#So they end up hanging out by association

[sheep-from-rad]

About the Reader who became Jason's roommate and all. I wonder what if they were so cold and distant with the family, they made sure for them to know that they are not a family. (They already closed their heart).

It can be things like, in class they won't talk with Tim unless they have to, like having a project together and if they do they'll only talk about the project if he tries to talk about something else she changes the subject or shut it down. All with a smile on their face, the way they talk is too professional and they won't let him involve emotions. "We are only talking about what needs to be talked about" they say.

The less subtle with Dick, Bruce and Damian because they come to them as vigilantes. Waking up to Batman and Robin cuddling them. They snap at them. Because first, "when did dressing as a furry and making kids fight crime with you turned to doing that to stalking civilians? And you claim to be my 'family' yet what family breaks into the house of someone and touches them in their sleep? That's not like family behavior but one of creeps!!"

They also snap at Dick for coming to them in his Nightwing costume. "Are you trying to put me in danger by associating me with your vigilant persona? What a good hero- what a good 'brother' you are."

With Jason, what if the reader didn't snap at him till now and told him about the three show up as vigilantes to a civilian, using his protectiveness against them in that way.

I don't know how may readers treat Jason but I can imagine that they don't cook for him and they don't eat what he cooks for them. They keep personal stuff like tooth brush and all of the personal things in their room. If he comes with injuries they will give him a first aid kit and clean the mess he made but mostly won't help him unless it is something he really needs help in like bandaging his back. Stay in their room for most of the time they are in the apartment.

I can imagine reader apartment hunting after Bruce by there's and stuff but also what if Reader got a better job that can help in that? What if the Reader decided that they will pay Bruce rent because to them he is nothing but their landlord? What if Reader managed to find another place to live in and became the roommate of a friend?

If the fam asked them to hang out or visit the manor they'd use the same words who were used against them when they were in the manor like "not now" "I have more important stuff to do" "don't you have other things to do?" "Go bother someone else" "stop nagging me". So it's like how they used to treat the reader at the manor.

I also feel like what they are trying to do is swipe things under the rug so, I can imagine them reaching the point where they try to confront reader and they just say "after treating me like nothing in my most valuable times of my life you think you can waltz back in my life and play family and I'd welcome you whit open arms? What kind of delusion is this?" "You are not my family and made it clear from day one. You can't just take it back, not after all the damage you've done."

Original fic: Jason's sidecar (Yandere Batfam x Neglected!Reader)

Titling this as 'Batfam trying to reintegrate themselves back to reader's life'

Masterlist

Jason had anticipated it. He was a child of neglect as well not just from his original parents but also partly from Bruce. He blames himself too when it comes to you. He’s the smart one next to Tim and he had read a lot of books on how to end the cycles of neglect and emotional abuse and yet he wasn’t able to help you. He may not say it but he feels like he deserves the current treatment he’s getting from you. And honestly, he’s fine with it. He’s fine with the coldness, he’s fine with the emotional distance. He’s fine by just being the shadow in your apartment who tucks you in your sleep at night whenever Bruce and Damian are out. 

Tim is not satisfied with it. He will pull strings to make sure that you and him will always be on the same assignments and projects. If he’s not in the same group with you then he will quickly bribe the weakest link in your group to swap with him. Tim would also use his bad sleep habits as a weapon. It started with him passing out of the class and the professor having to call you to get him home and now the professor has you on speed dial (do people still use speed dial) whenever it happens. Most of the time it’s just a ploy for you to go home to the mansion because sometimes you can’t just say no to Alfred. 

Bruce and Dick were hurt but it makes sense. The cowl and the masks protect the cities but too much attention is just as dangerous. At the end of the day even when they are tired, they have made it a habit to change clothes before coming to see you. Bruce is saddened over the fact that his relationship with you became transactional but much like Tim he would find ways to outsmart you. Whenever you pay him rent every month, he would slip back a hundred or two in the less conspicuous places. Most of the time you end up thinking it’s just money you forgot about. If you have those physical piggy banks, he will surely slip the rent back little by little. Dick would make it a part of his routine to be on constant lookout on Gotham’s apartment rent and leasing. Everytime an apartment lowers its initial rent, he would immediately book it and give it to a poor citizen (he’ll do it in secret and help citizens pay for the rent and even find a stable job to keep the apartment). He is also on the constant lookout in other cities as well with help of his other friends. 

Damian hates it. He thinks you’re being a brat and that you’re doing it for attention. The estate is the safest place in Gotham and you left it for independence? Why would you ever gamble your life for it? He wasn’t in the whole ‘get you back home’ plan and he respects your decision on leaving even though he hates it. He wasn’t on it until he found his fist clenching hard as he stood inside your now empty room at the estate. He knows of emptiness and yet the feeling of you being missing in that very room felt like he’s falling down the abyss. Bruce holds you two tight every night but Damian will hold you tighter. Arms tight on your midsection and head on your chest. He’s partly glad those grip training worked off.

[totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus]

Fic: Vigil 1/4

Pairing: Buck/Tommy

Magical Realism!AU

Inspired by: THOSE pictures of Lou Ferrigno, Jr. You know the ones. I promise anyone who has seen that new photo shoot knows exactly which pictures gave me the wizard!Tommy brain worms

Okay, also, I'm going to ask you to trust me a little on this first chapter. This is tagged "chose not to use archive warnings" on AO3 for...reasons. It is also tagged angst and angst with a happy ending. I like to make things hurt. But I also tag accurately.

Read on AO3

Evan looked beautiful in the candlelight.

He always looked beautiful.

He’d been beautiful the first time Tommy had ever laid eyes on him—a cocky, headstrong kid, fresh out of college and convinced he was invincible. He’d flirted outrageously with Tommy, barely aware he was even doing it, as tempting as the brightest, sweetest fruit and every bit as forbidden. Tommy hadn’t been interested in playing with that kind of fire, and he’d steered them gracefully back from heat and innuendo, smoothing their conversations over into something that was easily excused by Evan’s gregarious nature.

He'd been beautiful a few years later when they crossed paths at one of the many charity galas Margaret Buckley was forever putting on. He’d held court in a small corner of the ballroom, new breadth to his shoulders, the cockiness tempered by genuine confidence, some of the rough edges of youth sanded down by time and experience (and according to local gossip, a few tours with the Peace Corps). The flirting had still been outrageous, all sly, flashing smiles and sparkling blue eyes that met Tommy’s over the rim of a champagne flute. The temptation was stronger that time. Tommy had watched him covertly all night, mesmerized, unable to keep from wondering how the planes of his shoulders would feel under Tommy’s hands, what that deeper voice would sound like wrecked and breathless, how those pink, pink lips would look stretched around his…

He had left the gala early that year.

Evan was still beautiful the year Tommy finally formally aligned himself with the Buckley family as their wizard adept—officially in charge of security for Buckley Industries, but far more entrenched in the family’s business than such a simple title. He’d been beautiful under the glittering chandeliers that hung from the ceilings in the Buckley mansion, laughing with his sister, his tie undone and hanging loose around his neck after the unbearably long banquet (supposedly held in Tommy’s honor—mostly held to rub the fact that the Buckleys were wealthy enough to engage the exclusive services of a licensed wizard in all of their business associates’ faces). He’d been beautiful in the multicolored lights of the over-the-top fireworks Philip Buckley had Tommy create for entertainment—more intricate than any professional Fourth of July display, naturally—once the champagne had been flowing for a few hours. He’d been beautiful in the shadows on one of the mansion’s many terraces, silvered by the moonlight as he tipped his whole body—bigger and broader and more solid, now, a self-assured man and not a cocky kid any longer—towards Tommy’s and teasingly wondered aloud why Tommy hadn’t asked him to dance yet that evening.

He'd been beautiful pressed up against an ivy-covered trellis and stretched out in Tommy’s bed and water-slick and flushed under the shower and every other way Tommy had ever seen him, all the days and nights that they’d managed to steal together since.

He was beautiful now, in gentle repose. The candlelight cast a warm, soft glow over skin that Tommy knew was pale and icy cold, caught the golden glints in his sandy brown hair and the fan of his eyelashes. He was dressed in one of Tommy’s favorite suits, his hands folded over his chest, still and quiet as they never were. He was so still.

“Oh, God.” The words came from directly beside him, and he almost startled, tearing his eyes away from Evan’s…from Evan to turn and look at one of the people he’d been dreading seeing the most.

Maddie Han looked as though she hadn’t slept in days. Her face was pale and sallow, her red-rimmed eyes sunken into her face. The stark black dress she wore—immaculately styled, but hanging loose on her, as though she had already lost weight—made her look even paler than she was, and she held onto her husband’s hand with a white-knuckled grip that looked painful. Howie wasn’t complaining, though, just standing silently beside her and staring at the front of the small chapel. His eyes were filled with a quiet devastation that very nearly matched the depth of Maddie’s.

“He looks like he’s just sleeping,” Maddie whispered, tears welling up in her eyes and spilling silently down her cheeks.

“He’ll—” Tommy broke off, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. God, he’d known this was going to be hard…he’d known that. He saw now, though, that he’d been a fool to think he’d be able to prepare himself in any capacity for how hard. “I called in some favors for the…the preservation. He won’t—he won’t look any different. Not until we…” He stopped; took a deep breath. Maddie quietly let go of Howie’s hand to reach over and take his, and it was almost his undoing. He closed his eyes against the sight of Evan lying so still.

So, so still.

Maddie was wrong, was the worst part. He didn’t look like he was sleeping. Evan was never still when he slept—Tommy knew from experience. Nearly five years of experience, now. Evan tossed and turned, pressed himself close as he could to Tommy’s side, threw a leg or an arm over Tommy’s body before he ever settled, as though he needed to be touching Tommy at all times to be content. The delicate skin of his eyelids twitched and trembled with his dreams, his lips parted with sighs and half-murmured words. He was never so…

Fucking.

Still.

“I’m going to…” Maddie started, taking a half step towards the dais Evan had been laid out on, surrounded by candles and flowers. So many flowers. There was a meadow’s worth of flowers surrounding him, their sickly-sweet scent swirling through the candle-warmed air. Evan would have hated it. Howie moved to follow his wife, but she shook her head minutely, looking back at him with teary eyes as she squeezed Tommy’s hand and then let go. “Just give me a minute alone with him?” Her words trembled, catching on the ragged edge of a sob, but her back was straight and her head held high as she walked toward the dais, the click of her heels echoing dimly off the stone floor.

Howie scrubbed his hands over his face, letting out a shaky sigh. When he turned to look at Tommy, Tommy wanted to flinch away from the sympathy and sadness he saw in his friend’s face. He’d been faced with so many different expressions in the last few days—anger, recrimination, wariness. But the pity was the worst. It burned like acid against his skin, like drake fire, like hellhound blood. He could take anything but the sympathy.

“How you holding up, man?” Howie asked gently. So, so gently, and Tommy didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve any of it. He couldn’t hold back the bitter snort, swallowing back all the words that wanted to spill out like bile. Howie winced at the sound.

“How do you think I’m holding up?” Tommy asked quietly, his shoulders slumping as he focused on Evan again. So quiet. So cold.

So still.

Howie’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Yeah, sorry…stupid question.” He pressed his lips together. “Has Eddie gotten anything else out of the fucker that did this?”

Tommy crossed his arms over his chest, forcing himself not to shrug out of Howie’s gentle grip. Evan wouldn’t want him to push his friends away right now…especially since that friend was also Evan’s brother-in-law. He looked down at the floor of the chapel, tracing a minute crack in the old stone that had been there for who knew how many years. There were at least four generations of Buckleys buried in the family crypt under his feet.

In three days’ time, he was meant to take the love of his life down there to join them.

He looked up at Howie again, and he knew his face was as stony as it had ever been on any combat mission he’d ever flown. “Plenty. By the time Eddie’s done with him, he’s going to wish he’d never been born. And then I’m going to talk to him.”

Howie was silent, but a grim sort of satisfaction flashed through the sadness in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by a harsh, wrenching sob from the front of the chapel. Instantly, they whipped towards the sound in time to see Maddie sink to her knees, clutching one of Evan’s limp hands to her chest. Howie’s whole face crumpled at the sight, and he rushed forward without another word.

Tommy stood frozen, his chest tight, his magic burning through him, fists clenched so tightly he felt his nails break skin in a few places. All his power, all his magic, years and years of training and education…and he couldn’t prevent this. He’d sworn his service to this family, and he couldn’t protect Maddie from this heartache. He couldn’t keep Evan’s parents from inviting a snake into his life, hadn’t realized the man’s true intentions in time to prevent…this. He knew in his heart that Evan wouldn’t see it that way…but he’d failed. He’d failed in his duty. Failed to keep the man he loved, the man who was his everything, safe.

He'd failed.

*

It was nearly midnight before the chapel was empty. Philip and Margaret had secluded themselves in their rooms. Howie had at last prevailed upon Maddie to rest. Eddie had quietly slipped in to pay his respects a few hours earlier…and give Tommy an update on what he’d been able to learn from the man currently locked up in the mansion’s basement—bound in chains Tommy had enchanted himself and guarded by three of the nastiest spirits that owed Tommy favors.

Daniel was en route, due to arrive by plane early tomorrow morning. He’d been in Beijing for most of the last month, overseeing a merger Buckley Industries had been working on for the better part of two years. Philip had absolutely forbidden Daniel to disrupt the negotiations…even for this. Tommy sincerely hoped the deal was worth it to the man, because he was pretty sure Philip had burned every remaining bridge he had with his older son in one fell swoop. The magic that bound Philip and Margaret’s children to their parents’ decisions was old and strong…but it was not infallible. Philip was going to discover that, and soon.

But that was for tomorrow.

For tonight, he had sworn to Maddie that her baby brother would not be left alone in the dark.

Even if she hadn’t begged him to stay with Evan, an act of God couldn’t have pried him from this small, stone building. He closed the outer door, at last shutting out the world that had done everything possible to break him in the last month. Closing his eyes, he pressed his hand against the heavy wood, his magic sinking into the door and spiraling outwards. To the average eye, nothing happened, but when Tommy opened his eyes again the door was crisscrossed with lines of magic that burned like live embers.

Nothing and no one would be disturbing Evan’s rest. Not while he breathed.

Finally, he turned toward the dais and slowly walked toward it.

Evan looked peaceful. There was no trace of the pain that had contorted his face as he clutched his throat, gasping and choking for breath as he collapsed into Tommy’s arms. No trace of the bloodied spittle that had bubbled from his lips as he convulsed before his eyes rolled up in his head and he went so terrifyingly limp and still. For the rest of his life, Tommy would remember that moment. He knew he’d be seeing it in his nightmares for years to come.

Sal had done a good job with his spells. He was the only other wizard Tommy would have ever trusted with this…with Evan. He could have done it himself, but this kind of magic was intricate. Delicate. He honestly did think he could have woven it half as well; not in his current state. He could feel the shape of the magic laid over his love’s body, but it was not glaringly obvious. Just as Maddie had said, the illusion was perfect.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out, running a gentle hand through Evan’s curls, tracing his fingers down his cheek. Cold. So cold, and so still.

He hadn’t thought it would hurt this much. Stupid. But he hadn’t thought it would hurt this much.

He gathered one of Evan’s cold hands up and pressed it against his cheek, closing his suddenly burning eyes and just breathing. The candles flickered over Evan’s face in soft shades of warm gold.

He looked beautiful in the candlelight.

[catboydreamer]

"overgrown anger" ajax/tartaglia x reader

you and ajax have a complicated relationship. he makes it complicated, as your feelings are quite simple. you love him endlessly but he seems to never be able to decide. 

it frustrates you to no end; endless nights of being awoken at one am by him knocking on your window and you let him in. you always do even with a pout dragged across your lips some nights. even if you punch him as soon as he gets inside. even if you have friends over, he will put a finger to his lips and say, “shh. i’ll be quiet”. and if you dare to try to move on, and how dare you, he will grab the man up by his arms and haul him out the front door (though he itches to throw him out the window but he knows better with you) (he cannot burn every bridge). he never directly confronts the problems he creates by one am visits. of course, in the morning he’s gone, the only traces of him are his ajax sized imprints in the mattress. 

there’s always more for you to comment on with him. he creates more scenarios wherever he goes, and god damn is he wherever you go. if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was obsessed with you but you do know better. you’ve known this man since you were seven. you’ve seen him fall in love once and it wasn’t exactly pretty in the end but during? he was nothing like this. with her, he was straightforward in his affections; he spoke his affections clearly, brought her flowers at least once a week, and always held her hand. he was gentle and calm but looked at her with a smile on his face. 

to admit things you didn’t really want to, you were quite devastated discovering your own selfish feelings for him. you felt so guilty the entire time as you’d smile weakly and make an effort to become his girlfriend’s friend. she was kind, the type of person you could never hate and yet, every time you looked at her you felt a bitter taste in your mouth. 

secretly, relief flowed through your body the day that thye broke up. you were there for the entire thing too; you saw the cold and lifeless look he gave her as he tells her its over. its a side she’s never seen but a side you’ve seen countless times. 

you never ask him about it, just walk quietly beside him waiting for words to tumble out but he turns to you abruptly and asks you to accompany him fishing. he never speaks of her again. he never cries or looks upset, either. 

something about the break up felt wrong but you couldn’t put your finger on it…

bonus: you see her around town a few weeks after he broke up with her and she gives you the coldest glare you have ever seen. you simply assume its because you are associated with ajax. her mouth moves to say something but her eyes widen and she walks off… very strongly. minutes later, “boo!” comes up from behind your ear. it was ajax. 

since growing older, he’s not as prominent in your life as before but he still visits at one am if nothing else. its not every night but it is frequent. 

anxiety starts to eat at you about the whole situation. you don’t want it to stop per say because you really do miss him but you wish he would just be honest. constantly, you feel as if he’s hiding something from you. something unknown lays behind his icy blue eyes. you both know it and inevitably he will have to reveal it to you. 

still, he plays with you, giving you a toothy grin one day as he hangs onto your every word but he’s gone the next day. you won’t hear from him for weeks as you constantly look for him in the crowds and stay up until four am waiting by the window. and just when you think you are over him, he’s right there all over again. sometimes you wonder if he’s real and just once, do you let this slip. its gotta be the hundredth time he’s done this back and forth with you and you’re reaching your wits ends. you try so hard to hold back the lump in your throat. the air feels heavy again, if only on your end with your racing thoughts and sweaty limbs. he’s cold again, leaning against the window sill with a far off, faded look in his gaze. he isn’t even looking at you. your chest fills with a hot boil of overpowering warmth. 

you puff your cheeks with hot air and let it all out with a huff. for the record, the action does nothing to sizzle the heat. next, you wipe your hands on your fluffy pajama pants and stand up. 

your voice is so small when you speak(smaller than you’d like it to), “ajax?” 

for a split second, you see his gaze flicker to you, and is that a softness around the edges? no, you are imagining it within your dreary and delusional mind. “what.” he’s back to the deadness you are slowly starting to get used to. at least you try to tell yourself that. 

“just..” you pause, letting out a frustrated growl, “are you even real anymore?”

he twists his body towards you, a twitch of a cocky smile on his lips. “would you like to test that?”

before he can take back what he said, you are marching up to him. his icy blue eyes widen and he tries to put his hands up slowly but you are too fast. before you can control the bubbling anger that fills your senses, your hand comes in contact with the plumpness on his cheek. hard. 

he stares at you in shock, and you stare back. shocked and still very angry. you don’t even want to apologize despite not meaning to do it. 

your breathing is uneven and heavier with every breath. 

he doesn’t say anything, not sure what he could say at this point. he only watches you, seemingly searching for something in your gaze before he leans his head back and closes his eyes. a red mark starts to form on his cheek. 

“thats for leading me on.”

he doesn’t even move as he speaks, “i never-”

“oh, but you did. multiple times. or did you forget?”

his eyes fly open. oh, he remembers. how could he ever forget that? the one night he let himself indulge and become intoxicated by your touch. 

he gulps down the bitterness, “no. i didn’t.”

you take a step forward into his space, close enough he can feel your warming breathe. “then, explain it to me. all of it.”

he aches to trace a finger over your jawline. his fingers twitch at his side in response. he tries once more, “then, can i kiss you?” 

you frown. “no! you can explain your behavior. i’ve got time.” 

he sighs dramatically, “fine. i’m sorry to disappoint but there’s no tale to tell. i’m not worthy of you. that much became painfully obvious to me, quickly.” 

your hands move to grip into his biceps. “what. what does that mean?”

he rolls his eyes. “oh, you know? im unworthy of your love and affections. don’t you know this already?”

your grip gets stronger. he lets you do it without a sound. “uh, no? what the hell, ajax?”

for the first time all night, he truly looks at you. he devours you with his gaze, searching for any semblance of hesitation or deception in your eyes. they are as pure as ever. if not a little more blazed. “you’re not lying to me.”

you say nothing, your eyes give him all the confirmation he needs.

he wipes a hand across his lips. “shit. shit. SHIT. I fucked up,” you’ve never seen this raw, pure fearful look that creeped into his eyes. 

a bitter smile creeps in, “yep. you did.”

he’s frozen. “let go of me.”

instead, you creep even closer so that there is no distance between the two of you. your grip loosens on his arms and slowly travels up until they stop on his jawline. “i can’t,” your voice breaks in half. the same half he broke into a million little shards. and he’s responsible for piecing them back together. 

he stares at you wide eyed, bottom lip slightly trembling. you know better than anyone that he’s fighting back tears. not for long, not if you keep looking at him like that. “please,” he’s begging you at this point.

your heart breaks for him but your heart is more broken. so you whisper to him, “i won’t. i won’t allow it.”

he leans his forehead against yours and screws his eyes shut. tears slowly drip from his eyes down his cheeks. they don’t stop for a long time. 

at some point you have led him to lean his head against your chest as quiet cries leaving his mouth. 

he hasn’t cried in a very long time. 

your hand reaches to stroke strands of hair in a calming motion. 

once he’s ready, he slowly pushes himself off of you. his eyes are bloodshot red and he turns his head to the side. you aren’t holding him in place but you also don’t need to. he knows you aren’t going anywhere. 

“ajax. you need to hear this. please listen.”

he doesn’t make a sound but he doesn’t protest either. progress.

“i’ve loved you since we were thirteen. i never stopped, even for a second, despite what you put me through as a result.”

ajax opens his mouth to speak for a moment but clams it shut in the next. 

you sigh and out come the words, “you are worthy of a grand love. i don’t want to come off too strong but… if you’ve reacted this way, i must mean a lot to you, huh?”

ajax turns to face you, a fiery gaze lingering within his face. “you don’t understand. you mean the world to me. you’re better than the air i breath. i don’t need to breathe if it means you get to. i can’t live without you, and i’ve tried.”

you can’t help but grin, you’re just so happy. finally you can feel how you feel out in the open. you mind is racing at the same pace as your heart. 

ajax leans down, close enough that he’s only a hair away from your lips, “does this mean i can kiss you now?”

you wrap a arm around his neck and pull him down towards you. sealing the night with a kiss is all the confirmation anyone could ever need.

you just have to work on his self esteem issues because holy shit this whole scenario could’ve been avoided!

[ffwriting]

Aot Characters - Nicknames

What nicknames the Aot Characters would have for you!

Also, enjoy the new banners. I like using them more than I thought I would :)

cw: canon verse, slightly ooc, Implied female reader in half of Eren's and Jean's, but the rest are gn readers, no y/n, some cringey nicknames with good reason, Fluff <3!

wc: 1.7k

Characters: Eren Yeager, Mikasa Ackerman, Armin Arlert, Jean Kirstein, Connie Springer, Levi Ackerman, Hange Zoe

Eren Yeager - Sweets, My girl

Eren is the type of person to see a couple while out as a kid and overhear them calling each other pet names, and one of them that he heard once was Sweets. He found it cringy at first, but after hearing it a couple more times, he came to like it. a lot. So naturally after finding a partner, or even once he realizes he has a crush on you, he just starts to call you it. He didn't even realize it at first, but when you gave a questioning look his way when he first said it, he explained why he did. Safe to say that even if you didn't like the nickname, you sure as heck like the story behind it and the man calling you it.

Another name Eren would give you would be my girl. He wouldn't say it in a possessive way though, he would just say it as if he was infatuated. If he was able to get you to be his partner, then maybe this life could be a little better, so he was just so happy that you two were actually dating. He would take every chance to remember it too, so he just started calling you his girl. Most of the time you wouldn't even be the one he would be talking you and he would still call you it. "Yeah, did you see how my girl did in training today? It was so cool."

(I just realized that I used the word 'would' 3x in one sentence, but I'm too tired to fix it now)

Mikasa Ackerman - Middle/last name

I do not think that Mikasa would be much for nicknames, it just doesn't seem like her. She would end up just trying to find something she could call you because she probably overthought about how you would want her to give you a cute nickname, and got a little insecure about it. However, she one day overheard someone talking about how they like to go by their middle name, and she got an idea. She decided that she would call you a shortened version of your middle name. But she decided to make some versions of your last name too because she overthought on how you might not like the ones she came up with for your middle name, so she decided she should just be safe. She has so many thoughts and she just can't seem to express them through words.

Armin Arlert - N/n, angel

Okay, Armin is definitely the type of person who is too embarrassed to call you any of the classic pet names, but he does often like to call you by a nickname he thought of one day. He figured that it was the safest option, it showed that he wanted to call you that stuff, but wasn't too much that he would cringe at himself.

Another thing he calls you is an angel. 100%. No doubt in my mind. Especially if you are kind. He would just be listening to you talk and when you would ask for advice on the situation that he was totally not listening to. He would reluctantly say something like, "I'm sorry you are like an angel, could you please repeat that?"

Technically he doesn't really call you it, he just compares you to one so often to the point where he just catches himself calling you angel in normal conversations. It would just become one of the many ways that he showed his affection for you.

Jean Kirstein - Doll, Woman

Doll is a name that Jean would only refer to you as when you two are alone. Whether you two were out training alone together after the rest went to lunch, or chatting when you both could in the Scouts, he would call you it. I don't think he means it in the current way the pet name is romanticized (currently most fics refer to the pet name as something associated with sexual acts, or mean/rude characters ex: Toji from jjk). I think he would mean it in more of a gentle way, like you are so precious to him like some people's dolls. Despite the faux tough guy act, deep down, sometimes deeper than he would like, he cherishes the people closest to him, friends, family, and you. He cherishes you all, and Doll is the easiest way he can tell you that without saying it.

Jean is the type to act entitled and call you 'woman' to seem like he is this big macho type of man. However, in his mind he just likes calling you it because you often become sassy with him. (Also it gives him a small ego boost that he is the only one who could call you that because to him you were his Woman)

Connie Springer - Your Name, joking pet names

Connie, oh Connie. This guy normally just calls you your name like a normal person. He likes your name, that is all he can really say about it.

HOWEVER, this man sometimes feels like being such an annoyance, lovingly of course. If he felt like it, he would randomly start calling you the cringiest pet names possible. Like I'm not talking sweetie or sugar, I'm talking shit like lovebug and cutie patootie. And he would have no shame in doing this either because he knows that you will break from embarrassment first.

Sometimes you would try to get him back by calling him things like sugarlips and baby boy, but it would fail most of the time because you would just end up cringing at yourself. This would often make you wonder what it would take to make the infamous Connie Springer cringe in embarrassment.

Levi Ackerman - Brat, Your Name + Bonus

The first nickname that I think Levi would call you would be brat, classic, I know. He would just call you this out of annoyance, or sometimes if you were doing something a little too reckless. It was just second nature for him to call you a brat, and even after you two got closer, he just kept calling you that. In all honesty though, sometimes he calls you that, and not in an endearing way. It would probably happen when you have a little too much energy for whatever reason, and he just called you that because you were be annoying to him at that point in time. Most of the time though it is meant in a nonserious manner.

Levi loves to call you by your name, he does not show it that much on his face, but he absolutely loves it. It is slightly weird to get called by your full first name by Levi, and the first time definitely startled you. However, you soon got used to it. Levi, on the other hand, somehow got happier every single time he called your name. He didn't know how just saying your name could make him feel that uncomfortable feeling of happiness, but it did. He would say it any chance he could, without making any feeling he had obvious. Soon he was addicted to it like it was a drug to him. He was not a big fan of it. He loved, and hated, how it made him feel.

Bonus (platonic nickname): Kid

Levi would call you kid even if you were just a month older than him. Why you may ask? Because he found it funny to annoy you, and that nickname definitely would. You had been in the Scouts longer than him, you were taller than him, and you had almost the same amount of respect from Erwin, so why was he calling you kid? It irked you so you ended up calling him kid as well.

When you first did this, you were met with a questioning look, and you defended yourself, "You call me a kid all the time, but I'm not the one that is built like one." This may or may not have earned you extra cleaning duties for the day, but the next time you did it he just gave you an annoyed look. Soon enough, you both tried to come up with simple names to call each other to try to piss the other off. Sometimes you could swear you could see a small smile on his face after you both went back and forth with nicknames.

If you ended up dying, he would never call anyone else kid though. He would be too scared of making the same connection of love, and having them die again, again.

Hange Zoe - My love, Darling

Hange 100% will call you 'my love.' Their reasoning? You are. They would even call you this before you two started getting close because Hange already knew they had a crush on you.

'My love' will be used to refer to you more than your actual name. Hange would even refer to you as that to the other Scouts. Like they would be reporting results to Erwin, and just casually say, "Yes, and my love even recommended the idea that….." This would leave Erwin very confused the first time around until after the meeting he asked an annoyed Levi who the 'my love,' Hange was referring to was. When he learned that it was you, it all just clicked for him, and he didn't even blink an eye when you were called by that name the next time he heard it. And he heard it a lot. Hange just loved calling you 'my love.'

Another thing that Hange loves to call you is Darling (Ex: that one scene where a titan almost bit them and they say, "You almost got me there, Darling"). Hear me out.

