#a Freud joke if you squint | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yeojaa · 4 years ago

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( NEVER LET YOU GO. )

You do things without thought, making impulse decisions that’d make Freud proud. Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t.

(or: Jeon Jungkook’s just as impulsive as you.)

pairing. tattoo artist!jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating. slice of life fluff, light smut. explicit (but only at the end).

tags / warnings. mentions of heavily tattooed!JK, casual drinking, tender lovemakin’, JK with the bad jokes, honestly just him being funny and chill like that one guy you never get over...

wc. 7.6k.

beta reader(s). @hobi-gif, @papillonsgf, and @yeoldontknow 💛 ty for always indulging me and most importantly, supporting me when i begin to spiral. 🤠

author note. i got this idea into my head one evening in the shower and now... it is this. it’s not your usual bad boy tattoooist!JK fic but i hope you enjoy regardless. as always, feedback means a lot!

You and forethought aren’t close friends. You really aren’t even distant cousins, or part of the same family tree. You consider it a stranger, wave loftily as it passes you by, squinting like you can’t properly make out what it is. Careful consideration? Thoughtful patience? None of that exists for you. At least, not when you really, really want something.

It’s what has you here now, bumbling your way into the tattoo shop like a newborn baby bird.

You wonder how it must look, whether the shop assistant is used to this. Random girl shows up on a Sunday afternoon looking like a fish out of water, eager yet afraid. By how she greets you - with a curious stare and not quite a smile - you’re sure she is.

“Do you take walk-ins?”

You’d meant to make an appointment. Had sat for hours on the shop’s Instagram page, combing through the residents’ portfolios, trying to decide who to reach out to. When you’d finally decided, you’d realised books were a thing and most of them were closed. (Just your luck.)

Still, it never hurt to try, right?

“Everyone’s fully booked.” The girl sounds bored, apathetic yet genial. (You don’t blame her.) By the way her stare swings over you, it feels like a dismissal. You’re ready to admit defeat - head half-bowed, words draped over your tongue. “But our apprentice might be able to squeeze you in.”

An apprentice? Well— that’s not exactly what you’d been hoping for, but this shop is reputable. Well-known. Considered one of the best in the city. Surely their apprentice would be fine. Just less seasoned, not as experienced.

You all but snap your neck nodding along, gratitude tumbling out in the form of awkward laughter. “That’d be great!”

The girl passes you off with a nod of her head, gesturing down the hall. “Last room on the left. His name’s Jungkook. His schedule says he’s all clear, but maybe knock before you go in.” It’s not the sunniest smile you’ve ever received, but the small thing she offers helps with the nerves. Stills them beneath your skin as you do as you’re told.

“Jungkook?” There’s not really anywhere to knock, every wall neatly frosted glass and no doors in sight. (You had passed a few folding screens but otherwise, it’s open concept, each room offering a glimpse into the artist who works inside.) It feels too disruptive to tap your knuckles on one glass pane, lest it interrupt someone else.

(His studio is minimally decorated but inviting: one big cabinet; two of those typical IKEA shelves in the 4x4 grid that every new homeowner and their mother have; and a shop table, upon which a black backpack sits. Various plants dress the room - both hanging from the ceiling and along the window - and Polaroids string over walls, held aloft by twine. A Roomba sits by itself in a corner and the tattoo bed dominates most of the space, positioned closer to the dividing wall; one teeny tiny rolling chair sits beside it. There’s a bench on your left, with a pair of Birkenstocks tucked beneath. All in all, very homey. Reminiscent of your own apartment.)

Hidden behind the bed, crouched low to the ground beside the cabinet, is a head of dark hair that speaks, drawing your attention from studying the cozy space. “Oh?”

You’re not expecting the face that turns to you, all big doe eyes and the sweetest dimples.

For a moment, you forget what you’re here for. Why you’re standing in the empty door frame, staring down at the guy like you’ve spent your entire life secluded and have no idea how to speak.

The longer you’re quiet, the more his concern seems to grow, single brow disappearing into his inky fringe. It hangs in his vision at certain angles, shields the brightness of his stare with each turn of his chin. “Are you okay?” He’s even risen - stopped what he was doing - so he can see you more clearly, without any obstruction in the way. Good for him, but worse for you.

He’s so cute. Were you prepared to look like an uncertain idiot in front of this… angel?

“Y-yeah.” You manage after what feels like forever, sweeping your nerves under the rug that sits on the floor, separates the sole of his sneakers from hard concrete. “Um— I was told you might have some time? For, uh, a walk-in?”

(Why’re you stuttering? You’re never shy. Or rather, you’re not this nervous mess. People have always called you an extrovert, outgoing as hell, a social butterfly.)

(You aren’t those things but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.)

