#The imagination station needs way more warning labels

[missdrummond]

AiO Though of the Week

There is 100% a child in Odyssey who has developed an unhealthy attachment to one of the characters in the imagination station. Like we've already had a kid who almost had a meltdown because he thought the first time he ever experienced true friendship was all a simulation. Just imagine what would have happened if Sam actually wasn't real and Isaac just had to deal with the fact that this kid he built a friendship with was just a bunch of code and his own fantasy.

[mandalhoerian]

⸺ carlos oliveira x reader, 14K

⸺ urban legend horror, alcohol consumption/implied alcoholism, violence, tragic romance, slight body horror

⸺ summary: Drawn to a remote town by tales of a deadly spirit, you expect just another case to investigate. But as you find yourself circling back to the bar every day without fail where the charming bartender Carlos Oliveira keeps watch, unsettling details emerge, and the legend you came to document seems closer than you ever imagined.

⸺ back to bloody endings.

⸺ read on ao3

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@cherriesnfangs @byexbyez @misonesaturou @saturnzei

Dust clings to the rims of your worn boots, layering itself over the faded leather with every step closer to the gas station—the town’s only sad excuse for a welcome. Gravel crunches beneath your feet, each sound sharp in the quiet that sprawls around you, thick and unmoving under the weight of the fading sun. A line of crooked oaks stretches over the road, branches twisted and drooping as if they’ve grown heavy from watching the years roll by.

You reach the station, where a cracked neon sign stutters to life in flashes of hazy red. “KNOX’S,” it spells out in stubborn, flickering bursts, casting everything nearby in an off-kilter, rust-colored glow. You push open the door, and the hinges let out a long, rattling groan, far too loud for your hangover to handle.

Inside, a cashier who looks older than the dust itself leans against the counter, eyes narrowing as they size you up. You barely hold his gaze before glancing away, sweeping over the cramped rows of shelves with their uneven stacks of canned goods, ancient packets of chips, and oil-stained rags that hang limp and useless along the far wall.

He shifts, crossing his arms over his chest, the motion slow and deliberate. You feel his stare sticking to you as you move down one of the aisles, the cold, stale scent of the place settling somewhere deep in your throat. Reaching for a drink from the cooler, you let the hum of the machinery buzz against your fingertips, grounding you in a way that feels almost necessary here.

“Passing through?” he asks, his voice a low drawl that doesn’t quite invite an answer.

You don’t look back. Instead, you close your fingers around the glass bottle, feeling the chill seep through your skin as you pull it free and study the label. It’s something generic, cheap, and yet the price tag hanging beneath it makes you blink. You set it on the counter, noting the cracked linoleum underneath, and finally meet his gaze head-on, matching the judgment in his eyes with a look of indifference.

“Work,” you say, leaving it at that.

He huffs, reaching for the bottle, his calloused fingers brushing the glass with a gentleness at odds with the way his eyes narrow. “Ain’t much work around here,” he mutters, sliding the bottle across the counter to you, his gaze lingering like he’s waiting for you to offer more. When you don’t, he shifts back, handing you your change in silence. You let the coins clink against your palm, feeling their edges cold and rough.

As you turn to leave, his words catch at your heels. “Don't depend too much on the bottle, stranger. It ain't safe in this town.”

The warning hangs in the stagnant, stale-scented atmosphere, but you shrug, forcing the door open with a grunt. The hinges squeal again, and a dry breeze greets you, stirring up the dirt in tiny, twisting eddies. You take a swig from the bottle, the alcohol burning your tongue, but the discomfort is familiar, a constant companion since the first time you found solace in its embrace, drowning the whispers of doubt in the back of your mind. You’ve been doing that a lot lately, chasing stories that grow less and less plausible the deeper you dig. Still, you can’t shake the need to prove yourself, to reclaim the spark of curiosity and determination that drew you to this path in the first place—to recapture the sense that there was more to the world than what the textbooks said, that there were answers to be found beyond the confines of academia or conventional journalism. Now, though, the only answers you seem to find lie at the bottom of bottles like this one.

Your steps lead you toward the motel, its neon sign flickering in the fading light. There’s a stillness that lingers on the outskirts of this town, an eerie quiet that settles into the hollow spaces and makes them echo. Your own breaths sound too loud, even as they mingle with the soft crunch of gravel and the distant, muffled sounds of a radio playing some country song. The night is a blanket laid over the landscape, suffocated by the heat of the sun that has baked the ground to a hard, unyielding crust. As you step inside the motel, the fluorescent lights hum overhead, a faint buzz that matches the thrumming in your veins. The clerk behind the front desk barely acknowledges your presence, a nod and a muttered comment about rates, all of which you ignore, already lost in the thoughts that haunt you.

You slide your card across the counter, not making eye contact, not offering anything more than the bare necessities. With a key in hand and a room number etched into your memory, you retreat to the solitude of the musty, dimly lit hallway that leads to your room. The carpet is worn thin in places, the pattern faded, and the walls are a sickly beige that doesn’t do justice to the images of nature printed on them. In the distance, a dog barks, a solitary, lonely sound, reverberating off the peeling paint and the stained wallpaper. Everything seems to be on the verge of collapse, held together by the sheer force of the past that refuses to let go.

The door to your room opens with a creak, the hinges protesting, and you’re greeted by the same staleness that clung to the gas station, the same sense that the world has moved on without this place. The sheets are crisp, though, and the mattress sinks beneath your backpack and then your body as you fall onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, where cracks spread like rivers on a map. Outside, the crickets begin to sing, a chorus of repetitive, mechanical chirps that grate against your nerves, reminding you of the endless loop of your own thoughts.

You can't sleep, so you decide, why wait until morning to go out and explore?

Instead, you venture outside, the warm, humid wind pushing against you, caressing the tips of the trees and rustling the grass that grows wild on the edge of the road. You've always had a restless soul, never content to stay in one place for long, and right now, the idea of staying cooped up in that motel room is unbearable. You walk, following the main street, the asphalt reflecting the moonlight, turning it into a ghostly silver trail. A scattering of houses, all crouched low and sunken, line the main road, their shutters closed up tight. A cat slinks out from one of the alleys, its coat a mottled mix of shadows that melds into the dirt.

Further down the road, a single light glows faintly through the evening haze, casting a soft amber glow across the dirt and weeds. The light flickers and pulses, a heartbeat in the darkness that hints at something still awake.

The bar is tucked at the end of the main road, its faded sign swinging crookedly above the door, caught in a breeze that barely stirs. A soft, golden light spills out onto the ground, casting the steps in a gentle glow that draws you in, promising a retreat from the unsettling quiet that clings to this town. The wooden boards of the porch are warped and splintered, groaning under your boots, and the screen door, patched in places with duct tape, squeaks loudly, announcing your entry. Inside, the air is warm, filled with the familiar scent of aged wood, spilled liquor, and the faint tang of cigarette smoke lingering on the walls. A fan ticks lazily in a corner, stirring the hot, sticky, Southern heat, and the dull murmur of conversation fills the space, a backdrop of muted laughter and hushed gossip.

The barstools are lined up in a neat row, each one more worn than the last, their leather cracked and faded from years of use. A few patrons sit scattered at tables in the back, huddled over their drinks, heads bent low in murmured conversation. A few of them glance up, their eyes quick and assessing, sizing you up before dismissing you as a passing curiosity. They're the kind of people who've seen enough of the world to know when someone doesn't belong, and they don't care to make any exceptions. Their faces, lined and weathered from lives lived in the harsh glare of the sun, fade back into the shadows as you ignore them and focus on the figure behind the bar.

The man stands with his back turned, cleaning glasses with a practiced rhythm, shoulders broad and solid under the dim light that hovers just above him. His hair curls slightly at the ends, dark against the pale collar of his shirt, and when he turns, there’s a confidence in his stance that belongs to someone who knows his place in the world, or at least in this small corner of it. He's all ragged curls, warm dark eyes and short facial hair, a stubble that covers his cheeks in a shadow of ruggedness, and his lips curl in a smile that's equal parts mischief and ease the moment he spots you sliding onto a stool at the bar, setting your bag on the seat beside you, the cracked leather creaking slightly under your weight.

"Well, hello there, new face," the bartender greets, his hands busy wiping the rim of a glass that has seen better days. "What can I get for you?"

"Something strong," you reply, leaning forward on the scuffed surface, your fingers tapping restlessly. You're not in the mood for pleasantries, not after the day you've had, the drive, and the feeling of being watched that's clung to you like a second skin since you entered the town's borders. You want a drink, and maybe a distraction, and that's all.

"Sure thing," he says, and his smile doesn't waver. "Name's Carlos." He extends a hand, his grip firm and warm, his calloused palm brushing against yours in a handshake that's surprisingly gentle.

"Nice to meet you," you say, giving your name and pulling away. No matter how tired you are, however, maintaining connections on a new place is always helpful when it comes to the flow of information, so you can't exactly snub a person like him who can probably hear and see everything happening in the community.

"Just passing through?" Carlos asks, his tone casual, but there's a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes, a subtle hint that suggests there's more to him than just a friendly bartender, a detail that sticks in your brain, a stray thought, that he seems to have an interest in the comings and goings of the town, a keen eye that catches every shift in the landscape, like a hawk scanning the fields. Maybe it's the isolation that breeds that kind of observation. "If so, you’re a little far off the main road for that."

It draws an amused, involuntary huff from you, an acknowledgment that the question is a fair one. It's a tiny town, the kind of place that most people speed through on their way to somewhere else. The swamps and woods that surround the area seem to keep the locals in and outsiders out, the gnarled branches of ancient trees and the tangled vines of the bayou acting as a barrier that's nearly impenetrable. Spanish moss dangles from the trees and hangs in the open, its spidery tendrils swaying in the slightest breeze, making the whole region feel like a living, breathing organism, ready to swallow anyone that gets too close. And the people, they're as rooted to the land as the old oaks that stretch toward the sky, their lives woven into the fabric of the place, a part of it in a way that outsiders can never truly comprehend. To pass through without purpose here is an oddity, a deviation from the norm.

"Nah, I'm here for work," you offer, the word clipped, not wanting to delve too deeply into the reason that's brought you to this forgotten corner of the South.

You're a journalist, or at least you used to be, a profession that once felt like a calling, a chance to uncover truths and shine a light on the hidden corners of the world. But that was before you found yourself in a downward spiral of chasing ghosts and rumors in the hopes of a paycheck, a situation that's led you to the brink of despair, and now to this run-down bar. You've come to investigate the legend of El Silbón—the Whistler—and the eerie tales that swirl around the figure, a specter that's said to haunt the backwoods and bayous, his presence signaled by the chilling whistle that cuts through the night. All this research for a job that doesn't pay much and that might not even lead to a stable position, and you've grown to hate it. Still, in the dim light of the bar, the flickering neon illuminating the cracks and crevices of the place, you can almost pretend that the stories and the legends are worth your time. Almost.

"Work, huh? Not many opportunities in these parts." Carlos's eyebrow arches in a way that makes him look simultaneously curious and suspicious. His gaze sweeps over the other patrons, lingering on the regulars who have already turned their attention back to their drinks, the ice clinking softly against the sides of the glasses. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the well-worn countertop, his dark eyes searching yours, a glint of something—amusement, perhaps, or understanding—in his smile. "I suppose a cold beer will do to drink that disappointment down."

With that, he grabs a bottle from the cooler, the glass sweating condensation, and sets it in front of you, the thunk of the bottle hitting the wood a punctuation to his words.

"I mean, I already do have a job," you chuckle tiredly, the words coming out half-heartedly, a feeble attempt at humor in the face of your own doubts about the choices that led you here. Your fingers tap a rhythm against the side of the bottle, the dampness of the condensation cool and slick against your skin. The truth is, the idea of a steady paycheck is an illusion at best, a desperate hope that keeps you going from one dead-end assignment to another. "Or, at least, a research gig. It's...complicated."

You take a long, deep pull from the bottle, the bitter taste of the beer washing away the dust and the exhaustion of the day's journey, the alcohol a welcome companion in the solitude of the evening. The liquid slides down your throat, cold and sharp, a momentary reprieve from the heat that lingers in the stagnant, humid, sticky atmosphere of the bar.

"In here?" Carlos's laugh is a low rumble, his head shaking in amusement, the sound resonating in the space between the two of you, a bridge across the gap of the counter. His dark curls fall in disarray around his face, and there's a gleam in his eyes that hints at a depth of experience, a familiarity with the strange and the unexpected. "I mean, we have a cheating mayor, a town council that can't agree on anything, and a couple of hunters that claim to have seen Bigfoot in the swamp." He grins, his hands spreading wide in a gesture that encompasses the entirety of the small town and its quirks. "Not exactly a hotbed of intrigue."

Your thumb peels at the label of the bottle, bits of paper fluttering to the countertop. "What about El Silbón?" The question slips out, a test, a probe to see if the locals are aware of the stories that linger like a fog in the twilight. "The Whistler."

Carlos's smile falters, his eyebrows drawing together in a fleeting shadow of concern, his body language shifting subtly, a tightening of his jaw, a stillness that settles over his frame. He hesitates, his gaze sweeping the room, a caution that speaks volumes. His hand reaches out to grab a glass, his actions slow, measured, a stalling tactic. When he finally speaks, his words are carefully chosen, each syllable weighed and considered. "You're on the wrong continent for that one."

He's right. El Silbón is a legend that haunts the plains of Venezuela, a vengeful spirit that hunts the drunkards and the foolish, his eerie whistle a harbinger of death, and also exists in other countries such as Colombia and Mexico. But the version that's drawn you to this remote corner of the American South is a twisted variant, a tale told in whispers and muttered conversations, a rumor of a ghost that has somehow made its way from the jungles of South America to the swamps and bayous of Louisiana. The internet is a mess of conflicting reports and hearsay from those who have passed through this town and had an encounter of their own to share. Where they got the name El Silbón, you're unsure, but you're eager to find out, hoping to spin the story to a decent article that could help you move a step up from the pitiful conditions of a freelance investigator. You just need to stay sober for a few weeks.

"That's not what my boss believes." You lift a shoulder in a shrug, the motion dismissive, but your eyes are sharp, watching him, the way his fingers tighten around the glass he's cleaning. "He saw a couple of TikToks and clickbait Youtube shorts and was pretty convinced. Guess that's why I'm here." You lean closer, lowering your tone, a conspiratorial edge to your words. "Between us, I think he's an idiot, but a paying job's a paying job, even if it's entertaining some boomer's delusions and tall tales."

Carlos's laughter fills the space between you, a warm, rich sound that momentarily lifts the veil of gloom that hangs over the bar, a light in the darkness that surrounds the both of you. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and the shadows that had danced in his irises dissipate, replaced by a genuine amusement that softens his features. "And here I thought I had a monopoly on entertainment in this town."

"Maybe I should charge admission."

"Speaking of charges," Carlos's grin turns mischievous, and he nods at the beer in your hand, the bottle already half-empty, a silent request for payment that's delivered with a playful wink. "This one's on the house. But if you're looking to stick around, I have a spare bedroom upstairs, cheap. Assuming," and here his gaze sweeps over the other patrons, their hunched forms and mumbled conversations, the haze of cigarette smoke that clings to their clothing, a cloud of suspicion that follows them like a second skin, "you can resist the temptation to join the local crowd and their, ah, recreational pursuits."

"Thanks." You offer a quick, tight-lipped smile, acknowledging the generosity, the first sign of friendliness you've encountered since arriving in the town. Fishing a couple of bills from your wallet, you set them on the counter, a mute refusal of his offer of a free drink, a stubborn insistence on maintaining your independence, on not owing anyone anything. "I'm good. Had a motel room booked. Wouldn't want to impose."

His eyebrow arches, but he accepts the money without argument, his fingertips grazing yours in the exchange, the brief touch sending a jolt through you that you quickly suppress.

A chime rings throughout the diner, a discordant, ringing note that cuts through the midday murmur of conversation and the clatter of cutlery. You glance up from the notes scattered in front of you on the worn, Formica tabletop, a sea of scribbled observations and theories that have been keeping you company at the back booth. In the daylight, the place is a study in faded comfort, the yellow walls tinged with age, the vinyl seats patched and cracked, the aroma of coffee and grease a constant, familiar backdrop. A fly buzzes lazily near the window, its wings a blur of motion, a rhythmic drone that blends into the ambient noise. It's the kind of establishment that's seen generations of townsfolk pass through its doors, a cornerstone of a community where everyone knows everyone else's business—or thinks they do.

Your attention is immediately drawn to the man entering, the sun casting him in a silhouette of mystery, his figure outlined in a halo of golden light. As he steps inside, his identity is revealed—none other than the bartender from the night before, a sight that surprises you. He enters like it's his mother's house, shoulders relaxed, an ease in his stride that suggests he's a regular, a part of the fabric of the diner. His dark curls are tousled, his facial hair trimmed, a hint of a dimple flashing in his cheek as his lips quirk into a friendly smile. He's in a faded green, plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose forearms corded with muscle, and jeans that fit him in a way that's impossible to ignore. There's a rugged, earthy appeal to him, a contrast to the polished city types you've left behind. There's immediate reaction to his presence from the staff, a welcoming warmth that radiates from the older woman working the counter, her lined face breaking into a broad grin at the sight of him.

"Carlitos," the waitress greets, the name spoken with an affection that speaks of a shared history, a connection that runs deeper than a mere customer-employee relationship. Her gray hair is pulled back in a bun, wisps of it escaping to frame her face, her eyes a soft, faded blue. She wipes her hands on the apron tied around her waist, her fingers calloused and wrinkled, a map of a life lived in hard work. "Coffee, hon?"

"Just a bite to eat, today, Abuela," he responds, leaning casually against the counter, his stance inviting, comfortable in his surroundings, the wrinkles on his shirt a mirror to the creases in the waitress's brow, a reflection of a life lived outdoors, under the relentless Southern sun. "Been up all night prepping the new menu. Need a plate of food to get me through the rest of the day, something to soak up the whiskey from last night's shift."

She tuts, a sound of fond exasperation, her eyes rolling skyward in a mock scold. "Working too hard, child," she admonishes gently, her accent a warm, drawling melody that wraps around her words like a well-worn blanket, frayed and familiar. "Need to rest. Can't pour drinks all night and cook all day. Take care of yourself."

"You worry too much," he replies, his tone lighthearted, a deflection that doesn't quite ring true. "I'll take the usual, please."

And then, his gaze sweeps the diner, a casual perusal of the space, and suddenly, inexplicably, locks onto you, a meeting of eyes that feels like an inevitable collision, a magnetic pull that draws him inexorably toward your booth in the corner. His footsteps are unhurried, a steady approach that allows him to take in the scene before him: the scatter of papers, the empty sugar packets, and the forgotten cup of coffee, now cold and neglected.

"The journalist, right?" His statement is a confirmation more than a question, his accent a lazy, languid drawl, the words rolling off his tongue in a cadence that is both foreign and oddly comforting in this small-town diner. He gestures at the seat across from you, the vinyl creaking slightly from his touch. "Mind if I sit?"

"Suit yourself," you respond, a shrug lifting one shoulder, a nonchalant gesture that's an attempt to hide the twinge of sadness and joy intertwined at being called a journalist for the very first time for so long.

Your pen taps a rhythm on the edge of a notebook, a nervous tic, a release of the pent-up energy that always seems to be coursing beneath your skin. The pages of the notebook are filled with hurriedly scribbled notes, a shorthand of thoughts and ideas that only you can decipher, a personal code of observations and theories, of leads and dead ends.

"Damn," he murmurs, his eyes tracing the labyrinth of ink on the page. "You really are taking this whole research thing seriously, aren't you? All this for a local urban legend?"

His head tilts to the side, an inquisitive gesture, his brows knitting together, as if the idea of someone devoting their time and effort to a seemingly insignificant piece of folklore is a puzzle to him.

You lift the cup of coffee to your lips, the liquid having gone lukewarm, a bitter, tepid swallow that slides down your throat in a wake-up call of sorts. Your eyes flicker to the window, the view of the main street outside offering a glimpse of the town in its daily routines, people going about their business, the sun-dappled sidewalks and the dusty storefronts a muted backdrop to the buzz of the diner.

"It's my job," you say finally, setting the cup back on its chipped saucer, the clink of ceramic on ceramic echoing the finality of your statement.

In fact, you're a bit embarrassed at being caught taking this seriously, a sting of self-consciousness that makes you close the notebook, shutting off the flow of thoughts and ideas from his scrutiny. You haven't gotten rid of your habit to give your all to everything and anything, even if it's something as ridiculous as chasing ghosts in the backwoods of the deep south. And that's exactly why you've ended up in the middle of nowhere, trying to make sense of the nonsensical, a threadbare hope of finding some redemption and recognition in the pursuit of a story that might not even exist. This El Silbón assignment is a chance, albeit a slim one, to reclaim the spark of curiosity that drew you to the field in the first place. So, you're here, in a diner that's seen better days, with a stranger who's watching you intently, his questions poking at the fragile façade of professionalism you're desperately trying to maintain.

"Hey, no offense," he says, holding his hands up in a placating gesture, an easy charm in his demeanor. "It's diligent. Gotta admire the dedication to the craft. Especially when the subject matter is, well, let's just say 'unusual'."

The waitress returns, carrying a plate laden with a sandwich that looks more like a culinary masterpiece than a simple meal. The bread is perfectly toasted, a golden brown that glistens with melted butter, the scent of which permeates the space around your booth, a tantalizing aroma that makes your mouth water. Layers of cheese, thick and gooey, peek out from between the slices, and the meat, presumably a homemade concoction, is generously stacked, its juices dripping down the sides. A pickle spear rests on the side of the dish, a crisp, tart contrast to the rich, hearty entrée, a perfect accompaniment to the indulgent feast before him. Carlos's eyes light up, his focus temporarily shifting from the conversation to the allure of the food.

"Thanks Abuela, you're an angel," he beams, his grin wide and genuine, the wrinkles in his eyes reflecting the depth of his appreciation.

The waitress, her own smile a mirror of his, gives his shoulder a quick pat in response, a wordless acknowledgement of a bond forged over years of shared experiences and meals, and turns to you, her eyes twinkling, her accent is a soothing lilt, the words flowing like molasses, slow and sweet, a reflection of the unhurried pace of the small town, the picture of a caring grandmother, her face weathered yet still radiant,. "Anything else for you, hun? Another cup of joe, perhaps?"

"Yeah, please. This one's gone cold," you reply, a sheepish admission, a nod toward the forgotten mug that's been pushed aside in your flurry of note-taking. She takes the mug, her wrinkled, aged hands surprisingly gentle in their grip, the porcelain rattling faintly against the saucer, a sound that's almost lost in the ambient hum of the diner's background noise. As she walks away, her footsteps a comforting shuffle on the worn linoleum, a sign of a life lived in the service of others, her apron strings swaying behind her, a rhythmic sway that matches the beat of her work.

"That's Abuela Rosa," he says, pointing after her, a fondness in his tone that borders on reverence, his eyes tracking her until she disappears into the kitchen. "Best cook in the county, and a sweetheart to boot. Raised me on her cooking." He takes a big bite of his meal, and his eyes practically roll back in his head as he savors the flavors. After a few moments, he manages to regain his composure, though it's a struggle, the pure ecstasy on his face a battle to suppress. "If you're sticking around, you gotta try the pecan pie. Life changing."

"I'll, uh, keep that in mind," you reply, a non-committal answer, a placeholder for the unease that settles in the pit of your stomach. The idea of getting cozy with the locals, of immersing yourself in their rhythms and rituals, is a far cry from the detached, objective reporting you'd envisioned.

"Any luck in finding any clues, by the way?" He gestures at the closed notebook and the mess of papers strewn across the table, the remnants of a half-finished article that's more holes than substance at the moment. He picks at the crust of his sandwich, popping a morsel into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving yours. "Or is that top-secret information?"

"Ha-ha," you respond, a dry, humorless laugh, a deflection of the discomfort that curls in your chest. Your hand reaches out, gathering the loose sheets into a semblance of order, a subconscious need to control the chaos that threatens to spill over. "No luck. Everyone's tight-lipped. Guess they're not used to outsiders poking around."

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

Rosa swings by the booth, setting down a fresh cup of coffee in front of you, the steam curling upward in a lazy, twisting dance. She fills Carlos's glass with iced tea, the cubes clinking against the sides in a musical chime. "Here you go, kids," she says, a warm, motherly smile on her lips. Before either of you can muster a thank-you, she's off again, weaving her way through the maze of tables and customers, a graceful, practiced routine.

"Can't blame them, really," Carlos continues, picking up the thread of conversation as if there hadn't been an interruption. "You have a better chance interviewing folks on the internet. Didn't need to come all the way over here at all."

He lifts the glass to his lips, taking a long sip of the tea, the ice swirling and clinking in the amber liquid. He sets the glass back on the table, the condensation forming droplets that slide slowly down the sides, pooling on the Formica surface in a tiny, glistening puddle, a microcosm of the humidity.

"I guess. I just like to travel, though. It's nice to see the sights, the landscapes, learn a little more about the culture and the history of the place. Gives a bit more of a...complete perspective. You know, the whole nine yards."

"Have a deadline?"

"Not really," you shrug. "I'll leave when the well runs dry. That or when I find something concrete."

"What are you expecting to find, really?"

"A good story, at the very least." The corners of your mouth twitch upwards in a wry, resigned smirk, a gesture that's become a familiar companion in your conversations. "A paycheck, for sure. Something that'll keep the lights on for another month."

"Well, I'd love to become your tour guide. A friendly face is always helpful in a new place. Plus, who knows? Might be useful to get the scoop from a local. Someone who's in the thick of it, so to speak. The Carlos Oliveira special: discounted price, free of charge!"

"Are you always this forward?" you quirk an eyebrow at him, an attempt to mask the spark of interest that ignites in your chest at the prospect of a potential lead, and maybe a distraction, in the form of a handsome man. "Don't have much to offer in return, besides an ear to listen to stories and a knack for buying rounds."

"Sounds like a fair trade to me. Besides," he says, leaning in, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes, a dimple flashing in his cheek that's entirely too distracting, "there's a certain charm to being the guy that helped crack open the case. And, not to brag, but I'm pretty handy in a pinch. Been known to get out of a sticky situation or two in my time. Who knows, maybe the next time you're on the hunt, you'll have a trusty sidekick to back you up."

"Sidekicks usually end up dead or traumatized in the movies, you know."

"How dare you? I'm final girl material."

You find yourself returning to the bar more often than you’d planned, the quiet of your rented room and the exhaustion of judgmental, tight-lipped locals no match for the draw of Carlos’s company.

It's not just the allure of a cold beer on a hot night or the promise of a sympathetic ear—it's the way Carlos seems to know the pulse of the town, his easy conversation and the warmth of his smile a balm against the stifling, closed-off atmosphere that permeates the place.

Every evening, after a long day of fruitless searches and interviews that lead nowhere, the neon glow of the bar's sign beckons you, and the worn wooden steps creak in a familiar, welcoming cadence as you enter the dimly lit interior once more. Each visit, the tap of your boots on the hardwood floor becomes a little louder, a bit more confident, until they echo in the empty spaces, announcing your presence, claiming a spot at the bar that feels almost like it belongs to you.

At first, you're content to sit in the corner, nursing a drink, watching the patrons come and go, a silent observer in their midst. But as the nights pass and the conversations with Carlos flow, you begin to migrate closer to the center of the action by Carlos's side, where the laughter is a little brighter and the stories a little wilder. Soon, you're perched on a stool at the counter, chatting easily with the bartender, his presence a comforting constant in the ever-shifting sea of faces that drift in and out of the bar's hazy, smoke-filled atmosphere. The regulars are a motley crew, their lives a patchwork of hard work and harder luck, each one a character in the drama of the town, their stories whispered and grumbled into their beers, their secrets held close to their chests, even in their most inebriated confessions.

There's old Coco, the retired mechanic with grease-stained hands and a twinkle in his eye, and Sally, the waitress with a heart of gold and a wit sharp enough to cut, and Bob, the trucker whose laugh reverberates through the walls and whose tales of the open road are the stuff of legend. You can't forget about Salty, a veteran of the Korean War, who nurses his whiskey and shares stories of his time in the trenches. Then there's Pepper, a former musician turned farmer, who still carries a guitar pick in his pocket and can be coaxed into a tune or two if the mood strikes him. All of them, and countless others, have carved out a space in this little corner of the world, and their quirks and foibles have become a kind of currency, exchanged in the flickering glow of the neon signs and the hum of the jukebox.

And in the center of it all, there's Carlos, the steady anchor, the listener, pulling them all together in a strange, dysfunctional harmony, played out in the minor keys of heartache and humor. He's quick with a joke and a refill, a sympathetic ear and a stern glare to keep the peace, and you find yourself way more invested in ages-old gossip and stories these people have to offer than what you came here for.

And man, does Carlos flirt with you at every chance he gets.

Subtly at first, a wink here, a lingering touch there, a compliment that's a little too personal to be casual. You're not sure how to react; on one hand, the attention is flattering, a warm, tingling sensation that spreads through your chest and settles in the pit of your stomach, a pleasant distraction from the frustrations of your search. On the other hand, you're here to work, to chase a ghost and a paycheck, not to fall into a cliché romance with the charming local. You try to brush off his advances, deflecting his compliments with a roll of your eyes, keeping a safe distance between the two of you, but he's persistent, and his smiles and jokes are infectious.

Tonight, he’s resting his forearms on the bar, leaning in close, his dark curls falling in disarray across his forehead, and his brown eyes are alight with their usual spark. "I’m starting to think you’ve got a thing for this place."

"You wish," you retort, but the words lack bite, and a smile tugs at the corners of your lips despite your best efforts to maintain a cool facade. "It's the only bar in town, and the motel is depressing as hell. What else am I supposed to do to wind down?"

"Hey, I'm not complaining," he says, lifting his shoulders in a casual shrug, the motion causing the muscles in his arms to flex subtly under the rolled-up sleeves of his plaid shirt. His grin is wide and genuine, his teeth a flash of white in the dim light of the bar, a stark contrast to the rugged, earthy features of his face. "Keeps the tips flowing, and the company's not bad either."

"Not bad! What kind of scale am I working with here? Because I have some choice words for 'not bad'."

"I have a feeling I'll regret asking, but shoot."

"'Not bad', is, like, a 6 out of 10. Barely passing. Mediocre. The kind of score a teacher puts to gently encourage the student to do better."

"Oh, is that right?" A sly smile stretches his mouth, his lips curving upward in a way that's undeniably playful. He props his chin on his hand, his elbow firmly planted on the countertop. "I've been encouraging the whole time, so I think the problem is with you if you managed to get stuck at not bad for this long."

"What's a six got to do to become a ten in your eyes, huh?"

"Well, you barely make any conversation! Give me something to work with here, sweetheart. How am I supposed to know anything about you without a little cooperation on your part, hm?"

"Ugh," you scoff, rolling your eyes and taking a sip of your drink, the alcohol burning its way down your throat, a temporary relief from the heat of his gaze and the fluttering in your chest. "Fine, fine. I'll give, just to prove my point that there's nothing to talk about. What do you wanna know?"

He leans back, a smugness settling on his features, his eyes narrowing slightly, a predator that's caught sight of prey, and the look sends a shiver down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Carlos crosses his arms, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut over the muscles of his biceps, and his smirk widens. "How come a big-city journalist is here chasing ghosts in a small, Southern town?"

"How do you know I'm a big-city journalist? Small towns have their own papers, y'know."

"C'mon, it's obvious. You have something to drink so much about and there's no way someone as earnest as you can possibly write those tabloid clickbait things. You used to be big. And now you're in the dumps looking for El Silbón of all things."

You swallow hard, averting your gaze to the bottles lined up on the shelves behind him, the labels blurring together, a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that offer no solace from his interrogation. Your fingers tap nervously against the glass, a rhythmic, staccato beat that echoes the pounding of your heart in your ears, and the ice clinks in the liquid, a hollow, mocking refrain.

"Alright, you're right," you admit, the confession dragged from your lips reluctantly. "I'm from the city. Used to work at a paper. Got downsized, and now I'm trying to pay the bills. Not exactly a novel tale, but it's mine, and that's the story, or the sad excuse of a story, rather, of how I ended up in the middle of nowhere, chasing a ghost on a fool's errand." You lift the glass to your lips, the cold rim kissing the heated skin of your mouth, the amber liquid within sloshing, threatening to spill over the edge, a mirror to the precarious hold you have on your emotions.

Carlos's eyebrows knit together in a fleeting frown, "Sorry I pried."

"'s fine," you say, the words coming out a bit mumbled from how quiet they are. "It's not exactly a secret. Embarrassing, is all."