Hange would call you this anytime you got even slightly snippy, brash, or fed up with something. It would just come out of their mouth like second nature when seeing you upset. You would have said something a little harsher than you meant to, but you were getting really annoyed with someone in the Scouts, so you were put on edge. When you went to say something to apologize for being rude, Hange cut you off with, "You alright, Darling?" with a perfect mix of concern and playfulness in their voice. That line made you entirely forget about being annoyed and made everything in the shitty world feel even just a little bit better. You would just respond with a quick shake of your head, give them a hug, and feel a little happier for the rest of the day because how could you have a bad day with Hange in your life?

Okay random ramble from me-

Okay so I hop from fandom to fandom a lot, right

Recently, the past two years, I have noticed that in every single fandom there are patterns. Like characters will have the same personality trait, and if you are not careful you might confuse a fanfic for being for one character, but it really is for another character in an entirely different series.

You will have the classic main character personality that is either overly sexualized for their own good, or not taken seriously at all, or both. Ex: Izuku in mha, Ittadori in jjk, Tanjiro in demon slayer, Naruto in naruto

Then, you will have the stoic side characters who have more fanfiction than most other characters. Ex: Shoto Todoroki and Aizawa in mha, Choso and Megumi in jjk, Mikasa and Levi in aot

Also, there is the type of character that made me realize this trend, the 'dumb' side characters that are mostly used to make the watcher laugh. Ex: Connie in aot, Denki and Sero in mha, Nishinoya and Tanaka in Haikyuu, Zenitzu and Inoske in Demon Slayer, and maybe some others that I am missing.

Please tell me that I am not alone in noticing this. Like please tell me this is a normal experience and that I am just going through this realization embarrassingly late in my fanfiction life.

Also, I feel like I only noticed this when I was fandom hoping recently and it just clicked in my head that Smau writers tend to write Nishinoya and Denki similarly. Anyway, thanks for coming to my ted talk. Enjoy this small writing while I start to, hopefully, work on some angst works so I can lure in the other half of the aot fandom bc a lot of you love yourselves some good angst. Like the show wasn't angsty enough already

[spandexinspace]

Loose grouping of espionage squad and spouses except it's mostly Querl and Ayla already being friends already and then Tinya's boyfriend is there.

[gierosajie]

So I know that Venti drinks wine for the taste and company, but anyway, consider for a moment the idea of alcohol tasting bad for him and yet he'll always take an offer or invite for a drink because it reminds him of the happy times he used to have with his old friends

[mangled-by-disuse]

I have such mixed feelings about the love languages thing specifically, because, like, gary chapman fucking sucks and there's no scientific validity to his work BUT

at the same time, i do think there's some value in recognising and discussing the fact that different people need different expressions of love in different amounts? Especially in relationships.

Like, I have just recently been having a discussion with my partner about how he really doesn't tend to express his affection through gifts, whereas (as someone who is mega-bad at expressing sincere feeling) I do rely heavily on giving gifts and doing things for people as a less scary way to express love. Joe doesn't like giving gifts, because he's scared he'll do it wrong, and is only so-so on receiving them. He prefers to express love through physical contact and saying nice things. I hate having nice things said to me unless I am allowed to immediately rebut them with a joke or sarcastic comment that makes them less scarily close to emotional honesty. too many words of affirmation and i will genuinely just start avoiding you because it is painfully awkward to me.

and none of that means we are fundamentally different categories of people, which is where the 5 Love Languages stuff falls into being absolute bollocks. but I have seen, and done, enough throwing the baby out with the bathwater on that to be a little defensive - I think reasonable applications of the concept are actually really quite valuable. and for me, the taxonomy Chapman suggests (words of affirmation, quality time, gifts, acts of service, physical touch) while not at all exhaustive or thorough, is a useful framework to hang those conversations on. bc, like, no, the way people communicate and receive affection is not universal, and from personal experience, assuming that it is can have really significant problems for a relationship.

...you could argue that this is parallel to BMI in terms of "tools being used in totally not the way they should be used" though, tbf.

I can't keep having the same conversations about love languages, mbti, iq, bmi, "brain fully formed at 25" and shit over and over again...

[dukeofankh]

If your vision for the deradicalization of right-wing men begins and ends with "other men telling them that that's gross and to stop it" then I'm sorry, you do not understand how masculinity works.

"Men who hold patriarchal status" and "men who are feminists" are two groups who overlap less than you want them to. I'm sorry. That's not solely because men are so happy with patriarchal status that they don't want to risk it by policing misogyny/queerphobia/racism, It's because being misogynistic, queerphobic, and racist, end expressing other forms of toxic masculinity(and often abusively so) are part of how people establish and maintain patriarchal status. The men who have the ability to stop this via nothing but peer pressure are the very people who are doing it. That's by design. And engaging in feminist intervention is, in and of itself, usually the abrupt end of that status and its associated power to persuade misogynistic men.

Like, I have worked in blue collar jobs as a notably queer person. It was pretty much a constant deluge of verbal abuse. In my experience, most blue collar work environments are exploitative, abusive, and bigoted, and very gleefully so. On the occasions I have spoken up about someone saying something that was super fucking out of line (asking me which of the girls walking by was hottest. We were installing a portable classroom at a middle school), believe it or not, they completely failed to be shamed! Because nobody else on the crew gave a fuck. *I* was the weird one. They ghosted me. A full blown company ghosted me. I suddenly didn't have a job anymore because they just straightforwardly stopped telling me where the next job site was.

Like, this doesn't mean that it's your job to do it, but this vision you have of these big groups of men where everyone is on the fence and there is precisely one shit stirrer who can be shut down by a brave feminist man who can single handedly set the example for all these other guys...you are high. You are describing an "everybody clapped" level absurd scenario. Most of these truly virulent misogynistic guys either have zero friends, because, you know, our society is atomized to fuck, or they are in a group where the feminist guy is actually the weirdo who can be shut down and ostracized much, much easier than the misogynists, because there is no such thing as a man misogynists respect who stands up for women.

You might be saying "well, we're talking about longstanding personal relationships, actually. Like, they need to have to want to spend time with you and then, as a side effect, you can mind control them out of being a threat to us."

Problem with that being:

1: Many feminist men also have no friends, see the atomized society above.

2: Feminist men already stopped hanging out with men who make rape jokes because why the fuck would we want to spend time with them.

3: That isn't just because we respect women so hard. We are in many cases talking about men who are also deeply queerphobic, heirarchical, violent and abusive to other men. What initially drew me to feminism and women was a lack of heirarchical squabbling and constant bullying, and the ability to be openly queer. A lot of men who came to feminism did so because they knew that the patriarchy was not a place they would find success or acceptance. These are not the men who are gonna be able to change right wing minds.

4. Men do not view themselves as a monolith. There is no universal brotherhood of men. The actual meaning of the term "Fragile masculinity" is that men are constantly expected to prove that they are deserving of the status of being a member of their own gender. There are large swathes of men--including most of the men who you'd look to as examples of good, feminist men who you want to undertake this project--who are considered failed men, sissies, f****ts, soyboys, ect. They are. Not. Going. To. Convince. These. Men. Of. Jack. Shit. Much less successfully *shame* them. Jesus.

I know all of this sucks. I know it would be cool to be able to just point at a group and have them be responsible for the work. But nah. It's gonna have to be a societal project, one that will probably outlast all of us. Sorry. The thing you want these men to do is, absolutely, the morally correct thing to do. But presuming that it would be effective is, and once again I am so sorry about this, just ignorance of how these social groups function.

[muletia]

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

[tfp] obsessed!orion pax x human!reader

summary: what if optimus' obsession bypassed his memory loss? what if he was so infatuated that even his past self yearned for you?

cw: fluff, pinch of angst, canon divergence: orion is taken by the autobots, obsessive thoughts, clinginess, orion literally cannot be left alone for one(1) second, tbh nothing happens in this, i just wanted to write obsessed!orion interacting with you, bad writing, silliness

word count: 4700

"Come to the base. It's urgent."

As you stare at the terse message from Ratchet, your chewing slows and stops. A storm of questions whirls in your mind, panic creeping into your body. Before you can even type a single letter, your phone rings. The caller is none other than the Autobot medic himself. You answer in less than a second.

"Hello? Ratchet, please don't scare me—what exactly happened?"

"It's about Optimus." Your heart skips a beat. "During the last mission, he was... injured. Or, to be precise, damaged."

"Is it serious?" you ask, pacing nervously around the break room. Lunch now long forgotten. "Will he be all right?"

"Physically—he's never looked or felt better. Mentally, however... that's a different story. I'll explain the details when you get here. And make it quick."

"Hold on, wait—I can't just leave work early like that. There's a whole procedure for this. I can't just waltz out, even though I’d love to leave right now."

"...In an hour and a half, I expect to see you here at the base. See you then."

He hangs up. You stare at your phone screen for a moment, replaying the conversation in your head. Something serious must have happened—Ratchet wouldn’t disturb you at work otherwise. And it involved Optimus... You bite your lip, torn by indecision. You need to at least make sure he's okay, to see with your own eyes what Ratchet was talking about. Otherwise, you'll regret your negligence and spend the rest of the day worrying.

Shoving the half-eaten sandwich into your bag, you rush to your computer to draft a request for early leave, praying fervently that your boss will grant it.

You kept pressing the gas, speeding toward the base, trying to balance obeying traffic laws with worrying about the Autobot. You knew he had been preparing for a mission recently, he had told you about it during a ride you shared, but you didn’t expect it to end like this. Maybe you should have, considering you were associated with a race of aliens deeply embroiled in a centuries-long war, but you always pushed such unpleasant thoughts to the back of your mind, wishing your friends the best. Now, though, all the worst scenarios were coming to the surface. Had he fallen into a coma? Was his processor damaged? Had he died? You didn’t want to think about such an ending. Optimus was alive. You were sure of that.

Seeing the familiar red rock, a tight knot of anxiety gripped your throat. In a few moments, you were about to drive into what was practically your second home, not knowing what awaited you. You glanced at the clock. You were half an hour late—well beyond the time Ratchet had given you.

As if on cue, the medic called you again.

“Don’t enter the hangar. Leave the vehicle at the entrance.”

Before you could say a word, he hung up, leaving you to sigh in frustration.

Following his instructions, you parked at the main entrance and made the rest of the journey on foot. The lights seemed especially harsh, glaring into your eyes as the tunnel stretched endlessly ahead of you, as if warning you, giving you one last chance to turn back. But no force on Earth could stop you now. Determined, you marched forward, needing to know what had happened to your friend.

The hangar was full of Autobots, their sheer presence intimidating. You had thought you were over the feeling of smallness that came with being one of the humans among them, but now it hit you again, hard, dredging up memories of when humans in their midst were still a novelty. You froze for a moment, your courage momentarily disappearing in the shadows of giants.

It wasn’t until your eyes landed on the reason you had left work early that you began to breathe again. Optimus stood there, seemingly whole and healthy, facing the platform where the kids likely were. Relief washed over you. He was alive. Your heart was still racing, but the weight of dread lifted slightly, leaving you braced for the next wave of bad news.

"Hey, sorry I’m late. Work took longer than I expected," you called out.

Your voice immediately caught his attention. Optimus turned to you so abruptly that it shocked everyone present, abandoning the conversation he had been engaged in. Tilting your head back to meet his gaze, you were surprised when he knelt down on one knee, making himself more accessible. You still had to look up, but now his face wasn’t obscured by his… windshields.

The first hint that something was off was his smile—wide, cheerful, and curious. Optimus didn’t smile like that, not even when something genuinely delighted him. Worry started gnawing at you again. Something was wrong.

"Greetings. You must be our next human ally, correct?"

At first, you were at a loss for words. Of all the scenarios you had imagined, memory loss hadn’t even crossed your mind. But before the conversation could veer into awkward territory or panic could take hold, you managed to reply, mirroring his smile.

"That’s right."

"You seem… familiar. As though we have met before."

The hangar fell silent, the atmosphere thickening.

"Of course he would remember her," Ratchet hissed under his breath. You shot him a glare filled with venom.

Focusing back on the mech before you, you forced a calm smile, masking the whirlwind of emotions inside you. You felt like you were on the verge of exploding—uncertain whether to jog his memories or pretend this was truly your first meeting. Why hadn’t anyone given you guidance on how to handle this?

"Erm, well…" you began, only for Ratchet to step in and spare you.

"Humans can look quite similar at first glance," the medic interjected. "Orion, this is [Name], the last human who should know of our existence."

A flicker of something lit up in his cyan optics—something indefinable, known only to him.

"Greetings, [Name]. It is a great pleasure to meet you."

He extended a servo toward you. Tentatively, you clasped one of his digits, ignoring the ache in your heart. This shouldn’t have been happening. You shouldn’t have to forge a new relationship with someone so dear to you. It felt uncanny—like he was wearing Optimus’s skin but was someone entirely different inside. It was unnerving, disorienting. Yet this stranger had knelt before you, reduced himself to your scale to show respect, just as Optimus always had. It was a glimpse of his alternate self, a sign of the inherent honor and kindness he still carried.

"Hello, Orion. The pleasure is all mine."

Letting go of his servo, you gave him an apologetic smile, signaling the end of the conversation. You needed answers, clarity about the situation, before you could decide how to proceed. As Orion straightened up, you stepped past him toward the platform. You could feel curious optics on you, particularly his, as you fist-bumped the kids. Unbeknownst to you, Orion clenched his servo in the same way you had during your handshake.

"So," you said to Ratchet, "what happened?"

The medic sighed, clearly weary of recounting the story yet again. But you had to know. You listened intently, the details unsettling and at times horrifying, but you felt a growing sense of calm. At least now you knew what you were dealing with—what topics to avoid, how to act. The relief faded, however, when you learned that the first attempt to restore Optimus’s memories had failed, and no date had been set for the next.

As Ratchet spoke, most of the team dispersed, leaving only you, the medic, and Orion in the hangar. Taking a moment to process everything, you glanced at Orion, catching his curious gaze.

This was your new reality. Optimus was gone, yet not entirely, standing just a few meters away, watching you intently. It was too much to dwell on. You needed something to distract yourself.

Standing from the couch, you headed down the stairs. You figured you’d be here for the rest of the evening, so you might as well find something productive to do.

"[Name]?" Orion’s voice stopped you in your tracks. He looked genuinely concerned. "Are you leaving already?"

His behavior puzzled you.

"I’m just going to grab my things. I’ll be right back."

"I see. May I accompany you?"

Oh, that was adorable—especially with the hopeful tone in his voice.

"I’m not sure you’ll fit in the tunnel in your current form," you teased with a laugh. "It won’t take long. I’ll be back in a minute."

This time, you quickened your pace.

For several hours, Orion's life had been filled with uncertainty. He didn’t know how he had ended up on this planet, who the Autobots around him were, or why they called him "Prime" when he felt he was unworthy of the title. And now, another enigma had appeared—you. Orion could not rationalize the overwhelming need to be near you. He had felt it the moment he laid his optics on you. The need to stay close, to converse, to observe. The need to know you better. Never before had such intense emotions stirred within him for anyone, let alone a stranger. But you weren’t a stranger. This may have been your first meeting, and he may have spoken to you for the first time, but you were not unfamiliar. Of that, he was absolutely certain.

Seconds stretched into minutes, and minutes into hours since you had disappeared into the tunnel. He regretted not following you, even if it meant transforming into his alt-form. At least he would have kept an optic on you, preventing the gnawing feelings of confusion and longing from devouring him from inside.

Ratchet watched his friend closely. He recognized that look, that body language. He knew what it signified, what storm was brewing in Orion’s processor. Optimus had been the same when it came to you. For a brief moment, his friend was back. Too bad it was under such circumstances.

"Do you really remember that woman?" he asked.

"I am not certain," Orion replied, still gazing toward the tunnel. "I feel like she is not a stranger, even though I know this was our first encounter. And as… Prime, if I indeed held that title, was she close to me?"

Primus.

"Perhaps closer than any human, but only Optimus knew to what extent. That might explain why you recognized her."

"Then she is special."

"Everything points to that."

Orion glanced at him, offering a faint smile. For reasons Ratchet couldn’t quite explain, the gesture was hard to look at. Fortunately, you emerged from the tunnel, giving him an excuse to start working again.

"See? I told you it’d only take a minute," you laughed, a black backpack slung over your shoulder.

Orion didn’t confess the truth—that by his reckoning, you had been gone an eternity. He watched intently as you climbed the stairs and took a seat on the couch.

"So, Orion," you began, "what did you do on Cybertron?"

Oh. You were curious about him? Truly? He had never thought of himself as particularly interesting.

It was fortunate that you were not looking at him because his body language betrayed his embarrassment.

"I was an archivist. Do humans on Earth have similar professions?"

"Of course. You know, I’ve always admired archivists. It’s meticulous work, requiring patience and nerves of steel—if you know what I mean. Anyway, it’s an important job, and anyone who takes it up is very cool in my book."

"Cool?"

"You know, fascinating, impressive, admirable."

"Does that mean that... in your optics, I am… cool?"

He asked without thinking and immediately regretted it when you gave him an amused look. Embarrassed, he tilted his helm downward. For such a towering and formidable being, he was also astonishingly skittish. It was peculiar to see a former Prime in such a light, but it made him more relatable, more emotionally accessible. Even so, you couldn’t deny that you missed Optimus.

"Of course, you’re cool to me."

That answer brightened him. A spectacle of stars dances in his optics.

You returned to typing on your laptop, but Orion had other plans for you.

"It seems I still have much to learn about this planet."

"I think you’ll catch on quickly. Besides, if it makes you feel any better, the other bots don’t know everything either. If you’re ever unsure, just ask. I’ll do my best to help."

"Thank you, [Name]. Your kindness is very important to me."

"Anytime. If you’d like, you could also explore our literature—it’ll give you a good insight into what humanity is all about. That sounds like a fitting activity for an archivist, doesn’t it?"

He would much rather have you as his sole source of knowledge about your species, as it meant spending more time with you. He wanted to know not just what you were but who you were—your interests, where you worked, how you spent your free time, your philosophy, beliefs, and hobbies. Everything you were willing to share. He wanted to know you inside and out, to solidify this sense of connection and make it real. And if you wished, he would bare his own secrets, reveal his spark, and show you every part of himself. Perhaps then you might look at him just for a second longer.

"Yes, I believe that would be an enjoyable activity. And what is it that you do?"

He asked question after question, each answer adding a new layer of understanding about you. He shared a little in return, preferring listening to you—your opinions, your perspective.

Time passed swiftly in your company. Relentless and unforgiving, it waited for no one. Orion realized this when you set aside your device and began stretching. It was a mesmerizing sight—your movements were so different from those of Cybertronians, fluid, and light. That was until the air was pierced by the loud crack coming from your back.

Energon froze in his fuel lines, and his spark leaped to his intake.

"[Name]? Are you alright? Are you harmed?"

"Hm?" you hummed, confused. He looked as though calamity had befallen him, as though you’d been beheaded. Then you remembered—it was Orion, not Optimus, and the human body was weird. "Oh, that. Don’t worry, I’m fine. It’s perfectly normal." To prove your point, you began cracking your knuckles, stopping quickly when you saw his horrified expression. "Okay, sorry about that. But really, I’m fine. I just need to stretch."

"Alright…" he replied, though he didn’t seem convinced. You couldn’t blame him.

You rose from the couch and stepped down from the platform, intending to take a short walk. Panic erupted in his spark. Oh no. No, no, no. He didn’t want to be left alone, not after such a jarring experience. He wouldn’t let you out of his optics now—not even for a moment.

"May I accompany you?"

"Of course!" you replied without hesitation, smiling—a gesture he immediately mirrored. "It won’t be very exciting, though."

"On the contrary, I find you to be a most intriguing individual."

"Oh, thank you," you said, clearing your throat, embarrassed. Compliments delivered in that baritone still flustered you.

Together, you ventured deeper into the base, bypassing various sections. In the training room, Arcee worked on her speed, while Bulkhead struck a makeshift punching bag fashioned from an old car. The children watched the spectacle, occasionally entertaining themselves. You both quickly slipped past the always-open entryway and continued on your way.

“[Name]?” Orion inquires. You turn into an empty hangar with a high platform, starting to ascend the stairs.

“Hm?”

“How do humans attempt to court their partners?”

You hadn't expected that kind of question. You stop mid-step, pondering your answer. When you look at him, his expression is dead serious, though his optics betray a determination. Why would he want to know this? You decide it’s probably mere curiosity.

“It depends on the person.” You continue climbing the stairs until you finally reach the top, now level with his faceplate. “Some buy gifts like flowers, others go on elaborate dates. But the common factor is spending time together, and getting to know one another. Feelings tend to develop naturally that way,” you explain. “Actually, that’s an interesting topic. How did it work on Cybertron?”

“Similarly. However, instead of exchanging ‘flowers,’ we presented rare metals or crystals to leave the best impression. To demonstrate strength and potential as a partner.”

“I know a few people who would totally fall for that approach. Heh, I’d be thrilled to get a geode myself.”

Orion suddenly lights up. Were you suggesting something or just sharing an opinion? Whatever it was, he felt compelled to try. To prove himself worthy. Perhaps he could even find the ‘flowers’ you mentioned.

“I see. Thank you for enlightening me.”

“You’re welcome?” you reply, unsure exactly how you’ve helped, but the sight of his broad smile and bright optics makes it all worthwhile. He was utterly adorable.

The two of you chat casually until you’re forced to check the time. You inhale sharply, and Orion tilts his head slightly, curious about your reaction.

“It was great talking to you, but I really need to go. I have work tomorrow and I’d like to get some sleep.”

Panic flashes across his face. He had enjoyed your company so much. He didn’t feel alienated or alone when he was with you. The sense of connection played a significant role, but Orion had already let you into his spark. He had found a safe harbor in you and wasn’t ready to drift away just yet. He wasn’t ready to let go, even if the world around him were to crumble.

“May I accompany you?” he asks, desperation seeping into his tone.

“Excuse me?”

“May I accompany you?” he repeats, now begging.

“My home isn’t exactly designed to host a giant robot. Besides, it’s dangerous and... wait, do you even know the traffic regulations?”

His expression answers the question, but he still attempts to defend himself.

“I have acquainted myself with them partially.”

“Who has the right of way at an uncontrolled intersection?”

He opens his mouth but quickly closes it again, visibly crestfallen. He looks as though he might cry.

“Orion, we’ll see each other tomorrow,” you reassure him. “The first thing I’ll do after work is come here.”

He frantically searches for an argument to keep you with him—anything to prolong your company. Then he remembers his first encounter with human children.

“Every child was assigned a guardian who escorted them home and ensured their safety,” he states, refusing to give up. “Do you have a protector?”

“Unofficially, that was Optimus…”

“Then I would like to carry on his mission.”

“I’m not a child, Orion.”

“I understand that. I merely wish for your safety, [Name],” he explains earnestly. “And… I would prefer not to part from the company most dear to me.”

Your thoughts drift back to something he said earlier—how he recognized the bond you once shared, even though this was your first conversation. He hadn’t recognized Ratchet or anyone from his team—only you.

You tried to put yourself in his position. To suddenly find yourself in a foreign place, surrounded by strangers addressing you by a false name and feeding you information that might as well be fiction. And then, in a world where nothing is familiar, someone steps in—someone you vaguely recognize. You might not know their name, but you know there was once a connection. Wouldn’t you cling to that tiny thread, desperately pulling it closer if someone tried to take it away?

Orion had found solid ground, and you were unintentionally trying to undermine it. You exhale softly. You already knew you’d be saying goodbye to sleep tonight.

“Alright.” His smile makes it all worth it. It’s as though you’ve handed him a star from the sky. “Let’s see what Ratchet has to say about all this.”

"I see no objections."

Orion looks at you with excitement sparkling in his optics.

"Wow, that was quick."

"It's a good excuse for Orion to explore the area and get accustomed to his alt mode."

The medic refrains from adding that if the former leader remained at the base, he would likely have wasted away in longing for you, lamenting to every sentient being that he couldn't wait to see you again. Though the comment teeters on the edge of his glossa, he opts for discretion. Optimus, at least, had never vocalized his peculiar obsession with you quite so openly.

"Should anything unusual occur, contact me immediately. Someone will come for you in the morning," Ratchet advises his friend before turning to you. "Good night, [Name]."

You thank the medic for his diligence and ask him to take some rest, earning a piercing glare that almost feels lethal, then retrieve your backpack and head toward the tunnel. Orion stays close by, not leaving your side even after transforming. Ever the gentleman, he opens the door for you, visibly delighted at the prospect of your first shared drive together. In his mind, this was more than a mere drive—it was a deeply intimate act, almost akin to inviting a partner into one’s private space.

But his dreams are promptly shattered when you inform him that you have your own car.

The journey is uneventful but nerve-wracking; you constantly check your side mirror to ensure Orion is still following you. Thankfully, there are no issues, and he even remembers to use his turn signals when necessary. Everything proceeds smoothly until you pull into your driveway and are struck by a dreadful realization: Will a Peterbilt even fit in my garage?

You park your car to the side, leaving Orion enough space to drive safely. Exiting your vehicle, you open the garage door and wave at him to proceed. You nervously bite your thumb, watching the massive truck carefully edge into the space. There are barely three centimeters between the roof of the truck and the ceiling. When you close the garage door, the already limited space shrinks further.

"So, do you regret your decision now?" you ask, stepping around to the front of the truck.

Orion transforms with meticulous precision, carefully positioning his limbs and helm to avoid damaging the walls. The process goes well until his helm grazes the ceiling with an audible thud, dislodging a few small pieces of debris. He winces slightly and rubs his helm but offers you a warm smile.

"I do not regret my decision."

"Pfff, well, that's good. Are you all right?"

"I am unharmed."

You can’t help but feel guilty for confining him to such a cramped space, but it was his choice. If he insisted, he would simply have to endure it. Of course, that meant you would have to endure it, too, as the issues began almost immediately.

"All right, I’m going to grab my things. I’ll be back in a moment."

He panics again—something you’re beginning to expect from him.

"Please, do not leave me."

His voice is unchanging. A deep and thick baritone that permeates your body, speaking straight to your soul. It is strange to hear the same voice coming out of a shamed and uncertain being, begging you for company.

"I’ll only be gone for two minutes."

You reach for the door handle, but his servo shoots forward, blocking your exit.

"Orion," you chide, your tone sharp and reprimanding.

He doesn’t meet your eyes, his apprehension laid bare.

"Please, I do not wish to be alone."

"Two minutes," you say firmly, though your annoyance falters when you see the raw emotion in his optics. Sighing, you place a hand on the edge of his digit, catching his attention. "I’ll be back. I promise."

He believes you, of course he does. He trusts you to return, yes, he even knows it. It doesn't change the fact that he is frightened, he feels alone, and your proximity calms the storm raging through his processor. His whole body is clamoring for you, screaming for you to stay with him. He craves bodily contact, he wants your soft hands to stroke his metal and your lips to whisper sweet nothings. He wants more, he wants to feel the softness, more, more, more.

He takes his servo away.

"Good mech."

As you disappear through the door, Orion buries his face in his hands. Despite his embarrassment, he can’t suppress a grin. He had enjoyed that moment—far too much.

He wants to hear you say it again.

When you return, you’re carrying a blanket, a deck of UNO cards, some snacks, and your laptop. Orion beams at the sight of you but frowns when he notices you shivering.

"Are you cold?" he asks with concern.

"Hmm? A little, but I’ll warm up soon."

Without warning, he gently scoops you up in his servo, handling you with the utmost care. The shock is brief—you don’t even have time to protest before he places you on his chassis. His servo remains loosely wrapped around you as a precaution, but your back presses against his warm metal frame. Tilting your head up to glare at him for pulling such a stunt, you find him already watching you, amusement dancing in his optics.

"Ask next time before you do something like that," you scold lightly.

"I make no promises," he teases, earning a playful flick to his digit.

"I was planning to play UNO, but since you pulled that move, let’s watch a movie instead. Unless you’d rather do something else?"

"I leave myself entirely at your mercy."

He would have been content doing nothing as long as he could hold you close.

"All right, then. A movie it is."

It's hard for him to keep up with the plot when he's overstimulated, but he tries, because your questions encouraging discussion come out of nowhere. And it was just at moments when he started to drift off, when the optics shifted from the tiny screen to you; when there was only you and him in the world. Sometimes, however, he would focus for longer, especially during the romantic scenes. He longs to experience something similar with you, an indestructible, sappy love. To recite poetry into your ear and watch you blush, to announce to everyone how much you mean to him. To bestow expensive gifts, the geodes you mentioned earlier. He needs your tender words, your praise, your touch. You could do whatever you liked with him, and he would give you his spark.

He worries when you fall silent for too long.

"[Name]?" he calls softly, leaning closer to check on you. Relief washes over him when he sees you’ve simply fallen asleep. Poor thing—you must have been exhausted.

Still, a part of him resents it. He wanted to talk to you longer, watch more films, learn more about human romance to win your favor. But he knows his thoughts are selfish. Setting the laptop aside, he carefully covers you with his other servo, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety.

He's not sure he'll be able to recharge. At least not now, when he was too absorbed in devouring you with his optics. You felt safe with him. You gave him your trust. You chose him.

A spark of possessiveness sweeps through his processor. He doesn't want to let you go. He doesn't want you to go to work tomorrow and leave him for eternity. He also knows he shouldn't think that way. The spark goes out.

Watching you sleep, his processor churns with thoughts. You trusted him. He vows to prove his worth tomorrow, to show you just how deep his feelings run.

Because he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be himself. How much longer he will remain as Orion Pax.

[gyuswhore]

Cherry Picker [teaser]

part of the winter with you collab hosted by @camandemstudios!