“Oh!” Realisation dawns across his features, throws his kind smile into greater relief, and you have to actively tell yourself not to stare, tearing your gaze away to focus on the wall of stencils past his shoulder. He moves into motion then, stepping around the bed to meet you still rooted in the doorway. “Yeah, I’ve got time. Come in.” Up close like this - there’s only maybe two feet between you - you can make out the little scar on his cheek; the tiny beauty mark below his bottom lip; each individual lash that frames his Bambi eyes and flutters when he blinks. “I probably can’t draw you anything new right now but I’ve got some flash, if you’re interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, you don’t think you’d say no. You were always a sucker for a cute boy and this Jungkook? He was that. In spades.

“Sure.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” He’s retreating back into the room, moving to grab his iPad off the far table. It’s balanced on his arm when he swivels to you, prominent front teeth on full display. “I’ve got a pretty big selection.”

When he drops onto the bench - a wayward vine above his head tickling his cheek - he gestures to the spot beside him. This time, you don’t stare for a stupid amount of time, instead taking up the seat without hesitation.

“So—” He’s swiping through the photo library with his Apple Pen. You’re sure there are pretty sketches on the screen - you just can’t focus on them, too preoccupied by the artwork that crawls across his hand and into the sleeve of his oversized, well-worn shirt. It’s an intricate chrysanthemum, impossibly well-shaded with bold colours that demand attention and stand out over his fair complexion; it creeps halfway up the back of his hand to tickle over his knuckles. He notes your attention with a quiet chuckle, fingers wiggling. The ink moves, flows, ripples with the motion, before his hand relaxes, knuckles unravelling as he offers the limb to you and your curiosity. “Do you like it?”

“It’s incredible.” It really is. You’ve never seen anything like it, as if a painting has been done across his skin, laid in watercolour rather than tattoo ink. “Did it hurt?”

(You almost want to hit yourself for the stupid question. Of course it did. It’s a hand tattoo.)

Jungkook only laughs again, doesn’t hold it against you despite the verbal barrage you’re faced with internally. “Like crazy, but it was worth it. This was my first tattoo and all the rest have just sort of been—” He shrugs, fabric of his shirt bunching around his collar.

“A piece of cake?” You can only imagine.

“Exactly.”

You nod thoughtfully, as if that means anything to you. (It doesn’t. You’re bare as a baby’s bottom, blemish free save for the occasional hellish pimple and the scar you have from surgery on your hand when you broke parts of it in sixth grade.)

If he can tell you’re talking out of your ass, he says nothing, redirecting your attention back to the iPad propped on his lap. “Do any of these interest you?” He’s resumed scrolling, swiping carefully through pages of flash. There are assorted floral pieces (plum stems, lily stalks, fully bloomed mums) and various skeletons (what looks like a deer, a dragon, a wolf). They’re mostly blackwork with fine lines and heavy contrast, so wonderfully detailed you spend too much time studying one piece before he’s flipping to the next.

“That one.” It catches your eye more than the others have. Likely because it’s one of the few pieces in colour, soft hues spilling over neat lines. A pretty little cat with a braided collar, big golden bell centered beneath its head, unravelling petals sweeping around it.

“You like cats?”

You do. “She looks like mine.”

“It’s settled.” He beams then, rising so quickly you’re startled; you watch as he moves around the space with decisive steps, putting your plan into motion. A paper is pulled seemingly out of nowhere, laid on a wooden clipboard and offered with a blue ballpoint pen. “If you can fill all of this out, I can get the stencil ready.”

Well, that was easy. Somehow, you’d thought it’d be more complicated, a ton of back and forth and yes and no. You can’t deny you’re nervous, staring down at the consent form.

(It doesn’t mean you read it any more than you normally would, though. You gloss over all the points, making note of what you’re agreeing to without really considering any of it. You’ve wanted a tattoo for most of your life. There’s really no going back now.)

(You just hope it turns out like you want - that you’re not just being blindsided by a sudden superficial crush and a lack of critical thought.)

“I think I’m done,” you mumble, slashing the date into the paper with gusto.

“Do you have your ID?” You’ve got it ready for him when he returns to take both it and the form. “I’m just going to make copies and then we can discuss more.”

He’s gone with that same smile, disappearing back the way you’d come.

Alone, the nerves set in. You’re actually doing this. Getting a tattoo. Putting something permanent on your body. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, shaking your hands in your lap. Maybe you should’ve eaten more before you’d come. (You’d woken up late - had only shoved two pieces of raisin pinwheel bread into your mouth before you’d made up your mind about this.)

(But had you really made up your mind? Was this going to be it? It feels mostly like yes, though the repetitive thud of your toe against concrete seems to indicate otherwise. It’s as if you’re tapping out something in morse, telling yourself—)

“Okay!” Jungkook’s back before you know it, driver’s license returned to you along with an unsealed envelope. You eye it curiously. “A copy of your form and an aftercare sheet.”

He’s really thought of everything. Or the shop has. Either way, you appreciate that when you’re not so sure, caught somewhere between giddily excited and vaguely worried, as if someone’s pulled a weight off your shoulders, taken on some of the burden of this spontaneous choice.

“So, where do you want it?” It’s like he has a one track mind, utterly focused on the task at hand. (Probably a good thing, given you’re about to voluntarily let him needle your poor skin.)