"There's nothing embarrassing about doing your best with what's given to you," he replies, his tone gentle, a soothing balm to the raw edges of your nerves. "Trust me, we've all been there, in our own ways. This job," he gestures around the bar, the dimly lit interior, the worn and weathered wood, the faded posters on the walls, a silent acknowledgement of the impermanence of it all, the transience of a life lived on the fringes, in the spaces between the bright lights and big dreams, a far cry from the fast-paced, glittering metropolis that's etched into your memory. "It's not where I thought I'd end up, but hey, life's a ride, isn't it? Just gotta hang on and see where it takes you. Sometimes, the detours are the most interesting parts of the journey."

Your lips twitch in a wry half-smile.

"I say you're exactly where you need to be," he adds. "You met me, after all."

You laugh at that, the sound ringing out in the bar. He's just joking enough for the teasing to not be cringey, and the wink that follows only drives the nail home, making the snicker bubble out from inside your chest. That's what he's good at. It doesn't take a genius to realize that. Carlos has a knack of diffusing a situation, whether to lessen or raise the stakes, you found out. He knows when and where to strike, and that's a talent that's rare in its own rights, the subtleness of his charm and charisma a rarity that's hard to come by these days. Whether or not his intentions are truly pure, or simply a means to an ends, you're unsure, and perhaps, it's best that you remain ignorant.

Carlos’s fingers graze the edge of an abandoned cigarette lighter, a worn thing with its silver plating chipping off and a faint dent along one side. He picks it up carefully, turning it over in his hand, his thumb tracing the imperfections. For a moment, he studies it, almost lost in the weight of its story, before slipping it quietly into his pocket.

It’s not the first time you’ve noticed him doing this. Just last night, he found a brass button half-buried in the corner of the bar, an ugly thing with scratches marring its dull surface. He’d knelt down, retrieving it with an oddly reverent touch, his face calm as he tucked it into his jacket, not saying a word, to put it away in a trinket box you've seen the counter that you've only discovered when you thought it was a tip box and tried to place a bill in. It's a hidden trove by now, full of objects nobody remembers leaving behind—rusted bottle caps, stray coins, a faded playing card folded into a neat square, an old key chain, a broken rosary, and single earring...

After the lighter, it’s the end of a chicken’s wishbone, left on a table in a small puddle of beer. He reaches for it without hesitation, gripping it carefully between his thumb and forefinger, his head tilted as he studies it, almost like he’s making a judgment call on its worth. The bone is brittle, darkened at the edges, something most people would throw away without a second thought. But Carlos cradles it in his hand as if it’s earned a place with the rest of his findings, as if it carries something of its own worth. You watch him, intrigued by the care he shows, wondering what draws him to such ordinary items, what makes him collect them. Perhaps he is a hoarder. Perhaps, a sentimental fool.

After a while, curiosity gets the best of you. “Why keep all that?” you ask, nodding at the trinket box. "What's the appeal in...well, junk?"

He looks down, his mouth curving into a slow, almost bashful smile. “Guess I like to remember things,” he says, his gaze shifting as if caught between wanting to share and holding something back. “Every one of these was left here by someone. Feels wrong to just throw ’em out. They came here for a reason, didn’t they?”

“Sounds like superstition.”

He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Maybe. Or maybe, hear me out, it’s just… a habit.” He pulls out a small, tarnished ring, one of the items you’ve seen him collect before. Holding it up to the light, he squints, his brow furrowing slightly as he studies it. “This one? Belonged to some guy who came in every Friday, same drink, same seat, till he stopped showing up. Left this on the counter one night, and that was it.” His fingers trace the ring’s edge, the metal a faint glint in the dim bar light. “People leave pieces of themselves, even if they don’t mean to.”

He slips the ring back, his gaze drifting to the collection behind the bar as if considering each bottle a memento of its own. You sense he’s somewhere else for a moment, his hand settling over the box in a gentle, absentminded gesture, like he’s grounding himself in the presence of these small, forgotten pieces.

"But even with all these, I think you might be the lucky charm," Carlos grins at you.

"O-kay," you drawl.

"No, seriously. I've got this tinnitus that's been bugging me forever, and the longer you're here, the less and less insistent the ringing in my ear is becoming. Maybe it's the company, or maybe, it's that you have to be the luckiest person I've ever met, and that's rubbing off on me."

"You're really reaching here, aren't ya," you quirk a brow at him. "Or, perhaps, your ears are clearing from all the smoking and loud music and shit because I ask you to turn it down all the time."

"My personal monkey paw."

"Man, c'mon."

"It's his family," someone calls out behind you one day, as the sun dips low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dirt road that leads from the bar to your motel.

You stop in your tracks, the dust swirling around your feet, and look over your shoulder. An older man is leaning against the wall of the hardware store, a pack of cigarettes in his weathered hands, his eyes sharp and knowing under the brim of his hat, drawing out a cigarette and lighting it, the flame from his Zippo flickering in the fading light.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" You ask, cautious, yet curious. The town has kept you at arm's length since your arrival, and this stranger's willingness to speak is unusual, a break in the pattern of silence and guarded stares that have defined your interactions thus far.

He's the cashier from the gas station when you first arrived here, you realize.

"Doesn't matter," the old-timer's reply is curt, his words punctuated by a puff of smoke from his cigarette. "That vile demon boy hangin' 'round the likes of you ain't safe. I told you not to depend too much on the bottle, yer starin' death right in the eye."

"What... What is this about? Are you talking about Carlos?" Your mind reels, trying to connect the dots, to understand the cryptic warning that's being thrown at you like a grenade, its meaning obscured in a fog of Southern enigma. The nickname "vile demon" echoes in your head, an ominous refrain, a stark contrast to the friendly bartender's easygoing nature and the genuine warmth that radiates from him. You can't reconcile the image of the man who pours drinks and tells stories in the neon glow of the bar's sign with the name that the old timer is giving him. "Are you telling me to quit drinking or to avoid him? Because there's no way in hell any liquor's gonna kill me before a gunshot does."

"No, you city slickers never do listen," he shakes his head, the lines on his face deepening, his brow furrowed in a blend of weariness and frustration, a map of a life lived in the grip of the bayou's mysteries, of its secrets and its dangers. "What yer looking for is in his family. The blood. The demon. That's why no one's talkin', they love that bastard. He's their golden child, fooled 'em all. But I know. I know, and I'm warnin' you. Stay away, girl. Don't dig no deeper. Yer on a path to Hell's gates, and that devil's the ferryman. Leave. While you can."

With those parting words, the old timer turns and walks back into the convenience store, the door swinging shut behind him, the bell chiming a soft, final note in the quiet of the evening, the echo of his warning lingering in the stillness.

The next day in Rosa's diner, you find yourself sitting in a booth, sipping coffee that's so strong it could strip paint, and the waitress is chatting in her usual, amiable way, a constant stream of small-town gossip and local lore that fills the space between bites of food and gulps of the scalding, bitter brew.

She's in the middle of recounting the latest escapades of the mayor's son when you call the old woman over, impatient. She calls Carlos, 'Carlitos'; and he calls her 'Abuela', she's got to know something, right?

"What can I get you, honey?" Rosa asks, a pencil poised to take your order, her apron stained with the marks of a busy morning, the fabric a canvas of spilled syrup and grease, a history of the meals she's served and the stories she's heard.

"Hey, Rosa, um..." you trail off, not quite sure how to broach the subject, the question hovering on the tip of your tongue, a mystery that's been nagging at you since the strange encounter the day before. "You're on the clock, I know, but can I talk to you after hours? It's important, and it's not exactly, uh, a diner kind of chat," you say, glancing around the bustling restaurant, the clatter of silverware and the hum of conversation almost drowning out your quietly hesitant request.

"Oh, dear, of course, no worries," she replies, her tone shifting from the brisk efficiency of a server to the warm concern of an elder, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a reassuring smile. "Stick around for lunch break, okay?"

"Sounds great. Thanks, Rosa, you're a gem," you say, insides swelling up with gratitude at her relenting so graciously that she's decided to dedicate her precious time to help a complete stranger, and give the biggest of smiles, at that.

The time can't fly fast enough, the hands of the clock on the wall of the diner seeming to drag through the afternoon, the minutes stretching into eternities as you nurse cup after cup of coffee, watching the regulars come and go, the familiar faces of the town passing through the doors, their lives intersecting briefly with yours in the cozy, Formica-topped world of the diner. When at last the lunch rush subsides and Rosa slips into the seat opposite you, her gray hair escaping from its bun, lined face a map of a life lived in hard work and kindness and eyes bright and inquisitive, you find the words pouring out of you in a flood of questions and concerns.

"Do you know the old guy that works at the gas station store by any chance?"

"The old crank," her wrinkled mouth curls in distaste, the edges of her lips turned downward in a frown of recognition. "Why, is he bothering you?"

"Not necessarily," you admit, a shrug lifting your shoulders, a casual dismissal of the previous night's confrontation, an attempt to downplay the unease that's been growing in the pit of your stomach, a gnarled root. "He just said weird stuff about Carlos."

"Hah!" Her laugh is a burst of sound, a sharp exclamation that cuts through the background hum of the diner, startling a nearby patron who looks up from his newspaper with a raised eyebrow. Her hand comes up to brush a strand of iron-gray hair away from her face, the motion quick and dismissive, as if waving away the very idea of the man's warnings. "Don't pay him no mind, child," she says, her accent a thick drawl, the words rolling off her tongue in a cadence that's both comforting and firm, a grandmother's wisdom dispensed in a roadside diner. "That old fart's got a chip on his shoulder, always has. Ain't nothing true in the ramblings of a man like that. Just the bitterness talking, that's all."

"But he thinks Carlos is like a demon? What is that about, if you don't mind me asking? Not digging into Carlos's personal business, I just want to know why that man thinks so."

"Ah, well," Rosa sighs, a long, weary sound that seems to carry the history of the town. "Back in the day, that man, he was the chief of police, a big shot. And he had a bone to pick with the men of Carlitos's family. It's just a hereditary mental illness passed down from father to son, a misfortune. But that asshole's convinced that there's somethin' evil lurkin' in them boys because they ain't from here. Every generation, the same accusation. His own sons are no saints, believe you me. They're the ones stirrin' up trouble, not our Carlitos. That boy is an angel, a gift from Heaven. Takes care of his mama, has a good heart. Nothin' like the monsters that old bastard claims. You hear me? Don't let him poison yer mind against the sweetest young'un this town has ever seen."

So that's where the El Silbón rumors are coming from... Because they're immigrants.

You don't want to ask what kind of hereditary mental illness she's talking about, because old people tend not to have details like that, but the fact that she knows him better than anyone and defends him makes you feel at ease a little bit, and you can't help but nod in agreement. The thought of someone as warm and welcoming as Carlos being the target of such hostility and suspicion sits uncomfortably in your stomach, a sour knot that refuses to be untangled. It's a relief to have his character defended by someone like Rosa, a pillar of the community, her affection for the bartender a balm to the suspicions that have been slowly building in your mind.

As she returns to her duties, the conversation fading into the routine bustle of the diner, you finally have an article to write, and even if it's not a story of supernatural horrors and haunting whistles in the night, it's a human tale, a portrait of a town gripped in the claws of its past, of prejudice and fear that have become as much a part of the landscape as the ancient cypress trees and the winding, dark waters of the bayou, and it is a story worth telling.

Carlos Oliveira is in love.

It's the little things, at first. A song that reminds him of your laughter on the jukebox, the sight of your favorite drink on the shelf, a stray eyelash on the rim of the glass, the way the neon lights cast a glow on your face, the faint scent of perfume lingering in the bar after closing time. You come early, before the rush, with your notebook and pen tucked neatly away in your bag and an easy smile on your lips, and Carlos feels as if he has stepped into a dream when you slip onto your usual stool with a "Howdy handsome."

Sometimes, there's an undeniable flicker of attraction between you two when he leans across the counter to refill your drink or hands you another paper napkin. Little sparks of electricity that shoot up his arm and set fire to his veins whenever your fingers graze his. Each touch lingers, setting his pulse racing, a warmth spreading through his chest as if you've reached beneath his skin and laid bare the tender truth within his beating heart. He finds himself seeking out those moments, brushing against you ever so slightly, a fleeting contact that leaves him aching for more.

In the space between drinks and dishes and cleaning glasses, Carlos talks.

He tells you about his childhood here, growing up in the shadow of the bayou, exploring its twists and turns on lazy summer days, catching crawfish with friends. In return, you regale him with tales of life in the city, the hustle and bustle of the streets, the skyscrapers looming above and the thrumming energy of the metropolis pulsing around every corner. At first, he hangs on your every word, enraptured by the life that seems worlds away from the sleepy little town where time moves at a slower pace, but as the conversations continue, he begins to see glimpses of himself reflected in you, kindred spirits finding common ground amid the unfamiliar terrain of each other's experiences.

The shift isn't immediately obvious, but it happens gradually, as you weave your way deeper and deeper into Carlos's heart, leaving traces of yourself wherever you go. Every inch of the bar is imbued with memories of you—the stool where you always sit, the glass you use, the cocktail napkins printed with a logo that belongs to you. Even the jukebox becomes yours in a way, an extension of you, playing songs that seem tailor-made just for this moment, lyrics that encapsulate his feelings perfectly in a few brief lines. It's almost as if the universe itself is conspiring to bring you together, drawing you closer with every breath, until he's certain that fate has brought him to you, an invisible thread connecting the two of you inseparably.

Soon, it's impossible to imagine the bar without you. As customers drift in and out throughout the week, you remain steady as a compass needle pointing north, a constant presence, a shining light in the midst of the crowd. On slow nights when the only sounds are distant music and distant traffic and far-off murmurs from neighboring establishments, Carlos finds himself wandering over to you more often than usual, drawn like a moth to your flame. Your conversation flows effortlessly, natural as breathing, and it's as if you've always been together, as if you've known each other for years instead of weeks.

So yes, Carlos is very much in love.

The dark urge, however, is a presence that has him making sure that love stays unreciprocated. You being alone with him after the closing isn't helping his case.

You’re smiling, that easy, soft look that says you trust him more than you probably should, and he can barely meet your eyes. His gaze lands on the whiskey in front of you instead, the golden-brown liquid sloshing gently against the glass as you raise it to your lips, letting the edges of laughter linger on your mouth. He doesn’t know if you realize what that does to him—how every time you drink, he feels that thing growing inside, a bitter heat that coils and presses, almost possessive. His hand tightens around the rag, knuckles paling, his chest heavy as he watches, transfixed by the careless abandon with which you tip the glass back.

You’re close enough now that he can smell the faint hint of whiskey and old wood that clings to your skin, and he stiffens, gripping the bar with one hand as if to anchor himself. Your fingers tap rhythmically against the glass, and each soft patter rings loud, a drumbeat in his chest, taunting him. He tries to swallow down the impulse that has been creeping in like fog, the thing that twists in him, luring him to lean closer, to—

But he can’t. Instead, he clears his throat, and the sound comes out rough, raw. He reaches for the glass in front of you, offering a quick, forced smile as he pulls it away, watching your brow furrow in question. For a moment, he steadies, but then the scent of whiskey catches him again, stronger now that he’s lifted the glass, and something shifts beneath his skin, stirring in the silence between you.

You chuckle, the sound rich, warm, with a hint of mischief, and tease him about hogging your drink. There’s a glint in your eyes that dares him closer, dares him to push past whatever line he’s clinging to. He can’t shake the pull, the ache that seems to dig deeper, refusing to be ignored. His hand stills mid-motion, fingers tight against the glass, and the silence stretches, the weight of unsaid things pressing down until it feels as if the entire room is holding its breath.

“Maybe you’ve had enough for tonight,” he says, just a touch strained. He avoids looking at you directly, eyes drifting instead to the way your hand reaches for the glass again, fingers brushing his. A pulse races under his skin where you touch him, but it’s no longer the warmth he’s grown used to—it’s something sharper, almost painful, a need that bites as it grows.

You shrug, playfully defiant, and there’s something in that nonchalance that sends a jolt through him, like an alarm blaring deep in his mind. He pulls his hand back sharply, and the rag falls from his grip, the cloth landing on the bar with a muted thud. His breathing falters for a moment, barely a hitch, as he forces himself to meet your gaze.

The urge has gnawed at him for days now, hidden under every gentle touch, every easy laugh, until he can hardly stand the way it rises each time you come near. It’s a pull he can’t explain, an aching push and pull that twists in his stomach, darker than anything he’s ever known. The way you look at him, eyes sparkling with challenge and trust, only makes it harder, and he’s sure you don’t realize what you’re inviting, what you’re unknowingly feeding.

Carlos feels the pull again, that dark, curling need, and he’s not sure if it’s desire or something far uglier. All he knows is that it has a voice of its own now, tugging him toward you, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin. His hand drifts up, almost without his permission, fingertips hovering just a whisper away from your jaw. His breath catches in his throat, his fingers trembling as he stops himself just before touching you.

You’re waiting, eyes wide and patient, your mouth curving with that teasing edge. It’s too much—your laughter, your warmth, your very nearness, all winding tighter around the thing he’s tried to keep buried. He finds himself leaning even closer, the sharp scent of whiskey mingling with something that’s just you, and it’s intoxicating, maddening, tearing at his resolve.

“Carlos?” you murmur, a hint of curiosity in your gaze, your head tilting ever so slightly, baring just a touch more of your neck.

He shouldn’t—he knows he shouldn’t. He can feel it, the lurking darkness that’s been crawling inside him, the thing that’s been growing louder and harder to ignore. The weight of it compresses in his chest, that need clawing to the surface. He takes in a slow, steadying breath, but it doesn’t help. His hand is still hovering by your face, fingertips so close he can feel the warmth radiating from your skin.

You reach up and cover his hand with yours, your touch gentle but insistent, grounding him for just a moment. His eyes flicker down to where your fingers press against his, that small point of contact sparking something that’s both deeply familiar and painfully foreign. He feels your touch like a lifeline, pulling him back from that murky edge, and yet…something in him wants to pull you down with him.

You’re too close now, too willing, and he can’t tear his eyes from you. The silence between you grows thicker, almost electric, the tension twisting tighter and tighter. His hand finally touches your face, the pads of his fingers brushing against your jaw, and he hears a soft, involuntary gasp escape your lips. His thumb traces along your cheekbone, and he’s entranced by the way your lashes flutter, your breath catching just slightly as he leans in.

“Maybe we shouldn’t…” he says, the words almost to himself, a feeble attempt to hold onto something sane, something real. But his gaze falls to your lips, and his hand slips further, cradling the back of your neck, fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you in.

You don’t pull away, don’t push him back, and that quiet, unspoken permission unravels the last thread of his restraint. He closes the space between you, his lips grazing yours, gentle at first—a brush, a question. But the heat between you intensifies, and his control fractures, his kiss deepening with an urgency that he can’t hold back. It’s fierce, almost desperate, his hands tightening around you, pulling you flush against him as if he could lose himself in you, drown this dark, gnawing need.

But then something shifts inside him, sharp and cold, a reminder of that darker hunger. He feels it stirring, pricking at his mind, and a sudden sense of dread rises, seizing him. He pulls back, breath coming in shallow gasps, hands still tangled in your hair, his grip almost too tight as he tries to steady himself.

Carlos’s gaze drops, settling on the hollow between your collarbones, unable to face the worry in your eyes. His hands are still tangled in your hair, and he feels the slight tremor in his grip as he holds onto you—not in a gesture of intimacy but of barely controlled restraint. Something unrecognizable is clawing at the edges of his mind, and it’s harder now, almost impossible, to silence it.

“Is everything okay?” you say again, your voice softer, questioning. You reach up, fingertips grazing his jaw, urging him to look at you. That touch alone, so gentle, so unguarded, nearly undoes him. He closes his eyes, his forehead pressing against yours, a faint shiver in his breath as he fights against the relentless pull.

Your hand slips down to his chest, resting over his heartbeat, and he jolts, almost pulling back, but you hold steady, fingers splayed over his heart as if you’re trying to calm it. His heartbeat pounds beneath your hand, a rapid, frantic rhythm that betrays the chaos inside him.

“I…” He struggles, the words sticking in his throat. The confession—the truth he’s been burying under too many years of guilt and denial—feels trapped, too raw to voice. He could almost feel the words twisting inside him, like a poison, something that wants to be expelled but can’t.

But you’re patient, waiting, your thumb tracing soft circles over his chest, grounding him. There’s something in your gaze that makes him want to break down every wall, to spill every guarded, haunted piece of himself and lay it at your feet. Yet he knows, deep down, that some things—some hungers—can’t be given so freely, that they come with a cost.

He reaches up, wrapping his hand over yours on his chest, and the press of your warmth against him feels like an anchor, something to hold him steady. But it only makes the urge stronger, sharper, pressing harder against his control. His fingers squeeze yours, a little too tightly, and he opens his eyes, forcing himself to meet your gaze.

"This is a mistake," he says, the words laced with an edge that makes your brow crease, your mouth parting as if you’re about to ask him to explain. But he doesn’t give you the chance.

His hand drops from yours, and he steps back, every fiber of his being screaming at him to close the space between you again, to hold you, but he can’t. He sees the flash of hurt in your eyes, a look that cuts deeper than he expected, and he hates himself for it, hates the curse that’s twisted itself around him like barbed wire, cutting deeper each time he lets you in.

You reach for him, closing the distance, and he catches your wrist mid-reach, holding it tight as he shakes his head. “I shouldn’t…I can’t,” he breathes, and his grip on you is gentle but unyielding, his thumb brushing against the delicate skin of your wrist as if trying to memorize it.

But your other hand lifts, fingertips pressing softly against his cheek, guiding his gaze back to you. He feels the tenderness in your touch, and it’s like a soothing balm over raw wounds, a moment of calm in a storm he can’t control. Your eyes search his, full of an understanding that feels almost painful, and he can’t resist the way his gaze softens, a flicker of his humanity clinging, desperate, against the darkness.

“This can be whatever we want it to be,” you whisper, and the words hit him harder than anything he’s felt in years. His hand loosens on your wrist, and for a heartbeat, he lets himself believe it, lets himself fall into the warmth of your acceptance, as if it might be enough to stave off the thing clawing within him.

But just as he thinks he might be able to pull himself back, that whistling—the dark, insistent voice inside him—surges up, drowning out everything. His vision sharpens, and his grip tightens once more, the gentleness fading as something colder, hungrier, takes over.

The rain hammers against the cracked glass panes, a drumbeat that fills the room, drowning out every other sound. The light is dim, flickering, casting long shadows that stretch across the walls and disappear into the corners, filling them with darkness thick enough to touch. Carlos stands there, just a few feet away from you, his chest heaving in time with the relentless rhythm of the rain.

But then, the whistle. Faint, distant, barely there—but unmistakable.

It’s that same sound, the one that’s haunted him his entire life, lingering on the edge of his senses, a presence he could never quite shake. And yet, as he stands here, with you so close, it begins to slip further and further away, fading into the deep, unyielding silence that fills the room. His heart lurches, and a sickening clarity dawns on him.

The whistle wasn’t a warning. It was a countdown.

Each time it faded, each time it slipped further from his awareness, it wasn’t retreating; it was sinking deeper, threading itself through his veins, embedding itself in his very bones. He feels it now, that dark presence, not as something outside himself but as something within, something that has been waiting, patient and quiet, for this very moment.

His hands move of their own accord, lifting to grip your shoulders, his fingers digging in just a little too hard, and he can feel your body tense under his touch. He tries to pull back, to release you, but his grip only tightens, his hands betraying him, clinging to you with a hunger that terrifies him. The darkness, that ever-present shadow, uncoils within him, stretching out like a beast waking from a long slumber, and he can feel it sinking its claws into his mind, taking hold of every rational thought and twisting it into something primal, something dangerous.

You’re staring up at him, your eyes wide, a flicker of fear breaking through the warmth he’s come to know, and that fear—it cuts through him like a knife, sharp and relentless, but it only makes him hold on tighter. He wants to tell you to run, to shove him away, to leave before it’s too late, but the words die in his throat, swallowed up by the darkness that now pulses in time with his heartbeat, a rhythm that drowns out everything else.

“Talk to me…” you call to him through the haze, filled with confusion and worry, and he can see the way your gaze searches his face, looking for the man you know, the man you trust.

But he’s not there. Not anymore.

He feels it then, the final crack, the last piece of his humanity slipping away as that darkness consumes him whole. His hands slide up from your shoulders to your throat, his fingers curling around the delicate skin, and he feels the frantic pulse beneath his fingertips, quickening as he tightens his grip. You struggle, hands pushing against his chest, your breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps, but he can’t stop, can’t pull away. The urge, the need, the insatiable hunger—it’s all he knows now, all he’s ever been. He gives himself over to it completely, surrendering to the darkest depths of his own mind, the reality warping around him, dissolving into fragments of images and sounds and emotions that mean nothing to him. Everything blurs together, swirling around him in a haze of confusion, as he squeezes harder.

Your hand finally finds his wrist, fingers wrapping tightly, digging into his flesh, trying to pry his grip away from your throat, but it's useless. He's too strong, too determined, and there's nothing you can do to stop him as he chokes the life from you with ruthless efficiency, pinning you against the countertop behind you, your heels scraping futilely against the floorboards. Tears sting at the corners of your eyes as you look up at him, searching for some trace of the man you knew, some spark of compassion, but all you see is emptiness. The kindness, the warmth, the connection that drew you to him—they're gone, replaced by cold indifference as he stares down at you, his eyes empty and blank as if watching from another place or time.

There's no remorse in those eyes, no trace of human emotion, only an endless, hollow void that seems to stare straight through you as if you aren't really there. With each passing second, the pressure on your throat becomes more intense, your vision swimming, black spots dancing across your field of view as you struggle to draw a breath. You cling to his wrists, hoping he might somehow come to his senses, but there's nothing left in him to reason with. Every ragged gasp is agony, burning through your lungs like fire, sending shivers of pain shooting through your nerves.

His fingers dig deeper into your flesh, constricting tighter, crushing the life from you like a vice. Your grip slackens, falling limply to your sides as the last of your strength drains away. A dull ringing fills your ears, the world fading into a blurred haze of color and sound, the edges of your vision closing in with each labored beat of your heart.

A shudder rolls through you, violent and involuntary, and a low moan escapes your lips as your consciousness frays, collapsing inward, your mind drifting, tethered to reality by mere threads. You fight to hold on, grasping at fragments of memory, flashes of faces, sounds of laughter, the smell of home...but they slip through your fingers like sand, each moment fleeting, disintegrating into nothingness as you sink into the dark abyss of oblivion.

And when it's over, when Carlos has his control back and wrenches himself away from you like you've burned him, he collapses onto his knees on the hard wooden floor, gripping fistfuls of his hair and yanking until his scalp burns. Your lifeless body slides down the counter with a sickening thud, landing next to him with a disturbing finality. His eyes fixate on your bruised neck, on his finger marks embedded in the tender skin, and bile rises in his throat, bitter and acrid, burning as it spills across his tongue and stains the floorboards beneath him.

A strangled noise escapes him, half a sob, half a gasp, as he forces himself to look at you. The shape of you, the familiar curve of your face, the way your hair falls over your cheek—it’s all so familiar, and yet now, so unbearably wrong. There’s no movement, no gentle rise and fall of your chest, no spark in your eyes, nothing to tell him that you’re still there, that there’s still something left to save.

He reaches out, his fingers grazing the curve of your cheek, the soft warmth gone, replaced by a chilling stillness that seeps into his bones. A low, keening sound builds in his throat, raw and broken, the kind of sound that has no place in the world, born only from the shattering of something once whole. He rocks back, his hands pressing against his chest as if he could tear the ache from his heart, the crushing weight of guilt, of horror, pressing down on him, stealing the very breath from his lungs.

“No… no, no, no…” The words fall from his lips, barely more than a whisper, a futile denial of the truth lying in front of him. He can feel it clawing at him, the realization sinking its teeth into his mind, tearing away the last remnants of sanity, of hope. You’re gone, and he… he’s the reason why.

He presses his hands to his face, digging his fingers into his temples, as if he could claw the memories from his mind, erase the image of you, the feel of you, the sound of your voice, the way you looked at him—trusting, open, full of a love he didn’t deserve. He can’t bear it, the weight of it, the knowledge that he had destroyed something precious, something irreplaceable.

Carlos buries his face in his hands, rocking gently back and forth, muttering incoherently under his breath. The tears come then, hot and salty, streaming down his face in a steady flood of grief. They gather in pools at his palms, dampening the skin there, mixing with the blood caked in the cracks and grooves of his hands. His body is soon wracked by sobs, violent and unrestrained, ripping through him, consuming every shred of self-control he had, a full-blown panic attack coming as quickly as a bullet wound.

His hands drop from his face, reaching out blindly, as if searching for some reassurance, some anchor in the chaos that swirls inside him, but finding none. Instead, they curl around your fallen form, pulling you toward him, cradling you against his chest. Your head rests limply against his shoulder, your eyes closed, your lips parted slightly, and in that moment, he would give anything, anything at all to see you look at him again, to hear you laugh again, to touch you without fear.

There's the whistle again.

Faint, distant, barely there—but unmistakably real. And it sends a shiver through Carlos unlike any he had ever felt.

An agonized howl rips free from his throat, echoing off the walls of the empty bar, reverberating through his core, vibrating through every muscle, bone, sinew, blood vessel. His limbs seize up, stiffening, his jaw clenched tightly shut. There's no relief from the terror coursing through him. Nothing but that deafening silence, broken only by his ragged, labored breathing and the frantic beating of his own heart.He can feel something slipping away, something vital, something that was once his. It’s as if a part of him is unraveling, fraying at the edges, and he's being pulled under.

Down.

Down.

Down.

And under.

Buried and suffocated and erased and undone, fragmented.

Down.

Down.

Down.

And under.

And when he resurfaces, he’s left looking around and suddenly not recognizing where he is.

He doesn't recognize the dead body. He doesn't know the name of this person. He doesn't even know his name, now that he thinks about it.

His body stills as that whistle fills the hollow spaces, the void where his soul once resided. His mind goes blank, gaze dulling as he stares at you, unblinking, unfeeling, the warmth in his eyes fading to a chilling emptiness, a cold, unyielding stare that holds no trace of the man he once was.

He wants the bones.

Slowly, almost mechanically, he reaches out, his fingers brushing against the bones that lie beneath your skin, the delicate structure of your wrist, your collarbone, the framework that once held you together, that gave shape to the person he had loved. His touch is cold, unfeeling, a ghost of what it once was, as his fingers bypasses the skin and slides in the wet cavity of your chest, your skin is entirely like the surface of water, rippling as his hand moves around to feel at the bones.

He moves with a purpose, a ritualistic precision, his hands working methodically as he collects each bone, each piece of you, as if driven by a compulsion he cannot ignore, a need that transcends reason, that consumes him whole. There’s no hesitation, no faltering in his movements, as if he’s done this a thousand times before, as if it’s as natural as breathing, as essential as the very blood that flows through his veins.

As he gathers the last of your bones and stashes them in a bag that probably belongs to this dead person, leaving only an undisturbed skin suit behind, a single tear slips down his cheek. "Huh. Why am I crying?"

But he doesn’t linger to find out. He stands up, turns around, gaze fixed on the night beyond outside of the bar, his steps steady, unfeeling, as he walks away, disappearing into the night, a shadow among shadows, a spirit bound to the bones he carries, to the life he’s taken, to the love he’s destroyed.

And as he fades away into the night like smoke dissipating, the faintest echo of a whistle fills the air.

Alright, here’s one you probably haven’t heard before. Most folks know the story of El Silbón as the ghost of a young man who killed his own father, doomed to carry his bones forever as punishment. But in some places—quiet little towns that don’t like talking about these things too loud—the story goes a little differently.

This version? El Silbón wasn’t some furious son. He was a man in love. Head-over-heels, heart-on-his-sleeve, can’t-breathe-without-her kind of love. They call her La Amada now—The Beloved—though whatever her real name was, it’s been long forgotten. She was beautiful, they say, with a voice like rain after a dry spell and a laugh that could warm a cold night. And fond of her liquor too, that part is important, remember it. 

But there’s a thin line between love and jealousy, and El Silbón crossed it. One night, in a jealous rage, he thought she’d betrayed him. No proof, just that dark little whisper in the back of his mind, eating away at him. He confronted her, couldn’t listen to reason, and before either of them knew it, his hands were around her throat. 

Since that night, he’s been cursed. Instead of moving on, he’s stuck here, lugging her bones around in a sack, doomed to carry the memory of what he did. He’s restless, they say, wandering the fields and the empty roads at night, his whistle carrying on the wind, low and hollow. They say he’s searching, though for what, no one’s sure. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe revenge. Maybe he doesn’t know himself. Mainly targeting drunkards and sucking the alcohol in their blood stems from him seeking La Amada out in any way possible in this interpretation, I'm guessing. 

Now here’s where it gets tricky: if you’re out at night and you hear that whistle, pay attention. If it sounds close by, you’re safe. But if it’s far off, echoing out there in the distance? That means he’s close. Too close.

