shouldn’t he), and a few minutes later, a cosmopolitan is placed onto the table in front of him.

You watch him with a wide smile as he picks up the girly drink and takes a long sip—his pinky sticking out and everything.

“You and your love of sweet drinks,” you say, swirling around the ice in your half-empty glass. Peter hums happily.

“Listen, this is way better than beer.”

Honestly, you can’t disagree.

“So,” he continues, picking up the previous topic. “Are you gonna be okay? Money-wise?”

It’s not like he has much help to offer. Being a masked vigilante doesn’t pay very well, after all, but still.

“Yeah,” you assure him. “I have a side-gig that brings in a little cash-flow, so that’ll help cushion the blow. But I think I should still be able to afford rent and some groceries. I’ll just have to budget better, y’know?”

Peter nods. “Oh, okay. Good—,” but then his brain repeats the phrase “side-gig”, and his words cut off.

“Wait, what kind of side-gig are we talking about here?”

Despite how long the two of you have known each other, Peter has never heard anything about any kind of “side-gig”. It’s a little concerning, honestly, since the two of you don’t really keep secrets from each other.

Although it’s not like you know he’s Spiderman.

“Yeah. It’s nothing illegal, I promise,” you tell him, your attitude remaining pleasant. Peter stares at you, waiting for you to say more, but your smile only grows wider.

“Not telling,” you say, laughing quietly to yourself when Peter huffs in annoyance and grabs his drink. “You’ll just have to trust me. I’d never do anything illegal—you know me.”

“I dunno,” he responds, a playful lilt in his tone. “In college I seem to remember you stealing soft drinks from the mess hall without paying—”

“Oh c’mon,” you shoot back, and Peter grins, knowing you hate when he brings that up. “We were already paying to go to classes! Why should I pay 3 dollars for a cup of watered down coke?!”

Peter laughs as you go on a mini tangent about how college is a ripoff—ordering both you and him two more drinks when your waitress stops in to check on your table.

After a short while, your food comes out, and the two of you catch up over the hot meal. Conversation flows like normal—touching on any other life updates, and also local news topics, and things of the like. 

At your insistence, Peter splits a tiramisu with you to close out the evening, and by the time the dessert is gone, Peter thinks he may explode.

“Ugh, why did I let you talk me into that?” Peter groans, curling over and holding his stomach as you fetch enough cash from his wallet to cover half the bill.

“Well, if you were smart like me, you would have kept half of your entree to take home with you for later, and then you would have had enough room left for dessert. Which, by the way, is too good to waste—so don’t puke it up.”

Your waitress swings by to grab the bill, and you assure her it’s all set—passing her the small stack of money taken from both your and Peter’s wallets. She thanks you with a smile, and then scurries away, leaving the two of you alone.

You reach over the table, patting Peter’s shoulder.

“You’ll be fine. Your stomachs gotten bigger, after all.”

“Hey—,” Peter frowns, lifting his head. You’re already grabbing your purse and takeout box—sliding out of the booth. He quickly follows after you.

“Are you calling me fat?”

“No,” you respond, holding the door open for him as the two of you step out into the cool New York air. “You’re actually still surprisingly in-shape for someone whose diet consists of pizza and frozen meals. But, that being said, you can’t deny you’ve put on a few pounds.”

Peter places a hand on his stomach.

“Remind me again why you’re so mean to me?”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound getting lost in the crowd around you.

“You just make it too easy,” you admit, grinning up at him. Despite himself, Peter smiles back.

Being the gentleman that he is, Peter fully intends to escort you back to the doorstep of your apartment building, but—

His spidey senses tingle, and he can tell something is off. 

“Hey, um,” Peter grabs your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. Before your brain can even catch up, he’s yanking you into a quick hug, and then backpedaling towards the alleyway the two of you had just passed.

“Sorry, I just remembered there’s something I have to do. It was nice seeing you! Let’s touch base soon!”

He’s gone before you can even get a word out, disappearing around the corner. You stare after him for a moment, befuddled, and then continue on your way with a sigh. 

Same ‘ol Peter.

Exactly one hour later, Peter collapses in a pile of trash—his lungs heaving, and body aching. The fight itself hadn’t been that hard—just a few wannabe criminals with deadlier than normal weapons. 

No, the real challenge had been not barfing up his dinner while doing acrobatics across the city.

And maybe laying in a pile of trash to take a breather isn’t exactly helping his current predicament, but fuck—he doesn’t have the energy to move right now

Spreading out his limbs, Peter stares up at the smog-coated night sky, his mind wandering. He thinks about a lot of things—all the villains he’s fought in his time as Spiderman, the people who have come in and out of his life during it all, including you. You…who apparently has a “side-gig”.

…but like, what kind of side-gig?

Peter groans, knowing he won’t be able to let this go. 

You can’t just drop the knowledge that you have a secret side-gig on him and then not tell him what it is! 

And if you’re insistent on keeping it a secret, it must be something bad, right? RIGHT??

“Goddammit,” he grumbles, picking himself up. He swings off into the night, his mind reeling.

Peter lasts all of 3-days before he decides he can’t be left alone with his thoughts anymore—that he just needs to confirm what exactly your side-gig is, before his theories can get any wilder.

Because so far, his top guesses are that you’re either 1. Unknowingly acting as a middle man for some illegal trafficking operation, or 2. Providing “services” to New York sleazebags to get in their wallets.

And Peter knows it’s likely neither option—you’re too smart to get roped into something stupid. Plus, you had assured him it was nothing illegal.

But if he doesn’t figure it out, he thinks he may explode. 

So…he goes snooping. 

It’s not his brightest moment—using the spare key you had given him “in case of emergency” to sneak into your apartment one evening. (But to be fair, to him…this might just be an emergency).

He’d used his spidey senses to scope out your apartment before coming in, so he knows you're not home. Which is good, but…he doesn’t know when you’re gonna be back either, so he has to move fast.

Softly closing the front door behind him, Peter tip-toes across your apartment, deciding to start in your bedroom. He stands in the doorway for a moment, guilt bubbling up inside of him, but he decides to push forward anyway.

He’s just making sure you’re okay, he tells himself. You’re one of his closest friends, and you won’t tell him your secret—so it’s understandable he’d be worried.

Like the true Sherlock that he is, Peter starts with you dressers. He quickly checks each drawer—gently lifting up the stacks of clothes to make sure nothing is hidden beneath them. (The only time doesn’t is when he encounters the drawer with your bras and panties. He simply stares at them with flushed cheeks, rocking awkwardly on his heels, before he quietly closes the drawer. Surely nothing would be in there anyway, right?)

The small stack of papers on your nightstand ends up being recent receipts, and a manual on how to use the white noise machine you've apparently just purchased, considering it's sitting on the floor beside your nightstand, still in the box.

Getting on his hands and knees, Peter does a quick check under your bed, and freezes when he spots a covered box. He pulls it out without thinking, tugging off the fabric lined lid—

—and immediately slams it back down.

…veiny, pink, silicon—

Peter haphazardly pushes the box back under the bed, hurrying to his feet. He bustles into the kitchen with cherry-colored ears.

All-in-all, it takes Peter about half an hour to search your apartment, and unfortunately…he comes up empty handed. It seems like you have nothing to hide (except a box of sex toys under your bed, but Peter thinks that’s pretty understandable. You don't want dumb assholes like him accidentally finding it, even though Peter had—)

Sighing, Peter takes one last glance around your apartment.

“Ugh, I shouldn’t have done this,” he sighs to himself, taking a step towards the door. But—not watching where he’s going, he stubs his toe into the leg of your coffee table.

A curse leaves his lips, and your opened laptop—which had previously been dark—jolts to life. Kicking the table must have moved your wireless mouse, Peter realizes.

Having already decided to leave, Peter fully intends to continue on his way. That is…before he takes a glance at your computer screen and sees that you have it open to a Google doc titled: “Spiderman x Reader Commission #6”.

…then, he’s scrambling onto your couch and yanking your laptop towards him.

“Number six??” he hisses dramatically, his eyes scanning over the document so fast that he doesn’t actually end up reading anything. 

He has to pause and go back to try again, but the second Peter reads the sentence “Spiderman’s cock strains painfully against the tight confines of his suit, his fingers twitching against your waist as he drags you in closer”, his brain effectively blue screens.

In a panic, he clicks into a different tab that’s open—landing on your email inbox, where a thread sits open. A transaction between you and an apparent “customer”. Someone who had contacted you in regards to your open “commissions”. 

Hi there! 

I saw you’re accepting commissions, and I really enjoyed reading the other Spiderman fics you wrote! Would you be open to writing one for me? Preferably a Reader x Spiderman, and a smut/fluff genre. Based on the rate sheet, I think I can afford it, but I’d appreciate it if we could talk more and discuss the final price based on the idea I have.

Thanks!

Holy shit, Peter realizes. Your side-gig is writing Spiderman porn on commission.

He sinks back into the couch, his mind whirling. 

How long has this been going on?? Do you…are you attracted to Spiderman?? As long as Peter has known you, you’ve never really fangirled over Spiderman. If Spiderman had popped up in the news, the two of you would talk about him, but…that was it.

And now you’re writing Spiderman smut for cash? Holy hell.

Peter supposes he should be relieved that what you’re doing truly isn’t illegal. That you’re just making money in a mostly innocent way, from the safety of your home. Meaning, Peter can call it quits, and leave.

…but instead, he leans forward, clicks back onto the Google doc tab, and starts reading more.

The document is still a work-in-progress, but Peter scrolls back up to the top, wanting to see how you’ve managed to set up this scenario.

As it turns out, a villain had injected Spiderman with some sort of aphrodisiac, and the reader is a bystander, bravely offering Spiderman her services to get him out of this pickle.

While embarrassing to admit, Peter gets sucked into the story—impressed by your ability to write, and your portrayal of him—err, Spiderman. In fact, he gets so distracted by the story and the multitude of thoughts running through his head that his spidey senses don’t kick in until danger is right on his doorstep.

Or, in reality, you are on your doorstep—your key shoving into the lock on the door. 

Peter’s heart nearly rockets out of his chest, his eyes darting to the window across the room. It’s closed, and even if he used his web shooter to rocket over to it, he wouldn’t be able to safely open the window and escape outside in the two seconds it’s going to take you to finish unlocking your do—

Before he can even finish the thought, your front door shoves open, and you flick on the lights—your gaze immediately finding Peter, who is still firmly planted on your couch, looking like a deer in headlights. 

You stare at him in shock.

“Peter? What…? Why are you here?”

“I was…worried about you,” Peter responds, forcing himself to smile. And it’s not like it’s a lie.

“You said you were strapped for cash, and I…I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

You kick the door shut behind you, your purse and keys discarded on the small table beside your entryway. 

“I thought I told you to just trust me?”

You face him with a hand posed sternly on your hip. You appreciate his concern for you, but it’s a little upsetting that he hadn’t just been able to trust your word. 

“I know,” Peter responds with a sigh. He runs a hand through his graying hair, and your gaze flits to his ears, noticing how red they are. Why is he so flushed?

“And I’m sorry. I’m dumb, I should have. Trusted you, I mean. I’ll just—,” he pushes himself up, planning to excuse himself and run, but freezes half way to his feet. 

He’s half hard. Fuck.

If he gets up now, it’ll be a lot harder to hide that—especially since he’s wearing sweatpants.

Making a lil noise, Peter eases himself back down onto your couch. You cock an eyebrow.

“...you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry…back spasm.”

“Well, you don’t have to rush out. You’re welcome to stay for a while if you don’t have anywhere to be.”

You flash him a smile and turn towards the kitchen. Peter watches you as you open your fridge and bend down—fetching two bottles of water from the bottom shelf. His eyes glue to your ass the second you lean over, and Peter punches himself in the knee—forcing his gaze up towards the ceiling.

He’s going fucking insane. He’s not used to being this…feral feeling. Arousal is usually one of the emotions that evades him nowadays, but here he is—done in by fucking Spiderman fanfiction. 

Who knew he’d get turned on reading about himself fucking some nameless woman? And who knew that arousal would make him thirst after you?

(Honestly, if he thinks about it, it’s not that surprising. The two of you have been friends for years, and he feels comfortable around you. Not to mention, you’ve always been attractive, even if you do like to push his buttons—)

“Here,” you say, snapping him out of his internal panic. You plop down onto the couch next to him, handing him one of the two bottles of water. 

Peter reaches out to take it, and you notice the sweat beading on his brow. Why the hell is he—?

At that moment, you spot your laptop on the coffee table—open, and still showing the commission document you’d left open earlier on. Your first instinct is to reach over and slam your laptop shut before Peter can see—

…wait.

Peter reaches forward to take the water bottle from your grasp, but when he grips it, you don’t budge.

Confused, he looks up—only to find you intensely staring at him.

“Did you read it…?”

Peter’s face heats up, his eyes darting to the side to avoid looking at you.

Busted…

You pulse races, embarrassment blooming in your chest.

HE DID, you realize. HE READ IT. Your fucking Spiderman smut!

“Ah, shit…,” you mumble, letting go of his water bottle and crumpling in on yourself. You curl onto your side, hiding your face in the couch cushion. 

Feeling horrible that he has embarrassed you—having discovered something you’d tried to keep private—Peter hurries to try and smooth over the situation.

“Okay, yes, I did read it,” he starts by saying. “But…it was…really good! You’re a good writer, and I can see why people are commissioning you! You’ll surely make some cash with the skill you have.”

If he was smart, he’d have stopped there, but no—Peter keeps going.

“A-And hey! I’d be willing to help too. Y’know, help give you some inspiration for your stories—”

His voice dies in his throat, realizing what it is he has just offered. And obviously, you realize it too—your head immediately lifting, staring at him with curious surprise.

“Did you just…offer…to fuck? To help me with my stories?”

The insinuation is so insane that you can’t help laughing. Peter coughs, straightening his shoulders out.

“I think I’d be very good inspiration for Spiderman.”

“Really?”

There’s disbelief in your voice. Peter narrows his eyes.

“You don’t think so?”

You hum, uncapping your water bottle and taking a swig. Peter mirrors you, his throat feeling dry.

“Spiderman is…suave and heroic, and you’re…dorky. Smart, but dorky.”

Peter frowns. “I can be…suave.”

You cock an eyebrow, a playful grin breaking out on your face. Your heart is racing a million miles an hour, because never did you think you’d be sitting here with Peter, the possibility of sex between the two of you suddenly laid out on the table. You’d never deny he’s an attractive male, and maybe because it’s him, and because you’ve missed the feel of another human being, you end up saying—

“Yeah? Show me then.”

You lean back, waiting to see if Peter will make a move. 

Unfortunately, the realization that you’re open to whatever is happening right now causes Peter’s brain to stall, and he takes a second too long to act—just long enough to allow doubt to worm its way into your head.

You’re putting him on the spot. And he’s still probably dealing with some complicated feelings from the split—you shouldn’t have poked him.

Without saying anything, you decide to try and create some space. You push off of the couch, padding towards your bedroom. You’ll make an excuse about needing to fold your clothes, or something stupid—and hopefully Peter will take what you’ve said as a joke, and will move on. Yeah, that sounds like a solid plan—

Pausing in the doorway of your room, you force yourself to smile, and turn to face Peter��only to find that he’d snuck up on you—your gaze meeting his chest the second you turn around.

“Pe—,” you’re only able to get the first syllable of his name out, your chin tilting back as you look up at him. The feeling of his palm cupping your cheek is what makes your voice die out, his chestnut eyes boring into you. 

You can see the hesitation on his face. A certain lack of confidence that you’re sure stems from his past relationship issues. But beneath that, you can see desire. A craving for intimacy he hasn’t shared in a long time.

You decide to be the one to close the gap—pressing onto your toes, your palm resting flat on his pec as you lean upward—connecting your lips with his. You can feel his heart racing beneath your fingertips, and you silently convince yourself that if Peter backs out, you’ll be fine with it. 

Luckily, he doesn’t. His brain finally kicks into gear, his arm wrapping tightly around your waist as he kisses you back. 

You make a pleasantly surprised little sound, your arms lifting to wrap around his neck—effectively deepening the kiss. A wrinkle appears between Peter’s eyebrows, his grip on your waist tightening. Your chest presses flat against his torso, and he rubs his thumb against your cheek, obsessed with the plushness of your lips and the feel of you against him.

It’s been way too long since he’s been intimate like this…that’s apparent by the blood absolutely rockets into his dick.

Although, to be fair, he’d already been half-hard before this.

“You think our local hero gets hard this quick?” you mumble against his lips with a grin, giggling when Peter makes a noise of annoyance and nips at you.

“You’d be surprised,” he responds. He slots his thigh between your knees, backing you into the doorframe. His clothed cock grinds against your stomach, trapped between your bodies, and his muscles tense.

“Adrenaline can go straight to the dick sometimes…”

(Peter has lost track of how many times, after an intense fight—especially earlier in his career—he’d swung home and immediately jerked off).

“That’s fair, I suppose.”

Your fingertips coast up the nape of his neck, tangling in the messy hair at the base of his skull. You yank him downward ever so slightly, your lips connecting with the skin of his neck. He immediately shivers, the first of many embarrassing sounds ripping from his chest as you lick and suck at his flesh.

“Think Spiderman whimpers?”

You’re teasing him. As to be expected, given the dynamic of your relationship. But Peter doesn’t intend on taking it quietly.

“Maybe,” he admits, “If you make him feel good enough. But if you wanna know what I think—”

Peter surprises you by ducking down—his arms looping around your thighs as he lifts you off the floor. Your squeal, arms and legs instinctively wrapping around him since you don’t want to fall, but Peter carries you easily enough—striding into your room and depositing you onto your bed.

He doesn’t waste any time—quickly caging you down. His knee reclaims its spot between your thighs, rubbing incessantly at the dampening fabric covering your privates, and his lips find your neck—a shiver raking up your spine as his stubble scratches against your skin.  

“Peter,” you gasp when his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt. His fingertips ghost over your heated skin, brushing past your waist, and finding the clasp of your bra. You have to arch to give him room to work, and Peter sucks a hickey of approval into your neck. He debates telling you “good girl”, but the thought leaves him the second your bra pops open.

He needs your tits in his mouth.

“—I think Spiderman has a thing for boobs,” Peter says, finally finishing his earlier statement. This exclamation is followed with the immediate removal of your shirt and bra—Peter forcibly tugging them over your head and discarding them on the floor beside your bed. 

The sight of Peter groping you and lowering his mouth to your chest is enough to have your heart skipping a beat, and you can’t help the mewl that leaves you when Peter sucks one of your nipples into his mouth.

Peter groans when your fingers fist in his hair, practically keeping his mouth trapped where it is, which he hardly minds considering he intends to lick and suck at your tits until you’re panting. 

And, that’s exactly what he does.

He lavishes your chest with his mouth—relishing in the way your hips jump at each little nip of his teeth or roll of your nipple between his fingers. It’s embarrassing, honestly, how wet it gets you—your panties feeling quite wet as you continue grinding your pussy against Peter’s thigh.

You try and think of some smart response in regard to Peter’s opinion that Spiderman is a tit man, not an ass man, but words seem to be avoiding you. You can’t think of anything coherently when Peter is touching you like this. Especially when his face finally leaves your chest, his lips peppering kisses down the length of your torso.

You lift your head to look at him, propping up on one of your arms. Peter reaches your navel, but doesn’t stop, heading towards—

“Peter,” you pant, your face flushing hotly as you realize the path he’s carving. 

Peter hums, his eyes flitting up and meeting your gaze just as he hooks his thumbs beneath the band of your pants. 