You hadn’t thought about that. You’d always liked the idea of a back of the arm tattoo, positioned somewhere along your tricep so it could be seen while turned away. “My arm?”

“Upper? Forearm?” There’s not an ounce of annoyance or exasperation or anything else negative. He’s just genuinely curious, peering over his shoulder at you.

“Tricep area, I think? Would that look good?”

“If you like it, it will.” Then he grins - beams so bright you half expect the sun to come zooming out of his mouth - and laughs, a funny little cackle that makes you do the same. “I’m kidding. That was cheesy. But I’m sure it’ll look fine. We can try laying it down first, so you get an idea?”

“That sounds good.” A lot better than endless years of regret for poor placement.

“You’ll, uh— need to take your shirt off though.”

It’s then you realise your mistake: wearing a turtleneck. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes, then another, and he smiles so kindly you wonder what your expression must look like. Sour, like you’d sucked fresh lemon? Awkward, as if you’d never worn anything less than double layers before (a proud Never Nude)?

“If you’re uncomfortable, we can reschedule. Or I can put a divider up so you don’t have to worry about being seen from outside. Whatever you’d prefer.”

The longer you stay quiet - a seemingly common occurrence today - the closer his brows furrow, preparations coming to a standstill. You can tell he’s not trying to rush you, politely waiting for an answer with transfer paper in one hand and scissors in the other.

(If only he could peek into your brain, see the whole reason you’re hesitating is because you can’t quite remember which bra you’re wearing, whether it’s the slinky black one that offers absolutely zero support or the lacy blue one with the cute detailing and practically see-through cups.)

(Did it really matter either way? He was probably desensitized.)

“It’s fine.” You find the confidence somehow, nodding firmly. Jungkook’s still studying you carefully, though. Waiting as you strip your purse off your shoulder and reach for the hem of your sweater. It feels funny in your fingers, more like steel wool than sheep’s.

One breath. Two.

You fold your turtleneck neatly, laying it beside your bag and turning back to face him. “All right. Let’s do this.”

“So, which arm?” He’s close now - crossed to you in two strides of his long legs - and holds up the stencil.

Your right rises, fingers wiggling as if to say hello.

He lays the design down, pats it into place with deft fingers. You don’t realise the breath you’re holding until he pulls the sticky paper away, leaving neat line work in its wake.

“Oh.” It slips out of its own accord, almost a whisper as you stare at the design in the mirror. “It’s so pretty.”

There’s pride in his eyes as he stares with you, bounces his gaze between it and your face. “Thanks.” He lets you linger, peering thoughtfully at your reflection before speaking, casually hopeful. “What do you think?”

“This is it. Right here.”

Maybe he’d fist pump, if he were any less cool. As it stands, he simply nods, cheeks round like fresh baked bread, nose scrunched with glee.

“All right. We’ll shave you down and get started. You like the colours, right?” Once again, he’s buzzing around the room, gathering up all his materials and snapping black gloves on once everything is laid out upon his cart. It’s heavily stickered, covered in video game vinyls and anime mattes. (You recognise a handful of them, make a note to ask him where he got them from.) He pats the tissue papered bed top when you make no movement toward him. “Hop on up. Face down, if that’s okay.”

You do as he says, climbing atop with minimal grace. It takes you a bit of adjusting to get comfortable, folding your left arm under your head and allowing your right to simply dangle, uncertain of where it should be.

“You’re sparkly.”

“What?” You’d misheard that, right?

“Your skin. You’re sparkling.” He sounds a little in awe, surprised as wetness spills across your arm, the edge of a razor following closely thereafter.

“Oh.” Heat creeps over your cheeks, slinks all the way up into your roots and has you chuckling awkwardly. “It’s my soap.”

“Sparkle soap?” Whether he’s just making conversation or genuinely curious, you’re not sure. He does seem delighted by the fact, though, as if he’s never seen a girl covered in glitter before. (Which, fair.)

“It’s this specialty holiday soap. It has pigment in it.”

“That’s cool.” He’s laying the stencil down again, smoothing it over your now-hairless arm. “It smells nice.”

Obviously, you agree. It’s honey and citrus, brightly fragrant but not overpowering, lingering on your clothes like the subtle golden glitter does. Still, you flush, heat crossing from a casual day under the sun to burning-on-the-stove hot. “Thanks.”

“Was that weird? I hope not.”

“No, you’re fine.”

He hums a tiny noise, something that sounds like understanding and appreciation all at once.

Then the buzzing starts - a steady, inescapable brrrrrrrrr - and he’s gripping your arm, steady yet gentle. “Ready?”

Honestly, you’re not sure. Hearing the noise makes it seem scary, has your entire body tensing up like Pavlov’s dog. Your honesty can’t be helped, a nervous giggle chased off your tongue. “I think so.”

“I think so too.”

By the time you’re done - a good almost five hours later, your arm stinging so bad you wonder why you’d ever sat down in the first place - you’d fallen asleep twice, started drooling on your other arm once, and really, really have to pee.

