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chronically-ghosted · 5 months

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bloody kisses — part three: cinnamon girl boy

pairing: shane morrissey/tim rockford rating: E (18+) mdni word count: 10K content: vaguely takes place in the 00s, age gap (shane is 23, tim is 40), internalized homophobia, self-doubt, shame, worries about aging, heavy petting, oral (male receiving), first time giving head, gag reflex training, assplay, doggy style, protected p in a, discussions of dom/sub and top/bottom, bad family dynamics, hints of poverty, discussions around divorce, tim's internal battles, dominant!tim, bratty!shane, nasty dirty talk (anyone who identifies my favorite line gets a gold star), lmk if anything has been missed! dividers: @saradika-graphics a/n: i wanna cry @perotovar let me play with their beautiful blorbos and i had so much fun. i've never written m/m before so they took a HUGE risk on me - thank you so much for trusting me to treat them well!

series summary: shane has been in denial about himself for a while. newly single and with the help of one of his favorite singers, he opens his eyes to a new venture he could possibly take: the cop he sees on a semi-regular basis, detective tim rockford.

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(from @chronically-ghosted: if you liked my humble take on this, you can find my masterlist here!) ♥♥

Russet streaks of late afternoon light filter in through the vinyl slats over the grungy carpet when Shane opens the apartment door. He shuts it with a sigh, locking it behind his back, before tipping his head against the frame, closing his eyes, and taking a long inhale. On the exhale verging on a sigh, he tosses his keys onto the ripped and faded black couch to his right before trudging into the linoleum kitchen.

There’s a note on the counter:

Gone to visit Barry’s kids in New Jersey. Be back on the 10th. Money for food is on the fridge.

Shane’s dark eyes flit to the M magnet that Samantha left here the last time she visited from Maine. Even their father came that time.

He snorts resentfully when he sees it: twenty bucks to last him two weeks – thanks Mom.

Chances that she left him anything in the freezer are lower than the chance he’ll be able to stretch this twenty till Friday.

Shane slips off his leather duster and tosses it over one of the precarious bar stools. He snatches up the half empty packet of cigarettes from the scuffed living room table, takes one out, and lights it. He flops into the cracked leather, stuffing fluttering out of the cushions on impact, one of the metal springs stabbing him in his flat ass. Head against the ridge of the couch, Shane lazily puffs out smoke rings, his lips pursed, up to the ceiling.

There’s about a dozen – maybe even twice as many – feelings in his chest right now, all bubbling and curling and spitting and scratching at his insides. Some of them are good – most of them are great, actually (god he can’t remember when he last felt this fucking ecstatic about anything) but some of them . . . some of them scare him so much he can barely breathe.

Call, Tim had said, in his soft, low voice, the smell of sweet syrup still in the air, the plates with pancake crumbs sitting in the sink behind him. Call, if you need anything.

The detective’s card sits in the left pocket of his duster.

Shane shakes his head, a grim smile on his face. Can I call if I’m just fucking lonely without you?

He sips at the cigarette a bit, following the hazy trail of smoke as it wafts around the room. His eyes fall on the cracks of his life, this apartment he shares with his mother and her boyfriend. Stacks of newspapers by the bookcase that’s missing a few shelves. A cereal bowl he left by the window two days ago when a few friends invited him out to go check out Maxxx’s new stereo system. Takeout boxes and beer cans. Unfolded laundry in a plastic bin, the edges cracked and torn off. A few pictures when he was a wiry kid, then a wiry teen. He has a few good memories with Samantha, when he was fourteen and she was seven. That was the only time in his life when anything ever made any sense.

When she’d ask if he’d play her a s–

Shane’s eyes narrow at his bedroom door. Without looking, he snuffs the cigarette out in the nearest ashtray and stands up. Barry knows what would happen if he went into Shane’s room without Shane’s express permission – mother’s boyfriend or not – but Shane locks up every time. He keys open his bedroom door and finds everything as he left it. But that’s not what has him moving down onto his hands and knees, laying flat on his stomach to get a long arm under his bed. With a bit of searching, Shane’s face breaks open wide in surprise as he fingers curl around the long wooden neck. Slowly, Shane crawls back and with him comes his old acoustic guitar.

By the line of dust on it, it really had been several years since he played this thing, but turning it over, the rightness of it settles into his hands, his hips, his bones. This is where it was always meant to be.

Seems like I’m finding all kinds of rightness out of nowhere.

He strums once. The strings are horrifically out of tune, but the thoughts swirling around in his brain make him smile. Fist under his chin, he props his head up on the guitar’s body, contemplating.

He can still smell the sugar from breakfast and Tim’s aftershave from after breakfast. His heart squeezes without his control . . . and his ass twinges. Heat roars up his entire chest and he has to curl in on himself, rolling onto his back, to keep from exploding, a big stupid grin all over his face. The last twelve hours flit across his memory, each moment better than the next.

Call, if you need anything, Tim had said.

I need you to tell me what to do now. Am I the same person? Do I want to be? If I left all of this and everyone behind, who would I be tomorrow? Would you keep me around then?

Do you even really like me now?

He takes his hands down from his eyes, sighing and staring up at his popcorn ceiling, not unlike Tim’s.

Beneath his right hand, his metal bracelets clatter with the wood of the guitar.

Samantha.

Samantha likes him, or at least used to. She loved some version of him. Little sisters are always supposed to love you, but maybe he could find that version again. If it’s still there.

Shane sits up and begins to clean his room.

Night comes and the light from the Morrissey apartment stays on a young man gathering trash and throwing it away.

Tim hasn’t been this on edge since the four or five times he’s tried to quit smoking. He sits in his car, rain pouring down, heating set on low for an early November evening, and he thinks about all the ways this can go wrong. He stares up at the second floor of the tenement apartment, his fingers flexing around the steering wheel.

Like file folders, he sorts his worries from least to most earth-shattering.

Shane is vulnerable right now. There is no one else in his life he can turn to with questions, and he had been left to fend for himself on and off since he was fifteen (Tim has pulled up his file only half a dozen times for follow up work on the shooting and Shane’s rap sheet often catches his eye). Of course, he wants nothing more than to be the person who Shane comes to with questions or concerns, or fuck, even just an ear to listen to. But, at his age, Tim is all too aware of what a situation like that could do to him.

He’s already in too deep and he fucking knows it.

Earth-shattering worry number two: he is a cop and he has booked this kid more times than he can count. Just for petty stuff and he was never the one to press charges – always the DA looking for an easy numbers game to boost his image before the elections. Tim fucking agonized over that and not just in Shane’s case – these kids weren’t in need of help, the attorney’s office said, they were problems that needed to be put down. So how fast would the DA’s head spin around and explode if he showed up to the policeman’s ball with the “Satanic Temple” on his arm, nevermind just another man? While that would be a sight Tim would cherish until he died, he can’t ask anyone – especially someone as new to all of this as Shane – to handle something like that.

Which brings him to his final worry, the big concern that has him nearly start up his car and drive off, to call Shane on a payphone and apologize for not being able to ever see him again. Tim’s old. He’s fucking old and Shane shouldn’t have to carry decades worth of baggage when the kid’s got a fucking trunk of it himself. He’s old and a has-been and Shane has the rest of his life ahead of him.

Of course, this is all assuming Shane would ever want something more with him and this isn’t just sex for him. But maybe that’s all it should be. Both of them dirty little secrets to each other that can fuel Tim’s fantasies until his cock finally stops working (which is probably pretty fucking imminent), and something that Shane can laugh about with his partner some day.

With a sigh, Tim watches a figure move around behind dirty windows on the second floor.

The only way Tim would walk away now is if Shane told him to take a fucking hike. And that’s a really big problem.

He turns off the car, grabs his tan raincoat, and heads towards the apartment building.

When Shane opens the door, Tim wonders if he had a stroke and is seeing things that aren’t really there. Shane still has all his earrings, his rings with his unusually jet-black hair, but the duster is gone. Shane has answered the door in a black sleeveless shirt, with faded but roughly-intact jeans, and bare feet. He looks –

“Laundry day.” Tim’s eyes snap up and Shane frowns petulantly. “‘S laundry day . . . n’ this is all I had.” His fingers around the doorframe tighten. “You gonna come in or just stand there and make me look like a fuckin’ rat?”

Tim is very much aware of how much he looks like a cop even in plain clothes, and the tie with slacks isn’t helping. But he can understand why it might make things difficult for Shane to be seen with him.

But, fuck, if he only knew . . .

“Sorry.”

He steps across the threshold and Shane shuts the door behind him, sticking very close to the wood to give as much space between the two of them as possible. The rain patters in the silence as Tim tries not to stare too much, but that pattern-picking part of his brain can’t help but lurch into overdrive.

The apartment is empty. That’s the first thing he clocks. The second are several black garbage bags by the front door and the distinct smell of Pinesol in the air, sitting only faintly above the stench of cigarettes. Tim’s eyes fall to the cracked patio door, then the ashtray that has three very freshly stamped-out cigarettes in the bowl. Either two of Shane’s friends just left or –

“You want, um, something to drink?”

Shane moves swiftly from behind him to the kitchen and Tim’s gaze latches to his back. His ears are by his shoulders and Tim gets a brief flash of the borderline fear in those dark eyes before he disappears behind the wall.

“No, uh –,” Tim clears his throat and takes off his coat, then his holster, laying both flat on the counter that separates the living room from the kitchen. “I’m good. Mind if I smoke though?”

Shane returns, a beer can in his hand and slides into the plastic chair on the left side of the chipped table beneath a sickly, hanging fluorescent light. He cracks it and takes two long pulls before putting it on the table with a thud. He picks up his own packet and Tim thinks he might see a tremble in his hand.

He’s not sure if he feels vindicated, even elated, that Shane might be as nervous as he is, or just terribly awkward.

“Make yourself at home.” Shane indicates the chair across from him with a jerk of his head before he lights up. The chair squeaks on the linoleum as Tim pulls it back and gingerly sits down. He stabilizes his elbows on the table to keep his hands steady as he takes out a cigarette from his own packet and lights it against his mouth.

The heady rush of smoke combined with the fresh scent of rain soothes something and he forcibly tugs at his own courage.

“So, um, how’ve you been?” Fantastic start, Rockford.

Shane lifts those thin shoulders, eyes skirting the edge of the table. “Good. Went, uh, to see X the other day. He’s getting better. Says the hospital should let him out soon.”

“Good. That’s good.”

The room is so quiet, he can hear the paper burn and curl from the smoldering end of the cigarette between his fingers.

“And you? You've been – um?”

“Yeah, I’ve been good. Xavier – sorry – X’s testimony was really useful for identifying the shooter and establishing a timeline. Should be a pretty open and shut case.”

At that, a wry smirk curls across Shane’s face. He looks at Tim with something that might be described as a teasing grin as he knocks loose a line of ash. “Probably the last and only time X is gonna be helpful to the police.”

Tim responds with his own grin. “Wouldn’t expect anything different. Where’s the fun in easy cases?”

They both chuckle, eyes on anywhere but each other. And yet the tension has cracked, just a bit. Enough to let Tim lean back in his chair and breathe out a long, relaxed plume of smoke.

“But, uh, you called because you wanted to ask me something?”

Shane’s ink-wet eyes glance up at him and Tim feels the knot beneath his chest bone throb.

“Oh – yeah, right. Um, I was thinking about something you said over breakfast the other day . . .” Tim’s heart swells; he thinks about that morning all the fucking time too. Soft golden light and harsh black hair, spread across his chest. “And I was wondering if you still talk to your old friend in the NYU music department.”

That is not the question Tim had been expecting.

“John? Who works at the guitar shop on 7th?”

“I’m not thinking of going to school,” Shane adds quickly, the tips of his ears going red and Tim has to make an effort to keep his eyes on Shane’s face. “I still think school is a fuckin’ racket made for rich people to make themselves richer and maintain authority over –,”

“Yes, I still talk to John from time to time. Why?”

At this, Shane shifts in his seat, eyes low, shoulders rigid with tension. He taps his thumb on his knee uncomfortably.

“Iwanajob . . .”

“Sorry?”

Shane scrunches his nose (the band around Tim’s chest tightens – god, he’s so fucking cute) and huffs.

“I want . . . a job. At the guitar shop . . . and I was hoping . . . you could introduce me to your friend. John, or whatever.” He adds sullenly as if Tim hadn’t just said his name twice.

The buzzing awareness that is always present at the back of Tim’s mind suddenly clicks on. Like a camera taking film, he looks around the room. The trash bags. The tidy apartment. Fucking laundry day.

“Oh,” he says flatly. “Why, uh – why that place?”

Shane stiffens imperceptibly again. He’s got that “caught-in-a-trap” look about him – the kind his suspects get when they’re about to confess something, willingly or otherwise. Shane’s wide eyes glance over Tim’s shoulder as if he had pointed a finger. Tim turns and is rail-roaded again for the second time since coming here.

“Is that yours?” Tim stands, leaving the cigarette in the ash tray, and crosses the room, careful not to touch the shining guitar on its holder but getting as close as possible to examine it. It is a beautiful guitar, the body waxed and the silver of the tuning pegs bright in the low light. It takes Shane a second to answer.

“Yeah.” The admission is breathy, a release from a too-long-held inhale. Tim thinks his voice wobbles a bit but he dare not turn around to see what’s on Shane’s face. “I used to play a lot. I loved music as a kid, thought I was pretty good. Samantha loved it when I wrote songs for her. When we got older, she’d sing along with me.”

Tim clocked a white note stuck on the counter when he walked in, but he was too far away to read it. The way Shane said her name, Tim gathers that she’s not an ex, but someone closer. However, his file never mentioned any Samantha, so she must not live nearby or be someone he sees frequently.

When we got older . . .

Tim straightens up and looks at Shane. “Is Samantha your sister?”

Shane stares at him wide-eyed for a minute before shaking his head, smiling faintly.

“I hate it when you fucking do that.”

Tim’s stomach knots. “Do what?”

“Figure me out as soon as you look at me. Yeah, dude, Samantha is my sister. Half-sister anyway. Mom and Dad tried to do the whole divorced parents who get along thing for a while, but it didn’t last. Now I don’t see her unless she can get the car for the weekend. But she says she won’t come if she’s not invited and I . . . it’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”

Tim nods, the sick knot in his stomach melting into butterflies.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. Just . . . curious, I guess.”

Shane watches him silently as he rejoins the table. The chair squeaks again. Tim lights another cigarette when he knows he shouldn’t but Shane’s smile has him trembling.

“You can’t help yourself, can you?”

Tim swallows. “Can’t help myself do what?”

“Be curious,” Shane says softly, something unreadable and expansive in his gaze. For a second, he looks a decade older and a millennia wiser. He lifts his voice, louder, deeper when he continues. “Guess that’s part of being a cop.”

“You know, technically, I’m a detective, right? Not on patrol, only handling specialized cases.”

Shane sucks the last bit of his cigarette, his eyes bright with mischief. “A-Cab, Rockford. I don’t make exceptions.”

Tim wants to kiss that smirk right off him. He squeezes his own knee briefly before leaning into Shane’s space, the corner of the table separating them, to tap out his ash. He relishes in the way Shane’s eyes skitter up his forearm to his shoulder. He’s not the first to be intimidated by Tim’s size, but he is the first that Tim would gladly overwhelm with it.

“Seems like you did the other night,” he replies, his voice throaty and scratched. It’s not entirely intentional – Tim’s mouth has gone shockingly dry.

This time, Shane’s entire face flushes pink and Tim grins. Old dog still got some tricks, don’t he?

“I’m just fucking with you, kid.” He chuckles. “Relax. Your secret is safe with me.”

He hears how that last part sounds and bites his tongue in regret. Of all the things Tim wants Shane to know, assuming he thought their time together was a mistake is definitely not one of them. He does not want Shane to think he is something that Tim wants to keep a secret.

But by Shane’s unabashed intake of Tim’s forearms, chest, and curls on his hairline, he probably didn’t need to worry too much.

It’s been years since he was so shamelessly checked out and it makes his heart pound. He wouldn’t dare return the ogling but, fuck he wants to. Last time, it had been all about Shane and making Shane feel good, which he would do without question again and again and again. But he is desperate for an exploration of Shane’s body as much as he knows it needs to be an exploration for the both of them.