“Another thing about Spiderman…,” he begins, kissing the skin of your tummy as he inches your waistband down your hips. You watch him with blown-wide eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly—excitement and nervousness mingling inside of you.

You lift your ass off the mattress to help him shuck you of your bottoms, and Peter smiles, tossing your pants on the floor beside your other clothes.

Never in your life did you imagine the sight of Peter sinking to his knees, his hands gripping your hips and dragging you closer to him—his gaze falling between your legs. Your panties are soaked, and the sight causes more blood to rush into his dick. He’s so hard that it honestly hurts—just a little bit—but Peter still doesn’t touch himself, because—

“...Spiderman loves eating pussy.”

“He’s a people-pleaser,” you quip breathlessly, your thighs quivering in Peter’s hold when he presses a kiss to your skin, right beside your panty line. He quietly chuckles.

“Maybe.”

Peter thumbs at your clit through your panties, relishing in the whine he rips from your throat. You hips buck in his hold, craving more, and when Peter sees the desperate look on your face, he decides to not tease you.

Peeling your panties to the side, Peter finally connects his mouth with your pussy—his tongue licking a wet, broad strip between your folds.

Oh, shit, you think to yourself, the muscles in your abdomen convulsing as you watch one of your closest friends eat you out. The whole situation is making you feel light headed, so you can’t help it when you collapse back onto the mattress, your fingers fisting in the sheets as Peter groans into your cunt.

He eats you like a man starved, his face quickly becoming covered with your arousal. His nose bumps against your clit as his tongue sinks between your walls, and you full out whimper—your hips needily grinding against his mouth.

Peter’s palm presses down on your pelvis, forcing your hips to the mattress. He doesn’t want you squirming—just wants you desperate and pliant. To see you cumming on his tongue.

His name falls from your lips again, more debauched than he’s ever heard, and Peter curses.

“Shit.”

His tone is guttural, and sexy, and—

He presses a finger inside of you.

“Oh, fuck, Pete—,” his name deterorates into a moan, your brain function declining as Peter begins fucking his finger inside of you. At the same time, he focuses his mouth on your clit, his tongue urgently flicking against the bundle of nerves. 

You unconsciously wriggle at the assault of stimulation, but Peter’s hand on your stomach keeps you in place.

Why is he so strong? You think to yourself, moan ripping from your chest as Peter slips in a second finger. It doesn’t take him long to locate that spongy little sweet spot inside of you. The one that causes your thighs to shake as he practically abuses it—rubbing the pads of his fingers against it repeatedly until you’re nearly sobbing.

The coil in your belly winds tight, heat searing your veins. You can feel your clit throbbing against Peter’s tongue, and the walls of your pussy tightening up around him.

“Peter,” you cry, your entire body trembling. You’re so fucking close.

“Cum,” he rasps. He needs to see you orgasm—needs to feel you unraveling on his mouth and fingers. 

Hearing the gravel of his voice is the final nail in your coffin—the tension in your muscles releasing as your orgasm washes over you. Just as he wanted, you cum all over him, your cunt gushing arousal around his fingers as his tongue continues lapping at your clit, dragging out the waves of your pleasure until you’re panting and pawing at his head, trying to push him away.

After a moment, he relents—sitting back to look at you.

You’re covered in a sheen of sweat, your chest heaving, and an arm draped over your eyes. Your tits are peppered with an array of hickies, and Peter feels his chest (and cock) swell with pride. He’s clearly done a number on you. And yet…

You feel the mattress dip, and then the room is spinning around you. When things finally settle, you find yourself laying on top of Peter.

He has one arm wrapped around your waist, his palm resting on your ass. The other brushes a few stray strands of hair out of your face when you lean back to look at him.

“Spiderman also loves being ridden,” he says with a grin. You place your hands on his chest, feeling it rumble with laughter as he watches you struggle to sit up.

“You think I have the energy to ride you after you just did that? And why do you keep saying Spiderman enjoys these things like they’re facts—you don’t know.”

“Just a feeling,” he responds, licking his lips. His hands find your hips, and he grinds you downwards. Your sensitive pussy rubs against his aching length, still trapped behind his sweatpants, and it’s hard to miss the way Peter harshly swallows at the feeling.

You sigh, scooting backwards.

“Fine.”

You shove his sweats and boxers down his thighs, careful to not snag them on his dick. And damn, he really must be aching—a sticky string of precum dripping from the head of his cock, and pooling on his abdomen. 

He opens his mouth, but you don’t give him the chance to say anything. Your fingers wrap around his cock, smearing his arousal across his length, and whatever Peter had been planning to say crumbles into a needy garble of non-words.

You can’t help but smile at the sound.

“Surprised you didn’t cream your pants already,” you tell him, but your tone is hardly teasing. No, seeing him beneath you like this—the muscles in his torso clenching with every stroke of your hand—it’s actually quite endearing.

“I’ll cum in your hand if you keep doing that,” he pants, glancing into your eyes. You spot nothing but lust there, any previous reservations gone.

“Is that so bad?” you ask, thumbing at the head of his cock. Peter’s grip on your waist tightens, and you hear him take a shaky breath.

“Yes.”

He wants to be inside you, that much is clear. And while it’d be so easy to draw it out and make him beg…you don’t feel like being mean to him. Not tonight, after he’d just given you the best oral of your life.

“Fine,” you relinquish. You scoot forward, planting one hand on his chest, and gripping the base of his cock with the other. Peter’s breath catches when you rub the head of his cock between your folds, a heady groan following a beat later as you begin sinking down onto him.

By the time his cock is fully inside of you, your thighs are shaking. Whether from the lack of energy due to your previous orgasm, the remarkable size of Peter inside of you, or both—you’re not totally sure.

“There’s no rush,” Peter reassures you, but the needy warble of his voice betrays his words.

“My legs might give out at some point,” you respond with a breathless laugh, and Peter echos you, giving your waist a squeeze.

“That’s fine. I’ll help.”

With your palms planted firmly on his chest, you begin to ride him. 

And god, you feel so fucking good.

“Fuck,” Peter bites out, watching the space between your bodies, where his cock disappears inside of you with every roll of your hips. It’s been ages since a cunt has squeezed his dick like this, and honestly, he can see himself very easily getting addicted to the feel of you.

The bounce of your tits as you ride him, the cute little sounds you make when his cock rubs against the sensitive spots inside you—he feels like he’s going crazy.

“Peter,” you whine, your pace flattering. Having his cock inside of you is incomparable to the feeling of his fingers, and very quickly, you can feel another orgasm building, but…the closer you get, the more your strength falters.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he responds, praises falling from his lips. “You’re doing so good. You feel so good.”

His words cause your walls to clench around him, and he groans—his hands sliding down to your hips as he helps rock you down onto his cock. The sloppy sound of sex fills your bedroom, and you watch Peter with half-lidded eyes, soaking up the desperation showing on his face. 

His hair is slicked back with sweat, brows pinched together in concentration as he forces you to continue riding him. At least, until he starts craving more.

With his orgasm quickly approaching—despite the immense pleasure he gains seeing you bouncing on top of him—Peter’s hunger gets the best of him.

He grabs your wrists, moves your arms so they’re wrapped around his shoulders, and then secures his arms around your back. Before you can even digest the slight change in position, Peter is fucking you.

An incoherent string of noise slips past your lips, your fingernails digging into his shoulders as his cock pistons inside of you. With his arms trapping you against his chest, you’re helpless but to take it—your orgasm rushing to the surface at the desperate yet brutal pace that Peter sets.

“Peter,” you sob into his neck.

“It’s okay,” he responds without missing a beat, his voice breathless. “I’m right there. Cum for me again, sweetheart.”

As if you could stop.

Holding onto him for dear life, you cum for the second time that night—your walls clamping down on his cock so tightly that Peter’s rhythm falters. A curse rips from his throat, and his hands find the plush of your ass—stuffing your body down onto his dick as he cums along with you—pumping you full of his seed.

The needy tension of the room melts away, and you and Peter can only lay there—a pile of sweaty yet sated flesh. It takes you both a minute to catch your breaths, and you make a quiet noise of disappointment when Peter’s cock slips out of you. 

You can feel his cum running out of your pussy.

“Your balls aren’t dried up yet?”

Peter’s chest rumbles beneath you.

“I’m in my 30’s, not my 60’s.”

You glance up at him when you feel Peter’s fingers clearing the hair away from your face, and he smiles at you. Your heart jumps.

He must know how handsome he is, right? Even with that crooked nose of his.

“Don’t you ever get tired of taking cracks at me?” he wonders, using his grip on your ass to slide you farther up his chest. You giggle, cupping his cheeks as you find yourself suddenly face to face with him. 

“Mmmm, no?”

He rolls his eyes, yet his smile widens. You lean down to kiss him, and he reciprocates easily enough.

“Feeling good?” you ask him, carding your fingers through his hair. He nods.

“Very. I…really missed that.”

“Same,” you agree, sitting back. You need to get to the bathroom before any cum gets on your nice sheets. You crawl off of Peter, swinging your legs over the side of your mattress. He rolls onto his side, watching you with furrowed brows as he tucks his dick back into his pants.

“Same? You haven’t—?”

“Not in a while,” you admit, pulling a fresh shirt and a pair of panties from your dresser drawers. You’re about to make a joke that the only action you’ve gotten recently is from the toys stashed under your bed, but when you turn to look at the spot where they’re hidden, you find that…the box has moved. It’s not where you had left it.

“Did you…find my sex toys? Before I came home?”

Peter’s face goes carefully blank, but the red flush of his ears betrays him. 

You shoot him a glare, leaving your room with a huff.

“Dude doesn’t trust me…how fucking rude…”

“Hey now—!” 

Peter’s feet pound against the floor as he chases after you, and he catches you around the waist just before you make it into your bathroom. His lips press against the crown of your head.

“Again, I’m sorry for snooping. I’m dumb.”

You sigh, wriggling around to face him.

“You are,” you agree, lightly patting his chest. “Dumb, and insistent that Spider man loves tits, eating pussy, and getting ridden. Still holding those beliefs?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Peter grins. “And I have other beliefs about his preferences as well.”

“Of course you do,” you laugh. You kiss his cheek, and then step out of his hold—heading into the bathroom. 

“I’m going to shower,” you tell him. “There’s some leftovers in the fridge if you want any.”

Peter nods, and the last thing you see is him heading for your fridge when you close the bathroom door.

30 minutes later, you exit your steaming bathroom in your fresh oversized t-shirt and panties, fully expecting to find Peter lounging around your apartment, eating all your food. But…to your utter disappointment, you don’t spot him anywhere.

You sigh, shoulders sagging. Had it been too much to assume he would have wanted to stay the night?

Shuffling into your kitchen, you spot an empty plate on your table. One that you know had previously been piled high with leftover chicken and potatoes.

“He eats my food and runs off…of course,” you mumble, picking up the plate to put it in the sink. However, before your annoyance can truly get the better of you, a piece of paper that had been stuck to the bottom of the plate floats to the ground.

You bend over to pick it up.

Hey!

Sorry, I wasn’t expecting to stay so long, so I left my apartment earlier without locking the door. I’m running back home to lock it, but I should be back at your place by 9!

Don’t get mad at me. I’d never run off without a word :p

-PB

PS. I have a working theory that Spiderman also has more stamina than you’d expect, even for a guy who’s been doing hero work for 20+ years, so…round two when I get back?

You can’t help but laugh.

What an idiot. 

But…you like him.

[qu1cks1lversb1tch]

Day In | Vox x Fem Gen Z!Reader

A/N — f/c = favorite color. It's used like once, but I thought I should clarify for anyone who might get confused <3. Just a little nonsense drabble showing what a classic day off could look like.

Warnings: Valentino existing

Word Count: 440

Summary: Spending a day with the Vees in the tower — only so much could happen

"I hope when you microwave those leftovers later, the container is piping hot but the center of the food is colder than your dead heart." Your cool tone pierced the silence of the room, with your arms crossed over your chest, noting how Vox didn't even look in your direction, instead glancing to Valentino to see his reply.

After what happened in your first month, you weren't all that surprised that he was avoiding you as much as humanly possible.

"I can just mix it up and put it back in for a couple more minutes, I thought you were smarter than that." The moth demon replied.

"That's not the point I'm trying to make, asshole. And you know it."

You had been forced into spending 'quality' time with everyone on the very rare day off.

Avoiding talking to Velvette about the design concepts you drew up for her, and your obvious problems with Vox that stemmed from you being, as he put it: 'a disrespectful little shit'; your only other option was to immerse yourself in spending time with Valentino.

Not your greatest moment.

The bitch wouldn't let you touch the f/c jewels to bedazzle your phone case because he was insistent on using them for his new gun.

It was downright hoe behavior.

"You should calm down, Miel."

You cringed and reached for the glue and the jewels that happened to be your second favorite color. "Don't call me that."

"Why are you taking those ones?" Valentino questioned, glancing at the box of jewels that now laid before you.

"Because I fucking can, Mothman."

"Voxy ~ she's being mean."

The TV demon groaned and looked as if he wanted to slam his screened face into the table until he blacked out from damage to the motherboard.

Velvette snorted and took pictures 'for memories'.

"I wouldn't be mean if you weren't hogging the best color." You huffed, annoyed.

"That's a lie, you and I both know it, babes." Velvette piped up, the sketches before her long abandoned.

"Fine, I'd be less mean. . . What should we eat?" You questioned.

"The flat faced prince picks tonight." Velvette announced.

"Go fuck yourself." Vox said smoothly, although he glitched.

You groaned.

"Pick something good. Or else." You threatened lightly. The boys had a habit of picking stuff only they liked, which left you and Velvette to be the more considerate ones so that you didn't have to hear their bitching.

"Italian?" Vox questioned the table.

"Sounds good." Valentino hummed, placing the last jewel on his gun.

Sounded better than steak for the second night in a row. . . For the second time that week.

[bluetimeombre]

˚ ♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀Wanting you, under the Italian sun

You and Timmy have most been working hard. For the summer, they decide an Italian getaway.

[a little something that's been sitting in my drafts while i work on some other things, i hope you enjoy. I'm thinking of taking some requests, cause i'm lacking inspiration so if that's something you'd like, let me know and maybe, you'll get lucky]

The car dropped you off at your private villa for the weekend, the wheels rolling onto the stone.

You step out first while your beautiful boyfriend, timothee paid and took the bags from you. You both stare at the old but wonder ours villa which would be your home for the summer.

Timmy threw an arm around you shoulder, drawing you in and kissing your temple. It was an endearing move you revelled in. ‘Are you happy, amore mio?’ (My love)

You smile up at him. ‘Very.’

His lips Slide Over yours before leading you over to the door. You guys had already picked up the keys to the place by the owner. All summer, this would be your own private haven.

The two of you were hidden, surrounded by tall trees to shield you and it was at least a mile walk from the nearest town. You had a stocked kitchen, a pool for your own enjoyment and each other.

You and Timmy had only been dating six months, but it felt like the most blissful forever. Already you knew there was nothing more you could want, you had everything. But still, you both had been working hard over the last few months and knew to keep you both sane, you needed to escape.

You had been working hard on a movie you’re especially proud of with Emerald Fennell (the director of Saltburn). It was premiering at the end of the year and was a high talk of Oscar buzz, but it was taxing. And Timothee had been busy promoting dune two and preparing for Bob Dylan. The only time you’ve shared is surprising each other in different countries, stealing moments of hurried movements of bodies in hotel rooms and several hundred facetimes.

You'd both agreed to get away, knowing it could snowball into stress and terrible times. He was one of the biggest stars in Hollywood, a household name and everyone loved him. Meanwhile everyone was looking to you, a trend-setter, so what your next big move would be.

Italy, it would just be you.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀

You spent your first week sleeping in, bathing in the sunlight that came through the windows, left open for a cool breeze and curtains blowing gently. His hands would run over your bare skin, tracing marks his lips had made the night before. Then he'd roll on top of you and continue the evening.

His lips trail down your neck, biting and licking over a spot. 'Can't get enough of you.'

Then your mornings continue slowly. Sometimes you'd go for a walk around the countryside, or walk into the town and buy some flowers for the villa and Timothee would insist on buying you pretty things.

'A pretty girl deserves pretty things,' he always said.

So, when you brought a bouquet, you always spared a flower for him.

Most mornings, you'd be found in the pool while Timothee made breakfast, bringing it out for the two of you. You'd sit at the set table, next to each other, your legs stretched into his lap as he traced patterns on your skin. Or his head in your lap as you ran your fingers through his hair.

You guys talked, talked about anything. Your careers, your hopes and dreams for the future, together-obviously. You talked about books and poems and movies and family. It was so easy with him. And at the same time, everything was exciting.

Your bodies knew each other, and in the summer, with so much skin, you had many chances to explore each other, but you also explored each others minds, picking out anything you each wanted to know.

Timothee, on rare occasions, even on holiday, slept in. You spent your time admiring him, his lips parted with soft breaths and his curls fresh and soft. He was naked under the sheets but the white covers were pulled over his chest. He still had an arm draped over your stomach, but it was weak in sleep.

You slipped away easily, taking your books and making yourself coffee and heading to the poolside to relax in the morning glow.

Only half an hour slipped by before you boyfriend wandered out, in his trunks, still stretching out the sleep that held his body.

'Good morning, baby,' you greeted with a smile.

Timothee smiled down at you before urging you to shuffle to the end of your chair. He slipped behind you, legs on either side and arms wrapping around your waist. He kissed one the tattooed marks he left on you last night. That's what he loved about the villa, the two of you wearing barley anything. 'Morning, mon amour. How did you sleep?'

You lean your head back on his shoulder. 'Like a babe.'

He smirked, leaning down to kiss you. It was never quick with him, never swift. His lips were hard against yours, his tongue sweeping over your bottom lip to taste the coffee on your tongue.

You pulled back before you could lose your place in your book. But, you pulled your coffee cup from the ground and offered him some.

He took a sip and leant his head on you shoulder, reading over while his hands messaged your stomach and hips. 'Even on holiday you're working.'

'This isn't work, i'm reading.'

'About the architecture of Italy?'

'It's a beautiful place.'

He hummed. 'It suits you, beautiful place for a beautiful girl.' He wears a smirk as his fingers slide over your swimsuit and slowly slip under under it grazes your bare hipbone.

'Timothee,' you warn with the most conviction you could.

'What?' he asked innocently.

You peck him on the lips, pulling away and leaving him to chase them. 'You have a problem.'

'Yes, I do.' Slowly, he slides the book of the chair, leaving it to thud on the ground and he slowly settles you down, as he slides along your back, slowly taking the straps down with his teeth. 'Will you help me?'

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀

As the sun sets on your simple day, the two of you sit at dinner outside as always. You listen to Timothee strum the guitar he brought along, mumble along to some songs he'd learnt for Bob Dylan.

Then, he passed it to you, letting you strum what songs you knew from other movies you'd done.

Once you set the guitar down, it fell quiet.

'You know I want to marry you, right?' said Timmy out of nowhere. 'Not here. Not now. When it's right, for you.'

You look at him. You spoke about futures, but never had he said so blatantly that he will marry you. 'What about you?' you ask.

'I'll be ready when you are,' he says, gently brushing your hair behind your shoulder. 'And this could be our lives. Here. Every summer this could be our villa. You and me. Then one day, our kids. Then, when we've made enough movies we'll do what the old movie stars do. Retire, direct or produce a movie or something. We'd be like those cooky neighbours who throw the craziest parties.'

'Cheeseboards,' you suggest. 'Watching sunsets and sunrises, walking to town to buy ingredients for supper. Then complaining about the kids running around our feet while trying to cook.' you say, playing pretend for your future lives.