“All right—”“ The incessant buzzing stops. Liquid spills where the pain centres, followed by rougher paper towel. “You are finished.”

(You might be imagining it, but he sounds about as relieved as you. Maybe because you’d been sitting for hours on hours, turning down his offer for a break because you just wanted to get it done and therefore forcing him to do the same.)

“Can I see?” You don’t want to leap to your feet - feel a bit too lightheaded for that - but you’re bouncing with excitement, the thrumming in your arm intensified when you shift to catch a better look at Jungkook’s face.

“Yeah, go ahead. Just be careful - you might be a bit—”

He’s right. You nearly topple over the moment you stand, none-too-gently rolling off the edge of the bed and barely landing safely on your feet. It’s only his close proximity that prevents you from falling to your knees, one degloved hand darting out to steady you.

“Careful!” It’s politely reproachful, coloured soft with worry.

“Sorry, sorry.” You seize the edge of the bed, gripping tight as you wait for everything to settle, the lightheadedness to recede. Everything straightens out quickly enough. “Got up too quickly.”

“Do you need a snack?” He’s already up, moving faster than you, rummaging through the cabinet against the far wall. “I’ve got seaweed and Choco Boys and shrimp chips and—”

You can’t help but laugh, hobbling to the mirror to inspect your new piece of art. “I’m fine.” That, and you’re too occupied with the ink that now sits embedded beneath your skin, a flurry of lovely colour and impressive line work.

“Choco Boys it is then.” The familiar yellow package is thrust toward you, a pack of his own already ripped open. Mushroom-shaped treats are tossed into his open mouth, lips curling around chocolate and his next words, “it’ll help with your sugar levels.”

A thank you comes, fingers curling around the snacks, but you’re still in deep, so focused on the lovely hue that bleeds over your skin, marks up previously unblemished flesh and holds your attention. It’s better than you could’ve possibly imagined, a piece of artwork forever yours. It makes you giddy as you stare at it - almost reach for it, but stop when you catch the alarmed widening of Jungkook’s eyes.

“You like?”

“I love.” You’d stare at it for hours, if you could. Likely will, once you get home, sitting in front of the mirror like a zombie. “Thank you so, so much.”

The brunet beams as he polishes off the last of his Choco Boys, tossing his dark hair back with a flick of his head. Triumph rolls off him in palpable waves, sitting pretty in the lines by his eyes, the scrunching around his nose. Seeing how it blooms in his stare is like a straight endorphin shot, as if you’ve done more than just be the canvas he’s laid all his hard work into. “It was a pleasure.”

It’s a whole month later - enough time for the piece to heal - before you decide you want another one. It’s not as spontaneous as the first time, instead led with an Instagram direct message to @jeonink. (You half expect him not to answer; you’re utterly delighted when he responds not five minutes later.)

Maybe it’s fate or maybe it’s luck that has him with availability the same day you reach out, bringing you back to the studio three hours after you’ve messaged him.

He’s just as cute as before, black baseball cap pulled low over his ears, silver-lined ears twinkling beneath the shop lights.

“So, what’re you thinking?”

Truthfully, you hadn’t done much thinking. Just like before, you’d decided you wanted a tattoo and, well, the rest had been history. You figured you’d let him have free reign, given how happy you were with your first piece. “A sleeve?”

That surprises him. His whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth rounding curiously. “Like, a full sleeve?” It’s not necessarily a no - more of an are you sure? he hides between the syllables.

“I think so.”

He nods slowly, knowingly, arms folded over his chest, expression suddenly unreadable. “You caught the itch.”

Your own features twist, brows shooting high. “The what?”

“The tattoo itch,” he clarifies with a laugh, the sound sweeping your concern away like the sea. “People say once you get one, you get addicted to the feeling.” He’s extending both arms to you now, hands palm up. For a moment, you’re note sure what he’s doing. (In actuality, you’re distracted by the fact that he’s in a tee, muscle cording his limbs, undulating as he turns his arms over.) “I got bit by it when I lived in Japan. It’s actually what got me into tattooing myself.”

You remember what he’d said last time - how he’d spent a handful of years overseas, working in restaurants after having followed his last partner there. He’d shared lots about his life, giving you the Sparknotes version while you’d ground enamel to fine dust.

“I guess I have the itch then.”

“Guess you do.”

Your dream comes to life in four excruciating sessions. It’s some of the worst pain you’ve ever endured (you’re never going to get an elbow tattoo ever again) but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat, utterly in love with the mural that now lives on your skin. A peony caps your shoulder while one runs halfway up your bicep. Another takes up the entirety of your forearm. There’s a darling little bird and delicately inked koi. It’s breathtaking, greater than anything you could have dreamt up.

You’ve been staring at it for at least three minutes now, tracing over the freshly laid colour with a tender touch. You’re grateful for the SecondSkin, the clear bandage that wraps everything up and keeps it safe from your over eager hands.