Or it would be, if he could get a goddamn grip. Last time - probably only fucking time, you sleeze.

“I k-know–,” Shane’s voice cracks and the blush flares again, only briefly this time. He clears his throat and sits up a bit in the chair. “I know that. I know. It’s just . . .” Shane sucks on his cigarette nervously, his cheeks hollowing, like he’s warming up to something. Something sour rolls down the back of Tim’s throat, his stomach clenched, but years of training keeps his face as smooth as stone. Those dark brown eyes, as gentle and fluid as mercury, stare up at him and Tim knows he’s such a fucking goner.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Tim nods. Rolling his bottom lip into his mouth, Shane leans forward, drumming out another line of ash into the glass tray. He straightens against the back of the chair as he tugs one knee to his chest, expression wary, and wraps a skinny arm around his shin.

At the last second, Shane drops his gaze and instead decides to interrogate a dirty spot on the table.

“When I first met you,” he began slowly, “you wore a wedding ring. But now . . .”

His eyes flicker to Tim’s left hand, third finger, absent of any jewelry, sitting on his thigh.

Tim thinks of the first time he saw that irate seventeen year old punk in the station. He had a ripe black eye and an annoyingly smug smirk on when the officer on duty chucked him roughly into a holding cell.

“That’s perceptive of you.” He flexed his hand into a fist, once, then twice, then met Shane’s stare ahead on. Tim has to hastily swallow a deep lungful of smoke to smother the sudden uptick of his heartbeat. “You’re right,” he says, stiff, on a throaty inhale. “I was married until about five years ago.”

A large knot visibly slips down Shane’s throat, his cigarette tilting dangerously between his fingers, ash hovering over the carpet.

“Hm, and to a . . .”

The way his eyes go wide, Tim wants to bury a kiss into that agitated pulse on Shane’s throat, but instead, he just nods slowly, avoiding sudden movement that might startle the wild animal ready to bolt across from him.

“Yeah, Shane, to a woman.”

Shane continues to tear into his own lip. He retreats before Tim’s eyes – crosses his arms on top of his knees and leans his head back. He stares into the rain outside, the beer at his elbow long forgotten. This isn’t the answer he was hoping for.

“Oh,” he says.

Tim leans forward onto his elbows, entering into his space again, but this time more hesitantly. Shane’s bare foot is inches from Tim’s fingers.

“Shane.”

“Hm?”

“Look at me.”

With a steady hand, Shane flicks the end of his cigarette with his black thumbnail, ash falling, and with a very level gaze, he returns Tim’s watchful eye. His face is so blank he barely has any features.

“What?”

“I’ve fallen in love with women and men.”

The impenetrable ice in his eyes melts and Shane frowns. “You can do that?”

Again, Tim nods, this time a faint smile on his face. How easily he forget how fucking clueless this kid is and how fucking cute his obliviousness makes him.

“But I’ve only slept with women before, am I–,”

“It’s not about who you’ve slept with, to a certain degree. It’s who you are attracted to.”

“So there’s more than just being gay?”

He wants so badly to reach across the edge of the table and take Shane’s hand. Soothe him. Feel those rough calluses against his skin again. He can feel the heat of his own cigarette coming painfully close to the backs of his fingers so he tamps out the cigarette in the glass bowl, Shane’s eyes watching him the whole time.

“There’s a lot of things, sweetheart,” Tim says softly, the nickname slipping out as it had before, in his own apartment with Shane in his lap. He hopes that sweetheart sounded casual, a nickname more than a reflection of the hot knot tightening in his groin. “But at the end of the day, it comes down to what feels right to you. How you see yourself. You might have to spend some time figuring it out, asking yourself some hard questions, but you’ll get there.”

Shane nods, again swallowing the words that are so clearly caught in his throat. He switches the cigarette to his other hand and stares out the window at the rain. Tim’s mouth dries up at the sight of his long, exposed throat.

“Is that why it didn’t work out between you and your . . . wife?” Shane asks quietly.

Tim runs his gaze over the piercings in Shane’s earlobe, the delicate bones within the cartilage, then to his set jaw and, finally, over his plush, pouty lips.

“No.” He can hear how hoarse he sounds, how wrecked, but having Shane in front of him again, all those feelings, all those basic urges he denied for the past few weeks come roaring to the front again. He of all people should have known suppression and repression never, ever work. “We were just different people. It had nothing to do with the fact that I also fuck men.”

He watches Shane tremble, the skin on his bare arms suddenly electrified. Slowly, with a shaking breath, Shane twists out his own cigarette, pushing it down roughly with two fingers.

The thing that has been circling Tim’s mind – like a rabid dog tearing out chunks of his ability to think straight – slides out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“What have your other partners told you?”

Call it twenty years on the force.

Call it a finely tuned bullshit detector.

Call it whatever you want, but in that moment before Shane opens his mouth, Tim knows he just considered lying to him and Tim’s heart plunges into his gut. He loathes the idea that Shane might lie to him, lie to him about being queer or an aspect of himself he still has questions about. Having someone older and more experienced than him in life alone at Shane’s age would have made all the difference to him as a young man and more than anything, more than his stupid cock, that’s all he really wants. He wants to be there for Shane because no one, not even his own family, has ever told him he means a damn.

And you mean so much to me already.

Then Shane lets out a shaky breath, the crease in his brown carved deep, but one glance at Tim and it melts away. Without warning, he stands up right and for a split, wonderful second Tim thinks he’s going to crawl into his lap again.

But Tim realizes he’s waiting for something.

With a voice that comes from a very small place, Shane mutters, “there hasn’t been anyone since you.”

He blinks up at Shane for one second, and then two, and his words register, click in, and everything else fades away. Tim’s on his feet with his finger snagged through one of Shane’s belt loops before common sense or patience can catch up with him.

“Is that right?” Tim purrs as he takes the curve of Shane’s neck in his massive palm, the other going to waist, and Shane instantly gasps at the touch. But that initial elation hardens and he glares at him. Tim is distinctly reminded of an annoyed puppy.

“Don’t sound so fucking pleased,” Shane snarls through bared teeth. His black nails dig into Tim’s forearm, a warning and a plea. “It’s not like I think about you all the time or anything.”

His eyelids droop when Tim squeezes the back of his neck and Shane lets out a low moan. Tim drops his head against the other man’s forehead. The boy smells like cloves and cinnamon and definitely pot and it’s going to haunt Tim’s memories forever. He closes his eyes and resists the urge to nuzzle that bare cheek.

“You’re all I think about. Every minute, every day,” Tim hums, “I can’t stop thinking about you and all those little sounds you made when I fucked your ass.”

Another sound, a better one, squeaks out of him – one of protest and desperation and carnal need – and Tim’s control snaps in his hands.

The hand on Shane slides to the back of his head and Tim all but shoves those pouty lips into his mouth.

It’s just as fucking fantastic as he remembered.

Frantic. Needy. Tim kisses him like it’s his job to lick clean the cigarette smoke embedded on Shane’s tongue, on the inside of his mouth, the split cracks in his dry lips. His fingers tangle into that starkly black hair, the strands faintly damp, and his other hand slips to his low back. At that, the boy pulls back enough to let a whine escape from his open mouth before Tim yanks him against his chest. He feels Shane grow hard against his thigh and all the blood rushes out of his brain.

Briefly dizzy, Tim stumbles forward, his hands catching the table behind Shane’s hips, pinning the younger man between him. He nips at Shane’s neck, trying to get the world to stop spinning.

“Fuck me, baby. You’re going to give this old man a heart attack.”

Shane guides him into his mouth, his fingers clawing gently at the scruff of his beard, a slower, softer repeat of how Tim had initiated. Warm air puffs across Tim’s beard when Shane retreats, eyes searching for something he needs to find on Tim’s face.

“Actually,” he breathes softly, “I really do think about you all the time too.”

Tim has never been more grateful for the rough grip on his cheeks because that’s all that’s keeping him from sinking to the ground on wobbly knees. Shane takes another kiss before his hand slips into Tim’s meaty paw and tugs him into the living room. He guides him back to the couch and, with a not-too-gentle push, shoves Tim down against the cushions. The detective goes without resistance.

The pale light from the rain beyond the window and the fluorescent glow behind him etches Shane in a soft halo. Brightness in Shane’s eyes tells him that the man is running on instinct alone – and that’s perfectly fucking fine. Whatever – anything – Shane wants, Tim will gladly offer it up.

But when his hands drop to Tim’s belt buckle, the rush of heat up his body leaves him almost catatonic.

“Mhmm, f-fuck, sweetheart, wait a second – d-don’t wanna rush things if you’re not –,”

The sound of his zipper tearing open is like a gunshot and there’s no denying the raw hunger that smears the edges of Shane’s eyes to a dangerous black.

“You have to walk me through it.” He sounds awe-struck.

He sinks to his knees and Tim considers he might actually die on this fucking couch. The heat radiating from those black-tipped hands that run up his thighs has Tim moaning in the back of his throat. He wants to curl that beautiful hair around Shane’s elegant ear – what would he say if Tim told him he has an elegant ear – but he’s using all of his energy to not immediately come when Shane tugs his pants down his hips, just enough to palm him through his boxers.

As if the sensation of a half-hard cock surprises him, Shane’s lips split apart, eyes locked onto the wet spot beneath his hand. Tim swipes his bottom lip with his tongue, knuckles white as he grips the cushions, watching with aborted breath Shane stroke him gently. He grits his teeth.

“Tell me you want this.” Tell me I’m not forcing you into anything too fast because I’m fucking obsessed with you.

“I want this.” Shane shuffles closer, his hand dipping down to cup his balls, the scent of his cloves hitting Tim again, and Shane quietly gasps as the cock beneath his hand hardens more and more. “I wanna s-suck your cock.”

Tim grunts, his legs opening wider, sliding low into the cushions and now Shane hovers over him. Here is where with other partners in recent years, Tim would lock up. There’s gray in the curls at the base of his cock and his tummy hangs out a bit more, no matter how much he runs. But Shane doesn’t seem to register any of that. His mouth is still open in raw fascination, as if showing off how fucking deep he’s going to take the cock inches from his face. The sight splits heat between his groin and his heart. Tim is not going to fucking rush this. He’ll let Shane touch whatever he wants for as long as he wants even if it makes him come like an overeager teenager.

Suppressing that peak of heat at Shane’s touch, Tim digs his fingers into Shane’s mop of hair like he’d been wanting to since the kid first offered that drink. At his immediate touch, Shane’s eyes roll back in his head and Tim takes that as an opportunity to scratch at his scalp, with a slight tug at the end.

“Oh, fuck, please lemme me suck your cock.”

Shane’s breathing hitches when Tim loosens the grip on his hair, runs his thumb down his temple, scuffs his cheek, and then drags that puffy bottom lip down. He looks absolutely ruined, eyes misty and shoulders slumped forward, and Tim has barely touched him.

“Take me out, baby,” Tim murmurs, “and I’ll tell you what to do.”

Wide eyes never losing their nervous light, Shane dips his hand below the elastic waistband (why didn’t he put on better underwear?) and cups him, slowly dragging his shorts lower as he pulls Tim’s cock into the light.

Tim has to remember to breathe. Fuck, it’s so hot in this fucking room. With trembling fingers, he tugs the knot of his tie away from his throat and unbuttons his shirt down to his ribs, as Shane runs an experimental grip up and down the length of his cock. Tim hisses as heat flares brightly and a little too fast.

Shane’s eyes flick up to his face. “Sorry, too dry?”

Without waiting for a response, Shane cups his hand beneath his mouth and spits, a giant, slick glob. It might be the hottest thing Tim has ever witnessed with his two eyes. Shane’s hand returns and Tim’s eyes flutter shut as he groans.

“S-s-shit, baby, that’s really good.”

Tim wants to open his eyes, to see Shane’s face, to get a glimpse of what is going on in that beautiful head, but he can’t drag himself out of the lusty haze long enough.

And then, after several slow, long pumps that have him harder than he can ever remember being, Tim feels Shane’s palm twist just as his thumb swirls the head and swipes the leaking tip. Pleasure roars up his spine and his hips jerk off the couch. His eyes snap open and find Shane not proud, but surprised. His mouth opens again in glee.

“I fucking love that too,” he murmurs, his hand moving a bit faster now. “Love it when they play with the tip.”

“Mhmm, hmm.”

As Shane finds a slightly hurried rhythm with his strokes, Tim is greedily storing away images and sensations in lockbox after lockbox in his memory. Has Shane’s hands always looked so thick?

“You can try whatever you want.” Tim murmurs, his gaze jumping between the hand around his cock, Shane’s mouth, and that hand with the black nails against his thigh. “If you like something, I’ll probably like it too.”

Shane wets his lip, his eyes darting to Tim’s face as if looking for permission. Tim nods, his heart pounding in a completely different way than from exertion, and has to breathe into his stomach as Shane parts his lips and lowers his mouth to his cock. Inch by inch, he takes him deeper and deeper, his hand falling away to Tim’s other thigh, as he sinks closer to those gray-streaked curls.

Tim is genuinely caught on the knife-edge of pleasure and pain. Exquisite pleasure saps his entire body of energy, every grunt and sigh bursts of tiny releases, but with every inch into Shane’s warm, wet mouth, his tongue a rough glide on the underside of his cock, it becomes harder and harder to not buck his hips and god, does he fucking want to. He wants to grab Shane by the back of the head, hold him steady, and fuck that mouth like it’s the last fuck of his life. But he won’t, he can’t – Shane isn’t ready for that and quite honestly, neither is he, despite how the arousal of that mental image floods him with hot satisfaction. He’s going to tear apart this couch with his bare hands, though.

Shane gets about halfway and then chokes and Tim is yanked out of the dream in a panic.

“B-baby, are you okay?”

Shane splutters and nods, the back of his hand coming to his lips, as if trying to hide his smile.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he croaks. “My gag reflex is shit though.”

Tim sighs with relief and a strangled orgasm. He’s so hard it hurts but he doesn’t give a fuck. “You’re doing fine, sweetheart. Better than fine, actually.”

Tim meets his eyes as they go dark and hungry with a flash of that spitfire that Tim only ever saw on the other side of a metal interview table before.

“Guess you’ll have to train up my reflex, then.”

“Yeah?” This kid has no idea what he’s playing with. Shane kneels between his spread legs, hands gently rubbing the meat of his thighs, those dark eyes swirling almost maliciously. Tim pinches Shane’s chin between his thumb and curled forefinger, thrusting that belligerent mouth up. “You gonna listen to an authority figure for once in your goddamn life?”

“I’ll try my best,” he pouts, his neck arched back.

“Blow on it.” Tim commands. “Start from the bottom and go to the top.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tim’s cock visibly throbs and Shane hasn’t even opened his mouth. But then he does, leaning forward when Tim releases his chin. He blows a quick burst of air around Tim’s curls, before opening his mouth wide and breathing heavily, wetly, warmly around the base of the cock in front of him. Then, as he was told, he lifts up and to the very top of that leaking head.

“Take the tip – just the tip – and suck on it, gently at first.”

Shane does as he is instructed, his eyes never leaving Tim’s face or losing that maniacal glint, and he sucks, making a similar face (Tim assumes) as when he’s slurping up ice cream. Shane sucks harder and a loud, lewd moan rips out of Tim’s throat.

“Now take it all in, as much as you can. Then swallow.”

Shane dips his head, mouth gliding down his veiny shaft, spit slipping out of the corner of his mouth, going down and down and down until he breathes sharply through his nose. Tim, clutching at sanity as it sprinkles through his fingers, watches the sharp planes of Shane’s shoulders and back churn and roll as he lifts his head up and down. He wants to loop his fingers through those black curls so badly.

“I’m gonna touch you now, okay?” Shane grunts his approval, the blush of air against his groin sending a bolt of pleasure up Tim’s spine, and he soothes his own tattered nerves by digging into Shane’s hair, scratching a bit like he had before. But then he loosens and just lets his hand rest contentedly on the back of his head.

The drumming beat of rain and Shane’s wet mouth is a narcotic. The sight and sounds and smells of it all makes his brain melt, deep desires usually chained down by his restraint snapping and popping free like fireworks.