There are folks who swear they’ve seen him, a shadow with a sack over his shoulder, wandering in search of something he’ll never find, collecting bones along the way obsessively and stopping to count them whenever he can. So if you ever catch that low whistle on the wind, don’t stop. Don’t look back. Just keep moving, and hope that sack of bones he’s carrying doesn’t end up yours.

Written by Isabel Martín

Isabel is a researcher and folklore enthusiast based in Caracas, Venezuela. She spends her free time exploring myths, local ghost stories, and forgotten legends of Latin America. When she’s not knee-deep in folklore, she’s probably hiking, photographing old towns, or reading by candlelight. If you’ve got your own eerie encounter or local ghost story, drop a comment below or reach out on social media—she’d love to hear it!

[joels-shitty-puns]

The Snacks of Us

Pairing: No-Outbreak!Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Texas-native Joel finds out you've never been to a Buc-ee's and needs to fix it immediately. That's it.

Warnings: Just fluff! Kisses. Pet names.

Other stuff: Reader is addressed as her, but most other descriptions are avoided. Joel is taller than the reader. Can be read as plus-sized, but not mentioned.

Word count: 1.1K

I went to Buc-ee's today and my imagination ran wild. Do with this what you will lol

__________

"Whaddya mean y'ain't never been to a Buc-ee's?" Joel asked, incredulously.

"Joel, I'm not from Texas. How the hell would I know what Buc-ee's is?" You replied.

"Y'don't even know what it is!? That's it. Grab your purse, darlin'. We're gettin' you to a Buc-ee's." 

"Have you noticed your accent slips out more when you're all worked up about Texas things, Joel? It's cute."

"No, I haven't. Now, let's go. You're gonna love it. It's the biggest gas station y'ever seen." His eyes grew wide and he demonstrated the vastness of Buc-ee's with his arms.

"Wait… it's a GAS STATION? You're taking me to a gas station for our date?" You raised your brow at your boyfriend.

"Just trust me, darlin'. You'll love it." He pulled you by your hips and placed a kiss on your reluctant mouth.

You sighed. "Hmm… fine. But can we at least get lunch while we're out?" You batted your eyelashes.

"Course. What do you think we're doin' at Buc-ee's?" He winked.

"Joel!" You gasped. "I am NOT eating some shriveled up gas station hot dog that's been sitting out all day." Your mouth gaped open and you crossed your arms.

"Just trust me!" He grabbed you by your waist, hoisting you over his shoulder.

"Joel!!!" You squealed, giggling and smacking his back. "Put me down! You're gonna hurt your back! I'm too heavy."

"Please, sugar. You weigh less'n my work equipment," he smacked you on the butt.

You scoffed, "yeah right."

Joel set you in the passenger seat of his truck. "Well, y'are. At least until we fill y'up with some beaver nuggets," he winked, giving your belly an affectionate pat and closing the door.

"Beaver nuggets???? Joel! What is that?" You laughed as he rounded the truck toward the driver's side.

_____

Joel pulled the truck into the Buc-ee's parking lot. 

"This. Is.. a gas station?!" You stared, mentally counting the amount of gas pumps and eyeing the giant building with a large beaver on the wall.

"Told'ya to keep an open mind! Let's go," he hopped out of the truck.

The two of you walked in and your mind was blown. They had everything, all with a cute little beaver on the label.

Buc-ee's chips. Candy. Cookies. Fudge. Sandwiches. Coffee. Every soda imaginable. Beaver nuggets, which Joel grabbed two bags of.

He pushed a cart as you ran around like a kid at Christmas. "Babe! Look at this cute little Buc-ee plushie!"

"I know, darlin'. I told'ya you'd like this store." He smiled affectionately at you. You tossed the stuffed beaver into the cart.

"Whoa, whoa, Sugar. Our house can't hold many more stuffed animals, it's practically oozing fluff as we speak."

"Oh shush, Joel. I need him," you said while throwing two sets of matching Buc-ee pajamas in the cart.

"Two?" He raised an eyebrow, looking at the tags.

"One for you. One for me," you kissed his cheek, skipping merrily toward the hoodies.

Joel shook his head, too lovesick to object to the matching flannel pajamas covered in cartoon beavers.

An older gentleman walked past Joel and gave a look from Joel with the cart, to you holding up several hoodies and comparing. "First time?" The old man laughed.

"Unfortunately," Joel rolled his eyes, laughing. "I underestimated her shopping ability when I decided to take her here."

"Been there," the old man pointed to an older lady, presumably his wife. "I'm Arthur." He shook hands with Joel. "My wife Marlene and I have been comin' here for years and she's the same way." He looked at her lovingly. "You two remind me a lot of us when we were younger. You make a lovely couple."

Joel smiled and looked over at you, where the older woman, Marlene, had walked up and began talking to you. Your smile lit up, and the old lady clapped her hands together once, excitedly helping you decide between two sweatshirts. Your eyes found Joel and you both shared a smile. 

Joel looked back at the old man and grinned. "Thank you, sir. She's definitely a keeper." The old man patted Joel on the shoulder, leaving to meet up with his wife and kissing her on the cheek as they walked away.

You scampered over to Joel, holding up both hoodies. "I couldn't decide, so Marlene suggested I get both," you giggled.

Joel rolled his eyes, unable to stop the smile on his face. "Alright, throw 'em in the cart. But we better get outta here before I have to take out a loan."

"Thank you for taking me here, baby. I had a lot of fun, and I'm sorry I gave you a hard time earlier," you pulled his collar, lowering his face so you could kiss him on the lips.

"Anytime, sugar. I'll never get tired of seeing that smile." He kissed you back, rubbing his thumb across your cheek.

"Now, whaddya say we go grab a couple sandwiches and sodas, then head back and watch movies in these matching pajamas the rest of the day," Joel suggested.

You nodded excitedly, thrilled with your boyfriend's willingness to participate in your shenanigans. "YES!"

Joel headed towards the checkout counter, struggling to reel you in from looking at more merch. He already took out a large deposit for the ring hidden in his dresser drawer, and this was easily going to cost at least a hundred more.

The two of you walked to the truck, him smacking you on the butt as you climbed in the passenger seat while he held the door open. Shaking his head, he thinks back to the older couple. How Arthur said you reminded him of them in their younger days. Sitting in the driver's seat, he smiled at you, taking in your features.

"What?" You asked, giggling and running your hand through the curls by his ear. 

"Nothin' darlin'. Just thinking about us and how much I love you," he smiled.

"I love you too, Joel" you pressed a kiss to his lips, running your hand down to his neck and pulling him in deeper.

"Thank you again for today," you grinned, pulling away.

"Anytime, Sugar. There'll be plenty more where that came from," he replied, stealing a quick glance at your empty ring finger. Maybe tonight will be the night, he thought.

"Think we'll ever be like Arthur and Marlene?" You asked him, taking a slight risk at the question of your future while interlacing your fingers with his right hand.

He looked over at you, kissing your knuckles. "I hope so, Sunshine." He kissed your ring finger. "I hope so."

___________

So anyway, yeah I might have a problem lol. But I hope you liked this. Let me know what you think ❤️ thanks for reading.

[bts-0t-7]

Slithered | JJK | Chapter 1

Pair: Mafia Jungkook x F Reader 

Summary: Jungkook was wandering the streets in the middle of the night and coincidentally passed the little flower shop you work at. Due to your odd working hours, you don’t have much socialising on a daily basis much less customers. So just imagine your shock when a handsome man, clad in all black, entered your shop in the ungodly hours of the night. Never would you have thought that the polar opposite of the worlds would collide and cause such a trouble. 

Genre: Fluff, mafia au, soft reader 

Chapter Warnings: mild violence, mildly creepy JK watching reader close up shop (if anybody does this irl, please smack the living shit out of them. Stay safe!), rape (I won’t go much into detail of this during the scene but it is implied. Do not be insensitive on this topic. For those who are sensitive on this, please do not continue reading)

A/N: Bold is for flashback.

WC: 2579

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Jungkook didn’t know how he ended up in an alley that sells flowers in the dead of the night and neither did he know why he was here. He was taking a stroll in, spending some time to himself when he smelt the citrus scents of the flowers, following them to where it currently led him. Most of the flower shops in this area are closed for the night or temporarily not receiving walk-in customers. 

However, there are some shops where they are open and busy. There may be no customers in the shop but orders seem to be piling on the desks where the arrangements are made. Jungkook spotted a swift-moving medium, constantly running from place to place in the shop. He stopped right outside it. The interior was made in a way where the arrangements of flowers made the whole shop seem like a home. 

A home full of plants.

But even from outside, Jungkook could clearly see the neat arrangements and lining of the labels. You, on the other hand, were running around the shop, trying to get the necessary flowers and stocks to make the last arrangement before the driver arrived and collected them. This project was big on money and your boss would be furious if you were to ‘fuck it up for him’.

Jungkook entered the shop, doorbell chiming as he pushed open the door. Your head whipped up from your working station, instantly greeting him at the front door. 

“Hello! Welcome to Fior Arrangements!” You chirped. It may be two in the morning but you worked the night shift while your other colleagues work the morning and evening shifts. Most of them did not want to work night shifts so you took on the initiative. 

Not that you minded. 

You never had much of a social life due to your personality and you had always been quite a night owl. Most of the time, there were fewer people at night, which means that packaging orders would be easier than in the daytime. 

“Hello.” The young man bowed. 

“What brings you here?” You asked, honestly curious as to why a man wearing a full suit with a coat over, would come in the middle of the night. Anybody could see that he was stocked.  His boots were, his hair slicked back, and the material of his clothes looked soft to the touch. “Any flowers in mind? 

He shook his head. 

“Well, every flower has a meaning.” You pointed to the labels on the walls. These are the names and meanings of the flowers. Feel free to look around and call me if you need help!” 

Jungkook nodded at you. 

As he walked around, reading the labels, he spied a few blurry-looking men walking into the shop. Instinctively, his hand shot to the gun hidden under the lapels of his jacket only for you to cheerily greet them. It shot a pang of jealousy through him.

Why was he jealous? He just met you!

Jungkook silently shook his head to clear his thoughts. With half his attention to his surroundings, he overheard the conversation between you and the men. You seemed to know them very well, conversations easily flowing between you. 

“Yep! There are more at the back. You know where that is.” You laughed and Jungkook’s heart felt like it stopped. And started. And stopped and started again. It was so pure and melodious that he would do anything to keep you laughing like that. 

“How are your kids, Peng?” 

“Not too bad. Just refusing to study as usual.” The guy in the black shirt and oversized jeans told you. 

“I mean… It’s kids these days. Plus, I’m sure when we were at their age we didn’t want to study either.” You snickered. 

Peng laughed. “True, true. Very true.”

The four men spotted Jungkook walking towards the cashier as you signed the papers and stamped them. Handing them the customer copy, you waved them goodbye and finally headed over to Jungkook. 

“Hiya, need help?”

Jungkook nodded. 

“Well, what is the occasion?” You asked. 

Jungkook didn’t come here for a specific reason. In fact, he didn’t even come up with a reason. So he just shrugged and answered, “Just wanted something calming in the house. It’s far too empty.”

That could by far be the worst lie he ever came up with. 

But all you did was nod and head over to the pails of flowers, picking up stock after stock. You then carefully cut off some of the stems and plucked some leaves, arranging them in a glass bottle. Your body covered most of the work at times and Jungkook stayed at where he stood. He didn’t want to spoil the surprise for himself. 

You didn’t take long, expert hands moving nimbly to arrange the flowers prettily. You turned over to him with the glass bottle in front of you, walking over to give it to him. 

“How’s it?” Jungkook could see that you were nervous. The little ticks of indication like the furrows of your brows and wringing of your fingers behind your back. 

“Do you always do this for customers?” Jungkook gently smelt the flowers. Lavender was the most prominent scent. 

His favourite and you didn’t even need to ask. The scents weren’t strong and it did was already doing wonders to calm him. 

You looked back at him, humming and shaking your head. “Just you and a few other more privileged customers. Seems like you’re one of them on the list now.”

Your eyes sparkled as you turned to him. Perhaps you knew the brands he wore or perhaps you guessed that he was more than rich. But as he brought out his card to pay, you declined him. 

“No need. You looked like you needed this. So it’s on the house.” Your smile was blinding and at that moment, Jungkook knew that he would have you even if it took years and years. He would protect you. 

You were closing up that day. Usually, the shop is 24 hours and the next colleague of yours who would be doing the morning shift would be the one to clean up the place. However, it was a public holiday and the flower shop was closed. Your boss had given all employees two days’ break so after your shift, you had to tidy up and ensure that all the flowers are placed in their exact locations a the back of the store so that they do not wilt by the time the shop re-opens. 

Honestly, you couldn’t be happier. While your job was fairly simple and relaxed, going without a day’s break even on the weekends can truly drain your energy. You don’t have much time to yourself and it can affect you when you are overloaded with your senses. 

Turning off the lights, you shut the door and lock it, the door code being with an indication that it has been locked. Scanning your surroundings and patting yourself down, you hummed, glad that you did not forget anything. 

As you started to walk back home, you felt an eerie feeling in your gut. One that warns you that something is most certainly not right. The hair on your neck started to stand as you got goosebumps, making a sharp 180-degree turn to walk back to the store. You were instinctively aware that there were more than three pairs of footsteps following you. And every time you sped up or slowed down, they would keep the same pace.

So you did the next best thing your overdriven brain thought. 

You ran. 

Jungkook was driving his car up the little hill to visit the flower store. He wasn’t sure if you were still on shift then. He knew from silently watching you the past few days that your shift ends at five in the morning. And currently, the time was 5.30 am. 

The road got too narrow for Jungkook to continue driving up so he threw his car into parking mode and left. 

He was only going to take a while. 

But as he got out of the car, he sensed that something was wrong. The air did not feel right and as much as he wished that his sensitivity would not follow him when he was off work, life has its way of throwing stones at him. 

A shrill scream broke him out of his trance. If it was anybody else’s scream he probably would have just continued with his plans and walked up the the store. But he recognised the voice - the sound. 

Yours. 

Your scream - filled with terror and pain. 

Without thinking, Jungkook ran towards the approximated direction where he had heard you. Your second scream for help was abruptly cut off making him pump his legs and arms faster. He didn’t want to think of all the horrid things that you might be going through right now. He needed to get to you. 

Jungkook came to a stop the moment he saw you, held by your throat, against the wall. Your hair and clothes were in a mess, eyes bloodshot, and valuables strewn everywhere. But the most avergrating thing was the six males standing there, choking you as tears streamed down your cheeks, laughing. 

Blood rushed to his head. 

How dare they. 

How dare they touch you. 

Jungkook didn’t care for consequences as he pounced on the men. 

You tried to run but they were too fast and too silent for you. You were pinned against the wall and stripped down against your own will. 

“Now pretty lady, how about I do the talking and you do the answering?” 

You didn’t want to but all you could do was struggle and struggle as they manhandled your body, stripping you bare of your own dignity. You cried and struggled as they took their turns, your body betraying you.

“Hey now, why are you crying, pretty?” They laughed, gagging you. “You’re enjoying it, see?”

Tears streamed down your face. You weren’t. You weren’t. 

And yet, you knew that nobody was going to come help you. To come stop these men from doing more than they already did. You were so close - so close - to resigning to your fate when you were suddenly dropped to the ground. 

Too tired to keep your eyes fully open, you watched through hooded lids as a mass of black pounded onto the males. You should’ve been scared - you should’ve cowered back, pleading with him to not come for you as well - but you didn’t. 

Especially as that mass of black picked you up into his arms, snarling and hissing words that seemed incoherent to you, you felt safe. Perhaps it was the adrenaline doing the job but you curled yourself deeper into him. His hands were gentle, unlike the ones that handled you earlier. These hands were calloused - probably seeing worse days as they skimmed over your naked body - but they were respectful. They did not venture where the rest did and you found yourself wrapped up in a jacket before being lifted up once again. 

Unable to keep your eyes open any longer, your head rolled to the side as you blacked out. 

Jungkook has seen many things in his short life. Twenty-six years and he has seen death one too many times.  But nothing has scared him more than seeing you black out and going limp in his arms. Pressing two fingers on your neck, Jungkook confirmed that you were still breathing. In shock you most certainly were but now Jungkook needed to bring you home and he did not know your address. So the next best thing was to bring you to his home. 

As Jungkook’s black Mercedes Benz GT63S pulled up to the front lawn, he hurried out, passing the car keys to the butler and carrying you into the house. 

In the midst of the whole case, it completely slipped his mind to inform his family that he was bringing somebody home. All he had done was hurriedly call the group’s private doctor, not caring what the guy was up to. 

“Kook, what the hell! You can’t just bring a random person home like this!”

“Oh shit -”

“Fuck that girl is naked!”

“Jeon Jungkook, what the shit is wrong with you?”

“Did you fuck a girl out?”

“JUNGKOOK!”

Jungkook couldn’t be bothered. He’ll explain later. Right now, he needed the doctor to check you over and ensure that other than the physical and psychological trauma you’re going to have once you wake up, you were fine otherwise. 

“A little bit of a bump on the back of her head, scratch marks and bruises. That’s about all.” The doctor placed some pills on Jungkook’s bedside table. “I suggest you give these to her, twice a day after meals. Antibiotics. You can give her paracetamol if needed. Ensure that she is kept hydrated.”

Jungkook thanked the doctor and leaned over to cover you with the sheets when the doctor stopped him. “It would be best to clean her up first.”

With that, the doctor left, leaving the six men standing at the threshold of his bedroom door. They watched as he got a few clothes, cleaning you up, making sure to use soft cloths so that you would not wake from the oversensitivity. Only after Jungkook deemed you clean enough did he take out his silk pyjamas and tug them over you. 

The boys had silently excused themselves, only leaving Jimin as he helped Jungkook dress and tuck you into bed. Closing the curtains, he turned off the lights, leaving the moonlight on so that the room would not be encased in total darkness with the possibility of scaring you if you woke up without him there. 

Jungkook knew that the topic at hand would not be easy to talk about and he most certainly knows that he was in the wrong as well. Well, a little bit in the wrong. 

He would never apologise for bringing a person in need home, much less you. So as Jimin and he entered the living room, the boys were all seated, faces holding stoic glares. 

“Jungkook -” Hobi hyung started. 

“She works at the flower shop. She was the one I told you about - the reason why my room has a glass of flowers.”

“Still, you cannot just bang her up and -”

“She was raped.”

The silence in the room was pregnant and suddenly everybody’s breathing sounded too loud. 

“I parked the car in the middle of the hill as it was getting too narrow for me to pass through. I couldn’t get there fast enough. By the time I reached, she was already taken.” Jungkook harshly rubbed his face with his hands. He wished that he could’ve been there earlier - faster. If only work hadn’t kept him up, the whole situation wouldn’t even have happened. 

A soft hand landed on his shoulder, patting him gently. “Don’t beat yourself over it, Kook. It was good that you made it there.”

“But I couldn’t stop her from -” His throat choked up. He just couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. 

“Some things are inevitable.” He looked up from his crouched position to look at Namjoon Hyung. “What matters is that you got there.”

Jungkook nodded. 

“I think today was more than enough of a fulfilling night. Let’s go to bed.” Seokjin Hyung called out and grunts of agreement were heard as everybody got to their feet. 

[skazoo]

fire to the rain.

↳ min yoongi x f!reader x jung hoseok

a crime lord, a mental hospital escapee, and a sociopath detective enter a bar.

length. 2.3k

genre. angst, thriller!au?? i REALLY don't know how to label this, agust d and jack do their own thing ig

warnings/tags. language, mention of mental illnesses, murder, arson, implied organized crime, dark themes overall. in this fic's seoul mental hospitals still exist, like arkham asylum/ahs: asylum stile idk it doesn't really serve anything but i imagined it this way.

networks. @kflixnet k-labels

notes. i finally get to publish this fic after soso long can i get an hallelujah?!?! also jack and agust d need to be in a movie together i really need it.

last but not least infinite thanks to the best beta reader i could ask for <3 @l00pyluluo7 MY angel 🫶🏼

hope you like it!

i'm desperate for feedback and i love comments with your opinion!

(cross-posted on ao3 only)

navigation

a crime lord, a mental hospital escapee, and a sociopath detective enter a bar.

you think back to yesterday and you have a hard time recognizing which part of the so-called joke is funny but it was one of the rare times yoongi laughed when hoseok said it so you guess it’s just a you problem.

rain falls relentlessly on seoul’s concrete streets, the raindrops biting into your skin like needles. you walk slowly, hands in your pockets and the hood of your jacket pulled over your head, almost covering your vision. you let your eyes scan the dark alley you’re about to enter, but you see nothing other than a few plastic bags from the restaurant in the front of the building and a stray cat looking for something to eat.

according to the message you received in the dead of night from a —ironically— familiar unknown number, the meet-up is supposed to happen early in the morning but as of right now the sky is dark, the rising sun completely hidden behind a thick layer of ominous clouds. a milky mist bathes the city that has yet to wake up in a gray hue and morning seems nowhere to be seen. 

you grimace. 

if anyone were to ask you, seoul doesn’t deserve anything. 

the freezing cold in winter, the scorching hot summer, the rancid smell, its unforgiving nature, the city you were born in has never done anything for you. not when you grew up in foster care, not when you were denied the same opportunities as your peers because of your ‘slightly disturbing’ nature, not when you joined the police. if anyone were to ask you, in all the years you’ve been alive, seoul has never shown kindness and you’ve come to the point you’d rather see it burn than be a silent victim of its cruel ways. 

no one ever asked you, though. not until you met him first and the other second.

they knew what you were talking about when you told them what went on inside of you and be it in loneliness or personal gain, they enabled you in the only way they knew how. with gasoline. setting fire to the rain.

the phone in your hand says it’s 5:26am. you still have time.

you fish for the unopened pack of cigarettes in your pockets. 

it’s weird how the first thing you think about is sergeant kim and his passionate hate for your addiction. sergeant kim and the conversation you had almost four hours ago.

his voice was a quiet thing when he found you outside of the police station when it still wasn’t raining.  

“detective L/N.”

“sergeant kim.”

“the fires are getting more frequent.”

you let the smoke wash soothingly over your lungs. kept it there before lazily pushing it out. “they are.”

he stood in silence, leaning on the other side of the door, looking at you with a grave frown.

“it’s dangerous, detective.”

you buried yourself further into your jacket and turned your head in his direction, a minimal movement that spurred him to go on.

“and it’s arson,” voice low as he looked around the outside of the station. it was late. uncharacteristically so for him but your case must have been keeping him up at night more than you thought it would. maybe you underestimated his love for the job or his fear for his failures, you don’t know. you don’t particularly care either.

“i thought we’d already agreed on it when we took the case, sergeant. it is malicious. it is arson.”

he frowned and shook his head.

you’ve noticed he often gets these fits of frustration in which he struggles to make you understand exactly how certain things make him feel, as if he needs to explain the reason he’s not comfortable. you think he does it unconsciously but you wonder if sometimes he catches a glimpse of what goes on in your head and his desperation it’s just him trying with all his might to pull you away from something you both know is not pretty. something he knows would put a premature end to whatever relationship he created between the two of you. 

“it’s murder,” just above a whisper. “Y/N, we’re looking for a single man, a madman, a psychopath that uses the same brand of matches every time he burns something down but i’m starting to think it might be a group? do you think it could be possible? i just can’t think about the actions of a single person causing so much pain i–”

“what? so it would take this case from having a chilling lack of ethics to just being ethically questionable? would it make you sleep better at night?”

he stared at you as you let out another puff of smoke that curled around itself and vanished in the night air. it smelled like rain. you thought you saw a gust of lighting from behind a building.

“Y/N, i’m worried about this. i’m worried about you.”

that was a weird thing to hear, naive too, you thought.

sergeant kim namjoon. you’ve known him for years. polite, respectful, driven, maybe too driven. your partner in this last case. he took a particular liking to you after you helped him catch an abuser his first year of being sergeant and as much as it was inexplicable to you it was very easy for him to consider you in no time something more than a mere coworker, a friend, even. you realized with time that he craved human connections no one around the station or the city was eager to give him and he found in your uninterested passivity a sign of acceptance of a new friendship. but you don’t think he’s the clueless, clumsy man he portrays himself to be most of the time. you think he’s just a person who’s so desperate that he’d turn a blind eye, a deaf ear to the wolf in sheep’s clothing working alongside him if it meant he could keep someone close to his pathetically lonely heart. you think he’d be considered wretched and rotten and insane just like the rest of you.

when you didn’t answer he shook his head again. a slow hand passed over his tired face as if to wash away the stuff of nightmares you both have to work with.

“whatever organization or– or crazy person– i don’t know but whoever is doing this knows we’re looking for them. you and i, Y/N. and i’m used to your indifference but i’m worried you’re not taking this seriously. they’re getting closer, i can feel their eyes everywhere i go and i–  this group is–” 

“sergeant…”

he squeezed his eyes shut. to avoid tears from falling from his watery eyes? to ground himself in the shitty reality he’s cursed to live in?

“will you ever call me by my name?”

fuck, he really was naive. still is. always will be.

“sergeant,” you smiled more to yourself than anything but you saw him clinging to it as if it was his lifeline. “don’t compromise yourself over things you wish were true because they’re easier to come to terms with.” he hung from your words. he alway does. “don’t compromise yourself. you’re all you have, sergeant.”

on that occasion you don’t know why you said those words if to really speak to him and reassure him or to drive him away from your business. you just know you did and it seemed to free him of something and burden you of something else. you just know that sergeant kim namjoon passes through your mind numerous times in the weeks that follow the conversation.

you’re walking further in the alley when you’re forced back to the rainy present by the sound your ears capture in the drowsy silence of the early morning. you take off your hood to listen.

someone is following you. you can hear their footsteps, speeding when you are speeding, slowing down when you do the same. you stop in place. you can feel their presence, hear their breathing, their arms stretching out towards you, a hand coming from behind and reaching out. 

a single lit match floats in front of you held by a bodiless fingers.

“surprise.” barely audible, whispered into your neck.

your mouth pulls into a small smile as you stretch your neck to light the cigarette you’re keeping between your lips.

“it’s 5:37.”

a silent kiss is placed on the exposed skin between your jacket and your hair.

“i know.”

“you’re late.” you muse. a drag of the cigarette and you gently blow the smoke in the dark in front of you.

the voice talking to you finally gets a face when the man behind you slowly circles you. he lets his hands travel from your shoulder to your waist as he comes standing in front of you. his eyes are crinkled with glee, his usually mischievous grin softens when he sees how you’re looking at him: amusement hidden by a thin veil of annoyance.

he takes your face in his hands, a rough thumb swipes over your cheekbone. the smell of sulfur hides his usually earthly perfume. 

“seven minutes, love.”

“seven minutes late.”

he huffs out a laugh and lets his hands pass through the wet strands of his hair.

he looks good even with ash in them and eye bags under his eyes. 

it makes you feel weird when you think about these things. when you find yourself admiring him as if you’ve finally found something worthy in the pool of mediocrity you’ve been swimming in since you can remember. it never occurred to you that people —insipid, dull, hypocritical— could make you feel like you didn’t want the world to end anymore. 

they both made you change that about yourself and at first it was alarming how quickly you fell into them. you don’t know what it was but for the first time, you felt seen. not understood or full, no they couldn’t do that with you just as much you couldn’t understand or fill them, but you were visible. you were there, and they were too.

hoseok lazily looks around the dark alley one last time before taking your hand in his and gently pulling you along inside the building, to the flights of stairs that take you to the roof. 

you know that with his silence he’s giving you the time to come back to yourself, to hide again what you know he’s already seen time and time again. it’s still hard for you to freely show what you feel but they’ve never pushed you and often you find yourself wanting to tell them how glad you are about it.

“he’s late too, you know. i hope he gets the same treatment when he arrives, mh?” he quips once you reach the roof and the other man’s dark mop of hair is not standing there, tapping an impatient foot on the cement floor. 

“he has responsibilities. he’s gonna be late sometimes.”

hoseok gasps, “and i don’t?!”

“your only responsibilities are lighting a match and hiding from whatever mental hospital you ran away from, jack. stop whining, you know i don’t particularly like it when you do it.”

he pouts as you blow smoke in his face. you know he wants to argue against words that are nothing more than simple truth but he settles on whining more. “and i don’t like it when you call me jack.”

“i know.”

“then why do you do it?”

“you’re cute when you’re upset, hobi.”

he sputters out something about indulging crazy people just as the rusty door of the rooftop creaks open.

he stands there. the healed scar on his eyes casts a dark shadow on his porcelain skin. he looks the part, you think. born and raised in the same city that doomed you from the start. you also think that’s why you found him and he found you. you’re not that different.

you take the last drag of the cigarette and throw the butt on the floor, putting it out with the heel of your boots.

“did you finish the job?”

you look up at him as hoseok stands behind you. his hand sneaks to your waist. you know he’s sending a proud smile to yoongi.

“you know we always do,” you answer calmly, truthfully. it’s just facts. you always do. you always follow through with his requests. this time it was seoul police getting too comfortable snooping around his business, the next time could be one of his allies threatening his authority a little too much. he trusts you. you trust him. it’s a mutual act of something akin to what people call love. it’s not even that absurd if one thinks about all the things people say they do for love. you’re just humans like the rest of them. fragments of decay.

“and they said i had ‘behavioral issues’” hoseok scoffs from behind you.

yoongi smiles at the picture in front of him. he takes your hand in his, kisses your knuckles. does the same with hoseok. sweeps a thumb over a dark smudge of coal on his cheek. 

the sun must have risen behind the thick layer of clouds —the bubbling of the tempest can be heard in the distance. the three of you stand there, huddled close, subtly holding hands. dark smoke, the blaring siren of an alarm, and faint screams rise from the police station in front of the office building you're in while the rain still cascades unforgiving from the heavens.

a crime lord, a mental hospital escapee, and a sociopath detective enter a bar.

you still don’t get it but you let out a silent chuckle anyway. if it made your partners laugh that much in bed last night then it truly must be funny.

end note. i didn't want to put this at the beginning bc i didn't want to spoil anything but i started writing joon's texts/ voicemails to Y/N after the 'incident' and if you're curious pls tell me i can finish them and maybe do a little drabble spin off on that! lmk <33

[xmorguekittyx]

Ever Unlocked

Part 3: Coffee & Mints

part 1: Grey Skies and Blue Eyes

part 2: Caution to the Wind

pairing: Officer!Leon Kennedy x Coroner’s Assistant!Reader

warnings: none so far! darker themes to come in time, be patient my children.

The next morning, rain still beat against the windows of Leon's apartment, the taps interrupted by his alarm, a blaring, teeth grinding sound as his face buries against his pillow. His forehead digging into the soft pillowcase. "shit-", the word is pushed through his teeth, muffled by the padding of his pillow. His hands slamming down onto the device, subsequently shutting it up. A defeated sigh left his lips, his body ached, his mind still fuzzed with the effects of last night. He could still feel what it was like to be in her home, still smell the sickly sweet scent of the peppermint tea, how after she returned from her room, clad only in some old RPD shirt and a pair of sleep pants. She looked even more stunning to him, so domesticated. He could almost imagine coming home to see her like that every night. 

  He wondered what she'd be like in that kind of dynamic. She was so careless, he'd have to fix that. She was too pure to have the decrepit hands of the impure world clawing at her, to have the same kind of people he put behind bars in her presence. He'd save her, she was too weak to be on her own. She needed a strong man like him to help her, to keep her nice and pristine, locked away for only his pleasure. His lips curled back, showing off his very white teeth, Leon was particular about his hygiene. He was a stickler, he wanted to make sure he looked good in front of his fellow officers. He needed this look about him, a gentleman, a good clean cut all around American man. He used his good looks, passed down from his mother and her Italian heritage. He kept a clean shaven look and made sure his uniform was always without wrinkle or spot. He was perfect, that's what he strived for. For this look of success and his boyish charm helped him get there, despite his love hate relationship with his youthful appearance. 

   As his thoughts streamed together, the blaring alarm popped the invisible bubble over his head. The words pouring over his face that now curled deeply into a frown. 7:15 am. He needed to get ready, he had to drive across town and pick up said, purity, as well as stop by the local coffee shop, Honey Hollow Coffee House, better known by locals as Honey Hollow. A sweet elderly woman owned the corner shop, always working hard behind the counter. Her sea green eyes always softened at the uniformed man, repeating phrases of "What a fine young boy." or "such a handsome man." as he checked over the glass casing of sweet treats.