Timothee nodded, leaning closer to you, like he could see the future in your eyes. 'We'll hide away here, in the trees, and swim together, naked- when we're alone of course-' you laugh at his. 'and we can spend all day together, I'd get to touch you whenever I please,' his hands slowly caressed up your legs, careful and light.

You blush, smiling and resting your chin in the palm of your hands. 'All day every day touching you.'

'Could you think of anything better?' he smirked, lips brushing yours.

'Well, right now, a few things.' you kissed him and kissed him, thankful forever for the Italian sun.

[smoooothoperator]

What Was I Made For?

24: All For Us

childhood enemies, forced proximity, accidental pregnancy, enemies to lovers (👀)

Warnings: fluuuuuff

a/n: New chapter!!! As you canread it, the ending of the story is coming closer...

if you want to play a game and ask things about Dafne

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One month to meet Dorian. One month to finally hold him. One month to show the world the most beautiful baby they could ever see. 

It's been half a year since Charles and I started dating, and even if at the start everything was a rollercoaster, I couldn't be happier with him. Even if he was away for the races, he always called me whenever he wasn’t in the car, doing FaceTime or just talking through the phone, making me feel like I was there with him.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my hand resting on my belly, feeling the steady kicks under my palm. I smiled softly, imagining his tiny feet pressing against me, eager to join the world. My back ached, and my ankles were swollen, but none of that mattered right now. All I could think about was Charles. 

He has been texting me all morning since he left home to go to the hotel close to the track, sending me pictures of everything the fans gave him for us and the baby. And while he was sending texts, I was packing a suitcase for some weeks, getting everything ready and placing the hospital bag we made, just in case Dorian decides to come join us earlier than expected, in the back of the car with the baby seat.

I had been following Charles' races from afar, glued to the TV, my laptop or my phone, cheering him on from the comfort of our home. I hated missing out, but with the doctor advising me to take it easy, I had no choice but to stay at home. Or so I made Charles believe.

Imola was just a few hours away by car, and the triple-header was starting this weekend. I knew how important this triple header was to him, with an Italian race for Ferrari and then, some weeks later, his own home race in Monaco. And even though I told him I wouldn’t be able to make it, I had other plans. There was no way I was going to miss them. Not this time.

“Don’t worry, Dorian. We’re going to surprise papa, hm? You’re going to hear those engines roar again” I smiled, rubbing gently my belly, feeling excited about going back again to the track after some months.

I have been texting Lewis for a while, and thanks to him, I would have a paddock pass without Charles knowing about it. 

I could almost picture Charles' reaction. He’d be stunned, maybe even a little annoyed at first because he was protective because of my pregnancy, but once the shock wore off, I knew he would be happy. Having me there, especially so close to the due date, would mean everything to him.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, and I glanced over, smiling immediately after reading the contact name.

Charles: Miss you already, love. I just arrived to the hospitality, the fans gave me so many gifts for Dorian ❤️

I smiled, biting my lip. I could practically hear his voice through the text, making me smile and sigh softly. If only he knew what I was up to…

I grabbed the suitcase and the hospital bag, looking one last time at our bedroom, with the crib already ready next to the window, and smiled to myself. Maybe, just maybe, the next time I’ll be in this room, Dorian will be here with us.

After double-checking that I had everything, I carefully lowered myself into the driver’s seat of the car. Getting in and out was no easy task these days, but I managed with a little of patience. I adjusted the seat to make room for my belly and took a deep breath before starting the engine. I could feel the adrenaline rushing through me, the same kind of excitement I used to have before retiring from being a driver.

As I pulled out of the driveway, the familiar hum of the engine calmed me. The drive wasn’t long, but I had to pace myself. I knew Charles’ schedule like the back of my hand, so if everything went according to plan, I would catch him recording some content for the media or even doing interviews.

The road ahead stretched out, and with each kilometer, I felt the anticipation building. Dorian squirmed a little, as if he could feel it too.

“It’s okay, little one” I smiled, rubbing my belly softly and putting the music higher on the radio. “We’re going to see papa soon. He’s going to be so happy to see us”

By the time I reached the outskirts of Imola, the sun was high in the sky, making everything look brighter than before. I followed the signs toward the track, knowing where to go after years of racing, feeling my heart beating faster with every passing minute.

I smiled, driving through the parking lot and stopping the car near the place where the drivers park their own cars. I found Charles’ car easily, knowing that the team gave him the last car Ferrari dropped, looking at it parked in the reserved place with his name on it.

I grabbed my bag, hanging it on my shoulder after getting out of the car, slower than usual. As I walked towards the paddock doors, fans found me and started taking pictures of me, as well as calling me. I smiled politely at them, waving my hand and smiling, letting them take pictures as always.

As I walked through the paddock, I could feel the curious glances around me. It wasn’t like I was trying to not be seen. After all, it’s hard to blend in when you’re nine months pregnant, walking like a penguin. But I didn’t care. The excitement of surprising Charles carried me here, and I won’t let a few stares bother me.

I made my way towards the Ferrari hospitality, my heart racing faster than my feet could keep up. Every step felt like I was getting closer to Charles, and I could already imagine the look on his face when he saw me. He had no idea I was here.

As I turned a corner, walking past the familiar red and white trailers, I looked around, smiling when I started to hear the familiar sound of mechanics getting the cars ready for the weekend. 

It was hard not to feel nostalgic. I had spent so much time in this paddock over the years, racing and competing against the best drivers out there, and now I’m one of the many people that have to stay behind a barrier watching them race.

"We’re almost there" I whispered, smiling down at my belly.

Just as I was about to step into the Ferrari area, I heard a voice call out from behind me, making me smile and turn around slowly.

"Dafne?"

For a second, neither of us moved. He looked like he was trying to process if it was really me standing there, and I could see the mixture of confusion and joy written in face. His hair was a bit messy as if he just rushed out of a meeting. And then, as if it finally clicked, a smile broke out across his face.

"You’re... here" he smiled. His eyes moved between my face and my belly, as if he couldn’t decide what to focus on.

"I’m here" I chuckled softly, biting my lip to keep from laughing at his stunned expression.

"I thought... you said..." he frowned, his hands resting on my belly as if he was afraid to let go. "You told me you weren’t coming"

"Yeah, well…" I smiled softly. "I wanted to surprise you"

Charles blinked a few times, then broke into the biggest smile I have seen in weeks. He pulled me into a gentle hug, careful with my belly, but still holding me tight. We could feel the kicks of our baby, like he wanted to remind us that he came too.

"You’re incredible" he murmured into my hair. "I can’t believe you’re here"

“I missed being here” I whisper against his chest, rubbing his back softly. “And I didn’t want to be alone this last month… So that’s why I came”

“I’m sorry” he sighed, pressing a kiss on my temple. “But what if…”

“I brought the hospital bag too, don’t worry” I smiled. “I have a feeling that baby Dorian will come sooner… So that’s why I’m going to Monaco after Imola”

“Monaco? Are you sure?” he sighed. 

“I am, love” I smiled, kissing his jaw. “Our family is there. My parents, your mother and brothers… I want to have Dorian in a place where I know we won’t be alone in case you are away…”

“Oh, believe me” he sighed, pressing his lips on my forehead. “If you go on labor while I'm away, I'll drop the team just to be next to you”

I chuckled softly and nodded, hugging him tightly. Somehow, it scared me going through labor without him by my side,and even if I could count with our family, I only wanted him with me in the room.

“Then I'll try to keep Dorian with me a little longer until you can be free from work” I joked, chuckling softly.

He laughed softly and grabbed my bag from my shoulder, hanging it on his shoulder and holding my hand while we walked inside the hospitality, being welcomed with wide smiles and hugs from the team crew.

The motorhome felt like a little sanctuary in the chaos of the race week. It was cozy and quiet inside, offering the perfect view of the track from the large windows. I sat on the comfortable sofa in the balcony of the hospitality, with my hand resting on my belly as I watched Charles’s practice session on the TV screen in front of me. The sound of the engines in the track and the people in the paddock filled the space, but my attention was locked on Charles.

I felt Dorian moving around a bit more today, his kicks strong and rhythmic, almost like he could feel the energy around us.

“Your dad is going to do great today, just wait and see" I whispered, rubbing my belly gently as I smiled to myself.

The camera followed Charles around the circuit, his Ferrari a blur of red and black as it darted through the chicanes. He had been in good form all weekend, and I could tell from the smoothness of his driving that he was in his zone. 

The sun was beginning to get higher in the sky, making the paddock look brighter than a few hours ago. I took a deep breath, the familiar scent of rubber and fuel mixing with the fresh air. It was a strange comfort, this chaotic world of racing, a place where I spent most part of my life.

Charles had always been good at keeping his emotions low since the start of the season on the race weekends, but I knew that having me here, especially so close to our due date, meant a lot to him. He wasn’t just racing for himself, he was racing for our future. 

I caught sight of a few fans in the distance, waving Ferrari flags and cheering as the cars zoomed past. It was still surreal to think that soon, Dorian would be part of all of this too.

As the session ended, and I saw the cars retiring to the garages I stood up slowly, my hands pressing into my lower back as I stretched. Dorian gave another strong kick, and I chuckled softly.

“You’re excited too, huh?” I whispered.

A few minutes later, the door of the balcony opened, and Charles walked in, still in his race suit with his face flushed from the adrenaline of the session. His eyes softened the moment he saw me, a smile spreading across his lips.

"Hey, you two" he said, walking over and placing a gentle hand on my belly. "How’s Dorian doing today?"

"Kicking like crazy" I grinned, watching as he rubbed his hand affectionately over my bump. "He’s definitely excited to be here."

"I think he’s going to love race weekends as much as we do" Charles let out a soft laugh, his other hand sliding around my waist to hold me closer.

"You're really strong out there today" I said, resting my head against his shoulder. "The car seemed to be handling well"

“Yeah, it’s feeling good" Charles nodded, his voice steady with that familiar determination. "We’re still making a few mistakes, but I’m feeling confident. I’m glad you’re here to see it"

We stood in comfortable silence for a while, the hum of activity outside a gentle reminder that we were still in the heart of the race weekend. But here, in this moment, it was just the two of us, and our baby growing inside me.

“I can’t wait to show Dorian this world” I whispered, smiling softly. “To bring him to the races, to let him grow in this place…”

“Me neither, Daf” Charles smiled, rubbing my shoulder. “Just thinking about coming back to the hospitality after getting out of the car and knowing that I would hear his giggles… That makes me so incredibly happy”

The atmosphere in the hospitality was charged with excitement and anticipation as Charles prepared for qualifying after having lunch and going to meetings. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with the faint hint of burnt rubber wafting through the open windows, making me smile and take deep breaths while rubbing my belly.

“Are you nervous?” I asked, breaking the silence that hung comfortably between us. 

I could see the concentration on his face as he adjusted his race suit, his brow furrowed in determination.

“A little” he admitted, looking  over his shoulder at me. His green eyes softened softly  and I could see a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “But I'm more excited than anything. It feels good out there today”

“You’ve been flying all weekend, Charles. This track is good for the car this season” I said, shifting slightly to get more comfortable on the couch. Dorian seemed to sense the energy too, rolling around in my belly.

I watched him nod and move around the room, his body fluid and confident as he picked up his helmet, running his fingers over the glossy surface.

“You know, it’s just qualifying” I said, shrugging my shoulders.  “No pressure, right? Just go out there, have fun, and do your best”

“I know” he sighed. “Just… I want to do better. McLaren is getting better every race, and we can only watch them go…”

“Good thing I came to be your lucky charm, huh?” I chuckled softly. “Come on, don't worry. It will be okay”

With a final glance in the mirror to check his appearance, he straightened up, the familiar intensity returning to his gaze. He turned around and looked at me, smiling softly. I followed him with my eyes, watching him walk towards the couch a dn stand in front of me, leaning closer to press a soft kiss on my lips.

“I’ll be thinking of you and Dorian the whole time”he whispered against my lips.

“Just be safe and give it your all, okay?” I smiled, feeling a mix of pride and anticipation.

He nodded, giving me one last kiss before helping me to stand up. We walked hand in hand towards the tables where other team members would be watching the qualy and he hugged me one last time before leaving.

“I love you, you know that?”

“I love you too,” I replied, smiling softly. “Good luck, love. Dorian and I will be watching”

The commentators’ voices filled the hospitality as the cars drove out of the pit lane one by one, the camera panning across the vibrant colors of the cars as they prepared to take on the circuit. I watched closely as Charles’s name flashed on the screen, the number 16 Ferrari ready to attack the track.

My heart raced along with the cars as the session began, the roar of the engines filling the air both inside and outside the hospitality, making my own mind think that I was out on the track too. Charles’ first flying lap looked smooth, precise.

“Good, good” I nodded to myself.

Q1 finished, then Q2. And Charles was finally in the Top 10, fighting for the first position. The onboard camera showed his view, going through every corner of the track, pushing the car to its limit.

The session was nearing its end, and the times were coming in fast. Other drivers were getting competitive laps, but Charles was still up there, still fighting for pole position.

When he crossed the finish line on his final lap, the screen lit up with his time, faster than anyone else, making his number clim to the highest position of the graphic.

The crowd roared, and I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding. A huge smile spread across my face as I saw his name solidify at the top of the leaderboard.

“Pole!” I exclaimed, laughing softly as Dorian kicked in response. “Your dad did it!”

The cheers from the paddock outside echoed in my ears, and I felt a rush of pride swell in my chest. Charles had done it. He had secured pole position, and I could almost feel his excitement from here.

As the session ended, I stood up slowly, my hand still on my belly, and made my way to the garage. I wanted to be there when he came back, to be with him. The paddock was buzzing with energy as I walked toward the Ferrari garage, my steps slow but steady. A few team members smiled at me as I passed, their faces glowing with excitement.

I reached the garage just as Charles was climbing out of the car, pulling off his helmet. His face was flushed, his hair damp with sweat, but the grin on his face was unmistakable. He turned, scanning the crowd, and when his eyes landed on me, they lit up even more.

“Dafne!” he called out, running to me.

The second he reached me, he wrapped me in a careful but tight hug, mindful of my belly but full of warmth.

“You did it!” I laughed, squeezing him as best I could. “P1!”

“I told you I’d give it everything.” he pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes shining with pride. 

“I knew you would,” I smiled, placing a hand on his cheek. “You were incredible out there, Charles.”

He glanced down at my belly and grinned. He rubbed my belly and kneeled in front of me, pressing a soft kiss on it.

 “And how’s this little guy? Did he enjoy qualifying?” he smiled looking up at me.

“Enjoy? He was kicking the whole time” I chuckled. “He’s definitely proud of you.”

 “We did it, little man” he whispered, his voice soft and full of emotion. “We’re going to win this weekend.”

I ran my fingers through his hair, feeling the love and determination radiating from him. I brushed his hair with my fingers, ignoring how sweaty it was, and then I brushed his beard, cupping his cheek.

“We’ll be cheering you on every step of the way,” I said, my voice just as soft. “You’ve got this.”

He stood back up, his eyes never leaving mine as he leaned in to kiss me gently, a tender kiss that held all the emotions of the day.

“I’m going to make this weekend unforgettable” he whispered, his forehead resting against mine.

And in that moment, standing there together in the heart of the track, I knew that whatever happened next, we were ready for it. This was our moment, our family’s moment, and I couldn’t wait to see how it all goes.

The morning sun was just starting to rise over the Imola circuit as Charles and I arrived at the paddock with our car.. There was this emotion in the air, the excitement of the Tifosi hoping to be the spectators of how the red team wins in their home,  but everything still felt calm. 

Charles was unusually quiet as we walked side by side, his hand resting protectively on the small of my back. I could feel the nervous energy radiating from him. Every driver feels the weight of the moment on the morning of a race, but for Charles, especially today, it seemed heavier. Pole position meant high expectations, and with Imola being a historic track, the pressure was palpable.

"How are you feeling?" I asked softly, glancing up at him.

"Nervous" he admitted, his voice a little more rough than usual. "It’s strange. I’ve done this so many times before, but today feels different. Everyone is expecting me to win, and… What if I mess up?"

I stopped walking for a moment, holding his hand to make him stop too. The noise in the paddock continued around us, but right then, all I cared about was calming him.

"Charles, look at me" I sighed, trying to sound calm. When his eyes met mine, I could see the storm of doubt there, something I hadn’t seen in him in a long time. "You’ve worked so hard for this. You’ve been driving brilliantly all weekend, and no one deserves this win more than you. You've faced pressure before, and you come out stronger every time. You need to trust yourself today"

"I just don’t want to let anyone down" he sighed, looking around us.

"You won’t" I said, stepping closer to him. "And even if things don’t go perfectly, I’ll still be proud of you. Dorian will be proud of you”

His features softened, and I saw the tension start to disappear from his face. He gave me a small smile, the kind that barely lifted the corners of his mouth but said everything. Taking a step closer to me, he pressed his lips on my forehead, taking a deep breath.

"I don’t know what I’d do without you, you know that?" he whispered softly.

"Lucky for you, you don’t have to find out" I chuckled, cupping his cheek with my hand.

We made our way to the hospitality and he quickly mentally prepared himself for the upcoming race, attending the meetings and then going with his personal trainer to get ready.

While he was getting ready, I was working on my laptop, getting everything ready before the race starts. When I saw Charles walking out of his room with the suit hanging over his hips, I closed the laptop and looked up at him, smiling.

"Hey," I smiled softly, holding his hand. He looked down at me, and I saw the hint of nerves in his eyes again. "You’re ready for this, Charles."

"Yeah… I just need to stay focused. Stick to the plan and pray that Ferrari doesn’t fuck up the race…" he sighed, shaking his head.

"You will do an amazing performance" I reassured him. "You’ve worked hard for this. And no matter what happens out there, we’re all proud of you, me, the team, and Dorian too. He’s probably kicking in excitement right now" I added with a small smile, placing a hand on my belly.

"I’m glad you’re here" he whispered, kneeling in front of me,pressing his forehead against mine for a brief moment. "It means everything."

"Go out there and show them what you’ve got" I whispered back. "This is your race."

The moments before the race always felt stressful, with too many things to do and many things in the head. While the drivers have to stand for the anthem, their minds are full of information and what the have to do. Everytime I had to do that, I tried to stay silent and not talk with anyone else except my team, only to confirm things I already knew.

I found my place in the Ferrari hospitality, sitting on a couch with a direct view of the track from the screen in front of me. My heart raced alongside Charles’ car as the formation lap began. His car, gleaming red under the sun, was positioned at the front, pole position. It was the best place to be, but also the one that gave more pressure.

The lights went out, and the race began.

For the next hour and a half, I was glued to the screen, barely paying attention to my surroundings as I watched Charles fight for every second, every corner. It was a tough race, with both McLaren right on his back, pushing him at every turn, but Charles held his position. His driving was precise, his strategies perfect. He defended when he needed to, attacked when he had the chance, all while managing his tires and keeping his focus razor-sharp.

With every lap, the tension grew. Charles was in the lead, but only by a small margin. One mistake, and it could all slip away.

"Come on, Charles" I whispered, gripping the edge of my seat as Dorian kicked hard beneath my hand, as if sensing the urgency. My heart was pounding as the laps ticked down.

And then, the final lap. Charles was still in the lead, butOscar was right behind him. The gap was getting smaller with every corner, but Charles was holding his position, defending every corner and pushing in every straight.

Then the checkered flag came into view.

I held my breath as Charles crossed the line. 

First.

The Ferrari hospitality broke the silence with screams and clapping, the sound filling the air as everyone celebrated. I felt a wave of emotion wash over me, relief, pride, joy, all of it blending together as tears welled up in my eyes. He’d done it. Charles had won.