Choi Seungcheol x reader

est. word count: um 30k (?) EDIT: projecting near 20k [see reblogs] EDIT pt2: we're back to 30k (possibly more)

est. release date: January 10th

warnings: Hockey player! Seungcheol, figure skater! reader, *deep breath* ENEMIES TO LOVERS, angst, fluff, smut [MINORS DNI], more to be added in final post

synopsis: Cherry Picking [ice hockey]: a manoeuver in which a player, the floater, literally loafs (spends time in idleness) or casually skates behind the opposing team's unsuspecting defencemen while they are in their attacking zone. There wasn't much you counted on in life; just your skates, your drive and how it felt to win. And of course, your local ice rink, that is now being colonised by an obnoxious hockey team in all their big, loud, stinking glory. Neither does it help that one particular red donned specimen forgets to leave his cherry picking on the ice.

‼️ JOIN THE TAGLIST by sending an ask or replying under this post. AGE INDICATORS ON YOUR BLOG ARE NECESSARY. ‼️

[a/n]: I first wrote hockey player Cheol quite literally a full year ago and I promised to expand on the concept, so here we are!!! im so excited for y'all to read this bc im genuinely putting my heart and ass into this fic. lmk your thoughts about the teaser!!! please remember to support the rest of the fics coming out in association with the winter with you collab, all of these writers are working so hard to bring you fics you're going to love 🥹

masterlist

The ice is empty, mostly. Placing your laptop in the sound booth and your shoes under the benches, you step foot on the ice. They’re there, on the other end, sitting on the cold ice with their jerseys still on, eating what looks like cups of dippin dots. 

Seungcheol and Jeonghan, you remember from Lorelai’s squealing, either don’t notice you on the ice, or simply choose not to. Because it’s easy as you skate up to them, gaining speed from across the rink, you slide to a stop, sending a perfect spray of ice from your skates, directly into their cups. 

Seungcheol’s full spoon hangs mid air, halfway to his mouth, now garnished with ice shavings. 

“Thought you’d have the respect to keep the dippin dots out of this,” Jeonghan comments, disbelief in his eyes as he looks up at you. 

“Ice is booked.” 

“What time?” Seungcheol asks. Your gaze flickers to the left side of his face, a nasty bruise blooming purple and blue that you hadn’t noticed before. 

“Two sixteen. It’s nearly fifteen minutes past.”

“You’re only one person.” 

“And?”

“And…you have about 97% of the rink to yourself.”

You raise your brows, hands on your hips. “But I booked 100% of it. So I’m gonna need that plane of ice you’re currently sitting on.” 

“What if I don’t move?” Seungcheol presses. It’s menacing, the way he looks at you, like he’s a dragon only waiting to be provoked. 

“We’ll find out another day,” Jeonghan sings before you can snap back, grabbing onto the collar of Seungcheol’s red and white jersey to yank him up. He continues to glare as he obliges with his friend’s tugs, nearly as angry as you are. “Let’s go, sport.”

You watch as they walk to the exit of the ice, realising they’re wearing their shoes instead of their skates. 

Jeonghan calls from the benches, right before he and Seungcheol move out of view. “Trash those for us, would you?” 

Their half eaten dippin dots cups, with the ice now melting on them remains on the floor of the rink. 

Once again, the unexplainable urge to kick something befalls you, hearing them laugh and talk from far away as they exit the rink behind their long gone teammates. 

You give in, swinging a leg over to kick the cups and spoons, dippin dots and plastic scattering across the ice. It’s another sprawl of mess you’ll have to clean up, but it feels good to ruin something of his, no matter how inconsequential. 

The empty rink is only encouraging you, needing to scream so loud the plastic barriers crack and break. You know it’s impossible, but that doesn’t stop the urge. 

You channel it into the most aggressive warmups on ice you’ve ever done. Your spins are faster, your jumps higher. But this also means you crash heavier, fall harder. 

It’s then, sitting on the bench to take a break, breathing so heavy you can hardly sip your water, you find an unmistakable headline on your browser home page. 

Everything stops. 

!HOT TOPIC! 

SEAT AT RISK FOR SVT HOCKEY TEAM’S SHINING STAR? Read All About It Here!

[wonusite]

Cat and Mouse

❝ Wonwoo doesn’t understand why you’re so adamant in avoiding him after the amazing night you two spent together, but he’s not going to let you get away from him so easily. ❞

PAIRING: jeon wonwoo x female reader

GENRE: bad boy au, smut

WORD COUNT: 5.6k

WARNINGS: bad boy!wonwoo, allusions of illicit activities, descriptions of minor injuries, wonwoo is down HORRENDOUS, reader is in denial about her feelings, our bad boi is soft for one (1) person, mutual pining, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, riding, multiple creampies, overstimulation, mating press, aftercare

ㅤ→ continuation of this timestamp

A/N: here’s a little something to celebrate one year with this blog. very grateful to all my followers and mutuals who’ve made this past year amazing! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

Wonwoo glares at his phone, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek in annoyance.

It’s been a week. An entire fucking week without hearing from you. He knew he should’ve ignored Jihoon’s calls and stayed in bed with you that night, but when he sent a message saying the entire crew needed to be there, he couldn’t ignore it. Now, he really wishes he would have.

The night he spent with you was the most incredible of his life, and now he might never relive it because he left in a haste, only leaving you with a brief kiss and a promise to come back.

“You still torn up over that sweet lil’ thing from that flower shop?” Seungcheol's voice has never sounded more irritating than it does now.

“That’s Shua’s girl, dumbass.”

Being on the receiving end of that mean tone and angry glare doesn’t faze Seungcheol in the slightest. In fact, it only causes his infamous smirk to get wider. To see the stoic Jeon Wonwoo acting up over a girl is not only a rarity, but it’s also really fucking funny. That’s why he can’t resist pushing Wonwoo’s buttons further.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Seungcheol cackles. “Guess you better hurry up and help us finish this shit. Her shift ends soon.”

Wonwoo can feel his irritation near that boiling point he could usually avoid. Of course Seungcheol knows about your schedule. That asshole has the annoying habit of knowing everything about anyone who is even the tiniest bit associated with the crew. Sure, it’s for precautionary reasons, but that didn’t make it any less annoying. Nonetheless, Wonwoo focuses on the task at hand so he can catch you before you leave work.

Jeon Wonwoo is the bane of your existence.

From the moment he first came around with that stupidly attractive smirk of his, your life was never the same. And now that you fucked him, it never will be again.

Giving into your carnal desires isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but getting mixed up with the likes of Jeon Wonwoo definitely is. Despite not knowing all of the grimy details, you know he’s bad news. You can see all the red flags clearly—the people he hangs around, all the fights he gets in, and the tattoos littering his body. And yet, none of those warning signs mattered now or when Wonwoo was ravishing you in a way that still made your toes curl just by thinking about it.

Maybe the worst part of it all is that you can’t get the resident bad boy out of your head, or the way he held you after you two had sex. It’s like you can still feel how he nuzzled into your neck, strong arms tightening around you like he never wanted to let you go. Part of you hopes that he wouldn’t have if he hadn’t had some urgent business to take care of. It’s a dangerous thought, but even so you can’t help but crave that uncharacteristically sweet side of him that he presumably only showed you.

A displeased sigh comes out of you as you gather your things to go home. It’s bad enough that you can’t stop thinking about Wonwoo, but to think that you’re actually pining over him even though he literally disappeared after your night together is—

“Y/N left already.”

It’s Mingyu’s voice you hear at first, and it makes you stop in your tracks. You wonder who could be asking for you until you hear someone answer him. It feels like your heart is going to jump out of your chest when you hear a familiar deep voice that has your stupid pussy clenching in anticipation.

“Alright. Thanks.”

You peek out from the back when you hear the door chime. It’s annoying that your chest tightens when you see a set of wide shoulders draped in a leather jacket walking toward the large motorcycle parked outside. The way your mind goes blank yet is also clogged with nothing but thought of Wonwoo is infuriating. You don’t realize you’re pouting at the exit until Mingyu jumps back in shock at seeing your sulking figure.

“Y/N what– I thought you left!” He says, vaguely gesturing behind him. “You just missed your boyfriend! I think he wanted to take you home—”

“Boyfriend?” You interrupt him, not entirely angry or disgusted that your coworker had referred to Wonwoo as such.

Mingyu furrows his eyebrows. “Yeah? The scary dude with the leather jacket that comes in here all the time just to see you. He’s your boyfriend, right?”

It’s almost mortifying that your sweet but oblivious coworker can tell that there was something going on between you and the resident bad boy. And yet, there’s also a part of you that likes the fact that Wonwoo is so obvious about his feelings. You don’t know what to make of these conflicting emotions that you can’t seem to shake, and seeing Wonwoo (even just the back of him) didn’t help you find the clarity you so desperately need.

“Well, even if he’s not, he definitely wants to fuck you.” Mingyu says with a wink as he brushes past you to check on the pastries he had put in the oven ten minutes ago.

You wonder how he would react if you told him that Wonwoo already has.

Wonwoo thinks you’re the cutest person ever. And the part of you he finds the most cute? The fact that you actually think he’s going to let you avoid him forever. You’re good at it, he’ll give you that (even if he can see right through your every method).

It’s funny that you actually change your off days and regular working hours just to avoid seeing him and throw him off, which it does—at first. He knows you haven’t quit because Josh mentioned seeing you at the bakery when he went to buy the love of his life a cake for her birthday. This is confirmed when he goes to see for himself the next day.

Maybe you don’t realize Wonwoo can see you run to the back through the large glass windows when you hear his motorcycle, but either way he thinks it’s funny. Actually, it’s hilarious because soon enough you were going to give into him like before.

Meanwhile, you feel like a mouse being preyed on by a sly cat—one that’s toying with you before he finally catches you. Avoiding Wonwoo had been easy at first, but now you’re starting to wonder if he had let it seem easy.

“Babydoll.”

You almost drop a tray of croissants when you hear a familiar deep voice calling for you. The way you whip around with a gaping mouth must be hilarious because Wonwoo just smirks at you in that infuriating way that drives you crazy. Your hands tighten around the tray as you snap your mouth closed, trying to contemplate on how to navigate the situation.

With a bit of a mental pep talk, you finally manage to put up that happy to help attitude you usually had with every other customer. The smile you give him feels exaggerated and fake, but it’s the only way you can mask all the emotions you’re feeling.

“What can I get for you?”

That devilish smirk widens as Wonwoo pretends to skim all the delicious pastries in the case before he sets his smoldering eyes back on you. “This all looks good,” he muses quietly, but you can hear him perfectly since it’s only you two. “But I think you’re the only thing that can satisfy my hunger.”

It kills you that his words make you heat up from the inside out. You ignore him and start to put the croissants into the case. The clench of your jaw is tight and bordering on painful, but it’s the only way you can keep your emotions from spilling over for him to see.

Unfortunately, your lack of response doesn’t really faze him. One thing you’ve come to learn about Wonwoo is that he’s never uncomfortable in the silence. You wish you could say the same. You’re nearly squirming by the time you’re done placing the croissants in their designated space because he hasn’t taken his eyes off of you once.

Finally, you look up to meet Wonwoo’s gaze. It’s so intense that you almost want to look away. However, there’s a part of you that loves being under the heat of his stare since you can clearly see the desire he has for you.

“You’ve been ignoring me.”

“You’ve been gone.” You counter, vaguely aware that you sound like a sulking girlfriend.

Wonwoo realizes this too because he gently coos at you. “Missed me, babydoll?”

Yes. “You wish.”

It’s obvious Wonwoo doesn’t believe you. That stupid smirk of his only seems to get bigger with every passing moment, and you don’t know if you want to kiss it or smack it off his face.

“I missed you.” He tells you honestly, loving how you’re visibly growing flustered with his words.

Resisting him would be a lot easier if he wasn’t so tempting to you and if the feelings he always evoked from you weren’t so strong. Before you can say anything to betray your easily crumbling facade, Mingyu comes out from the back with a tray of small cakes. Wonwoo gives you a once over before stepping away from the case.

“I’ll be back after your shift. Wait for me.”

You don’t wait for him—technically. It’s not waiting since Wonwoo is already outside of the bakery when your shift ends. He’s clad in his leather jacket, dark jeans, and signature combat boots. It’s not fair that he can lean against his bike so casually while looking as good as ever.

Ignoring him would’ve been all too easy, but you can’t when you notice the bruises and cuts on his pretty face. A familiar irritation bubbles in your chest, but annoyingly enough, it’s overpowered by the concern you feel. You react before you can fully think your actions through.

“What the hell!”

Wonwoo’s eyes widen the tiniest bit when you stomp over to him with angry tears in your eyes. You can’t even enjoy his cute shocked face because of the overwhelming concern and anger you feel. All you can do is hit his brawny chest in frustration.

“You—You asshole!” Your voice cracks with raw emotion as you continue to weakly hit his chest. “You said– you promised that you weren’t going to fight anymore—!”

Wonwoo lets you hit him. His chest aches, but not because of your soft blows. The last thing he meant to do was make you cry, and it’s something he wishes to never see again. His large hands come up to cup your face, fingers delicately wiping your tears. “I know I should’ve kept my promise, and I’m sorry. Just please don’t cry anymore.”

You let out a quiet whimper at his tenderness. His eyes are full of so much remorse and concern that it makes any remaining willpower you have left disappear. It feels right to bury yourself in his chest and let yourself be held by him. He caresses your back, and you can’t hate that it actually makes you feel better.

Once you’ve calmed down, you pull back and smack Wonwoo’s beefy chest again. “Asshole.”

“Your asshole.” His haze is tender as he cradles your tearstained cheek in his hand.

You scowl at him, but it’s quickly wiped off your face when he places a gentle kiss on the corner of your mouth. A sudden desire consumes you when you see Wonwoo’s affectionate gaze. This time you let yourself be driven by your desire and press your lips against his.

It’s easy for him to melt into the kiss. Wonwoo sighs into your mouth as one of his hands comes up to cup your face. His rings feel cool against your warm skin, and you let out a quiet moan when his other hand slips into the back pocket of your jeans and squeezes your ass while pulling you closer to him.

The kiss is slow at first until your hands smooth over Wonwoo’s chest and fist his shirt to pull him closer. You part your lips to allow his tongue to slip into your mouth. It feels like you got struck by a bolt of electricity the longer his lips are on yours. His desire and hunger are evident in his needy movement, and you absolutely love it.

When you two finally pull away, you’re left breathless. Wonwoo’s thumb gently caresses your cheek as his heart pounds harshly in his chest. “Stay the night with me, babydoll.”

“M’kay.” You breathe out, mind still swimming.

The smile he gives you is so pretty that it makes something inside you burn with ardent desire. You feel like you’re floating on air when Wonwoo hands you a spare helmet that happens to be your favorite color. He looks bashful as he waits for you to accept it, and you wish you could take a picture of his pretty blush.

In spite of all the reasons you have not to take the helmet from him, you still do. And you don’t regret it.

You’ve never allowed yourself to regret the things that you’ve done because life is too short for regrets. But you definitely regret avoiding Wonwoo as long as you have, especially with the way he’s trailing his lips along your legs. Every wet kiss he leaves behind has your heart hammering and your cunt clenching in want.

Finally, Wonwoo gets to your inner thighs. His large hands spread you open with ease, eyes dark when he sees your wet pussy.

“Fuck.” His gaze fixed between your legs as if he's in a trance. “You’re already so wet.”

Your toes curl when his breath ghosts over your cunt. It sends delicious shivers throughout your body, and you have to stop yourself from bucking your hips into his face. But as you’re starting to learn, it seems like Wonwoo knows what you want before you even ask for it.

“You want my mouth, babydoll?”

Wonwoo nearly blows his load when you nod cutely, a needy mewl escaping your lips. “Please.”

He hooks your legs over his wide shoulders, thumbs spreading your folds open for his viewing pleasure. Wonwoo resists his ravenous desire for you long enough to toy with your pretty pussy before he actually tastes it—a luxury he hadn’t gotten to do last time. His rough hands are soon occupied with you, one hand pinching and flicking your sensitive clit while the other gently rubs your slippery folds.

“Fuck, baby.” You whine, biting down on your lower lip. “Feels so good.”

Your cunt is dripping with so much of your arousal that Wonwoo’s fingers are drenched as he slowly rubs circles against your aching bud. It’s throbbing and pulsing in need as his pace grows the tiniest bit quicker. You can’t even try to contain your moans as you stare down at your boyfriend.

Wonwoo has a huge smirk on his pink lips. You’re making such a mess on his fingers, and he just loves it. “You look so fucking cute when your squirm like this, babydoll.”

A needy whimper tumbles past your lips when he presses a gentle kiss to your throbbing clit. It pulses under the attention like it wants his mouth again. Wonwoo’s pupils are blown wide as he licks the remnants of your arousal off his lips. The addicting taste makes his control snap, and in the next second he smashes his face into your cunt like a starved man.

Your hips start move on their own as Wonwoo groans deeply into your drooling pussy. His mouth latches onto your clit, massaging the nub with his tongue. The movements are skilled and toe-curling, and you already feel like you’re fucked out.

“Wonwoo!” You cry out in absolute pleasure when he slips two fingers inside you.

His long fingers work your cunt open, curling up to rub the sensitive spot inside you that made you arch your back in ecstasy. Your mouth is dropped open in a silent min the longer Wonwoo fucks you with his tongue. He captures your juices with his tongue only to slobber them all over you again. Your hands grab ahold of his hair as he keeps moaning into your wet pussy, the vibrations shooting up your spine with every one of his movements.

All it takes his his nose bumping against your clit as he licks around his pumping digits for you to come all over his face. Wonwoo groans into your creamy cunt, licking up every drop of your release.

“So fucking messy.” He grunts as his hand spreads your folds and exposes your heat to the cool air. His fingers trail down your cunt, tenderly rubbing along your sensitive lips. “Fuck, just look at that cream."

You can’t contain your needy moan when Wonwoo brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean. He’s so fucking hot that you just want him to fuck you until you can’t think. Before you can get him to do exactly that, a heavy weight settles on your soppy cunt. His cock is hot and wet as it slides between your folds.

“You feel so good, angel.” Wonwoo groans as he thrusts forward, coating the underside of his dick with your arousal. “So fucking wet, just for me.”

The mouthwatering sight of your folds splitting open as he slides his cock between them makes him feel like he’s drunk. Maybe he is. Drunk on your pussy, that is. He only gets to enjoy the feeling for a second before you eagerly buck your hips against his.

“Let me ride you.”

It’s a miracle that Wonwoo doesn’t come all over your stomach at the words you moaned so desperately. He’s quick to get into position, leaning against his headboard as you hover above him. You look so eager as you straddle his lap, the love bites he littered all over your thighs giving him a sense of pride as he brushes his thumbs over them.

Wonwoo’s free hand reaches for your ass. He roughly kneads the skin before slapping it. You moan out in pleasure. Everything is almost too much for you to handle. The sight of him bellow you waiting patiently for you to fuck him like the first time is making your core throb with insatiable desire. His cock rests on his stomach, leaking with precum and waiting for you to sit on it.

The hottest part of it all is how Wonwoo’s looking at you with unadulterated desire and affection—like you’re a living goddess on top of him. Your hands are splayed over his muscular chest, and he just loves the feeling of them smoothing over his hot skin.

His hands move on their own, caressing your hips and mapping out every inch of your body with his rough hands. Wonwoo kisses any part of you he can reach, lips trailing from your neck down to your collarbones. His large hands slip back to your ass to deliver a sharp spank which makes you fall forward. Wonwoo skillfully captures one of your tits in his mouth, tongue immediately gliding over your hardened nipple.

“Nonu!” You cry out as your arms hook over his shoulders to keep him close, softly moaning as he switches between your tits, warm tongue swirling around each erect nub.

The cute little nickname makes his cock twitch. Fuck. You were going to drive him completely insane.

He gently nips at your sensitive bud before pulling away to look up at you. “You look so fucking pretty on top of me, babydoll.” He murmurs, forcing himself to stay still as you shift against his leaking tip.

His sweet praise is enough to make your pussy flutter. You mewl as he teasingly circles his cock against your pussy. The insistent nudges from his leaking head are making your head swim with pleasure. You’re so soaked at this point that he can feel your arousal start to stick to his skin.

Finally, you can’t resist any longer and slowly sink down on his cock. Your tight walls stretch wide, welcoming the bulbous head with just a bit of resistance. It’s been almost two weeks, and you’d already forgotten it felt to have such big and thick dick inside you. His cock isn’t even halfway inside yet, and you can nearly feel him in your stomach.

You sit back and slowly circle your hips, throwing your head back with a moan when his twitching tip nudges your walls repeatedly. Wonwoo feels like he’s gone and died to heaven with the filthy show you’re giving him of your soppy cunt. He curses quietly at the sight of your tight cunt clinging to his fat tip, nearly blowing his load at the erotic sight.

“Show me what you can do, pretty girl.”

He doesn’t have to tell you twice. With a wanton moan and your hands braced behind you, you slide all the way down. You whimper at the stretch, loving the feeling of his thick cock splitting you open. Mewls flutter from your lips, and it feels like the oxygen is slowly being forced out of your lungs.

Once he’s fully inside you, Wonwoo is sure that he’s never going to feel as good as he does now. His head is thrown back and his eyes roll to the back of his head. The feeling of your hot cunt wrapped around him is absolute heaven. You share in his feeling as you moan loudly, completely full and stretched out as he grips your ass to steady you on his dick.

Wonwoo can’t stop looking at the fucked out look on your face while you’re busy staring down at where your pussy and his cock meet. You don’t notice how his pupils are blown out with lust at the sight of you impaled on his cock. His heart fluttering in his chest because fuck, you’re like a literal goddess on top of him.

“Shit, babydoll. You gotta move.” He sounds out of breath, almost needy with his plea.

Wonwoo looks so fucked out and pretty that your pussy tightens around him at the hot sight. That's all it takes for you to give him what he wants. You lift your hips before slamming your ass back down. His cock reaches so deep inside you that you throw you head back with a loud cry. It makes you ravenous, and you eagerly repeat your movements until your practically bouncing on his cock.

You lean towards him and wrap your arms around his neck, your pace faltering a bit when your lips meet his neck. As you litter his skin with wet kisses and gentle bites, you feel his cock throb and twitch inside you. It makes you think that you might actually get him to come first this time.

At least, until Wonwoo commits the tender act of pressing a sweet kiss to your shoulder, removing a hand from your ass to gently thumb at your clit.

“Fuck, Nonu.” You whimper at the stimulation. “You’re so deep.”

“Missed having you on my cock, babydoll. You look so fucking pretty being split open like this.” His fingers trace your stretched hole before they slap your clit.

You moan wantonly when Wonwoo suddenly thrusts up, going impossibly deeper. That’s when you know he's about to ruin you in the way you’ve been craving. You shove your face into his neck, sucking and biting his skin so he can move you on his cock in the way he wants. Apparently, this isn’t enough for him, though.

Wonwoo grips your face, pressing his fingers into your cheeks. “Need to see your pretty face while I fuck you stupid.”

He doesn’t give you time to respond before he’s gripping your ass and grinding you on his cock. His fingertips press into your soft flesh as he lifts you and brings you down his length. You start bouncing to meeting his pumps. Broken mewls contrast with Wonwoo’s groans and mix in the the sound of lewd squelching and skin slapping. His abs tighten every time you come back down, thighs flexing beneath your ass.

Your swollen clit rubs against his pelvis with every thrust, and the feeling is quickly driving you insane. The knot in your stomach is coming undone fast, much faster than you want, but you feel too good to stop. Wonwoo isn’t doing much better. His mind is only full of you and the way your hot cunt is gripping his cock. The carnal look in his eye is locked to where you’re connected. He’s mesmerized with strings of arousal connecting his skin to your dripping folds.

“You look so fucking pretty when you’re bouncing on my cock—just like last time. Gonna let me pump your pretty pussy full again, babydoll?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” You cry out mindlessly, a delicious ache blooming in your core. “Whatever you want!”

You can’t believe Wonwoo has the audacity to blush like you two aren’t literally fucking like animals. It makes you gush around him, orgasm so close that you can feel it in every inch of your body.

“God, baby. Keep fucking yourself stupid on my dick.” He growls as he fucks up into you harder, needing to see you come undone on his cock.

The leaking tip of his cock brushes against your sweet spot over and over again until your eyes gloss over like you’re on the brink of tears. Wonwoo will never get enough of that fucked out face of yours, and it drives that insatiable desire in him to fuck you impossibly harder.

It takes only a few more deep thrusts for you to come on his cock with a loud moan. Your body shudders and shakes against him in absolute pleasure. Wonwoo’s movements don't stop. He fucks you through your orgasm and straight into overstimulation. But you can’t really care because it feels so fucking good. All you can do is cry out his name until he’s emptying his balls inside you.

“Y/N!” He groans into your ear as he pumps you full of his hot cum, thick ropes filling you to the brim until it’s leaking out and coating his heavy sack.

You’re gently grinding into each other as your mouths meet for a messy kiss. Wonwoo’s still-hard cock keeps twitching inside you, and you can’t help but groan into his mouth at the feeling.

“More.” You plead against his lips. “Want you to keep stuffing me full of your cum.”

“Fuck, angel.” Wonwoo pants out. “You’ll be the death of me.”

But if this was death, he’d gladly embrace it every time.

Wonwoo moves down the bed until his back meets the messy sheets. With his hands secured on your waist and the back of your neck, he pulls you down to his chest and forces you to take every inch of his throbbing cock. At this angle, he feels even thicker. Your mind goes blank as his fat dick spears into your tight hole relentlessly.

Wet noises fill the room, dancing in the air with your wanton cries. A white ring forms at the base of his cock, smearing down to his loaded sack. Wonwoo moans along with you, large hands sliding down your body to grip fistfuls of your ass. You let out a broken gasp when he grinds up and pulls you down, stuffing you to the brim only to do it again and again.

You’re panting and whimpering as his cock sinks in deep, plugging your dripping cunt. Tingles of ecstasy course through your quivering body with ever snap of his hips. You aren’t even moving anymore, it’s all Wonwoo. He’s fucking you on his cock like you're his personal fucktoy. The more you think about it like that, the more turned on you’re getting.

Your hot cunt tightens around his veiny cock. The drag of his veiny length stretching you out makes more of your juices coat his dick and spill down to his heavy balls. Wonwoo shudders when he feels how tight you keep getting. He can feel his own high quickly approaching.

“You gonna come for me again, babydoll? Soak my cock with your cream and make a mess all over me?” Wonwoo changes the angle of his hips as he speaks his lewd words. The tip of his cock slams into the soft spot inside you that makes you scream in pleasure. He keeps pounding into you from below without stopping, and you love every second of it.

“Fucking love your cock.” You babble mindlessly, any and every thought that’s not about the fat cock splitting you open being fucked out of you.

“Sweet little cunt is all mine now.” Wonwoo growls possessively. “Gonna be mine forever, right, baby?”

It’s all too much. His filthy yet sweet words combined with his fierce thrusts make you fall over that edge and into your orgasm, this one more powerful than the last. Your body erupts in flames as you squirt all over Wonwoo’s aching cock. He keeps you locked on his dick, balls slapping against your ass as he continues to pound into your gushing cunt.

“So fucking good.” Wonwoo groans gutturally before his hot cum floods your ruined cunt, painting your stretched out walls and claiming you in every sense of the word.

So much of his cum spills out and trickles down his pulsing cock, and you whimper when Wonwoo fucks it deeper into your pussy. You’re both sweaty and sticky, yet there’s still a burning ache in your core that seems like it can only be soothes by Wonwoo and his big cock.

“Want it again.” You moan into his ear, clenching down on his twitching dick. “Please.”

This is where you learn that the resident bad boy can never tell you no.

You barely process him flipping you over and manhandling you into the position he wants. Wonwoo presses your legs against your chest and start to pound into you with rough thrusts. He’s slow but brutish, slamming against your cervix every time he pushes in. Your cream soaks his thick cock and your inner thighs. It slowly drips down to your ass where his heavy balls slap against the tender skin.

“Fuck, babydoll. I’ll never get enough of this tight little pussy.” He sounds so gone, punctuating each word with a sharp thrust.

You cry out each time, the pleasure blooming into that delicious feeling in your stomach. Wonwoo’s words have you clenching around his dick, and he lets out a deep groan. He keeps moaning out praises about how good you are for him, but it’s hard to focus on his words when his thick cock is pummeling into you relentlessly.

You continuously gush around Wonwoo’s cock on the brink of yet another orgasm as you leave a stain around the base. Your pussy is stretched beyond belief, and it feels so fucking good that’s it’s making you delirious.

“I’m gonna have to stuff this pretty pussy full every day.” Wonwoo moans, loving how your cunt keeps spasming around his throbbing cock. He’s fantasised about this for so long, and now that he’s had you he’s completely addicted to you.

“Fuh-Fuck!” You wail, soaking his cock even more at his promise, leaving it dripping.

Wonwoo’s thrusts grow more powerful and ravenous. The pretty sounds you’re letting out every time he drives in and out of you is driving him insane. It’s not long for the harsh snapping of his hips to finally send you into your climax. This one is more somehow more intense than your previous one. Wonwoo groans loudly, watching as you squirt all over his cock.

Each time Wonwoo strokes your g-spot, another gush of liquid spurts from your core. “You’re so fucking hot, angel. Making a mess all over my cock.”

“Come inside me.” You beg with a loud moan, mind already so far gone to think about anything else but being fucked full of his hot cum.

Your lewd plea only drives his desire for you. Wonwoo feels his orgasm approaching with every rough thrust. His balls are aching to be emptied again, and he doesn’t hesitate to chase that euphoric feeling. Your pussy is practically begging him to fill you up with his seed, and he does exactly that. With one final shove, he bottoms out inside you and stills, cock twitching and throbbing in your hot cunt.

A huge load of cum pours into you, coating your walls and taking up the minimal space his cock hasn’t covered. Wonwoo slowly fucks it into you until you’re both whimpering from the overstimulation.