“You did it.” Jungkook’s grinning at you, feet kicked up where he sits, his usual bag of Choco Boys balanced in his lap. “Big girl.”

From anyone else, it might sound condescending - might rub you the wrong way and have you glaring daggers. Instead, you take it in stride, beaming at him from your seat. He’s been there with you every step of the way, been there for every hour (seventeen over three months, to be exact) you’ve dedicated to finishing this beauty up. Tease you as he might, you know he really is proud of you.

“You mean we did it,” you return, giddy like a child.

“Ah, right.” The chocolate-covered snack he’s devouring goes crunch crunch crunch before he speaks, mouth still full, eyes crinkled. “I guess I did do all the work.”

“Hey! Screw you!” You’re glowering at him, middle finger raised in defiance.

(How curious that your relationship has grown like this, turned from tattoo artist and client to what feels like more. It probably makes sense, given the long hours you’ve spent together, the support he’s had to offer each time the pain has gotten this side of too much, chattering your teeth and dizzying your head. Solidarity in pain and all that.)

(You really had tapped out once, when he’d crept his gun into the ditch of your elbow. You’d asked him whether it’d hurt beforehand and he’d only laughed, shrugged off the question and continued with the careful shading to your inner arm. That in itself had hurt like a biiitch; you hadn’t thought it could get worse.)

(You’d been mistaken.)

“Am I wrong?” He drawls, full of laughter and that big dumb smile of his you’ve grown accustomed to. It eats up his cheeks and disappears his eyes, makes it hard to be mad at him when he looks so sweet.

“Yes, you are.” You’ve got absolutely nothing to back it up, but who cares. This is the sort of banter the two of you have developed, like two old friends forced to spend too much time together. (Not that you’d complain. You’ve loved hearing his stories, all the tales he regales you with whenever you’re in his chair.)

A snort is his answer, the full roll of his eyes over-exaggerated and playful. “You’re lucky we’re all finished or I’d sneak in an ugly fish somewhere on your arm.”

You think he’s kidding - know he takes too much pride in his work to do that.

Still, you stick your tongue out, hopping down from the bed with your freshly inked arm, hands clapping together in celebration. “You wouldn’t dare.” You’re confident, crossing to the bench to tug your flannel on, careful of the dull pain that throbs beneath the thin medical dressing.

“Wouldn’t I? I’m leaving anyway.”

You’re ready to call him out for it, insist he would never ruin the sanctity of his profession in such a way, when you realise the words he’s spoken, the casual tidbit he’s just dropped like it’s nothing.

“Leaving?”

(Is it you or do you sound disappointed? You can’t dwell on it for long, worried you’ll miss his explanation. Had he mentioned it previously? Slipped it in when you’d been delirious from pain? No, you would’ve remembered that. You swear you would’ve.)

“I’m moving to Tokyo.” How he’s so casual, you have absolutely no idea. You suppose it’s not a big deal for him - he’s not from here anyway. Home is back in Korea, the place he’d spent most of his life before moving to Japan and then here, just two years ago. (God, your memory is good. If only you’d retained knowledge like this when you were in school.) “My flight’s next weekend.”

Your face must be hilarious because Jungkook’s laughing, cackling like the evil villain in an anime.

“Gonna miss me?”

Would it be inappropriate to say yes? Because you will, you realise the moment he’s posed the question. You’ve grown to consider him a friend, someone who you send random memes to on Instagram (usually pertaining to #tattooartistproblems or one of your shared hobbies, like video games and finding the best noodle soup restaurant in the city).

You go for the safe bet, answering with a question of your own. “Are you gonna miss me?”

“I’ll miss your restaurant recs,” he answers, offering honesty to your reticence. “You can still send me funny photos though.”

You can’t help your laugh, the tiny quirk of your mouth into a smile. “I guess you’re right. Will you still be tattooing?” It’s an innocent enough question - you really do want to know. You can’t imagine going to anyone else, even if it means you’ll be shelling out an absurd amount of money for a plane ticket.

“Yep, new shop.” Something twinkles in his stare, has him giddy as he rises to his feet, tossing his empty packet of snacks into the trash bin. “Actually, where I got most of mine done.” You understand it then - that it’s a move of faith. He’s finally come full circle. You’re unbelievably happy for him, brimming with delight to mirror his pride.

But you’re still going to give him a little bit of a hard time because you have to. It wouldn’t feel right otherwise. “Whoa, big shot.”

“I am actually,” he sniffs, raking an ink-strewn hand through his hair. It’s longer now than it was when you met him, curling over the tops of his ears, hanging in his eyes at every turn. “You’ll be lucky if I remember you when I’m famous.”

“Famously lame, maybe,” you tease, slipping your bag over your shoulder. You busy yourself pulling your keys from the interior pocket, checking your phone as if you’re ready to go. It’s only when you’re standing in the hallway - you have no real intention of departing like this and he knows that, considering you haven’t paid yet - when you level him with a half-formed smirk. “But I guess I should take you for a drink?”