What’s he going to feel like when Shane can take all of him?

How long and how often does he have to do this to train him up?

Could he come home after working a twelve hour shift to Shane crawling onto his knees and sucking him off, just like this? Like this, in perfect domestic bliss –

Out of nowhere, Shane swallows and Tim has to claw into his own thigh to keep from coming right then and there.

“Oh, fucking Christ –,” he yelps. As if encouraged, Shane tries to go a little deeper, swallow a little harder, but he gags again. When he lifts his head, his eyes are wet and Tim wonders if it's possible to black out from being so aroused.

“Sorry,” Shane mutters, wiping his mouth again. “Your cock is so fucking big. It felt big in my ass but this –,”

Tim’s eyes slip closed. “Shut the fuck up. You can’t – can’t say those things.”

He breathes heavily, the pounding in his heart only slightly stronger than the blood pounding in his cock. But Shane is suspiciously quiet.

Tim opens his eyes and finds a curious expression on Shane’s face as he stares at Tim’s cock. No, not his cock, a bit below –

Shane turns and tugs the low, tattered table behind him closer. He puts Tim’s foot against the edge, and then does the same with the other. The haze in Tim’s brain won’t let him piece it together until Shane dips his head, tongue already out.

“Whoa, whoa, baby–,” he grasps Shane’s shoulder and he stops. “I can’t ask you to do that. I don’t want to push you too far tonight.”

Shane rolls his eyes, flatly annoyed. “I’ve eaten ass before, Tim. I’m not a blushing fucking virgin.”

Tim can actually feel the second that sweat breaks out across his hairline. “A-are you sure?”

“Yeah, I actually know what I’m doing there. I mean, an asshole is an asshole, right?”

He isn’t sure if he likes how fast Shane has grown in confidence, or if it’s the sexist thing he’s ever seen. Maybe he’s the one not entirely ready.

“Y-yeah. Alright. Fire away, then.”

And with that first kitten lick, Tim finally comprehends just how fucked he is. He knew he was, but it’s not until Shane masterfully rims the edge of that ringed muscle does he know, with clear certainty, this kid is going to ruin him.

Shane’s hand curls around Tim’s shaft, his tongue prodding his asshole, and Tim makes a loud, open-mouthed moan that hits the quiet air of the apartment and shatters.

Within seconds, he’s hurling towards a release so violent, his thighs shake. Shane pumps him slowly, his mouth making everything wet and drippy, his eyes eagerly catching every twitch and moan Tim makes.

When Tim feels his balls draw up, dangling over the precipice, he snatches Shane by the hair and yanks him back. Again, Shane makes a sound like an irritated cat.

“C’mon,” he huffs, his face red as if he had mitigated his breathing. “Lemme do this.”

Tim swallows everything – his tongue, his orgasm, the desire to lick the brat right out of Shane’s pouty mouth – and shoves it all down as far as it will go. He’s left sweaty and panting, holding Shane by the flat of his hair at arm’s length. He swallows again and sits up, that airless high settling. Shane scowls petulantly

“You still want me to fuck that ass, right?”

His glare cracks in half. Those swollen lips part and he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Then you fucking listen to me when I tell you to stop sucking cock. Got it?”

Shane nods more insistently, tongue swiping fast against his bottom lip. “Y-yeah.”

Tim lets go and resists the urge to correct him to how he addressed him before, but fucking Christ, one thing at time.

“Which one is yours?” Tim nods towards the two closed doors across from him. Wordlessly, Shane points to the one farthest from the living room. “Show me.”

Tim barely grunts as he stands up, his knees dangerously unsteady, his back twinging from the low position on the couch and the fact that there’s more padding on a highway road than inside of those cushions.

Again, just as he thinks he might tip over, Shane takes his hand, intertwining their fingers, and leads him through the door.

The sun had set on an already dark day, so in the burgeoning twilight, Shane’s room is a collection of shadows and blue outlines. Beyond the vinyl window slats, the rain pours harder than ever, muffling the sounds of cars on the street and the blunders of other people in the building. With the door closed, the air is warm, but not uncomfortably so, more like a soothing hand against his sweaty neck. The pleasant scent of incense is unmistakable, a far cry from any other smell in the apartment.

The effect of it all, standing in Shane’s room, alone, is . . . isolating.

“It’s not much,” Shane murmurs, as if he worried Tim would find something about his space distasteful. “But I did clean up.” His eyes grow wide as soon as the words leave his mouth. “Not that I thought, or even expected that this – that you’d –”

Tim brings their locked hands to Shane’s cheek and gently, sweetly kisses him on the mouth. For a man so confident in his ability to drive his partner insane with his tongue up their ass, the boy quivers beneath a soft touch. Tim pulls back and finds blurry, unfocused eyes.

“What do you want to do tonight?” Tim hums and strokes an errant curl back from Shane’s cheek.

“This.” Shane says immediately. “This feels so fucking good.”

“Where do you sleep?” Tim asks, quietly, letting the words slow to a rumble, his free hand gently cupping the boy’s neck. The bed is unmissable, but he wants to give Shane as much control as he needs. Beneath his hands, Shane’s breathing stutters for a moment, before biting down on his bottom lip and leading Tim to the haphazardly made-up bed. He sits, big eyes staring up at him, at their bound hands, before releasing his grip and lying back on the bed. He scoots up, nestling that all black hair against his gray pillow.

“Here.” His voice is strangled, choked, his fingers twisting together as he picks at his nails. “Right h-here.”

“Is that why you look so good right here, baby?” Tim slides the tail end of his tie out of the knot and off his neck. Shane licks his lips, transfixed, as Tim continues to unbutton his wrinkled shirt. The bit of clothing falls to the floor and Tim nearly matches Shane in a white sleeveless shirt. Black and white, punk and cop. There’s poetry in there somewhere.

Tim continues to undress; shoes first, then socks, and finally his slacks. Shane gets a little jumpy as he crawls up the bed.

“Are you comfortable?”

“Yes.” Tim raises an eyebrow at the jeans confining his hard cock. “No, sorry, n-no – I’ll take them off.”

Tim gives him enough space to unbutton his pants, then sloppily jerk them off. He flings them over by Tim’s and Tim grins. He settles back down with Shane nearly underneath him and gently strokes his cheek. Everywhere he touches on the boy, it’s warm. Women aren’t like that, usually, and in turn, it satisfies something deep inside of him. Tim thinks of the tender warmth of the heated skin of a deer after it’s run a long distance.

“You still want it, baby?” This he asks honestly and without the grungy purr to his voice.

Again, without hesitation, Shane nods, but then stops. His chest swells like the words he wants to say are caught on the back of his throat, his nails gently biting into Tim’s chest, so Tim presses thoughtfully into the arch of Shane’s jaw, encouraging him. His doe eyes darting across Tim’s face, tension coiling up in his thighs, Shane says,

“I want it from the back this time.”

Oh, fuck.

With half of a groan and half of a laugh, Tim dips forward and loosely bites Shane on his ear. “You really are trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

Shane giggles as Tim’s nips slowly turn to open-mouthed kisses. He sucks sharply on the thrumming pulse of his neck, and Shane groans, his whole body writhing to be closer to Tim’s mouth, his skinny arms going around Tim’s broad shoulders.

“Do you mind?” Shane asks, breaking apart for a moment, his lips brushing Tim’s mustache. “I know you did it last time and if you wanna, um, I mean I can try but –”

Tim grins through the smile pressed onto a corner of that sweet mouth as he sits up on his knees. He smooths a hand up through the faint trail of hair just above Shane’s waistband, then up his ribs, stopping to thumb a hard, pink nipple, before kissing both of his cheeks.

“No, I don’t mind. I will never, ever mind when you ask so nicely.”

“But one day – you w-want me too, right?”

Ribbons of meaning hang over that question, their soft tassels hard to grab before slipping through Tim’s grasp. His brow furrows, his hand resting on Shane’s hip. The boy stares up at him like he hangs the moon in the sky.

Those ribbons drag forward new questions of their own, questions he can’t ask himself, much less out loud. They all clatter and fall into one big heap in his mouth and he can’t untangle them right now, not while he has Shane looking like that, but one slips through before he can stop it.

“You wanna do this again, with me?” The question lingers in the air like smoke, as gentle and insistent as the rain outside.

Shane’s fingers curl around Tim’s wrists. He smiles. “Yeah, of course. I . . . like you.” Blush trickles up his neck and into his ears, but he keeps his grip. “If you wanna keep me around, I mean.”

His voice goes small, from somewhere he never lets anyone see. Just as Shane’s eyes jerk off him, shame hot in his gaze, his body going rigid, Tim leans down and kisses him, the softest kiss they’d ever shared. The scent of cloves comes again as Shane offers his tongue and Tim takes it.

They kiss in the cover of the rain, in the shelter of the space that is entirely theirs, for one eternity and a half. When Tim opens his eyes, he is someone new, someone changed. Someone he doesn’t recognize and that’s a wonderful thing.

“I’ll take you like you want,” he says softly. Beneath his chest, skin to skin, he can feel Shane’s heart pounding. He hopes Shane can feel his. “But I wanna see your face for a bit. Is that okay?”

Shane nods and kisses him as he tries to pull away. Tim smirks and rubs Shane’s hip bone with his thumb.

“Remember what I said about preparing? Have you been doing that?”

Shane bites his lip as if caught doing something particularly filthy. “Yeah, I’m up to three fingers now.”

Fucking hell. Be cool about this.

“Good, baby. Do you have lube?”

Shane rolls his eyes, that blush now blotchy on his throat. “Duuuh. I don’t know why you think I’m some bl–”

“– ushing fucking virgin. I heard you the first time.” Shane narrows his eyes playfully and Tim cannot wait to spank that smirk right off him. “Then go get it.”

Shane wiggles out from between Tim’s legs and crawls over to the bedside table. He digs around a bit before pulling out a box of condoms and a blue bottle. He tosses them at Tim like he’s throwing laundry detergent, before hovering for a moment. Lips between his teeth, he stiffly slips his underwear off and down the floor. His bracelets clink as he moves and Tim can tell it sounds like an air raid siren to him. Naked, he crawls back to bed and settles beneath Tim flat on his back.

“For someone who is so bothered by authority,” Tim begins and just as Shane frowns, wrenching his mouth open to argue, Tim sits back between his thighs and folds his knees up, spreading him wide. Whatever retort Shane had dies on his throat and the only thing left is a soft whine. “You are such a good boy. I didn’t even have to ask you to get naked for me.”

Shane’s cock, exposed for the first time all night, twitches on his stomach. He squirms as Tim picks up the bottle and clicks up the lid with his thumb, his other hand resting briefly on the arch of Shane’s foot.

“I’m gonna start with one again, but move faster into two this time, okay? Then we’ll see if you’re lying to me or not.” Resistance flashes in Shane’s eyes at Tim’s smirk, but the boy stays silent.

But that defiant look melts away to aching bliss when Tim drizzles the lube between his cheeks, and then Tim’s own fingers. His other hand curls around Shane’s knee and squeezes, grounding them both.

“Probably should have gotten a towel,” Tim mutters and the sound Shane was going to use to reply fractures and crumbles, oozing into a throaty moan when his asshole spreads apart around a single finger.

Maybe it’s his age, or maybe he’s never had his asshole played with in a way he likes, but Shane is so fucking sensitive. He’s twitching and gasping after a few strokes, black nails curling into the bedsheets. His eyes are squeezed shut, not from pain or discomfort, but from trying desperately not to come. Tim recognizes that look; he wore it himself fifteen minutes ago.

Shane’s cock is trickling all over his stomach by the time Tim adds a second finger. And true to his word, it goes in without much resistance, much to Tim’s delight. This means there can be a bit more fun than just aimlessly prodding. Shane lets out a high moan when Tim’s fingers change angles.

“What the fuck are you doing down there?” Shane pants, sweat peaking at his hairline. He moans again before Tim can answer, his back arching off the bed.

“Searching.”

“For fucking what? I–,” Shane’s eyes snap open, horror and heat etched in the dark rims. “You can’t touch that, it’s not fair. You’ll make me come.”

Tim kisses his knee as he adds a third finger, grinning when Shane’s head thumps back against the pillow. “I think that’s the whole point of this, sweetheart.”

Shane whines his answer; Tim speeds up his thrusting, giving up for now.

“You’re doing so well, darling, so well. You did so good to prepare for my cock.”

Shane fists the bedsheets, his thigh muscles tightening. Tim thinks he can’t actually comprehend his words, until he wrenches his jaw apart. “Just your cock. I did it for your cock, Rockford, no one else’s. Don’t - don’t want anyone’s cock but yours in me.”

This is just cock-drunk babble, tongue loose with whatever nonsense fills his mouth, his brain no longer in control.

Right?

Either way, Tim slips his fingers out with practiced precision, easing on the condom, then squirting his cock and Shane’s exposed hole with lube in one go. If Shane has noticed anything, his blissed out expression doesn’t change . . . until he feels the tip of Tim’s thick head expand his asshole.

His stare locked onto Shane’s blissed out face, Tim pushes forward, using Shane’s knees as leverage.

The boy honest to god chokes. His cock spits up his chest.

“Ohmy god . . .”

Tim goes slow enough he knows it won’t hurt, his fingers opened him enough that the lube only adds to the pleasure, but he’s not entirely worried about that right now. He wants him stupid and babbling again.

“This cock, sweetheart? This is the cock you’ve been making room for?”

Shane whines, lips white between his teeth, nodding vigorously. Tim rubs his hip soothingly and Shane’s face breaks open with a loud gasp. His eyes snap down to where he swallows Tim inch after inch.

“You’re so much bigger than my fingers. Holy fucking shit. I forgot how big you are.”

“But you like that, right?” There’s a collective sigh of relief as Tim finally is flushed against him. Huffing like a wounded animal, Tim pushes the mop of hair back from Shane’s sweaty forehead. “You like how I fuck you, don’t you?”

Shane nods again, as Tim grips his waist and he wraps his fingers around Shane’s forearms, his bracelets tinkling softly, as he settles in for what he can’t even possibly imagine.

“You’re damn fucking right I like how you fuck me.” Shane rasps out. “Wouldn’t let you do it if it didn’t rock my fucking world.”

“I’m gonna go a bit faster than I did last time. You say stop if it gets to be too much.”

“I know what a safeword is, Rockford, I’m not –,”

Tim rolls his hips forward, knocking a surprised breath from Shane. He stabilizes a bit better with his knees and then picks up a rhythm, slow but deep.

“If you say blushing fucking virgin one more time, I’m putting you over my knee and spanking you.”

But words fail him.

They fail Tim too, eventually, when rings of heat stack, one upon the other, up his spine. Every time Shane’s asshole clenches around him, those rings drop lower, closer to his groin.

It feels too fucking good.

The rhythmic chime of Shane’s metal bracelets clinking together can barely be heard over the rain outside, and the peaks and valleys of the heavy moans piling up in the room.

Shane’s flattened hand against his head board, he grinds his hips down, forcing even more resistance than just his tight hole.

“Fuck,” he whines high and loud, Tim tightening his grip on his waist as he all but bounces Shane on his cock. “Oh god, I can’t – I can’t –,”

Tim’s skin is so hot he wonders if he’s giving off steam. He’s sweating from his forehead, his neck, the backs of his knees, a slick wetness spreading across his groin every time he slams that cute little ass back against him. Not another single word of derision has passed Shane’s lips in what feels like forever, his mouth switching rapidly between grinding his teeth and dropping open when Tim brushes up against something nuclear.

If Tim is steaming, Shane is melting. Every muscle in his body is weak, knees around Tim’s hips to give him better access. Cum rolls in white streaks off his stomach and onto the rapidly shifting sheets.

Tim knows if he just breaths on the that pink cock, it’s all fucking over – so he slows, and pulls back out of him.

A Shane with a functioning brain would have demanded an explanation but the gooey mess of a boy in the bed only lifts his gaze.

“Turn around,” Tim pants.

“What?”

“You wanted me too . . .” Tim spins his finger, squeezing the base of his cock with his other hand. “Turn over.”