   Usually deciding on a chocolate glazed donut, but today, he'd eagerly order two, along side a mocha frappe and a single black coffee.  Mocha frappe, he'd caught sight of the cup in her trash last night as he threw away the tea bag, opting to help her out in a small way to thank her for her welcome invite into her home, one that still irked him with her trusting nature. He had read the label, her name, followed by the Honey Hollow logo, a bear with his hand in a bee hive, honey running down the side and a double 'H'. Then, he saw it, m. frappe, he was not a coffee person, but everyone had heard of a Mocha Frappe before. He wondered if that's what she'd taste like, those pretty lips, just behind them tasting the bitter coffee and sweet chocolate. He'd bite back his distaste for the drink, if it was her lips he could taste it on.

 His packet of mints secured in his side pocket, he hated the thought of talking with someone, maybe a retail worker, the same brunette woman he saw near daily at the gas station near his apartment, another officer and, god forbid, Chief Irons with the dreaded coffee breath. He wasn't even a fan of coffee, he kept the paper cup on his desk, the contents cooling with every passing tick of the clock. It made him fit in with his older colleagues. It gave a sense of normality to his desk, a sense of common ground. The older men had him feeling a bit insecure, he knew he was pretty, boyish and a newcomer, but the word "rookie" always left a bad taste in his mouth, worst than any mean coffee bean could.

  The frozen coffee, slightly melted as he pulled up to the same dilapidated building, two tones and now familiar to his blue orbs. He scanned his eyes over the bottom floor, looking for the familiar number of 13. His fingers reaching for his phone, an older model, 'i'm here. got you a little surprise :).' a grin pulled at his lips, watching the message slide up, sliding across into her screen. A small ding caught her attention, eyes catching the message bubble that appeared at the top of her screen. 'for me? you didn't have to, Leon. :0', her fingers did a little dance before typing the message, her heart beat a little quicker, he was here. He went out of his way to get her something, no matter what it was, she was more than excited. The screen flashed once more as she places the small socks over her feet, a small image of a flower embedded into the cotton. 'i'm on my way out.', her fingers moved over the smooth screen with ease as she slipped on a pair of kitten heels. 

   He spotted her quickly, her door opening as he watched her quickly shut and step away from it. He noticed her lack of key, the lack of locking said door. He was going to fix that, one of the first things he'd warn her about once she was in a place where he could give her such talks. For now, he was simply trying to weasel his way into her life, into her heart. legs moving quickly as she tried to get to his vehicle and get out of the assaulting rain, she had just done her makeup and hair, now the cursed little droplets gave risk to her put together look.  Her fingers slid under his door handle of his forest green jeep, popping the door open only to be met with a brown paper bag in the seat. "Oh, yeah.", Leon's fingers worked under the paper, careful not to jostle the two donuts inside or to press down on the glaze. "Got us a little breakfast.', as his sentence fell from his lips, the seat was filled with her thighs. Her face so close to his as he looked back up, he wanted to reach out and brush away the slightly dampened strands. He wanted a better look at the woman who, slowly, little by little ate away at his sanity. Her safety always now bearing weight at the forefront of his mind. 

  "You really didn't need to do that, Leon.", her voice was full of gratitude and a slight embarrassment. "You're right, wanted to.", he gave her a shy smile, his mind may have been made up that she was his and that she was a bigger part of his life, but she didn't know that, yet. She would, however, find that one of the coffees sitting in his cupholders bore some resemblance to her dearly beloved favorite. "That too-", he smirked, his fingers wrapping around the sweating, slightly melted drink. "I had to guess which you would like, i could've called and asked but i didn't want to ruin the surprise and we didn't really get to this topic in our, oh so daring, conversation, last night.", his smirk had melted down into a smile, watcher her eyes grow in excitement. "A mocha frap?!", she took the plastic cup from his hands, "That must've been a hell of a guess. These are my favorite-", the way her eyes squinted as she took her first sip has his stomach in butterflies, the soft painting of rose colored blush fanning her cheeks, he felt it rise to his as well. "There's no way, you must've known somehow.", despite the innocence that came from her comment, it had Leon's butterflies turning into flesh gnawing moths, his expression souring as he threw the gear shifter into reverse. "You're pretty basic, figured a girly drink would be something you like.", he hadn't meant for it to come out so bitter, but he didn't like the idea she assumed he was a creep, even though she hadn't so much as thought it so far... today.

  The ride to the station was silent, Leon holding his donut in hand, resting his wrist on the top of the steering wheel. His jaw working on a piece he bit a little too big in a moment of annoyance. "Sorry, I didnt mean it.", his voice was softer than when the venom of guilt wrapped around them. "I've been a little stressed out, shouldn't have taken it out on you.", she didn't know it was her that made his stress level rise. Her careless actions and sweet character, it made Leon's blood pressure rise as he thought about something happening to her, a masked burglar slipping through that open window in her room. That same burglar seeing such a beauty wrapped in purple sheets, asleep and vulnerable to his dark thoughts- "- really, I get it. The increase in bodies has Rebecca and I near hair pulling.", she spoke softly, biting into her own donut, chocolate glaze left on the corner of her lips. Leon's tongue poked out of his own, licking any crumbs left, he thought about how hers would taste, about how he could easily reach his hand under her chin, lick away the sweet glaze that marred her perfect lips. "How is she, by the way?", he nearly had to manually force his eyes to fall away from that small speck of glaze. "She's good, she should be here today. Hopefully, we should get to that McGrath case you were needing. I can text you when the file is ready?', she glanced over, eyes taking in his uniform, the way it was slightly ill-fitted in some places, but was more filled out then when he first came to Raccoon City. 

  "I'd appreciate it.", he moved the steering wheel with his free hand, pulling into the large parking lot. Her car sat in the same spot as yesterday, his jeep taking up the spot next to hers. The station was nearly alive and bustling. A pair of officers stood outside under the awning, feet kicked back onto the brick wall, cigarettes hanging from their fingers as they mindlessly chatter. Thier uniforms darkening with stray droplets. "Would you like me to take you back home after your shift tonight?", his tongue brushed against his now empty fingers, cleaning away that sweet glaze. "I think I can manage as long as the rain lets up between now and then.", her eyes stared through the slightly tinted window, grey clouds swirling over the city. "Well, just message me. I wouldn't mind taking you back home.", had she looked away from the white and grey swirls she would've seen the puppyish longing that he watched her with. The glint of desperation and desire behind the boyish orbs. He was silently thanking himself for giving up his number last night. Using her lack of car as a reasoning.

   "I should probably offer you my number.", his hands slipped into his uniform pocket, pulling out the older phone. "You don't have your car and I dropped you off so it's only right that I take you back to the station.", his eyes reflected her led lights, the blue lights bouncing off his orbs to give them a mesmerizing look. Not that she needed any more reason to get lost in his boyish charm. His charm was only broken by the odd behaviors he exhibited at a minuscule rate.

  Yeah, he was glad, he felt like he was always arms length away, two buttons away. He assured that her message would never be a bother, that he was actually happy to have someone to talk to since he hadn't had the best luck meeting others in the area. The analog clock on his dash read 7:55am. "shit- we need to head inside.", he hissed, the moment gone now, sooner than he hoped it would be. His fingers quickly turned the key, turning off the Jeep's ignition. "Don't forget to message me once you're done with McGrath.", his hand wrapped around her wrist as she slid her legs to step out. His eyes resting on her profile, the curve of her nose the pout of her lips. Leon couldn't get enough of it. "I wont, I'll even have Rebecca pull her first.", she blushed, his rough finger pads unconsciously digging deeper into her supple flesh. "Okay...", his smile grew larger, he knew she was falling, all be it, slowly. He was patient, he could be patient...

[beautifulchris]

love potion

pairing: seo changbin x gn!reader

wc: 4,9k

featuring: bang chan, lee minho, victon’s subin, the boyz’s haknyeon, i-dle’s soyeon, bts’ jeongguk, got7’s yugyeom, golden child’s donghyun

summary: changbin has been your best friend for years now, harboring feelings for you. on the other hand, you’re too absorbed by the cute hufflepuff quidditch fan to notice.

genres: hogwarts!au, best friends to lovers!au, slytherin!changbin, slytherin!reader, fluff, humor (i tried)

tw: swearing, food, jealousy

notes: moodboard made by me, pictures found on the internet. reposting works from my old blog

order of writing: chan - jisung - minho - hyunjin - jeongin - seungmin - changbin - felix

networks: @kflixnet @k-labels @straykidsland @kwritersworld

tag list: @badwithten @soobin-chois @raethethey send ask/dm/comment to be added!

“BINNIE!!” you yelled as soon as you spotted your black haired best friend in the crowd at the train station.

Just when he was turning to face you, you crashed into him, and he had to use every strength in his body to not fall over. He held you tight while gently patting your back. Once on the train, you talked about your respective summertime until you arrived at Hogwarts. It was your fifth year for both of you, and you were excited.

“Class started three days ago and I already have four parchments to write plus two exams next week. I know the O.W.L.S. are important but this is straight up overworking poor fifteen years olds. I’m still not over my summer holidays.”

You let out a deep sigh, pushing yourself deeper atop the table, your left cheek on your crossed arms.

Changbin chuckled next to you. “I don’t want to imagine how you’ll react in a few months when we won’t be able to breathe because we’ll crumble under an astronomical amount of homework.”

You straightened your back, eyes wide, then whined and got back to your previous position. “I have astronomy class tonight… how will I survive?”

Your best friend scoffed while rubbing soothing circles on your back. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be there.”

“I won’t survive this year,” you mumbled, eyes closed.

“You’re being overdramatic.”

Of course, you were. People only needed to spend ten minutes with you to know. Changbin liked this side of you, it was always fun to him, how you could say dramatic stuff while looking this cute. You’ll never catch him say that out loud, though.

A few weeks later, Changbin was on his way to his first Quidditch practice with his teammates —you were accompanying them— when a group of Gryffindors came to him, fifth year Haknyeon leading.

“Hey Changbin,” he called, “I bet I’m faster than you on a broom.”

“Is that why I’m on the Quidditch team and you’re not?” he retorted. A few teammates laughed.

Haknyeon scoffed, visibly upset. Then shrugged. “I’ll try not to humiliate you too much.”

“Why don’t you let your broom do the talking? I’m ready to fly whenever you are,” Changbin smirked.

“I’ve seen Haknyeon practice for hours on the Training Grounds,” Yugyeom, beater of your House, whispered to the team.

“Come on, you can win this with your eyes closed,” a Gryffindor encouraged his housemate.

“If the referee asks, I don’t condone this,” Soyeon, captain of the Slytherin team, warned with her hands up.

Changbin and Haknyeon prepared for the race, getting on their brooms.

“Loser buys the butterbeer. That’s you, Ju.”

Ju Haknyeon tsked and you approached your best friend. “Please, don’t end up in the Hospital Wing, Binnie.”

“I thought you had more faith in me,” he winked.

You moved back, rolling your eyes amusedly as they started the race.

“This is the race I didn’t know I wanted,” a Gryffindor said excitedly.

It was tight, until Haknyeon decided to push Changbin. They were going straight to a statue and didn’t seem to realize it. Changbin avoided it with ease though, while Haknyeon wasn’t so lucky, his robes getting caught in the lance’s statue. He kept flying and his robes ripped apart. Your best friend arrived safely on the ground and a few moments later, Haknyeon arrived as well, throwing his broom on the floor in frustration.

Changbin’s teammates were laughing, even Soyeon was giggling. “It was really fun to watch, but we have practice,” Jeongguk, the second beater, announced.

“It was a good race,” Changbin proposed his hand for Haknyeon to shake, which he did.

“It was. Next time I’ll win, though.”

“We’ll see about that. Don’t forget you owe me that butterbeer!”

You all left for the Quidditch Pitch; the team for practice, you to cheer on Changbin from the stands. He always said it helped him do better. So you used practice to do your homework, but always ended up sidetracking, due to a fervent Quidditch fan going to a lot of practices from every house. You often wondered if Subin was twenty four hours in the stands. I mean, you wouldn’t complain, because Subin was a pretty cute Hufflepuff that was always cheering on everyone.

Second Saturday of December, you went to Hogsmeade with your best friend.

“Binnie,” you called from the scarves alley, “how about this one?” He was sitting on a fir green leather bench next to the fitting room in Gladrags Wizardwear, the clothing shop of Hogsmeade.

“Now that is a pretty scarf. Emerald and silver stripes, nice and simple. You see, the purple one wasn’t really going well with the green of your tie and robes.”

“You’re right, I’ll take it,” you smiled.

You turned around and when your eyes landed on someone outside, you stopped yourself and stared, a shy smile on your face. Changbin curiously got up then followed your gaze but, upon seeing nothing, was confused by your behavior.

“What’s going on?”

“Subin walked past and smiled at me,” you beamed.

“Oh, I see. Better pay for the scarf and go if you want to talk to him, then.”

Yes, you had an embarrassing crush on the cutest Hufflepuff ever. Have you talked to him before? Eh. Made a whole conversation? Now, let’s not get over ourselves. He just always smiled when he caught you staring or when you bumped into each other in the hallways. He was just so sweet.

“I still can’t believe you fell for a smile.”

“Those are powerful things, you know?”

Oh, he knew alright. He fell for yours.

“I can’t believe this guy! Five gallions a scarf? It better lasts until the end of my school years,” you huffed loudly, putting away your wallet.

“Stop whining, you bought it anyway.”

“Well yeah, I need to stay warm this winter.”

“Remind me again why you’re buying it now?” His tone was teasing, making your eyes roll.

“A crup destroyed it yesterday during care of magical creatures class but I’m sure you don’t need a reminder,” you answered bitterly. You remembered how his laugh was louder than everyone else’s.

“You’re right. That was so funny.”

You had the urge to smack him but stopped yourself. “Stop mocking me, it was the scarf or my face!”

You didn’t spot Subin again that day, but Haknyeon did buy Changbin butterbeer like promised.

Classes were hard, but you were holding up just fine, compared to your whines the first week. Sometimes you were even a little too enthusiastic, like with the crup.

Now, the only pet that terrorized everyone but Changbin and you is his scops owl, Yogi. He loved you, somehow, while he could tear apart another student just because he walked too close to it for comfort.

Actually, it happened before.

Once.

First year. Yogi was on Changbin’s shoulder as he was walking to the owlery, when a student —was he a Ravenclaw? Probably a 3rd year at the time— bumped into his shoulder by accident. Right before Changbin could do anything, Yogi flew to the guy, lacerated his clothes and skin while giving him pecks, all the while flying around him. The poor Ravenclaw tried to cover his head with his arms.

After a few seconds, Changbin realized the gravity of the situation. He called Yogi who flew right back on his owner’s shoulder, not without barking in the boy’s direction.

The latter slowly dropped his arms on his sides and got up, visibly upset. “He tried to kill me!!”

“Yeah he does that, sorry! It’s nothing personal,” Changbin shrugged. “I suggest you go to the infirmary, dude, it’s not looking good.” He gestured to the upper body of the 3rd year who left in a hurry, a big frown on his face.

Since that day, Yogi stayed in the owlery to avoid having the whole school at Changbin’s throat because of his tiny and aggressive pet. He was happy, though, he could make friends and leave whenever and wherever, instead of being kept in a room full of hormones and sweat. I mean, the choice was quickly made.

The fifth match opposing Slytherin to Hufflepuff was coming soon, and you knew Subin was going to be there. So, as the skilled-at-potion-teenage-witch-in-love you were, your great idea was to induce chocolate chip cookies with a love potion and offer them to him after the match.

“It’s a love potion, what could possibly go wrong?” you whispered to yourself over your cauldron.

I could give you a list.

You purposely kept your plan to yourself, knowing what your best friend would say —and rightfully so, might I add— about the dangers of love potions, but really the most dangerous was amortentia, which was why you chose another one. The potion you decided to make was supposed to bring to the surface already existing feelings, not create an infatuation or obsession. You knew love couldn’t be created by a potion, and you didn’t want that either. Also, it wouldn’t last really long, just two to three hours, enough time for someone to confess their feelings.

Thinking about your best friend, though, you decided to make regular cookies to congratulate him on his next win —you were persuaded Slytherin would win. Once ready, you put them in different bags, naming them ‘S’ for Subin and ‘Q’ for the Quidditch team.

On the day of the match, you walked proudly in the direction of the Quidditch pitch with your potion-induced cookies in one hand and the normal ones in the other.

Arriving at the changing room, you entered with your eyes closed —who knew what you could witness— and called for Changbin.

“Scared of seeing a few muscles, Y/N?” You recognized Jeongguk’s joking voice.

A hand took your wrist and gently pulled you outside before you could reply.

“Is that cookies? For me?”

As you opened your eyes, you saw Changbin reaching for one bag, but you were quick to dodge his hand. “You’ll have to win first.”

“See you soon, then,” he spoke to the cookies with a smirk.

“I came to say good luck. You’re gonna win easily.” He thanked you with a hug.

“Who’s the second bag for?” your best friend asked, and you turned your head in embarrassment. “Let me guess. Subin?”

“Not so loud!” you whisper-shouted as you put your hand over his mouth, having now both bags in the other one.

“Too late.” You turned around super fast, losing your grip on the bags in the process. But no one was behind you. “I was joking,” he laughed, “your face was priceless. We’ll definitely win this match.”

He left you to join his team who was calling for him and you picked up the bags, realizing some cookies were broken. “I should be hexing you!” you shouted but wasn’t sure he heard. You walked up to the stands, searching for familiar faces.

The cookies safely installed in your robes’ pockets, you sat next to your Slytherin friends and watched as the Hufflepuff’s team came flying on the pitch. Next was your house. Changbin was already showing off his flying skills by swirling and spinning around the area. He stopped in front of you and gave you a thumbs up, which, despite the trick he pulled only minutes prior, you mirrored. You could never hate him, even if you tried.

Ten minutes into the match, Juyeon, one of Hufflepuff”s beaters, sent a bludger to your house’s keeper, San. Changbin was quick to borrow Yugyeom’s bat to send the bludger away before it could touch San. You heard someone in the crowd say: “Wow, Changbin is not only fast, he’s pretty strong too.” Damn right.

Your house won 190 to 140. It was time Changbin caught the snitch, or it would’ve been embarrassing for everyone. As promised, you went back to the changing room to deliver the cookies.

“You did so good,” you excitedly said as Changbin took the bag from your hand. “You can share with everyone, I made a lot.”

“Thanks Y/N, you’re the best.”

“You are!” Soyeon chimed in.

“Come on, go talk to your crush. I just saw him leave,” he urged you, pushing you out of the changing room. When you turned around, he wasn’t there anymore.

Subin was walking back to the castle, a little pout on his face. You ran up to him, and called his name. When he saw you, he smiled. “Y/N, hey. What’s up?”

“I, uh, wanted to give you these cookies,” you sheepishly said as you handed him the second bag. He reached for them as he thanked you. “And I’m sorry you guys didn’t win. But, for what it’s worth, you’re first in the course for the House Cup.”

“Thank you, Y/N, it’s really kind of you. Your house team played well, and Changbin is a really skilled seeker.”

“He is,” you acquiesced with a proud smile. Finally, Subin opened the bag and took a relatively complete cookie. “Sorry, I dropped them earlier…”

“No problem, they still look good.” Ah, this smile. Pretty cute. He started chewing, and you kept your eyes on him, waiting for a reaction. “Wow, it’s fantastic!”

“You think?” Your cheeks felt hot, he loved your cookies. One win.

“Really, it’s the best cookie I’ve ever tasted. Which oddly reminds me I have to talk to someone. Thank you again for the cookies, Y/N!” With that, he accidentally dropped the bag and ran to the castle. With fast reflexes, you caught it before it could reach the floor.

You were confused. Did it not work? There was still the ‘S’ written in black on the transparent bag. Did you make a mistake when naming the bags? A vision of horror crossed your mind as you sprinted back to the changing room. You prepared yourself for the worst when entering the room, but nothing seemed weird. Everyone was finishing changing in a good mood. So, either you didn’t exchange the bags and Subin felt nothing for you or no one here liked anyone—you lowkey preferred this second suggestion.

When Changbin saw you, he frowned and approached you. “Are you okay? How did it go?”

“Good, he liked my cookies,” you tried to smile but after running so much, you puffed a bit.

“Then why do you still have them, then?”

“Oh? Right, he, uh, gave them back.”

“That’s not polite,” he said without a shadow of a smile. Was that a clenched jaw?

“He didn’t do it on purpose, I promise.”

“What do you mean? How can you not give back a gift on purpose?” Great question, funny story.

“It’s… complicated.”

Your best friend huffed. “I’ll show him.” He took his stuff and left the changing room under the whole Slytherin Quidditch team confused eyes, and you followed him closely.

“I assure you, it’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” He stopped in his tracks and faced you. “Can I have a cookie, please?”

“No?” You nervously laughed as he raised a brow.

“Why not?”

“Because, uh, the… chocolate is melted. Yeah.”

“I don’t mind.” He extended an arm, palm up to receive a cookie. Refusing meant telling him the truth… “Thanks.”

Like with Subin, you waited for a reaction. “So, what did you want to prove?”

“A point.”

“Which is…?”

“That you put something in these cookies,” he said calmly.

Saying you were shocked was an understatement. “How did you know?!”

“Come on, Y/N, you’ve never baked anything in our five years of friendship and suddenly it’s a whole batch, plus you didn’t want me to touch it before the game. Felt suspicious. But the biggest clue is that you still have the bag.”

“As always, you have an amazing sense of observation,” you muttered, quite embarrassed.

“Yes, and I’m far from being a potion expert, but I honestly believe that your love potion works perfectly.”

What?

He smiled faintly and turned back to the castle, leaving you puzzled and pensive. You didn’t say what kind of potion it was… How did he know?

Lost in thought, you barely reacted when the Slytherin team patted you on the back, thanking you for the cookies, on the way back to celebrate their victory.

Then, it hit you. You ran past the team when they arrived at the stairs, almost tripping over your feet. In your search for your best friend, you bumped into Subin in the Entrance Hall, walking towards the Great Hall.

“Subin?” you called, stopping in front of him. “Are you okay?”

“Never better. You?” Here it was. The genuine and cute smile.

“I’m okay. I don’t really know how to say this but… um…”

“You can tell me anything,” he assured.

“O—okay. I like… you.”

“You mean…” You nodded. He was confused for a few seconds. “Oh. I’m so sorry Y/N, I’m flattered but I don’t feel the same way.”

“Oh, I thought, you know, because you’re always smiling at me…”

“I’m a smiley giggling idiot, that’s for sure. But I’m like that with basically everyone. I’m sorry.” You knew he was genuine, and it somehow made the rejection more bearable.

“It’s alright, I feel better now that I told you.”

Awkward silence —especially on your part.

“You remember earlier when I said I had to talk to someone? Well, it was Chaeyoung. I like her and I don’t know, I just felt the urge to tell her.”

Oh.

“About that…”

“Yes?”

“It’s my fault. There was a love potion that makes you realize your feelings of some sort in the cookie. I wanted to see if you liked me without creating any false feelings. I’m so sorry, I… I shouldn’t have done that,” you muttered, staring at your shoes and picking at your clothes.

“… I see. Thank you for telling me. It’s unconventional for sure, but, thanks to you, I shot my shot.”

You felt like he only reacted that way because he was still under the effects of the potion and you hoped he wouldn’t hate you once it wore off.

“How did it go?”

“She said she liked me too. We’re going on a date tomorrow at Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop.”

“I’m happy for you. Honestly,” you smiled. If he wasn’t going to be happy with you, at least he would be with Chaeyoung, and who were you to hate them or try to change that?

“Thank you, and I’m sorry I can’t return your feelings.”

“No, please, don’t apologize, no one can control those.”

“Not that it changes anything, but I always thought you and Changbin were a thing.”

Wha–

“We’re just best friends.”

“I believe you,” he smiled then reassuringly squeezed your shoulder before finally entering the Great Hall.

You stayed there for a hot minute, mindlessly staring in the distance. Then did the stupidest thing you could do: avoid Changbin, and clearly not tell him about what just happened with Subin.

(っ◔◡◔)っ ✿

A week later, the last match of the season opposing Gryffindor and Ravenclaw ended with Ravenclaw’s victory 420 to 310. Despite this win, Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup with 910 points. Ravenclaw was close behind with 880 points, Slytherin next with 770 and then Hufflepuff with 470.

Chan made sure to tell Changbin how he was right about his house winning (see Jeongin’s) and when Changbin didn’t seem to hear, he asked what was wrong.

“Y/N is avoiding me.”

“What? Why?”

“Last week, they made a potion… for their crush, and I tasted it. It felt like my love for them only grew stronger —which I thought impossible—, and it made me want to scream how much I loved them. I stopped myself, of course, and that’s the last time we spoke.”

“Tough. Have you tried speaking to them?”

“You’re asking this as if it didn’t cross my mind in a whole week.”

“Mh… Bitter failure, then. Well, you’re in luck! I know a guy who knows a friend of Y/N.”

“I’m afraid to ask where this nonsense is going.”

“Hush. Just say the word and Y/N will probably listen to you.”

This was awfully mysterious. “Probably? How would you do that?”

“That’s for me to deal with and you to be ignorant about. So?”

Changbin sighed deeply, wondering what he did in his past life to deserve such a weird friend. “Okay. Thanks, Chan.”

“No problem, man. Just be in your common room before dinner tonight.

A whole week without speaking to your best friend was pretty hard, but trying not to crumble under tons of homework was harder. To this, Donghyun was a valuable friend. He helped you with every subject you had in common, which was really thoughtful of him.

“So, that’s why reparo can only work on non-edible objects,” your fellow housemate finished as you wrote down the end of his speech.

“Donghyun, you have no idea how thankful I am.” You put down your quill and threw your head back under the laughter of your friend.

“You say that every day.”

“And I mean it every time!”

“That’s kind of you. Tomorrow, same time?” he proposed as he suddenly got up, putting his stuff in his backpack.

“Sure…” you replied, looking at him suspiciously. He never acted like this before.

“Sorry, I have to go. Bye,” he waved at you then left the common room quickly.

Wondering why he left so abruptly, you didn’t notice someone else sitting next to you.

“Hey… Are you mad at me?”

The question taking you aback, you didn’t have it in you to flee again.

“Of course not, Binnie. I’m just embarrassed.”

“Why’s that?”

“Do I really have to remind you?”

He gave you a weak smile. “No…”

“I’m sorry for avoiding you. You didn’t do anything wrong,” you said as you played with the hem of your robe.

“Why did you, then?”

You sighed. “Subin doesn’t like me.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“Oh, don’t be. Some people are meant to stay unloved.” Changbin would’ve laughed at your dramatics, but it was a serious matter —for him at least.

“Uh, that’s not true. I believe everyone’s loved, it’s just that some don’t act on it.”

“Why?”

“… They’re scared of rejection. Or they have too much pride. They don’t want to ruin a friendship. They’d rather see the other happy with someone else than try to change how the person they love feels about them.”

Suspicious.

Oh, right. The reason why he knew it was a love potion: he liked someone.

“You seem to have thought about it a lot. Do you have feelings for someone, Binnie?”

“N—no, of course not.” The red of his cheeks told a different story.

“And you never knew how to lie. I’ll find out, loverboy.”

“I don’t like anyone!” he tried.

“Nah, I don’t buy that.”

“Would you look at that,” he looked at his watch, “it’s time for dinner.”

He regretted saying that the second he sat at the Slytherin table.

“Minho, do you know who Binnie likes? He denies it but I know he does.”

Minho gave a pointed look at your best friend but the latter just looked away.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Someone from your year probably.”

Changbin widened his eyes at Minho who didn’t give away any expression because you were looking at him.

“I knew it! Binnie, you sneaky imp, you won’t even tell your best friend!”

“I have my reasons,” he muttered as he avoided your gaze.

“What, is it Tzuyu?”

“No, no.”

“Wooyoung, then?”

“Uh, no.”

“Yeonjun?!”

“No!”

Minho deadpanned as you kept throwing names. You were so oblivious that it was painful for the two boys. Changbin was stammering but you could tell he was being sincere.

“Which house?” you asked Minho, knowing Changbin wouldn’t tell.

He hesitated. Their eyes met and they had a whole unspoken conversation. Finally, Minho turned to you.

“Slytherin.”

Happy, you scanned the table to see who it could be. “I’ll find out sooner or later!”

“Try a mirror,” Changbin wanted to tell you.

Desperately wanting to change the subject, he announced: “I think I’ll try out for the beater position next year.”

Right, it was Yugeom and Jeongguk’s last year at Hogwarts.

“It’s true you’re getting buff,” you commented, mindlessly feeling his arm with your fingers.

His face became so red, Minho laughed for a good minute after that, much to Changbin’s embarrassment and your confusion. “What did I do?”

(っ◔◡◔)っ ✿

On a warm day of June, Changbin finally had enough. He had to let you know about his feelings.

He lowkey regretted not making you eat your own cookies back in May, and he couldn’t brew the potion himself, because he wasn’t fond of that subject. You were the genius there, not him.

The best way to make you realize your own feelings —friendship or love for him, any was fine but he had to know— was to ask you.

What, you thought he was gonna give an elaborate plan?

Changbin wasn’t the type to plan. He would cut to the chase and be honest. He hoped you would be too.

He had a small smile on his face while waiting for you in the common room. It widened when his eyes fell on your frame, then fell seeing Donghyun walking through the door after you. It wasn’t part of the plan image of your conversation he created in his mind.

To be fair, when asked to come, you said you were coming soon, but didn’t specify with who or what you were going to do. Now it was clear that the subject of your ‘visit’ was working on essays with your favorite tutor.

Fighting it was useless, Changbin’s jealousy was here to stay. He watched as you both sat at the large table in the middle of the room, putting your stuff out and starting to work on defense against the dark arts. He came closer, until you spotted him and shot him your best smile.

His heart pounded at this simple gesture. “Binnie! Come, we’re doing our essay on ghouls. Have you finished it?”

“Of course,” he answered, trying to sound smug, but the look of adoration you gave him weakened him, and he swallowed with difficulty.

Donghyun chuckled a bit at the scene, resulting in your best friend shooting him a glare. You could only amusedly smile at Changbin before reporting your attention to your parchment. He sat across from you, handing you his own neatly written essay.

“Don’t copy word for word,” he demanded as he crossed his arms over his chest before resting them on the table.

“I will only add the few facts I missed,” you promised, suddenly feeling shy under his gaze, a blush creeping up on your cheeks and ears. Your parchment seemed not filled enough.

You worked for about two hours with Donghyun and your best friend was there the whole time, watching you guys write and helping here and there when he could. After your friend left under your thanks to go with other friends, Changbin took his place next to you, and fixed his robe’s sleeves.

“I need to ask you something.”

He seemed nervous, you noted. “I’m all ears.”

Here goes nothing.

“Do you still like Subin?”

Sorry, what? “Huh? Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” he shrugged, but you noticed the blush creeping up his cheeks.

“No.”

“Okay… do you like anyone else?”

“Yes.”

He swallowed audibly. “Who is the lucky one?”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me.” Here was your chance to discover if your early conversation with Donghyun was true.

“Tell you what?”

“Who you like.”

There was no escaping this, so he gulped and nodded, “Okay.”

You counted to three, and both said: “you.”

“Me?” Changbin’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“How thick is your damn skull? I mean I love you.”

“Wh– You…” You used the L word!!!! “You’re one to talk! I’ve loved you for years and you’ve never figured it out!”

“It’s true, I’ve been pretty clueless. But! Donghyun and I–” Changbin slightly grimaced at the name. “talked on our way here and he told me how everyone around us thought we were together,” you pointed a finger to the both of you, “him included.”

“Oh…”

You faced the table, reflecting on your oblivious actions.

“Subin too, by the way.”

“Y/N,” he softly called.

“So yeah, I guess I’m the last person to realize my feelings like a stupid kid.”

“Y/N.”

“I’m sorry it took me this long, but hey, at least now you know.”

“Y/N!” he said firmly.

“Yeah?”

“Everyone is watching us right now…”

Indeed, as you looked around, you saw Slytherins of various years talking to each other, their eyes on you both. Your dramatic self had to say something.

“Oh I’m sorry, did you guys think this was a reality show? Are our lives that interesting compared to your boring ones? You better go elsewhere before my boyfriend and I hex the shit out of y’all!”

They quickly cleared out the room, some rolling their eyes and others with an amused smile on their faces. Minho came into view, displaying a knowing smirk as he walked to you. Changbin was as red as a rubis, shocked by what you just called him.

“Took you long enough, Y/N.”

Realization hit, your face and ears burned as you avoided facing any of the boys.

“Shut up, Minho.”

thank you for reading! if you enjoyed, please let me know <3 and here's the masterlist!

[thetadispatcher]

Strasky laughed at the toaster comment, there was a funny side to imagining a person being stuck in a toaster and he wouldn't be surprised if the WAU attempted something like it in the future. "Lucky, being in here is interesting, but only for a little bit. I'd rather be a toaster."

"Oh no, the WAU didn't ruin it. There is a version of me on the ARK, and one here talking to you. There's a scan chip that a brain scan is copied from, so the WAU just made another copy of me from my scan chip." He felt it was fair if explained how things on PATHOS-II worked because they might be there for awhile.