When he pulls out, his cum and your cream slowly leak out of your messy cunt. The fucked out pants you’re letting out are quickly stifled by Wonwoo's lips. You moan into his mouth as he slowly lets go of your legs and hooks them around his hips.

Pulling away, you barely register as he starts to tenderly kiss all over your body. You’re completely sated and too gone to acknowledge your surroundings even as Wonwoo gets up and brings back a warm towel. He gently cleans you up, whispering sweet praises that make you feel a different type of euphoria.

“Hold me, Nonu.” You finally manage to say when you realize he’s done cleaning the both of you up.

His smile is so pretty and precious as he goes to lay with you. The way he cradles you against his chest is comforting, and you know that you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

taglist: @duolingofanaccount @felix-3002 @junhui-recs @asjkdk @dani41 @kageyama-i-want-tobiors @ohwonwoo

[wearysparrows]

Give an Inch, Take a Mile

ao3/masterlist

Summary: Sylus shows up at the door of your motel room after finding out you're investigating protocore energy fluctuations in the middle of nowhere. He claims he has business in the area and needs to stay the night -- but there's only one bed.

CW (18+): only one bed trope, grinding, vaginal fingering, AFAB mc (no usage of pronouns, no use of Y/N), reader is MC, a brief mention of birth control, Sylus comes in his pants, you both have a good time, etc. 6.4k

This situation had turned out to be less than ideal.

The Hunter’s Association had sent you on a mission that had seemed simple enough on paper: investigate the suspicious protocore energy fluctuations that were occurring in a fairly rural area, just outside of Linkon city. However, they had conveniently failed to mention the nature of your accommodations. It wasn’t that you weren’t used to staying in less than ideal conditions – you just weren’t prepared for this situation in particular. You pulled up to the motel on your bike, your belongings in a bag on your back. This was the only accommodation for miles around, and unless you wanted to sleep on the ground again, this was as good as it was going to get.

You weren’t sure how much more of sleeping on the ground your body could take.

There was nothing outwardly alarming about the motel on the outside – it was unassuming, two stories lined with austere gray doors. It was quiet. No one came in or out, despite the full lot. Somehow, this made you feel more uneasy than if there had been people milling about. Attempting to push these worries from your mind, you approached the check in window. A young boy’s face – no older than ten or so – peered at you with wide eyes from behind the glass that divided you. You were momentarily stunned into silence when he asked if you were checking in. You quickly showed him your Hunter’s ID, and he checked you in, giving you the key card to your room. You hurried towards it, now feeling eager to get settled away from the strangeness that was beginning to fall on the goings on around you.

You pressed the key card against the lock, and it opened with a soft click. You opened it just a crack, checking inside before fully going in. All was quiet. You opened the door fully, stepping inside and closing it behind you. The room was unassuming enough – a box spring mattress, a coffee table, a couch that had seen better days, and a strangely large mirror hanging over a countertop in the back corner of the room. You checked the bathroom. Nothing out of the ordinary, save for a rather tastelessly colored plaid blue shower curtain. You felt your body involuntarily relax. You returned to the main room, and set your bag on the coffee table that sat next to the couch. You sat down on the bed, which creaked loudly underneath you. It was a strange sort of creak, one that clicked loudly with each minor movement you made. A sigh escaped you as you unlaced your boots. It was only until you found the source of the strange fluctuations, you reminded yourself.

Just as you had finished kicking off your boots, your phone rang in your pocket. You checked it, eyeballing the contact on the screen.

It was Sylus. Rather, his contact said ‘Sy,’ as you had recently updated it to reflect the nickname you gave him in your head.

What could he possibly want right now?  

To your own irritation, you felt your heart rate increase exponentially as you looked at his contact. You hadn’t heard his voice in a few days. You missed it, and him. You answered, intentionally letting it ring a few times so you didn’t seem too eager.

“Hello?” You kept your tone level.

“Where are you right now?”

Sylus sounded somewhat out of breath on the other end of the line, like he had been exerting himself. You found yourself wondering what he had been up to, but there were much more important matters – like why the hell he had called you and requested your location so rudely.

“Most people say ‘hello’ back before asking questions, at least. Why are you asking?”

Sylus tutted into the microphone, as if you were asking him something obvious.

“Well, I’m not most people, sweetheart. I’m asking because it seems like you’re stationary in the middle of nowhere. Is this the work of your oh-so-wealthy association?”

You didn’t even bother to ask how Sylus knew where you were. You had unwittingly grown used to his constant keeping of tabs on you. You had long assumed he had put some kind of tracker in your phone (though you could find no such thing after checking), or using Mephisto to keep an eye on you (you hadn’t seen him at all today, either). At the very least, you weren’t expendable to Sylus, though why he went through such great lengths to keep tabs remained unclear.  Sylus’s natural purr of a voice calmed your anxious senses, despite his critical words. You leaned back on the creaky bed before you answered. It was so loud that you wondered if Sylus heard it through the speaker on his end.

“Don’t blame the Association. These are the only accommodations in the area, short of sleeping outside again. Besides, it’s not like it’s the worst place I’ve ever stayed. I only wish I’d come more prepared.”

You chewed at the inside of your cheek after you spoke, unsure why you’d offered that last admission of information. Though you were certain Sylus was aware of your personal flaws, being unprepared usually wasn’t one of them. You didn’t like to tarnish your own image – you had your pride, after all. Sylus hummed thoughtfully. 

“I see that the bar couldn’t possibly be any lower, as usual. Alright, I’m on my way. There’s something I need to do in the area. Don’t be surprised when I knock.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but Sylus had already hung up on you. You stared dumbly down at your phone. It reflected your stunned face silently. You flipped it over, not wanting to see your own expression.

Something he needed to do in the area?

You couldn’t possibly imagine what Sylus needed to do in the butt-fuck middle of nowhere. Or why he was coming to stay with you. Or if he was planning to stay the night, and where. Or how he would know what room you were in. You felt your face flush at the image of Sylus laying in the shitty motel bed with you. Based on past experiences, you were almost certain he slept naked.

Couldn’t he just get his own damn room?

You shook your head, attempting to free your mind from these circling predatory thoughts. You changed into more comfortable clothes, careful not to let your bare feet touch the paneling of the floor. You showered in the little bathroom, trying to ignore the state of the towels there. After, you busied yourself looking over the mission files in bed, finally losing yourself in the information before you.

A sharp rapraprap on the door broke you from your absorption. It made you jump, your eyes flicking instinctively to your Hunter’s issue gun on the nightstand next to you. The sound came again twice more. All at once, you remembered Sylus had said he was coming, though you had half expected him not to show. You quickly checked your Hunter’s watch. It was nearly dusk, already. You hurried towards the door, feeling irritated and excited all at once at the prospect of seeing the enigmatic leader of Onychinus. Of being in the tiny room with him. You steeled yourself emotionally before unlocking the deadbolt and opening the door. 

Sylus stood before you in his usual leather getup that he wore when using his bike. He looked no less handsome than usual – his moon-white hair was tousled by the wind, and his eyes shone deeply in the light of the setting sun. He had a suspiciously large duffel bag thrown casually over his shoulder. He regarded you coolly, an easy smile on his lips. You found yourself struck by him despite yourself, and struggled for words for a moment. Sylus found them for you.

“May I come in, my little hunter?”

You scowled at him, but found yourself stepping aside anyway. He slipped in the room, his steps strangely silent for a man of his size. He set his bag on the table next to yours. You deadbolted the door behind him, and put one hand on your hip. The other pointed at him accusingly.

“Aren’t there other rooms? Why could you possibly need to stay at this motel in particular? Surely this is a hovel compared to where you’d normally stay. And what’s with the bag? It looks like it’s about to burst.”

Sylus had busied himself removing his leather outerwear and shoes, putting them away neatly. He turned towards you with arms crossed. You thought he made the small room look even smaller with his height.

“The other rooms were all full. You’re right about the hovel, though. That’s putting it kindly.” Sylus scanned the room critically as he spoke. He was pointedly ignoring your question about the bag. You eyed it suspiciously. 

“Besides, you stay at my base all the time when you’re on missions. Can’t you return the favor just this once?” Sylus’s tone was playful, and he regarded you with his usual air of confidence. 

He did have you there, and he knew it, too. You more than frequently took advantage of the hospitality and resources he freely offered for your usage. He rarely made comments about it, and now it was coming back to bite you in the form of the man you were doing your very best to hide budding romantic feelings from. You adjusted your sleep shorts, suddenly feeling more cold and exposed under his crimson gaze. You had forgotten you had already changed into sleepwear. You crossed your arms around your upper body.

“Nothing in life is free,” you muttered. 

“Fine. Do whatever you want.” 

You sat back down on the bed, attempting to make a return to your files. You knew it would be impossible to focus with Sylus’s overwhelming presence in the small room. But you could pretend, for now.

“Such a cynical creature, aren’t you?” 

You looked up from your paperwork. Sylus’s words were teasing, but his tone and gaze were incredibly warm. You hurriedly looked away again, hoping to hide the redness of your face. 

Why did he say that like it was a compliment?

You heard more than saw him unzipping his bag and rifling through it. His socked feet appeared in your periphery at the side of the bed, and you felt something plush drape around your shoulders. You looked up in surprise. Your previously bare arms were now covered with the warmth of a periwinkle fleece blanket. You hadn’t even realized how much of a chill had crept into you until the blanket was around your body. You opened your mouth to say something – anything – to Sylus, but he had already turned back around, and was producing another item from the bag. He wordlessly placed a pair of slippers neatly on the floor next to your side of the bed. You watched all of this occur with a degree of shock before finding the ability to speak again. 

“What’s all this? Why go through all the trouble?” You tugged the blanket closer around yourself, grateful for its warmth despite your suspicions. Sylus shrugged.

“You said you were underprepared. So I came prepared for you.”

You stared at him in stunned silence.

For you?

Before you could respond to his previous statement, Sylus spoke again.

“I’m going to shower. There’s more in the bag. Feel free to take a look.” He made his way to the bathroom, toiletry bag in hand, without sparing you a further glance. You opened and closed your mouth silently. He was hardly letting you get a word in. The last thing you had expected the bag to be full of was items for you.

You padded over to it quietly, having slipped on the slippers Sylus had brought. They were annoyingly comfortable, and just the right size. You ignored the little butterflies emerging from their cocoons in your stomach. You peeked inside the bag. It carried the lightest hint of Sylus’s scent.

The contents consisted of various wants and necessities – clothing of Sylus’s (you pointedly ignored the pairs of boxers, though your wicked eyes were drawn to them), extra towels, a small pillow, some food items, and a bag of toiletries. You unzipped it curiously. It was all travel sizes of the same kinds you used at home. You felt yourself blush so furiously that you swore it colored your fingertips, as hot as they suddenly felt. You put the toiletries back in the bag hurriedly, running a hand through your hair in a self soothing motion. The idea of Sylus keeping note of every single self care item you liked should have been alarming, but it only endeared him to you further. Any other man keeping such close tabs on you would have sent you running for the proverbial hills. You decided, distantly, that spending so much time with him had only deepened whatever burgeoning mental issues you were already saddled with. You threw yourself back into bed, and found yourself listening to the comforting sounds of Sylus showering. You could hear the water fall in waves as he moved underneath it. 

You found much of your earlier anxieties had melted away for his presence at the motel. Despite your protests, it was nice to have another soul staying with you. You could take care of yourself, but Sylus’s energy was nothing if not reassuring, and you were grateful for it – even if he was only here on some mysterious business that he refused to disclose.

Not that you could ever tell him that. It would certainly go straight to his pretty head.

As if summoned by your thoughts of him, Sylus appeared from the bathroom, fresh from the shower. He had nothing but a towel around his waist, and was rubbing another smaller one on his wet hair. It wasn’t the first time you had seen him like this, and your mind was immediately drawn back to the brooch fiasco. You swallowed. You wanted to look away, but couldn’t manage it. Steam was still rolling off of his taut muscles, which rippled under his skin as he moved. Your eyes raked over his form, lingering where his obliques disappeared underneath the towel. Your mind kept trying to fill in what he’d look like without it. He really was unfairly beautiful. He looked even more ridiculously out of place in the room while half naked. He belonged in another world entirely. An evocative, tormenting vision of hell.

You felt his gaze on you, then. Your eyes snapped to his face. He was smirking. He gestured to his form nonchalantly.

“You’re pretty bold, aren’t you?”

You scoffed at him, trying to cover the fact that you had been staring. Nearly an impossible feat. You tore your eyes from the sight, insteading focusing desperately hard at your phone. Having no notifications, you opened the weather app instead.

“I wasn’t exactly planning to have a naked man in my room at night. Especially not you.” You grumbled. You didn’t mention all the times you had imagined a naked Sylus in your room, just like this. You kept your eyes glued to the weather. It was getting pretty cold outside. You were glad for the blanket.

Sylus’s face appeared in your vision. He was bent over at the waist next to where you sat on the bed. He was significantly more dressed than before, wearing a black tee and corresponding sweats. Definitely not how he usually slept, you noted. 

“Is there another man you'd have preferred to have naked here tonight?” His voice was low, teasing – but there was something darker underneath it. You felt the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. You rolled your eyes at him, trying to cover the way you felt. His gaze was burning into you, intent on your answer.

Why the hell was he even asking?

“Sy, are you jealous of just the idea of someone else being here with me?” 

Your nickname for him inadvertently slipped out. At some point (which you would hardly admit to yourself), you had started shortening his name to a diminutive form. You pressed your lips together, and hoped he had either missed it, or would simply choose not to acknowledge it. 

Sylus’s eyes flashed at the use of the nickname. No such luck. A little chuckle reverberated out of him, and he removed himself from your personal space, standing upright. 

“I don’t think I have anything to worry about, actually.” He had returned to his usual tone. His back and forth always gave you emotional whiplash. You attempted to control your expression.

“I’ll take the couch.” 

He jabbed a thumb towards the offending piece of furniture, and your eyes followed the motion. It was a sad excuse for a couch, and had a suspicious sunken-in shape in the middle. It was much too small for a man of Sylus’s size – even for someone your size. You shook your head immediately. 

“No way. You’re way too big. I’ll take it.” You made to stand up and head towards it, but Sylus was in front of you just as quick, blocking your way. You poked him in the chest with a finger.

“You’re in the way.”

Sylus had hold of your index finger, now. It was dwarfed in the grip of his large hand. 

“So you won’t even pull back this duvet to sleep on the sheets,” he nodded towards the bed, “but you’ll sleep on that couch?”

Sylus was right. Considering the state the towels had been in (and the sudden appearance of a new blanket), you had elected to sleep on top of the duvet with just the blanket Sylus had brought. You didn’t trust the state of the sheets. The couch may have been even worse off. You had hoped he wouldn’t notice – but he was as perceptive as ever. Sylus released his grip on your finger, and your hand fell limply by your side. He continued.

“It won’t kill you to share in the name of comfort. Besides,” he went around to the side of the bed you hadn’t been resting on, and sat down.

“It’s not like it’s the first time we’ve shared a bed, right?”

Sylus’s words brought back memories of the times he was referring to. Not only had you shared a bed before in similar circumstances, there were times you had slept in his bed. You rubbed a hand over your face. Why did it always feel like he was catching you in a trap with his words? You really didn’t want to touch that couch. You also knew you wouldn’t be getting a lick of sleep with Sylus next to you in bed. Your pulse was already thundering at just the sight of him adjusting himself into a more comfortable position on the mattress, as if he already knew what your answer was. 

You resigned yourself to your fate, sitting back on the bed, leaning on the pillows that had been propping you up to do your work. Sylus looked at you, his expression somewhere between smug and pleased.

“Perhaps being in bed together more often will make our resonance stronger.” He said offhandedly.

 You shot him a look.

“Aren’t you normally only active at night? Why are you suddenly going to bed at the same time as me?” You pulled the blanket over yourself, chasing away the chill of the night air in the room. You ignored the siren’s song of the heat radiating off of Sylus’s body. Why did he only bring one blanket to share?

“I always adjust my schedule to accommodate yours, kitten. Especially since you’ve so kindly agreed to let me impose on your space.” He turned away from you to do something on his phone. He made no effort to hide its screen from your eyes. You turned your head ever so slightly towards it, so as not to alert him to your prying. Sylus turned his phone to a vantage point at which you could see better.

“You’re welcome to watch, but it’s not very interesting. It might put you to sleep. Actually, in that case, maybe you should watch.”

You felt like you should be embarrassed at having been caught, but something about Sylus’s devil-may-care attitude kept you from feeling too ashamed. You scooted a modicum closer to see the screen better. Sylus leaned towards you. Your shoulders were practically touching. You focused on the screen instead of his proximity.

“Are these businesses?”

Sylus hummed in affirmation.

“These are just what’s for sale at the moment. So far nothing is standing out, though.”

You watched as Sylus scrolled through the listings. The sound of the gentle tap of his thumb against the screen somehow made you feel more at peace. The pricings next to the listings suddenly reminded you that this was the leader of Onychinus who was staying with you in this seedy motel, looking at buying listings that were likely worth this business ten times over. The thought made you puff out a little laugh. Sylus tilted his head towards you, questioning.

“What?” He sounded amused just to hear you amused. 

“It’s just funny that you’re here. Probably the most wanted man in the world – the leader of Onychinus. Relentless Conqueror. Endless assets at your disposal, and you’re at a shitty motel in bed with a Hunter. Shopping online.”

Sylus laughed too, then, and the smile lingered on his face. He set his phone down, and put his hands behind his head, relaxing. The movement was decidedly masculine, and found yourself even more attracted to him in that moment.

“Here – with you – I’m just Sylus. The ‘where’ doesn’t really matter.” He was looking up at the ceiling as he spoke, sounding sort of far away. His words made your stomach twist and flip upon itself, like a prey animal that chose to freeze rather than run from danger. You propped yourself up on an elbow to look at him, turning on your side. 

“Are you saying you can be yourself around me?” You were half teasing, half actually asking. You tried not to wait for his answer with baited breath. He turned his face towards you, the back of his head still in his hands. He had a soft smile on his lips. 

“Is there anyone else who I devote so much of ‘myself’ to?” 

You were taken aback by his question, though not surprised he answered one question with another. 

Devote?

His wording made it sound like this side of himself – this sense of self – was dependent on his devotion to you. Words had power, and devotion was a particularly strong choice. You felt like you and Sylus were always dancing around each other, just on the edge of the truth. He was always trying to say something without actually saying it – without inciting you to run away. You struggled to maintain eye contact with him, but managed to hold your ground.

“What are you trying to say, Sy?”

Sylus was quiet for a moment. He shook his head.

“Nothing. You don’t want to listen to me wax poetic about meaning all night. You have an early morning, right?” 

His words prompted you to check your Hunter’s watch. It was way later than you thought. You nodded, though you wanted to press him again for answers – you knew he would offer none. 

You found yourself laying on your back in bed, sharing a blanket with Sylus. His breaths were coming deep and slow. He had fallen asleep rather quickly, and you realized he must have been exhausted. You wondered what he had been doing before he made the decision to come stay at the motel – and whether it was really true that he had some business to attend to out here. Eventually, the serene sound of his breaths lulled you into a dreamless sleep. 

You woke, eyes creaking open in the pitch blackness of the room. You really didn’t want to get up, but your bladder had other ideas. You slunk out of bed and to the bathroom in the darkness, careful to not wake Sylus. The bathroom light was bright, and it cast a menacing orange beam on the room before you could shut the door and finish. You cursed it mentally. 

You washed your hands in the darkness, as the sink was outside of the restroom. You fumbled around for the hand soap, and found it, turning on the water to just a drip. You didn’t think about why you were going to such lengths not to wake Sylus. You just did it. You dried your hands, and tiptoed back to bed, sliding in under the covers. 

Just as you thought you had accomplished your stealth mission successfully, Sylus had turned towards you, and wrapped you in a too-warm embrace. He had you crushed up against his chest as he lay on his side, your head now resting on his bicep. 

“Sylus?” You asked, your whisper intense. Your heart was beating so fast you thought it might make an exit through your throat. You could feel every part of his body against yours – the hard lines of his muscles were pressed flush to you. Your hands had been pushed up against his hips. You kept them very, very still. Sylus didn’t respond.

He was still asleep – or so you thought. The arm that was thrown around you came up to rub circles in the back of your scalp. His thumb brushed the shell of your ear a few times – intentionally or not, you couldn’t be sure. Your hands fisted the material of his shirt near his waist, and your knuckles were touching his lower abdomen. His scent completely enveloped you. You knew you should have pulled away, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to. You weren’t even sure you would have been able to, with how strong Sylus was. You could feel your own arousal curling in your belly despite your best efforts to curtail it.

His voice, rough from sleep, came from above you. It shot tingles up and down your spine. 

“When did you get so close?” 

He made no move to remove you from his embrace. His hand had migrated from your scalp to in between your shoulder blades, pressing between them like he was trying to make space for you to sprout wings. The touch caused the smallest arch of your back in surprise, and the movement pressed your flesh harder against him. You heard him let out a quiet gasp, nearly imperceptible. 

“You pulled me close in your sleep, dummy. You’re like a vice.” You tried to keep your voice level, but you thought you heard some of the heat you felt slip into it. You could feel his growing erection pressing hard against your stomach. You steeled yourself mentally, willing yourself not to acknowledge it. You weren’t in any better of a state, being so close to him. 

You tried to push him away, but only succeeded in putting pressure on his lower abdomen with your knuckles. You felt his hardness twitch against you at the touch. His bare skin was hot under your fingers, a stark contrast to the coldness of the room. He held you a little tighter, hand finding your lower back now. Pressing. Massaging. You couldn’t help but relax some into the touch, but your mind still raced. It was like some invisible force was testing the level of your self restraint, tugging at the needs of your flesh, inciting them to rear their ugly heads. 

“You’re so soft.” He murmured. His fingers were trailing lazily up and down your spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You weren’t sure if he meant your skin, your body, or your mind – or that it really mattered.

“Sy?” You questioned, not even really sure what you were asking. 

Why haven’t I pushed you away yet? Why haven’t you pushed me away yet?

Sylus rolled on top of you suddenly, legs on either side of you, holding himself up by his palms. Even in the darkness of the room, you could see the heat of his carmine eyes. He was so close that his hair was brushing your face. 

“I like it when you call me that.” 

“Yeah?” You squeaked out. Everything around you was Sylus – the sound of his voice, the heat of his body, the scent of him – it was overwhelming, all encompassing. Your body was pleasantly too hot, lulled into submission underneath Sylus’s dominating aura on top of you. You swallowed dryly. 

“Yeah.” You could feel his breath against your lips. 

“Can I kiss you?” His voice was heady with need. 

The question barely registered in your brain. He was on top of you, pinning you to the bed, and he was asking you for permission to kiss you. How many times had you thought about him kissing you? You managed a nod, beginning to wonder if this wasn’t just some elaborate fabrication of your desires haunting your restless dreams. 

Sylus’s lips on yours were very real. The kiss was languid and warm, but insistent and desperate all at once. His tongue pried your mouth open, and he pressed it against your own. The inside of his mouth was even more unbearably warm than the rest of him. Your hands, which had found their way to his chest, were sliding down his abdomen now, lost in the heat of the moment. Sylus was sucking on your tongue, which made you pause your ministrations. The sensation had done much to increase the wetness pooling in between your legs. He pulled away, laughing breathlessly. Your chest heaved, having finally been given back access to air.

“I’ve been wanting to do that. You have a cute tongue.” 

Sylus pressed his forehead against yours. You struggled to form words.

“How can a tongue be cute?” 

Your hands resumed their downward journey, emboldened by his compliments on the muscle in your mouth. You found what you were looking for – Sylus was rock hard underneath your touch, straining against the thin material of his sweatpants. He hissed as your hands made contact with him, instead of coming up with an answer to your question. You wrapped a hand around him as best you could through the fabric, feeling momentarily brought out of your reverie by the sheer size of him. You palmed him up and down, trying to gauge his size.

“You’re so big.” You blurted out. Like he didn’t already know. You felt him twitch once, twice, under your touch at your words. He pressed another kiss to your lips. One of his hands was making its way underneath your shirt. He cupped your bare breast with his warm hand, squeezing. His fingertip circled your nipple, and it hardened under his touch. You shivered.

“Yeah. You feel how hard you make me?” His hand enveloped yours that was touching him, pressing down. He ground into your palm, and you could feel the wetness of his precum through his sweats. This only lasted for a moment. He released your hand, instead sliding his fingers inside your sleep shorts. Everywhere he touched left a buzz under your skin in his absence. He slipped two fingers against your cunt over your panties. You arched into his touch, fully knowing he could feel the wetness there. There was no way your attraction was a secret, now. It felt so good to finally have his hands on you. That you were mutually aroused.

Sylus was kneeling in between your legs now, fingers sliding up and down your pussy, refusing to give you what you wanted. His free hand alternated fondling your breasts and pinching your nipples in between his fingertips. You were caught between enjoying the pleasure, the ache for him that was reaching through you, and telling him to put it in you already. 

This thought caused something else to occur to you.

“Sy – ah – do you have…a condom?” 

Sylus paused his movements. His fingers hovered above you. He cursed quietly under his breath. 

You couldn’t help the exasperated laugh that escaped you. You hadn’t been on birth control for a while – not since you had stopped seeing other men because of your feelings for Sylus. You hadn’t expected this to happen, ever. 

Sylus pressed a kiss to your temple. 

“I don’t. I didn’t think…” He cleared his throat. 

“I came here in a bit of a rush.”

You filed that comment away in the things to ask Sylus about later drawer in your mind. 

“Fuck.” You exhaled. You didn’t want to come away from the momentary bliss and back into reality. Before you could take the thought any further, however, a pair of strong arms had wrapped around you, carrying you in front of the large mirror in the room. Sylus set you gingerly in front of it, and you instinctively put your hands on the counter to steady yourself. Even in the darkness, you could see how Sylus’s form dwarfed your own in the reflection. He was pressing up against you from behind. Not just pressing, but grinding his arousal against your ass. He wrapped a hand around to your front, and began rubbing little circles on your clit through your panties. His voice was low in your ear.

“Let’s do this instead, then.”

Sylus set a pace, rutting against you. You were so wet that one of his fingers slid inside you easily, and you ground down on his palm, attempting to find friction there against your clit. You could tell Sylus was losing as much of his composure as you were, because he was pressing you hard into the counter, and kept sucking hickies into your neck that you knew would bruise later. You couldn’t find it in you to care. The sensation of him marking you was exhilarating. He had two fingers inside, now, the lewd wetness of the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet motel room. 

“Sy,” you panted out, “want you inside me so bad.” 

You felt yourself clench around his fingers, which only seemed to encourage him to add a third. You were close now, over stimulated by Sylus in every way possible. He was grinding on you at a stutteringly erratic pace. 

“Fuck. ” he growled.

“I wanna be inside you, baby. Fill you up. Stretch you out.” 

His fingers forced your mouth open, and he stroked your tongue with them. You sucked them eagerly. The thumb of his other had found your clit again, pressing against the hard button of your own arousal with increasing desperation. His words were enough to bring you over the edge. You clenched around the fingers inside you, your orgasm finding you white and hot, making your knees buckle underneath you. The sound of your own moans was foreign to your ears. Sylus held you up by the waist, the force of his movements practically lifting you off your feet as he ground on you.

“Shit,” he breathed. “Baby, fuck.” His hips stuttered against you without further warning, and you felt his cock pulse against your ass as he rode out his orgasm onto you. He groaned through it in a way that made you want to cum all over again. Through your blissed out state, you distantly realized he had cum in his pants. Not that you were any better off. Your panties were completely soaked. 

Sylus peeled himself off of you gently, still supporting your weight. He hoisted you up instead, and held you in a princess carry. Your head lolled against his chest, and you were hit by what had just occurred. Sylus had worked you to orgasm with just his fingers, and he had cum from grinding on your ass. You looked up at him through your lashes. He was carrying you back to the bed as he spoke.

“Was that alright?” He was looking down at you. You thought you could see concern on his face in the dark. He set you gently down into the bed, sitting next to you. You stared at the stain on his pants. It almost would have been funny if it wasn’t so hot that you had worked him up so much – so easily. 

“It felt really good for me. Did it feel good for you?” 

The words felt a bit awkward on your tongue, but they were the truth.  You liked him too much to be crass – you couldn’t believe he had just fingerfucked you to orgasm in a run down motel and cum in his pants from grinding on you. You felt like you were floating outside of your body, still not fully accepting that you had very nearly had sex with Sylus. Your face flushed hot all over again at the thought. Now he knew without a doubt that you wanted him inside you.

“Very good.” He gestured to the spot on his pants. “If you couldn’t already tell.” 

The two of you had cleaned yourself up separately that night, settling for changing into clean clothes. Showering would have to come in the morning – you were both too exhausted. As you lay back down to sleep, Sylus had pulled you close again, and you didn’t try to protest. You fell asleep against his chest to the sound of his steady heartbeat. 

The blaring of your alarm awoke you with a frightened start in the early morning. You sat straight up, cutting it off quickly. The events of the night before came crashing back into your mind. Sylus’s fingers inside of you, his body pressing you against the counter – you felt yourself flush all the way up to your scalp.

Now how were you supposed to act?

Sylus sat up next to you, pushing his hair out of his face. He was squinting in the morning light. You felt a pang of regret that you hadn’t been able to see the way his face looked while in the throes of pleasure last night. He turned to you, blinking. A large hand squeezed your thigh. 

“If you’re going to investigate the fluctuations in the area, let me come with you.” His voice had the same sleep roughness to it that made your stomach hot. You cocked your head at him.

“I thought you had business in the area?” 

“You are my business.” He deadpanned.