I stood up slowly, clapping and cheering as the team around me celebrated, their voices filling the hospitality with shouts of joy and disbelief. The camera zoomed in on Charles as he slowed down on his cool down lap, the team radio crackling through the speakers as his engineer congratulated him. I could hear Charles’ breathless laughter through the radio, and it made my heart swell.

I made my way out of the hospitality and immediately walked through the garage towards the pitlane, trying to make space for myself between all his mechanics.

“Dafne, come here” Fred smiled, holding my hand and helping me walk to the front of the crowd, standing right behind the barriers.

As he pulled into the pit lane and climbed out of the car, I started clapping with tears running down my cheeks, smiling when I saw him jump out of the car and walk towards his team. Then, when he pulled away from them and walked towards me, he took off his helmet, smiling widely at me.

"You did it” I smiled,  my voice trembling with excitement as I wrapped my arms around him.

"We did it" he said, grinning ear to ear, his breath still coming in short bursts. He held me tightly, pressing a kiss to my cheek. "I couldn’t have done it without you."

"You were amazing out there" I whispered, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. "I’m so proud of you."

"Your dad's bringing home the trophy "his smile softened, and he placed a hand on my belly. In that moment I felt all the cameras on us, taking the perfect picture of us.

"He’s definitely excited," I laughed, resting my hand over Charles when I started to feel the hard kicks. "We both are."

As the celebrations continued around us, I leaned into him, soaking in the moment. After all the hard work, all the pressure and nerves, he had done it. Charles was a winner today, and we were here, together, to celebrate it.

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[peakyswritings]

Heart, Body and Soul || Tommy Shelby x OC

PART VIII

Summary: As Nina and Tommy slowly appear to come to terms with their feelings, they realise they might not be as discreet as they thought they were. An unexpected visit complicates things.

Warnings: mentions of arranged marriage, slow-burn, small age-gap (Tommy’s 30, Nina is in her early 20s), time-typical misogyny, references to past attempted assault, harassment, violence, Stefano, no proofreading, English is not my first language. This is set between season 1 and 2.

A/N: alright it has been awfully long since I last updated this, but believe me when I say I was stuck. Hopefully I’ll be more active from next week on.

As usual, there are some dialogues which are supposed to be in Italian, but I chose to write them in English for the sake of the readers (and mine, ‘cause otherwise I should’ve translated lots of stuff). I just kept some words and sentences here and there to give the idea.

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If there was one thing that Maria Ferrante took very seriously, it was the Sunday lunch. She was already up and about at dawn, free to walk from place to place in her kitchen without the rest of the family in the way. She only left it to attend Mass, and once she was home again, there was nothing that could distract her from her cooking. It was known that a good ragù needed to be cooked for hours in order to be perfect, after all.

When Nina walked into the kitchen at eleven a.m., after almost twelve hours of well-deserved sleep, the delicious smell of the sauce filled her nostrils, making her stomach growl.

“You missed church this morning,” her mother scolded her, agitating a wooden spoon in her direction.

“Did I?” She absentmindedly murmured, peeping into the pot. The boiling red sauce, mixed with the finest meat one could find in town, crackled exquisitely, appealing to her empty belly.

“This family lacks discipline,” Maria asserted, moving to cut some vegetables. “I cannot remember the last time we all went to church together. We’re losing all the good habits.”

Too captivated by her new target to pay any attention to her mother’s rants, Nina stealthily took a slice of bread from the basket on the table and put it in a plate. Then, taking advantage of her distraction, she dipped it into the pot.

“Nina!”

With a grin on her face, Nina moved away from the stove, unbothered by her mother’s curses. She took a bite from the bread, and hummed in appreciation when the sauce-covered crumb melted on her tongue. There was nothing like dipping fresh bread in ragù on Sunday mornings. However, her breakfast was soon forgotten when she caught sight of Tommy outside the kitchen, fully dressed and perfectly groomed as usual. Her father was explaining something to him, but they were too distant for her to listen to what they were talking about.

There it was, that strange, funny feeling that seemed to pervade Nina every time he was near. It had grown stronger, since what they had called their “moment of weakness”, and she could no longer lie to herself. She could no longer deny that she was intensely, inevitably drawn to him. She longed for a gaze, a word, an accidental touch, anything that could grant her a fleeting moment of connection. And she couldn’t comprehend how that man, who she had met as recently as a month ago, had managed to invade her every thought, her every desire. She had to force herself away from him. She had to push him out of her mind, so that when the time came to watch him leave, it wouldn’t hurt as much as the thought alone was hurting her now. It wasn’t right. It was fair to Agnese, it wasn’t fair to her family, and it wasn’t fair to herself. She had to let those feelings pass.

She looked away from Tommy, coming back to herself, and when she turned to her right, she noticed her mother was looking at her with a strange look in her eyes. Nina averted her gaze in discomfort, the woman’s inquisitive stare never failing to make her feel like an open book. She walked past her and put her plate in the sink, a poor attempt to escape her piercing eyes, but she could still feel them on her, following her every move. So Nina grabbed the wooden spoon, hoping that making herself useful would do the trick. “The sauce needs stirring.”

Her brothers bursted into the kitchen, diverting her mother’s attention away from her, and Nina almost breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Where have you been?” Their mother asked them, placing her hands on her waist.

“We had some things to take care of,” Pietro said, and Nina figured the vagueness of answer was an answer itself.

“On a rest day?”

“There’s no such thing as a rest day when it comes to business,” Salvatore brushed it off in a playful manner, approaching his mother to place a tender kiss on her cheek. That gesture seemed to make her soften, cause the annoyance slipped out of her face, replaced by an expression of resignation. “You look too beautiful to get angry, mum,” he continued, walking towards the stove.

“Bootlicker,” Nina mumbled, earning herself a kick behind her ankle. “Ouch!” She exclaimed in surprise, sending her brother’s way a sore look. Salvatore, in return, was blatantly smirking to himself. “Stronzo,” she spat out, giving him a shove.

“Keep your hands off me,” he shoved back.

“You started.”

“It was my foot, not my hands.”

“Enough you two,” Maria interrupted them, raising her voice. “See, this is what I mean when I say that this family lacks discipline,” she said to no one in particular.

With the shadow of the smirk still present on his face, Salvatore brought his index in front of his mouth. “Quiet,” he teasingly whispered.

Feeling her blood boil, Nina raised the wooden spoon in the air in a silent threat, but Pietro was quick to take it from her hand. Clearly, he didn’t trust his sister to restrain herself from actually using it. Nina inhaled deeply, telling herself that the angrier she got, the more Salvatore would find satisfaction in bothering her. Much to her luck, her brothers soon decided that the content of the pot was way more deserving of their attention. Making sure their mother was too distracted to stop them, they took a slice of bread each and dipped it in the sauce.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Maria snapped, putting down the knife she was using. With long steps, she walked over to her children. “Out,” she ordered, pushing all three of them towards the door. ���No discipline, no discipline at all.”

Vincenzo Ferrante, who just like Tommy had heard all the commotion, shook his head in a mixture of resignation and disapproval at the sight of his snickering children getting out of the kitchen. Concealing his embarrassment, he murmured some excuses to his guest, half relieved by the fact that at least he hadn’t been able to understand the foolish reasons of that fuss.

“Nina!”

Shit. Nina squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, still with her back to the very reason why she had tried to get back into her house as fast as she could. She didn’t have the stomach to face her cousin, not after what she had done, not with the things that she had been hiding from her. That she was still hiding. She had stabbed in the back the only person in her family who had ever shown her an ounce of recognition, who had treated her like a person and not like some bad seed to be rogued out. But maybe that’s exactly what she was. A bad seed.

“Hi,” she faked surprise, turning to face her.

“What have you been up to?” Agnese asked her, adjusting the empty basket she was carrying on her hip. “Feels like you’re ignoring me.”

“I’m not,” Nina replied, maybe a bit too quickly. “I’ve been… busy,” she lied, the pathetic excuse making her feel even worse.

“My mum asked me to go buy some groceries, and I need someone to accompany me,” Agnese said, seemingly oblivious to her cousin’s fib. “I was going to ask Rosa, but why don’t you come with me?”

“Sure.”

Truth was, Nina didn’t want to go. How could she keep on talking to Agnese, spending time with her, all while pretending she hadn’t done something awful to her? And what made her despise herself even more was that guilt wasn’t the only reason why she didn’t want to see her. There was a stinging, but almost imperceptible feeling deep inside her, too close to annoyance, and resentment. Resentment. As if she were in the position to be resentful. Out of all people, Agnese didn’t deserve it. So she swallowed those feelings and went with her cousin.

“Don’t you wanna know how things with Tommy are going?” Agnese asked her as soon as they had passed the gates of their shared garden, her voice tinged with excitement.

“Of course,” Nina nodded, keeping her eyes on the unpaved road beneath her feet.

“You know he had lunch with us a few days ago right?”

“Yes.”

“We all thought he’d finally propose, but he didn’t.”

Nina raised her gaze on her cousin, studying her expression. She still remembered the strange wave of panic that had gone through her when her mother had stormed into the kitchen to give her the news. The poor girl’s desperate, she had told her. “How did you take it?”

“I was worried,” Agnese admitted, moving her basket to her other arm.

“And now?”

“Not anymore. My father talked to him, and he said he just wants to do it the right way. He thought it would be more proper to wait for a month to pass since we met. If everything goes as it’s supposed to go, he’ll propose by the end of the week,” she explained, and the emotion she had tried to hold back came to the surface in all its strength.

“Good,” Nina forced a tight-lipped smile, unable to ignore the vice tightening around her heart.

“Mr. Shelby’s reputation scared me, at first, but he’s a real gentleman. I mean, he’s a bit cold,” she let out a chuckle. “But he has been very kind to me, and never overstepped in any way,” she assured. Then her eyes lit up, and she began talking again. “Did you know he’s a war hero? He won medals.”

And he threw them in the cut, Nina thought to herself. A part of her just wanted to put an end to her cousin’s rants, to tell her that there was nothing she could say about him that she didn’t know already. And that she was so, so wrong about Tommy. That he could be cold, yes, but also so very ardent. That the walls of ice he had built around him weren’t impenetrable, that they could in fact be melted. That he had strong beliefs, and his own sense of justice, and that on such things he’d never compromise. She had learned all that and even more on the nights they had spent together in her kitchen, in front of cups of tea slowly growing cold. But she didn’t have the right to tell her that. Because Tommy didn’t belong to her. Because it was Agnese who would get to see every part of him, and to Nina he would become nothing more than someone she had once deluded herself she could know.

“I’m…” she paused, the insincere words refusing to come out without some insistence on her part. “I’m happy for you.”

Agnese must’ve noticed that something in Nina’s dark eyes didn’t match her words, that a feeling far from happiness was gnawing at her from the inside, because she stopped walking and placed a hand on her arm. “You’ll find someone too,” she said softly. “Be patient.”

Nina shook her head, a bitter smile making its way on her face. “I don’t want anyone, Agnese.”

“Do you really want me to believe that you wish to be alone?” She took on a scolding tone, widening her eyes in disbelief.

“My aspirations are different than yours,” Nina said firmly, holding her gaze. “And I’d rather be alone than caged.”

“Marriage is not necessarily a prison,” she insisted, her lips curving up in reassurance. “I know I haven’t known him for long, but I can tell Mr. Shelby is not a brute. You might find someone like him.”

No, she wouldn’t. Tommy was like no one she had ever met. There were so many layers to him, so many contradictions that she could live a hundred lives and never meet someone like him. But on one thing Agnese was right: deep down, as preposterous as it sounded, he was good.

“He’s the exception.”

“What are these?”

Putting down the vegetables she had bought for her mother, Nina looked at the bouquet of red roses resting on the table. She was pretty sure they weren’t there before she left the house.

“What do they look like to you?” Her mother asked rhetorically, raising her eyebrows. She looked significantly calmer than a few hours ago, and Nina wasn’t sure whether that was because she was almost done with the lunch or because of the flowers. “Stefano brought them for you,” she explained, going to grab the grocery bag.

It took Nina more than a moment to register her mother’s words. She blinked, her mouth going dry as the memories of what had happened the last time he had been at her house came to her mind. She shifted her gaze from the roses to her mother, then to the roses again.

“He was coming back from church, when he saw them at the flower shop,” Maria continued, taking the vegetables out of the bag. “He said they made him think of you, and thought about making a little deviation to bring them here.”

At that point, Nina wasn’t even listening to her anymore. All she could do was stare at the roses in front of her, her heart racing at the realisation that Stefano was actually moving in that direction.. “This can’t be fucking real…” she murmured. “He’s not seriously doing this.”

“…so I invited him for lunch.”

“You did what?” Her head snapped in her mother’s direction, Maria’s statement harshly pulling her back to reality.

“He’s in your father’s study, talking to him. The boy’s serious about you Nina.”

In a sudden fit of rage, Nina grabbed the flowers and strode toward the bin, but before she could throw them away, her mother snatched them from her hand. “I didn’t raise you to be rude,” she scolded her. “It’s a gift, and gifts must be accepted.”

“I don’t want his gifts,” Nina spat out. “I don’t want anything from him. And I don’t want him. He can make his peace with that.”

Maria let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Nina,” she started, putting down the flowers. “He’s a nice guy-”

Nina scoffed, causing her to stop mid-sentence. So nice that he dared touch me in my own house.

“He’s a nice guy,” her mother repeated, louder this time, a way to tell her not to interrupt her again. “He talked to your father, brought you flowers. You’re twenty-two, it’s time for you to find someone. And this is an occasion. He’s willing to marry you despite-”

This time it was Maria who stopped herself. She bit the inside of her cheek, searching for better words, but Nina didn’t give her the chance to. She crossed her arms over her chest, squinting her eyes. “Despite what?” She asked, watching as her mother averted her gaze. “Despite what, mum? Despite who I am? Despite what I think? Despite what people say about me?”

“That is not what I meant.”

“I think that’s exactly what you meant,” she said coldly. A silence full of tension fell between them, and deep inside Nina hoped her mother would say something to make up for what she had just said. But she didn’t. So she put on the mask of indifference that had become so natural to her, and pretended that those words hadn’t gotten to her.

She was used to it, after all. All her life, Nina had watched her mother hope she could just be different. She had never missed the embarrassment on her face when someone pointed out her child’s peculiarities, nor the subtle envy she could see in her eyes when she looked at her nieces. All beautiful, well-mannered, pleasant, suitable for marriage. That’s what she expected to have when a daughter was finally born. Instead, she got her. She didn’t need to say it out loud for Nina to know that she wondered every day why her daughter couldn’t be a bit less like herself and a bit more like them.

It was tiring, to constantly feel the pressure to live up to everybody’s expectations, to know that she would be considered a disappointment no matter what. And although she wasn’t waiting for anybody’s approval, it would’ve felt nice to have at least one person who understood her. She didn’t want the life her parents wished for her, and at the same time she had no way of living the life she wished for herself. She wasn’t even sure what it was that she wished for herself. She only knew what she didn’t want. Yet it felt like every effort she made not to end up like her mother was inexorably guiding her to that fate.

Tommy didn’t understand the reason why Nina strode out of the kitchen with a face like thunder until lunchtime. The whole family was sitting around the table in the garden that separated the two houses. The arrangement was pretty much the same as every time they had lunch together. Vincenzo Ferrante was at the head, his wife on his left side, Pietro on his right. Salvatore was sitting between him and Nina. However, something was different this time: next to Nina was sitting Stefano. His jaw clenched at the memory of what he had walked into the other day, and his hands itched with the urge of doing what Nina had stopped him from doing. Spinietta must’ve sensed his staring, cause he raised his gaze on him with a hint of smugness on his face. He didn’t know why he was there, he didn’t know exactly what Nina’s past with him was, but it was clear there was some kind of pressure going on. She was keeping herself closer to her brother, in an attempt to put as much distance as possible between herself and Stefano, and apparently pretended he wasn’t there. Tommy could only imagine how hard it was for her to sit next to that poor excuse of a man.

Mario Ferrante, who was sitting at the end of the table with wife on his right side and the other two of his daughters on his left, glanced at him and Agnese from time to time.

Agnese. Tommy had lost track of their conversation long ago. It had become more of a monologue on her part. But how was he supposed to listen to a single word she said when something so unfair was happening right in front of him?

The one thing that brought him some relief was that Nina could find some distraction in her conversation with her brother. Salvatore said something to her, and her frown was replaced by a laugh. It enlightened her whole features, and Tommy couldn’t keep himself from lingering on the way her irises, hit by the sunlight, were marked by golden flecks. A pink tinge warmed her cheeks and two dimples were showing at the corners of her lips. For a moment she looked relaxed, off-guard, even. Lost as he was in that rare sight, Tommy didn’t even notice that a faint smile had appeared on his face. But Agnese did. Her words slowly died out, and her brows furrowed as she followed the trajectory of his eyes.

Before she had the chance to say something, Vincenzo Ferrante got up, causing the chatter to fade.

“Before the wine starts speaking for us, I’d like to say a few words,” he announced, his Italian accent threading through his words. His eyes travelled around, stopping briefly on each person at the table. “You see,” he began once everyone’s attention was on him. “Our family and Mr. Shelby’s family had…” he paused, looking for the right word. “…Misunderstandings. But we were able to communicate with an open mind.” He set his gaze on Tommy, who in return agreed with a single nod. “Now we’re sitting at the same table. Soon, we might even have something to celebrate.”

“Who could’ve guessed it, eh?” Mario Ferrante joked, eliciting laughter from those who could understand him. Maria and Rita Ferrante, whose English was too broken to understand much of what their husbands were saying, simply smiled in support.

“To peace,” Vincenzo said, raising his glass. But when he pronounced his next words, his eyes looked right in his daughter’s. “May we all make our choices with an open mind.”

The lunch proceeded smoothly enough, but it was impossible for Tommy not to sense a general feeling of discomfort. Even the eldest of the Ferrante siblings, Pietro - whose placid expression never gave anything away -, seemed to be upset. There was something going on, and he could just hope it didn’t also involve him. He hadn’t forgotten the dangerousness of his position, alone in a foreign country, surrounded by former enemies with no men on his side.

A sharp noise pulled him out of his thoughts, making him raise his gaze in front of him. Nina had dropped her fork on her plate, visibly bothered by something. More like someone. Because Stefano had been adamant in his attempts to engage her in conversation. Chuckling at her reaction, he pinched her chin with fake playfulness, a gesture that might’ve looked affectionate to less attentive eyes. Tommy tried his best to keep his face straight as his grip on the cutlery tightened. As much as he wished to intervene, there was nothing he could do that wouldn’t raise suspicion. He could just be glad that, surrounded by her family, Stefano wouldn’t be able to try anything again.

For her part, Nina was trying hard not to lose her calm, but they weren’t exactly making it easy for her. Her father’s toast had been the last straw. She hasn’t missed the way he had subtly made it clear that his words were meant for her. She was right, at last. She had been right all along. All that talk about leaving the choice to her was nothing more than empty words, than a way to make her feel like she had some kind of control, when in truth she was just another pawn in his schemes. Because at the end of the day, he was still a man. A man who wanted power, and would’ve done anything in order to achieve it. Even sacrifice his own daughter.

She wanted to leave. She needed to leave. How could everyone pretend everything was fine? How could they sit together and eat when everything was so wrong? How could they digest the hypocrisy? She couldn’t stand them, any of them. Now more than ever. She couldn’t stand their voices, she couldn’t stand their laughter, she couldn’t stand the way they talked and talked and talked. She hated the way they suddenly seemed inhuman. They were all hunching over their plates, chewing and slurping, the awful sounds almost painful to her ears. Even Stefano, who always carried himself with composure and dignity, seemed to have transformed into some feral animal, hands and fingers dirty with crumbles and sauce. Those same hands he had put on her not many days before.