"Just a warning, I can't speak with you if the Omnitool isn't hooked up to a terminal. A Cortex chip containing a brain scan is way more bulky then a blank one, so the Omnitool can't support my chip without the extra processing power of a terminal or computer." Strasky hurried to explain so she wouldn't be startled when he stopped talking once she placed him in the Omnitool.

"Now, here's the part you're not going to like... The medical sector isn't located here at Theta, and from what my station is telling me the shuttle system is down. So you'll have to head outside to get to Omicron, you know...in the water. I've done all I can from here to make it easy for you, I've opened and illuminated all the door you'll need to go through to get to the Dive Room to pick up a suit and head out. After that you can follow the path, there will be signs for the different sites, just follow the ones labeled Omicron. You'll have to use the second entrance though, the first is reporting it's blocked. After that, you can plug me into the first terminal or computer you see, or try to locate the medical room yourself. Just be careful and watch out for the Proxys in the halls, I'd feel terrible if you got hurt. I've contained them all here for you, but I can't do the same for Omicron." He did the best he could to make it easy for her since her knew he was asking a lot, so he felt it was only fair.

"I will also understand if it's something you're not comfortable with, I'm fine being an Omnitool or a computer." Strasky wanted her to know he wouldn't pressure her or hold it against her if she declined his little adventure.

"Alright, that's all I have to say. Unplug me!" He proclaimed before falling silent.

He would've frowned if he wasn't a static image of his employee picture, what did she mean she didn't know the state of the surface? Where else could she have some from? He chose to chalk it up to her fear of water, which raised other questions he was going to ignore for the time being. Calming her down was his number one priority since she wouldn't be answering anymore questions, let alone talk to him if she was distressed.

"Uh, people didn't put me in here... The WAU did..." He hoped explaining the situation would distract her from thinking about where she was. "Let's just say the WAU doesn't have a proper definition of what it means to be human or what a human should look like. We believe Konrad's death is what caused the WAU to start acting irrationally. It began uploading brain scans of everyone on PATHOS-II to robots and other devices that used Cortex Chips throughout the station, creating Mockingbirds. The ones who were left were infected with the Structure Gel and were changed into basically cyborgs, then put in trance-like comas, unaware of their surroundings and what was happening to them." He wasn't sure if she'd understand what he was saying, but he would do his best to explain explain anything she may be confused about.

"So now you know why I'm in my work station!" He paused as a thought popped into his head, one he hoped might benefit the both of them if she wasn't an old prototype brain scan the WAU dug up and stuck in a robot. "You have arms and legs, right? If-if you plan on leaving PATHOS-II...please don't leave me here. Shut me down or take me with you, I-I don't care... Just...just don't leave me here alone. It-it's dark and cold in here. I-I-I don't want to be alone forever too." His voice wavered as if he'd started to cry as the thought of being left alone in the darkness till his mind snapped got to him.

"I-I promise I can be useful! I'll tell you whatever you need to know to leave!"

[mxpseudonym]

Indignation

Pairing: Dark Finn Shelby x OC (Evelyn)

Reader Gender Expression: she/her pronouns, femme

Summary: After 18 months of Finn’s torment, Evelyn attempts to seek help only to find Finn’s influence runs much deeper than she realized.

Length: 2431

Warnings: Psychological torment, verbally and mentally abusive relationship, nose bleed, Finn is OOC (though you could argue he doesn’t get enough screen time to know for sure)

A/N: So, I wanted to try my hand at a dark fic. Tbh, this didn’t go how I expected, but I do like it. I wanted Finn to have this relationship that’s essentially an abusive power flex that’s driven by spite and hate, but not in a “because I actually love you” way. In the way love and hate are two sides of the same coin, meaning you can hate someone so much they’ll always be part of your life in this toxic version of commitment.

There’s definitely a part II coming by the way that I’m super excited for.

Indignation ĭn″dĭg-nā′shən

noun. Anger, especially anger excited by that which is unjust, ungrateful, or base; anger mingled with contempt or abhorrence; scornful displeasure.

---

The truth - it was so hard to decipher these days when she couldn't quite decipher what had even transpired. Evelyn simply had to work backward and think sideways. It was nonsense but the only way to maneuver the way her life seemed to work now.

She had to think differently, and that's how she concluded the Shelby family was made up of fools. That was why she was here. Thomas Shelby, Arthur Shelby, Polly Gray, all of them had to be completely ignorant. Or else, they were infinitely more insidious than she could have imagined, in which she would face defeat and lay down and die. Because they presented their youngest, untouched by war, proudly as their weakest link. He didn't have to do anything in the business. He could go ahead and be respectable, if not rightfully entitled to reap the benefits of the Shelbys' efforts.

But they were wrong, that's why she was here.

The Shelby family was made of fools because their youngest was a terror, the worst of them likely. He'd built an invisible cage like those mimes she'd seen once when she was eight at the carnival with her sister...

An invisible cage made of blue violets sent to her desk at work each week and rent paid on her behalf and free groceries when she went to the market, letting her know that there were eyes everywhere. There were custom-made dresses of the best fabric and expensive jewelry on the inside, but a cage was a cage was a cage. It was tall and vast, and someone knew where it began and ended, but it wasn't her. She didn't even know when she'd stepped inside or if she was always there. No, Finn wasn't the mime. She was the mime. Finn was the ring leader and the magician. Finn. Finn Shelby. Shelby.

The Shelby family was made up completely of fools, and that was why she was here. To tell everyone how capable he was. Because if she didn't, she may as well lay down and,

"Miss?"

The man before her came into focus. Her fingertips delicately held her forehead, and she had a cup of water now in her shaky hand resting in her lap. He must have gotten for her at some point. How long had she,

"Help me understand." He brought her back again, back to the noisy bustling of the Small Health police station. Phones rang, papers shuffled, and eyes, no doubt, watched. "The whole city knows you're sweethearts."

Bile rose in her throat. She raised the small cup to her parted lips, chapped from licking and biting, and reached for her handkerchief. His handkerchief. She couldn't feel the coolness of the water, but she swallowed anyway then put the cloth there. If she didn't cover her mouth, anything could come out.

Sweethearts? The label was a life sentence. She closed her eyes again and rubbed her forehead.

"I told you, didn't I? I told you," she whimpered. "I'm here because, the Shelbys."

"'I need to get away from Finn Shelby. He's everywhere,' is what you said. Those are some dangerous words. Are you saying that you aren't sweethearts?"

Evelyn looked at him, then looked away, out the glass of the office window and into the bullpen. He already knew she was there; she could feel it. A sharp headache came on strong, and she winced when she looked back at him. Her eyelids fluttered, but the pain was familiar enough to sober her up.

"You're so stupid you can't even save yourself," she whispered. Tears welled in her eyes her head as she let out a watery laugh. She tapped her temple with a perfectly manicured nail. "That's what he said, just now. I can hear his voice like he's speaking directly in my head with a megaphone. There's an echo."

"I don't, um, help me understand?"

"He's just driving me insane, that's all, sir."

She took in a shaky breath and looked up at him. Evelyn felt like it had been ages since she'd sat down and tried to develop what she wanted to say and what she wanted to happen. It hadn't been even ten minutes, yet the young officer was already giving her a look of pity but also annoyance. She probably deserved that.

"That's all?"

"I'm just muddled, I think. Sorry to barge in," Evelyn mumbled, making her way out of the police station that she'd entered on a whim just a few moments before.

What could she say exactly? Finn hadn't said a decent word to her the whole time she'd known him, and he often bullied her to tears. But he never hit her and made sure everyone knew she wanted for nothing. In a place like Birmingham, where nothing good ever came, she'd be reduced to a spoiled brat for crying about her problems in the middle of her well-decorated apartment. And it was all on purpose.

The Shelby family was made up of fools. Completely ignorant or more insidious than she could ever imagine. Or.

Or.

Or they, too, could not find the words to string together properly. Evelyn wondered if they also were reduced to being overlooked, even when pointing out the devil in broad daylight. That's why she was there.

Days where she was so overwhelmed her mind simply went blank weren't uncommon for her. She went through the routine of the day, and she couldn't tell you what she'd typed in a memo at work or which route she took to get home. She thought the body was kind of amazing for being able to pull that off as she smoothed on lipstick in her mirror. But today was a little different. She had a sobering headache.

Her front door opened, and the sound of fancy shoes against the floor floated through the apartment. Finn didn't come into her bedroom; he never did. Evelyn wondered about it, but not too much in case God thought she was asking for it to happen.

Evelyn stood and smoothed her dress down before padding across the floor in stockinged feet. She was putting in her second earring when she managed to stand across from him. Finn sat against the back of her sofa, legs spread and hands folded in front of him.

He was as boyish and handsome as the night she was first fooled by the face he put on. He looked tired today, she noted. His usual fresh face was tainted by under-eye bags. The harder he was on her, the better he seemed to do at work, so she assumed he was successfully doing important things at the company. That was her purpose after all, a place to focus his insidious tendencies away from his family so he could work better. An outlet, he called her. But there were more important things to worry about.

For instance, one of Finn's hands contained a bouquet of lilies, the other a revolver. His eyes trailed from her stockinged feet upward, taking in her outfit until he met her eyes. He brought the barrel up to his temple, scratching the area nonchalantly before pointing it at her to motion to her legs.

"Take off your stockings."

"You know, Evie, it was more intuitive when I called you an idiot before. That mug of yours, those eyes, they scream dumb cow, you know? But going to the police?"

Evelyn couldn't remember if she'd ever seen a genuine emotion from Finn in the 18 months they'd known each other. It made her sick knowing his belly laugh and a natural smile came from her thwarted attempts at seeking help. He wiped his eyes and looked down at her. "Up."

She straightened her back and took a sharp breath in. On the floor of her apartment, she worked through her act of penance that was fit for a child. All of his punishments for her usually were reminiscent of the disciplines that scarred most catholic children for life. Kneeling over rice was no exception. Christ, her head hurt. There was a whirring that was making her nauseous.

"You're so goddamn stupid. You know Inspector Moss, one of our men at the station, pulled me to the side on my way here? Said, your girl came in this morning saying she needs to get away from you and that you're everywhere."

"You are. Can't get you out of my head."

"Careful, you sound smitten."

"Smitten? Who taught you that word?" She snipped, but he ignored it.

"Pol says it about me when she mentions you. Maybe she's right. You should be dead, but here you are. You disrupted our dinner, but it's for the best. You look a wreck anyway."

Evelyn's cheeks went hot as she looked down at her dress. It was one of the ones she bought when she first got her job. She was only supposed to wear what he bought her, after all. She wanted to ask who cared about such a rule when she'd broken a bigger, unspeakable one, but Finn walked around her and dug her fingers in her hair. His grip forced her off balance, forcing her whole body to move wherever he dragged her by her scalp.

"You know I hate these curls."

"I don't look a wreck."

"You tryin' to fight with me today or what?" Finn asked. His glare was cold, but his eyes were fiery as he looked down at her from his full height. Finn didn't put on much of a show; he never did. She'd know he was weaker than he let on if he had. But he was always right, and he'd always win, so she never saw him anything less than certain. It made her shiver.

"No, I just... no."

"Full sentences next time, can you manage?"

"Yes," she said quietly.

Finn released her head and let her gasp for a moment before gripping her face, squishing her cheeks until her lips were like a fish. She glanced to the side and saw the flowers in her peripheral. He'd put the gun away. She could say she was relieved, but she knew Finn pretty well at this point despite herself. No part of her feared he'd actually kill her. She was best alive, after all. Or maybe she was naive, and he really did just change his mind on a whim.

"You know what I told Moss? I said, don't you know I can't fucking stand that woman? I'll marry her just to shut her up."

Evie dry heaved as her blood ran cold. She was searching for the edges of the cage and began wondering if it was a bottomless pit instead.

"What?" she asked, though incomprehensible in his grip.

"I hate her so much. It's shut up in my bones like she's a part of me, so I can't get rid of her. I'll have to keep her next to me. And then Moss laughed, Evie. He laughed at you."

Finn shook his head and finally released her. The stinging of her knees competed with her jaw for which would be the sorest. Neither would overcome her blinding headache as she watched Finn dig into his box, though. He tossed a velvet blue box at her, and she grunted when she had to shuffle to catch it in time.

"I should punish you more, I really should, but I think you're just somehow not aware of your situation."

She understood her situation clearly, actually. So clearly, she could feel her head splitting half. Finn wouldn't stop her if she left him. But where the fuck would she go? No person in their right mind would date her now. Her sister was her only family, and she lived far away now, but Evelyn could only imagine that Finn would trouble her.

Evelyn did have friends, though. Friends she could never involve in this because she loved them dearly. It wouldn't surprise her to lose her apartment, and no one would serve her at the shops anymore. Her job would vanish, and rumors would spread about her cheating on him with a Blinder- no, Finn would choose something to give himself sympathy. She was pregnant, but she got an abortion even though Finn would marry her. That was it. That was a good story with a ring to prove it.

She opened the box to reveal a ring that, under any other circumstances, would make her heart flutter beautifully. It was stunning and surprisingly her taste. She always wondered if he knew her taste or if they just had the same. It wasn't a diamond, but a gold band with emeralds and pearls and an intricate band encrusted with gems. The whirring in her head got obscenely loud. She would have covered her ears if Finn hadn't grabbed her hand to shove it on her finger. It was all too much, but she stopped just short of crying out once the ring was on and Finn let her go.

For a moment, Evelyn couldn't tell if she was numb or feeling everything at once. She could hear her breath, the dripping of her sink, the crunch of her grains under her. A drop of red appeared on the back of her hand between her knuckles. Another drop fell onto the ring. She brought her fist closer to her face to get a better look. Blood.

"Oh," Evelyn gasped, then blinked up at Finn with a steady line of blood coming from her nose like a faucet. The only time she caught Finn off guard was right after they met. She'd stalked into the betting shop before it opened one morning, demanding to know why he ended the group gathering by singling her out and saying to her, only her, that she was a "stuck up, bitch." It had eaten at her for weeks, and she needed closure.

Finn was surprised she even had the guts to talk to him the way she did. He did have to punish her, though. And that punishment turned into a purgatory that took her 18 months to wrap her head around it. She didn't cover her mouth this time, letting whatever in her that wanted to come out, come out.

"Oh, I see. It's not a cage, and it's not a pit. You just brought me to hell with you. That's all," she said with a soft huff and a laugh.

Finn's eyebrows raised in surprise the way they'd done all the way back then. Evelyn sat back on her heels and looked down at her hand. There was a sigh, and she heard shuffling until her chin was tilted up. Finn's eyes were level with her, and she was almost pleased to see the surprise wore off, and he looked at her with the usual disdain.

"Remember what I told you the last time you asked why it's you I bother with?"

"Yes," she said, though there was no way she'd recall the words at a time like this. Finn ran his thumb over her face, smearing red onto her cheek and chin.

"I'm pretty sure you chose me. Now sit up. Ten more minutes."

[nixll]

venice for one

pairing : harry styles x reader

summary : after getting broken up with and struggling with your own insecurities, you make the split-second decision to take a solo trip to venice. you expect the week to be a fun-filled adventure, but when you accidentally have a run-in with a famous popstar, things don’t go quite as you expect them to. 

word count : 9.5k

warning : smut, 18+

“you don’t ever do something just because it makes you feel good?”

paris for one by jojo moyes

The moment you step off the train and onto the platform, you feel a sudden urge to turn back around, toss your bags back on the bench you had been seated on, and make the same exact trip you had just taken again, only backwards this time.

Instead, you force your feet to take one step after another, your suitcase dragging noisily behind you against the concrete platform as you lug your tote bag higher up on your shoulder. In your hand is a note scribbled with the name of the bed and breakfast you booked yourself into, and directions written neatly with bullet points, but as you enter the city of Venice, Italy, you know finding the place you’re looking for is going to be much harder than you had first thought.

The city, as gorgeous as it is, is a slightly confusing maze of sidewalks and canals, and there’s people everywhere. The anxiety you had managed to push away when you got off the train is slowly returning as you look at your directions and attempt to find your way.

This trip had been a split-second decision, one made by your irrationally, heartbroken brain only a few hours after your boyfriend had dumped you. The breakup had come as a surprise to you, especially after many of your friends had brought up the idea of marriage after several years together, but your now ex-boyfriend had thought otherwise.

“You’re not the girl I fell in love with,” he had claimed in an uproar as he threw a suitcase together, “you’re not the fun, outgoing person I used to know.”

You had tried arguing against his claims, but it had done no good, and in the end, he had walked out with nothing more than a promise to come back to what had been your shared apartment to get the rest of his stuff over the next few days. When you called your friends to tell them what happened they had done their best to fill your head with encouraging words and stories about how you were still a fun person to be around, but the longer you thought about it, the more you realized your ex was right.

You weren’t the same person he had fallen in love with, and you hadn’t been that person in a long time. In some ways that was okay. You had fallen in love young and where you grew up, he still acted like the immature college student you had met years ago. He partied constantly, going out with friends at all hours of the night, and you honestly don’t remember the last time the two of you hung out somewhere other than the bar down the street. Nice restaurants had never been his thing, and in wanting to make him happy, you had never opted for anything but what he suggested.

You knew he wasn’t happy anymore, and neither were you. You were getting older and concerning yourself with your job and what your future looked like, not when the next time you could go for a cocktail hour was. You had settled into a routine for yourself, one that required no more effort than you needed, and in having that, your now ex-boyfriend decided you were a prude.

After a while, though, you wondered how much of what he had said to you was true. You don’t remember being much of a party girl when you were younger, but you definitely had your moments, and you definitely hadn’t had one of those moments in a long time. You knew if asked what word could describe you the best, adventurous or outgoing wouldn’t be the first word, or second or third to pop into anyone’s head, but maybe you wanted to be those things.

Maybe you wanted a stranger on the street to look at you and wonder what kind of adventures you had been on because just by looking at you, they can tell you know how to have a good time. Maybe you wanted to be that pretty girl in the room, the one that nobody could take their eyes off of.

Five hours after your relationship had ended, you decided you didn’t need your ex, but you did need a change of pace.

You were going to take a trip to Italy by yourself. You hadn’t told anybody, not even your friends, and had only left a brief voicemail to your workplace calling out sick for the rest of the week and no other explanation. It had taken you an hour to book all the tickets needed for travel and to find a place to stay that would take you with such little notice, but in practically no time at all, and with two haphazardly packed bags, you had been on your way to Italy for what you hoped would be a fun adventurous few days.

So far, the idea of a fun filled week had completely escaped your mind and your first day in Italy had started out with a drag.

You had yet to find the Bed & Breakfast you had booked yourself into, and with a sore shoulder from carrying your bag and your hand growing increasingly sweaty as you gripped onto your suitcase, you were beginning to think about what your best bet would be on getting home.

Not a single person you had managed to stop speaks English, and even after you show them the name of the place scribbled at the top of your sheet in Italian, nobody is seemingly able to help you. Venice is not the biggest city, and you remember briefly reading about how it is possible to walk the entire city in the matter of an hour. With a glance at the watch on your wrist, you’re ready to turn around and make your way back to the train station in the hopes of catching a ride back.

That’s when you spot it: the barely-there sign with a name on it that matches the one on your paper.

Vera Ospitalità.

It’s a cute little blue building, looking exactly like it did when you were Googling places to stay in Venice. It hadn’t cost very much, and the lady had sounded sweet over the phone when you asked how soon she would have a room open.

“We always have a room open, cara.”

You hadn’t quite understood what she meant at the time, but the sight of those two Italian words fill your body with a jittery joy as you let out a shout, catching the attention of a few people walking past you. You pay them no mind as you pick up the pace, not taking your eyes off the sign until you’re standing in front of the door and pushing it open.

The bell above lets out a delightful jingle as you walk in. You can only imagine what you look like to the lady sitting at the desk as you walk in with sweat dripping down your forehead and a slightly rumpled paper stuffed in your hand, but she offers you a cheerful smile.

“Are you Irene?” you ask, slightly out of breath as you step up to the desk, letting your bag fall from your shoulder. “We talked on the phone yesterday.”

“Yes! Hello, cara,” Irene says, standing from her seat and reaching for the guestbook she keeps under the counter. “I am happy to see you made it. How was your trip?”

You smile, trying not to think about the want to turn back around and head home you felt only minutes ago. “It was good! Happy to finally be here.”

“Oh, yes, yes. Just sign these forms and I will get you your key.” Irene pushes the book your way and you easily sign your name on the dotted line. “There is only one bathroom upstairs, but you get the room directly across from it.”

Your head snaps up from the book. “One bathroom?”

“Yes,” Irene nods, “but it has a tub, and the water runs perfectly. And there is only one other guest staying here this week, so there should be no trouble.”

“There’s only two of us here?”

Irene pauses. “You ask many questions.”

You offer a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

“There is a young man staying here also, about your age. I only have four rooms and I don’t get many guests.”

You briefly wonder if you should have chosen a slightly more expensive place to stay, but your expectations hadn’t been very high coming in and how bad can it be when there are only two of you staying?

Irene hands over your key, directing you up the stairs to where your room waits for you. “Breakfast is served at 7 if you would like some, otherwise I have a list of places around the city you can visit.”

You give Irene one last thank you before you’re heading up the stairs, your suitcase and bag in hand. Your room is immediately at the top to your right, with the door across from yours labeled bagno with a cute little wooden sign. There are two more rooms a little further down the hall, and then one at the very end with the door open enough for you to glance inside.

There’s music playing – something you’ve heard on the radio a million times before but can’t remember the name of – and you can make out the silhouette of someone sitting at a small desk next to a window. With the way the setting sun is shining through, you can’t make out any of the figure’s features, but you know that this is the man Irene mentioned downstairs.

You wave a hand. “Hi.”

You can see him turn his head, but can’t make out any features still, nor an expression, as he stands and shuts the door without a second thought.

You frown, deciding not to dwell on it as you unlock your room and step inside. It’s small, and you know your friends would try and make it sound better by calling it quaint, but you decide that it’s not any more or any less than you need for the week. There’s a small desk and dresser off to the side, and a twin size bed with a side table sitting next to the headboard. The sight of the small, but very neat room is comforting after the mix of emotions you’d spent your afternoon with, and you find yourself wanting to just fall against the comforter and end your day there.

So, you do, quickly changing into your sleep clothes and doing your nightly routine, you let all the anxiety and the interaction with the man down the hall fall from your mind as you slip under the covers and rest your head against the pillow. It’s early, but you figure you’ve had enough adventure for the day. Plus, you still have the next few days left to spend in the city.

Sleep comes easy to you, so easy that you’re shocked awake the next morning at the sound of loud footsteps coming down the hall, and then a slam of a door. Lifting up from your bed, you glance at the clock on the table next to you and let out a small groan. You hadn’t been planning on taking up Irene’s offer of breakfast at 7, but now that you were awake you figured you might as well do exactly that. The grumble your stomach lets out seems to further settle the idea to get ready and go downstairs into your head.

The banging across the hall continues, and you know the sound belongs to the man from down the hall. Not wanting another interaction like the day before you decide to wait for the sound of the door opening and steps retreating down the hall, knowing the man has returned to his own room before you head into the bathroom with your things to get ready. You throw on a simple outfit for the day, doing all your daily necessities. The smell of cologne fills the small space, and normally it would be something that would irritate you – someone else treating a space as only their own with no other thought of anyone else who might occupy it – but the scent is pleasant enough and you decide to leave it be. When you’re done, you listen again for the sound of footsteps, but there are none.

Opening the door, you peak down the hall. The door at the end is shut, but you still cross the space to your room quicker than normal, opening the door and slipping inside. Just as you grab your shoes and anything else you plan to use throughout the day, your phone finding its spot in your pocket, you hear a door open again. You listen quietly as the man moves down the hall to the stairs, only slipping into the hallway when you know you won’t run into him. He’s already disappeared into the front room when you yourself reach the stairs and start the trek down.

When you reach the bottom floor, Irene stands just across the room in what you realize is the dining area. There’s a jingling as the front door opens, and you look over just in time to see a head of dark brown hair escaping through the entrance.

There’s something odd about you and this stranger avoiding each other, but you don’t let it cloud your thoughts. You don’t even know the man, and don’t have any care to get to know him.

Irene spots you lingering by the stairs and waves you over. “Have you met the other guest yet?”

You smile as you walk over to sit at the table situated in the room. The space isn’t very large, only big enough to hold the essentials of a kitchen and a table that seats six, but the feel of it all is very intimate. It also smells terrific, the smell of sausage and pastries filling the room. You’re suddenly grateful that you chose this place over any of the others, weird neighbors be damned.

“He’s nice, is he not?”

You purse your lips as Irene places a plate loaded to the brim with various breakfast items. The sight makes your stomach grumble again and you laugh in an attempt to conceal it. “I haven’t exactly met him yet.”

Irene frowns. “You haven’t?” She tsks. “He’s very friendly, but he never eats breakfast here.”

“Never?” You glance up from your plate. “How long has he been here?”

“Only few days, but he comes once a year and stays here rather than big fancy hotel.”

You nod, taking a bite of the croissant on your plate. You close your eyes giving a small hum of pleasure at the taste of the buttery pastry. “He’s missing out.”

“You’ll meet him soon enough, I think.” Irene waves her hand around as she takes her own seat, carefully digging into her own plate of food.

You continue breakfast with polite conversation. Irene asks why you decided to come to Italy, and you fib your answer a little, explaining it was just a need to get away for a bit. It wasn’t entirely inaccurate, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to reopen the fresh wound that was your current relationship status.

When you’re done, you bid Irene farewell for the day and head out on your own. The sun is warm as it beams down on your face, the air slightly cool from the canals. You plan to just walk around the city for most of the day, not having much else to do until the afternoon when the gallery you had opted to go to opens.

For a few hours you simply meander around the city, stepping into shops with clothes that cost far too much money, but you try them on anyway. You find a nice place for lunch, deciding you’ll come back to try something else for dinner after the gallery. The day all goes fairly quick, but you head back to Vera Ospitalità with a grin permanently etched into your features.

Irene is not at the front desk when you walk in. It’s getting fairly late in the day and after the large and filling meal you had chosen to eat for dinner, you decide that you’ll end your day with a nice bath and then head to bed, excited for the boat ride you had booked for the next day.

That plan is immediately foiled when you climb the stairs and hear the shower already running. You don’t have any idea how long it’s been occupied, but you figure he has to be done sometime soon and choose to wait in your room until he is.

Fifteen minutes pass before you realize it, and the shower is still going. It occurs to you that all of the hot water must be gone now and you feel a bit frustrated at your thought of a nice night being ruined by a man who doesn’t know how to shower quickly. Trying not to let your frustration get the best of you, you snatch up your towel and storm out of your room to stand in front of the door across from you. There’s some steam coming from the crack between the door and the floor, but you ignore it as you knock on the door.

There’s a noise that sounds something like a grunt, and then the shower shuts off. You listen to shuffling, a rumple of clothes, and then the door swings open and there, for the first time since you arrived in the tiny hotel, you finally come face to face with the stranger who’s been living down the hall from your room. It suddenly hits you why he had been so eager to avoid you the day before and ;told you that he must’ve been trying to avoid you this morning too, obviously trying not to make his presence known.

Harry Styles stands in front of you in a pair of loose shorts with a towel hanging from his hand, his hair dripping down onto his forehead. His tattoos are on full display, the pair of ferns peaking up from his waistband, and his skin is glistening from all the water he hadn’t been given the chance to properly wipe off. Steam pours out through the doorway and the sudden heat of it sends a shiver down your spine.

You don’t realize you’re staring until your eyes meet his and he cocks a brow. “You’re not going to be a creep and ask me for a photo, are you?”

His tone is dangerous, and he’s got an accusatory look plastered on his face. It makes something in you want to snap back, that anger from not being able to take a bath like you wanted still lingering a bit, but instead you stand there, trying to think of the best words to say back to the man in front of you who clearly thinks you’re here for something other than a nice vacation. Every possible thing you had wanted to say before the door had opened has suddenly disappeared from your brain, only to be replaced with the slight shock of your current situation. Your mouth opens and snaps closed one time, then again, as the words you want to say struggle to fall from your mouth.

Eventually, you hold up your towel.

Harry’s head tilts to the side, his gaze curious. “So, you’re not just renting the crappiest hotel in the entire city in order to get some sort of insider photos?”

You frown, the shakiness you had felt disappearing as you think about Irene and her hospitality. “It’s not a crappy hotel.”

Harry smiles, but you’re sure it’s just because he’s amused and not because you’re doing a nice thing by defending Irene. “No, but it sure isn’t popular and nobody ever comes here. I’m always by myself when I come – Irene makes sure of it.”

You remember what Irene had told your over the phone when you asked about booking.

We always have a room open.

You purse your lips and try holding your head a little higher. “I’m not some crazed fan. I’m just here for a nice vacation.”

Harry looks you over. “Nice vacation? You don’t seem like the type.”

“It…” You stumble over what to say, trying to get a grip on the current situation you’re in with a half-naked famous popstar standing in front of you. He leans against the doorway, an arm propped against his head, and you swallow. “It was spontaneous.”

Harry chuckles, shaking his head. “You still don’t seem like the type.”

“You don’t know me,” you manage to say, feeling slightly offended by his words, but Harry just grins.

“And I don’t care to.” He claps his hands together, the sound muffled by the towel still gripped in his hand. “Pleasantries aside, I’d appreciate if you didn’t interrupt my shower next time, and also if you continued to not take photos of me whatsoever.”

You open your mouth to reply, but Harry has already pushed himself off the doorway and is marching down the hall before you can even think of what to say back to him. He doesn’t even bother turning back to look at you, just walks into the room and slams the door shut.

You wince at the sound, trying to still get a grip at what just occurred. You step into the still hot bathroom with its steamed-up mirror and slightly wet floor, but you disregard it as you move to the tub. You turn the handle for the hot water and aren’t surprised to find that it’s ice cold. You let it run for a minute, trying to see if it’ll warm up even the slightest, but you give up and shut it off when it remains cold.

You realize that not only had Harry left you with no hot water to take a shower in, but he also hadn’t bothered to ask for your name. When your head hits the pillow minutes later, choosing just to settle in for the night, you let the exhaustion of the day wash over you and fall asleep easily, though the irritation with Harry settles in well into the early morning.

Your alarm goes off early after a couple of hours, waking you up well before you know Harry will be awake. You quickly gather up your clothes and head to the bathroom, turning on the shower and hopping in before another second passes.

You take your time getting ready, lingering under the hot water for as long as you can before getting out and slowly going over each of your tasks in your morning ritual. You’re in the middle of finishing up your hair when there’s a knock on the door.

“Yes?” you call out, already knowing it couldn’t be anybody but your neighbor down the hall.

“It’s Harry,” he says, muffled through the door. It occurs to you that he never actually told you his name the night before, but you know he’s assumed you already knew who he was before. He wouldn’t be entirely wrong in that assumption. “Are you almost done?”

You grin at the turn of events. “Almost.”

It’s another ten minutes before you’re done. You had expected Harry to have turned around and headed back to his own room to wait, something you would have done if you had been in his place, but when you open the door he’s standing there across the hall, leaning against the wall next to your own room. It takes you by surprise, seeing him standing there. He’s already dressed for the day, a nice, knitted shirt on with brown shorts to match and checkered vans decorating his feet. The only thing out of place is his hair, still a mess of curls from where he hadn’t had the chance to comb them down yet.

You offer a smile as you step out of the bathroom. “All yours.”

Harry has a sour expression on his face as you pass by to get into your room. You don’t bother giving him any more attention than that, though, not keen on him accusing you of anything else.

At 7 you head downstairs. Irene is already settled into the kitchen with a plate full of food waiting for you. She smiles when she spots you. “Sleep well?”

You nod. “Finally met Harry.”

“Oh, Harry!” Irene claps her hands together. “Isn’t he so lovely?”

You hum in response. “Lovely,” you try to hide the sarcasm in your voice, “that is definitely the word I would use.”

Irene’s eyes flicker behind you, and she brightens at the sight of Harry coming down the stairs. “There he is! Harry, come have breakfast.”

Harry appears, hair now perfectly in place, walking around the table to greet Irene with a hello and a kiss to her cheek. “Can’t, love. Have places to be.”

“Oh, stay for a bit. It’s too early to have anywhere important to be. Talk with us,” Irene urges, gesturing to you already seated at the table.

You give an exaggerated nod. “Yeah, talk to us, Harry.”

Harry forces a smile onto his face. “Only for a bit, yeah?”

Your frown is immediate as Harry takes the seat across from you. You had remembered what Irene had said the day before, about Harry never joining her for breakfast, and that had led you to expect him to decline Irene’s offer and head out for the day, but now you were stuck with him sitting there in front of you.