His hoodie is on before you know it, yanked over his head and tugged into place as he joins you. It’s become your regular routine - leaving together after your sessions, a perk of always booking the last slot he has available. (Not that you relied on that, but simply because your work schedule didn’t really allow for anything else.) “Obviously.”

Jeon Jungkook is a talented artist, a dedicated snacker, a lover of the colour black. You discover, sitting on the patio of the nearby bar, that he’s also really, really good at holding his liquor.

(Not that he’d ever indicated otherwise.)

“Do you think you’ll get anything else done?” He’s on his sixth pint, casually leaned back in his chair as he picks at the fries you’d ordered but that he seems perfectly happy to help himself to. (Payback for all the times he’s forced snacks on you maybe?) “Like, a face tattoo?”

You scoff at the question as if greatly offended. “You think I’d get a face tattoo?”

While a little glazed in the eyes, you can tell he’s altogether coherent, grinning across the table at you. “Hey, I don’t judge. You like making surprise decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Okay, so he’s got you there. Used your own impulsive history against you. “I would never.”

“If you change your mind, do I get first dibs?”

“Dibs on what? Tattooing me?”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Duh.”

You can only roll your eyes, tossing a wayward burnt fry end at him. “Yes, Kook, you get first dibs on ruining my face.”

His expression twists, mouth shaping around words he’s keeping caged behind his teeth. There’s something he isn’t saying, a comeback he’s chosen to lock up. You wonder what it is.

“Hey - nothing wrong with face tattoos.”

“Really?” You’re leaning forward, a clear challenge written across your face. “Then why don’t you have one?” He has a million others as it is: a hand, nearly the entirety of both arms, his chest, his shoulders, one of his legs. (You haven’t seen them all in person but you have seen them online, memorialised on his Instagram feed.)

“And hide all this?” One inked hand is gesturing toward his own face, gesticulating wildly as if that’ll drive his point further home. “I would never.”

“That’s what I said!”

It doesn’t matter to him, not when he’s fully sober and most certainly not now, when he’s slightly buzzed, eyes glossier than usual. “But I’m cuter. It’d be a shame if it were me. You…” The way he trails off is suggestive, indicative of something mocking and mean. (Except it’s never cruel - far too friendly and soft to ever hurt your feelings.) “—not so much.”

Another fry hits him right between the eyes and then another disappears into the hood of his sweater, lost to the black fabric that bunches up around his neck and hides the flush he’s been battling since you two got to the bar an hour ago.

“Don’t be rude!”

He beams at you then, so unnecessarily endearing you can only throw one more piece at him.

“I’m kidding.” You knew that already but pretend to ignore the pseudo-apology, choosing instead to polish off the last of your now-cold fries. A bad choice, you realise when he continues, surprising you with the words that come out of his liquor-laden mouth so much so that you almost choke. “You’re actually pretty cute.”

(So what if you’ve sort of maybe been waiting to hear them? Wondering if the tiny crush you’d developed was in some way reciprocated?)

(Not that this meant it was. Only that you perhaps weren’t alone in thinking he was the most lovable - and somehow simultaneously hot - person you’d ever met. It’s almost rewarding to know the long hours together hadn’t left him unscathed.)

“You all good?” The look on his face is worse than that smile he usually offers, instead a devilish smirk that makes him look like Satan himself.

Were you? You’re not sure.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Really? You can’t?” You’re not sure what that means, whether you’re simply reading too far into it. But then he’s dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, head cocked curiously. It’s a bait, you realise—and one you’ll gladly take.

“Should I have expected it?”

Shoulders hike, rising up around his ears. “I thought I made it sort of obvious.”

Had he? Thinking back on it, you can’t really recall. Of course, he’d always been friendly, indulging you in your pursuit of body art, sketching up the loveliest things you’d never even think to dream of; accepting your distracting Instagram messages without complaint, always tossing you a like or some sort of acknowledgement no matter what you’d send (and you’d send some random, random stuff). Chatting with him daily had just become the norm, conversation flowing freely whenever you’d pop in for your next session.

But that was just because he was a nice guy - or so you’d thought. You realise now how wrong you’d been, too occupied with your own crush to notice his (if it could be called that).

“You like me,” you hum, surprisingly nonchalant despite the little pitter patter in your chest, the flutter of your heart within your ribcage.

“I think you’re cute,” he retorts, though there’s no real weight to his rebuff. The two statements are really one and the same and you’re giddy with the knowledge, absolutely tickled pink.

Except for the fact that he’s leaving, fully prepared to start a new life in another city in just one week. The irony isn’t lost on you, like fate’s laughing even as she offers you this little crumb. (You feel like Oliver Twist, frankly.)

“Same difference.”

He huffs - you’re reminded of how adorable he is when he does that - and downs the lukewarm remainder of his beer. “I take it back.”

“No, you don’t.” Where the confidence comes from, who knows. You grip it tight with both hands though, hold it snugly as you level him with a stare that has his own unwavering. It’s almost as if you’re caught in a staring match, a battle of unspoken wits.