“Oh, right.” Despite that almost sleepy murmur, Tim can hear the disappointment. At the head of the bed, a shaking hand swipes away one pillow then the other and Shane buries his face in the mattress.

His ass is already pink as Tim spreads his thighs, his knee nudging his right leg to bend, and lines up. But Shane is murmuring something into the sheets.

“… stop.”

Tim freezes, one hand around his cock the other flat against the bed by Shane’s hips.

“You want me to stop?”

Shane lifts his head enough to look back and whine. “Don’t — don’t stop.” Crackling with unspent energy, Shane rubs his face against the sheets like a cat. “Please.”

Tim grins as he lines himself up again, his free hand coming to Shane’s thigh when the cockhead spreads his cheeks.

“Don’t worry, darling, I’m not gonna –,”

Tim stops moving. It’s long enough and unusually fraught enough for Shane to lift his head in confusion, Tim’s cock barely in.

“What happened?”

Tim is staring, struck dumb and mindless at the sight of Shane’s lower back.

“You’ve got two dimples here,” he murmurs, the growl in his voice thick and rough.

“Yeah? So?”

Without warning, Tim yanks Shane onto his hands and knees by his waist. The sudden movement is rough for his loose muscles and he yelps.

“Fuck – what’s got you all fucking twisted up now?”

Tim is no longer entirely himself. His shoulders seem broader, nose sharper, mouth firmer. His eyes have been eclipsed by black as one by one, he puts his hands on Shane’s hips, and then twists his thumbs to fit into the divots of his dimples as he, achingly slow, pushes back into Shane’s abused hole.

“You’ve got fucking handles built in, baby.” Tim murmurs and heat radiates from where they are connected, Shane’s skin flushed with red and goosebumps. The sensation jams the signal to Shane’s brain.

Behind him, Tim kisses his back almost lovingly.

“I’m definitely gonna wreck your shit now.”

On the first tug, the one that snugs Tim’s groin right up against his ass, Tim knows he only has seconds left in him.

These strokes are brutal, fast, and short. Whatever sounds tears itself from Shane’s throat is the prettiest thing Tim has ever heard. His mouth goes wet as he watches Shane’s shoulders and back go loose again and on another day, he’s going to clench his fist around that mop of hair and pull until Shane begs him to stop.

Another day. But not today.

Tim focuses on the things he can control to elongate that enormous orgasm that rattles his teeth. His thumbs in the perfect little divots of Shane’s back; he pushes down, increasing the pressure higher up, and actually hears the cum squirt out onto the bed, followed by a groan that shakes Shane from head to toe. He focuses on his breathing, the short huffs out his nose, mouth closed shut but tiny mhm mhm mhm’s escape anyway. He tries to focus on the glint around his pelvis but that makes things worse.

He focuses on – fuck, what can he focus on? – Shane hasn’t made a noise in –

“Shane, baby, are you okay?”

He gasps out as though electrified. “I’m trying so hard not to come, I don’t want it to fucking stop, but you hit my g-spot three thrusts ago and I think I’m gonna pass out.”

Tim can’t help but chuckle. He rubs a warm palm up Shane’s spine, then gives his neck a reassuring squeeze, before leaning forward and draping himself over Shane’s trembling frame, never slowing those fast, rough thrusts. He noses his ear as his hand slips around the cock leaking profusely onto the sheets.

“You can come, but it has to be loud and messy.”

Just half a stroke down and Shane comes with a cry that paints the inside of Tim’s brain permanently. And he keeps coming, gasping, wet and whining. Over his shoulder, Tim feels a dribble against his knee and that, combined with all of Shane’s delicious fucking sounds, knocks free Tim’s own release, the swell and burst far away from his control. Shane’s elbows are trembling by the time he slumps to the side, trying and mostly failing to avoid his own cumstain. Tim drops behind him in a haze.

He’s already sore, every muscle tightened then released over and over and over again. He can’t inhale properly and he’s got a stitch in his side. There’s a pulsing all over his body and he isn’t sure if that’s from coming so hard he nearly shot off the condom, or his heart pounding like it’s about to explode. His skin is wet and sticky and he’s hungry but exhausted and he would hate all of this if he was alone, but . . .

Weary down to his bones, the breath settling in his chest and the fog lifting slightly, Tim puts a hand on the narrow waist in front of him. Fingers join his, wrapping together, as the frenetic energy of the room slows to a crawl, each moment plodding along in front of the next like fat water droplets.

“. . . good, that was good,” Tim slurs to no one in particular, his eyelids flickering open and shut. “You’re . . . s’good.” He knows they should talk, but he’s past speech, or rather anything coherent, his consciousness slipping beneath the churning dark waves of sleep.

The smooth back in front of him, shiny with drying sweat, shakes in a dizzy, silent chuckle.

“Go to sleep, old man.”

Tim knows he should be offended, or he thinks he should, if he could comprehend language right now, so instead he settles into the warmth and the darkness. Soon the only sound he can hear is the rain pattering against the window and Shane softly snoring before reality winks out.

#shane dio morrissey #dio morrissey #shane morrissey #dio morrissey fanfiction #dio morrissey fic #dio morrissey au #tim rockford #tim rockford fanfiction #tim rockford au #tim rockford smut #tim rockford fic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal cinematic universe #oaksfics #any of yall see the word count? no you fucking didn't

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huramuna · 6 months

Text

banshee's lament - chapter 7.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

wordcount: 2.5k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

a/n: a short chapter, but very important! the next 3 after this will be very action packed! and then it is the end of act 1!

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot, arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence, my terrible, terrible combat writing, descriptions of injuries, allusions to suicide, talk of chronic pain and illness

story playlist

Shera had never rushed before so much in her life. She needed out. Out of Viserys’ room, out of the tunnels, out, out, out. As she pushed a stone backing, her knees skidded across the cobbled ground, skin ripping from them violently. Oh, how adept she’d become at injuring herself. She haphazardly wiped a few tears away.

The crisp night air whipped against her face before the smell changed– her other senses other than sight had become so keen since her loss of sight in her eye, so she was especially sensitive to even the most minute change in scents. She smelled the distinct aroma of fire– ashes to ashes, wafting along the breeze, mingling with a familiar smell of sandalwood and white cedar musk.

A pair of polished black boots, now a bit dull in their pallor from soot, stood in front of her.

“Lost, little banshee?” Aemond cooed. She could practically see the grin on his face, once again not of joy but something akin to self-assuredness and beastly callousness.

“I told you…” she croaked, putting her now bloodied fingertips up to her throat, the pain reverberating through every word. “Don’t… call me that, nūmāzma zaldrīzes.” Mean dragon. She didn’t look up, or lift herself in any sort of way. Shera was all too aware she was not wearing her veil, nor her choker– and Aemond’s comments at the dinner (that he had still not apologized for, the cad) were festering in her mind, stinging and infecting like a plague. They hadn’t spoken since her almost ill-fated swan dive. He probably thought she was still suicidal.

It was all too quick for her to register, her vision was still spinning, but he had picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, or perhaps a bale of hay. He didn’t say anything further as he began to walk down the hall, deeper into the Keep.

Shera’s face went beet red as she sniffled, kicking her legs against him. “Put me down,” she growled, her voice raising more than it should, her tone becoming skewed and cracking. She resorted to trying to bite him then, her teeth fastening down on the leather jerkin he was wearing. It was so thick, that her attempt to snap her jaws upon his skin was hardly even registered to him.

“No.” he responded flatly, an arm fastened around her waist that was slung over his shoulder, his other hand coming up to swat her bottom. “Stop trying to bite me.”

“This is demeaning.” she hissed, now resulting in hitting her forehead on his shoulder blade, hoping to hide the fact that her face was burning scarlet at the fact that he had swatted her bum like an insolent child, no less carrying her like one.

“Yes– well, mayhaps you shouldn’t be sneaking around at night, much less without your mutt guiding you.”

She grumbled a noise of discontentment, burying her face into his shoulder blade as a means to hide herself further, lest anyone see the absolutely precarious position that Aemond– and herself– had put her in.

They didn’t speak much as he took her back to her chambers. Moongeist was awake in an instant when he opened the door, growling and snarling.

“... s’okay,” Shera mustered as Aemond planted her on the ground next to the wolf, who immediately calmed at his owner’s presence– not without a wary look towards the prince, though. She put her hand on his head, her fingertips shaking.

“You’re bloody, Shera.”

“Fell.”

“You can’t go to bed bloody. You’ll stain the sheets.”

“I can.”

“You can– but the maids would most certainly report it to my mother, or worse, to Rhaenyra. It’s not exactly a good look for a supposed maiden bride-to-be having bloodied sheets?”

Shera sighed, putting her head in her hands as she sat at her boudoir. “Get on with it.”

“Tell your mutt to not bite me, then.” Aemond returned in an equally annoyed tone as he wet a cloth at the washing basin, swathing it over her skinned knee, while keeping his eye trained on Moongeist– who in turn, was staring back at him.

“Have half a mind to… you were… quite mean.”

“Mean? I helped you back to your room.”

“At the dinner, when I came back. And you have been quiet since the… Kingswood.”

“Ah.”

“... ‘ah’? That’s it?”

“Tell me truthfully; are you being coerced into this? If you are, I will cut that Strong bastard from stem to stern like a roasted pig. I see what it's doing to you. You’re frayed at the ends.”

He’s noticed? She glanced at him waywardly, fists squeezing in her lap. “I’m not some helpless little creature with no power… I still have some voice.”

“Hardly.”

“Jacaerys has been… cordial and proper,” she said. When he isn’t fucking my brother, that is. “He even has written me letters when not visiting. What a novel idea that is, hm?”

“You’re still upset about that?”

Shera peeked through the hair fallen in front of her face, scowling. “Yes. I am.”

He reached his hand up to pry one of hers from her face. “I’ll need to clean these, too. Even so, I do believe it requires two people to have a conversation through letters, does it not? I don’t recall receiving anything addressed to me from you over the years. I heard Helaena got quite a few.”

Shera pressed her marred side of her face into her shoulder as she let Aemond clean the blood from her fingertips. She didn’t want him to see– she couldn’t. She didn’t quite understand the confidence that Aemond had, his scar proudly on display above and below his eyepatch. The tips of her ears went red at his insinuation. “... I suppose we both could’ve sent letters, then. I just…” her fingertips twitched as he pressed the cloth underneath her nails, scraping the dried blood from under them. “I wasn’t sure you would want to…” her hands strayed from his grasp, to which he grunted at, taking them back. “Cregan wrote the response for the first one. It… I’m sure you know it was a lie now. He is such an idiot– I am the opposite of fine. I don’t think I’ve been fine in nearly a decade.” her bottom lip wobbled slightly as she rambled on, saying all the things she’d always wanted to say to someone– no, not someone– to him.

“... it was callous of me,” he finally offered, “To say… what I did at the dinner. It was mostly to rile Jacaerys.” he finally responded, putting the cloth to the side and examining her to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. “I’m sorry.” Aemond spoke his apology quietly, but looked directly at her face, then. His face was… surprisingly open. Not guarded.

“... ‘twas not far from the truth.”

“May I see?”

Shera shook her head vehemently. “You can’t.”

“Please.”

She made a noise of disagreement, pressing her face further to her shoulder. She didn’t, however, account for the visibility of the scar on her throat, jagged and raised against the soft flesh of her neck. She felt one of Aemond’s fingers trace it, across slowly, then upward. His hand went to her chin and he turned her face towards him. And she let him. She didn’t have much energy to stop him, anyhow.

His touch was soft, which surprised her greatly– she thought him unhewn and rough in all places– but this was something reminiscent of how he used to touch her as children. He was always gentle with her before. Her face was turned to him completely now, unveiled, unhidden– she braced herself for the look of humor or pity on his face, her heart stopped beating for a moment, her breaths caught in her chest.

Brushing an errant hair aside, he traced the scar over her eye. It wasn’t an entirely clean cut, like he had guessed, jutting out into two diverging lines, like branches of a tree going downward. His violet eye, the hue hardly visible from how large his pupil was, was trained on her blind one. The milky blue, her own pupil long gone. The edges of his lips curled into something akin to wonder. There wasn’t a look of pity and it didn’t seem like he was about to make another poor jest about her face– he just looked, as if to study it, to commit it to memory.

“Blue?” he murmured. “How curious.”

The way he said it had Shera perking her brow– it sounded like an epiphany to him, his voice taking a lighter note than she’d heard. There was no trace of callousness that had been exuding from him previously. He was calm.

“Yes, it's blue,” she muttered in response, his taut (but not uncomfortable) grip on her chin keeping her facing him. She desperately wanted to hide away, hide, hide. She’d never felt so exposed in her life, so naked– and she was fully clothed. It felt like her soul was on display to him, cracking from her ribcage.

“Let me formally apologize,” he cleared his throat. “‘Tis not mangled at all, nor a mess. I now wonder, even more than before, why you persist with the veil.” Aemond let go of her chin, but not before giving it a little tug in an almost playful manner. Aemond? Playful?

“I like them– it's… to hide.”

“Hide? To make oneself obscured, to conceal and fade into the background,” he pondered it for a moment. “You make yourself a spectacle with that thing, Shera. You are doing the opposite of hiding.”

Shera puffed out her chest, arms crossed over defensively. “A spectacle?”

“You chastised me for calling you a banshee, when you dress the part,” he leaned back in his chair, hands laced together over his stomach. He was relaxing.

She puffed, rolling her eyes. She mimicked his body position, leaning back with her hands on her stomach. It felt… odd to be looking at him without any inhibition. It felt almost normal. Normal– normal. When was the last time she felt normal?

“I want to clarify,” she cleared her throat, fingertips paused on her throat from speaking up too fast, too loudly. “I was not trying to kill myself. It… I… I’m not suicidal.”

Aemond’s expression didn’t change, he merely focused his gaze even more onto her. He didn’t say anything.

“The… disassociation is new, like Hela told you,” Shera’s hands wrought over one another slowly. “But it isn’t… unusual, given my… conditions.”

“Conditions?” he asked finally. His face still didn’t give away any emotion.

“... no one else knows except for Cregan and the maesters at Winterfell. Jace probably knows from Cregan… telling him all the things that are wrong with me, to look out for when we’re married.” she took a breath before continuing. “The maesters don’t exactly know what to call it— but it is… I lose control of my body and fall to the ground, convulsing— it's terribly painful and then everything goes black. We have referred to it as my… fainting spells, but it surely feels like more than fainting. It’s… quite violent.”

Aemond blinked. Hard. He took a beat to absorb the information before speaking. His position shifted as he leaned forward. “When was the last time you had one of these… spells?”

“… not since Winterfell.”

“I don’t remember this being an issue when you were younger— is it… relatively new?” he asked then. His lips were pursed together in a tight line, in tandem with his furrowed brow.

“Since Driftmark.”

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly at the mention. “Another thing for us to bear, isn’t it?” he gave a low, bitter chuckle. “The Gods weren’t satisfied in our mutilation alone and had to… bestow us with lasting gifts, hm?”

Shera stayed silent, sitting up to where their knees were touching. Her eyes were wide as she took him in. His melancholic smile and the dullness of his eye as he looked off somewhere in the distance.

“The pain is bad most days. And on its worst days, it’s unbearable. The… the nerve damage, the maesters said. I’ll live with it forever— a constant thrum and reminder of it. There’s a few medicines that help temporarily but…” his voice trailed off, his gaze returning to her. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Aemond.”

“I do and I do not— I should’ve protected you. I should’ve killed them.” he gave an ugly sneer, lip curled.

Shera’s heart felt like it was in her throat. She wanted to cry, to scream for his pain, for her pain. She couldn’t speak, her voice coming out in unintelligible, choked sobs.

He looked sad, too. The depth of his despair laid bare in front of her for only a moment. The mask slipped back on, his proverbial walls back up.

But she knew.

They were so alike— even now.

–

Aemond had always prided himself on his resilience, on his ability to mask his emotions into stone.

Why did he become so unraveled with Shera? He confided in her so easily, as if it was second nature.

His boots stomped down the corridor of Maegor’s Holdfast without much care. He was coming apart at the seams, like a thread pulled from an old doublet, letting the structure of the garment fall away.

All it took was one thread.