“Excuse me,” she blurted out, abruptly standing up. All eyes were on Nina now, but she ignored the murmurings and crossed the garden to go back to her house before anyone could stop her. She couldn’t stay there anymore. She couldn’t tolerate the little games, and the lies. Even her own lies. Her lies to her family, her lies to herself. She couldn’t.

She grabbed the kitchen counter for support, taking deep breaths to put an order to that vortex of overwhelming feelings.

“What’s wrong, huh?” A familiar voice resounded behind her, making her snap her head up. When she turned around, Stefano was there, leaning against the doorway of the kitchen. “You’re not having fun?”

“Leave,” Nina commanded, and she didn’t even need to put on a brave facade to spit those words out with all the hatred she felt for him. She had sworn she’d never let herself be scared of him ever again, and she was determined to keep that promise. He had no right to make her feel unsafe in her own home.

“Are you going to embarrass me like that when we’re husband and wife?” Stefano moved away from the door to approach her with slow, measured steps, hands in his pockets. It came as a surprise, how easy it was to end up alone with her. He had just needed to act all concerned and offer to go check up on her - out of apprehensiveness and affection, of course. However, he was aware he had always had a certain influence on people.

Not on Nina, though. She was the one person he had never managed to fool. She had always been able to read right through him. Just like she was reading through him now. He wanted to intimidate her, to prove to her that it was him the one in power, that he was used to take what he wanted, and that he wasn’t above deception.

“Fuck off.”

Stefano tutted. “You really must be taught your place, don’t you?”

“By you?” A laugh escaped her lips, but it held no humour. She was openly mocking him, and that was enough to get under his skin. A veil of darkness seemed to cover his gaze, and he snatched her arm with a swift movement.

“Careful,” he murmured through gritted teeth. Even though her heart was racing in her chest, Nina held his stare, a mixture of anger and mockery in her eyes. She was walking on thin ice, yet she couldn’t help but push his buttons, see how much effort it would take for him to snap. She wanted to be a nuisance to him, to torment him like he had tormented her for all those years, to haunt him with the reminder that it didn’t matter what he did or said, he wouldn’t get what he wanted.

“What’s happening here?” Maria Ferrante entered the kitchen, interrupting that staring match.

Stefano promptly brought his other hand on Nina’s arm, making it look as if he was supporting her. “Nina’s not feeling very well, signora Maria.” His hard expression softened as he put on his usual mask of affability. Nina grimaced, taking a step back, and a wave of relief washed over her. Her skin almost burned where he had touched her, and she felt the sudden need to scrub the imprint of his fingers off.

“Go to your room, then,” Maria said sternly to her daughter, and this time she was not surprised to see her comply without hesitation.

She didn’t believe a single word Stefano had said. She had seen her Nina’s face. She was her child, her blood. And although their relationship seemed to be made of misunderstandings and words left unsaid, she knew her like the back of her hand. She could read through her every expression, every gesture. And she had seen something in her eyes she had never seen until that moment, not even once. Fear. That brave, reckless girl who had never been scared of anything since she had drawn her first breath was afraid of Stefano.

That same guy who always behaved so nicely, who helped her carry her bags, who showed the outmost respect to her husband, who spoke words of affection for their daughter. Now it didn’t seem like an innocent infatuation anymore. Because when he looked at Nina earlier that day, he had the same look in his eyes she had seen in hundreds of men. And when he touched her, he did it as if he was entitled to it. His mask had slipped, and she could finally see him for who he was, behind the pleasant smiles and the charm and the courtesy. Maria could only be thankful to Mr. Shelby for asking her for some more water at just the right moment.

Her gaze went to the knife lying on the table. Men like him, like her husband, like her own sons - mafia men - only understood one language. Stefano’s guard was off, and Maria was quick enough to catch him by surprise. In a matter of seconds she had the knife pointed at his throat, and she was unknowingly pressing the edge of the blade against the small scar that her daughter had given him a few years earlier. He clamped his jaw, keeping himself as far as he could from the blade.

“Tocca di nuovo mia figlia,” she said lowly, gritting her teeth. “E ti sgozzo come un maiale.”

(“You put your hands on my daughter ever again, and I’ll gut you like a pig.”)

NEXT CHAPTER

Heart, Body and Soul taglist

@zablife @queenofshinigamis @raincoffeeandfandoms / @justrainandcoffee @call-sign-shark

@kmc1989 @babayaga67 @kmhappybunny240 @diorrfairy @mariaelizabeth21-blog1

@gaslysainz @brummiereader @loverhymeswith @fairypitou @prettywhenicry4

@mysticalbouquetwolf-posts @woofgocows @girlwith-thepearlearring @goblinjnr @outlanderuniverse

@citylights31 @neonpurplestars89-blog @red-riding-wood @evita-shelby

General tag list:

@iamngoclinh08 @lilywinchesterlove @fandom-puff @capitanostella @caelys

@lucillethings @peakyxtommy @queenofkings1212 @lyarr24 @kmc1989

@call-sign-shark @jomarch-wannabe @ce1iat

@red-riding-wood @optimisticsandwichgladiator

Tommy Shelby taglist:

@50svibes

[theragethatisdesire]

dall'inizio - eren x reader, 18+!!!!

welcome back to the ti penso universe everyone!!!! this is a continuation/prequel of the little series we've followed from my first eren x reader fic. i was really interested to see how they met and ....unsurprisingly, it's a one night stand that doesn't turn out as planned. this one is also super fun because we get to hear from both eren AND reader alternatively, plus reader is a confident, bad bitch and we love that for her. this one goes out to @philliam-writes bc ik you love this eren as much as i do!!!!!! here's ur part 3 bestie >:)

if you'd like to catch up and meet our eren x reader, find them here:

(1) ti penso ogni giorno

(2) nel bene e nel male

pairing: eren x afab reader

wc: 6.7k

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. if you are a minor, please do not read below the cut.

CWs: smut (duh), consensual hook-up, rough sex, biting, dirty talk, oral sex (fem!receiving), alcohol/drug use (just weed nothing crazy), cussing, penetrative vaginal sex, swearing, use of names (baby), crying, multiple orgasms, eren being a lovestruck idiot (and so are you if you're being honest)

title (as always) means "from the beginning" in italian i'm obsessed with them <3

-

“You look like a whore,” Ymir says bluntly, dragging her eyes over your outfit– or, lack thereof.

“It’s not that bad,” you wave her off, turning back to the mirror to tug at the hem of your little black slip. You do look like a whore, but it’s intentional. You haven’t gotten laid in three months– your friends have been calling you dramatic, but that’s a lot, okay? You’re in college, you’re supposed to sleep around, right?

On top of that, your last few situationships just haven’t quite…well, they weren’t bad, but they didn’t scratch the itch. You desperately need a fuck– not just a fuck, a good fuck, and you have a feeling tonight’s going to be the night. It’s Halloween, the international holiday for running around in basically zero clothes, and you’ve taken great care to adhere to that tradition.

“Are you a mouse?” Historia wrinkles her nose at you from her spot at the vanity in the corner. She’s in a dalmatian costume; cute, spotted ears sticking up from her blonde hair, blue collar tinkling when she cocks her head at you.

“I’m a fucking cat,” you mutter, drawing a black triangle of eyeliner on the tip of your nose, “I didn’t have time for a real costume.”

“She just wants to get laid,” Mikasa announces, pushing through the studio apartment door with a huff, arms laden with plastic bags that are making a tell-tale clinking sound, “it’s been like, two whole weeks.”

“Three months!” You correct her, defensive.

“I understand,” Ymir, appropriately dressed as Cruella de Vil, grins, “it’s been…what, Stor? Two hours?”

“Ymir!” Historia, scandalized, flushes a furious red. Both you and Mikasa are unphased; in the last four months they’ve been together, the three feet they’re sitting from one another now is the farthest apart you’ve seen them.

“I’m not a whore,” you turn around, hands on hips, “I just…it’s been awhile since I had good sex. Floch was–”

“The worst?” Mikasa finishes for you. You hate how well she knows you; even after less than two years of knowing each other, she can practically read your mind.

“Yeah, you may have mentioned that once or twice,” Historia turns back to the mirror, immediately disinterested. “Or a thousand times.”

You throw your hands up, turning back to the mirror to finish your whiskers. “So none of you can blame me.”

“While you two,” Mikasa points between Ymir and Historia accusingly, “have been screwing like rabbits, and you,” her black-painted fingernail finds its way to you, “have been trying to figure out how to sleep with half of Manhattan, I took the liberty of actually making plans for us.”

“Jean’s?” You raise a knowing eyebrow at her, grateful to put someone else in the hot seat for the night. Mikasa’s cheeks tinge pink. Busted.

“He’s throwing a party, yeah,” she answers slowly, trying to talk her way around her obvious attraction to him, “but it’s not those douchebags he usually hangs out with. My best friend from home, Eren, just got into town, and,” she looks at you pointedly, “some of his friends are actually cute.”

You’re unconvinced. “Pictures?”

“You’ll have to wait and see,” Mikasa bites her lip mischievously, “but if you take a few tequila shots with me, I might be persuaded to show you one or two.”

You’re dubious. Mikasa’s definitely shown you a photo of these guys before, and you don’t remember a standout in the lineup. This Eren character, however…Mikasa has a framed picture on her bedside nightstand of them in high school, and you remember him being sort of cute. Dark, short-cropped hair, big green eyes so wide and earnest that he almost reminded you of a movie character. That picture was three or four years old now so…who knows? Maybe he’d grown into his features.

“Eren’s a no-go, though,” Mikasa continues, knowing your exact train of thought of course, pouring out shots of lukewarm, cheap tequila. Your stomach gurgles in protest at the smell as you accept yours. “He’s a nightmare to women, trust me.”

“Who knows,” Ymir pipes up, nodding her head towards you, “she’s a nightmare to men, so.”

“I am not a nightmare,” you narrow your eyes, “I just don’t like to be tied down, that’s all.”

“You’ll have to be at some point,” Historia argues, smiling when Ymir slips a hand into hers. You wrinkle your nose, uninterested.

“It’s 2018, Stor, not very feminist of you,” you tut, throwing back your shot and practically choking it down. Ick.

“I’m a lesbian, how much more feminist can I get?”

“Touché.”

“Just promise me you won’t get wrapped up with him?” Mikasa eyes you, still not trusting the glint of curiosity in your eye.

Ymir crosses her arms over her chest. “Are you positive you like Jean and not this Eren dude?”

Mikasa makes a fake retching sound. “Eren’s practically my brother. I’ve seen his bare ass more times than I can count. Way past the attraction threshold, trust me. I just…I know him. And I know you,” she glares at you, “it’s a toss-up as to who would do more damage to the other.”

“I’ll behave,” you placate her, throwing your arms around her shoulders, “…maybe.”

-

Eren might puke. No, wait, he’s going to puke– oh, no, just an unbelievably loud burp. Eren smiles contentedly, feeling much better even as it stinks up the entire taxi. Connie leans over Armin, scrunches his nose and squints his eyes.

“That fucking reeks, dude!”

“Sorry,” Eren shrugs, turning his head back to the window and ignoring Armin and Connie’s complaints. They were all a few beers deep- what did they expect? 

Eren’s lived a few hours outside of New York City all his life, but he’s never been, except maybe once or twice for field trips as a kid. He never remembered it looking like this, though: each little apartment twinkled like a star, giving the wall of skyscrapers the appearance of the night sky. Even as the cab screeches and jerks in the Lower West Side traffic, Eren feels like he’s in a spaceship, free and flying amongst the stars. 

Maybe he could talk to Zeke, convince him to move their little operation out of their garage and into the city. There was money here, right? And plenty of musicians who weren’t quite good enough to get signed by any major labels…

“Mikasa says she and her friends will be over in five,” Armin squints at his phone screen, holding it far away from him like an old man to type a response. Eren nearly rolls his eyes.

“Would you just get some fucking glasses already?”

“Annie said they made me look nerdy,” Armin shrugs. Connie groans.

“You two broke up like, a year ago–”

“Six months,” Armin corrects him, eyes growing sadder by the second.

“Okay, six months, whatever, we’ve got to get you laid tonight, dude.”

Eren lets the two slip into an argument about the “appropriate amount of time” to wait to sleep with someone after a breakup, much preferring his unusually contemplative mood to Connie and Armin’s bickering after their four-hour train ride together. He smiled to himself; God, it would be good to see Mikasa again. He wouldn’t have admitted it at gunpoint, but she was practically his mom growing up, and she’d been gone for over a year, only visiting for Christmas. Rumor had it that she’d been spending a lot of time with Jean as of late, so he needed to see what that was all about, too.

And who had Eren been spending a lot of time with lately? No one but bar rats and slim pickings from the frat parties at Trost University near his hometown. When was the last time he’d even gotten laid? A month? Two? Her name had been Jenna…no, Jenny? Josephina? Fuck, he should remember that. Eren needs to get laid, regardless, but if he dares to step near any of Mikasa’s friends, she’ll kill him, he knows that from experience. Then again, maybe this weird-ass Jean situation would come in handy. If Mikasa ends up distracted…

“Excuse me!” Armin disturbs his thoughts once again; Eren scowls. “Excuse me, sir? I think we’re here.”

Eren pays for the cab. Armin had bought the train tickets and the chain-gang costumes they were all currently sporting, and Connie was always flat broke, insisting his music career would work out soon. That could be Eren’s fault, though: Connie was one of his and Zeke’s first “clients”. None of them even bothered keeping up with the money exchanged between each other anymore; Connie had been in their kindergarten class, Armin’s mom had changed all of their diapers, Mikasa’s parents were the “cool parents” that let them smoke weed in the backyard, Jean’s mom made the best potato salad. They were a little family, separated by life and college at the moment, but a family all the same. Eren felt a little tingle of appreciation in his stomach as they climbed the stairs to Jean’s walk-up.

“Jaeger!” Jean was dapping him up and smacking a fist against his back before Eren could even properly look around the dark apartment.

“Kirstein,” Eren returns his embrace and has to shout over the music, suddenly smacked with a wave of homesickness at the familiar smell of weed and Jean’s tacky Hugo Boss cologne.

“Make yourself at home, dude,” Jean’s nearly inaudible over the thumping house music. He’s got some stupid mummy costume on that exposes his lean stomach, basically just shirtless and wrapped in toilet paper. Eren stifles a laugh, looking around the apartment for any other familiar faces.

Reiner approaches him next, a goofy, drunken grin splitting his face wide open, tackling Eren in a bear hug. Most of the greetings go like that; I miss you! How are you? How’s the business? Are you still in Shiganshina? It makes Eren’s chest tight, makes him miss the closeness of the people he loves. He was just always fucking working, helping Zeke with paperwork, running around town talking to clients, pulling at his face late at night looking over the finances of everything. He feels wound up, ready to burst, but the blunt and beer Bertholdt just handed him should fix that, at least somewhat. He needs…fuck, he needs to get laid.

His eyes search the room, looking for the one person he’s looking most forward to seeing, but he doesn’t find Mikasa where he expects.

She’s perched on Jean’s lap, giggling over her drink as Jean waves his arms wildly, telling her a story. That bizarre sight only holds Eren’s gaze for a moment, though, because there you are beside her, grinning wickedly with one of those stupid vapes between your teeth.

Eren stops dead in his tracks, speechless. Where do they even make women like that? He goes bottom to top, letting himself be impressed with how well you’re balancing on those high heels, ravishing every naked inch of your exposed legs until he reaches the hem of– fuck, is that just lingerie? Whatever little black thing you’re wearing, it makes his heart race, makes his pants tight. It’s low-cut in the chest enough to tease, a little collar around your neck, and your face…even your face makes him hard, so beautiful in the low lighting, eyes glimmering. You look evil and fun and sexy all at once, and Eren’s sold within the first ten seconds of seeing you.

Before he can make a beeline in your direction, he realizes he’s taken his gaze off of Mikasa and Jean long enough for them to approach him, Mikasa throwing her arms around his neck.

“Eren!” She squeals in his ear, clearly already drunk. Eren chuckles, trying to rein himself in enough to hold a stable conversation. The little black dress flashes behind his eyes as he smiles down at Mikasa.

“Hey Mika,” he ruffles her hair, making Mikasa grumble and reach towards her head to right what he’s ruined. His eyes wander back to you; you’re watching him too, sizing him up. He wonders if you like what you see, pulls at the zipper of his orange jumpsuit to inch it down, reveal some of his stomach. Eren’s not conceited per se, but he spends an unhealthy amount of time in the gym, and he knows it shows. As your gaze travels down to where he holds his zipper, Eren can’t look away, knows it must be obvious that he’s distracted.

“Bro,” Jean snaps his fingers in front of Eren’s eyes, looking over his shoulder to see what Eren’s staring at. He turns back with a smirk. “Yeah?”

Fuck, now Mikasa’s looking off in the same direction, returning her eyes to him with a scowl. Drunk or not, she never fails to scare the shit out of him. “No. No fucking way, Eren.”

“What?” Eren sips his beer innocently, shrugging. He was only staring…for now.

“She’s my best friend, Eren, no,” Mikasa says, firmer this time.

“Thought I was your best friend?”

“Didn’t she just break things off with Floch like…” Jean trails off at the withering glare Mikasa shoots him, turning red.

“She’s off-limits.” Eren nods, her words going in one ear and out the other. Mikasa’s scolded him before, and she won’t stop anytime soon, so what’s one more? She can read his mind, evidently, because she reaches up and pinches his cheek, yanking him down to her level.

“Ow!”

“Off. Fucking. Limits.” Mikasa seethes. “Do you hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah I- fuck, let go! I hear you Mika,” Eren rubs his sore cheek, frowning. He can see you laughing at him, eyes barely visible over the edge of your drink. Great, Eren thinks; getting a talking-to from Mikasa like a child was not the first impression he wanted to give you.

Mikasa’s grabbing Jean’s hand and pulling him back towards the crowd, presumably to play guard dog for you, but before she can get him too far, Jean leans back towards Eren, cups a hand around his mouth.

“She’s single, bro,” Jean manages to get out before Mikasa pulls harder, “go for it!”

Eren grins. If Mikasa wanted to bite his head off for this, now he could blame it on Jean. What the hell was he supposed to say to you, though? You’re leagues above the girls he’s been pursuing. If Eren’s honest with himself, he’s intimidated by you, but his only solution is to throw some more of his beer back for liquid courage. He’s always loved a challenge.

When he pulls the cup away from his face, you’ve appeared in front of him, smiling demurely and nearly making him jump out of his skin.

“Hi.” 

-

The second you saw him, you were hooked. He was gorgeous, dark hair pulled into a little half-bun on the back of his head, pretty eyes, and tall and broad to boot. He was almost stern-looking, dark eyebrows shielding his eyes. Dark and mean, just the way you like them.

Mikasa had given him a massive hug, interrupting the clear eye-fucking you were engaged in across the room; so that was Eren? Her long-lost best friend that was always too busy to visit? The happy kid from the picture? You watched her scold him, giggling to yourself at how childlike he became, crumbling under Mikasa’s pinch and pouting when she let him go.

You had no choice, really. Your promise to Mikasa had flown out of your mind the moment you saw those full lips pursed around the blunt, blowing out a puff of smoke, stretching into a wide, dangerous smile. You’re an only child and admittedly, a bit spoiled, so when you want something, you get it.

“Hi,” you can’t manage anything more clever, not face to face with his bare chest. Jean’s apartment is stuffy, and you catch the gleam of sweat on his chest in the LED lighting. You lick your lips.