It drags on longer than it should, just the two of you locked to each other with nowhere to go.

Then he does the last thing you expect: shoves his chair aside and leans across the table, stealing a kiss and returning to his seat, all in the span of time it takes you to blink.

(His lips are so soft. A little chapped, a tiny bit dry, but soft - deceptively delicate. Bitter, touched with sea salt and something else distinctly him. French fries and beer and his Chapstick.)

(For the briefest moment, you wonder whether you’d just imagined it - if your imagination had truly gotten the best of you and you’ve absolutely lost your mind.)

“You just kissed me.” It seems like you’ve found your new favourite hobby of just repeating things, giving live play-by-plays like an awkward narrator in a romcom.

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re leaving.” Speaking the words into existence feels bad; you see the way his eyes tighten, the subtle sobering of his expression even while he tries to keep his cool.

“I am.” At least he’s realistic. It saves you from any uncertainty, keeping the what-ifs at bay.

You suppose it means you have nothing to lose.

“Do it again.”

And Jungkook does - over and over, sinking the taste of him almost as deeply as ink, offering a piece of himself you want to keep for just as long.

It takes you longer to add to your collection of art, nearly four whole years before you decide what you want next. (It’s a back piece this time - a full body suit from your shoulders down past your ass. Another cat, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing and surrounded by flowers. An ode to your first tattoo, to the one that had started it all.)

(You’re not sure you’re ready for the pain, though.)

“Lay down,” the artist instructs, back turned to you, busy preparing his materials. You’d stripped down while he was occupied, discarded all your clothes to the allocated basket and stood quietly in anticipation.

You do as he says, dropping atop the tattoo bed with a quiet oof. The stencil has already been laid, the entire outline ready to be inked into your skin. You can’t deny you’re more than a little nervous. It’s been years since you’d last gotten anything done, uninterested in finding a new artist since Jungkook had left.

(Which he had, exactly as he’d intended, gone on a 6 AM flight that you’d driven him to, teary-eyed and embarrassed. He’d laughed at you standing outside of the departure gate, his suitcase at his side, arms wrapped around your shoulders. You’d refused to show your face, burying it instead into the warmth of his neck, into the familiar scent of him that was going away for who knows how long.

“Stop being a baby,” he’d said, smothering you in kisses, the full weight of his laughter palpable through your close proximity. It'd rumbled out of his chest all the way into yours, finding a home behind your ribcage, right alongside where your heart fluttered, shaded blue and sad.

“Stop being mean,” you’d countered, petulant like a child.

It couldn’t be helped. You’d had only one week with him - one glorious, chaotic week filled with eating too much junk, rewatching your favourite animes, and generally making up for all the lost time you’d never even known there was. As amazing as it’d been, it still hadn’t prepared you for the goodbye.

That was your fault, though. You’d wrongly entertained the idea that maybe things would work out, that he’d change his mind or ask to take it - whatever you had, that is - with him, keep it going somehow. He hadn’t.)

“Do you have a preference where I start?” You’re unbothered, hair loosely knotted over your shoulder. Ready for the session to start - ready to feel the familiar sting again. (You’re proud of that. It might have taken you years and years but here you were, tackling something huge.)

“Nope.”

“Sounds good.”

The buzzing begins and pressure lands upon the small of your back, a gloved hand laid over the centre of your spine. You remind yourself to breathe in, out, focus on something other than the pain that fizzles over your skin and then ebbs into tenderness. Where he’s started - just above the fattiest part of your butt - isn’t too bad. Tolerable and yielding.

You can do this.

Your back aches in a different way than you’d anticipated, soreness buzzing beneath inflamed skin and making it uncomfortable to move around. It’s not any worse than your arm had been - the lines along your spine had felt comparable to that of your elbow - but it’s fresh, not dulled by years like your sleeve now was.

The artist is stripping his gloves off, your back neatly covered and the bed stripped of its original tissue paper. He’s leaned against the sink, onigiri held in his now-free hands, nibbling at the edge of the rice ball as you turn this way and that in the mirror. “You did good.”

You’re still undressed, admiring the linework from different angles, shimmying closer to your reflection to catch the lighter inking that makes up the undefined edges of the various florals. Something tells you that you should be shy - eager to redress after spending nearly five hours naked in the secluded studio - but you don’t care. Your back is quickly becoming a masterpiece, something that might as well be hung in the halls of the Louvre. You’re in love with it.

“Thanks.”

You mean thank you for his compliment but also for all his hard work, the long hours he’s put into bringing this beauty to life. It means so much - like progressing to the next level.

Which, you suppose it is. This is a fresh start for you. A new beginning in a new city.

“Proud of you,” he hums, suddenly close, broad palms searing heat over your hips. He’s careful to avoid the edge of the bandage that wraps your back and holds you delicately, like fine china or the most precious jewel in the world, lips sweet against your temple.