He found himself at his desk, candles lit. The piece of fabric she’d gifted to him, with her silly note, was still there. He clutched it in his hand, bringing it to his face and taking a breath.

Lavender, rosemary, chamomile. The scent of her on it still lingered, if not a bit faded.

He would smell it in the halls, coming back from training. He knew she’d been watching him in secret for the past moon. Whenever it wafted near him, he had half a mind to follow her, to confront her, to hold her—

Fuck. He was fucked. He was fucked the moment she came to King’s Landing— the very first time.

His hand glided through his hair as he snapped off the leather cord holding it back from his face. Strands of it fell over his vision as he tossed his eyepatch to the settee behind him.

Taking out the sapphire was a tedious task. And painful.

But damn the Gods, if he wasn’t vain. Even if he was the only one who saw it most of the time. He clenched his free fist, white knuckled as he prised the gem from his socket, setting it aside.

He picked up the note that had been attached to her fabric favor, looking over it again. Her handwriting was terrible— but so inevitably her. Pulling a key from under a stack of innocuous papers, he unlocked the third drawer that fell down the side of the oak desk.

In it, were letters. Penned by him. Unsent, unseen.

All for her. Everything he’d wanted to say to her for years, everything he’d ever written with her in mind.

Everything he never could confess— not even now.

There were at least a hundred letters in the drawer, dated from those ten years apart.

He placed the favor note on the top and locked it back in place. The favor fabric, however, stayed in his hand.

After some careful cutting and somewhat haphazard stitching— Aemond had sewed a small segment of the fabric to the inside of his eyepatch.

He stowed the remainder of it in his nightstand.

He was so fucked.

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pleasingsatellite · 2 years

Note

Bestie can write to Instagram where the reader is dating Harry and she is a person with a normal life, outside of this celebrity world, and one day Harry makes the mistake of commenting on one of the photos of the reader with his public account.

I’m just going to use harry’s actual finsta as his finsta in this post 🫶🏻 but act like no one knows it him lol

liked by yourfriend1, yourfriend2 and 372 others

yourinstagram today drained me.

view all 78 comments

yourfriend its giving dramatic

yourfriend is must be draining being so pretty, don't know how you do it every day 😐

↳yourinstagram someone has to do it 🤷🏼‍♀️

scottysakamoto yeah getting coffee and looking pretty exhausts me too, I know how you feel.

↳yourinstagram In my defence the coffee shop is like a 30 minute walk from our hotel

liked by harryfan1, harryfan2 and 45,729 others

hsdaily harry walking around nyc today with some friends!

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harryfan1 I love when my man wears a hat backwards damn 😅

harryfan2 the little curls peaking out of the sides will do it for me everytime

harryfan3 I thrive when fratrry makes a debut

harryfan4 Apparently he was spotted at a coffee shop with some girl later in the day anyone know who she is?

↳harryfan5 nope, probably just a friend

liked by yourfriend1, scottysakamoto and 289 others

yourinstagram hot girl walk of the day

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yourfriend slayyyyyy

yourfriend whatcha listening to?

↳ yourinstagram this indie singer named harry styles, you probably don't know him

scottysakamoto Is this why you arent answering my texts??

↳yourinstagram oh I've been gone for like an hour calm yourself

yourfriend ya'll stress me out, harry's fans are like the FBI they're going to find his finsta eventually

↳yourinstagram hehe it's fun though, I like having a secret 🤭

liked by yourfriend1, harrystyles and 1,729 others

yourinstagram heyyyyy

view 890 comments

yourfriend damn no photo credits?

yourfriend lil miss new yorker

harrystyles come back to the arena I miss you

↳yourinstagram HARRY OMG WRONG ACCOUNT

harryfan1 omg wtf who is this why is harry commenting on her pictures?

harryfan2 shut up harry has a finsta, the scottysakamoto account is his all his friends and family follow it 😧

↳harryfan3 is this his girlfriend??? Is this who people have said they saw him with???

liked by harryfan1, harryfan2 and 2,729,920 others

harrystyles Love on Tour. New York City V. August, 2022.

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harryfan1 so we just not going to acknowledge the elephant in the room

harryfan2 rip singlerry, you'll be missed

harryfan3 had a whole girlfriend this entire time huh

harryfan4 you guys are so dramatic like no wonder they were so secretive

harryfan5 okay but she's really pretty too bad ya'll made her private her account

jefezoff ........call me.

liked by yourfriend1, scottysakamoto and 215 others

yourinstagram going private, thanks harry 🫶🏻

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yourfriend girl I saw this coming!!!!

yourfriend at least you look really hot as you have your privacy invaded

scottysakamoto .......oops

↳ yourinstagram delete this account immediately 😐

yourfriend I can only imagine the amount of follow requests you and harry both have right now 🤭

↳ scottysakamoto I don't even think the number I'm looking at right now exists.

↳yourinstagram I had to turn my phone off from the notifications

liked by harryfan1, harryfan2 and 34,729 others

harrysatellite I found these on y/n’s instagram before she went private they’ve been together for so long and we didn’t know at all literally how?

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harryfan1 I didn't even think harry hiding a gf was possible

harryfan2 I don't know how no one found anything out until now like I'm pretty sure they've been dating for over a year

harryfan3 she's really pretty, does anyone know anything about her?

↳ harryfan4 from what I can tell she's super normal like went to college and all that

harryfan5 pretty sure they met either through mutual friends or something like that, it looks like she lives in London

harryfan6 I think everyone just assumed she worked for him when they were spotted together or if she was at his shows

Enjoy! Sometimes writing comments gets hard so this was fun getting to write from friends and harry's finsta :)

#harry styles fake social media #harry styles fake ig #harry styles fake instagram #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles fluff #harry styles #harry styles headcannon #harry styles fic

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x-reader-theater · 1 year

Note

Hi!! So glad to see you're back! This website has been a desert of good stories without you here. And thank the gods you are back because I have a bit of a sad request 🤭

How about a COD Ghost x male reader where reader has feelings for Ghost and ghost knows but doesnt reciprocate the feelings and reader dies while they are on a mission?

Only if you want to/feel comfortable with it!

Welcome back!!

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Male!Reader

word count: 750

warnings: Unreciprocated feelings, rejection, and main character death. Please read this as Ghost being an incredibly unreliable narrator. This is from his POV so any feelings he has are his own and not endorsed by the narrative.

a/n: i always get so excited seeing your notifications on my work. thank you for being such a stalwart supporter through it all. your support means the world to me. if anyone else wants to request something, you can find my request rules here to do so.

Ghost knows why you hang around him so much. He knows why you say the things you do and try to touch him at every opportunity. But you haven’t said anything, and he doesn’t want to yell at you and make himself look like the asshole.

But you’re trying to ingratiate yourself with Ghost like Johnny did. You’re not Johnny, so it’s wrong.

“Say, Ghost, you get called on this new mission too?” you ask him, sitting next to him in the cafeteria. Ghost has his mask pulled down. He pulled it back down when you sat next to him.

“No,” Ghost says dismissively, but you don't seem to get the hint.

You shrug with a smile. “Maybe next time.”

“Hopefully not…” Ghost mutters to himself. You freeze beside him, and Ghost realises you heard him.

You curl in on yourself and grab your tray, muttering, “Sorry, I’ll leave you alone.”

Feeling a pang of guilt he’s not used to feeling, Ghost reaches out and for the first time initiates contact.

“Wait,” he says, and you stop, looking at him with his God damned hopeful expression on your face that he can’t help but succumb to. “I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said it like that. That was rude.” Besides what Ghost is referring to, that’s probably the longest sentence he’s ever said to you. “I know you're attracted to me.”

That hopeful smile drops instantly from your face and hurt, you ask, “Who told you?”

Not a denial. An admission without saying the words.

“No one. I can tell,” Ghost says, and at that admission you feel your hands drop the tray you were holding onto the ground.

“Oh,” is all you can seem to say, your lips staying in that little formed “o” shape.

“I just… I don’t feel the same way,” Ghost explains, his grip on your arm loosening, but you just stand there, arms at your sides.

“Okay,” you get out. It seems you and Ghost have switched, with Ghost doing most of the talking and you giving one word replies.

“Maybe… we can start over,” Ghost supplies in a rare moment of vulnerability that he likes to keep tightly locked in his chest.

“Yeah,” you say, looking down at your shoes, still sounding dejected. “Maybe.”

You and Ghost stand like that for a moment, before Ghost says, “Sorry ‘bout your lunch. I can buy you another.”

You shake your head, as if clearing your thoughts, like what Ghost said shook you from your daze, and you mutter, “‘m not hungry.”

“Oh,” is all Ghost says.

You stand for a good few minutes, probably looking kind of crazy in the middle of a busy cafeteria, but you don't pay it any mind, too preoccupied with what's happening. Ghost is singularly focused on you while you try not to be on him.

“Good luck with your mission today,” Ghost ends up saying finally.

“Thanks,” you murmur, before turning and walking away, leaving Ghost to clean up your spilled lunch.

———

“Johnny,” Ghost says with a relaxed smile as he enters the common room claimed by the 141. Soap is sitting on one of the couches, gripping a folder so tight in his hands the paper is ripping underneath his fingers. As Ghost gets closer, he sees the tightness in Soap’s shoulders and the strained look on his face like he’s about to cry but won’t show that in public. “Johnny, what’s wrong,” Ghost asks, his voice going from flirty and playful to serious in the span of a few moments.

Soap turns to look up at Ghost with wet eyes and says, “[Y/N] is dead.”

Ghost freezes, and his already pale face underneath his mask goes white. “What?”

“He was shot. Price said it was a stray bullet. Caught him in the neck. Said he was a bit distracted today, wasn’t paying as close attention to enemy movements and… well…” Soap trails off, setting down the destroyed mission report on the coffee table in front of him.

Ghost feels sick to his stomach as he leans against the back of the couch for support. Another person who cared about him, dead. And it’s all his fault. Soap would leave him if he ever found out. Johnny loved you. You were one of the best people to keep up with Soap’s ramblings, always there to listen and engage, more than Ghost did.

Johnny can’t know. No one can. And Ghost will take this information to his second grave.

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eksvaized · 8 months

Text

[ Previous ┃ Next ] part 9

Simon was fiddling with his balaclava. The fabric was coarse and suffocating. It stuck to his skin, causing a persistent itch that seemed to spread across his face. He had to resist the urge to yank it off. Matt has seen his face, but with a little bit of luck, he might have knocked that image out of his head when he beat him up, and if he keeps his features hidden, Matt might not remember him by the end of all of this.

Matt was awake. His face was smeared with dried blood, his nose was broken, and his clothes were ripped. He was locked in the cell, which was in the damp basement of the old shed. Simon refused to engage in conversation, leaving Matt to stew in his fear. However, Matt was far from docile. He banged on the bars, threw his body against them, and did everything he could to draw Simon’s attention. He even tried to negotiate his release, foolishly hoping that words could somehow set him free.

“What the hell do you want from me?!” At first, Matt was timid and sat in the dark corner, too terrified to even raise his head. But as Simon continued his ominous silence, it gave him the confidence to speak, which eventually led to him yelling and shouting. He lashed out, and his fear turned into anger. “Is it the money you need? I’m loaded... my family is flush with cash!” At this point, he was practically tearing his hair out. “Just let me out and... and I swear to you, I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Fuck, I’ll even pay you. Just name your price and let me go”

Simon bought this property many years ago. However, it had been just as long since he last set foot in this old, weathered shed. He used this place to control his urges when his impulses would drive him astray. Whenever he found himself in a mess of his own making — a situation that seemed impossible to resolve — this shed allowed him to slow down, pause and think, and figure a way out.

Admittedly, most, if not all, people who found themselves in a similar situation as Matt’s, trapped in a cold cell, did not get out of here alive. But Simon wanted to believe that this time, it would end differently. Killing Matt, no matter how much of a scumbag he was, would upset you, and Simon didn’t want to do anything that could cause you pain.

“Shut up!” Simon eventually roared, unable to endure Matt’s incessant whining for a moment longer. He had been trying to unlock Matt’s phone for the past half hour, but he couldn’t figure out the passcode, and he was sick of having to wait every time his guess was incorrect. “How do I unlock your phone?”

Matt hesitated, his cheeks squished between the bars. His eyes darted to the phone in Simon’s hand. But as Simon rose to his feet, Matt immediately took a step back and blurted out a sequence of numbers and random letters. Simon sat back down and entered the password. The phone unlocked.

Simon started looking through the contents of it. His eyes were drawn to a series of notifications that littered the screen. There were two missed calls and five unread messages. None seemed important, except for a text from someone named Carl, who appeared to be furious because Matt hadn’t shown up at work. In an attempt to maintain the illusion of normality, Simon responded. Pretending to be Matt, he explained he needed to take a few days off because he was feeling unwell after a heavy night out.

Simon realised that it was important to preserve the impression that Matt had not disappeared.

Once that was done, he swiftly navigated to the conversation thread between you and Matt. This was, after all, the primary reason he had this phone. Simon wanted to know what it was Matt says to you, what he tells you to make you fall at his feet. Yet, to his surprise, there were merely a handful of text exchanges. Most of them were from Matt, asking if you were free, if you were at home, and if he could come over.

He then clicked on the gallery. It was filled with many pictures of Matt with a different woman by his side each time. Also, there were two or three shots of his dick, which Simon scoffed at (and which made him grow confident, knowing there was no way he could please you with that tiny thing). As he tried to erase those haunted images from his mind, he stumbled upon something that piqued his interest and ignited a flame of anger within him.

Matt has taken multiple pictures of you. In all of them, you were asleep, completely oblivious that a camera was pointed at you. If it had been Simon who had captured these, he would have paused, perhaps even taken the time to admire them. But knowing that Matt had taken these without your consent infuriated him. Simon’s grasp on the phone became so tight, his fingers pressing into the device with such force that he was on the brink of shattering the screen.

Simon was buried so deep in his thoughts that it took a long time for Matt’s muted voice, as he talked to himself, to reach his ears. Simon didn’t raise his head to look at him, but he paused to listen.

“... if I’d known this night was going to end like this... Fuck, I would never... ever have gone to see that bitch and got drunk... I—”

“Don’t call her like that unless you want me to rip out your tongue and feed it to you,” Simon hissed. He should have kept his lips sealed, but he wasn’t going to let that jerk talk about you like that.

“Who? Y/N? She’s a bi—” Matt was about to repeat the same mistake. But before the word could slip past his lips, Simon sprang to his feet and moved closer to the bars that separated them. Simon’s eyes darkened, and he made no effort to hide the raw anger that was seeping out of him. Matt got the memo and shut his mouth; at the same time, everything seemed to connect in his mind, and clarity hit him. Everything began to make sense. “So she’s the reason I’m there?” He spat and began to pace around the cell, his fingers running through his dirty hair. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re just some bitter ex-boyfriend of hers, aren’t you?

Simon maintained a stony silence. He feared that if he opened his mouth, he might say something he would later regret. There was still a chance that Matt might walk out of here alive, so the less he knew about Simon, who was still just a masked stranger to him, the better it was. He tried very hard not to let Matt’s incessant chatter provoke him, but the idiot wasn’t shutting up.

“I don’t care about her... she’s yours! Honestly, I only reached out to her because I was curious. We dated in high school, but she was always such a prude, and I...”

Matt truly believed that he was doing the right thing by giving up you, allowing Simon to have you all to himself, promising he would disappear from your life. His desperate speech was working. But the problem was that Matt didn’t know when to stop talking.

“I only kept coming over because she kept inviting me. She seemed ecstatic to reunite with me... I was initially apprehensive, but after the first time we slept together, I knew I could exploit her.” Matt paused for a moment, taking a deep breath to fill his lungs with air before continuing. “I knew I could text her whenever I wanted to fuck. She never turned me down, and whenever I came over, the night always ended with me in her bed. I let her believe I liked her, that there was a chance we may be something more in the future... all because she was fantastic in bed and made herself easy.”