“Hi,” Eren responds stiffly, looking as surprised as if you’d just punched him in the gut.

“You’re Eren, right? Mikasa’s friend?”

Eren hits his blunt again, nods slowly. “I don’t think we’ve met though, you’re…?”

You give him your name. He smiles and repeats it, rolling it around on his tongue and getting a taste for it. You can already see little hearts in his eyes, it makes you grin to yourself. You had expected him to put up more of a fight; there’s a dozen girls in this room alone that would fall all over themselves to get him in bed, but he’s enraptured by you, eyes never leaving your face. You’ve got him. 

“A cat, huh?” Eren addresses the costume, dipping his head in the direction of the little black ears on your head. You’re suddenly embarrassed, feeling a bit silly.

“I, uh, didn’t really have time to shop,” you shrug, pulling at the hem of your dress. Eren’s mouth quirks up. “A prisoner?”

“Yeah, I didn’t get to pick. I like yours, though, it fits you.”

You cock an eyebrow at him. “A cat fits me?”

“Yeah,” Eren says, growing surer by the second, “I don’t know. Just fits. S’cute.”

You’re embarrassed by the giddy flutter in your stomach. God, he’s delicious. “You think I’m cute?”

“I think lots of things about you,” Eren replies, voice low and sultry and hardly audible over the music. His eyes widen like he hadn’t exactly meant to say that out loud, but it’s too late now. You grin, all teeth and bad intentions.

“We just met,” you point out. Eren’s confidence has returned, he boldly brings a hand to the spaghetti strap of your dress. His fingers are hot– why do men always run so hot? His touch almost burns.

“You wore this,” he rubs the fabric between his fingers, “and expect me not to have a few thoughts on it? Wasn’t that the point?”

The breath leaves your lungs. Your confidence fizzles at the same rate as your arousal grows. There are plenty of hot guys here, but you might have jumped into the deep end with this one. Something flickers in his eyes, something hungry.

“Why don’t you tell me about these thoughts of yours?”

“I will,” Eren nods, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, “later.”

“Later?”

“We’re at a party,” Eren takes the empty cup from you, replacing it with his own, much larger hand, “shouldn’t we at least dance a little?”

Before you can argue, he’s pulling you out into the center of Jean’s obnoxiously spacious living room, into a jungle of sweaty, gyrating bodies. You’re close enough to the speakers now that the bass pounds through your body to the same rhythm as your heart thudding in your chest. The crowded, makeshift dance floor pushes you into Eren, skin against skin. You have a fleeting moment to be grateful that you’re likely now obscured from Mikasa’s view before a pair of strong hands around your hips prevent any more conscious thoughts from taking shape in your brain.

“One of my thoughts,” Eren’s right beside your ear now, voice echoing in your brain, “is that I like you. Like this body.”

“T-thank you,” you stammer out, wanting to facepalm at not only your stupidly simple response, but the weakness in your voice.

“Move it for me.”

You obey him, letting your body move with the music, trying not to get too caught up in whether or not you look ridiculous with how you’re pressing your body into his, arms thrown around his neck. Eren seems to like the way you move on him, pushing and pulling your hips in the rhythm you’ve set, looking down his nose at you with bloodshot eyes.

Your panties are growing wetter by the second; he’s intoxicating, the feel of him against you, firm and tacky with sweat. His hands are tracing up your sides, dragging slowly as if he’s memorizing the curves of your body. You haven’t known him long enough to want him the way that you do, humiliated by the carnal desire simmering in the pit of your stomach, but you’ve had enough tequila not to care. The whole thing is too similar to what you really want, and you make it through a solid seven or eight songs before you can’t take the stifling tension between the two of you any longer, thick enough to cut with a knife.

You lean up on the tips of your toes, wobbling in your heels, and grab him tight around the neck, pulling him to you. Your lips finally meet; Eren’s slow to respond as you’ve caught him off guard, but he catches on quickly, lips falling open so you can kiss him deeper. His lips are softer than you expect, supple and giving as they move with yours. You trace your tongue through his teeth, hardly suppressing a whine. He tastes good, like cheap beer and weed and lust. You drink him in, a satisfied hum buzzing in your chest.

Without warning, Eren practically rips you off of him. “Not here.”

He’s dragging you through the people around you, knocking them out of the way and not stopping to apologize when he gets offended looks. He pulls you into what you know to be Jean’s room, wastes no time in shoving you up against the door and blocking you in with his wide shoulders.

You swallow hard; you’ve underestimated him.

“Another one of my thoughts,” Eren mouths at the area beneath your ear, makes you groan, “is that you’re pretty. Like, very fucking pretty. Bet you’re twice as pretty under this dress.”

“I think you’re pretty, too,” you manage to say, forcing the words from your mouth. Eren chuckles, smiling against the shell of your ear.

“C’mere,” he tilts your chin up, kissing you again. It’s troublingly gentle, long and languid as your mouths move against one another. He kisses you like he loves you; the thought makes alarm bells ring in your head, and you nip at his bottom lip to break up the emotional momentum, sink your teeth into it. Eren pulls back, chuckling down at you. “You’re mean.”

“Only a little.”

“Is that what you like?” Eren thumbs at your mouth, slipping his finger between your lips. You suck greedily, rubbing your tongue against the roughness of his fingertip. “Like it a little mean? Between you and me, I like ‘em a little mean, too.”

You nod, gently biting on his thumb. Eren groans, a low rumble deep in his chest. “Oh, I’m going to have fun with you.”

He’s pulling your dress over your head before you can stop him, sucking in a sharp breath when he gets an eyeful of your lace-clad breasts, the tiny thong you’ve slipped over your hips. Stronger than you’d expected, Eren pulls you up to wrap your legs around his waist, slamming your back against the door with a loud thud and knocking your stupid cat ears to the floor. You can hear a few sounds of surprise from outside; surely that got a few people’s attention, but you’re lost in him, whimpering at the feel of his jumpsuit costume rubbing against your clothed center.

Eren’s sloppy, placing open-mouthed kisses down your neck, pausing to suck a bruise underneath your ear. You gasp, canting your hips into his stomach, desperate for friction. You’re normally not so uninhibited, but Eren’s doing something to your head, has your mind spinning. He’s carrying you over to the bed, dropping you down onto Jean’s sheets. Eren leans down to pull your heels off, a sweet gesture if you could find the presence of mind to acknowledge it. You feel a flicker of guilt about doing this in Jean’s bed, but when Eren starts sliding a hand up your thigh, it flickers away into nothing, swallowed by your bottomless want. 

“Look at that,” Eren smirks, rubbing his fingers over your panties, “soaked. This all for me?”

“Mhm,” you whine, hips jerking up towards his touch. It is for him, it was from the moment you laid eyes on him, and you both know it. His hands are everywhere: unclasping your bra, pulling your panties down, palming at your tits. You arch your back up to him, offering him your chest; he responds by closing down on one of your nipples with his teeth.

“So pretty,” Eren’s murmuring around the mouthful of your flesh he’s got, twisting the neglected nipple of your right breast between his fingers, “so pretty.”

“Eren,” you sigh, running your fingers through his hair, pulling it out of its bun and wrapping the hair band around your wrist. His mouth is hot, scalding, even, but you pull him closer to you anyway, pressing his face into your tits. Eren doesn’t seem to mind, letting you move him this way and that, show him what you like and how to pull those pretty moans out of your mouth. Before long, he’s kissing his way down your stomach, hands gripping your hips like a lifeline.

“Want a taste,” Eren sounds more like he’s talking to himself than to you, “need to taste this pussy.”

“Eren,” you reach for his hair, trying to pull him back up to you. While you’d love to see what the mouth that had just kissed you breathless could do between your legs, the thumping music outside is an annoying but consistent reminder that there’s an entire party outside and you’re in Jean’s bedroom. The clock’s ticking. “Want to feel you, we don’t have time for–”

“Don’t have time?” Something wicked lights Eren’s face up as he shimmies your panties down your legs. “Believe me, it won’t take long.”

“Eren,” your protest is feeble but earnest, and you make another attempt to reach for him when a long, thick lick up your center renders you near-unconscious. You moan, a little louder than you would have liked to.

“See? Gonna make you feel so good, trust me,” Eren’s punctuating each word with a little kiss somewhere on your pussy: your clit, your lips, right over your fluttering entrance. You have no choice but to whimper and nod, canting your hips up towards him. You look down, immediately regretting it: Eren’s wiggled out of his costume, naked and beautiful and staring up at you from between your legs. You’re hardly able to swallow the inhuman sound that threatens to rip from your throat.

Where he’d been cool and calculated pulling you onto the dance floor, you quickly learn that Eren eats pussy like he can’t control himself, like his life depends on it. His massive hands wrap around the tops of your thighs, securing you against his face as you try to squirm away. He licks into you enthusiastically, moaning against you at the taste, sending a succession of vibrations through you that go straight to the fire in your stomach.

When his lips close around your clit and suck hard, you have to slap a hand over your mouth to stop a wail from reaching the ears right outside the door. Eren takes the opportunity to sneak a finger into you, curl it right against that gummy spot in your walls that has you seeing stars. As he works his finger in your cunt, he kisses his way back up to your mouth, greeting you with a sloppy kiss.

“Feels good, right?” Eren’s face is literally dripping with you, a sharp-toothed grin barely visible in the dim light.

“Feels good,” you whimper, daring to look down to where he’s grinding his palm against your clit. You can see the veins of his muscular arm straining as he pumps in and out of you; it’s a lewd sight, one that makes your head spin. “‘S so much Eren, I— fuck.”

“Yeah?” Eren’s smile grows darker, another finger slips into you easily. You’re practically dripping onto the sheets at this point, rolling your hips against his hand with your mouth hanging open. It’s humiliating but too gratifying to stop. “Gonna cum for me? You can do it, give it to me.”

“God– close, so c-close,” you can barely find the words to respond, the pressure in your belly swelling at an alarming speed. You’re going to squirt, you know you are, should move off of Jean’s bed or warn Eren or do something, but it’s too late.

You thrash in Eren’s grip, cumming so hard you think you can taste blood where you bite your lip. You can feel the wetness spraying from you, soaking Eren’s hand and the sheets and your inner thighs, can distantly hear your pitiful cries, but you’re powerless to do anything about it until the mind-numbing orgasm’s run its course. Eventually you do settle, babbling incoherently into Eren’s shoulder about Jean’s ruined sheets, about how you’re sorry for making a mess. Eren shuts you up with his mouth on yours; you can hear the distant rip of a condom wrapper.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he laughs, rolling on top of you and lining himself up, “gonna have to keep you.”

Before you can even think to offer to return the favor or make a sarcastic remark about how you’d never let anyone keep you, Eren’s pressing into you, and your mind short-circuits. Shit, maybe you’d let him keep you.

You hadn’t gotten a good look at him in the darkness, but he’s big, bigger than you’ve ever had before, and big enough that you realize this when he’s not even halfway in.

“Eren…it’s so– s’big,” you hiccup into his shoulder, fingernails clawing into his biceps.

“Is it too much, baby?” You hate pet names, hate them, but from the greek god splitting you open right now, you love it, want to lick the word right out of his mouth and taste it on your own tongue. The genuine concern glittering in his eyes, the little furrow between his brows as he pauses, frowns down at you, fuck, you might be in love.

“No, not too much– feels good.”

Eren’s grin is feral. “Yeah? Tell me.”

“Feels so fucking good,” a little giggle sneaks out from your clenched jaw, Eren smiles wider and cups your face to kiss you again, far too gently to match the way he’s stretching you, bullying your cunt into the shape of him.

“Feel full?”

“Mhm,” he’s bottomed out now, impossibly deep, and you give him a little roll of your hips to show him just how okay you are, that you’re ready to see what he can really do.

“You’ve got–” Eren rolls his hips experimentally, punches a moan from your chest– “the best fucking pussy. So tight for me.”

Ordinarily, dirty talk makes you cringe, but something about the way he words things, as raw as if his inner monologue is spilling out of him, turns you on, makes your cunt clench down around him. That makes him happy, he sucks in a breath of air and starts pounding into you hard enough to make tears well in your eyes, hard enough to make you squeal in a way no one else ever has.

“Taking me so fucking well, baby,” Eren’s hands are grabbing your face, his lips pressing into your forehead, “never gonna let this pussy go.”

You grant him a long moan of agreement, so cockdrunk that for now, you’re more than happy to sign your freedom away to stay in this bed, pinned underneath him for all of eternity. He’s fucking into you so deep he’s practically in your throat; your breath comes out in short little huffs, choking on the brutal pace of his fucking. And god, he’s so big, but you’re taking him somehow, like you were made for it.

Eren moves one of his hands away from his face to swat your fingers away from where you’re digging into his arms, surely close to drawing blood.

“Fucking hurts,” he hisses, “just as mean as you are pretty, y’know that?”

He easily manhandles your arms above your head, pinning them above you by your wrists. The way he stretches his body to do so changes the angle he’s fucking into you at; now he’s hammering into the spot inside of you he’d found far too quickly with his fingers. Your eyes shoot open at the change, and Eren doesn’t miss it. He smirks.

“Right there?”

“God, yes, please– right there,” you sound pathetic, the few surviving rational brain cells you possess are laughing at you, but there’s no help for it. He’s already got you spiraling towards cumming again, the wetness from your cunt creating a sucking sound where he’s moving in and out of you.

“Fuck, m’close. Think you can cum again for me?”

“Yes,” you breathe, tilting your head up to nip at his neck, a tear or two running down into your hairline. You can do anything he asks, you think, anything in the world just for him, for how he’s making you feel. Eren practically growls, pistoning his hips faster.

“Need you to cum for me, okay beautiful? Cum right now.”

“S-so close– I– Eren, oh my god,” you’re babbling, eyes rolling back into your head. Eren smashes his lips to yours, grinding his hips into your clit and shoving you over the edge for the second time that night. You sob and convulse around him, back arching desperately and pressing your chests together. You’re seeing stars as he fucks you through it, grunting in your ear and growing sloppy as you tighten around him.

“Fuck!” Eren bites into your shoulder, hard enough to bruise, stilling his hips as deep inside you as he can manage. Your fucked-out brain wants the condom off, wants to feel the full warmth of him as he cums inside of you, grinding his hips against yours. Before he’s finished, Eren moves back to your mouth, kissing you deep and slow, a kiss that means a whole lot more than what you’ve just done together as a party rages just past the door.

As you’re panting beneath him, trying to ground yourself and come back to reality, Eren rolls off of you, whips the condom off, and to your surprise, takes you into his arms, pulls your head to his chest.

“You okay?”

You’re so blissed out right now that it’s a laughable question, and you giggle, watery and light into his chest. “More than okay.”

Eren laughs at that, a real laugh from deep in his stomach. The sound of it makes something warm and happy spark in your chest. “That good, huh?”

“You’re alright.” You’re trying to keep your eyes open, more than aware that your teeny tiny thong is on the floor and you’re naked in the arms of a stranger in Jean’s fucking bed, but Eren’s so warm, so comfortable, your eyes are fluttering despite your protests. 

“Oh?” Eren’s voice raises in pitch, gets breathy. “Yes, Eren! Right there, Eren! I’m cumming, Eren!”

“Oh my god, shut up!” You smack at his chest, cheeks burning, but you make no move to roll away from him, preferring your snug little hovel against him to the loud, smoky party that awaits you should you leave.

“S’okay,” Eren presses a kiss to your hairline, “I like that you’re loud.”

“Not loud,” you grouch, resolving to let yourself enjoy just a few minutes of keeping your eyes closed before you return to the party. The last thing you remember is Eren humming, tracing circles into your shoulders with his fingers. You think you recognize the tune; it’s a love song.

–

“Jaeger!”

“Oh my god, oh my fucking god, is that Jean? What time is it? Eren!”

Eren’s first peaceful sleep in months is disturbed rather rudely, in his opinion; he shields his eyes from the brightness of the overhead light, peering through his fingers to see you, hair a rat’s nest and smudged makeup in rings around your eyes. He scowls at the warm, empty spot next to him in the bed that you’ve already leapt out of, frantic with energy even through your hangover. You’re alternating between running around the room naked, trying to find your dress, and shaking him urgently. He bites back a grin; so you are real, and just as hot as he remembered.

“Chill the fuck out, Jean!” Eren shouts, using far more energy than he can afford to expend if he’s leaving the bed anytime soon. The alarm clock on the nightstand reads 7:01am. Shit. “We’ll be out in a second!”

“Get your ass out here, Eren!” Shit. Mikasa’s here too? Oh, he’s dead the second he leaves this room. All the better to stay put, then.

“Get up,” you hiss at him, looking every bit of a pissed-off racoon as you scrounge around on the floor.

“Need my hair tie back if you want me to get up.”

“Ugh, here,” you fling it at him, hitting him squarely in the forehead. Eren chuckles, pulling his hair off of his neck and into its usual bun. He feels empty, feels alone, realizes that he wants your touch, the same body-to-body contact that he’d enjoyed last night.. 

“They’re fine,” Eren grumbles, hoping you can’t see the amusement written on his face, “we’ve got a few more minutes.”

He reaches sleepily for you, pulling you back into the bed with him amidst your whispered protests, pulling your lips back to his where they belong. He kisses you slowly, indulgently, convincingly. Your skin against his does wonders for the soul-crushing anxiety he’s been putting up with over the last few months. You’re like a drug to him; just one hit and he feels worlds better, feels like he can actually get through everything weighing on him for now. Jesus, even your morning breath doesn’t turn him off; his cock twitches in interest beneath the covers. Cute when you’re angry, he thinks to himself. He has a feeling you’d smack him if he said it out loud.

“We can’t,” you breathe into his mouth, pushing weakly at his chest. Eren loves the feel of your palms on his chest, necessarily resistant in the name of a one–night stand, but lacking the force to prove your point. You want him too, he realizes. The thought goes straight to his dick, and he takes a deep breath to keep his composure, to stop himself from jumping all over you with Mikasa and Jean right outside. He’s rather impressed with his efforts, rubbing small circles on your lower back instead of grabbing a handful of your ass and pulling you into his lap like he wants to.

“We can,” Eren murmurs back, already ten times happier than he was a moment ago, “just want to kiss you, that’s all.”

That makes you pull back, fix him with a stern look. “I don’t want to come off as a bitch, but I don’t really do the morning-after thing. Don’t you live, like, five hours from the city anyway?”

Eren’s not the brightest when he’s tired, and he’s even stupider around beautiful women. He cocks his head at you, smiling. “Mikasa didn’t tell you? I’m moving to the city in a few weeks.”

You eye him suspiciously. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Eren’s bullshitting, bullshitting very badly and he knows it, “just have to get some things worked out with my brother and our business. Get the operation moved here, that’s all.”

He knows your type: flighty, heavily anti-commitment, and meaner than a snake when you’re cornered. But Eren hopes, he hopes stupidly and against all reason because even if it was just a night, he meant what he said in the throes of passion. You’re funny, you’re interesting, you’re sexy, and he doesn’t want to let you go. He wants to fuck you stupid, just like he did last night, for the rest of his life.

He can’t say any of this out loud, of course, but what if he’s not bullshitting? What if he can convince Zeke to move their amateur record label into the city, where they can pick up real artists, and he can fuck you stupid whenever he feels like it? Maybe he can even learn how you like your coffee, what your bra size is, where the junk drawer in your apartment lives. Eren doesn’t know you, he knows that, but he inexplicably wants those things, wants the mundane parts of you for himself.