“What are the plans for today?” Irene asks, seemingly unaware of the tension at the table.

Harry gives her a genuine smile as he steals a roll from the plate she had placed in the middle of the table and takes a bite. “Goin’ to wander the city a bit, might take a nice boat ride.”

“I’m doing a boat ride too,” you chime in. The look Harry throws you is something similar to a glare, but you just smile, knowing you managed to get under his skin already this morning before he had even tried to touch yours.

The rest of the conversation is tense, with Irene staying blissfully unaware to the dirty looks you and Harry throw at each other. A part of you wonders how you can act like this with a complete stranger, but when you accidentally kick his shin under the table, and Harry returns a swift kick of his own, the thought is completely overshadowed by the irritation you feel when you look at him.

When Harry finishes his roll a few minutes later, he delivers a quick peck to Irene’s cheek and heads out, offering no goodbye to you. When he’s gone, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you had been holding and stand from your chair.

“Thank you for breakfast, Irene.” You make to move for the stairs, planning to take a little time to yourself before your planned boat ride later, but Irene stops you.

“He is better once you get used to him,” she tells you.

Your nose crinkles at that, wondering how much she actually had caught on to when it came to you and Harry. “I just think he doesn’t like me very much.”

She waves her hand. “He did not like me very much at first either, but he warms up in time.”

With a final nod, you head upstairs. The hours pass quickly as you find random things to do – playing games on your phone, reading a book. You had briefly wondered about calling your friends back home, curious if they had thought about you since you had last spoke to them, but you eventually decide against it when it’s time to head out for your boat ride.

The air is warm when you step outside, and the place where you’re supposed to go is only just down the block. There’s a delightful breeze that blows through your hair as you walk down the sidewalk, admiring the city as it moves through its daily ventures. You reach the dock you need to go to much easier than you had the Bed & Breakfast, but your stomach immediately drops as soon as you step on the pier.

Harry is standing with who you assume is the skipper of the boat you’ll be on. He has an impatient look on his face and his arms are crossed as he taps his foot against the wooden planks. When he spots you walking down the pier, a look of realization crosses his features.

“You’re going on a boat ride?” he asks, his brows raised above the rim of his sunglasses. “This boat ride?”

You look at the skipper and give a not-so-confident nod.

“Ah! You’re the girl who booked me so late the other day!” he announces almost proudly, and you offer an apologetic smile, choosing to ignore a clearly frustrated Harry.

“I’m so sorry about all that, it was so last minute—”

“Do not worry, darling. It seems to be my fault.” He gestures between you and Harry. “I seem to have made the mistake and made a double booking on accident. Either the two of you may ride the boat together and I’ll give half off, or one of you can leave and I’ll give full refund. I am booked full rest of day.”

You can feel Harry glaring at you through his glasses. “I’m not giving this up,” you tell him, feeling your own irritation grow at the sight of his.

“Well, neither am I.”

The skipper glances between the two of you before giving a delightful shout. “Two of you it will be! Let’s get going.”

You and Harry give the same exasperated look to the skipper, but he’s already climbing on the small speed boat, waving for you to follow.

Harry looks to you. “Ladies first.”

You don’t bother with a thank you as you climb onto the boat, Harry not far behind, and find a seat on the small bench available. With no other place to sit, Harry is forced to sit next to you on the bench clearly fit to hold two people intimately. Neither of you say anything as the skipper starts the engine and pulls away from the pier and into the lagoon you were meant to be traveling.

For a moment, you regret not just walking away and letting Harry have the boat ride to himself. You can’t imagine being able to enjoy it when he won’t even look at you even though his shoulder and thigh are flush against your own as you both attempt to fit on the bench. You still want to make the most of it, so you turn to look at Harry, deciding to attempt to show some of the same hospitality you had been experiencing so much of in Italy

“Do people really stay in the same hotels as you to get photos?”

“What?” His sunglasses have fallen slightly down his nose, and his eyes are visible just over the rim.

You swallow down any frustrating feelings you might have against Harry right now. “Last night, you accused me of being in the B&B so I could get a photo of you—”

“Sorry about that,” Harry mumbles out, pushing his glasses back in place. “Shouldn’t have come at you so quick.”

You can tell that some of the tension has left his body and that makes you feel a bit better about being stuck with him now. “Do people really do that, though?”

You wish he had taken the glasses off now, just so you could see the expression hidden behind them. You can’t tell what he’s thinking with his eyes hidden behind the dark rims.

“I’ve been doing this for over ten years,” he finally says, “I’ve had people break into my home, fans have snuck into my tour bus, and I’ve been chased down the street. You checking into the same place I am staying, a place that is normally empty year-round, and trying to snap a cheeky photo would not surprise me in the slightest.”

You suck in a breath. “I’m not going to do that.”

“I see that now.” Harry smiles as he stands up and leans against the boat, looking out over the water. You look over the design on the back of his shirt, the image of a horse clearly visible. “Sorry for using up all the hot water last night.”

Your eyes flit to the skipper standing at the wheel, but he pays neither of you any attention as he hums to himself. “It’s okay.”

“Also sorry for not asking for your name since you clearly already know mine.” He looks back over his shoulder at you. “So, what is it?”

“What?”

A smile. “Your name, love.”

“Oh.” You give up your name, falling from your lips as you remember the bit of hurt you felt the night before upon realizing he hadn’t asked for it then. It had been a strange feeling, wanting a complete stranger to know your name. especially when you and said stranger hadn’t gotten on so well, but now that he had asked for it you felt a sense of accomplishment.

Harry repeats it, his accent lilting something sweet. “S’a lovely name.”

He’s still looking at you when you say nothing, and it leaves you with a strange feeling. You try to think of what to say next, and when it comes to you, you almost laugh.

You hold out your hand. “Truce?”

The smile Harry gives you takes up the entirety of his face, dimples proudly displayed on his cheeks. He takes your hand in his own, his palm warm in yours. “Truce,” he confirms.

A comfortable silence falls between the two of you for the rest of the ride, only interrupted by the sounds of the boat on the water and the skipper’s humming. Even with all your misadventures, you couldn’t deny that the city of Venice was gorgeous. And in some way, everything had seemed to work out for you so far, even creating something that resembled the beginnings of a friendship with Harry after a rough start.

When the boat pulls up to the pier, you realize that you feel more comfortable around Harry. No longer does he intimidate you like he had when you first laid eyes on him, but rather you feel easier with him, like you’re able to strike a conversation with him with no worries at all.

So, you do try to talk to him as you step off the boat, but he apparently had the same thought and the two of you laugh as you talk over each other.

“You first,” you tell him, biting your lip to hide your smile.

“I, uh,” Harry stutters over his words as he removes his glasses, looking up and down the pier to keep his eyes on something other than you. “I was just going to ask if you had eaten lunch already.”

“I think it’s well past lunch time.” You look down at the watch adorning your wrist. “But no, I only ate breakfast.”

Harry’s eyes flash to you, and the green of them is startling under the sunlight. “Would you like to go for a late lunch?”

You much prefer this friendly Harry to the one you had first been introduced to, and you understand that there’s a garner of trust between the two of you now. “I’d love to.”

Harry leads you down the pier and back onto the concrete sidewalks around Venice. It’s settling well into the afternoon, the sun beginning to drift just below the tops of the buildings around the city. You don’t bother asking where you’re heading off to, trusting that Harry will have a great choice in wherever you go.

Eventually, after walking a few blocks, still basking in that comfortable silence from the boat, Harry stops at a door with a sign overhead that you don’t understand. He opens the door and waves you in.

The moment you step inside, you’re hit with the smell of pasta and bread hitting your nose. You breathe it in deep and the hostess at the front smiles as she watches you do so.

“First time?” she asks, her accent thick.

You nod, jumping a little when Harry appears next to you and places his hand on your arm.

“This is one of my favorite places,” he tells you, gesturing with two fingers to the hostess. “They have the best spaghetti.”

The place isn’t as packed as you would expect it to be, most likely because of your arrival between lunch and dinner, but there’s still enough people for it to feel a bit crowded. The hostess walks you over to a booth in the corner, a bit hidden away from the other patrons in the restaurant, and you know it’s because of who you’re with.

The popstar in question sits across from you but doesn’t bother grabbing a menu for himself. “Wine okay with you?”

You nod and wait for the waitress to come over. When she does, offering up her name in a sweet lilting accent, Harry orders the wine and you give a thankful nod as she walks away before turning back to Harry. “So, the spaghetti?”

Harry lets out a low moan. “It’s the best. I come here every time I visit. Practically a regular when I’m in Italy.”

“It’s that good?”

“Better than good.”

You leave your menu resting in front of you, untouched until the waitress returns with a jug of wine and two glasses. She hands one off to each of you before topping them off with the jug.

“Your usual, Mr. Styles?”

The question sends Harry beaming. “Please. And she’ll have the same,” he gestures to you, and you give a soft confirmation.

Once the waitress has left, Harry takes a long sip of his wine before clapping his hands together. “So, what brings you to Italy?”

This Harry sitting in front of you is much different than the one you had met face to face for the first time the night before. There’s something softer about him, as if the edge was taken off the moment he put his hand in yours earlier. You like this Harry more, you think, with his giddy smile and soft giggle.

You remember how you had lied to Irene when she had asked you why you had traveled to Italy, but something tells you not to do that with Harry. “My boyfriend dumped me.”

Harry’s face drops, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but you wave a hand in front of you before he can get it out.

“I’m already over it, but there were some things he said that made me rethink a lot of stuff.”

“Like what?” His gaze is curious, and it makes you want to tell him everything going on in your brain, how you’re still upset and hurt, but want to feel free while you still have the time to here in Italy.

Instead, you sugarcoat it a little. “Just stuff about how he missed the girl I used to be – more fun and care-free.”

“Are you not that girl?”

You shrug, your hand playing with the stem of your wine glass before you lift it to take a sip. “I don’t know, but I liked the sound of being adventurous and doing something unexpected so—”

“So, you booked a trip to Italy?” Harry grins. “That’s quite impressive.”

“What is?”

“Deciding to just up and go to a different country for no other reason than you want to. I think you’re a bit more outgoing than your boyfriend gives you credit for.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Ex-boyfriend.”

Harry smiles into his glass. “Right. Ex-boyfriend.”

Your food arrives not long after that, two giant plates of spaghetti with pieces of garlic bread on the side. Harry laughs at your surprised expression at the sight of the amount of food now sitting in front of you.

“You didn’t tell me we were going to feed an army.”

Harry picks up his fork, stabbing it into the noodles and twisting it around. “Try it.”

You follow his lead, picking up your own fork. When you take a bite of the pasta, you shut your eyes as the taste coats your mouth. “Oh my god.”

“I told you.”

The two of you eat practically in silence, savoring the taste of your meal and not letting the flow of conversation interrupt your eating. Neither of you finish your plate, Harry coming much closer to doing so then you are and you’re left trying to finish the still half full jug of wine in the middle of the table.

You don’t know when you start feeling like telling Harry more about yourself, maybe after your third glass of wine, but eventually you’re telling him all about the fear you had of coming to Italy.

“What do you mean you almost didn’t come here?”

You giggle a little. “I stepped off the train and almost turned right back around to get on.”

“Why?”

You give an exaggerated shrug. “My own brain? I don’t know.” You look down at your glass of wine. “Sometimes I feel like everyone’s opinions of me are right, y’know? Maybe I am that girl that just doesn’t do anything except work and go home.”

“I get that feeling.”

Your eyes shoot up to look at Harry. “You do?”

Harry gives a lazy raise of his shoulders. “Of course. I have reporters and paparazzi up my ass at practically all hours of the day. Sometimes I wish I could scream at them that I’m not everything they think I am, nor do I want to be.”

You let out a snicker and Harry raises an eyebrow. “Sorry. I almost forgot I was sitting with a famous popstar.”

Harry groans, but there’s a playful look on his face as he wags a finger at you. “That’s cheeky.”

You decide to keep going, seeing how far you can push it. “My friends are going to love it when I tell them that I got to hang out with the Harry Styles. I’m pretty sure one of them used to have a poster of you in their bedroom.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhm. Another had the cardboard cutout.”

That sends Harry into a fit of giggles, causing you to follow his lead. You both are a little too tipsy by this point, and the jug is nearly finished.

It doesn’t occur to you how long you had been inside the restaurant until you walk outside and see that the sky has turned dark. The blocks are lit by streetlights, and under them Harry looks like something out of a dream. You don’t mean to lean into him as you walk back to the B&B, but you do so in order to try and keep your balance and Harry doesn’t seem to mind with the way he tosses his arm around your shoulders lazily.

“Tonight was fun,” he tells you, trying not to walk faster than you do. The position is hard to keep as you walk, but neither of you pull away. “’S been a while since I’ve done something with someone like this.”

You smile at his admission. “You mean you don’t go out somewhere with a complete stranger at least once a week?” You tsk. “You’ve gotta get out more, Mr. Styles.”

The B&B is quiet when you arrive back, and you feel like a teenager again as you sneak past the front desk and up the stairs, trying your best to keep quiet since you both know Irene has already gone off to bed. Your exe’s words briefly flit through your brain, and you wonder what he’d say if he saw you now – drunkenly stumbling around in a mysterious city with a man you’ve known barely longer than a day.

When your foot catches on a step, Harry is there behind you to steady you before you can fall forward. His hands catch your hips, helping keep your balance, but rather than it be something that would send your stomach in knots, the gesture makes you laugh out as you think about how funny it would have been to fall face first into the carpeted floor.

You clamp a hand over your mouth, staring behind at Harry who looks like he’s barely keeping himself from laughing. You maneuver your hand so it’s just your index finger pressed against your lips, a soft shhh falling past them. Harry nods, pretending to zip his lips shut and locking them, before throwing the pretend key over his shoulder. The action threatens to send you into another fit of giggles, but you manage to hold it in as you take the rest of the steps two at a time.

The boards creak beneath your feet as you walk to your door. Turning, you just about run into Harry, your hands flying up to press against his chest in an attempt to keep from stumbling into him.

“Sorry,” you stutter out, taking a step back and resting your back against your door. “Wine’s getting to me.”

Harry smiles, and in the barely-there light of the hallway, you think you can see something playful glittering in his eyes. “S’getting to me too.”

You suddenly remember the feel of his hands on your hips moments earlier, and the way he had kept his arm wrapped around you the whole way back. There’s that knot in your stomach that hadn’t appeared before, slowly making itself known now as you try to think of what to say next.

Harry speaks first, his voice low and his words slurred. “I had fun tonight.”

“So you said.”

“How long are you staying?”

The question takes you by surprise. “Tomorrow is my last full day. I leave the next morning.”

Harry looks a bit disappointed by that, but it’s quickly replaced by something else. “Y’know, I think I have a terrific way for you to prove to everyone when you go back that you still know how to have a good time.”

You swallow when Harry takes a step closer, your back pressing further into your door. “And what’s that?”

A smile, one that’s devious and just a little bit convincing, “Let me kiss you?

You bite your lip, trying to get ahold of the situation. This is not at all how you expected your vacation to go, but you can’t help but agree that it is the best way to prove to everyone and yourself that you’re not who they think you are.

You realize that this is it – your moment to prove to yourself that everyone else was wrong. How could you not be adventurous when you’re in a random country all by yourself, about to kiss a boy you’ve never met? That’s the perfect thing to do to prove everyone wrong.

And maybe there’s something in the way that Harry’s advances make you feel that adds to you giving a soft yes.

When Harry kisses you, it’s just as you would have imagined it. And then somehow, it’s more. His lips are soft against your own, the distant taste of strawberry chapstick and the wine from earlier lingering on them and you want to savor that taste, burn the memory of those flavors together into your brain. His hands find your hips again, pressing into them unlike he had earlier. There’s intention behind the grip, the promise of something more to come.

You clumsily reach for the doorknob behind you, not daring to move your lips away from Harry’s. The door falls open and almost takes you with it as you stumble back, barely catching yourself by gripping onto Harry’s shoulders. You press your mouth back to his, feeling like he could swallow you whole in that moment.

You reach blindly for the zipper on his shorts, your hand brushing over the tent forming there and causing Harry to let out a hiss at the friction. You smile against his mouth when he reaches down, taking the matter into his own hands and unzipping his shorts as he kicks off his shoes. You follow his lead and let your shoes meet his own in a pile on the floor. The pile only grows as you both precede to strip, and when you’re left staring at Harry’s naked body, a small gasp falls from your lips.

You reach out to run a hand across the butterfly inked into his stomach before letting it trial down to tease one of the ferns against his hip. You remember them from the night before, half concealed by the shorts he had kept on, but now having them on full display sendsa shudder through you.

“You’re pretty,” you tell him softly, and he laughs.

“So are you,” he replies, taking your face in his hands and kissing you, gently pushing you back onto your bed.

You had almost forgotten about the twin size bed in your room until you fall against it. You want to laugh at the size of it compared to your two bodies collapsing onto it, but Harry rests himself on top of you and attaches his mouth to your neck, sucking a deep mark into your skin.

One hand finds his hair, raking your fingers through it and tearing a groan from Harry’s chest, while the other scrapes at his back, your nails threatening to leave red scratches all over his skin. Harry lingers against your neck for only a moment before he’s trailing down your body, planting kisses against your skin as he goes.

When he reaches your hip, he digs his fingers into your stomach as he leaves a kiss in the curve there before he plants himself between your thighs. The bed is squeaking in protest to all of this movement, but it’s not bad enough for you to want to stop.

Harry kisses at your folds before bringing his fingers up to spread them. Both your hands are tangled in his curls now, tightening their hold as Harry’s tongue finds your clit. You squirm as he presses his mouth against you, coaxing a few moans from you before you remember that you’re not alone in the building.

“Harry,” you gasp out as your hips buck against his mouth, “the bed.”

You don’t think he hears you at first, the squeaking growing louder with each move he makes that causes your hips to come up off the mattress, but then his hands are under your thighs. Slowly, without moving his mouth away from you, Harry slides you off the bed. He meets the floor first, a bit more gracefully than you do as you slip off the bed and onto the floor. Harry laughs when you let out a yelp as your ass hits the carpeted floor.

You’re face to face with him now, and there’s slick covering his mouth. Without thinking, you grab his face and kiss him, letting your own taste wash over your tongue. Harry groans into your mouth, the vibration moving through your chest.

“I wanna taste you,” you tell him, but he shakes his head.

“Swear I won’t be able to hold it in much longer.” He’s breathing heavily and that only makes you smile something wicked that sends Harry’s brain into overload.

“Just a little taste,” you mutter before pushing at his chest so he falls back onto the carpet. You move between his legs like he had only minutes ago, your hand coming up to grip the base of his dick.

Harry lets out a hiss as you wrap your hand around him, giving a slow pump. When you lick the tip, though, he can barely hold back the moan he lets out and you laugh a little.

“Good?” you ask, taking him into your mouth finally and Harry feels like he’s slowly losing the will to function, wondering if he can even get the words out.

“Good, yeah. Yeah. S’good.”

You give him a few more pumps, moaning against him when he brings a hand up to wrap in your hair, but you don’t want him to lose control before he can get inside of you, so you restrain yourself and pull back.

Harry gives you a pitiful look when you pull away, only to be replaced with something much more eager when you begin to climb on top of him. He lays back against the carpet, grabbing your hips as you guide yourself onto his cock.

You both let out a mixture of sounds as you slide down onto him, letting yourself get used to the feel of it. After a minute, you rock back onto him, and Harry takes that as a good sign. Before you know it, he’s lifting his hips off the floor to fuck up into you, turning you into a whining mess as you chase your orgasm. The sound of skin on skin fills the room, and you’re sure that Irene must’ve heard you at this point, but you don’t care anymore as you press your hands down onto Harry’s stomach and try to meet the pace he’s set.

“Gonna cum,” he tells you, but you could already tell with the way his thrusts have become more frantic and sloppier. You can only nod, falling against his chest as you feel the beginnings of your own orgasm start to take over.

When yours hits, you cry out into Harry’s chest. Harry doesn’t stop, though, instead wrapping his arms around you as he chases his own. It only takes a couple more thrusts before he’s pulling out of you and moaning into your hair. You can feel the hot spurts hit your stomach, dripping down onto his due to your position. The two of you stay like that, his arms still wrapped tight around you, holding you to him.

“Harry?” you finally say after a few minutes of you trying to catch your breath. You can feel the effects of the wine from earlier still mixed with the aftermath of your orgasm, and it’s all making your brain feel a bit hazy.

“Yeah?”

You roll off of Harry, the heat of being pressed to him becoming a little too much, but he doesn’t let you go, and you find yourself laying sideways, Harry’s arms still wrapped around you as you lay face to face. “Do you usually fuck random strangers you barely know in Italy?”

Harry lets out a soft giggle, one of his hands beginning to rub at your back. “You’d be the first.”

You reach a hand up to run through his curls, pushing them back off his forehead. “Glad to know I’m not alone there,” you mumble. “So, what do we do now?”

Harry shrugs the best he can in his position on the floor. “We clean up, try to fit in your tiny bed, and figure it out in the morning?”

You hum in response. “I don’t think I can face Irene in the morning.”

“Oh, that woman sleeps like the dead. N’way she heard.”

“Still.”

Harry thinks for a moment. “How about I go downstairs in the morning, grab us some of Irene’s lovely breakfast, and convince her to go out for the day so you can be free of the embarrassment of her hearing us having really amazing vacation sex?”

You roll your eyes. “Then it’ll be obvious what we’re doing.”

“Yes, but I think Irene would appreciate the heads up before she’s wondering why the boards are creaking so badly the whole day.”

You smack your hand against Harry’s chest and a laugh bubbles up from it. “Are you saying you’re going to have me spend my last day in Italy locked away in a bedroom getting my guts rearranged?”

“That’s one way to describe it,” he laughs.

You hum again. “Y’know, I thought I hated you this morning.”

“That was kinda evident by the way you kicked me under the table at breakfast.”

You gasp. “That was an accident!”

“Ah, so you just wanted an excuse to play footsie, huh?”

You hit him again. “An accident, Harry.”

Harry laughs, pulling you further against him. You let out a yawn as you rest your head in the crook of his neck. “We should probably get up. I feel a bit gross.”

You hum in response, tickling Harry’s neck with the vibrations. You hear Harry say your name in an attempt to get your attention, but you’re already drifting off against his chest with the promise of him etched into your brain for when you wake up.

Harry figures he’ll get up in a bit rather than disturb you now, letting himself relax against you. He means to only lay there for a few minutes until he knows he can remove himself from you so he can clean up, but soon enough his eyelids are falling shut as he too drifts off to sleep.

[violetnotez]

HC: The Boys Taste Their S/o’s Chapstick

Anonymous:  could I request headcannons for shinso, mirio, denki, sero, and bakugo kissing their s/o and tasting their chapstick ? Or if you want or when they realize their s/o takes care of them in really subtle ways that they didn’t really notice it at first ? i love your blog so much 🥺❤️

Hey babe omg Im so happy you like my blog!!!! Also this ask OMG I have been wanting to write it for so long!!!! Im a sucker for these super cute and fluffy headcanons, so thank you so much for the idea!

Pairings: Shinso x reader, Mirio x reader, Denki x reader, Sero x reader, Bakugo x reader

Warnings: some might get suggestive, but none of these are full blown NSFW! Just a sprinkle of spiciness, thats all!

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ

S H I N SO U

Flavor: Cherry Vanilla

Your currently trying to get ready for bed with Shinsou, his purple hair cascading against the pillow as he’s scrolling through Insta

defintely looking at cat vids

Youre just BEAT from the day- work, school, practice, whatever your life entails it just felt so incredibly tiring today

Of course, Shinsou seems to have other plans

Once he sees you come out of the bathroom, your hair wet, your skin dewy from washing, your body only wearing one of his oversized shirts and some small shorts....

man is gonna wanna be allllll over you

“Damn, kitten who allowed you to look that hot,” he’d purr, his eyes drinking you in as he propped his body on his elbows to get a better look

You’d roll your eyes, a smile on your lips-

Lowkey a perv for his s/o fight me on this

Once you sit down on the bed, its over

Shinso’s hands are all over you, his palms trailing under your shirt as he leaved lazy kisses on your neck

“Cmon, baby, lets have a little fun before we sleep....”

Just tell him your tired, and he’ll comply, turning super fluffy and cuddly in a matter of minutes

Reluctantly tho this boi is horny when hes horny

“Ahh my kitten’s tired? Fine then, you need your rest.”

He’ll lean in to give a sweet kiss, unknowingly of how flavorful you taste now with your chapstick

And OHOHOHO after that its OVER

The taste of vanilla bursts in his mouth, the scent of cherry becoming more prominent-

When did you start tasting so good?

He honestly wont know how to react- he’ll shake his head and blink a few times, “The hell-?” spilling out of his lips

He grabs you buy the chin, his thumb swiping against your lips gently

Once he sees the faint red sheen on his digit, it kinda dawns on him whats going on

You catch on to his confusion, a small giggle spilling out of you as you tell him its just chapstick you bought since your lips felt dry

He’ll just give you a lazy smirk, his lilac eyes a royal purple as he eyes you

This man cant HELP HIMSELF

He’ll lean in for another kiss, this one lasting much longer and more passionate as he tried to capture that taste again

“Do me a favor and keep wearing that kitten,”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

M I R I O 

Flavor: Birthday Cake

Im so proud of fidning this picture im sorry it just matches so well

Anywaysssssssss

You had just gotten out of the locker room, your UA uniform a little wrinkled from being balled up while you were training

You walked out the metal doors, your lips feeling much softer than usual- you were in desperate need of chapstick after that particular lesson

Thanks UA for having training grounds that blow up every 5 seconds and spray dust everywhere

But thankfully Neijire is the best person ever and hooked you up with some super cute chapstick

Since it was new and just sitting in her book bag, she just told you to keep it

NEIJIRE WHY YOU GOTTA BE SO SWEET?

You had to admit though, you really liked it- the packaging was pretty cute, it was nice on your skin, but the SMELL

OMG

You felt like a bakery was near you every step you took

And everytime you licked your lips it tasted like sweets, which was an amazing addition

Makes ya wonder how safe it is to consume makeup 👀

Mirio is the cutest boyfirend though-wherever your class is, he waits for you outside and walks with you until you have to go your seperate ways

So, as usual, he’s waiting for you outside the locker room, a wide grin plastered on his face

Once he sees you walk out of the doors, he’s already bounding over, his arms swinging cause hes always just so happy to see you 

“Hey sunshine!” he greets you like any other day, his voice just radiating happiness

Some days though, Mirio will kiss the top of your head as he grabs your hand and walks you to his class

Other days, he’s a little more bold, instead leaning down to give you a kiss on your lips as he snakes his hand around your waist

TODAY BABE 

IS THAT DAY

You can tell he’s feeling a little more *frisky cause he’s got this mischievous glint in his eyes

ehhhh why not indulge him?

So you get on your tippie toes, leaning in to him and planting a quick kiss on his lips

But thats when Mirio gets confused- did you eat something?Is it cake? CInnamon roll? Cookie? But whatever it is, it tastes GOOD

“Sweetie, did you buy something from the vending machine?” he asks, a confused grin on his face as he eyes you

You laugh, not realizing that Mirio would be affected by your new chapstick too, 

“Oh no, its just a chapstick Niejire gave me, I think its cake batter flavored- do you like it?”

Mirio licked his lips , savoring the lingering flavor on his skin

“You batter belive it!”

*cue the groaning

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

D E N K I

Flavor: Pina Colada

So Mina, bless her little music crazed heart, somehow won a pack of tickets from a radio station to a new water park opening up not too far from UA

It was superrrrr expensive to get in, but the music station hooked all you guys up with VIP tickers, a private cabana, food, THE WORKS

You had been running around with the group all day

(except Bakugo- he either went to the lazy river or the surfing simulator thignie cause Kaminari said he would wipe out and wanted to prove him wrong)

Everybody else wanted to do everythingggg, from ride the craziest rides to trying all the food the park had

By the end of the day, you were completely beat and just wanted to rest

Mina was sitting beside you in  the cabana (again, thank you radio station for hooking some teens up!), just searching it for snacks the boys hadnt eaten

“Aww cmon, really?! We have chapstick but no food?!”

Your head instantly perked up at the sound- chapstick? God, you could deifnitely use some right now from all that chlorine and sun...

You asked Mina to toss you one, the pink skinned girl throwing you a tube as she grumbled about how “piggy” boys were

You checked the flavor on the tube, the fruits on the side label instantly telling you it was something tropical

As you were putting it on, the boys of Bakusquad were bounding up the steps, their feets covered in sand-

“Guess what?! We got Bakugo to go in the wave pool! Isnt that crazy! It had sand on the bottom, like a real beach-”

Kirishima was just gushing and super excited, Bakugo looking like a pissed off wet cat next to him

You sat up quickly, happy to see your boyfriend, his spiky hair all wet from the day and his boxers dripping

As Kirishima and Sero were messing with an extremely annoyed Bakugo, you went and grabbed the boys some towels, giving the last one to your boyfriend

“Aww thanks babe,” he gushed out, his hands grabbing the towel gingerly as he leaned to kiss you

But wait- you tasted- really sweet?

Kaminari pulled back slightly, a small smirk on his lips, cause damn, that tasted really good

“Did you eat some fruit or something? Cause you taste super yummy babe-”

You  pointed to your lips as you told him how Mina found some free chapstick lying around in the cabana

Kaminari just gave you this really blissed out stare as he sneaked one more peck from you- he was kinda wishing his friends weren't here, cause hed totally be making out with you with that yummy stuff on your lips...

“Do me a favor and dont take that stuff off, okay? Until we get back to the dorms,”

He sent you a small wink, weaving behind you inconspicously, and giving your bottom a playful pinch

WHY YOU GOTTA BE A FLIRT KAMINARI

(Also before you left Kamianri most definitely dumped the whole jar of chapsticks into his backpack)

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ 

S E R O

Flavor: Peppermint

You and Sero had just gotten coffee from a little cafe when it starts to rain

Like alottttttttttt

And of course it happens when your right outside, waiting for your ride to take you back home

So you two are just standing there like weirdos with the rain POURING, Sero holding up his jacket over both of your heads

But honestly, it’s not doing much to block out the rain, so honestly-why not have some fun?

You run out of the fabric, instantly feeling your whole body get drenched as you start twirling and laughing

“He-hey wait, babe!”

Sero’s gonna be laughing, and now y’all playing a wierd game of tag

Aghhhhhh so cute tho 🥺🥺

He catches you pretty quickly, his tape grabbing your waist and pulling you to him,,,

You instantly collide with his chest, your cheeks rosy from running around so much and your hands resting on his chest

Sero gives you the biggest grin, his finger under your chin and raising it to look at him

“You know your the biggest tease I know?”

“Yup!”

He laughs, placing a kiss on your lips-and omg why are you minty? and it feels soooo good to him, cause honestly mint isn’t a bad flavor-

“Hey babe whatcha got on your lips? Did you eat-gum or something?”

You just laugh and tell him it’s some chapstick you got (imagine the mint eos U KNOW THE ONE)

He asks if it’s the egg chapstick OML 💀

Yes Sero the egg chapstick

His lips are parted a little, his eyes wider than usual cause he’s lowkey confused on how he liked that so much

But he send you another huge grin before he kisses you again-

“I think your gonna need to wear that more for me, yeah?”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

B A K U G O

Flavor: Cinnamon

Bakugo has ben practically forcing you to wake up at ungodly hours with him to train

He says its cause “youre getting weak” but really he’s a total simp for having such close contact with you

Also he’s a little brat and put his all into it  so you cant ever beat him, which boosts his ego for some reason?

“Hah, that really the best you got?” he scoffs down at you, his calloused hands pinning you to the ground as his body cages you in for the umpteenth time

Honestly, its hard to fight when your 1) annoyed about loosing and 2) have your hot as hell boyfriend pining you to the ground

But thankfully

THANKFULLY

He was starting to overheat, his breathe coming out in low pants as  strands  of hair began sticking to his forehead

You felt one of his palms begin to slip ever so slightly near you, and on instinct you knew you had to do something, you finally had an opening-

so you caused a distraction 

Your hands quickly flew to the nape of his neck, pressing his head down to your so you could kiss him square on the lips

Bakugo was completely confused in the best way possible- he didnt expect that to happen, but hell, hes not complaining-

until his lips start to tingle

“-the hell?!” he sputters out, his mind trying to figure out what was going on just before you successfuly flip him over, with you now on top

You stared down triumphantly at your boyfriend, not knowing how well that worked- until you noticed how shiny Bakugo lips look

He begins mashing his lips together, trying to rub it off since you had his hands pinned down

“The hell is on my lips? Agh, dont tell me its that weird ass lip stuff that supposed to make your lips bigger or something-’’

Ummmmm how does he know about lip plumping lip gloss? Question for a another day-

“Its chapstick silly,” you giggle, “-cinnamon”

Honestly, he’s gonna like it-this boy likes spicy things and the fact that “spicy” sensation came from his s/o....shoooottttt he is in love

But

Of course

He’s gonna act like it’s wierd or something, cause HES wierd

“Cinnamon? You couldn’t get something normal like cherry or grape?”