Simon had reached his breaking point. He could no longer tolerate Matt’s disrespectful comments about you. You weren’t easy, and you weren’t an object that he could use anytime he wanted to show his dick into someone. Your innocence and naivety led you to believe that Matt genuinely liked you. This belief is what kept you going back to him, time and time again. You were too blind to recognise that Matt was taking advantage of you. And you would probably never see it, but that doesn’t matter. Simon will handle this. He won’t stand by and watch you get hurt, nor will he let Matt break your heart. He will make sure that Matt will never touch you again.

Matt was gripping the cold bars, standing perilously close, his knuckles turning white. Simon’s mind went blank, and he closed the gap between them. His calloused hand wrapped around Matt’s throat.

Matt immediately began his desperate struggle, his every muscle strained as he tried to push Simon away. His fingers dug into Simon’s arms, his nails clawing at his skin in an attempt to break free. But Simon, without a single thought in his head, fuelled by rage, remained still; he was stronger and his hold was firm. He kept squeezing and squeezing, preventing the air from filling Matt’s lungs. His eyes, devoid of mercy, fixated on Matt’s face, watching as he began to run out of oxygen and strain to breathe. A minute passed. Matt’s face turned a disturbing shade of blue, his eyes started to water, and the tears rolled down his pallid cheeks.

Simon was so focused on keeping his grip secure, refusing to let go, that he failed to register Matt’s frantic movements. He didn’t notice when Matt’s fingers curled around the fabric of his balaclava. He was oblivious until the very moment when Matt tugged Simon’s mask off. A sudden realisation dawned on Simon, and his eyes grew wide. Now, Matt knew who he was, he had seen Simon’s face, the one thing that Simon was determined to keep hidden. Without realising it, Matt had thrown away his chance of getting out of this cell alive.

Before, Simon intended to kill him out of jealousy, for the way he spoke about you, for the way he treated you... but now, killing him was a necessity, and Simon only stepped away from the cell bars when Matt’s body went limp in his hands.

#PO2 #simon ghost riley #writing #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x y/n #ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod #call of duty #ghost #cod ghost #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #cod x reader #novella

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farmerlarrry · 4 months

Text

Orange Slices (Joel Miller x f!reader)

masterlist | chapter sixteen | chapter fifteen | read on ao3 | playlist

story summary: A story about finding companionship and love in the midst of chaos.

word count: 4987

a/n: Hi guys, so sorry about not updating here for a while! I promise I'll continue posting Orange Slices chapter updates here, I just completely forgot to post chapter 17. Not to be annoying, but if you are interested in staying in touch with me/my other works/story updates (including fororange slices), I am now mainly on @urbancowboyjoel now. Chapter 18 is still in the works, explanation is at the end of the chapter hehe.

if you want to be notified when I post new chapters, follow @farmerlarrrylibrary and put on notifications! If you'd rather be tagged, just let me know.

@pocket-macnchz

Chapter Seventeen

“Come to me in the silence of the night; come in the sparkling silence of a dream.” -Christina Rossetti

The moonlight streams in through the small window in the kitchen, offering a comforting presence in the midst of your sudden onset of insomnia. After the day you had, all the lifting and moving, you should be tired; you should be exhausted. However, after tossing and turning for hours while your mind raced with thoughts about James and Joel and Nessa and your impending return to patrol and past memories, of your hometown and how things used to be, how much has changed within the past few years–your relentless thoughts refused to slow down no matter how much you tried to fight against them, so you forced yourself from the couch and took a seat at the kitchen table in the dark.

Staring off into the dark abyss of where you just came from, you roll your neck, grimacing at the shooting pain at the base of your skull. Sleeping on the couch was not working out. Nothing good came out of it, just restless nights and daily body aches. Still, regardless of being in this house for a while, the reminisce of the lives that used to call this house their home still haunts you in one form or another. This place has yet to begin feeling like yours, and at this rate, you don’t think it ever will.

The past few weeks have been nothing short of a blur, between the conversation you had with Joel and the myriad of drama surrounding you in Jackson, your mind has been rather preoccupied.

After your eyes fully adjusted to the dark, you reached for the notebook at the center of the table. The clock mounted behind you on the wall in the kitchen, was loud in your ears, the mixture of tick-tocks and your heartbeat whooshing in your ear gave you a sense of unsettling nausea.

You flipped to the next available blank page in the worn notebook, the moon casting a sliver of light across the table as if it was encouraging you to write about your troubles after witnessing your restless night for countless weeks. The eraser head hits the paper in between the ticks and tocks of the clock as you delve further into your thoughts. Where do I start? You ask yourself.

A few weeks ago, after returning from an uneventful patrol alongside Joel, you came across a post on the community information board in the town square. Charles posted a help wanted request for cleaning and setting up a library in one of the vacant buildings within the community. As soon as you saw his name signed at the bottom, you ripped it from the board and rushed to his house to volunteer your hand. A part of you felt saddened that he didn’t come to you and ask, considering he confided in you that one day he'd like to open a library here. Although, given the rocky state of things going on in your life, you understood why he didn’t ask to begin with.

After going around to the different guards, asking for anyone to cover her spot with patrol, Tommy was the only one who stepped up while you and Charles began stripping the building, cleaning, and organizing the collection of books he’s hoarded over the years, were donated by members of the community, or were purposely scavenged from nearby.

Although you hated admitting this to yourself, it was nice getting a break from doing patrol. Setting up the library was the perfect distraction from everything going on, and spending time with Charles, someone who you looked up to for guidance and as a father figure, was the kind of presence your soul needed.

That distraction only went so far though, at night your thoughts consistently kept you up into the wee hours of the morning. It had nearly become debilitating and you knew it was something you’d have to figure out sooner rather than later, particularly before you returned to your patrol duties. The main two culprits that haunted your thoughts were none other than Joel and James; Joel, mainly because you’ve been spending much less time with him than usual, and James for the fact that he’s been too involved in your life lately.

Regardless of not going on patrol with Joel, you still see him nearly everyday. Usually the two of you eat dinner together, with him stopping by what will eventually become the library to see if you wanted to join him. Your answer was always yes with no hesitation on your end. After dinner, he'd walk you home, sometimes he’d stay for an hour or so, other times he’d retreat to his house to go to bed, telling you that the sleepless nights in the QZ and on the outside were catching up with him. At the end of each day, you always craved more from him.

Then there was James. Oh, James…

Ever since your confrontation out front of the stables about the little stunt he pulled that almost got you taken off of patrols, it seems as if James has been trying to do some intense damage control with you. He’s stopped by your house a handful of times that you know of. You’ve never opened the door, going completely still so as to not alert him of your presence, though he still takes it upon himself to profusely apologize through the door, pleading for you to talk to him.

Through word of mouth, either from the other guards discussing your temporary leave or from Charles himself, James must’ve learned about you helping with the library because he began showing up between his patrols and other guard duties, claiming he just wants to see how things are coming along.

These unexpected drop-ins put Charles in an awkward position; you knew it, James knew it—he came anyway. While you stealthily slipped into the back room to busy yourself, sometimes organizing piles of books you already organized days prior, other times just staring at the wall, Charles would take the initiative to entertain James with small talk.

Every time James made his eventual departure, Charles would let out a loud heavy sigh, saying so much with no words. And after you’d mutter your half-assed apology as you emerged from the back room, he’d give you a look; one so full of disappointment and defeat. For the rest of the day, both of you would work in silence.

Charles never said anything beyond his sigh and the look he��d give you in regards to James. His body language was more than enough and he knew that. He knew the guilt that you feel and the conflicting anger you have towards James. After the last talk the two of you had, he’d given up and knew no matter what he said to you, no matter how much he tried to help, you wouldn’t listen anyway.

He knew you were a coward and had no plan of resolving things with James anytime soon.

A coward wishing their problem would disappear.

You wished James would just disappear , because then you wouldn’t have to think about what you did to him that started this. And that made you feel guilty.

Eventually, you knew you’d have to come face to face with James, knowing that he won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. The community is relatively small and people talk; in the long run it would be best to smooth things over, at least attempt to talk things out. Although, it just wasn’t something you could do right now. Not with your conflicting and complex feelings toward James—especially not when things were so God damned gray with Joel.

The snapping of the lead of your pencil pulls you out of your mind consuming rant, suddenly becoming aware of your dark surroundings as you return to reality. You could feel the intense heat radiating off of your cheeks as you brought one palm up to your face.

After staring at the paper for a few minutes, taking in the messy scribbles of words, you rip out the page in one swift motion, immediately crumpling it into a ball. The muscles in your forearm tensed as you squeezed the paper within your fist, making it smaller and more compact with each squeeze. The paper disappeared within the dark shadows of the kitchen when you chucked it across the table.

Your head began to spin, a buzzing sensation filling your skull and making you feel uneasy. Moving the hand on your cheek up to your forehead, you let out a sigh of frustration and close your eyes.

Joel.

Such an intense and complex person. From the moment you sat across from him at that damned table at that abandoned cabin, you felt drawn to him. Something about him that you couldn’t quite put your finger on made you feel understood and protected and at ease. When it was just the two of you, you could imagine what life would be like by his side, and it was something you so badly wanted to manifest into reality. He could be a complete asshole at times, but then there were other times when he was so vulnerable with you and he would laugh and you could see a glimmer of joy in his eyes that gave you a tiny glimpse of who he was before the outbreak happened. Weirdly enough, you wanted him just as much in his worst moments as you did in his best. To you, knowing that was enough. It was enough to understand what you felt for him.

James…

He was such a sweet and kind soul, always making you feel so normal, as if none of this outbreak bullshit ever happened. James felt things so purely and intensely, it almost made you envious that someone could experience life in such a way after losing so much. From the beginning he treated you as an equal, he didn’t make you have to prove yourself like some of the others did, he didn’t see you as the weird girl who showed up with Tommy Miller and his misfit older brother. He treated you like a human being deserving of friendship, he stuck up for you, and on the late nights the two of you would spend together, he made you feel like you were something important to this world. While all those things may remain true, it doesn’t change how he treated Joel or what he did to you when his jealousy took over. Things could never go back to how they were after that.

Closing the front cover of the notebook and slipping the pencil into the spiral binding for safe keeping, you slide it back to the center of the table where you retrieved it from.

In the past, writing had helped you sort through your thoughts, it did when Joel left shortly after you arrived in Jackson and when memories of the past became too much to bear. It gave you a chance to dump everything without the judgment of others and many times you were able to either solve the core of the problem or come to some sort of decision on how to manage your feelings, but this time around…no matter how much you deliberated, how much you wrote, it just leaves you with a bigger headache than you started with.

And this headache seemed to grow worse as the days went on.

As your hand ran down the front of your face, you turned in your chair to look at the clock, squinting your eyes to make out the numbers and hand position in the dark. You raise your eyebrows when you realize it’s now past midnight, nearly an hour has passed and you have been completely lost in your thoughts this entire time.

At this point the moonlight shifted, the sliver that previously caressed the table with a soft glow, was now leading you to the couch.

Pressing your palms firmly against the smooth surface of the table, it takes you a second to push yourself up onto your feet as your eyes lock onto one of the many burn marks pulling you back into your daze. Joel did say I was welcome anytime, the words appear in your mind without any warning, maybe I can… With one hard, intentional blink, the thought disappeared.

Nothing good ever comes after midnight. On top of that, you aren't being rational right now, you’re sleep deprived and borderline delarius. Nothing good will come out of that, you whisper your words out loud. Sleep. That’s what you needed. That’s all you need right now. Not clarity, or confirmation, or him.

You wrap your arms around yourself as you walk the short distance from the table to the couch, nearly toppling over on the couch. All you wanted at the moment was to sleep. You desperately wanted a break from your racing thoughts that were now becoming tortuous. Before laying down, you punched the poor excuse of a pillow a few times before laying on your back, your hands resting just above your navel. As you close your eyes, you slow your breathing.

Trying to trick your brain into sleeping, you count the seconds that pass in unison to the ticking clock. Flashing images of Joel kept distracting you, so when you finally reached six hundred after several failed attempts, you flipped onto your side with your face now facing the back of the couch. The rough fabric brushed the tip of your nose as you nuzzled your face into the cushion, the heat of your breathing warming your cold cheeks.

Three hundred more seconds pass before you shoot up from the couch, the sudden movement making blood rush to your head, the already dark room becoming darker for a fraction of time. Your heart, for some reason that you don’t know why, is racing, thumping strongly within the confines of your chest.

Placing your hand over your heart, feeling the movement under the layers of skin, muscle, and bone, you approach the window in the living room, your steps slow almost as if you were afraid of getting caught. As you look out the window toward Joel’s house, you brace your hands on the windowsill, leaning into them to get a better look. His house at this time of the night was nothing more than a shadow, but you could recount every detail of it by memory.

You began to gently chew on your bottom lip as a sudden calm came over.

Fuck it.

Before you could process your decision or think of what the consequence might come from out of this, you were already halfway out the door, barefoot and still in your pajamas. Time seemed to slow as you walked across the empty street and up Joel’s pathway; the overgrown weeds tickling the bottom of your feet with each step.

Knock, knock, knock.

The wooden door was hard against your knuckles, knocking hard enough so he would hear but wouldn’t be alarmingly loud either.

For a brief moment, a sliver of consciousness washed over you, the only thing you could hear was your own ragged breaths as the adrenaline continued to rush through your veins and covered your body in a numbing sensation. What are you doing? Your eyebrows drew together. Looking over your shoulder you judged the distance between where you stood and where your front door was. If I leave now, perhaps I can make it back before he gets to the door. The longer you think on it, you realize the opportunity slipping through your fingers.

The sound of creaking floorboards causes you to turn back toward Joel’s front door and straighten your posture, your chin tilting upward ever so slightly. Your fingers fiddle with each other as you wait for the door to open; on the other side of the barrier, you can hear Joel clear his throat and your heart stalls.

At first, he barely opens the door wide enough for his head to poke through. You take a second to scan his face; he looks confused, still half asleep, but God did he look handsome.

“Hey, um, ” your voice is soft, not quite sure what to say. You shift the weight between your feet as you continue to look at him.

After taking what seemed like forever to process your presence, Joel’s narrowed eyes quickly turn into concern and he opens the door wider revealing his entire body. “Is everything okay?” His voice was rough, laden with sleep. Your breathing hitches, leaving you unable to respond as you take him in before you. Your eyes glaze down from his concerned expression, to his chest hair and down his bare torso, to the top of the band of his blue boxer that looked as if they had been put on in a rush. Your core ignited with an intense heat, your heartbeat picking up in speed.

You force yourself to swallow despite your throat feeling as if it were closing in on itself. “I can’t sleep…” You shook your head, keeping your eyes fixated on his. “I’m–I’m sorry to bother you so late.” Letting out a sigh you avert your gaze down to your feet. Looking at him was too much for you to handle right now.

The sigh of relief escaping him made you slowly look back up at him, his shoulders relaxing. Without saying anything else, Joel opens the door completely, stepping aside to allow you to come in. You give him a shy smile in response, butterflies now going rampant in your stomach.

You wait for Joel to take the lead, not sure what would happen from here. You knew what you wanted to happen, whether it was right or wrong. Perhaps he’d offer you the couch, simply a place to sleep for the night. That’s probably for the best. Or maybe the two of you would talk for a bit and then he’d send you on your way. Fuck, you’re an idiot, you thought, hating yourself now for not thinking this through. Joel had to get up for patrol in the morning and you thought it was a good idea to bother him for your own selfish reasons. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You dig your nails into your palms as a flash of heat runs through your body.

Joel’s arm brushes up against yours as he passes, leading you further into his home and turning on lights as he goes. You have to force yourself not to look at him or the way his back muscles shift as he walks. Get a hold of yourself, you scold yourself and suck in some very much needed oxygen through your teeth.

You take everything in as you walk further into his home, it’s been quite a while since you’ve been here. Between the pictures of wildlife to the half finished wood carvings, everything remains the same as you remember; perfectly lived in and a reflection of who Joel is at his core.

The kitchen light flickers a few times when Joel flips the switch, damn light , his voice comes out as a low mumble. As the two of you approach the table, he pulls out one of the chairs gesturing for you to take a seat. You avoid his gaze, giving him a nod of gratitude before he rounded the corner of the table and headed toward the kitchen cabinets.

“You want something to drink?” He asks as he grabs two glasses, the side clinking together as he sets them down on the countertop. “Liquor, fresh milk, water…” He only turns back to look at you once he finishes.