You groaned, and reached out to smack him half heartedly on the shoulder. He caught your hand, and pressed a chaste kiss to your knuckles instead. You couldn’t deny it – he really had come all the way out here just to see you. The thought made you giddy rather than annoyed, now. The mighty leader of Onychinus really went the extra mile when you gave him an inch.

[novy2sirius]

numerstrology notes.

₊˚⊹ some astrologers believe astrology and numerology cannot collide but personally i have found the degrees in astrology to accurately align with numerology — tw: killing/murder

the most common beauty degrees are 1º, 2º, 5º, 9º, 14º, 18º, 23º, 25°, and 27º placed in the sun, moon, ascendant, venus, and neptune. people with these degrees in these placements will get told they’re beautiful a lot by people and will be seen as very beautiful to society

having the sun, venus, or jupiter at 8°/13°/24°/28° can indicate gaining wealth at some point in your lifetime as these are numbers associated with wealth and money

you’ll often find that successful actors have prominent 5°/9°/14°/18°/23°/27° in their chart. usually the ascendant, moon, mars, midheaven, or neptune

your midheaven at 7°/9° is an indication of being known by the public for your intelligence since 7 is the number of intelligence and 9 is the number of the mind. albert einstein has this placement

mercury at 4°/13°/22° can indicate that you had a very challenging childhood and were often misunderstood by a lot of people. you may have been very insecure as a child as well

people with saturn at 6°/15°/24° often have a toxic family or a toxic family member that they end up having to cut out of their life when they’re older so they can be happier

having both the degrees 1° and 11° in your big 3 can be challenging especially placed in the sun and ascendant. it can mean you struggle a lot finding out who you are and what path you want to take in life more so than other people

people with mars at 7°/16°/25° are often a part of the lgbtq+ community because these numbers are most prone to being a part of the community and mars is associated with our sexuality

people with pluto at 9°/18°/27° have the ability to do really well with crypto and make a lot of money from it. pluto and 9 in numerology are both associated with extremes

having your mars at 1° can mean you attract a lot of enemies and jealous people. these people tend to get hated on for absolutely no good reason. mars represents enemies and 1 is a number that can be associated with jealousy in numerology

don’t become enemies with someone that has their pluto at 1°/10°. you will regret it. they’re quite vengeful and hold grudges when someone hurts them. pluto represents things like revenge and 1 is the number of aggression/grudges

people with venus at 7°/16°/25° do not like dating dumb dumbs. if you want to keep them you need to have brains. ditziness drives them crazy. they are most attracted to smart people and people that can teach them a lot. the only reason they would stay with someone long term who was dumb is for good sex

people with multiple 11°/29° placements usually hang out with people older than them. they’re old souls and often mature very quickly from a younger age than most. they’re the type to say their first word at 3 months old and be potty trained by 1 years old

it’s rare to find someone with jupiter at 5°/14°/23° that’s not entertaining. jupiter is associated with abundance and 5 in numerology represents entertainment

22 degrees can actually be associated with killing. i know this is controversial and astrologers try not to discuss things like this but in numerology 22 is associated with destruction so often it represents things like violent tendencies. 4 in general can be a more violent number. i have found a lot of people who have either been murdered or murdered someone else have this degree but don’t worry because obviously majority of people with this degree have been fine. it just means the people who DO/HAVE will often have this degree. 24 is another one that’s common

on a more positive note 22° can be great for becoming an author. especially when placed in the midheaven, mercury, or in jupiter

[morbidlcve]

⋆｡°✩ work hours

⋆｡°✩ pairings: construction worker! agatha x reader

⋆｡°✩ word count: 2.7k

⋆｡°✩ summary: you bring agatha her lunch and things escalate.

⋆｡°✩ cw: oral (a receiving), intersex agatha, fingering, chocking, oral fixation (kinda?), degradation, p in v, creampie, agatha being a whiny little shit, soft!dom agatha (if there’s anything else, please lmk!!)

⋆｡°✩ a/n: i’m back 😇

Your girlfriend was at work and you just got out of class and decided it would be nice for you to pay her a visit and bring her lunch since she forgot it this morning. You went to your favourite bagel place and got her favourite sandwich before walking the few blocks to the site where she was working for a new real estate company she had been hired for. You walked through the house foundation estate to the break trailer, where employees go for their breaks and coffee breaks. Knocking on the door, Rio, Agatha’s associate answered, she pointed you to the direction where she last saw her. 

You liked Rio, she seemed nice, you’ve only met her a handful of times, she was quite cold but she was always respectable. Following the directions she gave you, you ended up at the end of the cul-de-sac Agatha and her crew was working on. 

You spot her in an instant, she was hanging from a contraption harness secured to her waist as she used an industrial sized drill, presumably drilling more support beams into the foundation. Yet you could not take your eyes off her. The wife beater she had on along with the oversized construction vest and the construction pants that hugged her waist tight and the harness that showed off the delicious globes of her ass, you couldn't look elsewhere if you tried. The sun was blazing, meaning she was a sweaty mess, wiping her forehead with her forearm, her head tilting back just a little to lift the helmet she had on. 

Your knees went weak as you watched her shout at the men above to bring her back up. Agatha all but demanded respect and you’d be a little liar if you said that watching her boss people around didn't affect you. As she got to the top of the building, you watched her look down and fumble with the hooks from the chair and your mind instantly went to the gutter. From this angle it looked downright sinful. You watched as the men on top of the building watched her nudging each other nodding. You scoffed because if they knew Agatha was aware of what they were doing, they would not be standing there right now. 

“Oi pervs, stop looking at my girlfriend!” you hollered at the men, drawing Agatha’s attention down to you. She smiled at you looking back down to step out of the harness, muttering to the men on the roof before they nodded and scurried away. You didn’t mean to get them fired really, they shouldn’t be looking at what’s yours. 

You watched agatha make her way through the house in the making until she reached you. “Hi sweetheart, I wasn’t expecting to see you here, it's not unwelcome though.” She nods, taking a hold of your hips pulling you closer to her. “Brought your dinner, you forgot yours at home so I got us bagels” you grin into the kiss she presses against your lips, her tongue cheekily brushing against your lips before breaking away. 

Her hand easily finds yours and she leads you through the site to her truck parked right on the outskirts of the town she's working in. She opens up the hatch on the back and you both perch on the back of the truck to eat your dinner. “Look at you being all jealous before” she smirks, nudging you before taking a bite of the bagel, moaning at the taste. Your brain short circuits watching her eat, her eyes fluttering closed, the way her head dips back ever so slightly, relishing in the taste. “Hey, you didn’t want to see the way they were looking at you, besides you’re mine to look at.” you smile, taking her hand, stroking your thumb over it slightly. 

“Oh yeah?” she swallowed, her tongue poking out to wet her lips. 

“Yeah, you look so good at work, watching you with that drill, being all hot from the work” you sigh looking up at her. “Careful sweetheart, some might say it turned you on” she teased, pressing a lingering kiss on your neck. You shuddered, thighs clenching. “Oh,” she chuckles. 

“Did seeing me hard at work get you all worked up?” she mocks you, stroking your cheek affectionately. 

You nod, face flushing a beautiful shade of pink, looking down. “Don’t go shy on me now, not when you just made me fire two of my best employees.” Agatha remarks, jumping down from the tail of the truck to insert herself between your legs. “Made me want you so bad,” you whine gripping her shoulders, pulling her towards you. She cups your face, her eyes locked onto yours, “god, there's nothing I wouldn't do for you, you know that right,” she mutters, nudging her nose against yours, her eyes briefly fluttering shut. “I know, me too.” you whisper back to her, kissing her softly. Her quick intake of breath makes your heart skip a beat. Her hands grip your face harsh, holding onto you for dear life. Your lips worked in tandem, her tongue grazing your bottom lip, opening your mouth, you let her in. 

The kiss turns heated as you both return to the places you’re both oh so familiar with you gasp when you feel her hands slide up your shirt coming to cup your boobs. “Please, I need you so bad, it hurts,” you whimper, hips rolling as she pinches one of your nipples through your bra. “How bad do you want it baby?” 

You groan feeling the press of her between your thighs. “Soso bad, please.” You're a mess, she’s kissing down your neck just below your shirt line as to where she can reach. Her lips feel so good against your skin, they’re always soft and warm, just like her really when you get to know her. 

“Hop down for me love,” she mutters lightly nipping at your ear lobe. You’re quick to head her instruction looking up at her; her once messy hair now even messier, her lips swollen and red and the look on her face would’ve brought you to your knees right on the road of a town you didn’t know. 

Which is precisely what she did. “You know what to do,” she sighed licking into your mouth once more before guiding you to your knees. You nervously looked around just to be absolutely positive. “Don’t worry sweetheart, they’ve closed this road off due to my construction, no one will see you” she soothes, taking your hair into her hand, the light breeze gentle on the back of your neck. 

Your hands make quick work of the pants she had on, heavy with tools but you managed, pulling her underwear down with them. Her cock springs out red and raw, looking rather sore. Wrapping your hand around the tip, Agatha hisses, her head flying back. You smirk a little, triumphant. 

Leaning forward you lick the pre-cum gathered at the top, relishing in the taste of her. Her hand presses against the back of your head prompting you to go further. “Please, I need you” she sighs, pushing your mouth around her. “Fuck, yes.” She sighs. 

Your mouth is full of her, her taste so strong you can feel yourself becoming more heated. You want to please your woman the best you can, so you push yourself down her length as far as your throat would take you before you gag around her. “Shit, do that again baby,” she shuddered pushing you further down. 

Eyes rolling back, your hand works to cup her balls. The right choice you gather with the way her moans dance around in your ears and her hips start to thrust into you with more force. “Fuck, sweetheart, I’m gonna cum” Agatha says, she shrugs off her Hi-Vis jacket, one hand holding the tail of the truck, the other buried in your hair working you up and down her cock. 

You moan around her when you feel the lack of oxygen catching up to you and she loses it. She fills your mouth holding you at the base as she floods your throat. “Such a little cockslut for me aren’t you?” she says at the sight of you on your knees in the middle of a road, in broad daylight, looking more fucked out then ever. 

“Only for you,” you mutter, before sticking your tongue out to show her that you swallowed all of her. She smirks, pulling you back up and pushing you against the truck. The cold of the truck reacting with your nipples, making them stand up. She pulls down the pants you had on and shoves your panties to the side. Her hands make their way around to your face, shoving two fingers into your mouth. “Get them all nice and wet for me baby” Agatha said, her hand coming down to land a slap to your ass. You jolt forward on her fingers in your mouth, gagging once more. “Atta girl.” she smirks, pressing a kiss to your neck. Pulling her fingers out of your mouth she watches as a trail of saliva follows along and she groans. 

You don’t really need to wet her fingers, she knows it too but there’s something about her fingers being in your mouth that you love so you’re certainly not complaining. “You gonna tell me how much you need me baby?” she asks, her now wet fingers teasing your slit. 

You groan trying to push back but to your avail she’s pinned you down. “Aht, ask nicely, use your words,” Agatha smirks, proud of how much of an influence she can truly have on you. 

“Please Agatha, I need you so bad. Need you to fuck me so good, you’re the only one who can, please please please, need you,” you whine pathetically. 

Agatha groans at your proclamation before sliding two fingers right into your pussy. Your back arches, her fingers filling you up deliciously. It still baffles Agatha to this day how you're still so tight for her. No matter how many times she’s fucked you senseless, you’re still so tight the next time around. She thinks it’s more fun for her though, she gets to continually break you open for her. 

“Still so fuckin’ fight for me,” she hisses scissoring her fingers into you. Your mouth hung open, the please seeping into every fibre of your being. Just when she curls her fingers just right you jolt at the stimulation, following on by a chorus of moans. 

“Yeah? That feel good baby?” she prompts, grabbing your hair once again and pulling your head back to lean over and crash her lips down onto yours. Her tongue invades your mouth once again, swallowing your moans tailored just for her. 

“So fucking good please don’t stop,” you cry out trying to buck against her hand. “Nono, you just sit still and let me have my way with you, mkay?” she said, sliding another finger in. Heat rises up your body as you feel your orgasm approach. Nerves standing on end you whimper “Please, i’m gonna cum, please let me cum, i’ve been so good.” 

She has the audacity to scoff. “Good? You got my employers fired.” she says fiercely, removing her fingers. Your euphoric buzz fading back out to see. You whined, “I didn’t mean to Agatha, please, I'm sorry, I'll be better.” Trying to reach behind you and pull her closer to you again, missing the heat of her body against yours. 

What you said, worked. She sighed, kicking your crossed legs apart, catching you when you almost stumbled, and pushes you back against the truck. The cold metal sends a chill down your spine. ”You’re gonna be a good girl for me and take it, aren’t you?” she grits, running her length along your slit. “Yes yes please please, i’ll be so good for you.” you cry out when she pushes into you. The fill deliciously burning within you. “Fuck, so fuckin tight for me,” Agatha groans, pulling out slightly before slamming back into you. 

“Fuck!” you cry when she pushes so deep, nudging the sensitive part within you. She begins to set a brutal pace, her hand comes to cup the back of your neck, holding you down, forcing you to take it. “This was all you wanted huh? Just wanted to be fucked stupid by my cock didn’t you sweetheart?” she mocks, grunting when you tighten around her. “Yes fuck just want you all the time,” whining, you try to pick back, and this time she doesn’t stop you. Groaning at the friction. 

You gasp when she lifts one of your legs to reach a further depth in you. Moaning senselessly when her balls come to tap at your clit through her disgustingly rough pace. Hips smack against yours, completely at her mercy. Eyes rolling to the back of your head, your hands try to grip anything to keep yourself stable, finding the sides of the truck. “Can feel you squeezing my cock, you feel so good” she pants, fucking into you with a renewed vigour. Her hand reaches down to circle your clit, the stimulation igniting the flame within you. Like adding gasoline onto a flame, it burns so fiercely in you that you start to quiver. Her other hand pulls your neck, lifting you head to look at her. Sweat glistens on her skin, her eyebrows scrunched and her mouth slightly open. Bliss is evident on her face; her pace picks up further “I’m so close sweetheart, come on, cum for me” she moans, pressing her lips to yours. 

Her hips press into yours with every unmerciful thrust, the feeling so intense your mouth hangs open in a silent scream, legs shaking as your orgasm overtakes you, and you. cum around her cock, squeezing so tight she doubles over groaning. “So fucking tight, one more baby, give me one more” she whimpers. 

You could tell she was so close, her breathing became laboured and she was bucking into you relentlessly. Her cock hitting depths of you that had you seeing the cosmos. Her hand worked from the back of your neck to the front, gripping your throat, restricting your airflow. 

Her fingers worked double the efforts to being you over the edge once more, “Come on baby, cum. Gonna fucking fill this pussy so full, you’ll feel it for days.” She grunts, slapping your clit with quite a force. 

You squeal, your legs shaking, you can't feel your hands with how hard you're gripping the sides of the truck. “Need your cum so bad, please Agatha.” You push back, pressing her into you so far she moans right down your ear. Her breath fanning across your face. She presses into you as she cums, spilling into you. Your mouth hangs open, feeling her so deep in you your knees turn weak. She holds you up as your orgasm takes over you, pushing in and out slowly to draw out the sensation. 

Waves wash over you with each roll of her hips causing you to jolt due to the stimulation. “Fuck,” you sighed feeling her gently pulling herself out of you you sulk against the truck. “God you were so good for me.” Agatha sighed, wiping your thighs with her Hi-Vis jacket she bent down to pick up. Once you were clean, she bent back down to pick up your pants, pulled them back up for you. She fixed your hair with the most gentle touches and kissed you softly. “When do you get off work?” you ask her, your hands drifting up and down the length of her back.

“As soon as I saw you, I told Greg and Mark to tell Rio I was going home, and for them to get gone.” she said, smirking at you looking down at your fidgeting fingers. “Don’t worry about them, they’ll find somewhere else.” 

“I wasn’t? You just reminded me about seeing you hard at work, I need to come see you more often, especially if this is the reward.” You giggle waltzing back to the passenger seat. 

She rolls her eyes and puts the truck into gear.

[reidrum]

bright lights

note: day 2 of reidrumas! this is so sickeningly cheesy pls enjoy <3

summary: in which spencer has to remind you of fire safety, or the time you hang too many lights on the christmas tree

cw: tooth rotting fluff i only warn you to pop some lactaids if you're lactose intolerant

wc: a cozy 1k

12 days of reidrumas

“I can’t believe we’re going to die before Christmas.”

You roll your eyes, “Aren’t you from Vegas? This amount of lights should not phase you.”

“I am, and you know those lights typically aren’t hung on flammable surfaces.” Spencer harps, “Please don’t put that—Oh my god, Where the hell did you get another strand of lights.”

You love Christmas. Spencer loves you. It was a no brainer for him to let you take over all of the holiday decorating festivities. He knew that Christmas was always special to a littler version of you, the joy and love that surrounded the holiday always warming your little heart. But as the years went on you would find yourself associating the crueler parts of your life with the holiday, and it would end with you looking back on the time and finding its memories to be not as magical as you would like to remember. Spencer was determined to restore that sentiment for you.

He’s just not sure if he’d risk death by string lights to get there.

“It’s not bright enough,” you pout, “maybe it needs more tinsel.”

The tree was already donned in all its opaque and crystalline ornaments, beaded and foiled tinsel draped around its branches. The tree already came with flashing lights, white and multicolored, but they weren’t nearly enough for the brightness you required. So of course it needed more lights.

“It definitely does not need more tinsel. Come on, put the lights down.”

You retract the lights in your hands to your chest defensively, “Don’t! You’ll have to pry them from my cold, dead hands.”

Spencer raises his eyebrows at your theatrics, “Oh, really?”

You nod, “The Christmas spirit is only as strong as the lights hung in its name.”

“Who said that?”

“Someone really wise.”

“Surely can’t be you,” he chuckles, “We can put them somewhere else just not on the tree, it already has enough.”

You shake your head no and clutch the lights closer to your chest, “Never!”

“There’s so much space on the fireplace or the dining table!” he gestures, “even the front door!”

“I have separate lights for those, duh.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, “Oh my god, we’re actually gonna die.”

“Dying of the Christmas spirit is actually a great way to go.” you joke, “Prophetic, even.”

He stalks towards you slowly, “My love, please. Can we negotiate?”

“Spencer, I have to use all of the lights or they’re gonna feel left out.”

There’s a brief moment of silence between you both, staring at each other from opposite sides of the couch. You study the look in his eyes, unable to decipher what he’s thinking. The corners of his mouth twitch slightly, and to anyone else they wouldn’t have caught it but he is Your Spencer after all and so it really should not have caught you off guard when he makes a break to catch you.

You squeal as you take off running into the kitchen, Spencer trailing not so far behind you. He’s cornered you on the far side of the middle kitchen counter, prepared for any direction you decide to make your exit from. You try to fake him out by pretending to go one way and then making a quick escape the other way, just barely making it past him as you book it down the hallway.

You slow down at the end of the hallway, thinking you’ve finally made it to safety. You bend over slightly to catch your breath when it’s suddenly whisked away again as strong hands catch you off guard, gripping your waist and picking you up from the floor.

“Hey!” you giggle, feigning struggle in his arms.

He whispers in your ear, “Gotcha.”

The flutter in your stomach betrays your tone, “I think you hate Christmas.”

His hands tighten around you as he sets you down, not letting go, “I don’t hate Christmas, I actually love it very much. I love you much more, and I would like to spend as many Christmases as I can with you. I can’t do that if the lights burn us down, sweet girl.”

You huff in fake annoyance, you know he’s right but he doesn’t need to know that. Begrudgingly, you can admit to yourself that the tree may have enough lights. You’re honestly surprised how he didn’t make a joke about how the International Space Station could see your tree from all the way up there. Your eyes flit around the room looking for a good place to hang the string lights in your hands.

Your face lights up with an idea, “You know what I think really needs a touch of the holiday spirit?” you carefully drape the lights around his whole body and plug it into a nearby outlet and smile, “Ah, perfect.”

The lights illuminate the shape of his body from head to toe, casting a soft glow that only seems to glow brighter as Spencer tries to hide a smile and fails miserably, resulting in the most adorable and dorky face you’ve ever seen.

He glances down at the outlet, “Am I not allowed to move?”

You put your finger on your chin, “Hmm…”

“What if I make us hot chocolate?”

You walk towards him gently draping your arms around his neck, “I don’t know…”

“With peppermint?”

Intrigued, the ghost of a smile teases your face, “I’m listening…”

He sighs and rests his hands on your hips, “We can put on matching pajamas?”

You beam widely, “Okay, I’m sold. Just wanted to see how far you’d go.” You detach from him giddily, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek and running off to the kitchen to get the mugs ready.

Spencer unplugs himself and walks into the bedroom,  rummaging through the dresser drawers to get the pajamas for you both. He chuckles to himself thinking how you were testing him to see how far he’d go, and you didn’t even know the full extent of exactly how far that is. His hand brushes over the velvet box buried beneath his mismatched socks and hopes that you’ll test the full extent soon.

Until then, he’ll make sure to keep you safe from festive fire hazards and satiated with peppermint hot cocoa.

[rosie-read-that]

bad blood / scott miller x reader

summary: set after twisters. when scott initiates a lawsuit against javi and his new business partners, they choose to take you on as their attorney—no matter that you and scott were once high school sweethearts, that you still have his ring in your closet, or that things between you ended catastrophically six years past. this is business. no need to go down memory lane… right?

content warnings: f!reader, alcohol use, language, offscreen parental death, one open door scene (unprotected piv), couple angst, riggs is his own walking red flag, questionable legal ethics

word count: 21.6k (sorry, guys 😬)

author’s note: here it is! i tried to rein in the length, but clearly i failed ✌🏼 shoutout to @hederasgarden and @sailor-aviator for giving scott his fandom-approved surname. on a final note, i am not a lawyer, i took one (1) business law class in college, so don’t take my word on any of this and definitely don’t do stuff with your ex while he’s the opposing party in a case you’re working (but if it’s david corenswet, i meannnn… should anyone be blamed?)

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

Well-meaning, and with typical Arkansan practicality, Tyler Owens leaned back in his chair and said, “Javi, you need to chill out, man.”

Immediately, you knew it was the wrong thing to say.

“What makes you think I’m not? It's not like my entire livelihood is on the line or anything, so why would I not be chilled out?—Dammit!”

“Actually, lose the tie,” you suggested, having watched him fumble for the last five minutes. You were sure it was nerves that did it, not a lack of dexterity.

Javi sighed and let the two ends hang pathetically around his neck. “I thought I was supposed to wear one…”

“I think that’s only for court,” Kate put in, “like with an actual judge and stuff.”

“Maybe in the 1970s,” remarked Tyler under his breath. Javi glared. “Bro, it’s gonna be fine.”

“We should be out there, tracking tornadoes!” There was a mounted television in the little waiting area, playing a 24-hour news channel on mute. Javi gestured at the weather report. It was March, and Tornado Alley was looking active, “robust,” as the weatherman put it… not that your clients would know firsthand, seeing as they were stuck in a high-rise in the city instead of out in the fields of Sapulpa County. Kate and Tyler were watching the radar images with twin expressions of restless longing. Javi yanked the tie from his neck. “That son of a bitch knew exactly what he was doing, tying us up in meetings at this time of year.”

“Yeah, he did,” you replied. “I know it’s inconvenient as shit, but believe me, I’m going to do everything I can to get you back out on the field. There’s no reason for all three of you to be here. I mean, it’s the modern age: some of this could be a Zoom meeting.”

 “You think we’re gonna Zoom in the middle of a storm?” Tyler quipped. Kate turned to him with a chastising look.

She was clearly just about as done as her other two partners, but a lot more level-headed about the fact that they were being sued for everything they had. Which you appreciated. Suits between friends and former business associates had a tendency to turn into mud-slinging wars, and there was nothing you hated more than a client stuck in denial. Kate was the opposite. She was cool-headed, calm. A happy medium between Tyler’s annoyed outrage (“who does this guy think he is!”) and Javi’s frustrated melancholy (“guys, I’m sorry, this is all my fault”).

Right now, Javi was sinking well into the latter.

“Just remember we’re here for you, Javi.” Kate rubbed a soothing hand across his back. “All the way. We know this is personal.”

“Yeah, which means it’s gonna get ugly. I hate the thought of our company going under because I had shitty taste in business partners, you know?”

“Well, you don't anymore. That’s character growth,” Tyler pointed out. “Now, I’m no legal expert, but as far as I can see, he’s got no legs to stand on—”

You held up a finger. “Uh, that’s not entirely true…”

“—and he’s going to come out of this looking like a complete and total tool. Which he is! If he wants to spend all this time and boatloads of his uncle’s money on a belligerent witch hunt, then so be it.”

“You mean our time, our money,” said Javi.

Kate looked at you. “If this ends up going to court, is it likely he’ll win?”

You sighed. “Okay, listen.” You sat on the coffee table. There was no avoiding the sight of three pairs of eyes with varying degrees of hopefulness trained on you, hanging onto your every word. Javi you had known before, but after a brief acquaintance, you’d decided that you liked Kate and Tyler too, had even spent an hour or two watching Tornado Wrangler videos on YouTube, and, while storm chasing seemed, well, kind of unhinged, their enthusiasm was contagious. They were passionate, not in a purely thrill-seeking or overly scientific way. They actually cared. And you wanted them to win. “The whole point,” you explained, “is that we’re trying to avoid this going to trial. If you’re looking to cut down on the cost to your bottom line—not to mention how this could drag on for literal years—it’s best to reach a settlement before this ever sees the inside of a courtroom. Either way, things are going to get a little worse before they get better. But the point is a clean break, right? When all this is over, StormPAR will never have any sort of claim over you. You’ll be free to chase storms, build your doo-dads—”

That got you a trio of chuckles. Good, let them think you were a meteorological idiot; all the better to make them feel like a united front.

“—and it’ll be like Scott and Riggs never happened.”

“Sounds good to me,” Tyler said, that steely determination from his old rodeo days coming through.

Kate gave a nod. “No matter what, we’ll be okay”

Javi put his hand on your knee. “Thank you… for everything. I know this has gotta suck for you too.”

“Who, me?” you asked, feigning ignorance. “I’m fine.”

“Mm-hm…”

“Do I not look fine?”

“You look great,” Kate said honestly.

“Miller’s gonna shit his pants.”

“Tyler!”

“Hey, we’re up,” your assistant announced, her fingers not pausing for a second as she typed on her phone. Abby may have the social skills of a polar bear, but her organizational skills were top-notch and you relied on her predatory instincts. Plus, you were sure that her geometrically perfect French bob had magical powers.

Signaling for the others to follow, you made your way down a hallway bordered by walls banded in frosted glass, the sound of typing and muffled phone calls familiar and yet not. This was enemy territory. Having you meet here instead of at the offices of Conway & Fine was a calculated move.

Before entering the conference room, you took Tyler by the elbow. “Please just… try to behave yourself.”

Me? He pointed at his face.

“Yes, you! Don’t provoke him—as a matter of fact, don’t even look at him—don't piss him off unless you want to make this a hell of a lot worse for everyone. Capisce?”

“I’ll be the picture of civility.”

You shot him a skeptical look.

“I’ll be a gentleman!”

You glared. “Tyler Owens, I’m holding you to that.” Adjusting your power suit, you put on your best Professional Face. “Alright guys, it’s showtime.”

Through the glass, your eyes landed on Scott. The temptation to bolt left you breathless, though you couldn’t say whether you wanted to run towards or far, far away. You wouldn’t. You were all too aware of the people standing behind you, counting on you, while Scott himself had been a stranger to you for the last few years.

You owed him nothing; this was simply business, you reminded yourself.

Simply business.

He turned his head and spotted you, and kept his eyes on you as you opened the door.

TEN YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

You’d been working on the same calculus assignment for the last three-quarters of an hour, the sound of rain lashing against your window doing nothing for your frazzled nerves.  While math was by no means your obvious strong suit, you would have finished by now if you hadn’t spent most of it staring at the wall beneath your windowsill, bouncing your leg, tapping your pencil compulsively against the edge of your AP textbook and imagining all the ways in which your life could go horribly, unfixably wrong. An outcome that now seemed likely.

“You still have time, sweetheart,” your mom tried to say at dinner that night. She smiled at you and patted your hand. “It’s only March.”

“Exactly—it’s March!” you’d wanted to say, but bit your tongue. There wasn't any point; your mom would always believe you were capable of walking on the moon, which was lovely, you guessed. Or it would be, if all your classmates weren't overachievers and if a lot of them hadn't already received acceptance letters and stuck pennants to the inside of their lockers for all the rejects to see.

It was hopeless… you should’ve gotten an answer by now.

Tossing the book and papers away, you buried your face in your hands and tried to hold it together. The sleeves of your sweatshirt emanated a woodsy, clean smell, kind of like rain in a forest, and you breathed in deep to let it ground you.

Slowly, the intensity of the storm outside faded to background noise, no longer angry, insistent—it was only rain after all, only weather. You sniffed, feeling silly, and snuggled into the navy-blue sweatshirt, wrapping your arms around your knees. The gold lettering read NICHOLS ACADEMY ATHLETICS. On you, it was practically a dress, and you’d been living in it all week, ignoring Mom’s teases about how “you’re going to have to wash it at some point!” while your dad watched you pass by, saying nothing, only flipping the page of whatever biography he was reading, not wanting to comment or so much as reference your boyfriend of two years, who played center field on Nichols’s prize baseball team and from whom you’d stolen the sweatshirt after a date at the park.

Try as you might, your dad had never warmed up to Scott, but you thought it had more to do with an objection to Scott’s father rather than to Scott himself. The whole family’s trouble, he said once, prompting a fight that ended with you slamming your bedroom door and not speaking to him for two days, until your mom laid down the law and said she wouldn't have that sort of tension around the house.