“Get the fuck out here, Jaeger, that’s my fucking bed!” Fists pound against the door, threatening to barge into your little sanctuary. Mikasa’s calling your name from outside too, voice harsh and angry. Eren waits for you to scold him, waits for you to shove him off of you and tell him to fuck off.

To his surprise, you make no move to get up and offer him a sheepish grin, shrugging shyly as if you’re not fully naked in his arms. “I guess I’ll see you around, then.”

Eren’s heart swells. “I’m not chancing that. Give me your number.”“You can earn my number if you buy me breakfast,” you scoff, “and help me find my dress before Mikasa kills us both.”

[bad268]

hey lovely! hope your well.

I was wondering if you could do a Arvid Lindblad x reader story please?

I have a couple request if that's okay?

First

Arvid and Y/n both like each other, and Dino and the other drivers make a plan to get them together.

Second

Where the reader has curly hair and they try to show Arvid how to style his curls.

Third

Arvid and Y/n just being adorable, him being cliny, Arvid having to hold their hand, everyone bullying Arvid because of how whipped he is for Y/n

Thank you (sorry if its too much to ask!)

Love your written BTW!

Trio Shorts (Arvid Lindblad X Reader)

Fandom: RPF/F2/F3

Requested: Clearly (I did all three as shorts, I hope you like it, and thank you love <3) (Also, special gift since we're getting close to the follower celebration <3)

Warnings: None

POV: Second Person (You/your/They/them)

W.C. 1365

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

~~(^Pinterest)

First (driver! Reader)

You were a last-minute addition to Prema, moving from FRECA to F3 after Gabriele had to leave the championship. You were nervous to meet your new teammate. You had raced against Arvid before, and you loved hanging around him in the Prema factory. You two were teammates in the Italian F4 championship before you split to FRECA while he did the UAE Championship. Dino, you had only heard of, so this would be the first time you met him.

You walked into the paddock early, probably earlier than you needed. It was the first time at this track, so you were going to need all of the help you could get. You got approval from the team to do an early track walk, so you were currently about to start it.

The plan was simple, do one lap, feeling the turns. Then the second lap would actually be you memorizing changes in the tarmac and thinking about the braking zones. You did not even make it to turn one of the first lap before someone cleared their throat behind you.

“Mind if I join?” They asked, causing you to turn and see Dino standing by the pitlane exit. You found out during that lap that Dino is quite the gossip person, so you two really hit it off. That was the start of your weekly paddock gossip session.

You two talked about anything from other driver’s personal business to engineers and team personnel. You even started jokingly shipping different drivers together. One day you joked that Dino and Sebastian would be a cute couple, so he thought that you and Arvid would be a better match. You went silent because you never wanted to admit those feelings, but clearly, other people noticed them. Dino stopped walking when he noticed you not laughing it off like you had both done before.

“Do you actually like him?” Dino asked.

“Is it that obvious?” You asked back nervously. That was all Dino needed to hear. He was already forming a plan to get you and Arvid together. The rest of the walk, though, Dino played it off as a random pairing since most of the others had been completely random too.

It wasn’t until nearly a month later that it was brought up again. It was the second to last race of the season, and you were told that there was an emergency meeting in the Prema facility, so you were on your way there.

However, Dino, Sebastian, Tim, and Luke had a plan. They told Arvid that they were setting him up on a blind date.

“Oh, is it with Y/n?” Arvid laughed as Tim handed him flowers, ones he recognized as your favorites, and Dino fixed his hair. Suddenly all of the guys stopped, causing Arvid to also stop laughing.

“No keep that energy!” Sebas said as he grabbed Arvid by the shoulders. “Yes, it’s Y/n but they don’t know it’s a blind date, so think of this as a push in the right direction.”

“They may or may not have said to me that they like you, so this is the solution,” Dino concluded with a clap. 

“It’s not like they’ll say no to a date,” Tim chuckled. “They said they were lonely last week.”

“You know, I don’t think this may have been the best option,” Arvid tried to interject.

“They would never say it to your face,” Luke said with an eye roll as he sat down. “Are you doing it or not?”

“We already made your reservations for their favorite place in the area,” Dino reasoned as he had a nervous smile, trying to convince Arvid.

“Plus, they’re waiting for you, so it would suck if you backed out now,” Sebas said, trying to push Arvid out of the room. “It’s rude to keep your date waiting. Have fun and thank us at the wedding!”

There’s no way he was turning this down.

~~

Second (curly hair! Reader)

“You have a bird’s nest up there or what?” You asked as soon as soon as you saw his messy curls. They were normally all over the place, but now they were just frizzy, and they lost their form. His hair was still wet since he just got out of the shower, but even then, the curls were still crazy.

“What do you mean? This is what they’re always like,” He defended as he walked through the room, putting his clothes away. He had just returned from training in Milton Keynes, so it would make sense if he forgot to take care of his curls. Plus, you were the one to remind him most of the time, and you didn’t go.

“When you finish putting your stuff back, meet me on the bed,” You sighed as you walked into your ensuite to grab your spray bottle, curl cream, and a comb.  You made your way back to the room, setting the stuff off to the side, and putting a movie on the T.V. You sat crosslegged in the center of the bed as Arvid finally finished up and laid down down with his head in your lap. “I’m just gonna form your curls real quick, then we can go get dinner.”

“I’ll fall asleep.”

“Well, I’m not letting you leave this house looking like that.”

“Fair enough,” He chuckled as he reached to grab all of your supplies to hand them to you when you need them. “Spray first?”

“Just a little,” You said as you felt around his hair, “It’s still fairly wet, so we shouldn’t need to spray a lot.”

“Okay,” he responded as he sprayed the water around his head before handing you the curl cream. “Do you want to start mixing the cream while I comb this?”

“Look at you learning from the hundred billion times I’ve shown you how to care for your hair,” You teased as you leaned down to place a kiss on his forehead and grabbed the container. Arvid sat up a little to comb through his hair while you mixed through the cream. When Arvid was satisfied with his job, he laid back down again and handed you the comb. 

You parted a section and combed through it one more time to be sure, and then put the curl cream in it. You used your fingers to make sure the cream was evenly spread through his curls before twirling the hair between your fingers. Then, you unraveled it and moved on to the next section.

It was therapeutic for you, and for Arvid, too. You were able to mindlessly form his curls in no time. And Arvid was right. He did fall asleep.

~~

Third (established relationship!)

 “Arvid, I’m cold-” You didn’t even have to finish your sentence before he was taking his jacket off and putting it around your shoulders. You were sitting with a group of drivers outside before free practice, and it was a little colder than you prepared for. “Thank you love.”

“Anytime,” He replied, disregarding the laughs from the other drivers as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you into his side. Then he grabbed your hand to keep your fingers warm, as he said. 

“You’re a simp, Arvid,” Dino laughed when everyone calmed down.

“Do you have a significant other?” Arvid teased, causing everyone to laugh. “Huh, didn’t think so. When you get one, you can talk shit.”

“Arvid, that was rude,” You jabbed him in the ribs immediately, “Apologize.”

“Sorry, Dino,” Arvid groaned, glaring at Dino but his eyes melted when they fell on you. “Does that work?”

“Don’t ask me,” You replied simply, “I’m not the one you’re apologizing to. Ask Dino.”

“They’ve got you on a leash,” Dino laughed, “Anyways, I guess I can forgive you.”

“See?” Arvid gestured to you, “I’m forgiven.”

“Good for you,” You teased, patting his head before standing up. “I’m gonna go get a smoothie. Wanna come with?”

“Always,” Arvid said immediately, jolting up to follow your retreating figure as you didn’t wait up for him. 