You shake your head. “I’m fine, thanks though.” The last thing you need is alcohol, and you were sure that anything that went down would instantly be vomited back up given the fact that your stomach was in the most intense knots you have ever experienced.

Joel stares at you for a second longer than usual before giving you a single nod, abandoning the glasses on the counter and taking a seat in the chair directly across from you.

He clears his throat before asking, “Somethin’ botherin’ you?” His tone was genuine. You scoff quietly in response, if only I could tell you , you thought.

You didn’t respond immediately, staring off into the kitchen behind Joel and gathering your thoughts. “There’s…” You didn’t know how to respond or what to say. No, you couldn’t tell him. Or could you? “Yes, I just don’t know… I don’t” You cut yourself off, sucking in some air to challenge the suffocating feeling that manifested in your chest.

“You don’t want to talk about it?” He says, not intending it as a question. Joel clasps his hands together, resting them on the table. Without looking at him, you slowly nod. “Nothin’ wrong with that.”

Then a silence fell between the two of you. You didn’t know what else to say, you could barely look at him across the table from you and could feel his stare burning a hole into you. Guilt quickly washed over you and you slightly cringed to yourself before lifting your eyes up to Joel. His gaze was intently fixated on you, an intensity in his eyes you saw only a few times.

Your lips part, your tongue wetting your dried out lips. “I’m sorry I woke you up for nothing,” Your voice was breathy and barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know what to do, so…”

Joel immediately shook his head before you were even able to finish. “Don’t– no, don’t apologize.” You give him a pitiful smile, though his expression did not break. The two of you stare at each other for what seems like minutes, though in reality it was probably only a few seconds at most.

“How’s the library comin’ along?” He changed the subject, which you were thankful for. “Sounds like a lot of people are excited for it.” Joel cocked his head.

“Yeah, probably a dozen people stop by a day just to see when we’ll be done.” You say as you tuck your hands beneath your thighs. “Hardest part is just filling the shelves with books, more tedious than hard though.” Joel was listening with intent. “Tony brought us a ton of books from the run last week, so that was pretty huge. On top of that people have been dropping books off to donate.”

“It’ll…it’ll be a good addition to Jackson.” Joel responds and you nod.

There was a pause in the conversation, a bit of awkwardness rising in the air.

“How’s patrol going in my absence?” You inquire, changing the subject.

Joel let out a low whisper as he adjusted himself in the chair. “Same ol’, same ol’. Don’t tell Tommy I said this, but it’s been nice spending some one on one time with him. It’s been a while since it’s just been us.” He says, a glimmer growing brighter in his eyes. A small smile appeared on his face. “Sort of like old times, when we’d go on fishin’ trips together.”

You smile at the sentiment, before completely changing your expression. “ Mmmm,” you hum, causing Joel to look at you. His eyes narrow slightly in confusion. “Do I have to worry about you replacing me?” You jokingly narrow your eyes back at him, cocking your head to one side.

Joel let out a boisterous laugh. “God no, never,” his response was quick with no hesitation. “I say that, but I can only take so much of him… ask me in a few more weeks and I’ll be beggin’ on my hands and knees for you to come back.”

A smile appeared on your face again, “I won’t make you beg too hard.” Joel instantly locked eyes with you through his brow-line, your stomach jumping at the eye contact.

“No?” He raised his eyebrow as he spoke, his voice dark but somewhat playful as he gave you a devious smile.

You were the first to drop your gaze, followed up by Joel clearing his throat.

“Um…” You fill the silence, trying to think of how to converse after that moment. In your peripheral view, you see Joel reach his hand over the table, gesturing toward you.

“I think about ya’.” His eyes dart around as you look at him, searching for some sort of reaction from you. Everything around you went eerily silent. You raise your eyebrows almost stunned by this confession. All you wanted to say was: You do? However, you waited for him to continue, to take the lead on whatever was about to be said. It seems as if your reaction was enough because Joel nodded. “When I’m doin’ patrol and you aren’t there, at night before I fall asleep,” as he went on, he refused to look at you. From his expression you couldn’t quite tell what his intent was telling you this. “I–I’m…” At this point his head is hanging low, his eyes fixated on the table; he shook his head. “I’ll be right back.”

His tone was different than before, you sensed a bit of hesitation, perhaps embarrassment. You return with a curt nod, although he didn’t give you a second look before he left and headed toward the stairs. You remained seated at the table as you listened to the thumps of each step he took, and when things went silent, you raised out of the chair. What just happened? Joel’s confession almost seemed unreal, did you imagine that just now? You turned in a circle, your eyes tracking the walls as you spin. Am I dreaming? Your face now twisted in confusion.

Walking out of the kitchen, you stand at the bottom of the staircase for a moment looking up. Joel was nowhere in sight. You blow out the air you had been holding on to as you pad over to the living room, turning on the light. Bracing your hand on the threshold, you paused.

It was considerably messy compared to the other parts of the house. A blanket was lazily draped over the back of the couch, the guitar laid on it back on the ground as if he had been playing it and put it there to come back to later. Records were scattered on top of the coffee table, alongside a book laying face down open.

As you approach the bookshelves on the back wall, you run your hand along the soft blanket and carefully step over the guitar.

Reaching for a book that had a red-brown leather exterior with silver foil details on the side, your ears perk up when you hear Joel coming down the steps. You remain still, running your fingers over the spine before pulling it out. You hear the floorboards creak as Joel gets closer and closer to the living room, the louder his steps get, the weight in your chest gets heavier. You remain still, not turning toward the entrance to acknowledge his presence.

Seconds seem to pass by in hours, until you feel his warmth behind you. “You can borrow it if you’d like.” His voice shook slightly as he spoke, your breathing becoming shallow. No words would leave your throat.

Quickly, you turn to face him, your arm dropping to your side with the book still within your grasp. Joel took a single step toward you, closing the already little distance between your bodies. You brought your hand up to the middle of his chest, placing the palm of your hand flat against him; his heart was beating fast. Out of instinct, your body stiffens, your eyes softening as you lock onto his.

As you tilt your chin upwards, Joel leans in, his eyelids fluttering as the two of you become closer to one another. Your eyes remain wide open as you relish the sight, total relief overcoming you at what was about to happen. Your tortuous thoughts from earlier completely disappear and burn in the fire that rose in the core of your pelvis. It was just you and Joel right now. Right now that's all that mattered to you.

Just as his lips met yours, your eyes fluttered shut. Bursts of colors explode beneath your eyelids, and at some point the book slipped from your hands, landing with a dull thud. His hands were all over you now, one fisting at the back of your oversized night shirt, and the other gently caressing the side of your hip. Joel’s lips were soft, his movement a lot more gentle than you imagined on the many nights you couldn’t sleep. Yet, he was still passionate and the intensity made jolts of electricity rush through your body.

You quickly pull back from him, both of your hands holding loosely onto his biceps. He went to lean in again, but you pulled back again. “Tell me you want me to stay,” your voice is barely above a whisper, smooth and alluring. There was nothing more you wanted than this , what was happening right now. After that first dinner with Tommy and Joel, that was the turning point for you and ever since then that– Joel seemingly wanting it as much as you did–it was all you could think about whenever you were around him or when you’d see him at the bar, or across the community.

Joel’s hands glided down your back before he clasped them together. His eyes shift off to the side before returning to you. You could tell he was contemplating, just like you had earlier; doing this…is it right or wrong? The way his hands press into your lower back told you that he wouldn't be able to resist you, not this time.

His throat bobs as he looks into your eyes, his eyes softening and his lips parting. No words came out as he leaned into you, placing his forehead on yours.

Joel nodded and whispers onto your lips, “Stay. ”

chapter eighteen coming soon! (I'm being so fr too, I'm just bad at writing smut and I want it to be perfect so bear with me)

painting divider | credit: @cottage-writings

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willowser · 1 year

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I love the idea of older bkg , 2nd most well known pro hero not knowing how to talk to ppl he’s attracted to and he doesn’t know how to initiate first moves (not until he gets more comfortable). He has some tension with you, someone who works @ his agency and he wants you so bad but it’s unbearable and that is what makes it so unbelievably hard for him

He’s sitting criss cross apple sauce on his bed, frowning and his hands running thru his hair bc he doesn’t know how to respond to you saying “ good morning!!”. He ends up leaving you on end for the 378293th time out of nervousness and than gets sad when you start to not text him at all , ignoring him in public because you think he’s not interested ☹️

You’re trying to move on already- and so you said yes to some guy who asked to get lunch with you. He’s sitting infront of and you think he’s cute and all, he has you blushing and kicking your feet a little.

Bakugou has his hands gripped around the lunch he packed you , his knuckles turning white. He’s standing there like “🧍‍♂️” . He doesn’t know what hurts more, how easily the guy is able to woo you, communicate clearly with you, touch you , how taken you look, or how fast you’re moving on

omg this is my favorite version of him !!! 🥺🩷✨️ he LITERALLY wants you to be his SO BAD that it makes his stomach hurt. he screenshots your snapchats and then curls up with his phone in bed, a hand over his face bc he's EMBARRASSED !!!! BLUSHING as he peeks through his fingers at your picture !!!! HE MAKES ME SICK !!!!

and the thing is that he's so hard to read 🥺 anyone that knows bakugou also knows — if he DIDN'T like you, then you would be made well aware of it LOL but as someone that's trying to get to know him 🥺 expressing interest in all the typical ways 🥺 he's not responding correctly !!! 😭 he leaves you on read SO many times, it's heartbreaking 😭 you send him a cute mirror selfie, telling him, "hope you have a good day ! ☺️✨️" and then he SCREENSHOTS IT, like a dork, and then sends back a terrible selfie with a terrible angle, face all 😠 with a doggie filter 45 MINUTES LATER, just saying "you too" BOY BYEEEEEE LMAOOO i would rip my hair out.

and — of course it's hard to try for him for a while and get very little back 🥺 and then another nice man, that's charming and handsome and funny, comes along 🥺 and makes you think...maybe you're putting effort into something that will never be ??? 🥺 UGH SAD. and when bakugou finds out he's !!! devastated 😭 bc he KNOWS he's slow at this, knows he's bad at it 🥺 that he needs to man up and do the damn thing !! 😤

i literally imagine him, after finding out you've eaten lunch with someone else and appeared to have a great time — he's just sitting in his office, slumped in the chair akfhsjak chin in hand, staring dead-eyed at his computer screen 🥺 and he gets some phone notification and he checks it and then goes to close all his tabs 🥺 but his 'screenshots' folder is still open 🥺 and he just frowns at it akfbejsjqjqk SAD SAD SAD

#he makes me sick #it makes him so upset 😭💀😭#but how would you know ?? 🥺#and he has little moments where he's like WHATEVER I DIDN'T CARE ANYWAYS — to very quickly returning to his soggy sad boy self LOL #POOR THIIIINGGGGG #✿ willow writes #✿ ask willow #✿ thoughts: bakugou #✿ theme: pre relationship bakugou

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 9 months

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i wonder how many followers have you gained since the beginning of this whole madness and how many notifications do you get? and do you go through all of them?

because i'm just now realizing i have formed a parasocial relationship with someone who was literally just existing only 3 days ago unknown by anyone and it's strange for me, i can't even imagine what it must be like for you

Hello maggot! Well, it's, uh, somewhere in the mid 600s, followers wise. And the notifications are a lot, but yes, I go through almost all of them, even if I can't reply to them all. Clearly I miss a few sometimes (I only found out Neil Gaiman liked my post because some of you all were talking about it in the replies RIP but anyway what you all say is more important to me) but I'm trying coz everything you all say is so wonderfully sweet, though sometimes uh, crazy and mentally scarring, because this is Fandom. So it is to be expected.

It's definitely been... wild. Again, I only joined tumblr a few days before Christmas. But honestly? I joined tumblr to make friends and find a community, and maybe it went a little unexpectedly, since I didn't think I would create a community, but this is amazing. I love all of you maggots (why are you guys letting me call you that).

To be fair, chaos has always followed me wherever I go, I switched from science to arts because of Drarry fanfiction etc. But this is one of the strangest bits of chaos that I've fallen into.

It's crazy that my just being a clueless dumbass and slowly descending into fandom madness and crying over Crowley brings joy to people, but I always knew fandoms were sadistic, I mean uh, open to new recruits. And you guys bring me so much joy too. And tears. Yes a lot of that. Crowley my child.

*waves eagerly* I'm glad to be here with you all. I was so lonely, and I'm not anymore.

I hope you guys know you aren't alone, too. You have an adopted mascot to traumatise now!

#good omens #good omens mascot #good omens fandom #lgbtqia #weirdly specific but ok #asmi #adopted child #adopted child of divorce #adopted child of time #doctor who #dw fandom #maggots #good omens prophet #good omens bard #neil gaiman #go fandom #adopted mascot

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thefrontofmymind · 2 months

Text

Proof Positive 6

a/n: me uploading another part of this? who would have thought? (seriously though im sorry life got in the way quite badly ://)

series masterlist

You could hear chatter through the other end of the phone as Ross excused himself from the greenroom in whatever venue they were playing that night.

"How are you and the little 'un?" He asked in a gentle tone that echoed through the cinder block hallway he was standing in.

"We're good! Baby's the size of a strawberry now!" You answered excitedly. You never thought you'd be the person to track every day of your pregnancy, but when you got that first notification from your app saying your baby was the size of an orange seed, you couldn't help but get stirred by the fact that there was a real, living human growing inside of you.

A baby that was half you and half Ross—a pairing you never even thought about, but now your heart grew fonder with every shy smile, kiss, and tender hand touch.

"How was the show last night?"

"Oh, brilliant!" Ross exclaimed. You loved hearing him so animated when talking about his work. It reminded you of when you first met him, a bright-eyed twenty-four-year-old just starting to tackle the world.

"Wish you were here though...miss you so much..." he finished his spiel.

"Just think, when you get back to London, we'll be far along enough to tell everyone," you said with a smile.

"Can't wait to tell the guys, they'll shit!"

You heard some kind of shuffle on the phone; you could just make out the words.

"Can't wait to tell us what?" George's voice. Unmistakable.

Crap!

"Um..." Ross chuckled. "Uh.."

You couldn't help but laugh through the phone at Ross' attempts to string at least one sentence together.

"Seriously! What?!"

You might just have a way out of this. Maybe.

"Give George the phone," you told Ross, calm and collected.

You heard another shuffle as the phone was handed off.

"Hi...who's this?" George asked in a cautious voice.

"It's me!" You answered.

"Oh, hi! How are you going?" He asked, now excited. "What do you and Ross want to tell us all, then?"

"Well..." You trailed off, not quite sure how to word it. "Me and Ross... are me and Ross."

"Oh shit!" George laughed. then directed his attention to Ross, who was standing frozen in front of him. "You dog! How long has this been going on?"

"A couple months," Ross replied to him.

A notification came through on your laptop in front of you, an email with a subject line that started with "URGENT!"

"Okay, I gotta go, I have to get back to work."

"Alright, I'll hand you back to your boyfriend," George said with a grin, that even though you couldn't see it, you knew it was there.

"Gotta go, love you," you said once Ross was back on the phone.

"Love you too! see you in 3 weeks!"