You scrunch up your nose, cause yeah your not for those flavors AT ALL, and Bakugo finds his chance

He quickly flips you over, your back now against the floor and his body on top of yours

“Cmon, baka don’t tell me thats seriosuly all you got-“

Don’t remind him that you were able to flip him over tho he’ll turn red and tell you to shut it

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

[meeowerzz]

heart beating faster, feet pushin on the floor (what I call HBF), is a 80s-90s dadschlatt au that focuses on beeduo. none of the characters are the ccs, they are the dsmp characters only.

I’m shit at categorizing things but I’d call HBF a morbid comedy

content warning: HBF contains and/or refers to death, substance abuse, addiction, abuse, vomiting, underage substance use, and slight description of corpses.

all referred content above doesn’t go into extreme detail, but it’s there regardless. please read with caution

chapter one!! “should I stay or should I go?”

fun fact! I wrote the first chapter as a random story for my creative writing class (which is why the whole ‘running away’ thing seems a bit,, ooc lmao)

I love how it formed from then and just,, wowow

Today, at exactly 11:23 am, while brushing his teeth, Tubbo decided that he was running away. Why was he running away exactly, you may ask? He simply decided that this wasn't his place, it was a life too boring for him to want to live.

...That and the fact that his father is floating face down in the backyard's pool, and he lacked the knowledge of burying someone. Being labeled as a murder would also would look horrible on a resume.

this was my favorite part of chapter 1 for awhile btw, like it’s morbid but chefs kiss

It wasn't his fault though- the man got wasted, threw a chair into the glass backdoor, threw a poorly aimed punch at him, then went out back to continue drinking with his friends. Tubbo simply woke up, swept glass, made coffee, went out back, saw his dad in the pool, possibly poked him with a plastic flamingo, then went back inside to brush his teeth.

he actually poked him with the flamingo, I think him possibly denying that he poked him was funny. imagine that in an interrogation

And now here he is, packing up duffle bags and loading some boxes into his beat up beetle. It would've been a suspicious sight to see him moving so much into his car if you've never lived on his street before, but this was a monthly occurrence to view. Not even the neighbor walking their dog cared.

I feel like I didn’t go into enough detail with this part. schlatt got pissed over a lot of tubbo’s shenanigans and kicked him out semiregularly. tubbo always came back after his dad sobered up and/or went to work

The last things to pack was a cooler and all the savings he had been collecting; he was planning on moving out early anyways, it just got moved to a closer date. Oh, and he needed to make sure no one stops by his house in the next week, it would be awkward if he wasn't out of the state when cops show up.

Picking the weighted phone off the wall, clicking plastic buttons as he dialed his aunt's number.

"Hey Aunt Puffy? It's Tubbo."

"Oh Tubbo, I wasn't expecting a call before I came by saturday." the static of the phone almost covered up the annoying noise of her seven year olds playing.

"Yeah about that- dad randomly decided that we were going camping for the next two weeks. Said I wasn't 'a real man' and needed to 'do manly things that way he raises a man and not a wimp'." all real quotes, but from a different time.

originally I was going to throw minor homophobic insults there- but decided that the shittier ones I threw there could’ve been built on later one yk

She remained silent for a moment, obviously judging the statement, but then sighed- "Oh well, there goes my weekend plans. Tell your father I said hi then, call when you get back."

puffy was always ooc in this and I felt rlly bad ab it. I should’ve watched her more out of egg lore o(-(

"Of course." oh, lying does feel nice sometimes.

She hung up after a second, and then Tubbo went off to finish packing.

--

The second to last stop on his list was Halo's Convenience Store, otherwise known as the gas station at the edge of town.

"Ranboo! I have arrived." he threw his arms out to make his entrance grander, much to the disliking of the man who Ranboo was ringing up at the counter.

"Tubbo! Nice to see you, my guy! How's it goin?"

"Just coming by to steal you." hopping over the counter, helping himself to the mini fridge and gummy worms.

boo is so gas station core. u agree.

"Child- you know that those are only for staff to reach." Mr. Halo’s voice echoed across the small convenience store, his words held a blantically obvious annoyed tone.

"Sorry Bad- I'll be out of your hair once Boo finishes their shift!"

yeah I don’t know why I made BBH own a convenience store, it kinda just happened. insert ‘why he driving the bus all the sudden’ meme.

"That's what you say every time, and then you stay for an hour eating items without paying and scaring people away from my store- get your grimy hands off the merchandise."

"Sir I'm a growing boy, are you denying me nutrients? Are you trying to malnourish me?" Tubbo accused, using his 3 years of high school theater acting skills and causing Ranboo to chuckle.

imagine the most exaggerated voice for those lines btw. HBF tubbo was an over the top drama kid before dropping out

He, of course, grumbled in return, but dropped it.

“Boo, my Beloved, will you do me the honor of getting off work early?”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Thought we should get away for a while.” a simple answer, wasn’t a lie or the full truth. A good medium.

“Hmm- maybe I can figure something out.”

That wasn’t the answer Tubbo was hoping for.

“How about just leaving this shithole now?” he suggested, shoving some gummy worms into his mouth.

“Hey! Language!” Bad barked from a different aisle than before.

“Sorry!”

“Depends if we’re going to get Taco Bell after work.”

That could be done. Tubbo would make Ranboo pay though, man’s got a bit of money to spend.

“Taco Bell could be arranged.”

Ranboo smiled and grabbed a handful of gummy worms from the other’s bag.

“Sounds like a plan then- let’s go.”

Tubbo smiled back, grabbing a few more snack bags and some drinks before sliding over the counter once more.

another reason BBH hated tubbo’s ass in this was the regular occurrence of stealing shit from the store. I like to think there’s a bulletin board with banned costumers on it- tubbo’s on it at least 3 times

"To the Bumblebee!" the duo ran out the convenience store before Mr. Halo could even mutter in protest.

"Excuse the mess in the back, had to throw some stuff in here at the last minute."

"Fine with me as long as the seats are clean." Ranboo mutters as he takes off his cashier apron.

The car doors slam shut with a click, Ranboo fastens his seat belt as Tubbo drums his fingers against the steering wheel.

"So, where to?"

"After grabbing your stuff from home, hopefully across state lines in a few hours." Tubbo says in a quick breath, grumbling about the car's slow start up.

"Wait- what?"

"We have to get your stuff first dude."

"No no- why state lines? Tubbo what's going on?" Ranboo's tone went from curious to concerned, their fingers fiddling with the seat belt.

"Boss Man, we're on the run."

Tubbo hit the gas, speeding the two out of the parking lot before Ranboo could say more.

"Tubbo! Hold on! Stop!!" the poor teen yelped, his hands holding onto the dashboard like a lifeline.

Just for kicks, Tubbo took his request wholeheartedly and slammed the brakes.

"If you don't tell me what's going on right now I'm going to throw myself out of this car."

"You wouldn't dare."

But Ranboo did dare- his seat belt unbuckles.

"Fine! Fine! My dad fucking died and I do not want to be blamed for murder."

“HE WHAT?” Ranboo almost launched himself out of the car then and there.

“My dad’s dead, and I’m getting away before being accused of murdering him by law enforcement.”

“Wh- how? Are you ok? Did you get hurt? Why, no wait- how- jesus.”

“Boo I’m fine, and no, I didn’t actually kill him.”

Ranboo completely sunk into his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose as they curled into themself.

“There is no way this is real right now.”

“Well I wouldn't lie about running away would I?”

Ranboo paused for a moment before answering.

“...No.”

“Would I lie about my dad dying?”

“No.” the reality started to sink in for Ranboo, his face becoming pale.

“Exactly.” Tubbo didn’t realize he was holding his breath until then, a long sigh escaped his lips.

“...Look Boss Man,” he tapped his foot anxiously next to the gas pedal, heart beating fast, “I know this is definitely a lot, but I wanted you to go with me.”

haha semi title pun,, so silly

Ranboo slightly uncurled, focusing their eyes on the dirty green sneaker that was fighting the urge to hit the gas.

“If I do run away, I want you to come with. There’s a high chance I’ll never come back here again, and I don’t want to leave you here. So...would you like to join me?”

“I...Tubbo- look.”

Oh.

Ranboo took a deep breath, uncurling in his seat completely.

“This,” he gestured to the rest of the car with his hand, “is absolutely terrifying, and there is no way in hell I don’t see this ending in some bad way that involves getting arrested or eaten by bears or something. But I don’t want that happening to you.”

Oh?

“So alright, let’s go. I’m definitely going to regret some of this later, but let’s run away.”

That was music to Tubbo’s ears. His foot slammed the gas, launching the two down the road.

“Thanks Boss Man, you’re literally the best.”

“I am. Are we still going to stop for Taco Bell?”

“No.” Tubbo laughed, too happy to care about buying a $4.95 taco right now.

dawg I don’t think that’s even the price of a taco bell taco. I literally threw numbers there tbh

Today at 2:34 pm, Ranboo would think that he would regret more things than he originally planned.

I’m going to post hbf chapter by chapter and ramble ab it on the dash and y’all are going to ask me ab stuff and love it sm (affirmation)

[everyonewasabird]

Brickclub 4.6.3 “The Fortunes and Misfortunes of Escape”

In days gone by these austere places where prison discipline leaves a prisoner alone with himself consisted of four stone walls, a stone ceiling, a flagstone floor, a camp bed, a barred window, and an iron-clad door, and was called a dungeon; but the dungeon was judged too horrible; now the cell consists of an iron-clad door, a barred window, a camp bed, a flagstone floor, a stone ceiling, and four stone walls and is called a correctional chamber.

I love when Hugo is angry enough to get sarcastic. I hate when everything he says is just as true now as it was then.

Nothing about the prison is remotely competent at keeping experienced criminals prisoner. While the prison system is effective at traumatizing people new to it and turning them into repeat offenders, to the experienced criminals it’s ludicrously porous. Members of Patron-Minette are placed together in crumbling buildings with scaffolding already on them and implements of escape readily available. The prison hardly even seems to be trying.

Indeed:

There are traitors employed in lots of prisons, half jailors, half thieves, who help in breakouts, who sell their disloyal services to the police and make a fair bit on the side out of the rotten eggs thrown in the police wagon.

The ways of escaping prison are baked into the prison system.

What was it we said about how the purpose Patron-Minette serves to the government is in making sure the forces of disorder have the most frightening face possible? It’s to the government’s advantage to ensure there are people to give criminals a bad name, frightening the bourgeoisie into barring their doors and locking their shutters when they hear chaos in the streets.

That’s fundamentally what P-M is, as we’ll see it reach its worst effect on the barricade. And what use would such people be to the government if they were all behind bars?

That was the argument Hugo seemed to be making in the Noxious Poor digression, and now we’re seeing it play out on the page. They’re about to escape the prison, but they won’t escape the grand pantomime the justice system has set up to justify its own existence.

The passerby who stops at the rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, after the fire station, outside the porte cochère of the bathhouse, sees a courtyard full of flowers and shrubs in tubs, at the back of which sits a little white rotunda, with two wings, brightened up by green shutters, the bucolic dream of Jean-Jacques. Not more than ten years ago, towering above this rotunda, was an enormous black wall, bare and ghastly, which it rested against. This was the wall of the covered way that encircled La Force.

Damn, that image of prettifying the literal prison wall is grim.

The wall behind the rotunda was like Milton glimpsed behind Berquin.

Rose’s note:

John Milton (1697–74) painted a vision of hell in Paradise Lost; Arnaud Berquin (1747–91) wrote sentimental and moralistic books for children.

And--we’ve seen these ideas juxtaposed before?

From the chapter where Valejan and Cosette see the chain gang:

An old woman in the crowd pointed them out to her little boy five years old, and said to him: “Rascal, let that be a warning to you!”

Rousseau, for all his (many, many) faults, advocated serious and much-needed reform to childhood education. According to the image above, that’s gone nowhere. The “bucolic dream of Jean-Jacques” is an almost-literal fig leaf over the cruel systems we’ve been seeing grind people down all book. There may be better ideas about how to raise children out there than are currently being implemented, but they sure aren’t accessible to all children.

Or most children.

Or, as Courfeyrac has pointed out, Rousseau’s children.

Brujon and Guelemer escape easily and we switch focus to Thenardier, who has been chained in solitary under constant watch and labeled as capable of murder.

I imagine that’s specifically the cost of his attempt to shoot Javert.

And all that is actually really new for him? Obviously he’s been shifty and criminal for a while, but as far as we know he’s never been in prison before, and certainly not for this level of crime. Everything I was talking about before, about the new prisoners vs. the experienced ones--Thenardier is making his transition to the latter category right now.

I think Thenardier’s roof adventure at the end of this chapter is teasing two possible redemption stories.

The first is raised and then knocked down easily: it’s Thenardier. We see him in the position of Jean Valjean, we’re even in his head a little as his flight for freedom approaches the sublime, and then he’s trapped on the top of a three story wall too cold and tired to move. That’s as sympathetic as he’ll ever be. But as soon as he reaches the ground again, it all vanishes, and he asks who they’re going to devour next.

And, most damningly, he fails to recognize his own son (though Babet does), who waits a moment for Thenardier to turn towards him before shrugging and going off to take care of his own children.

The second possible redemption, teased for longer and more convincingly, is Montparnasse. We saw him receive a shock and a lecture from Jean Valjean and go away thoughtful. He was still mulling it over when he talked to Gavroche, whom he treats with a notable amount of respect. And in this chapter we see him show genuine loyalty, willing to risk himself to try to get Thenardier out of this. His loyalty is linked to being Thenardier’s son-in-law “to some slight extent” which has to be one of the worst possible ways to say that he’s been hooking up with Eponine.

But it’s also instructive. We don’t yet have an answer to “will Montparnasse redeem himself” but we’re going to get one soon.

Because it’s in the chapter where Eponine defends the Rue Plumet that he shows what he’s really made of.

[pan-fangirl-345]

Meeting the Team

Summary: You’re out with your boyfriend, Tsukishima, when you run into his team unexpected. You were not prepared for this.

It was supposed to be a calm walk through the park. You really weren't expecting to be introduced to your boyfriend's entire team at once.

You and Tsukishima had been walking through the park after spending the day window shopping. You had finally managed to convince him to go shopping with you. Even though it was something that neither of you particularly enjoyed, you need some new school supplies and maybe a few new sweatshirts and Tsukishima liked to point out the weird things that people bought so you could ponder what they were using it for.

It was a nice day, the skies were clear, there was a nice breeze, and it was cool enough that you weren't overly hot.

Kei had told you about his team before, obviously, and you and Tadashi had known each other since middle school.

"Hey, (Y/F/N), heads up," Kei murmured, nudging your side as a group of boys headed towards you.

"Isn't that your team?" you asked, letting Kei, nudge you behind him slightly. Kei's hand slid into yours, giving it a small, reassuring squeeze. You wrapped your arms around the arm Kei was using to halfway shield you from the rest of the boys.

"Yes, unfortunately," Kei muttered.

"Oh my god! Is Saltishima with a girl?!"

The small red-head that had spoken was clearly Hinata, and he was just the way Kei had described him.

"What else would she be, dumbass?"

That was Kageyama then, if the stoic face and the dark hair were anything to go by.

"It's good to see you again (Y/F/N)," Tadashi said, giving you a small smile.

"Who's your friend Tsukishima?" the silver-haired male asked, giving you a warm smile. That must've been Suga.

"This is (Y/N), she's my girlfriend," Kei admitted, glancing back at you warily.

"I-I can go," you whispered to him, starting to back away from them all. It wasn't that you or Kei were ashamed of your relationship, if either of you were it wouldn't have gotten this far, but neither of you were ready to tell his entire team at once.

One of the first things that you had told Kei was that you and crowds didn't tend to mix. You sometimes got overwhelmed when you had to remember so many names and faces. And Kei had told you enough that it was better if you met the team in groups or one-on-one.

"How did Tsukishima get such a pretty girlfriend?" You looked to see a short boy with spiky hair and a blond tuft. That would be Nishinoya then.

"Guys, let's give them some space, she looks like she might puke." That was an older boy, with short brown hair. That was probably Daichi.

"Damn, she's almost as pretty as a Kiyoko and Yachi. You never told us that you were a player Tsukishima." Loud, buzzcut, looked like someone you would avoid in an alleyway. Tanaka then.

The three standing back and watching looked like Narita, Ennoshita, and Kinoshita.

"It's nice to meet you."

Tall, long hair, looked like a tough guy. Asahi then.

"It's nice to meet you too Asahi," you murmured, giving him a shy smile.

"Y-You know how I am?"

"Kei's told me about all of you," you admitted. "I think I can name all of you. Maybe."

Kei glanced back at you, running his thumb over your hand softly.

"Aw, so Saltishima does care about us!" Hinata chirped, practically vibrating.

"Hinata's as enthusiastic as you said he was Kei," you murmured, stepping out a little bit.

"You got my name right!" Hinata said, giving you a bright smile, one you returned slowly.

"It's nice to meet you (Y/L/N), I'm assuming you're the reason Tsukishima is always smiling at his phone during practice lately," Suga said, smirking at Kei, who glared at him.

"You told me you weren't doing anything!" you hissed, pinching Kei in the side lightly.

"I said that what I was doing wasn't as important as talking to you," Kei replied, wrapping his arm around your shoulders.

"I-I'm really n-not that important! You should be paying attention to practice," you told him, glaring at him weakly.

"Good to know you'll call this stick out on his shit," Nishinoya mumbled.

"Noya, language," Suga hissed.

"It's alright Suga, that doesn't bother me."

"You should hear her when we study together," Kei muttered, pushing his glasses up his nose again.

"You aren't any better baby," you informed him.

"You really aren't Tsukki," Yamaguchi pointed out.

"Baby? Never knew Tsukishima would be into pet names," Kageyama said.

"You're never gonna here the end of this, are you?" you asked Kei, who shook his head.

"This is one of the reason I was hoping to delay telling them," Kei confessed.

"Hey, (Y/L/N), do you want to play with us?" Hinata asked, throwing a ball into the air.

"I . . . um, I don't really play. I come to your games and everything, but I'm more of a softball person."

"You likes hitting things with a metal bat, you mean," Kei said. "Since you can't legally do it to the idiots in our class."

"Maybe, but I also like the feeling of a ball hitting my glove, the sound it makes, the way it feels when you catch a pop fly no one thought you could catch and the ump yells 'you're out'!"

"What position do you play?"

"Outfielder, I have an arm apparently."

"She's one of their strongest batters," Kei boasted.

"What's the point in you boasting about my abilities, Kei?" you asked.

"Because you won't do it yourself."

"I do too!"

"No, love, you don't."

You pouted, but it was true. You never really saw a reason to boast about how hard you could throw a ball, or how far you could hit one.

Your phone ringing saved you from any comments.

"Mom?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm out with Kei, I told you that I was going out with him today. What's wrong? What happened?"

"Nothing, I guess I just forgot where you were."

"Do you need anything while I'm out?"

"No, just be home before dinner."

"I always am," you reminded her.

She hung up, making you tear a hand through your hair.

"I need to leave a note or something next time," you muttered.

"Your mom?" Kei asked.

You nodded, intertwining your fingers together.

"Need me to take you home?"

"No, I just have to be back by dinner, so I'm good until about five-thirty."

"Wait, were you on a date?" Daichi asked, raising an eyebrow.

You glanced at Kei. 

You were definitely dating, but you had never really labeled the outings that took place. They didn't feel like dates.

"Yeah. I told you guys I was going out with my girlfriend," Kei muttered, pushing his glasses up his face.

"We thought you were joking man!" Tanaka bellowed. 

"Yeah, we just thought you were trying to get out of team hangouts."

"You should've gone, we could've done this another day," you told Kei.

"I wanted to spend some time with my girlfriend, is that too much to ask?" Kei asked, tightening his grip a little bit.

He was clearly getting exasperated with everyone, and the lines on his face said that he was getting irritated too.

"No, but don't you guys have your tournament coming up?" you asked. "You should be practicing. I can wait."

Kei frowned, and then you realized your choice of words.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," you muttered.

"Love," he whispered, a low warning.

"Look, all I'm saying is that you should be practicing. We can go on all the dates you want when your tournament is over."

"If you don't go out with her Tsukishima, I might," Noya teased.

You couldn't help the heat that flushed to your cheeks.

You had never thought of yourself as particularly pretty, you were intelligent, sure, but you weren't what most people would describe as crush material. It was one of the reasons it took you and Kei so long to get together, you had thought it was a prank.

Kei sighed, deep and long-suffering and you stifled a giggle.

"I think we better get going guys," you admitted. "I think Kei might pop a blood vessel if we don't."

"Or commit murder," Kei grumbled, but he shot you a grateful look.

"You love them too much for that and you know it."

"End me now."

"Imagine how bad it'll be when I finally meet your brother," you pointed out.

The blood seemed to drain from Kei's face and Yamaguchi snorted into his hand as he tried to suppress his laughter.

"We're breaking up," he deadpanned.

"Not until I meet your brother," you told him, shaking your hands for emphasis.

"Yamaguchi, help me out here." He must've been desperate.

"Video tape it for me so I can see how it goes," Tadashi replied, making you laugh.

"This is why we're friends," you told him, fist bumping him.

"They're plotting against me I swear," Kei muttered, tearing a hand through his hair.

"Okay, let's go then Grumpy Pants," you said. "It was nice to finally meet all of you," you added, heading for the train station so you could head home.

"Did . . . did you like them?" Kei asked.

"Of course I did, honestly, with some one-on-one time with them, I would probably like them a lot more."

"I'm sorry that it happened like that," Kei admitted, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

"It's alright, I handled it a lot better than I thought I would. I think it's because you told me so much about them. I felt like I knew a lot about them before I even met them."

Kei nodded, kissing the top of your head.

"Why are you so different around me, Kei?" you asked after a while.

"What do you mean?"

"I see how you act around the others. I know that everyone else sees the- what did you call it?- bastard act. I rarely ever see that. I know it's only been a few months and this phase," you pointed out every point of physical contact, "will probably wear off eventually, but . . . you don't act like that around me."

"I act like this around you because you're different," Kei muttered. "You seem to have the ability to read me like a book. It's aggravating, but it also means that I don't have to put up the wall. You see everything, and you seem to like it anyway."

"Does . . . does it bother you? That I know you so well?" you inquired, taking a not-so-subtle step away from him.

"Get back here," Kei muttered, tucking you neatly into his side again. "I said it's aggravating, and I said that because you know how much I don't like talking about things. And you always know when I'm hiding something that's bothering me."

"You don't always have to talk to me. You could talk to Yamaguchi," you suggested.

"I talk to you because I trust you. If I didn't want to talk to you, we wouldn't be dating," he told you. "We wouldn't be dating if it bothered me that you knew me so well."

"I just . . . I've never really been in a serious relationship with someone who actually liked me."

"What do you mean?" He paused, and looked down at you, frowning.

"I've gone on dates and everything before . . .  but most of them were dared by friends to ask me out." You shrugged, toying with your hair. "It's just that I want to do things right."

"You are," Kei assured you. "Have . . . have I ever made you feel like you weren't?"

"No, baby, you have never made me feel like that," you promised him, turning so you could cup his face, stroking his cheek with your thumb. "I would have told you if you had."

Kei nodded, bumping foreheads with you.

"C'mon, let's get you home before your mother has an aneurism," Kei muttered.

You snorted, covering your mouth with your hand as you walked together.

"I would literally pay to see my mother pop a blood vessel," you told him, smiling at him as he smirked.

"Your parents don't like me, do they?" he asked after a while. "That's why she keeps pretending she doesn't know where you are."

"They just have a hard time trusting anybody. The last couple of times I tried to bring a boy home they confessed that it was just a dare," you admitted, attempting to hide your face with your hair.

"They don't know what they're missing," Kei snapped, stopping you. "You are amazing, and beautiful, and you're smart, and you know me well enough to know that it's just the bastard act. Anything they told you about how much you are worth is wrong."

"I know that," you answered, the silent 'sort of' not needing to be addressed. "But Kei, you have to remember, it takes a toll on a girl when the only reason she gets asked out is because of a dare. Why do you think it took me so long to get together with you?"

Kei frowned, but you knew he got it. Didn't mean he was happy about it though.

"We got off track," you muttered. "My point, is that they don't trust you yet. I do, and they'll come around eventually, I did, didn't I?"

Kei nodded, giving you a small smile.

"Do you think your team liked me?" you inquired as the train bumped along.

"I wouldn't be surprised if they asked you to start managing," Kei muttered. "Yeah, they liked you. A lot."

"Don't go getting jealous Kei," you teased, wrinkling your nose at him playfully.

"'M not," he grumbled, but the slight flush on his cheeks told you otherwise.

"You know you'll always be my favorite volleyball dork," you said, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

PDA was never something Kei had ever really been against, the most he usually went with was an arm around your shoulders or waist, holding your hand, but other times he would allow things like this.

He always had a protective arm around you when you were on the train since he knew there were all sorts of creepy people, mostly men, that might try something.

"Kei, you know you don't have to introduce me to your brother right? You seem a little on edge about it."

"No, I want you two to meet," he admitted, toying with a small piece of your hair absentmindedly. "It's just going to be chaos when you do. Akiteru can be . . . a lot sometimes."

"And your team isn't?" you asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"You . . . have a fair point," he confessed.

"I tend to," you teased.

"Okay, don't get too cocky, that's my job," Kei replied.

"I thought it was your job to be pessimistic."

"I'm a realist," he retorted.

"Keep telling yourself that babe," you said, patting his shoulder lightly.

Kei snorted, wrapping his arms around your waist.

You loved bickering like this with Kei, it was never hurtful, it was playful teasing, and it made you both smile. You were both very good at it too, which meant sessions could go until someone stopped you.

Many people had asked if you guys were having an argument the first time you did it in school, and you had just giggled and said it was how you communicated.

When you got off at your stop Kei slipped his hand into yours, interlacing your fingers together.

"Text me when you get home alright? There's been some sketchy stuff going on," you tell him as you walked down your road.

"I will," he assured you, kissing your forehead before you slipped inside.

"Bye Kei," you called, waving.

"Bye (Y/F/N), I'll see you tomorrow."

You smiled as he strode down the street toward his own home.

Yeah, he was definitely different from the others.

(A/N I’m such a simp for this boy! Oof.)

[weelittleweasley]

countdown (f.w.)

prompt: a new year on the horizon. new plans, new start, new love? maybe for some, but fred weasley is absolutely hung up on the girl he’s fancied since he graduated from hogwarts years ago.

pairing: fred weasley x fem!reader

warnings: drinking and just some cute fred fluff!

word count: 5.5k

a/n: honestly, the timeline of this is whenever fred and george graduated from hogwarts, but also the golden trio?? but also i don't know?? amuse me and pretend like you know what’s going on because i sure dont LMAOOOO anyway here’s wonderwall...

The Burrow was at max capacity, housing not only the majority of the Weasley family, but Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and you, of course. It was holiday break for Hogwarts and Molly insisted on having over all of Ronald’s friends as well as friends from Fred and George’s time at Hogwarts. The gesture was more than kind, but it did make for tight quarters having four more extra guests in the house. However, the Weasley’s always found a way to make things work; Hermione stayed with Ginny in her room, Harry in Ron’s room, while you delightfully stayed in Bill and Charlie’s vacant room. It was a full house to say the least. And a full house meant lots of hustle and bustle.

Today was a rather special day, more so to Hermione than anyone else. It was New Year’s Eve. The most exciting of all holidays according to the young witch Granger. The holiday was celebrated in the Weasley household, but Hermione insisted that there should be a large celebration this year. Lots of lights, fun games, and the suggestion of a fire works show peaked Fred and George’s interest a lot more...

You weren’t going to lie. It all sounded fun to you. The only thing that made your heart skip a beat was the proposal of the New Year’s kiss. “It’s a tradition that you have to kiss someone when the clock strikes midnight. It supposed to be for good luck and happiness in the new year,” Hermione beamed on the couch, a blushing Ronald Weasley next to her. “I mean, I’ve never had a new year’s kiss, but maybe this year things may change...” she trails off, side-eyeing Ron as he shifts in his seat, uncomfortable about all of the eyes on him. 

A new year’s kiss. How was this supposed to play out? Ron would surely kiss Hermione, Harry would kiss Ginny, and you? You were friends with Fred and George. Simply friends. Nothing more, nothing less. You became fast friends when you were at Hogwarts and kept in touch after your graduation, but nothing ever blossomed romantically from those friendships (unfortunately). 

Although you were mates, Fred Weasley always did something to you. You knew he had the reputation of being the boy who played around with girls until he was done and you knew he had a history of romance with your close friend, Alicia, but still your feelings for him remained no matter how many signs pointed to no. Fred was quite the catch; charming, funny, handsome, witty, and clever. He was nothing short of what you wanted. But you told yourself constantly whilst in school with him, “If he wanted to, he would have.” Since Fred never made a move on you in school, you decided for the both of you that a relationship or any kind of romance wasn’t in the cards for you. Your relationship was strictly platonic much to your dismay.

However, you weren’t going to let the thought of you not having someone to kiss on New Year’s get you down. The celebration would be fun. You had good company, good food, and you were certain the twins had something fun up their sleeves. 

New Year’s Eve rolled around quickly and preparations for nightfall were beginning. Hermione hung up shimmery gold and silver garland around the house as Ron blew up balloons, face growing red from blowing up so many. Harry tied strings to the balloons, laughing as Ron went red in the face from blowing them up. Ginny helped her mother in the kitchen, cooking dinner for the occasion. Fred and George on the other hand....

“(Y/N)! Could you come out here and give me a hand?” George calls from outside the Burrow as you follow the sound of his voice.

Outside, he stands around a troff of trunks, bags, and suitcases. Most of them labelled fragile or dangerous. Your eyes widen, “Woah, Georgie, where did you get all of this stuff?” you laugh, looking around at the mess of things in front of you.

George beams, “Storage from the joke shoppe. A bunch of this stuff is from overstock that Fred and I have. Lots of fireworks, gizmos, noise makers, etcetera. Fred is back at the shoppe gathering more things. In the meantime, I need you to help me sort through what we are using and what we can get rid of.”

You nod, knowing that you would certainly have your work cut out for you. George flings a trunk open which spurts out bright blue smoke and stinks of something absolutely rotten. The two of you exclaim, blowing away the smoke, coughing at its smell. “George, what exactly are in these boxes? A dead animal? ‘Cause that’s what it smells like,” you cough.

The tall ginger slams the trunk closed and turns to you. “Maybe let’s just work on the fireworks, shall we? Sort them by color and type?” he asks as you nod. “Brilliant. First pile,” he grabs a sack and dumps it on the ground as you two sit on the cold grass, sorting through multiple colored tubes of fireworks, each labelled differently. “So,” George huffs. “You looking forward to tonight?”

“I guess so,” you speak as you create a pile of fireworks labelled Big Ones Be Careful. “A new year. A fresh start. All very exciting I guess.” George laughs at your comment as he sorts other fireworks. “What? What’s so funny? Did I say something?”

George looks at you from under his eyelashes before shaking his head. “(Y/N), dear, I love you so much. But you are quite daft, aren’t you?” His comment makes you fling a firework canister at him as he yelps. “Careful with those! Don’t you see they are labelled Be Careful! Godric, you are daft...”

You groan, “Why am I daft? What’s the name calling for, you fatheaded idiot.”

Your best friend looks up at you. “Okay, first of all that was rude,” he states as you giggle, him soon joining in. “Second of all, you can’t tell me that you’re not excited about the new year and not the new year’s kiss,” he explains. You furrow your brows, confused about what he could be talking about. “(Y/N)...come on, you can’t be that blind.”

“Blind about what? There’s someone in that house that wants to kiss me on New Year’s? You’re out of your bloody mind,” you scoff, standing up to move to another pile of fireworks labelled, Fred--Do Not Touch. You laugh at the label before you sort them into colors. 

George mumbles, “Well, he isn’t in that house at the moment.” You flip your head to look at him, knowing he said something facetious. “Losersayswhat.”

“What?” you say.

George laughs, “Hah, works every time.” You groan as you continue to make your way through the pile of fireworks, not wanting to get distracted by George’s side comments. This news of someone wanting to be your new year’s kiss was getting on your nerves. Who else was there? Percy? And Merlin knows that you could not be paid enough galleons to kiss Percy Weasley. “I’m serious, though, (Y/N), you can’t be telling me that you don’t know that Fred hasn’t fancied you since forever ago.”