He didn’t get it. Scott wasn't like his father—if anything, you saw the way his jaw tensed whenever he heard rumors (whispered, unless intended to get a rise out of him by a school rival) about the private club scenes, the drinking, the reckless gambling, the other women. Of course your straitlaced dad assumed the apple wouldn't fall too far from the tree, but you knew Scott. You trusted him. And, fine, so you were seventeen, but you knew you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him—it happened, didn't it?

Granted, this was why that damned letter was so important. It was the perfect plan… so long as Scott got into MIT, which seemed like a given, and you into Harvard, the culmination of four years of meticulous planning and candle-burning work. But what if it didn’t happen? Could your relationship survive the time and long distance? As much as you hoped so, you didn’t want to find out.

Out of nowhere came sharp rap at your window. Startled, you looked up to see a familiar face peering through the rain-lashed glass, and automatically you sprang to your feet. “Scott! What the hell were you thinking!” you hissed, mindful of your parents, probably in bed at this hour. He paused halfway through the window, pretending offense.

“Wow, okay, here I thought I was making a big romantic gesture…”

“You’re soaking wet! You could’ve fallen and broken your neck!”

As you lowered and latched the window behind him, trying to be as quiet as possible, he defended, “I’m a tree connoisseur. If anything, I’m a that-tree connoisseur and she’s never let me down before. Literally. Sturdy branches on her.”

He had a point there. The tree directly outside your bedroom window had played makeshift ladder to him over the last couple of years—not that your parents were any the wiser. If your dad knew, he’d go straight to the nearest hardware store and buy the ax himself. (What he would do with that ax, having never done a day’s manual labor in his life besides recreational fishing, was beyond you.)

You shook your head, watching Scott drip all over the hardwood. God, he was stunning.

And there was a chance you might lose him forever in a few months.

You felt the sting in your throat and behind your eyes. “I’ll go get you a towel,” you said, averting your face and turning towards the ensuite so you could get a few seconds to yourself. He caught you by the wrist and spun you into his body.

“Wait a minute, kiss me first,” he demanded, a cocky grin on his face. You managed to see a flash of it before his lips met yours. You closed your eyes in spite of everything, melting into the kiss, into Scott, because it was as easy as breathing and just as pointless trying to resist.

His cheeks were cold, his mouth warm. Coaxing. The pressure of his hands on your waist like an anchor in the storm. He was perfect for you. How could you belong with anyone else? It was impossible.

His tongue brushed your bottom lip, and it was a move so practiced, so instinctive, so perfectly well-known, that it made the fear swell in your chest again. You held onto the front of his rain-drenched hoodie, breaking the kiss. Your breathing was ragged. You felt you could burst.

“You’re insane,” you tried to cover, burying your head in his chest. “My dad will kill you if he catches you.”

He took a step back and tilted your face up, gently, by the chin. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you replied.

“Tell me.”

Instead of answering, you made your way to the bathroom and got a towel out of the linen closet. You could feel Scott’s questioning gaze, but he waited, rubbing the towel across his head, brows knitted together as you hesitated, still trying to hedge. “I just—we have that exam next week and I’ve fallen behind on calc and I think I’m going to have to start over on my AP Civ end-of-the-year project, and my mom—”

“Your mom’s great,” Scott interjected.

“Why, d’you want her?”

He pursed his lips. As soon as you said it, you knew that it had sounded kind of bitchy.

“Fine, okay. She’s great, she’s just… trying to help.”

“Is this about Drexler getting her Harvard letter? Because it’s only—”

“It's only March. Yeah. That’s what Mom said. But I’m cutting it close, right? Some people got their letters in December, Scott—December!” You looked down at your feet. “I’m not going to get in.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well, it sure feels like it!”

“C’mere.”

“No.” You shook your head.

“Come here,” he insisted, tossing the damp towel onto your bed and holding your arms loosely, his hands stroking up and down. No matter how much you held onto the scent-memory of him on his Nichols sweatshirt, nothing compares to the real thing. He made everything better; and if not, he made everything feel like it could get better, because he was Scott Miller, and the world bent to his charm or else. “You’re going to get in,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “They’d be crazy not to have you.” And the thing was, despite being utterly convinced only two minutes before that the worst was inevitable, you wanted to believe him, wanted to convince yourself that everything would settle into place as it should.

Scott dipped his head to brush his lips against yours, a deliberate barely-there sweep that made your eyes flutter closed and your arms lace around the wide breadth of his shoulders. Scott’s hands traveled down your back, pressing into your hips until you were flush against the length of his body. You felt him smile as he let you deepen the kiss, and the little rumble of his almost-laugh pinged all the way down to your toes, warming you from the inside the way only Scott could.

As his mouth moved down to your jaw and then the side of your neck, you slid your hands down his chest and then stopped, feeling something other than the hidden planes of his stomach through the fabric of his dark hoodie. You pulled away. Scott’s face had frozen into a look of mild panic and his hands wrapped around your wrists, holding them loosely, which only made the alarm bells ring louder in your head. That was not the sort of face he would make if he was hoarding old receipts.

“Scott?” you asked. He looked away, exhaled, and let your wrists drop with a resigned expression. You reached into his pocket, pulling out a sheet of white letter paper folded into quarters, carefully and with Scott-like precision. “What…” you began, glancing at him briefly and opening the sheet.

At the top, in cardinal red: Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

You might have gasped. At the very least, one of your hands flew up to your mouth. “Oh my God… Scott…”

“We don’t have to talk about it now.”

“Scott! This is from MIT! You got in?”

“It's really not a big deal.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, his shoulders curved slightly inward.

Not a big deal? “Scott, shut up! You got in!” you exclaimed, aghast.

“You’re not upset?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” You set the letter down to the side, knowing he’d want to keep it—that so much as folding it and putting it in his pocket so he could make the ten-minute run to your house in the middle of a downpour must have been a minor sacrifice on your account. Because he wanted to tell you. Because he wanted you to be the first person other than his mom to hear the good news. “We’ve talked about this. This is your dream school, babe.”

“Yeah, well, it feels kinda shitty celebrating now.”

“Stop.” You reached up and gave him a peck on the lips, stroking his cheeks, resting your forehead against his. “I'm so freaking proud of you. You’re going to be the best, most kick-ass engineer.”

You looked into his eyes so that he’d know it was true, and for a moment you could tell he was letting himself feel the achievement—his shoulders relaxed, he caressed your hands gratefully, but there was something about his smile that signaled not all being well.

“I heard Mom talking on the phone with my uncle today,” he confessed.

“Your uncle Riggs? Down in New Orleans?”

“Yeah. She doesn't want me to know, but I heard her talking about college and…”

You placed your hands on his chest. “Is it that bad?”

He didn't like talking about it but you knew his father had made a few bad investments lately, and from your own dad, who had confided it to your mom in secret one night—not that he saw you lurking outside the kitchen, drawn by the mention of the name “Miller”—you were aware that he had made a truly catastrophic impulsive bet with some Swedish businessmen he’d been trying to impress. Add to that the drawn look on Mrs. Miller’s face whenever you saw her, and the overly sympathetic way your mom referred to “poor Pamela,” and you had enough evidence to assume that Scott’s father had royally fucked up this time. 

“They’ve been talking about selling the house,” he said with a dark look. “I think my parents are going to split up… for good this time.”

“Oh, Scott…”

“So who knows? I might not be able to go to MIT anyway—even with this.”

“Are you okay?” you asked, aware that nothing got his back up more than pity. But you had to ask.

He shrugged. “It is what it is.”

This was a side of him you’d never learned how to handle, not even after two years of dating. For all that he was an expert at making you feel like the world was yours for the taking, when it came to his own struggles, he was a tightly closed book. Instead of admitting when he was hurt or disappointed, he resorted to indifference and the kind of dark humor that could put you in a bad mood if you weren't careful.

Right now, all you wanted was for him to know that you were there for him. Nothing you could say or do would make Ray Miller grow practical common sense or an ounce of familial consideration—you weren't even sure that he knew your name, despite being Scott’s long-term girlfriend; he was hardly ever home, and never present even on the occasions when he was. But you could state the obvious, just in case he’d doubted it for a second.

“Hey, I love you,” you said to him.

“I love you, too,” he replied. “Now, no more shop talk—why do you think I risked my neck climbing up here?” And just like that, the matter was closed, the dark look disappeared, replaced by the telltale lowering of his dark lashes as he dropped another kiss at the side of your neck, his arms tightening around you, turning you so that the backs of your knees hit the edge of your bed.

“And here I thought your intentions were pure,” you replied, trying to downplay the butterflies in your stomach.

“Darling, there’s no such thing… especially when it comes to you.”

“What an idealist,” you rejoined, then fell quiet when he kissed you again. Without missing a beat, he lowered you onto the bed, hands gliding beneath your sweatshirt with apparent purpose. “Scott,” you protested, “my parents are across the hall.”

“So we’ll be quiet. Or we’ll get caught. What's the worst that could happen?”

“Um, you flying headfirst out that window?”

He pretended to think about it, then, by the warm glow of your bedside lamp, you saw his mouth quirk into a smirk before he dove towards your lips, eyes twinkling. “I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a price I’m willing to pay.”

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

“The damages your client is seeking are absolutely unreasonable. I would even say they border on the ridiculous—and, quite frankly, even frivolous!”

“Frivolous! Your client founded his new company with StormPAR assets—”

“His assets!”

“—accumulated during his tenure as a business partner to my client. Assets which came out of the pocket of Mr. Riggs as well, might I remind you!”

“We were equal partners!” Javi exclaimed, no longer able to keep his temper in check. You supposed the moment you snapped at Mr. Rankin, Javi figured the gloves were off.

Maybe instead of worrying about Tyler, you should've worried about yourself.

Rankin stabbed a finger at the files stacked in front of him. “Exactly, and Mr. Miller deserves to be compensated for the financial losses incurred from your breach of contract.”

Javi balked. “What, I can’t decide to leave my own company?”

“You can do whatever the hell you want, just not with my money,” Scott said in a dangerous monotone. For the last half-hour you’d been trying not to look at him, focusing instead on his middle-aged bespectacled lawyer, but to say you weren't losing your shit would be disproven by the Montblanc you’ve been fidgeting with since the meeting began. When he wasn’t glaring daggers at his former business partner, you could feel the power of his gaze, daring you to meet his eyes again.

“Oh, you mean your uncle’s money?”

“Javi.” You touched his hand in warning.

“You weren't turning your nose up at my uncle’s money when you were trying to found StormPAR.” Scott gibed. In your periphery, you saw Kate rubbing her left temple.

“Me? I thought we were partners, partner.”

“Like you give a shit! You jumped ship, Javi—you jumped ship, set up shop with the opposition, then hired my ex-girlfriend so you could get away with robbing us blind!”

You gritted your teeth. “Mr. Rankin, control your client.”

“‘Control your client’?” Scott spat out, leaning forward and turning the dial up to ten. “What the hell is wrong with you? What are you even doing here?”

“My job, Mr. Miller.” This time you did risk staring him in the face, ignoring the play of light on his cheekbones, the shape of his lips, the triangle of exposed skin at his throat that you used to know so well. “I work for StormLab. You might find my presence objectionable, but that’s neither here nor there as long as my clients choose to keep me on retainer. If you don't like it, you’re free to leave and we can negotiate with Mr. Rankin directly.”

He said nothing. Scott was never at a loss for words unless he was well and truly pissed, the force of his intelligence diverted into barely suppressed anger. You could've heard a pin drop in that conference room. His hands were on top of the table, tense, almost shaking, and the rise and fall of his chest was visible even to you. Against your will, your brain threw up images of those same hands holding yours, threaded through your hair, brushing gently against the small of your back; those same arms drawing you close; the same mouth smiling.

You cleared your throat, shuffled a few papers around, and once again addressed the general room and Mr. Rankin. “Now, if you turn to page 16, you’ll see that Mr. Rivera is willing to formally sell his share of StormPAR for less than he’s entitled—if both Mr. Miller and Mr. Riggs agree to desist in interference with StormLab, which, need I remind you, was founded two-thirds of the way with assets entirely independent from the former. If this action’s purpose isn’t frivolous, then Mr. Owens and Ms. Carter should be removed from this suit.”

“Like hell,” Scott interrupted, prompting Javi to fire back with:

“What, you think we’re not good for it? I’ll have you know—”

“You expect me to believe you started your little company on the merits of an NWS salary and a fucking YouTube channel?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Tyler lean forward, ready to pounce. Rankin muttered, “Language,” and pushed his eyeglasses up his nose. You knew he was a personal friend of Scott’s uncle—you could also tell that he would rather be out on the golf course than in the middle of this friend-divorce and embarrassing squabble, one where his input seemed superfluous and his counsel went unheeded even by his client.

Scott went on, full of accusation. “You used StormPAR money, didn’t you?”

“If you want to request any financial disclosures…” you began.

“We’re talking.”

Bitch. “No, you’re berating,” you shot back.

Javi put his hand on your wrist. “It’s fine. Yeah—I guess if you want to look at it that way, if I was making a living off StormPAR and taking Riggs’s money, then yeah, technically my share of StormLab exists because of what we had.”

“Javi.”

“No. Fair’s fair and all that. I don’t want any part of it anymore. Hell, you can have it. But come on, man, don’t pretend you’re doing any of this because you’re broke. Even if I gave you half of whatever StormPAR’s worth, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’re mad that I left. I get it. Let’s settle this, you and me. Leave Kate and Tyler out of it.”

“You stole our data!”

Now, that couldn't stand. “He made the executive decision to share data with Mr. Owens’s team.” Sure, it was a technicality but it was a true technicality.

“Bullshit!”

You sighed. “Are we getting anywhere here, Rankin?”

The lawyer glanced down at his watch and shook his head almost mournfully. “It’s not looking likely.”

“Wonderful.” You stood up, gathering your things and motioning for Kate, Tyler, and Javi to do the same. “Well, we’re all very busy people and clearly meeting in-person is counterproductive. Shall we agree to make this a video call next time? My clients have places to be.”

“I’ll bet they do,” Scott mocked, staring not only at Javi but at his new partners for probably the first time all afternoon. “How’re your investors doing, by the way, knowing you’re getting sued for infringement, breach of contract and fiduciary duty…”

You wanted to strangle him. In a voice that matched him venom for venom, you turned to your assistant and said, “Did you get that on record, Abby? Please, keep going,” you urged Scott, “you might just win us a dismissal.”

After a moment of charged silence, you told your clients: “We’re done here.”

“You’ll be hearing from me,” said the reluctant Mr. Rankin.

You snatched the chrome door handle from Tyler. “Boy, am I looking forward to it.”

Outside, you didn’t stop until you’d turned the corner into another section of the office, not wanting to be within eyeshot of Scott when you gritted your teeth and let the mask of cool indifference fall.

“Well, that went…” Tyler trailed off, leaning against the metal doorframe of Copy Room 3. The smell of toner and ozone was strangely comforting, bringing you back to your professional self now that Scott and his stupid, handsome-as-ever face were out of view. That, and you were noticing that Tyler Owens in a corporate-adjacent setting didn’t sit well with you; you couldn’t decide whether it was the outdoor tan or the in-your-face belt-buckle that gave it away. Regardless, he seemed too big for the confines of a downtown law office.

“It went like a garbage fire,” you confirmed, “which means about as well as I expected.”

Kate crossed her arms. “So we’re going to court, then.”

“I’m going to keep pushing for him to drop StormLab from the suit.”

“That just leaves me,” Javi remarked, downcast, but still willing to take one for the team.

“I mean, Javi, dear, you did abandon the partnership without ironing out all the kinks first.”

“How was I supposed to know I needed to hire a lawyer?”

“Um, literally everyone knows you’re supposed to hire a lawyer,” said Tyler, “especially if you’re dealing with someone like Textbook Type A over there.”

Javi ran a hand down his face, then shook his head. “What can I say? I-I thought he was my friend.”

“I know.” You clapped your hand on Javi’s shoulder. I understand. “But sometimes all that does is make it worse.”

After a bit more commiserating you parted ways with the three, hanging back with Abby to touch base on a few points and clear up the rest of your schedule, which included a deposition in an hour-and-a-half and witness prep at 4:30. Understandably, you were in the mood for none of this and wanted nothing more than to retire to your apartment with a glass of red and a bowl of popcorn as big as your head à la Olivia Pope, but alas… you were trying to make junior partner.

No rest for the wicked and all that.

You released Abby for a late lunch and made your way to the bank of elevators after a brief pit stop at the restroom, side-eyeing the fancy automatic taps and the whiff of something hotel-like emanating from the vents. You’d have to tell the office manager at Conway & Fine to up your game.

Fishing your phone out of your bag, you pushed the elevator button and began scrolling through a frightful amount of emails—there were intraoffice communications and check-in requests from clients, a few items of junk not caught by the email filter, the latest newsletters from PennAlumni and the Oklahoma Bar Association, as well as an invitation to an old mentor’s golden anniversary celebration. You were in the middle of responding to this when Scott sidled up next to you, giving no indication other than the familiar scent of his cologne and the tap of shined leather shoes against the polished tile. Of all the bad luck…

“So what is this, some kind of a decade-old revenge plot?” he finally asked, disconcerting you with the fact that he was standing so close to you that you couldn't glance at his expression without craning your neck. “Maybe I should’ve expected it from you, but Javi? I didn't know he had it in him.”

“Go away, Scott. This is business.”

“Really, is that what you want to call it? He could've hired anyone.”

“Well, he chose to hire a friend.”

“Right…” A laugh. Dry, cynical. “And what's your excuse?”

You stared at the light above the door, willing it to flash green and put you out of your misery. “Believe it or not, my taking this case has nothing to do with you. Forgive me if I thought you could be a fucking adult about it—clearly I was wrong.”

Ding!

You walked into the elevator without looking back. As parting words went, you thought they passed muster. Except, instead of being a regular person and taking the next car, Scott followed you in, ignoring the outrage written plain on your face.

You looked at him as if to say, “Do you mind?” It was obvious that he didn't. Whatever composure he’d lost in the conference room had been regained now that it was just you, and him, and the shared knowledge that you would have avoided being alone with him if you could.

He stood next to you, towering. As the floor number inched downward from 22, you were all too aware of his presence: the Scott smell of him, the warmth of his body, and the brush of his dark linen jacket against your arm. You wished you handed discarded your own in the restroom; you needed armor, and while Scott had donned his as soon as he was able, he had caught you unawares, expecting him to play fair even when all the evidence of the last two hours had told you that “fair” was no longer in his vocabulary.

As if to illustrate the point, you felt him lean in, his voice the closest it had been in over six years. “You always did love making a show of taking the moral high ground. How’s the view, sweetheart? You must love getting the chance to look down on me for change.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Not bothering to contain your disgust, you stepped away from him, clutching your bag in a white-knuckle grip. For a moment you felt struck by lightning. There was a time when you knew the planes of his face better than your own—the slope of his nose, the variations of blue in his eyes; you knew the shade of his hair in every light; how to tell a false smile from the true. But this Scott… the one with the shuttered expression, the see-if-I-care set to his shoulders, “how’re your investors doing, by the way”… It wasn’t like those things came out of left field—Scott had always been capable of a certain amount of pride, petulance, vindictiveness, even. But it was like the best parts of him had been filed away, or else hidden so deep that you couldn't find nary a sight of them when you looked into his face. “What happened to you?”

You saw his jaw clench. “If you want to know, then you shouldn’t have left.”

8…

7…

6…

You took a breath. “That whole last year—you pushed me away and you know it.”

Instead of answering your honesty in kind, Scott hitched up his sleeve so he could glance at the time on his fancy Swiss watch, a present from Good Old Uncle Riggs on the event of his graduation from MIT. “Yeah, well, you made it easy.”

4…

3…

2…

The doors opened onto a vast lobby. Incredulous, you kept waiting for him to take his words back, to apologize, to so much as glance at you, damn it. When you saw there wasn't any point, you swallowed the knot in your throat, stepping out of the elevator car and feeling twenty-one all over again.

This time, he didn't follow you. He leaned against the back handrail, not reacting even when you mustered every remaining ounce of dignity to say, “Go fuck yourself, Scott.” Then you turned on your heel and walked away.

TEN YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

Once more on your bedroom floor. Scott sat at your back, his arms wrapped around you and his head bent over yours. “Hey, listen to me… we’ll make it work. I’ll call you every day.”

“With a full slate of classes? That doesn't make any sense.”

“I don’t care if it doesn't. Hey,”—he kissed your temple—“it’s you and me. That doesn’t need to change”

“You say that now…”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do.” You sighed. “It’s the hot nerds I don’t trust.”

You felt him laugh. “You’re a hot nerd.”

“Stop it.” But you smiled anyway, probably for the first time since you’d opened the rejection letter from Harvard. Concerned, your mom had called Scott while you were holed up in your room, ugly-crying into the bedspread, and it was enough to make you regret having been so bitchy about her the week before. She really had been trying to help… not that it mattered now that Harvard had given you the hard pass.

It wasn’t like you had no other options—you’d have been crazy not to line up a contingency plan or two. But Harvard had been your dream since you could remember caring about college. It was your castle in the sky, the thing that kept you going through four years of grueling hard work, a neverending grind of AP and Honors classes, student clubs and extracurriculars. And still it wasn’t enough.

“We regret to inform you…”

Well, not as much as you regretted it.

As if reading your mind, Scott wrapped his arms a little tighter, his tone light when he said, “UPenn’s nothing to scoff at, you know. You’re upset because you got into an Ivy League?”

“An Ivy League in Philadelphia,” you protested.

You didn’t add “and not the one I wanted” because you knew, objectively, that he and your parents and Ms. Andersson, your favorite teacher, were all right. You were incredibly lucky to have gotten into the University of Pennsylvania—the campus was beautiful, it was close to home, and, like Harvard, it boasted its own fair share of Supreme Court Justices and legal luminaries. It wasn’t like your future was in complete and utter shambles. You would still have everything you wanted… except Scott.

You felt him shrug behind you. “So what? It’s just a five-and-a-half-hour drive—or an hour-and-a-half by plane if we’re desperate.” You shifted so you could shoot him a funny look. “I might have googled it,” he admitted, “right after you told me you got in.”

“Of course you did…” The fact that he had started making plans without waiting on Harvard made you feel better; it meant he had every intention of making it work and maybe you were the downer, seeing the situation as near-hopeless when, really, there had to be couples who didn't let physical distance stop them from being together.

Glass half-full. All you needed was a little faith, a little more optimism.

“At least we’ve got the whole summer,” you said, trying to implement this new, sunnier outlook.

You felt Scott stiffen.

“What?” You turned around properly, anchoring your hand on the side of his neck. You had a minor panic when he wouldn't look at you, and at the guilt written on his brow. “Tell me,” you said.

“Uncle Riggs wants me to spend the summer down in NOLA—something about getting to know me better. I think he must’ve worked it out with Mom. She’s finally put the house up for sale, doesn't want me around when strangers start traipsing through and asking about whether or not she’ll throw in the vintage furniture for an extra few grand.”

At last, after years of painful back and forth, the Miller divorce was imminent. True to Scott’s prediction, “poor Pamela” had hired an attorney and filed paperwork on the very week he climbed through your window. So far his dad had been uncharacteristically passive, perhaps figuring he had put his family through enough, or else fearful of the very same Marshall Riggs who had been summoned from the rafters to come through for his sister after a period of long estrangement.

It was Riggs who had retained Pamela’s ace divorce attorney, Riggs who agreed to pay most of Scott’s tuition. Spending a few months with him seemed like the least he could do. You were disappointed. But you understood.

“When do you leave?”

“Two weeks after graduation.”

“So we have a month,” you said. “That’s thirty days.”

“More like twenty-six… and three quarters.” He smiled the same wistful sort of half-smile that was on your face, and you kissed him, savoring the familiar taste of mint on his mouth from the gum he chewed out of habit.

“Then let’s not waste a second,” you answered back.

He placed a kiss on your forehead. “I love you.”

When he said it, it sounded like a promise that everything would be all right, and in spite of your worries you chose to believe him.

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

For the last ten minutes you’d had trouble hearing Kate’s voice clearly over the phone, but you figured it was to be expected since she was calling from the middle of nowhere (at least to your urban- and suburban-bred estimation), and really, after almost three months of similar experiences, you’d grown tired of plugging your ear and saying, “Kate? Kate? You’re breaking up!”

On the upside, your cognitive skills had to be getting a real workout from filling in the weather-induced gaps in your conversations. Case in point:

“—bad luck with the last two, but I—feeling—building in the east—”

“Yeah, her Spidey Senses are tingling!” you heard Javi yell in the background.

Kate laughed. “Go away!”

“Ask her if she caught the livestream!” Tyler said, no doubt from the driver’s seat.

It sounded like she had you on speakerphone, so you spoke to him directly. “Ty, need I remind you that I have an actual job.”

“Ouch! Did you hear that?—thinks we don’t have real jobs!”

“I did not—”

The clarity improved, and you could hear the sound of car doors slamming and voices cracking jokes in the background, which usually meant they’d returned to Kate’s mother’s farm in Sapulpa, where StormLab kept a satellite office in Cathy Carter’s barn. It was makeshift, but what you saw of it during one of Tyler’s Facetime calls had a rustic charm completely at odds with the glass-and-chrome offices where Herb Rankin worked.

Actually, now that you gave it a moment’s thought, not even Herb Rankin fit into his office.

“Listen to her, the Big City Bigshot slumming it with the rednecks,” Tyler went on, earning a few spirited hoots and howls from the other Wranglers.

“Kate is from New York!” you objected. You waved an arm in the middle of your dim-lit apartment as if anyone could see you, vaguely aware that you were holding a pair of chopsticks and had probably sent a strand of shredded cabbage flying behind your couch.

This assertion was too much for Javi to bear. “Excuse me! Kate is OK to the bone, New York’s just where she keeps her apartment.”

Kate laughed as she said something you couldn’t catch, then Tyler’s voice came, audibly close to the phone. “Hey, that reminds me, where’re you from, again?”

“Pennsylvania.”

“That is not a Philly accent.”

You were about to say that not everyone in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania sounds like Rocky Balboa when Javi replied, “That’s ’cause she’s from the fancy part of Pennsylvania—but we don't hold that against her.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Tyler asked, “Wait, you’re not billing us for all this shit-talking, are you?”

You let out a snort, picked up your phone, and held it close to your mouth. “You know, maybe I should, Arkansas.”

At first you couldn’t work out what the hell was going on when Tyler broke out in “It's the spirit of the mountains… and the spirit of the Delta… it's the spirit of the Caaapitol doooooome,” but by the time the other Wranglers pitched in, with all the gusto of a drunk karaoke night despite being stone-cold sober, you understood that you had been treated to a rare and hopefully never-to-be-repeated rendition of one of the state songs of Arkansas. A short while later you hung up, cheeks sore and still laughing to yourself. The silence in your apartment was deafening by comparison.

Sometimes, you called them just because you lacked company. There wasn’t much to report on the Rankin front—as much as you had tried to negotiate on Javi’s behalf for a less hostile resolution, Scott insisted on keeping Kate and Tyler in the suit and seemed determined to take their tiff before a judge if his terms weren’t met.

Even Rankin seemed fed up.

Maybe it was a bad idea, maybe it was the two glasses of wine you’d had with dinner or the post-ballad high. Maybe you wanted to be the one to make StormLab’s problem go away. Whatever the reason, after you put the dirty dishes in the sink, you found yourself calling the one person you swore you’d never speak to ever again.

For good measure, as the dial tone rang you poured yourself another glass. When he answered, you nearly choked.

“Can we talk?” you managed to ask, swallowing down a mouthful of Syrah. There was a long silence on the other end. You didn't know if he had your number saved, if he knew who had called him, or whether he’d recognized the sound of your voice. You remembered that the last thing you had said to him was “go fuck yourself,” and added it to the mental list of why maybe you shouldn't have called him after all.

Tyler’s impulsiveness seemed to be as contagious as a rash.

Scott answered: “Not without my lawyer present.”

Okay, fair. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. He sounded clipped, like he’d rather be lowered into a tank of leeches than be on the phone with you. You were reconsidering the wisdom of your actions when he asked, “What do you want?”

Your eyes darted around the living room. Thinking on your feet wasn't new to you, it couldn't be, in your profession. But a part of you knew you’d taken a stupid gamble in pressing the call button, and now that the die was cast, you had to make it count.

You opted for the aggressive approach.

“Rankin says you're being uncooperative.”

You could feel the animus on the other end. “No, he didn't.”

“It was implied. No one wants to keep drawing this out, Scott. So, come off it. What is it that you’re actually looking to get out of all this?”

If he opted to tell you to go fuck yourself, you figured it would be fair play. This really was business, and not having to look him in the eyes made it easier to feel the rush of adrenaline that came with making a risky move in the name of work. You knew that technically, and in the strictest interpretation of the word, reaching out to another lawyer’s client crossed the line into inappropriate, but you were also a couple years beyond green. If you could cut out the middleman and get Scott to come to the table in a serious way, it would all be worth it. And Rankin could go back to playing 9 holes without losing face in front of his old school mate Riggs.

You waited for Scott’s response with bated breath.

“I want StormLab run into the ground.”

The answer came as no surprise but his tone did. Dark, intense, almost as bad as one of the nights he snuck into your room after a fight with his dad. It was the one and only time you’d ever heard him say he hated his father—his lack of control, his thoughtlessness, his inability to keep his word. Afterward he’d pretended he never said it, or rather, he was careful to never bring it up again, but you knew he had meant it.

And he meant it now. He wanted to take StormLab down. He’d succeed over your dead body. Javi and the others were counting on you.

You moved the phone to your other ear. “Right, well… that's not gonna happen, so any other alternatives?” You could feel he was about to end the call, so you tacked on, “Wait, just… hear me out, okay? Forget about Tyler and Kate—this isn’t about them, really, this is about StormPAR. Compromise on this one thing and you have a better chance of being compensated for what went down last year. You and Javi can just… move on with your lives. On paper it's about money, right? Riggs’s investment? So let’s settle this as soon as possible.”