"Counting down the days!" You replied, hanging up and getting back to work.

~~~

You’d lived in a bubble, really. It was almost like it wasn’t all quite real yet. You weren’t showing, and no one—well, barely anyone—knew. You tried not to think of this mess you and Ross had made, but with a random fleeting thought over one weekend, your palms gained a clammy sheen that you couldn’t get rid of.

You always tried to keep your head straight in times of stress; you were a pragmatist at heart, and as often as you could get lost in nihilism veiled as just being "realistic," you just wanted to rip the bandaid off and get everything out in the open to deal with the consequences, whatever they may be.

You sipped your takeaway coffee as you entered the Dirty Hits offices—decaf, unfortunately—and said a bright ‘good morning’ to the people you passed. You had a small desk by a window facing the street, which the miniature monstera plant sitting on a stack of some old quarterly reports loved when the sun was angled so perfectly to warm it every morning.

You could feel yourself shaking deep within your bones. You’d never been someone who got so wrapped up in the romance of the moment, but now, looking back, you realised you’d done just that.

Today, you were exactly thirteen weeks along. It was now much less risky to start telling people, namely yours and Ross’ employer, Jamie.

You had a direct view of him from your ergonomic desk chair, through the glass door of his office.

Rip the bandaid.

You stood quickly, like if you were to think about it too long, your legs would stop you, and strided to his office. With a gentle knock, you opened the door and leaned into the room.

“Could we have a quick chat? If you’re not busy.”

His face brightened when he saw you; he was always happy to see you, and you him. There was a certain bond between the two of you. It came down to faith and loyalty to each other. He’d given you a chance to pretty much build this entire label with him from the ground up, and you’d put your faith in him—and the band you’ve known all this time—that it would be a worthy investment. And in all these years, you’ve never strayed and been rewarded greatly for it—even more than Jamie even knew, well, for the next couple minutes anyway.

“How’ve you been, love? How was LA? I meant to shoot you a text, but I was busy with the girls this weekend, you know?” He rambled.

“It was good, Coachella was great.” You moved to sit in one of the plush leather—or was it a well-made pleather?—chairs in front of his pinewood desk.

“Didn’t get into too much trouble, then?”

You let out a chuckle. “No, no, not at all.” You let out a sigh. “There is something I need to bring up with you…”

A look of concern spread across his face. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”

“Um…” You let out a sigh. “I’m…having a baby.”

“Holy shit!” He smiled and bounced out of his seat and around his desk to give you a tight hug. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” you beamed back.

“Who’s the father? If you don’t mind me asking.” He scuttled back to his comfy swivel chair. “Or is it a ‘you’re doing it on your own’ sort of thing?”

You could feel heat travelling up your chest, your neck, your ears, and settling in your cheeks.

“That’s the bit that’s a bit... difficult,” you slowly sputtered out.

“Oh, do you now know who the father is? Sorry.”

“No, I know who it is.” Rip the bandaid. “It’s Ross.”

Jamie didn’t say anything for a moment, but you could see the cogs turning in his head behind his eyes, processing the information.

“Like…” He mimed playing a bass. “Our Ross?”

“Yeah,” you answered awkwardly. “We’ve been together for a little bit now, just keeping it quiet. But I’ll be showing soon, so...”

A smile stretched across his face. “I’m very happy for the two of you. Really.”

“Thanks,” you smiled back.

#ross macdonald x reader #ross macdonald x you #ross macdonald fic #ross macdonald fanfiction #ross macdonald imagine

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ravenousgf · 5 months

Text

tagged by mina to post about 5 things i can rant about for like an hour without prep :) ty mina <3 @jewishdainix

umm 1. succession that show has eaten me up i type this sitting snugly in its belly. and im not even the only one here im one among hundreds. anyway show of all time about capitalism and the horror of the family i could probably talk about shiv alone for an hour. normalgirl

2. jane austennn i have such a love hate relationship with these books they're the first books i truly fell in love with and i hate what theyve done for societys idealization of the victorian period. she wasn't as subversive as ppl paint her out to be; then again, it wasn't her goal to be so. she occupied a sally rooney esque spot where the goal was to portray social horrors and pleasures with wit; of course romance was a big part of that. anyway northanger abbey best novel ever. not really

3. the magnus archives um actually this post is getting too long. bye

4. realm of the elderlings specifically kennit ludluck. i could talk about this character forever well of course i know him he's me. stories that help you come to terms with the horrific things you've done, that portray victimhood and abuse and colonization so so well, that knows how to humanize (or rather personify bc i think human is a biological category rather than like a measurement of goodness but ykwim) the structures that prop up enable and even reward certain horrors..........."he knew the difference between a grown woman and a small boy well enough" you will always be famous. what a villain!

5. olivia rodrigo. yeah i have nothing to say about this i just spend inordinate amounts of time listening to her music and i have THOUGHTS on the music videos the art the tour etc etc. miss rodrigo i would be such a competent good personal assistant plz hire me

umm tagging anyone who wants to just say i tagged you<3 and also @mircallaruthven @captainahabgf @bejeweledmp3 @tiredguyswag @theatredelabsurde @lyinginthesnow <3

edit sorry I have to turn this unrebloggable bc I'm bad at dealing with too many notifs rip pls make separate posts everyone 🩵

#mina tag #ok why isnt it letting me tag ppl correctly. ugh trying again

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erimeows · 4 months

Text

Don't Tell

Jaehee Kang finds herself frustrated as she lies on her couch, in the dark, staring up at the ceiling. The house is quiet, minus the occasional gust of wind that echoes outside of her house. Her phone lies on the coffee table, buzzing- probably notifications from the RFA chatroom, but she can’t bring herself to check them right now.

She’s coming off of a terrible fight with you. You, her best friend. You, the person who helped her start her coffee shop. You, the only other person who works at the shop every hour it’s open during the day.

And, you, the person she’s had a crush on since the two of you met.

You and Zen are getting closer. Anyone would be a fool not to notice it. You and Zen got along from the moment you joined the RFA, but lately, Jaehee can’t help but notice how you rush out of work to go hang out with Zen more than you used to, how you constantly address him in the chatrooms, how often you or the actor send selfies of the two of you hanging out together… And Jaehee sees him often, too. In fact, Zen is one of her closest friends aside from you.

Jaehee knows that she isn’t in love with him.

Sadly, she has no guarantee about your feelings.

So, whenever the subject comes up, Jaehee strongly discourages Zen from dating anyone- especially you- using whatever excuse she can come up with. Dating is bad for Zen’s career. Dating Zen would make him lose his fans. Dating Zen would make paparazzi and journalists target you for tabloid stories constantly. It would be a lose-lose situation.

But really, she would be the only one losing out. Zen would be happy, you would be happy, and his true fans would be loving and supportive of his new relationship. You’re great people who deserve each other… Jaehee just wants to be selfish with you, though.

Every time she notices you and Zen getting a little too close, she interjects, and there seems to be no real consequences for it. Zen says he’d love to date but that he sees you as a friend, you say that you don’t have feelings for Zen, and the chat moves on.

This time, things went down differently.

You lost your mind, flipping out on Jaehee, telling her that your romantic feelings are none of her business. Telling her that Zen can date whoever he wants. And then, you told her to give you space and left the chat.

To Jaehee, your over the top reaction confirms your romantic feelings for Zen. So, she lies on her couch and ignores the messages that leave her phone incessantly vibrating on the coffee table- at least until there’s a knock on the door.

Jaehee quickly wipes her tears from her eyes with the sleeves of her sweater and goes to the front door. Upon peeking out the blinds of her living room window and seeing that it’s Zen with two paper bags of bungeoppang in hand, she opens it.

“Look, Jaehee,” Zen starts, a little awkward. He’s wearing a leather jacket and a grey t-shirt with ripped skinny jeans and sneakers. Jaehee notices his motorcycle parked in his driveway as he holds out one of the bagged fish buns to him. She assumes he must have picked it up on the stand by his house on the way to her’s. “I think we should talk.”

“Oh?” Jaehee hums, as if she’s oblivious to what Zen is wanting to discuss, because she can’t stand to be the first to bring up her exchange with you. She allows Zen inside and shuts and locks the door behind them. “What’s going on, Zen?”

“It’s about… The dating thing,” Zen answers as he sits down on the end of Jaehee’s couch and flicks the end table lamp on to shroud the room in warm light. Jaehee flushes with embarrassment upon realizing that he must have noticed she was just sitting in the dark before his arrival. “You know how you’ve been telling (y/n) not to date me because of my career?”

“Yes? I apologize, Zen. I don’t want to meddle in your personal life- I’m just worried about your career,” Jaehee explains, putting up a front for a moment. But then, she remembers… Zen is the only other person that knows about her feelings for you. He is a good friend, after all, so she confides in him about it often. “And, well… Perhaps this is selfish of me, but you’re aware of my feelings for (y/n). But of course, you two deserve to be happy and-”

“No, no, this isn’t about me. In fact, the only reason I’m talking to you about this is because I’m worried that, uh,” Zen clears his throat as Jaehee sits down on the couch next to him. He pauses, takes a bite of his fish bun, and uses his spare hand to awkwardly scratch the back of his neck. “You may be giving (y/n) the wrong impression?”

Jaehee blinks and sets her own bagged bungeoppang down on the coffee table. With how angry you seemed at her in the chatroom, she can’t even consider eating tonight. Her stomach is churning far too much.

“What do you mean?”

“They totally think you’re in love with me.”

Jaehee blinks again.

“I’m sorry?”

“They think that you’re in love with me and jealous of them for spending time with me, and that’s why you keep telling them to avoid me,” Zen explains between bites of his snack. “I guess (y/n) and Seven had talked about it after you guys had that fight or something.”

Jaehee leans forward and holds her head in her hands.

The situation is even worse than Jaehee thought.

You think… That she’s in love with Zen.

Fuck.

“Oh dear…”

“So?” Zen questions. “What are you gonna do?”

“I have no idea,” Jaehee answers as she sits straight up and stares at the wall.

“What?” Zen demands, shocked. “You mean you’re not gonna tell (y/n) the truth?”

“I assumed they knew that I only saw you as a good friend.”

“Well, it’s not like you run around screaming it from the rooftops,” Zen shrugs.

“Does that mean I have to tell them the truth?”

“Not necessarily, but you probably should.”

Jaehee shakes her head. She’s potentially ruined your friendship by rejecting her unrequited (?) feelings onto you and Zen- the last thing she needs to do is go and dump a love confession onto you, too.

“Hm… Maybe not.”

Shortly after, Zen finishes his visit with Jaehee and goes to your apartment next.

If he can’t get Jaehee to confess to you, he’ll just get you to confess to Jaehee. The idea is perfect! The two of you will finally stop arguing about his love life (which neither of you know anything about), he’ll stop having to hear one of you in each ear venting to him about how your feelings aren’t reciprocated (they are), and most importantly, his two best friends will be happy and mutually in love.

But, when he arrives at your apartment to see that you’ve also been crying and sitting in the dark, he realizes that he’s bitten off more than he can chew.

Especially when he finds himself sitting on your couch and having the same discussion with you that he had with Jaehee- except, somehow, worse, because you’re far more stubborn and far less receptive to his advice than Jaehee is.

“(y/n), come on now, Jaehee being in love with me is just ridiculous,” Zen argues as he throws his hands up in frustration.

You sit on your living room couch with your arms crossed over your chest and a pouty look on your face.

“Is it really?”

“Yes?” Zen responds, flabbergasted by your insistence that Jaehee is in love with him and only argues that he shouldn’t date so that she can keep him to herself. “Her and I are only friends.”

“Just because you see her as a friend doesn’t mean she sees you in the same light, Zen,” You argue, and finally, something in Zen breaks.

On a normal night, he would never betray Jaehee’s trust by telling you about her feelings, but he’s so tired of watching the two of you pine after each other that he just can’t help it.

So, he comes out with it.

“Okay, I didn’t really want to do this, but both of you have put me in a terrible spot and I think if I have to hear either of you vent to me about the other not liking you one more time, I’m going to develop wrinkles from the stress,” Zen exclaims. “I’m dating Jumin, so I’m not on the market! Okay? Okay. And, if, in some weird alternate universe, she did like me, it wouldn’t be reciprocated. And finally, she’s very, very in love with you! You guys are literally like one of those Hallmark movies- coffee shop and all!”

You blink your pretty (e/c) eyes and uncross your arms. Your frustrated expression turns to one of complete shock.

“Wait… You’re dating Jumin?”

Zen groans and throws his hands up in frustration.

“That’s what you’re worried about out of everything I just told you!?”

“Oh, right,” You pause, and then, a big, bright smile takes over your face. “Jaehee’s in love with me?”

“Yes!”

“Well, she’s not very good at making it obvious,” You chuckle.

“Don’t tell her I told you or she’ll never come to my shows again,” Zen says, covering his face with his hands.

He almost regrets confessing the truth to you. Hopefully you won’t go and rat him out to Jaehee…

“Yeah, don’t worry,” You grin, dismissing his concerns. “I won’t.”

“So, are you gonna tell her?” Zen asks.

You offer a shrug and a smirk in return.

“Yeah, I’ll figure it out.

Zen lets out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank God.”

Much to your surprise, despite the argument in the chatroom yesterday evening, you do gather the courage to go to open the coffee shop. Jaehee meets you an hour after opening, and the two of you get through the rush of customers grabbing their pre-work coffees whilst hardly speaking to each other.

It’s a little awkward. You can tell she wants to apologize and that she has something to say, but every time one of you tries to speak to each other throughout the day, you get interrupted by a new customer coming in wanting a baked good or a soothing drink. By the time closing rolls around, the shop calms down. You write a note, take it to the lounge, and stick it in her cubby.

‘I know there’s been a lot going on between us lately, especially after that chatroom the other night, but I’d like to make it up to you tonight and clear the air. I love you and I need you to know that- and I know I was mad but it was just a misunderstanding, and I get it now. Please, let’s meet after work and go grab dinner.’

You smile and turn to walk back to the shop to start the closing process, totally unaware that the note unsticks from where you posted it and falls onto the lounge floor. Minutes later, Jaehee goes into the lounge to grab a pen so she can take inventory, only to come out with the note in hand. You beam upon seeing her with it, only for your face to fall seconds later when you see that Jaehee looks upset.

Was Zen wrong? Does she not love you after all?

“(y/n)... I want you to be happy. If your happiness is being with Zen, then I give you my blessing,” Jaehee murmurs and pushes the note towards you. “I know this is for Zen, so… Please take it and give it to him. It must’ve fallen from your purse.”

At that, you blank- both overwhelmed by how sweet Jaehee is being, and pissed off at just how wrong she is.

“...Are you serious?”

“I’m sorry?”

“He was right? He was right,” You raise your voice and facepalm. “God, he must be so annoyed with us!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jaehee, this note was for you. I stuck it in your work cubby- it must have fell off or something. I’m an idiot for not signing it,” You raise your voice since there’s no customers in the shop. You’re angry at yourself, angry at Jaehee, and angry that the two of you could’ve been dating this entire fucking time. But, you manage to calm yourself down enough to lower your volume and explain your feelings to your partner. “I don’t have feelings for Zen. I’ve never had feelings for Zen, and I never will. He really is just a good friend.”

“...Oh,” At first, the soft sunkissed color from Jaehee’s face drains. Then, it’s replaced with a deep, rosy pink. You can see the facts sink in; the realization that flashes across her golden eyes, the blush on her cheeks, the slight quiver in her lip as she struggles to gather the right words to say to you. “Now I’m… Rather embarrassed.”

“I’m really embarrassed,” You respond with a nervous laugh.

“I do love you. I mean, I’m in love with you,” Jaehee rushes to reassure you. Her face is bright red- even redder than when she watches some of Zen’s racier performances, even redder than when the shop is going through its morning rush and the two of you are working hard to keep up with the customer’s demands. “Though I assume Zen informed you of that fact?”

“He told me not to tell you, but uh, yeah, he did. Regardless, that’s not what’s important, because him telling me the truth is the only reason I have the courage to do this,” You gently pull the note from Jaehee’s hands, toss it into the trash, and walk back to her so you can intertwine her fingers with your own. Then, you slowly lean forward and press a gentle kiss against Jaehee’s lips. The flavor of coffee and chocolate mixed together stays on your lips as you pull back and offer her a small smile. “So don’t be too mad at him.”

At that, Jaehee flashes her bright, beautiful smile back at you and reaches forward to fix the collar of your shirt.

“I suppose I could never stay mad at him for too long anyway, but… Would you still be interested in dinner after we close up shop?”

You laugh.

“Only if you let me treat you to something nice for once.”

Jaehee nods, and with that, the two of you get to work closing down the coffee shop, your first kiss still lingering in the back of your mind.

#jaehee kang x reader #jaehee x reader #jaehee kang #jaehee #jaehee mystic messenger #jaehee x mc #mystic messenger jaehee #oneshots #oneshot #drabbles #mysmes #mysmes jaehee #mysme jaehee #fluff #jaehee route spoilers #zen #mysme hyun ryu #hyun ryu #mystic messenger zen

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