This comment makes you stop everything you are doing and turn towards George. You let the fireworks fall from your hands as you stare at him in disbelief. “Don’t play with me, George,” you warn him as he holds his hands up in defense. “We have been mates since we were eleven and all of a sudden you tell me that your twin brother, one of my best mates, fancies me?” you slowly encroach onto George.

He rises from his place on the grass and walks to you. “I’m just trying to say that good ol’ Freddie always thought you were cute and he might make a move tonight. That’s all. I’m being my brother’s wingman and your best friend. Can’t I just do that?” he explains calmly. 

You grab his arms, shaking him. “You cannot just drop a bomb on me like that and expect me to have a perfectly fine reaction, George!” you exclaim. “Don’t you know that Fred and I are just friends? I told you this multiple times! I told you that my crush on him faded as soon as we graduated from Hogwarts! That’s behind me.”

As you look at George desperately, he grabs onto your shoulders. “And you mean to tell me that you don’t fancy him right now? If Fred Weasley, my brother, came up to you right now and kissed you and told you that he’s fancied you for years, you would reject him?” George asks. Your face softens as you give his comment some thought. George was right. You would kiss Fred back with all your might and confess that you really liked him too and you were waiting for this moment for a while. Your silence explains everything that George needs to know. “Exactly. So when the clock strikes midnight and you see Fred next to you, don’t be a coward,” George teases you before walking back to his station of organizing fireworks.

You are left standing there, still processing what was happening. Fred Weasley was going to kiss you when the clock struck midnight. It was happening. This was really happening. And how romantic it would all be. New Year’s Eve, your first kiss with Fred, in the moonlight underneath a fireworks show. And then it struck you, “Hey George?” He hums in response. “The fireworks show tonight. You and Fred are putting it on still, right?”

“Of course we are. Who else would? Ronald? Could you imagine the disaster that would be?” George laughs at the thought of his childish brother trying to set off fireworks all while balancing himself on his broomstick. “Why do you ask?”

Taking a seat next to George on the grass, you say, “Then how is he supposed to get back down from setting off the fireworks to kiss me at midnight exactly?” 

George’s face twists in confusion for a second before thinking out the problem. “Huh,” he speaks. “I mean, I’m not sure, but I’m sure it’s going to happen,” he assures you. “Fred always finds a way. Come on, it’s Fred. When he likes a girl, he likes a girl. And you, (Y/N), my dearest, he likes. I wouldn’t worry yourself sick,” he nudges your arm as you exhale the breath you were holding. “Now come on, we still have much more sorting to do before Fred gets back with even more garbage.”

-----------------

Hours later and you’re in Ginny’s room, getting ready for the party. Hermione brushed through Ginny’s hair as she coated her lashes in mascara. You on the other hand stood in front of multiple skirts, dresses, and tops, struggling to decide what to wear. You groan in frustration as you peel off a glittery gold top of Hermione’s and toss it on the bed gently. “Nothing looks right,” you huff as Hermione turns around.

“I thought that one was lovely on you!” she exclaims as you flop on Ginny’s bed, staring at the ceiling. It may have been lovely, but it was perfect. If tonight was going to go the way George had described, you needed to make sure that you looked outrageous in the best way possible. You wanted Fred counting down the minutes until midnight. “Something’s wrong, I can see it on your face,” Hermione points out as Ginny turns to look at you. “You can tell us if you’d like.”

You offer them both a small smile as you run your fingers over your face and through your hair. “It’s honestly stupid,” you chuckle. “George has, um...informed me...that I might be receiving a new year’s kiss this year...from Fred,” you confide to the girls in a hushed whisper. 

You expected both of them to freak out with excitement or exclaim how exciting it was. Instead they looked at you, confused as to why you were just figuring this out now. “Well, yes, we all knew this. Fred’s had a massive crush on you for years,” Ginny simply states before sailing back into the mirror, reapplying her mascara. 

Mouth agape, you exclaim, “Does everyone know about this and not me?!”

Hermione sadly shakes her head, “Even Ron knew about it. And that’s saying something.” You groan and flop backwards again on the bed in frustration. How come everyone knew about this and you didn’t? How come you had to surprise and hide your feelings for Fred for years when in reality he felt the same way about you all this time? “Well, we didn’t know for sure if you fancied him too since you were always so adamant that you two were just friends...so that’s good news!” Hermione tries to lighten the mood, unsuccessfully doing so as you still remain on the bed. “Alright, well, enough of that. It’s exciting, (Y/N)! You and Fred’s first kiss!” she sits on the bed next to you. “Now I see why you are so nervous about what to wear. Let’s raid the closet and luggage, shall we?” 

You let out a light laugh and sit up, watching Hermione raid Ginny’s closet and your luggage, trying to find something for the occasion. “Hmmm,” she peels back hangers, pulling out pieces before putting them back, sorting through the clothes to find the perfect outfit. Suddenly, something catches her eye in your suitcase. “Oh!” she exclaims as she picks up a white and black plaid mini skirt. “What do we have here,” she laughs as you blush. You had bought that skirt on a whim on a shopping trip with Angelina. The skirt was a little short, but cute nonetheless.

Ginny takes a look at the skirt and chuckles, “Naughty, naughty.” You shake your head and roll your eyes. “I might have the top to go with it,” she speaks, rising from the chair and pulling a black, shimmery, long sleeve cropped shirt. She held it up to the skirt. Perfect match. “I’m not saying that you should dress up for Fred because that’s just gross,” Ginny states as you laugh with Hermione. “But...you’d look hot as hell with this on.”

You get up from the bed and huff, “You two are trouble.” The girls laugh as you begin to change, trying on the clothes to see how it looked. 

As you straightened out the shirt and skirt, you looked in the mirror in front of you, Hermione and Ginny hovering over your shoulders. It was perfect. The top hugged your feminine figure perfectly and the skirt hung from your hips like a dream, falling just above mid thigh under your bum. The material of the top glittered in the light as you twirled in the mirror. It wasn’t too much, it wasn’t too little. It was simply perfect. “If you don’t wear that, I am,” Ginny speaks as you laugh. “You look incredible.”

“Breathtaking,” Hermione adds. “If Fred doesn’t kiss you tonight, damn it, we will.”

--------------

Another few hours pass before the sun sets and the music starts. It was 9pm and the festivities were just beginning. Everyone was dancing, drinking, and laughing in the living room, celebrating the holiday. Slowly, you, Hermione, and Ginny all joined the party, earning a few stares from the boys. “Nicely done, ladies!” Ron smiles as Hermione rolls her eyes. “You all look lovely,” he retaliates as he looks at his friends, eyes landing on Hermione. “You look lovely,” he repeats quietly to Hermione as she blushes, holding onto the skirt of her pale blue dress. 

Ginny pays no attention to Harry’s gawking eyes as she passes him, wearing tight black jeans and a silver cowl neck top. Ginny had every intention of making Harry a murmuring mess. And it was working.

You on the other hand, poured yourself some punch (that the twins had most definitely spiked) and happily stood around your friends. But you couldn’t help yourself wanting to look at Fred. There he stood in the middle of the living room, blue jeans and a navy blue thermal t-shirt. He was dressed simply and plain, but Merlin, he looked good. You let yourself sneak a peak at him, but you catch his eyes. You stand there frozen as he smiles as you cheekily. “Nice skirt,” he compliment.

You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks. “Thanks,” you simply state as George just smiles and sips his punch. Clearing your throat, you start, “Alright, we got three hours to kill. What’s on the agenda?” 

Hermione shoots up, “Yes! Okay, so I thought to start we could play Never Have I Ever that way it’ll loosen us all up and we can make it a drinking game if we want.”

“Hermione Granger suggesting a drinking game? New year, new Hermione,” Ron laughs as Hermione rolls her eyes. “Sounds good to me. Everyone circle up.”

Everyone sits on the floor in the living room around the small coffee table, drinks in hand. You were sandwiched between Ginny and Hermione, clutching onto your cup, mind racing a thousand miles a minute. You could feel Fred’s eyes on you but you didn’t want to look at him. It felt like you had a dirty secret when clearly his plans were not a secret to anyone except you. 

Harry begins in the game, “Never have I ever broken someone’s arm in a game of quidditch.” Everyone laughs and looks at Ginny and Fred as they roll their eyes. 

You remember during one of Fred’s games when Gryffindor played Slytherin, Fred knocked someone clear off their broom and they fell on their arm, a clean break. You remember Fred proudly walking the halls, knowing that he broke that poor bloke’s arm. Even though it got him suspended from the game, Gryffindor still won the match. Many people thought that Fred’s move was unfair or stupid of him, but when you watched it happen, you couldn’t help but think about how attractive Fred looked as he flexed his muscles and literally threw the Slytherin player off of his broom. 

Ginny sips her drink and then says, “That was completely targeted, Harry.”

Harry shrugs, “No rules to the game. I say we can be as blunt as possible.”

Everyone looks around at the group as you just sip from your cup, needs the effects of the alcohol to give you a confidence boost. Was it hot in here? George claps his hands as Fred oooohs, making you sweat. “Alright, Potter, now he’s playing with the big boys,” George pats Harry’s back. 

“It’s all fun and games now,” Ron laughs. “You’re up, George.”

George rubs his hands together, concocting a statement as your heart races. George was going to be ruthless you knew it. There was so much he could say right now that could make you embarrassed. George was your best friend, he had so much dirt on you. Especially after today. Finally, he was struck with an idea and your heart sank. “Never have I ever had an intricate plan to kiss a girl I’ve fancied since fourth year on New Year’s Eve,” George simply sates.

As soon as the words fall out of his mouth, Fred’s cheeks turn bright crimson red and you almost spit out your drink. You cough a little bit as Ginny and Ron laugh wildly at their older brother, George smugly sitting there, watching the mess he created unfold. 

Fred glares at his brother and shakes his head. Slowly, Fred grabs the cup and takes a long sip from it as your heart races. This just got very real. “You’ve made a grave mistake, brother,” Fred states as George laughs. “Grave.”

You uncomfortably shift in your seat as Fred looks at you from across the table a little smirk on his face. Without anyone seeing, he drops his left eye into a wink and then goes back to the conversation. Your heart skips a beat and your face turns beet red. Tonight was going to be a night to remember for sure.

----------

Time flew by and it was a quarter to midnight. The twins had evacuated the house and ran to the backyard to get the fireworks ready. “We’ve got it all settled, not to worry!” Fred called out when Molly expressed her concern for the boys’ safety. 

The twins darted into the backyard, laughing happily as they jumped on their brooms and set off into the sky. The rest of you made your way into the backyard slowly as your race was beating a mile a minute. The time was approaching. Fred was going to kiss you in ten minutes. It was all happening so fast, you couldn’t keep up.

“Ready?” you feel Hermione’s hands on your shoulders as you roll your eyes, running your fingers through your hair. “It’ll be great, I just know it.”

You give her a hopeful smile as you stand next to her the backyard, wrapping your arms around yourself to keep you warm from the brisk January air. “I still don’t understand how Fred’s going to pull it off. Going from the fireworks in time to come down here and kiss me? I don’t know,” you ponder.

Hermione smiles, “It’s Fred. He finds a way.”

You nodded your head, smiling. She was right. Fred would find a way. He always did. 

Disrupting the silence, Ron speaks, “A minute and thirty seconds, everyone!”

Hermione gasps in excitement. “Already? Alright everyone! Get ready we’re going to start the countdown soon!”

Your heart is still racing as you look around you and up into the sky. No sight of Fred or George. Where were they and what were they doing? “Don’t over think it,” you whisper to yourself as you look around at your friends. Everyone stood around, looking up at the sky, waiting. 

And then, “In 10! 9! 8!” Hermione starts counting down.

“7!”

Your heart is pounding against your chest, you feel like your heart is going to leap out.

“6!” 

Your mind is reeling and racing with so many thoughts. You are in overdrive. 

“5!”

Was Fred going to kiss you? Or was this some sort of sick prank that he and George were in on?

“4!”

Where in the bloody hell was Fred? He had four seconds!

“3!”

Your mouth goes dry.

“2!”

Ron looks at Hermione, Harry to Ginny. It was happening. And Fred was nowhere to be found.

“1!”

Times up.

“Happy New Year!”

And with that, bursts of multicolored lights erupted in the sky, popping and blasting off. It was so bright and colorful, starting off the new year in a decorative display. As you watched the fireworks, you turned around and saw the couples all in each others arms, sharing sweet kisses as the fireworks went off in the background. And you stood there, no Fred. No George. No one. 

Your heart sank into your stomach as you realize what was happening. Fred wasn’t coming to kiss you. Not now. It was too late. You both missed your chance. Did George make this up? Was everyone in on it? Did Hermione lie to you? They wouldn’t dare toy with your emotions like that. Or would they?

Instead of dwelling on the questions, you just stared up at the sky, small tears welling in your eyes, but you quickly swallowed them away, feigning happiness. “Happy New Year to me,” you whisper to yourself. 

The fireworks blast off in shades of red, blue, green, and orange, illuminating the sky with such joy. You had to admit, Fred and George knew what they were doing when it came to things like this. No matter how much you wanted to scream at the two of them, Fred especially, you kept it in. You were supposed to be happy right now.

As the couples pull away from their embraces, you feel eyes on you in excited anticipation, hoping to see Fred holding you and kissing you. But instead, they see you, looking up at the sky alone. “What?” Hermione whispers. She starts to walk over to you, but Ron stops her.

“Give her a second,” he speaks. “Maybe Fred will come down in a second.”

The couples return their gaze to the sky, but the fireworks don’t stop. They keep coming. Which meant Fred had no intention of coming down anytime soon. 

You know that your friends are looking at you, but you refuse to look at them, far too embarrassed. Fred made a fool of you tonight. And that was something you weren’t going to forget. 

Slowly, the fireworks stop as you sigh. “What a show,” you try to lighten the mood as Hermione stares at you sadly. You couldn’t look at her she just made you feel bad. “Happy New Year!” you smile to your friends.

Ron is the first one to embrace you, picking you up and spinning you around as you giggle. He always did know how to make you feel a bit better. You held onto him tight as he spun you around. Slowly, he placed you back on the ground. “Happy New Year,” Ron whispered in your ear as he squeezed you. “My brother has always been a moron, no need to worry.”

He pulls away and gives you a smile and a wink. You just shake your head knowingly and shrug. “It is what it is. My resolution is that I’m going into this year with no expectations at all. Even if someone tells me something, I’m not going to expect it. I’d rather be surprised,” you sigh as Hermione hugs you tight.

You walk inside, arm in arm with Hermione, small chatter entering the Burrow as you walk in together. “Are we going to stay up a bit more a play another game?” Ginny asks.

“You all can, but I’m actually quite tired. I think I’m gonna head to bed,” you tell the group as they all protest, wanting you to stay. “I know, I’m a party pooper, but I am. I’m usually not up this late,” you lie through your teeth, knowing damn well you were up until sunrise yesterday with Fred and George talking about the shoppe and the future for it. “Goodnight, everyone. Happy New Year.”

The group watches you as you ascend the steps to the room you were staying in before they all look at each other, disappointed in tonight’s events. Before anyone can say anything, Fred and George come bumbling through the door, laughing and holding onto each other. “Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!” George laughs. “The fireworks looked insane from up there! How did they look down here?” 

Everyone just stares and doesn’t say a thing. “Geez, tough crowd,” Fred laughs before Ron slaps him upside the head. “Ow! What the hell was that for?”

Ron scoffs, “Didn’t you forget something? You proper git!”

Fred looks at his younger brother confused. “I didn’t forget a thing! I mean I wished I could see what it looked like from down here, but oh well...anyway, whose up for a game?” Fred asks as everyone looks baffled. “What? You guys look like you saw a ghost. And where’s (Y/N)? She’s missing.”

And that’s when it hits him.

George is just as shocked as everyone else, covering his hand with his mouth. 

“Oh, bloody hell...” Fred trails off. “I planned a whole fireworks show for the girl and I forgot to come back down to bloody kiss her.” Everyone just shakes their head and disperses throughout the house, Ginny and Hermione disappearing into Ginny’s room, Ron and Harry trudging up the stairs. “Wait, wait, where did she go? I need to explain what happened to her.”

Ginny groans, “If you had just stuck to your plan like before and not got distracted by the shiny lights, you wouldn’t have to explain anything to her!” This just makes Fred feel worse as he should. He made a promise and convinced everyone to tell his crush about it only to not follow through. “She’s back in her room. You better have a good explanation for all of this.”

Meanwhile, you stood in the bathroom, brushing your teeth in your pajamas shorts and jumper, getting ready for bed. Your glasses hung on the bridge of your nose as you stared at yourself, disappointed in how the night unfolded. Tonight was supposed to be special, but it ended up extremely ordinary. But this is what you should have expected. 

You spat the toothpaste in the sink as you stared in the mirror. Huffing, you shake your head, “He’s just a boy.” That’s all Fred Weasley was. A dumb boy. A dumb idiot boy. A cute, funny, sensitive, witty, charming, flirtatious dumb idiot git moron boy. You groan, knowing that the feelings you have for Fred were stronger than ever at this point after the hype of today. “Why me, Fred Weasley?” you groan. “Why me.”

Swinging the bathroom door open, you step outside, unknowingly bumping into someone. “Oh,” you look up and there he was. The culprit. The man of the hour. Fred. “Oh.”

“Can we talk?” he asks as you just stare at him.

He looked at you with such guilt in his eyes, it was palpable. His face turned downward, feeling so stupid in this moment. He disappointed the girl he cared for most since they were children in school. It was embarrassing for him more so than you. 

You snapped back into reality and simply said, “Talk about what, Fred?”

With that, you made your way down the hall to the room you were staying in as Fred followed you. “Oh, don’t play this game, (Y/N). We both know exactly what this is about and I just want to apologize,” Fred pleads as you enter the room quickly, attempting to shut the door on him, but he stick his foot in the doorway. “Not so fast, tiger. I need to talk to you.”

“And I need to go to bed. It’s late,” you reply, but Fred forces himself inside the room as you groan. “Fred, it’s not a big deal. All is forgiven. Blah, blah. I’ll see you in the morning. Go on,” you shoo him away.

Fred grabs your arms, “No, it’s not alright. (Y/N), what I did was wrong and no one should ever leave someone alone like that after I promised you, and everyone else did, that I would come down and kiss you. I got caught up being an idiot with my brother and I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for the night to go like this for either of us. I wanted it to be special.”

Fred’s words make your heart flutter, but you don’t let your heart get in the way of this situation. “You made me look like a fool,” you cooly speak, maintaining direct eye contact with Fred. 

“And I feel like a crap person because of it. I’m so sorry, (Y/N),” Fred grabs your hands as you huff. “I’m sure George already flapped his big mouth about it, but I’ve fancied you since we were in fourth year and you sneaked into George and I’s dormitory to tell ghost stories to Lee. I thought you were the coolest girl I had ever met. I still do. And when we graduated, you were so ready to help George and I start the joke shoppe and help us get on our feet. You have been so supportive and loving and kind to me. And I want you to know that I think you are the most incredible woman I have ever met. You’re smart, kind, generous, and good Godric, you’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen,” he sighs as you blush gently. “I wanted tonight to be a memory that we could have forever. Because I care for you so much, (Y/N). I wanted to do it so badly. And I still do.”

Your heart is racing again and you feel your mouth run dry again. But you muster up enough confidence to say, “Do what, Weasley?”

A small smirk appears on your lips as Fred lightly chuckles, “Cheeky.”

He wastes no more time, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you close and dipping his head down to connect your lips in a gentle kiss. His lips are warm and taste of cinnamon. You sigh into his touch and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Fred smiles into your kiss as he holds onto you tight, not wanting to let go. He missed his chance once tonight. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again. 

Gently, you pull away and look at Fred who is smiling from ear to ear. “Worth the wait?” Fred jokes as you roll your eyes, him kissing your lips again swiftly.

“Well worth the wait. Only four years late,” you tease him as he laughs. “Happy New Year, Freddie.”

“Happy New Year, darling.”

[stusbunker]

BGDC: Stay Down

A Supernatural Fan-fiction Mini-series

Featuring: Female Hunter!Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Chuck and Jack

Written for: @supernatural-jackles​​ Tell Me A Story Bingo

Summary: Everything comes to a head. Can she do better this time? Is there anything worth salvaging? Chuck has his own thoughts.

Square filled: In Vino Veritas

Word Count: 2615

Warnings: THIS HURTS, Flashbacks in italics, canon-ish, verbal arguments, that pesky motherfucker HOPE, Chuck is still a dick.

Series Masterlist

Inherit the Earth con’t

    It had taken Sam two weeks to get out of Dean what happened, why she left. It was not his proudest moment, but the thought of her in their home made him sick. So, he had shown her the door. He thought he was her hero, he’d never imagined she’d treat him like a piece of meat.

    There were some lines that you shouldn’t cross and he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to forgive her that.

The drive to Sam and Jack feels like an eternity, even ignoring all traffic laws. The day is bright, but the impala rumbles garishly, a black omen. The static hiss of unmanned radio stations gives her something to do. She diligently sorts the tapes, finds something to fill the void. 

Melody as white noise. A band aid on a bullet wound. Dean can’t fix what’s been broken. But she never even tried.

Sam cries at the sight of her. She runs into his arms and he squeezes until he can’t any longer. An ounce of redemption in the ocean of guilt. Sam glances over her head to his brother, he feels the other shoe drop.

“Where’s Cas?” Jack’s obvious question echoes the shame in the new arrivals’ eyes. She holds her breath as Dean explains, like she’s waiting for his story before she can move on. Like he didn’t tell her either.

Sam aches with what he’s allowed to happen. The old internal rage gnashing at his gut as he screams in an abandoned restaurant. They’re what was left behind. All they have left to do is give Chuck what he wants.

His ending, at last.

Dean didn’t tell her what he and Sam were doing. Didn’t need an outside opinion on this one. Instead he asked her to keep an eye on Jack, knowing she’d say yes. He guessed he wasn’t done asking for things. The sight of Chuck makes him see red. But this was it, he’d die with his brother beside him. For the world.

When Chuck blows off their offer, he can’t say that he’s surprised. Disgusted, angry, regretful maybe, but Dean’s not surprised. 

The house always wins.

They crash at a motel for the night, everyone gets their own rooms for a change. She knocks on his door just after midnight with a bottled peace offering and her ratty sleep clothes. Dean doesn’t need this right now, but he doesn’t have the energy to be cruel.

“Where’d you get this?” Dean holds the amber liquid up to the light to read the label.

“Liquor store down the street. Don’t even feel bad for taking the five finger discount anymore,” she sighs and drops on the spare bed. “You gonna tell me about your little side mission or do I just get to guess at the outcome?”

Dean cracks the bottle open and sighs. “Bupkis. So, nothing to tell, really.”

She’s watching him for signs of lies, at least she’s not overtly antagonistic with her appraisal.

He offers her the bottle and she shakes her head. ‘Maybe she learned her lesson,’ he thinks and then takes a long pull off the glass rim.

“So, the Empty, huh?” Dean grimaces as she closes her eyes, taken aback.

“What makes you think I want to talk about it?” Her faces pinches and he is just too fucking tired.

“Because you always want to talk about it. It was kind of a thing.” Dean shrugs.

“I came to check on you, dumbass,” she mutters. He sits on his bed, leaves the bottle between them on the nightstand.

He doesn’t stop the sour hum that claws up his throat. He was trying to play nice, but she just had to keep on being the tough guy. “Funny, didn’t think you cared much what happened to me anymore, or how I feel about things at least.”

She has the gall to look surprised, but underneath it he sees she’s almost as tired as he is. “I did not come here looking for a fight. If you’ve got something to say to me--- Maybe you should remember who called who. And who dropped everything to help.”

“And I don’t seem to remember you doing too much of that,” Dean snaps back, turning his head only.

She pauses and Dean feels a little smug that he’s getting to her. But not nearly as much as he should. He cocks his eyebrows, waiting for her obvious answer.

She shoves him back on his proverbial heels instead. “We both know you were just keeping tabs on me. There wasn’t anything for me to do. And then I became a fucking bargaining chip. So screw you, Dean. I’m not here for a performance review.”

“I think we already established, no one is screwing anyone here,” Dean mutters, letting his head fall back against the wall. 

“Is that what this is about?! You are honestly bringing that shit up now?!”

“So what if I am? Better than acting like it never happened. Playing the fucking martyr,” Dean bites back. “I, at least, own my shit. Maybe you should try it some time.”

“You kicked me out! What was I supposed to do, wait on a damn cross until you finished your case?!” She still doesn’t get it. Dean’s chest is writhing with all the things they never buried.

“It doesn’t matter. We were family. And you threw it all away,” Dean lays it out.

“ME?!”

“Yes, you!” Dean’s standing, hunching over her, unleashing. “You had to make it about your feelings and the crush you had on me when we were kids. Don’t you see? It was more than that. We WERE more than that. But you were lonely, or horny or needed to drown your feelings. And you cheapened everything. And now---- we can’t even have a real conversation.”

It’s like he’s looking at a completely different person. He doesn’t even know her anymore. 

“Dean, I---” He cuts her off, this was entirely pointless.

“Don’t, okay? Just--- leave it. I’m gonna get some air.” Dean starts towards the door and slumps, half turned he continues, “Look, I’m glad you didn’t get stuck in the Empty. But Cas did---- And to be clear, this wasn’t ever about rebuilding bridges, it was about stopping Chuck. And we couldn’t manage that.--- But we can’t just go back to the way things were just because we’re all that’s left. The sooner you understand that, the easier this will be--- for everybody.”

The heaviness of wasted effort sinks into his shoulders. Dean closes the door behind him with a gentle click. They both know she’ll be gone before he gets back.

No one left in the entire world and one of my oldest friends still doesn’t want me around. This wasn’t humble pie, it was a goddamn humility infused vat of pie filling. Not a spoon in sight.

Fuck him. Fucking pie metaphors even. Fucking brain.

I leave the damn whiskey, but I really want to throw it against the wall. Dump it in his boots. Bath in it. But I don’t. I give him his twenty paces and I duck out, bypass my room, Jack’s, and head back towards the liquor store. There was a pick-up I might be able to hot wire, if I remember where I saw it.

I mash my lips together to stop their quake, but everything keeps clawing its way up, centering itself in my way. I did this. The one person I needed to believe in me and I fucking ruined it. It was never about Amara, or Cas or him being too good for me. I just wanted what wasn’t there. 

The dirtiness slides down and clings to me, like a wet coat. An unwashable stain, that’s all my presence is anymore. I don’t want to be where I am unwanted, unneeded, unuseful. Well, useless really. But, I can’t lose Sam too. Not again and definitely not now. I stop when I spot the truck. 

Running isn’t going to mend what running severed.

Know better, do better.

I creep back to the motel and pretend to sleep. There are salt lines dried across my skin when Jack knocks on my door.

The sun still rises. Dean tosses his things in his bag, even the whiskey. Waste not want not. They’re heading home to regroup or to hide or just for something to do. He doesn’t care, but being out in the open feels like he’s leaving them open for an ambush, or Chuck’s prying eyes at the very least.

He knows they’re not safe from that anywhere. It just feels safer somehow.

Dean feels good in motion. Sam’s at his side, while she and Jack sit in their own quiet corners in the back. The looming reality of an empty planet unnoticeable on the backroads. Denial is a helluva drug.

So is hope. Good thing he kicked that one.

When they pull into the garage, he doesn’t even bother grabbing his duffel from the trunk. Dean bee lines for the hard stuff and no one even bats an eye.

Maybe he has always been that predictable. Maybe he no longer cares.

I’m sitting on my bed, flipping through an old photo album when Sam finds me. It’s been three days and the bunker just keeps getting hollower the longer we stay inside. It’s like Chuck is slowly strangling the oxygen from the air.

I’m pretty sure I’ll be the first one to break.

Dean’s too far into a pity party at the bottom of a bottle to be pushed off any one edge and Sam’s too good at keeping on. Of course, Jack is getting by on sheer purity of spirit.

“How you holding up?” Sam’s voice is scratchy, but familiar, I don’t know the last time we actually spoke. I don’t really make eye contact, but shrug all the same.

“You?” I ask, unnecessarily.

He sits down beside me, looking over my shoulder. He huffs out a laugh at one of the pictures.

“I can’t believe you managed to keep all of these,” Sam says as he reaches over and slides his finger tips over the poorly taped Polaroids.

“They were at Bobby’s for a while, but I dug them out of a storage unit after--- well, after I fucked things up with your brother. Figured they were all I had left after that.”

Sam inhales at my bluntness, cocks his head because it hurts to hear, but also doesn’t sit right. What a doof.

“Spit it out, Legs, I know you wanna say something,” I goad.

“I guess I don’t really--- what happened?” Sam’s eternal need to know things going for my weak spot. “I mean, Dean said you tried to put the moves on him, but I guess, why was it so horrible?”

“Well, I actually have some new information on that front,” I offer, turning to face him and placing the memories on the far side of the bed. 

Sam’s brows pitch. 

“Apparently, I--- cheapened everything. Dean thought whatever our relationship was, was more important than hooking up. And I made it all about me.”

“He said that?” Sam asks in a hush.

“Yup,” I huff out. “And a very firm, ‘there is no rebuilding bridges’,” I say in my best/worst Dean voice.

“Wow.” Sam looks to the ceiling then scratches the back of his head. He doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s okay, I mean, I did kiss him. I knew it was a bad idea, but I had psyched myself up that entire night, misread everything. I’ve never been the one guys willingly go home with. I shouldn’t have forced it.”

“Don’t say that. You’ve had---,” Sam breaks off when he thinks about my asshole ex.

“I’ve had a couple of real winners,” I finish for him. “But it’s okay. Because now we’re the last people on Earth. No one left to break my heart.”

I slap the edge of the mattress and lurch to my feet, ignoring the pain in Sam’s eyes. He just lost Eileen and here I am moping about something that happened over two years ago. Once a shitty friend, always a shitty friend.

“You can keep looking through that if you want. I’m gonna start dinner,” I add at the door.

Sam nods, but he doesn’t reach for the album. He just sits on my bed and chews the inside of his lips.

Jack’s feeling things and Sam’s looking at Dean with insistence, but Dean’s hungover-leeched brain is not putting things together.

“What?!” 

Sam grimaces, heavy on the bitch factor. “I think you should be the one to tell her we’ve got a lead. Meanwhile, I’ll start packing the car.”

“Great. Sure.” Dean does little to hide his disdain. Sam doesn’t budge.

He grunts through an explanation as she cleans her gun. Luckily, she doesn’t ask too many questions because the vibrations of his own voice are adding to the throbbing at the base of his skull. 

She slips him a bottle of painkillers before ducking into the back seat next to Jack. He doesn’t say thank you, but he knows she knows he’s grateful. They used to be able to do that, not as easily as he and Sam, but silent communication was possible, once.

He gets them on the road before noon, the familiar feel of the wheel in his hands steadies Dean until the pain starts to subside. The soft, yet urgent Jack-P-S guiding their way.

They stop for an inevitable pitstop and Dean gets hit with a pure dose of that damning hope. A white, shaggy dog is laying outside the men’s room and his face breaks into a smile for the first time in weeks. It’s the proof he needed aside from Jack’s fuzzy radar.

Chuck didn’t get everything.

He scoops the dog up and shows him off to Sam, forgetting entirely about his need to pee. He sets the sudden miracle in the backseat, promises there’ll be enough room for him.

That’s when Dean spots Chuck in the field, menacing and knowing. Dean straightens on instinct, facing the threat. As Chuck raises his hand to snap, a gushing voice rushes to Dean’s side.

“Oh, who’s a good boy?!” She doesn’t see their destructive creator waiting in the wings and Dean moves to shield her from Chuck’s gaze. 

It’s too late.

Suddenly Chuck is standing beside the impala’s trunk.

“Now, how exactly did I miss you?” Chuck gapes, the disbelief and rage shifting across his once amiable face.

She chokes on her breath, freezes on the spot. Dean sees the power trip flash in Chuck’s piercing blue gaze. He likes when people are fearful, he likes to see them squirm.

“She wasn’t here when you iced everybody, Chuck. It doesn’t matter anyway, it’s still just us,” Dean reasons, downplaying her worth.

“Nah, I don’t like it. It’s supposed to be you and Sam. Jack, fine. He’s just a pet anyway. But her? You guys get over your crap and suddenly there’s a whole new generation of thorns in my side. Sorry,” Chuck huffs and snaps his fingers. She disappears faster than Dean could take it in. “Not sorry.”

“What the hell?!” Dean barks. Panic, rage, and overwhelming sadness shoot through him as he dives towards Chuck. But he’s gone before Dean can get there. Falling to the gravel, gracelessly, Dean spins on his knees to see if Sam or Jack are still alive and accounted for. He spots their silhouettes through the convenience store windows. With that little platitude, Dean staggers over to soothe the dog’s sudden whimper. And then it vanishes too.

Maybe Dean never made it out of Hell after all.

Tell me what you think?

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