“You and me?”

“And Rankin,” you added, your conscience getting the better of you.

There was a pause before Scott repeated, “You and me.”

“I don’t…”

“That’s my final offer.”

Alarm bells of a different sort rang in your head. On the phone was one thing, but in person, alone? Could you really sit across from Scott and keep your cool?

You had to. More than that, you wanted to prove to yourself that you’d grown up since you were twenty-one, that you were assured and confident and could handle messy things like sitting across from your ex. There were many things you regretted from that time; the one you regretted most was a reluctance to stand up for yourself. What was Tyler always saying? You don’t face your fears, you ride them. Frankly, you still weren't sure what the hell he meant by that, but it sounded a lot like “put your money where your mouth is.” At some point you had to choose to take action.

“Okay, fine,” you said. “When and where?”

“You busy tonight?”

You scoffed, casting a glance at your open laptop and the piles of paperwork lying on top of the coffee table. “I’m busy every night.”

“Perch. In an hour. Don’t be late.”

THREE YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

As a rule you’d been avoiding your hometown for the last three years, ever since your breakup with Scott. It was easier to stay in Oklahoma, where the possibility of running into someone who knew the Millers or would ask “are the two of you still together?” was slim. After your father died, you started to regret being such a coward. So much lost time… although your mom kept telling you that your dad understood the need to have your own life and never held it against you.

You held it against you, and all the more when your mom decided to downsize and move in with a friend.

After requesting two weeks off you got on a plane to Philadelphia and drove south to Park Haven to help her pack. You stayed up late, wore holiday pajamas, filled your hand with paper cuts, and inhaled about four pounds of dust in the attic. It was nice to spend time with your mom. All the old grievances seemed minor in comparison with the massive changes that lay ahead. Always one for sentimentality, sorting through boxes full of clothes, keepsakes, and old mementos put your mom in an especially chatty mood, and you soaked everything in, not having realized before how little you knew about your dad. He was so reserved in life, so buttoned-up, with clear expectations of himself and others that you were surprised to learn about his stint in an amateur dramatics troupe, the year he tried his hand at playing the alto sax, his fear of geese.

“Geese?” you asked your mom.

“Yes, geese. Those fuckers are vicious!” Having never heard your mom swear before, you froze while elbow-deep in a box of photographs dating back to the 70s. All she did was shrug and finish the rest of her margarita while lightbulbs flashed on her navy blue Rudolph sweater. “What do you want me to say? Parents have secrets, too.”

“Well, I think this parent went a little hard on the tequila,” you said.

Your mom plucked a faded Polaroid from the box. “You know… he didn’t look it, but your dad was actually a lot of fun. We both were. Then… life gets in the way, you start caring about PTA meetings and getting the HOA off your back…”

“Fuck the HOA.”

“Right on! Can’t say I’ll miss any of those jerks.” She sighed, and with a little shake of her head, put the Polaroid back in the box. “Sometimes I worry—” She stopped herself and glanced at you nervously.

“What?”

“Sometimes I worry that you think about us, about your dad and me, and that you don’t see us as having ever been in love. Especially after you and Scott—”

“Mom,” you warned.

“I know, I know, me and my big mouth.” She held up her hands, chuckling to herself. Normally you’d seize the opportunity to change the subject, but you were thinking a lot about how you could’ve been a better daughter, all the times you shut the door in their face because you didn’t want to feel scolded or uncomfortable, because you weren’t interested in what they had to say.

Your mom was trying to respect your privacy. The least you could do was not leave her with the impression that you thought she had a “big mouth.”

You reached across the box and touched her arm. “That’s not what I meant.”

“All I mean is… I know you’re not dating.”

“How do you know that?”

She grinned. “Mothers have their ways. I just don’t want you giving up, is all. If Dad and I weren’t the model marriage—”

“What are you talking about?” you asked. “Half of my friends have divorced parents. And even if you were divorced, the whole ‘nuclear family or you’re a failure to society’ thing is so five-decades-ago.”

“Well, good! Because I was happy—I want you to know that. Maybe it wasn’t the sort of romance people write songs about—God knows your dad had his faults. He wasn't perfect. No one is. But when you love someone… it’s less about keeping score and more about what you build. Together.”

She looked off to the far wall, where their wedding portrait sat propped in its frame, ready to be wrapped in old newspapers and put away. You turned around and looked at it, too—at your mom’s curly updo and poofy skirts, the sleeves that looked like pool inflatables, at least to your modern eyes, at your dad before his hair went gray, the sheepish smile on his face like he couldn’t believe he’d gotten away with the steal of the century.

You’d gotten so used to its presence in the living room that you couldn’t remember the last time you gave it more than a passing glance.

Lit by an alternating flash of blue and purple lights, your mom’s face was cast in an otherworldly glow. Then the spell was broken, and she was your mom again in an ugly Christmas sweater, smiling fondly at an old memory to which you weren’t privy. “For some reason, we brought out the best in each other. That mattered to us more than anything we ever did wrong.” And that was that, a twenty-nine year marriage summed up in a few sentences.

You said, “I guess that does sound romantic… in a super-practical, boring, construction-analogy sort of way.”

She laughed and threw a wadded-up newspaper at your head.

“Dad never liked Scott,” you said after a while, rolling the ball between your hands.

“What makes you say that?”

You threw her a pointed look. Her expression said, Oh, alright.

“He wasn’t disapproving, exactly. He was worried about you. Who wouldn’t be? Your first boyfriend, your first love… I don’t think he was quite ready to see his teenage daughter all head over heels over some guy on the baseball team. And the Millers, well… they had their issues, as a family. Maybe your dad didn’t want you becoming collateral damage. But, oh sweetie,”—it was her turn to touch your arm, Rudolph’s nose squished against the cardboard—“it was never about Scott. When you told us you were engaged, we were so pleased for you! And then a few months later… just like that…”

You swallowed the knot in your throat. How much time would have to pass before you could think of Scott without a tidal wave of sadness hitting you square in the chest? Collateral damage, that was one way of putting it. “I guess Dad was right, after all.”

“He never said ‘I told you so,’” your mom pointed out, “and he never would’ve wanted to.”

You squeezed her hand. “Yeah, I know.”

A phone call from your mother’s friend Rose prompted a break in packing. She went into the kitchen to discuss sideboard dimensions, and you went upstairs, where you were slowly going through your childhood bedroom and putting things in boxes marked Keep and Donate, or else in bags to be discarded when trash day rolled around.

You were almost finished, the walls empty of medals and photos, the corkboard of mementos lying in the recycling bin outside. Already it felt like a bedroom that had belonged to someone else, and while you were sad to know that, after the house was sold, you would never step foot in it again, the process of taking things down one at a time had given you a sort of detachment. There were items, like the snowglobe your friend Tash gave you when she got home from a skiing trip in the Alps in the seventh grade, that you had once thought you could never do without. But now Tash lived in LA with her wife and kids, and you hadn’t spoken much since high school except for a few text messages now and then.

You’d decided to keep the globe but you knew it would live in a box in your closet, a relic rather than an everyday part of your life in Oklahoma.

Speaking of closets, you tackled the wardrobe next, marveling at how many items would be considered “trendy” now that the fashion cycle had taken a turn—or God forbid, “vintage.” There were stuffed animals shoved into the top shelf, your old 50 State quarter collection, debate club certificates, a landscape picture from your senior year mock trial, and a shoebox falling apart at the seams.

You took it to the stripped bed with shaking hands, knowing you’d been dreading this most of all but that it had to be done, so why not now.

After you broke your engagement off with Scott, you’d gone home to lick your wounds. This was before you found a job, before you decided to move to Oklahoma on the literal toss of a coin, knowing only that you couldn't stay in Pennsylvania and that you needed a fresh start. Left with no other options, home had been your best bet, even though the weeks spent living with your parents and avoiding their worried questions had seemed at the time like cruel and unusual punishment. When you moved out you had left something behind, hidden beneath seashells and baubles and silly notes you had passed during class, movie stubs, train tickets, an inexplicable piece of gum, the collar that had once belonged to Clover, your old childhood dog.

You lifted a school ribbon and found it: a blue velvet box with a golden clasp. Your heart pounded in your ears. You took a deep breath, let it out again before lifting the lid… and there it was, glinting in the light of late afternoon.

“Honey, Rose wants to know if you’d like to join us for dinner at her place!”

Box, ring, and all tumbled onto the hardwood. Though you were alone, your mother calling to you from the bottom of the stairs, you felt incredibly guilty. “I’ll be right down!” you yelled back. You got on your hands and knees and slipped the ring back in its cradle.

It felt dangerous somehow, like a live grenade. But you couldn't get rid of it. When you went back home at the end of the month you packed it at the bottom of your suitcase and it’d been living with you ever since, moved from closet to closet, unseen but never quite forgotten.

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

The jewel twinkled in your hand, an oval diamond surrounded by small clusters and set in a ring of yellow gold. It was one of a kind. Scott told you he found it at an antique jeweler’s who dated it to the summer of 1880; it was a genuine Victorian piece, and for nearly four months it had been your most prized possession.

The same foolhardy impulse that made you call Scott and agree to meet him made you dig it out of your closet, right after you spent twenty minutes agonizing over what to wear and the state of your hair. This isn’t a date, you kept reminding yourself. If anything, it might be a trap. He was, after all, Marshall Riggs's nephew.

Letting your lesser sense win out, you slipped the ring on your finger and watched it catch the light. It truly was a beautiful ring. And it was sentimental, as though its selection revealed a hidden truth about Scott.

Its weight on your hand, present and comfortable, calmed your racing thoughts and the nerves roiling in your belly. You kept it on as you dressed and got ready, then chalked it up to a desire for punctuality when you rushed to the elevator, through the lobby, and into your waiting Uber still wearing it. The driver’s presence snapped you out of your momentary lapse in sanity. They were chatty, and the more you talked about work and the weather and what you liked doing in the city, the sillier it felt to be wearing your ex-fiancé’s engagement ring. Before getting out, you stuck it in the pocket of your linen duster… which was also, admittedly, kind of a stupid thing to do.

(You blamed Tyler for all of it.)

Located at the top of a fifty-floor high-rise, Perch was a bar and restaurant with full views of the city and a James Beard Award-winning chef. The atmosphere was relaxed and unfussy, the lighting unobtrusive, and the cocktails reasonably priced. At the door, the vest-clad host directed you through the assemblage of diners and beyond a decorative glass partition to the tables reserved for business meetings, minor celebrities, and men who didn’t want to be seen with their mistresses. Scott was there in rolled-up shirtsleeves. You watched from a distance as he rubbed his stubbled cheek and his pointer finger came to rest at the seam of his lips.

You would not stare at his mouth or let your eyes linger anywhere on his person. This was business, goddammit.

But hell if he didn’t look good. You hated that after all this time you still found him maddeningly attractive.

“Seriously?” he asked, casting a pointed look at the portfolio in your arms.

“Well, this isn’t a social call.”

“By all means.” He gestured at the seat in front of him, mockingly formal. You glanced at the coupe waiting on your side of the table, a cheerful yellow with a perfect white foam on top and a twist of lemon peel. “I took the liberty of ordering your usual.”

You sat down and set the portfolio to one side, adopting an air of casual indifference. “Actually, it’s not my usual anymore.”

“Really?”

“But thanks anyway. So, from previous conversations with Javi—”

“What is this mythical new usual?”

“Are you kidding?” you balked, narrowing your eyes.

“No, I’m just curious.” He propped his chin in his hand. Maybe lying had been a petty move on your part but you’d be damned if he forced you to backtrack and you came out of this looking a fool.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but at some point you’re gonna have to learn to live with uncertainty. Anyway—”

“You don’t have a new usual.” Scott smirked. “It’s still a gin sour and you’re just being difficult.”

“Difficult… Wow, okay! We”—wagging your finger in the space between you—“are not together anymore, so these mind games you’re trying to play are highly inappropriate and also kind of a dick move—”

“A dick move!” he repeated.

“Yeah, a dick move! Which I know is, like, your whole personality now—”

“Is it?” he laughed.

“—but I’m trying to settle this like an actual grown-up and all you’ve done for three months is make that very difficult for everyone involved!”

He rolled his eyes. “This is such a fucking boring conversation.”

Incensed, you had the fleeting thought to throw your drink in his face, but people only did that in soap operas. “You were the one who wanted to do this in person!” you fired back, shrill and drawing the attention of a server who promptly beelined to a different table and pretended not to hear. Which only made you wonder what sort of clientele frequented her section.

“And you were the one who called me,” Scott pointed out, “not the other way around.”

His being right made you even angrier. You had thought you were prepared, that magically you’d be able to have a civil conversation that settled the matter in a way that left you with your pride intact and StormLab the clear winner on the side of good. Clearly, you’d miscalculated. “You know what… fuck this.” After downing half your cocktail in a single gulp, you gathered the portfolio in your arms and made to stand before deciding that, actually, you wanted to get a few things off your chest first so that abandoning your PJs would be worth it. “I am so over this whole… fucking… stupid… mess. I’ve had actual divorces that were easier to mediate, Scott. Whole marriages—and not short ones either! Just take the fucking shares! Please… take the shares and go back to Riggs and leave us all the hell alone. We’re tired, okay? This is just… so unbelievably tiring. And fuck you, by the way—yes, it’s still a gin sour.” You finished yours, figuring that if Scott was paying, you might as well.

And now I’m ready to leave, you thought.

But Scott had other ideas.

“You spoken to your mom lately?”

“What?” You gaped at him, wondering if you were losing your mind. Was he? Was there a dimensional shift happening that you weren’t aware of?

“Pardon the observation,” Scott went on, “but you don’t seem… well.”

“Are you being for real right now?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

And how else could you mean it? was on the tip of your tongue. But the look on his face made you stop. No bullshit, no smug provocation. He was serious. Somehow, that was more unsettling than when he was fucking with you. It brought back too many memories.

“I was sorry to hear about your dad.”

He looked you straight in the eyes when he said it. You wanted to burrow into a hole in the ground—into him, if you were being honest. It didn’t matter how many years had gone by. A part of you was still twenty-seven and glancing at the door wondering if maybe, just maybe…

“Oh, I’m gonna need another one of these,” you whispered to yourself, stunned back into a seated position. The server came around and eyed your empty glass, asking meekly if you would like anything else. “I might as well,” you answered, sounding patently glum. All the while Scott kept a neutral expression, even waited until you had another drink—and a glass of water—in front of you, giving the server a soundless thanks before she scurried away.

Probably off to the kitchen to tell her coworkers about the crazy lady at B25.

“I thought about showing up to the funeral, actually,” added Scott when you had regained most of your composure. “But I didn’t know if I’d be welcome. Mom, being a firm believer in Emily Post, thought it’d be better if we skipped it. She sent flowers, though.”

“She what?”

“She sent flowers. Your mom never said?”

You shook your head. She must’ve been trying not to upset you. But you had been upset anyway, thinking about how Scott should’ve been there, how you had always expected him to show up and make things better.

All this time you had used his absence as yet another example of how little you must’ve mattered in the end. Which made no sense, because you were the one to break things off—and yet, that entire winter’s morning, you had bargained with yourself that if he showed up through those chapel double doors you would forget everything and beg him to take you back. It was too late for that. But knowing that he’d thought about going loosened a painful knot in your chest that you weren’t aware you even had.

You cleared your throat. “How’s your mom, by the way?”

“She’s doing all right. She’s part of a sewing circle, believe it or not.”

“Please tell me that isn’t a euphemism.”

“God, I hope not.”

You smiled involuntarily, picturing Pam Miller in her sweater sets and pearls. “I’m glad she’s doing okay. Your dad…?”

He picked up his drink, a Macallan on the rocks. It was his uncle’s drink, too. “I haven't heard from him in years. Guess neither of us ever saw the point.”

“Scott—”

“How’d you and Javi become an ‘us’ anyway? He never said.”

Fair enough. It made sense that he wouldn’t want to talk about his dad, let alone with you. But talking about Javi? When an hour ago he had admitted to wanting to bankrupt Javi’s company?

“I’ll be on my best behavior for the next”—he looked down at his watch—“fifteen minutes. Promise.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s better if we table all the personal talk,” you hedged.

“Better for whom?”

“Better for my clients. And better for me, too. We’re not friends.”

“We’ve never been friends,” Scott pointed out.

“Exactly. So why lie and pretend like we are?”

“Call it a term of this negotiation.”

“Scott…” Already this night was going nothing like how you’d planned. Your defenses had all the strength of a thin paper bag; he was in front of you, all dark-haired, blue-eyed, 6’4” reality and you weren’t unaffected. You wanted to keep talking to him, make the moment last… and all the more because you knew it had to end at some point. Scott would never be yours—not again. You’d made your peace with that a long time ago. But he has a right to know. Maybe if you could convince him that there was no grand conspiracy against him, he would be more amenable to Javi’s offer.

This is business, you reminded yourself. Redirect, bring it all back to StormLab.

“Fine,” you decided, settling in to tell the story of how you and Javi first met. “It happened maybe a year after I moved to Oklahoma City… I was out with a new friend and she took me to this bar after dinner to meet a bunch of people, one of whom was Javi. We get to talking, he tells me all about this new company he’s starting with a friend of his, says it’s a lucky coincidence or maybe fate having a twisted sense of humor because—”o

You broke off. You hadn’t considered how to broach this particular detail in the story. Obviously, Javi had no idea at the time how messy your backstory with Scott was. He had only thought to poke fun at his friend and seemed delighted to have solved a long-standing mystery for himself.

“So you’re the girl!”

“Come again?”

“The girl, you know. He has a picture of you in one of his old notebooks from college. What a small world!”

“What?” Scott prompted. You felt your face heating up and took a sip of water to hide it. You couldn't well omit the rest having already begun, but the knowledge that Scott had kept a photograph of you, whether by accident or otherwise, made you flustered then and it flustered you now.

You settled for: “He said he recognized me, and that he thought we might have a friend in common. Obviously, he meant you. He was dating one of Christa’s friends at the time—”

“Rachel.”

“Yeah. So he’d show up, be around… You know how Javi can be.”

“Like a persistent terrier.”

“Sounds like your kind of business partner.”

Scott looked away.

Not wanting to push things further in that direction just yet, you explained, “I work a lot, so it’s hard for me to make friends. Javi seems to make them wherever he goes. It’s nice having people like that in your life, to open you up, remind you there’s more to all this than billable hours and senior partner tracks. But we never talked about you. Not until this whole thing happened.”

“What thing did he say happened?”

Tread carefully now. Scott was watching you intently—if you said the wrong thing it might start a new argument between you and make his relationship with Javi a hell of a lot worse. In polished business-speak, you recited: “Just that you had a fundamental disagreement about the direction of the company.”

Your reward was a skeptical laugh.

“Also, that he might have left you on the side of the road during a tornado… which he feels bad about, by the way.”

“Not bad enough.”

“Scott, you can’t really want to ruin him, can you? I mean, this is Javi we’re talking about.”

“That’s not part of this discussion.”

“Okay?” you shot back. “I don’t remember agreeing to that condition.”

“You’re still at this table.”

“And that can easily be fixed!”

“All right, calm down.” Maybe it was you in danger of starting another fight. Scott, holding up his hands in a show of good faith, said, “I thought we were playing nice here, being civilized, acting like adults… What else have you been up to?”

“You want to know about my life?”

“Like I said, I’m curious. And seeing as this is a momentary parley, I plan on making the most of it.”

Again, you took in his face in search for any signs of subterfuge and found none, only the barest hint of levity in his eyes at your willingness to argue. It reminded you of the old days, when Scott would delight in teasing you for the sole purpose of seeing what your reaction would be. “Fine. But it’s going to be quid pro quo,” you demanded. “Call it a term of this negotiation.”

His mouth curved into a smile. Then he held out his hand across the table and waited for you to take it before saying, “Term accepted, counselor.”

In the end, playing nice with Scott turned out to be a lot easier once you’d established a few ground rules, mainly the stipulation that either of you could say “pass” if you weren’t willing to answer a question.

You went through the whole gamut of discussing your first jobs after college, gossiped about the old Park Haven crowd, the who-married-who and the who-got-divorced of it all. It turned out that, like you, Scott hadn’t returned to Pennsylvania much in the last few years. StormPAR kept him traveling through the Great Plains for most of the spring and summer, and during the rest of the year he lived in New Orleans, where Riggs and his mother lived. You got the sense that his life revolved around work, and that StormPAR, while not the be all and end all of his professional fate, had been an important part of it until Javi called it quits. You figured this explained, in part, why he took the loss so personally, and though you kept your thoughts to yourself you lamented that his one attempt to branch out for himself and away from his uncle—if you could call taking a major investment from Riggs “branching out”—had gone badly.

Either way, by the end of the evening you felt you’d been a little hasty in believing the old Scott had left the building for good. You exited Perch in higher spirits, glad to see that the night was clear and that the air felt good on your cheeks. When he asked if you were getting a car, you shared your desire for a long walk and he responded with mild horror until you explained that you didn’t live far. “Maybe twenty minutes? Thirty at most.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he insisted. You didn't argue because you were secretly pleased. The only thing you had to guard against was the urge to take his arm as you used to do. You felt giddy with it, which you were sure had to be the alcohol, but it was also the fact that Scott was here, in the flesh, that you were cracking jokes and sometimes even pulling smiles from his otherwise deadpan expression. You’d forgotten how that could make you feel like you’d won the jackpot.

“I’m sorry, I know you’re going to take this the wrong way,” you prefaced while walking backwards on the sidewalk, “but I have a really hard time imagining you as a storm chaser.”

“Excuse me!”

“I mean…” You stopped and full-body gestured. “I mean, look at you!”

“What?”

“Even your slacks are pressed!”

“Objection, why are you studying my slacks like a degenerate?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you replied, and fell into step beside him, if only to keep him from seeing that you were embarrassed by the implication that you might’ve been checking him out. “All I meant to say was—”

“That I don’t look like a rugged adrenaline junkie? Maybe ‘Rodeo Clown’ is more your thing these days.”

“Don’t—Tyler’s actually quite decent, you know.”

“But you knew exactly who I was talking about.” Scott snapped his fingers as if to say, Gotcha! as you ruefully shook your head. Something about Tyler Owens tended to evoke a Neanderthal-like competitiveness in certain men—Scott, being competitive by nature, fell for it all too easily.

“This is me.” You pointed at your building. It was a relatively new construction with climbing greenery and pop-out balconies where you’d lived for a year-and-a-half after a not inconsiderable raise, and the reason why you worked sixty hours a week.

“Can I come up?” Scott asked.

You whipped your head so hard that your temples throbbed. “That’s…” A no good, awful, terrible, ill-conceived, perilous idea?

Scott seemed to find your distress highly entertaining. “Jesus, would you relax?” he said. “I’m not asking to tuck you in—unless, if there’s someone—”

“There isn’t,” you hurried to say.

“Oh? How come?”

The knowledge that the man with whom you were formerly engaged was inquiring as to the current state of your love life with all the breeziness of do you have the time? was enough to make you believe in karmic punishment. “Like I said, I’m busy,” you managed to eke out, which only made him lift his shoulders as if to say, Then, what’s the big deal?

Scott Miller was good at that, getting his way.

“Fine,” you caved. “But only for ten minutes! Fifteen, tops!”

“Scout’s honor.”

In the elevator car you stuck your hands in your pockets, searching for your keys only to find the cold hard metal of your engagement ring. You looked guiltily at the oblivious Scott, who was staring at the floor display with a contented expression and was none the wiser about your having worn it earlier in the night like some kind of weirdo. Should you give it back? At the time he’d wanted nothing to do with it, but was keeping it the proper thing? Was it good for you to even have it?

At last you found your keys at the bottom of your purse. You opened the door, trying to remember how well you’d tidied after dinner as he walked in, inspecting everything. You watched as his gaze traveled over the open-plan kitchen and living area—the work files, magazines, and old mail stacked on various side tables; the midcentury beechwood couch you got for a steal at a secondhand warehouse when you first moved; the shelves, filled with books and framed photographs and trinkets you’d brought from home; and the view from your window, which wasn’t nearly as spectacular as the one from Perch, but it faced west, and if you were home during golden hour you could see the other buildings lit orange and gold.

“Yeah, this is exactly how I pictured it,” Scott mentioned at last.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, it’s just… you,” he answered. Your stomach turned to knots. He made you feel seen like nobody else could, not least of which because you’d let him back when you were younger and less guarded. Your heart kicked wildly in your chest, urging you to go to him, go to him, explain everything, get him back, because he was the one. Then Scott looked away, pointing at a sad fern that sat on a pedestal next to your mounted TV. “You still can’t keep a plant alive worth shit.”

“Rude,” you fired back, grasping at levity in order to shove the other thoughts away.

Scott drifted back to your bookshelves, seeing a few paperbacks he must’ve recognized from your old room at Park Haven. “And yet you keep trying. Do you actually use any of these?” he inquired, motioning towards the half-dozen board games you kept piled on an open top shelf. There was Clue and Monopoly, Candy Land, Sorry!, Scrabble and Life.

“Sometimes,” you replied, “when I have friends over. Which hasn’t happened much this year, if I’m being honest.”

“Let’s play.”

You laughed. You didn’t believe him. He pulled one of the boxes out and took it to the coffee table and all you could do was stare, incredulous, as he took his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, actually sitting on the floor and looking expectantly at you to join him.

“You want to play Life with me?” you challenged. “Doesn’t that seem a little…”

“And you call me uptight.” He waved you over, determined not to take no for an answer. “Come on, hotshot, live a little.”

Despite your better judgment, and after a moment’s panicked hesitation, you lowered yourself next to him. He still smelled the same, like rain and sandalwood and pine. You wanted to curl into his side and feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your ear, like you’d done on the nights he spent hidden away with you in your room. You had never gotten to live together; all you had were countable memories of waking up next to him and thinking, One day… one day we’ll have this every day.

As he set up the board, all you could do was stare at his hands.

SIX YEARS AGO NEW ORLEANS

Marshall Riggs greeted with you a double-kiss at the door, one on each side of your cheeks. Then he held you at arm’s length so he could look you up and down. “Would you take a look at that,” he said to Scott, “pretty as a picture! I suppose this is the part where I welcome you to the family?”

It was midsummer in Louisiana, on the hotter side of balmy and with the cicadas out in force. Shortly before you graduated Scott traveled to Philadelphia and asked you to marry him. Saying yes had been a no-brainer. You were in love, had put up with four years of distance and near-breakups, and now here was the culmination of all your compromise, communication, and hard work. For a second there you’d thought it would end badly; you were both in highly-intensive undergrad programs, there was only so much you could hash out over phone and video calls, and you were young. The question of “do we really want to make a life-changing decision at twenty-one?” had crossed your mind. But upon further reflection you realized that the answer was yes—had always been yes. And Scott seemed to agree.

In the absence of his father, “meeting the family” entailed paying court to his Uncle Riggs, a man you had spoken to a few times, at holiday parties and summer outings hosted by Pam, now settled in New Orleans and much happier than you’d known her before. But all those other times, you’d met Riggs as Scott’s girlfriend. Now you were his fiancée, with a fancy law degree and a diamond ring and everything, and while you would’ve preferred keeping your distance you knew this was important to Scott—that Riggs was important to him.

So you put on a smile and indulged the old man. Do it for Scott, you said to yourself. You’ve come this far. No point faltering while you were at the winning stretch.

You bowed your head. “Thank you for having us, Mr. Riggs.”

“Please, just Riggs,” he laughed. “Or Marshall—but only my ex-wives call me that.”

You soon found he had a way of twinkling his eyes that made you feel like you were sharing a joke. As he pointed out the features of his home—the old tapestries, the mural commissioned by Candice, his second ex-wife, the wall he knocked down because he wanted to “open up the space”, and his plans to expand the front garden, which, as it was, made the house look like it was in the middle of a tropical rainforest—he regaled you with stories about the people he knew, going off on tangents and bringing it back to the topic at hand. He was genteel and witty, and though he carried himself with Southern indifference there was no doubt he had power: he cocked his head, and a woman in an apron appeared with a tray of mint juleps; Scott held onto his every word; and when you were led into a dining room that might’ve fit forty or fifty at least, it was taken as a matter of course.

He pulled out your chair and sat you at his right hand because it was “the place of honor,” and Scott smiled encouragingly. You were doing so well.

You only wished that you could feel it.

“So, you want to be a big-deal attorney,” Riggs announced, digging into a perfect roast chicken. “What kind? Criminal?”

“Oh, no,” you replied. “Civil all the way. I’ve got a few offers but I want to shop around, make sure I’m making the right first move.”

“The right first move!” He pointed his knife at you. “I like that. By any chance, are you a chessplayer, sweetheart?”

“Can’t say that I am. My family are more into board games, really. Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick?” you explained.

He got a kick out of that. But he was partial to chess. “Opening moves—if you look at the big picture, they don't seem all that important. But well, in that case, why the hell’re there so many of ’em? Napoleon Opening, Greco Defense, Bled Variation, Balogh Defense… Sometimes how a thing starts dictates how the rest of it’ll unfold, from midgame all the way down to the end. If you're gonna do something, might as well do it right the first time or so I always say. Don’t I, boy?” He turned to Scott for confirmation.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yessir…” Riggs chuckled, spearing a roasted sprout. The ends of his bolo tie shifted on his neck. A turquoise the size of an acorn sat between his collar, and he was dressed to the nines—for your benefit, the guest of honor’s.

Nevertheless, there was something of the austere in his eyes. You couldn’t shake it when he put down his fork and sat back, looking from you to Scott, nodding like a king about to give his blessing to a pair of kneeling courtiers. “Pretty as a picture…” he repeated. “Look at you both—young, on the cusp, and none too hard on the eyes, if I do say so myself. A real golden couple on our hands! To opening moves”—he raised his glass—“may we always know when to make the right one.”