“I swear,” Dino said to the group, “They are the cutest and most insufferable couple I’ve ever seen.”

~~~~~

© BAD268 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

[the---hermit]

Babel by R.F. Kuang

I got this book last year, and then procrastinated picking it up for months. I don't know what made me feel intimidated, but I was a bit blocked. And then I decided to finally give it a try. I spent a whole month on it and though my reading was slow I loved this book. I was a bit unsure about the historical fantasy before reading the novel, because I know that as an historian historical fiction doesn't alwasy work for me. But it worked so well, the author did an amazing job and I loved the setting. The fantasy element was so clever and flowed perfectly with the story providing a lot of thought provoking conversations and reflections. It is definitely a dark academia book but to be honest that was not what stayed with me at all. Its themes of language and translation as well as colonialism and racism are at the core of this novel, academia is the setting and it is very much influential but it's not the first thing that will come to my mind when thinking about Babel in the future, and belive me I will be thinking about this book a lot. I really like R.F. Kuang's writing and I will be keeping an eye out for more of her fantasy in the future. I have finished this book over a week ago and I am still unable to for coherent thoughts on it, simply because I have too many thoughts. I truly adored it, the ending was very good, though if I could change something I would have the epilogue moved before the last scene of the last chapter as I think that was a stronger ending. Aside this, my only other negative thought is that the pacing felt a bit weird at times, but it's really not a big deal. I definitely do recommend reading this novel. And I think it could work even for people who don't normally read a lot of fantasy, so don't let intimidate you. I wish this book had been published when I was in high school studying languages I think it would have been even more influential for me at that time of my life. I have also been going insane over the subtitle of the book "the necessity of violence". Talking about it would mean a lot of spoilers so I won't get into deep, but after finishing the novel that in particular really stayed with me and it's been at the core of most of my thoughts about the book. I do wonder why the Italian translation didn't keep it, as the only subtitle in this edition is "an arcane history". This review feels more like a post-reading rant, but this is everything my brain can produce at the moment. Hopefully it was enough to convince a few people to add this novel to their tbr pile.

[alexsoenomel]

Kiss The Girl (Joel Miller x Reader fluff)

Summary: A Friday night brought something sweet and unexpected. 

Warnings: reader is a smoker (because same), wine consumption, no use of (Y/N)

Word count: 1.7k

Note: I was indulging in my own scenarios and this happened. It is literally a self-insert fanfic about my favorite dilf because I needed comfort. Enjoy!

It would be a lie if you told yourself you didn't wish that he was your man. It would be a lie if you told your friends you didn't like anyone. There was someone – and that someone was living right across the street from you. That someone had a name – Joel. Joel Miller. His name would roll down your tongue like honey and would make your head turn every time someone would say it. His tall frame, broad shoulders, messy dark hair, and soft puppy-like eyes would make your eyes fixed on him and only him. There was something so captivating and hypnotizing about Joel getting into his truck every morning for work, you couldn't look away. You would sit on your porch, having your first cup of coffee in one hand, book in another, and with a cigarette between your lips, watching him between reading. Your roommates would usually sleep in, or be already on their way to the campus so mornings were perfect for processing your existence while also doing some reading in the morning sunlight.

The view was also nice; the view being soon to be a 35-year-old man with seemingly soft and kissable lips.

You would occasionally tutor his daughter, Sarah, mainly helping her with essays and assignments in English. Your heart would always beat a little bit faster whenever he would text you or call you to ask if you were available. Of course, even if you weren't available, you would clear your schedule because those few minutes of interaction with Joel were more important than whatever you planned to do that day. You knew you were desperate, but since no one knew how much, it was fine. His soft brown eyes scanning your delicate features and making your cheeks red were moments you would replay over and over again like a broken camera in your mind every night before bed, wondering if you had a chance with him. He didn't seem bothered by your presence like you were by his. He seemed to like chatting with you, listening to your every word but that wouldn't last long since he was always busy with something or had to go to work.

On a rainy Friday evening, your roommates decided to get completely smashed in the local club since finals week was over and you were finally free to breathe, but you were too tired and drained to join them. You were too tired to dance, too tired for small talk with random dudes who were desperate for sex, and too tired to be a designated driver, since your two friends liked to pretend to be Lords and chug alcohol like water.

You weren't tired of a cheap bottle of wine though, and a new book you bought a few months ago that has been collecting dust on the shelf above your bed. Also listening to the sound of rain pouring under the blanket in your favorite spot in the house that wasn't your bedroom

– the porch – was your way of having fun on that particular Friday night.

Since it was almost 10 pm, and your dimmed porch lights weren't enough, your little book lamp finally came in handy. You put a cigarette between your wine-stained lips, since cheap wine without nicotine wasn't wine, and lit it up. You inhaled the smoke, feeling the sour taste of alcohol slowly turn into an expensive Italian liquid gold – or so your taste buds thought it did. You were about to turn the page of your book when you heard the familiar sound of someone's truck. Joel Miller came back from work. You glanced at him across the street just as he was closing the door, inhaling another smoke, already feeling yourself getting nervous. Instead of staring and being a creep, you decided to focus on your book – if only you knew what happened in the previous line.

"Enjoying your Friday night?", you heard his voice from a distance.

You lifted your head to see your favorite dad approaching you. You swallowed nervously, taking a big sip from the wine bottle.

"Oh yeah," you said, wanting to sound proud. "How's work?"

"Same ol' same ol'," he answered you.

"Care to join?" You asked giving him the wine bottle. "Finals week is over and I'm celebrating."

You noticed through dimmed lights a small half smile on Joel's tired face. He took a bottle and sat on the chair next to you. "Was it successful?"

"Yeah, passed everything with overall good grades."

"Good girl."

Good girl.

You could feel your palms and legs under the blanket getting cold as your heart started running a damn marathon. His husky voice was smooth like a fine glass of old whiskey, and you were getting intoxicated. You took another smoke, before putting out the cigarette on the ashtray.

"Y'know that ain't healthy?" His eyes glanced at the ashtray before looking back at you.

You were in the process of lighting another cigarette. When nervous, you would become a chain smoker.

"My vice, I guess."

Joel took another sip of wine as you inhaled the smoke into the air. "What's yours, Joel?"

"My vice? I would rather not."

You knew he didn't like to share personal information so you let him be. It would be strange if he did.  

"What are you readin'?" He asked, looking at your book.

"Kiss the Girls by James Patterson."

"One of those romance books?"

"Not really," you chucked. "Thriller, someone is inducting beautiful talented girls all over the country."

Joel's eyebrows went up, not expecting that to come out of your mouth. "Interesting taste, darlin'," he said.

Darlin'

That one you heard before and it still made your body stiff as a statue from nervousness. You struggled to look him in the eyes; to try and see what was behind those beautiful brown orbs; to try and read him; even though that was almost impossible since Joel Miller was an old book full of dead metaphors. You desperately wanted to know if he would kiss you back if you dared to drunkenly place your lips on his. You wondered if he would cup your face while doing so…you wondered if he would lay in bed with you if you told him to stay.

"How's Sarah?" You asked, wanting to shake off the shyness that was slowly creeping in.

"Good, she got an A on her English essay, thanks to you."

You smirked remembering the deal you had made with Sarah. She noticed (kids always do), something was up with you since you would blush every time Joel would call you darlin'. She noticed you acting too friendly around her dad so naturally she decided to confront you about it.

"So, you like my dad, huh?" She asked you on a Wednesday while doing homework.

Your heart went in your throat when your ears registered her question.

"No, I don't." You lied.

"Yeah, darlin' you do. You're too obvious."

"Fuck!" Left your lips. You instantly regretted it.

"HA!"

"Please don't tell him!"

"I won't, but you have to write me this essay."

"Sarah!"

"I'm too lazy! Plus you don't want me to get an F and disappoint my dad, right?" She winked. Cheeky stunt she pulled.

"Fine!"

****

"I'm glad!" You told him. "She's a smart kid!" Yeah, she was alright…

The thing with Joel was certain parts of him were sealed shut, but only certain. He liked talking to you especially because you both shared the same love for music. He liked talking to you about your favorite songs, bands, historical music events, guitars… You knew he played guitar and you asked him numerous times if he wanted to play you a song; he would always decline. After a couple of tries, you stopped asking.

"You know, – you started, taking a sip of wine followed by cutting your life short by 7 minutes with a smoke – "I've always wanted to learn how to play guitar."

"Is that so?" You could see a half smile forming on his face before he took a sip.

"Yeah, but I never did. It was always something, school, homework, too broke to afford guitar lessons…too broke to afford a guitar."

"I can teach you if you want."

"That means you have to play in front of me, and you always say no to that."

"I can make an exception." His gaze was fixed on you and yours was on him. A pleasant science was lingering in the air as you both enjoyed each other's company. You were feeling tipsy while Joel was sober as a judge.

"That would be awesome." Alcohol in your system was giving you a warm hug, telling you to go for it, to say the unsaid, to do the forbidden. Your body was finally relaxed enough, but your mind was in a haze. You had a feeling you were going to do something stupid and you liked the idea of doing something stupid at that particular moment.

The undying need to know, to find out – it was simmering and about to explode.

You put out the cigarette, taking a deep breath, before leaning in and placing a kiss on his cheek. Joel froze for a second, not understanding what happened for a few seconds before his brain caught on. He gave you a soft look, admiring your courage before he returned the favor and kissed your drunken lips. It was a soft, gentle kiss just to make you wonder what it would be like to devour him whole. You wanted this little innocent pack to turn into something sinful – but it didn’t.

“A little bird told me your secret, honey.” He confessed.

“Of course she did,” You chuckled.

Joel’s fingers went in your hair, tucking one strand behind your ear. He found your red cheeks cute.

“You know, you’re obvious when you stare.”

“Stop lookin’ like that, and I won’t.”

Joel laughed. It had been a while since he did.

“DAD!” A voice yelled across the street. It was Sarah, standing in front of the front door of their house. “WHERE ARE YOU?!”

“COMIN’, BABY GIRL!” Joel yelled back and looked back at you.

“Go,” –You said – “And tell her I said thank you.”

“Will do!” Joel gave you a wink and left.

[alonetimelover]

Action! - champagne problems - 2020

Pairings: Harry Styles x Director!Reader (she/her)

Summary: YN thinks Harry wants to save their relationship after the big fight they had two weeks ago. Harry thinks that too. But their definitions of saving are diametrically different.

Warnings: angst! mention of unloving family

Word count: ~3,0k

A/N: After a few messages I decided to let you know how exactly the break up between YN and Harry happened. It can be read as a second part to tolerate it. And of course it's based on champagne problems by Taylor Swift and has some other songs lyrics in it. Enjoy!

series masterlist let's talk about action!universe

my love 👨‍🎤

i'll be home today

i have a surprise for you, can you please get ready for 6? H

Two messages. 

First ones after two weeks of silence. Two weeks of contemplating over what had happened and what would happen. Two weeks of going to sleep on the cold bed and waking up to even colder one. Two weeks of being alone with her thoughts, feelings, regrets, promises and sadness. Fourteen days. 

Day after the other, she sank deeper and deeper into her lake of self-destructive thoughts. She wallowed in them. And as much as she’d loved water since being a little baby, she was drowning. And there was no saving. 

At exactly 6 pm the doorbell rang. In her white heels tapping on the floor and beige skirt flowing with her, YN anxiously walked to the door opening it. 

There he was, cream trousers, white tee with Hawaiian shirt on top of it, flowers - florists bouquet of pink roses - in his right hand. Harry sported a look of pure ‘I don’t know what I am doing’ hidden behind his ‘I’m so happy to see you’ persona. But YN knew him well enough to look past that, and he - at least she hoped so - knew her perfectly as well, feeling her uneasiness. And they both decided to ignore it. What more could go wrong?

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

No one would believe they were the people that spent a full 22 hours talking without taking a break. No one. No one even would have think they were once unstoppable, inseparable. No one would believe there once was love, yearning, appreciation or desire. Those people couldn’t be the one standing there.

“I see you’re ready?”

“Yeah, I - I’m just gonna grab my bag and we can go.”

No kiss hello. No ‘how are you?’. No ‘you look great’. They couldn’t even speak normally with each other. Two weeks just snapped them - or rather only YN - out of her blissful belief that everything was good. Now, everything was in its true colours. 

“We can go,” she said after coming back with a little white bag in hand. 

“Ladies first.” Harry gestured towards the door. 

The drive to the restaurant was spent in silence. No conversation or radio going on in the background. Not even a sound of the car - his electric one being so quiet. It wasn’t a comfortable silence they’d been used to, that they’d enjoyed having once in a while. This one brought discomfort. To Harry, because of the plan that he had created just this morning. And to YN, because it - them - felt even more done for than after that fight which had caused Harry to leave her alone in their once shared house. 

The restaurant was an… let’s say odd choice. 

It was a replica of the one that they’d gone to on their first date. Dom Pérignon was already waiting for them on the table with a ‘enjoy your third anniversary’ card right next to it. Two months too late, thought YN but didn't let her thoughts outside. 

“Are you up for some Italian food?” Harry questioned in a small voice, after they had settled down.

“Yeah, I’ve been craving some lately.” She smiled for a moment. 

And she said that same sentence to him a few times already. Three months ago, when they were going to order some take out. But it didn’t work out - Harry got a phone call and spent the rest of the night in his study. A month ago, when they were supposed to meet up with Florence - but Harry cancelled at the last minute, having said something came up in the studio. Girls decided to just drink a big amount of cheap wine. Two and a half weeks ago, right before leaving for their scheduled date that they’d never gone to. Harry needed to ‘check something at Jeff’s’ and left, going the opposite way to the one leading to his manager’s house. 

Everything started making sense in her mind. 

“Gnocchi sorrento for a lady and -” the waiter placed YN’s dish in front of her, giving her a grin, “ - and the minestrone for you, kind sir.” 

The pair, after their first date, decided to only drink this expensive champagne on exceptional occasions. 

They both thanked Theo - the waiter - politely and started eating. In silence.

Dom Pérignon didn’t go well with their food, neither did it go well with their moods. 

First date - when they both discovered it (Harry that day had asked the waiter when YN had gone to the bathroom “if I was an absolute champagne gourmet and wanted to drink something that goes well with shellfish, what would I choose?” “If the price isn’t a problem, then Dom Pérignon is one of our finest bottles, sir.”). 

YN’s graduation - they laid together on her small couch, champagne with a cheese platter on the coffee table. 

“I can’t believe I’m out of school,” YN sighed, taking a bite of a gorgonzola and then sipping champagne. “Also, can’t believe you bought it.” She lifted the flute. 

“You’re smart, of course you were going to graduate. With honours as well.” He kissed the side of her head. “And we agreed to drink it on really important occasions.”

“This is important to you?” 

She wasn’t making fun of him. She was surprised that something so small as a university graduation would be important to someone like Harry. A person that maybe didn’t have a higher education but was indeed clever and doing quite good for himself - a global idol for a lot of people of all ages. 

She wasn’t used to being important to people, at least for the first few years of her life when she was still living with her biological parents. After being adopted by the people she loved to call ‘mama and papa’ she started to learn the importance of appreciation. 

“Of course it is, love. Hey, look at me, please?” He delicately placed a hand on her cheek, turning her head towards him. “You’re important to me and whatever you do, whatever you achieve, whatever you seek and dream about - I’m here for you. I’m proud of you. Okay?”

Her lips turned upside down and her eyes glistened. She nodded her head rapidly, “okay, okay,” her voice small, trying to comprehend it all. 

“I love you, YNN.” 

“I love you, Harry.”

Then their first anniversary that they spent with Anne and Gemma - bottles of Dom Pérignon were laying on the outside table on Anne’s patio. It was a last minute call to go to Holmes Chapel. Anne wanted Harry to spend more time home, not knowing what that day meant to her son and his girlfriend. He tried to refuse his mother’s invitation but YN encouraged him to go. She loved Anne and Gemma. 

Their second anniversary was spent in Italy, right after Harry’s last tour date and YN’s Little Women shooting ended. Flutes of Dom Pérignon accompanied them in bed after an eventful night and day and another night and another day. They were finally together after months of separation. 

The Fine Line release party connected with Taylor’s 30th birthday was one crazy night full of people and alcohol. And only one bottle of Dom Pérignon that YN and Harry shared during a whole party, celebrating Harry's success.

YN’s Oscar win was the last time they spent an occasion with Dom Pérignon. 1959 bottle of their favourite champagne was enjoyed during the last night when she felt they were truly happy within their relationship.

And now she sipped it slowly, forgetting how much she once loved it. 

“How did you like the food?”

“It was amazing. Thank you, Theo,” YN said to a waiter, smiling kindly. 

“Pleasure is mine. Can I recommend some desserts for you both?” 

“Ye -”

“Thank you, Trevor. I’d like a tab,” Harry interrupted YN, pushing the plate towards the middle of the table. The dinner got cold with the chatter getting old. 

“Of course, sir.” Theo faked a smile and moved to the bar with one finished and one barely touched plates. 

“His name was Theo.” 

“Sorry?”

“His name was Theo, Harry. Not Trevor.” YN said rather firmly, in a low voice not to draw any more attention towards their table that it already had. 

“Mhmm, yeah, sorry.”

“I’m not the one you should be sorry to. He was so polite and you couldn’t even remember his name. It was rude.”

“Okay!” he snapped, doing exactly the opposite of what YN wanted to do - men and women around them stopped talking and looked directly at YN and him. “‘M sorry,” he directed it more towards other people, rather than YN.

Before YN had a chance to say something or scold him, Theo came back with a receipt, “here you go, sir. Do you want to pay by cash or card?” 

“Card.”

“And please split the bill evenly for two. Thank you, Theo,” YN said, not even looking at Harry, hoping he knew not to try and argue with her. 

“Of course. Here you go.”

All hope for a change, volatilising. 

They paid the bill (50/50), and YN thanked Theo once more for his amazing client service, tipping him a substantial amount. Harry, still upset, just said ‘Good Night, mate’.

Without waiting for him to catch up with her, YN moved towards his car, ready to go home. 

“I want to take you to one more place before going home, okay?” Harry expressed after walking up to her, a hopeful smile on his beautiful face. 

“I’m not really in a mood to go anywhere else, Harry. I want to go to sleep.” 

Even though she had nothing to be tired from, she had no energy left in her body. The lack of conversation she craved, and affection she needed made her feel so empty. 

“Please? One more place?”

She breathed out loudly, “okay” she agreed, not being able to refuse his compelling voice. 

“Okay. It’s not so far away so we can walk there. Yeah?” He asked, giving her a hand to hold. 

She didn't remember when was the last time they held hands, intertwined fingers, bringing warmth. It had been so long since that loving touch, YN was ready to tear up right then. 

With their hands still being tightly connected, Harry guided YN up the street towards a more secluded area. There were more trees and bushes that immediately provided better air. The pavements were clearer and roads empty. They were alone. Unfortunately. 

“It’s right here,” Harry said, pointing at the big building, reminiscent of an old venue. “Can you please close your eyes?”

“Are you going to kill me or have me kidnapped?”

“No. No. Absolutely not. It’s - it’s just a surprise and I want you to see it from the best place. Can you trust me?”

No. “Yes, of course,” she answered, silencing her thoughts. 

After leading her through two pairs of stairs - one going up and then down -, a few corridors and finally going through uneven ground outside, they stopped walking.

Harry’s hands were sweaty, his breath was shaking. The petite box in his trousers pocket weighed much more than the last time he held it, when his mother passed it to him. Half-baked ideas were Harry’s thing and they most likely turned out more than fine. But this one, he felt, was going to collapse with a big thud. What made him turn to this concept first? Why didn’t he tell the truth as to what he was going to do, to his mother? She knew him the best - was on the same podium spot as YN and Gemma, and she would know how to help him. How to save them. 

“Okay, we’re here, babe. But don’t open your eyes yet.”

Harry dropped her hand, moving towards the speakers. The acoustic version of You’ll Be In my Heart started silently playing. It was YN’s favourite Disney song, from her favourite movie - Tarzan. 

And it didn’t bring her joy now. It caused even more anxiety. All things coming up like dominoes, ready to be shattered. 

“Can I ask you to dance with me, my lady?”

She opened her eyes, immediately wishing she hadn’t done that. The lights were hanging from the willow branches, lilies were scattered around them and near the speaker was a bouquet of her least favourite flowers - tulips. She now knew what was coming and she was terrified. 

"My arms will hold you keep you safe and warm

This bond between us can’t be broken

I will be here don’t you cry"

But YN cried, heavy tears coming down her cheeks. And Harry held her tight, swaying them slightly from right to left. 

“Shhh, I love this song, Harry. Shhh, stop talking, please!” she scolded her boyfriend, pointing at the TV. 

“Okay, okay, Jesus. I’m quiet.” He laughed, finally settling down next to her, throwing his arm behind her shoulders, cuddling her. “Is it your favourite?” he whispered. 

“Yes. I think it’s one of the most beautiful songs from Disney,” she responded in the same whisper, eyes still glued to the screen. 

YN had one of the biggest smiles Harry had ever seen on her face. Her eyes were beaming with happiness and warmth. He couldn’t have helped but smile as well - her bliss was his. Whenever she was happy, he was too. Whenever she cried, he did too. What was hers was his and vice versa. 

“Do you think it’s a good first dance song?” he asked. 

“Maybe.” She thought for a moment and added, “but something more piano-like would be better. This one’s good for proposals. Near a tree with hundreds of lights.”

“You think so?” His mind was already plotting a plan. 

“I know so.” 

When the song hit the last chorus YN dropped his hand while dancing, giving him an oblivious sign to drop on one knee. 

“Harry, please,” she pleaded, tears still going down her face. 

“Let me speak.”

“No, please. Get up, Harry. Stop it,” she was repeating it all over again, praying it all was going to be a nightmare. She was going to wake up next to him like the last five months hadn’t happened. 

He ignored her, “YN, you’ve been in my life for more than three years. You’ve changed it for the batter. Your presence, your appreciation and your involvement in everything you and I did was - was exceptional. The warmth you bring to every room and life you’re in helps people. Words you say and don’t say have power. You make me happy. As well as my family, mum and Gemma love you like a daughter and sister. Your work, which you put so much effort into, brings you so much joy it rebounds on me. You’re the one that I want. You’re the one that I want to spend the rest of my life with,” he paused for a moment, kneeling on two knees. 

He was silently begging her to say yes. 

“YN -”

“Do you still love me?”

Her voice was shaky because of all the crying. He didn’t look at her once today. From the moment he picked her up, through the dinner they had at the restaurant and till the moment she stopped his proposals, he didn’t spare her a glance. It was going to be a nightmare. Everything that she was afraid of from the moment she’d read those two messages, happened and she loathed it. 

He looked at her.

And stayed silent.

You had a speech, you’re speechless, YN thought. 

She learned that day how loud the silence could be. How definitive and thundering it could feel. Terminating.

“Do you?” she choked out.

There was no sound of the voice. Love slipped beyond his reaches. 

Now, it hurt even more than two weeks ago. Not hearing him saying I love you. Man that promised her a moon, made her happy through so many years. Man that she trusted not to ever hurt her, not to ever betray her. He did everything upside down. After so many months together, moments joined and hours longed for - it was done. 

“YN, please.”

“Let me go, Harry.” 

“Please.”

“No. There - there’s nothing to ask. Nothing to do. It’s over, Harry. You know it.”

“Give me a reason,” he cried. 

“I can’t give you a reason, sometimes you just don’t know the answer ‘til someone’s on their knees and asks you,” she whispered, her hand stopped mid-movement. She wanted to caress his head. She wanted to hug him, kiss him for the last time. “You couldn’t keep it in, could you?” She laughed through her silent cries. 

Harry looked at her hand, still longing in the air, near his head. He wanted her to touch him. He wanted to hug her, kiss her and never let go. He wanted her, now more than ever before. 

If my wishes came true, it would have been you, YN wondered, not being able to stop the waterfall of thoughts. 

“I - I’ll be out of the house in an hour or so. I’ll leave the keys near the flower pot,” she said after a moment of only their crying.

“No, please. YN, baby, please -”

After looking at Olivia's favourite flowers sitting in a bouquet next to the speaker for the last time, YN turned around and started walking away. Harry’s shouts and pleads became smaller and smaller, until she was out of the property where it stopped. 

She halted. 

It was over.

They were over. 

But maybe it was her champagne problems, her thoughts, her doings and her love that caused it all. Caused him to stop loving her, keeping her as a familiarity among the unknown. 

Now, it finally touched her. There was no more suspense, no more uncertainty or insecurity. She knew for sure. He didn’t love her anymore.

And she still did, more than anything. 

It was cold outside. The wind ruffled her hair and made her shiver. She started walking, wanting to be closer and closer to the place she just this morning had called home. 

Maybe it was all her fault. She left him out there standing, crestfallen on the landing. His heart was glass, she dropped it. She pressed him and challenged him, unknowingly causing him to fall out of love. Perhaps it was all her.

“You’ll find the real thing instead. She’ll patch up your tapestry that I shredded,” she said into the void. “She’ll hold your hand while dancing, never leave you standing. And after all, you won’t remember all my champagne problems.”

[spaceofentropy]

Last night, the first snow of this winter fell on us.

Last night, my friend Dave died in his sleep.

The more hours pass, the more I realize I've been mourning Dave for the past 10 months.

I've been mourning him since the moment his brother told us that he had been rushed straight from the ER to the ICU, and that there was a chance he wouldn't make it.

I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Dave and I were in the same room.

It's one of those Internet friendships that started on a blog around 2009-2010 and went beyond the screen, if only on so rare occasions.

Dave was… So many things!

He had a brilliant mind and an encyclopedic knowledge of music, books, movies, TV shows, RPG systems. He loved old pulp and new pulp, classic fantasy and hard sci-fi, most kinds of horror, noir movies and Hong Kong action, screwball comedies and adventure flics. He had three movie podcasts with as many friends, because he liked to talk about the things he loved, and he loved so many things, Jesus, so many things!

He wrote for his two blogs, plus novels, short stories, non fiction, rpg material, a whole setting for Savage Worlds. He paid all his bills through his writing, which anyone can tell you is fucking HARD AS FUCK, even more so as an Italian writing in English.

I think I owe some of my sanity during the 2020 lockdown in part to the fact he asked me if I wanted to play with him and his group via non-zoom.

I said yes, immediately.

It became a staple of my weeks, that Friday meeting to play one rpg or the other, and if too many people were not present, to just talk about books and politics and life and tv shows.

Until February 2024 and the first bad news.

And now this news.

I've tried being optimistic, these past 10 months, because he was beating the odds again and again and again.

He was a lucky GM, rolling that impossible roll was par for the course for him.

Until, last night, it wasn't anymore.

I don't know what life is gonna be like now that he's gone. Can the world even go on without Dave in it? Without his brilliant mind and his wit and his voice?

He was a micropaleontologist and a Zen practitioner. He'd be the first one to tell me that yes, the world will go on, Earth has been through several mass extinctions, what is one little death gonna matter to the whole of it? Everything is temporary.

He'd probably say something cool, right now, or quote someone even cooler. Or maybe just talk about the need to let go, even when it's someone as cool as him.

I don't know.

I really don't want to have to discover what the world will look like, now that he's not in it anymore.

I will have to.

It's a new world to explore and chart.

I'm just so incredibly angry that I'll have to do that without my friend by my side, recommending books, or delighting in my hate for obnoxious people, or asking what my character is gonna do next. Life feels emptier already.

[dishearteningmediocrity]

June 25th, 1937

Eighty-seven years ago, on June 25th, 1937, Colin Clive died in Los Angeles, California. This was a column that appeared in the Monday, June 28th edition of the Hollywood Citizen News, written by Edwin Martin--columnist, press agent, and acquaintance of Colin's. If I remember correctly, Gregory Mank quoted excerpts from this in his biography, but the article is worth reading in full. There's a poignant tribute underneath all the name-dropping.

Yeah, I know, not enough misery in the world these days, so it's time to dredge up more from the depths of the past. Still, it's an interesting glimpse into his life and death--and some of the people left behind.

Source: Hollywood Citizen News, Monday, June 28, 1937. Accessed via www.newspapers.com.

Transcript below.

CINEMANIA by Edwin Martin

JOURNEY'S END

"Think of all the chaps who've gone already. It can't be very lonely there--with all those fellows. Sometimes I think it's lonelier here."

Night after night we had heard him deliver those lines, and they never failed to touch us.

On this day they came back to us again--more poignantly than ever.

A few of us had gathered for a round-table at our favorite spot in Travaglini's--it was also his favorite corner that we occupied.

Just a few weeks before we had sat at this same table with him and planned a radio interview.

Soon after, when he went to the hospital, came a note in this manner: "Must have this old pump repaired a bit. Sorry we'll have to postpone our interview until I come out. Keep the corner warm at Travaglini's."

We had known him for many years--known him and admired him since they first brought him from England to star in the picture version of the same play he had made famous on the stage.

Later, when the play was revived by E.E. Clive, we enjoyed a most pleasant association while handling the publicity on the show during its run here at the Hollywood Playhouse.

During this time we got a little closer to this quiet, rather lonely man, who made famous the role of the hard-drinking Captain Stanhope in the stage and screen productions of "Journey's End."

Few knew it, but all during the past few months, even when he made such a hit in his outstanding part in "History is Made at Night," he had been carrying on under the constant shadow of a long illness--an illness which was gradually eating his heart out...but he never complained.

Sometimes there was a faraway look in his eyes as he talked--just that--nothing more--he was Captain Stanhope to the end.

A few of us were keeping the corner warm for him at Travaglini's that day when we heard Colin Clive had reached his journey's end.

WALTER BYRON, another fine young British actor, was studying his lines at the bar for the splendid part he plays with Sarah Padden in "Chilikoot Lou," with which Miss Padden soon returns to the vaudeville stage.

Eric Blore, inimitable English comedian, still in make-up, was also there...and Larry Kent, Hollywood's wandering actor, just back from directing and acting in England, was telling about a picture he wanted to make in the South Seas...Eddie Lee, known as England's "Donald Novis," was resting from his triumphant opening at the Century Club...and we were listening to the gentle elder Mr. Travaglini tell about stirring days when as a young man he was an officer in the Italian army...while Tony Travaglini, Jr., looked over a radio script planned as a welcome home to Harry Langdon.

Into this crowd of men came a saddened figure--a lovely woman who had been a friend of Colin. She was the last member of that gay trio who often occupied this same table together...from which another splendid young British actor, John Buckler, had left one night only to meet his journey’s end in Malibou Lake in a tragic auto accident.

She was the last one left—and she dragged her weary self up to the bar and ordered a double brandy.

Everyone wanted to ask about his condition, but Larry Kent was the only one who had the courage… “How is he?” he asked.

“He is going,” the woman said. “When I left he was already in the oxygen tent. They wouldn’t let me see him,” she said, trying desperately not to break down.

Because she knew that even a friend of Captain Stanhope must face unknown adventures with head held high.

A phone rang—it was for her—she answered it. Somehow the ominous tone of that ringing let us know the message. “He’s gone.”

Silently the glasses were filled…then Eric Blore lifted his glass. “I give you Colin Clive,” he said simply, and a toast was taken in his memory…and eventually each man filed out and went his separate way.

Somehow we believed that Colin Clive would have liked to know that his journey’s end had been accepted with such a gesture…as he went to that last rendezvous with his old friend, John Buckler...and as we walked out into the sunshine we remembered that we had other things to do--other things to write--but the only words we could think of were his gallant words from "Journey's End."

"Think of all the chaps who've gone already. It can't be very lonely there--with all those fellows. Sometimes I think it's lonelier here"....we are keeping the corner warm for you--Adios, Colin Clive.