You raised your glass to be polite.

Scott leaned across the table. “Before you ask, yes, he is always like this.”

His uncle laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and called for “champagne! To my nephew and his beautiful bride!”

As the night wore on, you convinced yourself that any discomfort was all in your head. You worked your way through three dinner courses, all impeccably cooked, and by the time the doberge was served you decided that you had judged the man too harshly. Sure, he was old-fashioned, but he was also jovial, polite, and he clearly doted on Scott.

“How nice it is to spend some quality time,” he remarked when Scott left the table, saying Pamela was on the phone. She wanted to know what plans you had for the rest of the week, whether you were still on for the garden fête on the 25th, and what dates you were considering for your engagement party, whether that would be here or in Pennsylvania, but I really do think you’d better do it here.

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” he said to Riggs, leaving you alone with his uncle. Now he had focused all of his attention on you, the full glare of his eye-twinkle and magnetic allure. He wasn’t a handsome man; it wasn’t about his looks—which were well past their prime—but about the knowledge that he could get almost everything he wanted simply by wanting it.

“It’s a shame we never did this sooner,” he went on. “Why do you think that is?” You shifted guiltily. The truth was, Riggs had always made you a bit uneasy. He had a reputation as a difficult man—ruthless, exacting, guileful, hard to please, and he liked doing business in the gray, always legal but never quite on the up-and-up.

Over the last four years, you may have avoided him on the grounds of self-righteous principle, but you couldn't admit to that if you were trying to leave a good impression.

You hedged, “I’m afraid law school doesn't leave much time to spare.”

“Very true… Not that I would know—it was always too much book learning for me, I’m a man of action,” Riggs explained, sipping his whiskey and looking happy as a clam. He had polished off two slices of cake earlier, but only because we’re celebrating. “Now, my nephew… he’s a bit o’ both, isn’t he? Either way, he’s got too much of his mother in ’im.”

You frowned, wanting to say a word in defense of Pamela. Riggs waved you off. “Don’t mind me, I’m just a silly old man with too many opinions. It tends to rub people up the wrong way—don't think I haven't noticed!” Another laugh, another narrowing of the eyes that could have been humor but which you felt like a lightning strike down your back.

He knows and you’re making something out of nothing struggled for dominance within your head, and still he kept on talking, forcing you to pay attention and leave the question unresolved.

He pointed in the direction where Scott had gone. “That nephew of mine—I don’t have any children of my own, did you know that? It never happened for me. Four wives and nothing to show for it—imagine that! But that boy… good thing his father never knew what to do with ’im—smart as a whip he is, and like a dog with a bone once he’s got an idea in his head. That part I’d say he got from me,” he said with a chuckle, wagging his finger in the air. He gave your hand a few avuncular pats and then kept it there, meaty and warm.

“I can see that you love ’im… I can see that you really love ’im. What bright, young, sensible girl wouldn't? You should see him ’round the office! He breaks hearts left, right, and center wherever he goes—a real catch, my secretary always says, and she’s been with me since Scott was yea-high. He’s got his mother’s looks, which I’ll say not to sound too self-serving, heh!” A slight tug on your wrist. You kept your objections to yourself, saying, He’s just a strange old man. As your discomfort grew, stretched to its very limits, he removed his hand and was back to being an innocuous grandfatherly man again. He seemed a little sad, wistful, even. Almost frail.

“I don’t know what I would do without him,” said Riggs, staring at his empty plate. “I really don't. Oh, here! before I forget—I have something for you.” He reached into the inner pocket of his cream suit jacket, extracting a long envelope which he slid across the table with a paternal expression, his gaze warm. You began to object, and, “Go on, now!” he insisted. “I don't hold with false modesty! Nothin’ but a waste o’ time in my book. Open it! Call it a graduation present to help you get started. Scott said your old man was taking some time off from his job, feeling under the weather.”

You opened the flap to find a check with more zeros on it than you could’ve reasonably imagined, payable to your name and typewritten in official font.

“Mr. Riggs, this is…” Your hands shook, you felt too hot in the enclosed dining room. Where was Scott? What was taking him so long? You slid the check in the envelope and tried to push it back to Riggs’s side of the table. “There is no way I can accept this,” you said. “It’s too much money, and while I appreciate the gesture—”

“Nonsense! It’s my pleasure and I won’t hear no can’ts or won’ts about it! I want you to know how well Scott’s been doing here since he finished school. He’s flourishing, all my business associates love him. I can’t possibly make do without him now.”

“I don’t understand,” you said, a pit growing in your stomach.

Once more Riggs pinned you with that twinkle in his eye. “I think you do, a smart girl like you. A man should sow his wild oats while he's young. I had a pretty young wife when I was his age. Marjorie, her name was. My first. It's true what they say—you never forget your first… By God, she was beautiful! and we had all these plans… so many plans! Dreams, really. But mine were always just a little too big for her, you understand, and at first that didn't matter much—we were in love. But then… the kids never came, and Marjorie had too much time on her hands—at the very least, she had more time on her hands than I did, that’s for sure! That gets to a woman sometimes.

“I know you won't have that problem, big city lawyer and all,” he said to you, as if in you he had the fullest confidence and he was speaking about other, less distinguished women. “But really, even if Marjorie’d been an ambassador to the United Nations she’d still have had a compunction about something or other… Ambition’s a hard pill for most folks to swallow.

“Now, you seem like a nice girl… really, I like you plenty! But let’s talk facts here for a minute. You are not the girl for Scott—not when he’s trying to become the man that he’s trying to become. The boy’s got the instincts of a killer. Really! All I’ve gotta do is stand back and look at him! But you, my dear, you’re nothin’ like him. You’ll never be. For most of my life, I thought the perfect woman would be someone to ‘balance me out,’ as they say. It’s taken me almost fifty years to find out that ain’t nothin’ but bullshit made up by Hallmark or whoever to sell us some cards. There ain't no use fighting one’s true nature. You and Scott are doomed to fail—if not now then in five years, if not in five then in another ten! You’ve seen the cracks, haven't you? He’s not the boy you met in Park Haven. He’s becoming his own man. He doesn’t need you anymore.”

You were almost too stunned to speak. Between the casual misogyny, the callous worldview, and the envelope that lay between you on the table like a coiled snake, you felt like you had left reality—there was no way this conversation could be taking place with Scott just in the other room.

“Let me get this straight,” you began, willing your voice not to shake, “you’re offering me money to break up with Scott because you think I’m not good enough for him?”

“No, no, no!” Riggs drew in close to you and took both of your hands, his face earnest and pained. “You’re getting this all wrong. I’m not some mustache-twirling villain trying to thwart the course of true love! You’re a wonderful girl, I’m sure Scott’s been very happy with you. But everything has its season. The time for moons and Junes and Ferris wheels is over. You can leave him to me now.”

“With all due respect, you’re out of your mind!” You slid your chair back, making an angry scrape along the tile. Riggs closed his grip around your hands.

“Sittdown before you wreck the boy’s life.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did Scott ever tell you about his old man? How he squandered the family fortunes and left him and Pamela all but bankrupt? Now, me, I’d have done the decent thing—put a pistol to my head for all my sins—but the man has his pride, though I don’t know where-all he gets it from. You see Pam now, up in her French colonial sunning her face and drinking cocktails like the belle of the ball?” He pointed to his chest. “I did that. Scott’s shiny new diploma from M-I-T? Right again! Now, I don't believe in somethin’ for nothing. Everything in this here world has its cost, sweetheart. Everything. I have invested in that boy—not just money, but my blood, sweat, and tears! I won’t abide a loss. I won’t abide it.”

“Scott isn’t an investment,” you shot back. “He isn't yours to own.”

“And yet it would seem he’s worth more to me than he is to you. If he marries you, he and Pam won’t see another cent from me even if I have to drive past them through the gutter. I’m telling you I would throw my own sister out on the street for him—my own flesh! Can you say the same? Could Scott? Would he choose you over his poor, silly mother? Now, I highly doubt that.”

The crazy thing was, he seemed genuinely aggrieved by this predicament of his own making. In his face you could see him imagining the scene—him in his black town car, driving past Pam. And yet he remained immovable. Either you gave up Scott or he would make good on his threat.

It was callous, immoral. I have invested in that boy.

The sound of Scott’s shoes came up the hallway. Riggs folded the check into your hands and said, “Don't make a scene. Think about it.”

“What did I miss?” Scott stopped to kiss the top of your head before resuming his seat. You felt nauseous, your hands clammy around the paper you hid in your lap. To you, Scott seemed like he belonged in another world, another time—a Before-Time.

As you tried not to cry, Riggs smiled at him broadly and said, “Oh, nothing much. But I have a little present for you.”

He pulled a box from the bottom of his seat, crimson leather and beautifully stitched. Scott lifted the lid. Inside was a silver Patek Philippe, the watch he would wear when you saw him six years later, sitting across from you at a conference table with a strange coldness in his eyes. He showed it to you, beaming with pride, and while you couldn't remember what canned response you gave, you did recall that he pulled Riggs into a hug, and said, “Uncle, you really shouldn’t have…”

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

For nearly an hour you and Scott sat on the floor of your living room, playing at marriage and midlife crises and how many babies you would have, which on any other occasion would have made you hysterically laugh or, as Javi said on the night you met, remark upon the universe’s odd sense of humor.

But you were strangely levelheaded. If anything, you felt slightly out-of-body and yet entirely in your body, if that made sense.

You were aware of every piece put on the board. You watched the spinner turn in a rainbow of colors, the clack of the spokes sounding faster and faster before it slowed and then drew to a stop. You felt the couch cushions at your back. Scott’s shoulder brushed against yours sometimes, when he reached for one of the tiny bright pegs that went on top of the tiny bright cars. It felt like you were inside of a dream, and because dreams didn’t matter and had no consequences unless you let them, you started to ease into surrealism.

You played the game, and gradually your body began to relax. This was familiar to you—Scott taking it way too seriously, you poking fun at the furrow between his brows, the way you alternated between cold-hard strategy and chaotically negligent gameplay just to see a reaction flicker across his face. He stretched his legs out beneath the table, threw an arm across the seat-edge of the couch; sometimes, you would recline further back and your neck would touch his arm. You did it a few times, feeling embarrassed at first. But when you saw he didn’t mind, you let your head fall back, waiting as he picked a card.

Something was building beneath your skin. You felt restless, and a little reckless. Despite the law you laid down at the restaurant, you couldn’t stop your gaze from lingering. It lingered everywhere: on the hollow of his throat, the shape of his nose, the play of light across his cheeks, his mouth, the spaces where his white shirt gapped between the buttons and you could see his bare chest underneath. Oh, you’re in trouble… you said to yourself, and yet it didn’t matter. You didn’t care. This was a liminal space, a void where you could be honest and unafraid of the truth.

Even when Scott caught you looking, all he did was look back. He let the tips of his fingers touch yours when sliding a card from your hands, knocked his knee against yours. There was a time—or maybe you imagined it—when you felt his hand stroke your shoulder and you almost did something out-of-line. Because there was a line, blurred, but it existed; you kept within the bounds because you knew it was the sole condition to prolonging this state, so you bought owner’s insurance and traded in stocks, changed careers, had twins, repaid a loan (with interest) and made your slow and steady way to retirement at Countryside Acres.

At the end of the game, after all the remaining play money had been counted, it was Scott who said, “Looks like I win,” and all you said was, “Why am I not surprised?”

Then you glanced at the clock. “It’s late.”

“And we haven’t killed each other. How’s that for a détente?” Scott began putting all the parts away, pulling the pegs out of the cars first, sticking each one inside its appropriate little plastic bag. You would’ve thrown them straight in the box and not had a care in the world about it, but you liked that he did.

It was a Scott thing—patient, methodical, kind of annoying, and mostly well-intentioned. You sat back and watched him do it.

“Wow… they teach words like that at MIT?”

“They tried it out with our class—apparently, word was going ’round that STEM nerds lack empathy.”

You smiled. “Now where would they go and get an idea like that?” His eyes flicked down to yours. Having finished, he went back to reclining against the couch, one arm draped over his bent knee.

His gaze on your skin felt like a physical touch, and when it stopped at your lips, a shock of heat went through your body, from the crown of your head down to your toes. You watched him swallow. The urge to kiss him was vicious, urgent and unrelenting, and when you saw his mouth part, his tongue emerging to wet his lips, you thought, Now now now, but then Scott stood so fast he almost upset the table.

“I should go,” he managed to say, his voice ragged. He sought sightlessly for his discarded jacket, found it lying over the top of the couch, and he couldn’t escape fast enough. Frustration rolled off him in waves.

“Scott!” You scrambled to your feet. You might have touched the very edge of his sleeve, but he held up his hand to stop you coming any closer.

“This was a mistake.”

You went stock still. The spell was broken—this was no longer the dreamworld where nothing mattered, this was the Real World. The one where everything had been broken, not least of which because of you, and it was all a mistake. Calling him had been a mistake, meeting him had been a mistake, thinking that you could control anything you felt about him had been a mistake.

And now there was this: Scott raking his hands through his hair, turning in the middle of the room, almost a decade’s worth of anger and disappointment and confusion and, why not, maybe a little hatred thrown into the mix.

“You never trusted me!” he threw in your face. “And I mean never—even when we were in high school, especially not in college—”

“Why are you talking about college?” you demanded, your voice rising to meet his.

“Every time I called, it was like you were expecting me to tell you it was over. Every girl I so much as spoke to when you came to visit—”

“I was eighteen! What the fuck do you want me to say? That I was insecure and kind of an idiot? Yeah, no shit! I thought we’d moved past that!”

“No, we didn’t move past it because it never changed! Maybe it stopped being about other women, but then it was about work, about the time I spent shadowing at my uncle’s company. Do you have any idea how exhausting it was to keep having to convince you that I was all in? And what, somehow we went from that to ‘you’ve changed, Scott, I don’t think I like who you are anymore, Scott’—?”

“What the fuck? I never said that!”

“The night we had dinner at my uncle’s—the night you left! And again in the elevator—”

“Can we not do this?” you plead. “I thought we weren’t going to do this. We agreed!”

“Well, maybe I'm changing the terms.”

“Then this ends right here.”

There was silence. You knew it was coming, and yet it still hurt like a freight train hitting you square in the chest when he looked you in the eyes and said: “What else is new?”

You flinched. You felt your whole body recoil, your eyes sting. Your fault. The one who couldn’t stand up for herself, couldn't commit, who ran at the first sign of trouble. You and Scott are doomed to fail. Riggs had laid down his vision for the future and you had believed him, had chosen to believe him more than you had ever believed in Scott, or in yourself.

You’re not the girl for him. You’re nothing like him.

Hadn’t you always told yourself the same in the darkest recess of your mind? Hadn’t you, in truth, been just a little bit relieved when you packed your things and moved back to Park Haven, play-acting ended, no more trying, no more waiting for the other shoe to drop?

“I’m sorry.” Scott took an immediate step towards you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did,” you shot back with more vitriol than you intended.

“Don’t do that—don’t pretend to know how I fucking feel.”

“You forget, Scott. I know you.”

“I thought the whole point was that you didn't! That I was so… unrecognizable!”

“Well, you are!” you exclaimed, shouting again. “Suing Javi? Trying to take down his company? Being Riggs’s, what, fucking loyal dog—”

“Oh, spare me the hysterics…”

“Did you say it?” you cut in. “Did you really say you didn’t care about that town full of people?”

Scott froze. You watched his jaw clench, and you knew in that moment that he'd been counting on Javi’s discretion on that score.

If your intention had been to preserve any goodwill between them, that was all going up in flames now. Hell, after tonight, you and Scott might be incapable of being in the same room together, let alone working towards a peaceful resolution to a civil suit.

“You weren’t there,” he ground out. “There were other things going on.”

“Did you say it, Scott?” It was obvious that he had. The shame kept him from saying another word when you finally stepped around the coffee table. “But God forbid I say a word against Marshall Riggs, the undoubted patron saint of Tornado Alley. I'm sure his real estate empire only exists so he can share his considerable wealth with the downtrodden and needy!”

“What do you want me to fucking say? Do you want me to apologize for who my family is? I'm sorry if you find my uncle objectionable, but he is the only reason I ever made something of myself—you ever consider that? I’d be nothing without him—nothing! You think my father could have lifted a finger? Riggs is the only reason Mom and I made it through that summer. I owe him everything! So he makes business decisions you don't agree with—”

You scoffed.

“—but Javi knew exactly where all that money came from. He wasn't duped, I didn’t trick him… he made a choice. He made a choice! And then, what, Kate Carter comes along and he grows a fucking conscience? Give me a break…”

“And where the hell is yours! You think I give a shit what Marshall Riggs does? I care about you, you fucking idiot! Are you really going to stand there and tell me you’re happy? That it… that it feels good to know you’re suing your best friend, that you seemingly have no other friends, that you’ve hitched yourself to your uncle and the most you can say is you’re doing it out of obligation? You used to want more for yourself, Scott!”

He laughed at that. Rubbing his hand across his mouth, he regarded you with a derisive humor.

“Tell me, how’s the trust fund going? Your dad—he was always a pretty shrewd investor, right? and your mom’s family… they’ve got those boutique hotels along the eastern seaboard, the ones that get their pictures in the magazines and all over social media? It’s pretty easy to talk about wanting more for yourself when your father didn’t sink your family prospects on a deck of cards. I do what I have to do. Not that you’d ever understand.”

Money—had it been this big of an issue the whole time? Had you ignored it all the years of your relationship? Money… and jealousy of your father, Scott’s resentment towards his. You felt so blind, so stupid. The “cracks” Riggs had referenced had been there all along, and instead of talking about them you had stuck your head in the sand, worried that if you said the wrong thing all your insecurities would be proven right. That Scott would leave.

Scott… Did you ever stop to consider the damage that leaving him alone with Riggs might cause?

“You only think you can’t make it without him,” you dared to say. “But he doesn’t care about you.”

“What, not like you do?”

“No,” you affirmed. “Not like I do.”

Scott frowned at you. He appeared almost childlike, vulnerable. A boy calling “no fair!”, probably with Riggs’s voice in the background saying, Life isn't fair. “You don't get to do that. You don’t get to do that after all this time… you—you fucking left!”

“He offered me money. Did he ever tell you that? How he tried to buy me off to leave you? You talk about my trust fund, and it’s true—I grew up lucky, but we never had Marshall Riggs Money. There’s rich and then there’s capital-R Rich, the kind you only get when you’ve turned being a ruthless son-of-a-bitch into an art form.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Yes, you do. I can see it in your eyes—you know I’m telling the truth. I never liked him. What's more, he could tell I didn't like him, and he couldn't have that… no, not Riggs. He’d gotten used to you being his right-hand man and he wasn’t about to lose you. So he waited until you left the table—”

“I’m not going to listen to this.”

“—he waited until you left the table,” you repeated, almost toe to toe. You forced yourself to continue, even in the face of Scott’s patent distress. You couldn't live like this, not anymore. Keeping secrets, taking the biggest share of the blame. “‘If he marries you, he and his mother won’t see another cent from me even if I have to drive past them through the gutter,’” you recited. “Those were his words. I’m not lying to you—I wouldn't, not about this.

“He was never going to let us be together. Obviously, I didn’t take the money, but he was dead serious about his threat. And I was angry. I thought if only you’d stood up to your uncle before, if you weren’t blind to what he really was, I would never have been put in that position. So I took it out on you. I blamed you. And I said things…”

You faltered, remembering the night you returned to the hotel. You couldn’t stay, not with Riggs’s check in your pocket and the memory of his hand gripping your wrist. But Scott didn’t understand. He didn't know what had made you so upset, why you were throwing your clothes into your suitcase and talking about flights and returning his ring and about how it was time you stopped pretending. And, yes, you took to heart what Riggs had implied about other women. You weren’t picky. You weren’t careful. You just had to leave.

You were ashamed of it now. The knowledge of how you’d acted lodged in your throat like a stone you couldn’t swallow down. Scott remembered it, too. His eyes flickered this way and that, recalling, wondering how much of it was true.

“I said things to you that I wish I’d never… that I still think about, and I still regret, because I love—” Your voice broke. You placed your hands over his chest, then cradled his face, willing him to believe you, willing yourself to be brave. “I still love you, Scott. I love you. I should’ve told you the truth, but I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“No… you left,” he said weakly, bracing his hands around your wrists.

“I know I did… I know, but he can’t have you.” You kissed his mouth, once, twice, as many times as he allowed, and all the while you said the things you should’ve said that night in New Orleans. “I won’t let him have you… not this time… not again.”

Scott turned his head and the heat of his tongue met yours.

One second he was all coiled tension and the next he was all over you, walking you back towards the couch, kissing a trail down your neck, one hand tangled in your hair while the other was already up your skirt matching his strokes to the curl of his tongue. He laid you down on the couch, settling between your thighs, and even clothed the weight of him felt familiar—the pass of his hand up and down your leg, the way he liked to tease you by wandering just close enough to where you wanted before pulling away, distracting you with a searing kiss or a shallow roll of his hips.

In the past, there were times when he would draw it out for hours, taking you to the brink and back until you were sure you wanted to curse him.

At a friend’s New York wedding, he made you come three times before he entered you, and you weren’t too proud—now, with the real Scott on top of you, all over you, soon to be in you if there was any justice in the world—to admit that you had replayed that night in your head sometimes when you were lonely. When a bad day at work or an ill-advised night of drinking too much ended with you trying to chase sleep on the heels of an orgasm that was never as satisfying as the ones you got with Scott.

Even when you managed to make yourself come—really come, that full-bodied electricity-followed-by-deep-silence feeling—you had been all too aware of his absence. What was the point, you had wondered, if you couldn’t curl up next to him or listen to the steady flow of his breathing or hear him sigh into your neck when he wrapped his arms around you and went to sleep? What was the point if, upon waking, you wouldn't have Scott and his early-morning voice, the clarity of his eyes, the smell of the coffee he made in his stupidly expensive espresso machines? (God, you missed that coffee.)

It was Scott… it was only ever Scott.

The couch was a perilous place to be doing any of this. You weren't sure that he fit in it, for one, and for another, you were mildly worried about the potential costs of fixing a broken midcentury piece of furniture. Oh, well, you thought, life’s too short. Not bothering to undress, you pushed aside articles of clothing, hands bumping into each other, scraps of fabric pushed aside, belt buckle rattling as it landed on the floor, until finally he surged into you, gripping the side of the couch and burying a curse against your neck as you stretched around him.

He slid a hand below your hips and fixed the angle. The sex was hurried, messy and it had nothing of grace; it was imperfect and rather cramped, really, but all that mattered was how he felt. He felt like home. As you came, he entwined his fingers around yours, and then he finished, trembling, prolonging a wave of pleasure that took your breath away.

Don’t go, you want to say into his heaving chest.

Somehow, he turned you on your side so you could stretch along the couch. He wrapped his arms around you, stroking feather-light touched along your arm as his breathing slowed. You felt tired, hollowed out, but not in a bad way. In a quiet-before-the-storm way, when you can smell water in the air and the breeze picks up, and the world sits on the cusp of being new.

“I miss you,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I miss you too.”

After that, there was a silence so long it made you think he’d dozed off, but then he spoke again, painfully honest and a little scared. “I don't think I can do what you need me to do. I’m not… that’s not who I am anymore.”

“I think you are,” you said back. “I think he’s who you’ve always been.”

THREE WEEKS LATER

You were enjoying a rare weekend off from work. Figuring you could do with some real time off the clock, you’d let the office know you’d be holding all work calls and emails until Monday. Abby’s eyes had nearly popped out of her skull in a rare show of feeling, but after the emotional turmoil of the last few months, you knew you needed to walk around the city, have a massage, touch some grass, maybe eat a pint of ice cream in front of a frothy period drama—a true-blue staycation.

The morning after you and Scott slept together, you’d agreed that it was in everyone’s best interest to let things be. He needed time to think about a few things, and regardless of your shared history, you were still Javi’s lawyer. You distracted yourself by doubling down on other cases. It helped that dealing with Mrs. Richardson-Burkhardt and the four Barone siblings was as eventful as watching an HBO television series—between the scathing one-liners and last-minute twists, there was little bandwidth left over to think about Scott.

And yet you always managed.

For better or for worse, Scott had always been good at making you hope for things. Even when you wanted to err on the side of caution, expect the worst and thus avoid disappointment, just the fact that he loved you made you feel like anything was possible, like you could make things happen.

“We brought out the best in each other. That mattered to us more than anything your father and I ever did wrong.”

At a department store downtown, you watched across the way as a young couple studied a tray of rings at the jewelry counter, diamonds sparkling in the light. The woman grabbed her partner’s arm and pointed at one of the selections as if to say, “That one!”, and for a moment they were in perfect sync. The salesman offered up the band with elaborate flourish, the groom-to-be took his bride’s hand, slipped the ring on her finger, and they admired it together, the play of white gold on her black skin.

The woman beamed. So did he.

“Looks like we have ourselves a winner,” the pleased salesman declared.

After lunch and an overpriced iced coffee, you arrived home with a gift for the Travises’ golden anniversary party, a pair of gold-accented crystal champagne glasses you hoped would survive the flight. It would be nice to see your mom again, to reunite with your old college friends, and revisit old haunts.

The thought of going home no longer filled you with dread—for which, even if nothing came out of your night with Scott, if he decided that upending his life was too much for him to handle right now, you would always be grateful. For years, your idea of a worst nightmare was running into him and having the truth spoken aloud, plainly, and for both of you to hear. Nothing will ever be as bad as this, you told yourself.

But it was a half-lie. Not seeing him again would be worse.

Already, you felt his absence like a hollow in your chest.

On the kitchen counter, you saw that your phone began to ring. “Javi, how’s the weather looking?” you asked, putting him on speaker as you poured yourself some water.

 “She’s a fickle mistress, I’ll tell you that! Hey, I just wanted to let you know… Scott called this morning. He says he’s dropping the suit.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t sound too surprised. Any of that you're doing?”

“No,” you replied, picking up your phone, “that’s all Scott. I haven’t spoken to him in weeks, actually.”

“Well, he sounded different. Still Scott, but a shorter stick up his ass, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I know a part of how everything went down was my fault—business is business, as my Ma always says. I sold him my share of StormPAR, which means I also have to pay back some of the money we took from Riggs. That’ll hurt like a—well, you know… I’m not the guy’s biggest fan these days. But if I don’t have to hear the name Marshall Riggs ever again, I’ll count myself lucky and say it’s a price well-paid.”

“And Scott?” you ventured to say.

“Honestly, I think he’s done with the whole thing. Sounds like he’s closing up shop, which makes sense. He’s a damn good engineer but kind of hopeless as a chaser.”

You laughed. “Yeah, I guess I can see that. Are you okay?”

“Me, or me and Scott?”

“Both.”

To Javi’s credit, he took a few moments to actually think about it. “Yeah, I’m good. You know me… I never stay down for long. Man with a thousand plans. Me and Scott? Man, I don’t know about that one… I did leave him by the side of the road. Ruined one of his immaculately pressed shirts.”

You snorted. “God forbid.”

“Yeah, God forbid. Listen, if it were up to me, I’d just let bygones be bygones. Life’s too short, you know. Shit happens… I don’t want to be a guy who burns bridges over money.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“What I mean to say,” Javi spoke over a sudden burst of wind, “is that if Scott ever wants to give me a call, I’ll answer. You can even tell him I said that.”

“Me?” You set your glass down with a clatter, heat rising to your face.

“Yeah, you! I’m not an idiot, hotshot, that history’s not gone ancient yet.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm… Anyway, the wind’s picking up. Kate’s off reading her dandelions.”

“You know, I kinda wish I could see her doing that…”

“Watch out, we might make a chaser of you yet!” Javi crowed.

You shook your head, said, “I wouldn't hold my breath,” but you were smiling. The sun streamed through your open windows and anything was possible.

Once Javi ended the call, you stared at your phone, wondering… And then you decided to be reckless one more time. Call it a calculated risk, you thought instead. You held the phone up to your ear and listened to it ring. The dial tone sounded a few times, and then it stopped.

He’d answered.

“Scott, it’s me,” you said, trying to relax the thrumming in your heart.

There was a pause and then you heard his voice: “Did Javi tell you?”

“Yeah, we just got off the phone.”

“Open your door.”

You made a face, glancing at the screen and holding it against your ear again. “What?”

“Open your door, UPenn!”

You dashed to the entryway, patting your hair, blotting your face, wondering if your shirt was wrinkled. When you pulled the door open, you saw Scott in full view, in the middle of the day. Not wearing white. The blue of his shirt brought out his eyes, which looked tired but less burdened, too.

He seemed lighter, if not happy then trying to get there.

“Thought I’d skip out on being a sore loser this time.” He gave a half-shrug.

“I don’t know, Miller… from here it doesn't seem like you're losing.”

He smiled at the floor, almost shy. And when he looked into your face you saw the boy you fell in love with at Nichols Academy, the one who took baseball too seriously, who loved Hemingway and your mom’s apple crisp, the one who sang bad Sinatra and got into fights and thought James Watt was something of a god. It was like the worst of the last few years had gone away, leaving only space for something new to grow, to be built—together.

“All I want is you,” promised Scott, taking you into his arms.

You stuck your hand in your pocket, extracted the ring you’d kept there for almost a month like a talisman, like a good-luck charm, and held it up to Scott. He stared at it, and then at you, with something like shock.

Something like awe and wonder.

“Don’t you know? You've always had me.”

And in that hallway, Scott Miller, a man who’d never cop to having a romantic bone in his body, spun you around and kissed you and wouldn’t have cared if your neighbor at Apartment 424 had noticed or if one of his investors appeared. Maybe there was something to Tyler’s corny catchphrase, after all: If you feel it, chase it—no matter the odds, no matter the obstacles in your path, because feeling it was purpose and inspiration and direction when you lost your way.

It took you a while, but you understood it now.