You meet his eyes in the mirror - the same sweet doe-eyed stare from five years ago. A little darker now, aged by the hand of time but endlessly kind, shining beneath the overhead lights.

“Proud of you,” you chirp, identical smiles spreading over your faces.

Jungkook’s having none of it though, bratty as usual. “Proud of us.”

You suppose you can settle for that. You really are proud of the two of you - for how far you’ve made it and all the obstacles you’ve overcome. From the first few weeks of sadness, all the melancholy that’d set in when he’d left, to exactly one month after, when he’d called you in the middle of the night, drunk and stumbling home.

(It’d been infuriating at the time - incoherent and foolish as he was - but it’d bloomed something between you, something neither of you could ignore.)

Four years of miserable long distance had become this: a love that's brought you back to his side, to a city you’re unfamiliar with but that he calls home; to a city that never sleeps, loud with pachinko machines and some of the best food you’ve ever had; to the place you’ve been missing every minute you were apart.

You’d never thought you would move for someone, uproot your entire life for a relationship, but he’d changed that. Made it worth it in ways you had never considered. Convinced you more and more with each trip you’d taken, two visits twice a year, for a measly two weeks at a time.

“Should we head home?” He means your physical home - the apartment the two of you had decided on in Roppongi, the one you haven’t seen yet, that he’s had to move into all by himself. It’s not quite as nice as the home in his arms.

You say yes anyway.

“I’m so talented.” The words come entirely too whole for your liking, loud somewhere above your head.

“Are you serious?” You’re levelling your boyfriend with the most incredulous look, whole face scrunched up, hands fisted into his dark sheets. It’s uncomfortable at this angle - kinking your neck as you look over your shoulder - but you really can’t believe he’s just said that. He’s knelt between your legs, knees spread wide around his own, his hand halfway up your back and tracking heat over your spine.

Somehow, he has the audacity to look surprised. “What?”

“You’re really patting yourself on the back right now?” Now, when he should be pounding you into oblivion, working that big fat cock of his through your fluttering walls, making you moan his name into his pillows like it’s his only job?

(It truthfully could be. You’d rank his skills in the bedroom on par with his skills in the studio.)

“Oh.” All at once, he’s the devil - sin personified. Or would be, if he didn’t somehow still look infuriatingly cute.

The gentle touch turns bruising, heel of his palm pressed hard into the tender notches of your spine. “You don’t like when I admire my own work?” Asked as he shifts behind you, length dragging out of your dripping cunt to gently tap against your aching clit. The head of it glides through your folds, mercilessly teasing but never slipping back in, never filling you whole like you need. (Because you really do need it. You haven’t seen him in six months, left to your own devices - literally.) It feels like heaven and hell, too good and not nearly enough all at once.

“Kook,” you snap. Try to, anyway, his name far too whiny and breathless to hold any real weight.

“I’m just admiring you, sweetheart.” He’s dragging the hand over your back, tracing all the lines he’s embedded into your skin. They make up his favourite piece, inked permanently into his favourite canvas. A testament to his hard work, his dedication, his love.

Any other time, you might not care. Here and now, after not having felt his touch in what feels like forever, you’re burning from the inside out, a million volts of electricity tripping your circuits. When you speak, it’s more a plea than a reprimand, uttered so sweetly you know he can’t deny you. “Admire me later.”

“I’ve missed you” is his only answer, punctuated by a fluid roll of his hips, the heavy press of his cock back into your dripping cunt. “I’ve missed this,” he breathes out, sinking all the way in, so slow you can feel every ridge and vein as he fills you.

“Missed you too,” you parrot back, a little delirious now that you’ve gotten what you want.

Now that he’s right where he should be - with you.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle @xjoonchildx

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schonberg56 · 2 years ago

Text

She was looking at me. Close by. She breathed in my company and felt as if ready to tell me that in fact she had not been thinking about us in the Future Tense, but both of us knew the truth. And the truth could not be changed no matter how much we tried. The truth hang above our heads, our existences and we both pretended there was nothing that could destroy our temporary happiness. But in fact we came to appreciate it. Simple lives. And my favourite jokes about the way we stood above the very notion of Time that we were not so petty as to let the illusions to drown us. We happened to agree that Time can be a huge monster, but not a one posing a threat to us. And we both joked at it.

We both knew that building this inner resilience to the notion of Time was the most suitable coping mechanism we could establish in our lives as it was not limited exclusively to our relationship. It was not a common fetish discovered simply because we thought it would be best to comfort ourselves with philosophical strategies. No, it wasn't that way. And we knew it.

It was a half-joke and a half-serious matter with the Time's Discussions, it was the way we joked about the Nietzschean Overman that had made us engrossed in each other. But it was not the rebellion of youth that propelled us forward. It was our inner inclinations to indulge in this pseudo-philosophical discussions.

-- Can you imagine living on your own? - she asked me unexpectedly jumping from one subject onto another.

-- Are you again entertaining yourself with shooting random questions at me? - I smiled broadly trying to smash her craftily built equilibrium. I wanted to check if I manage to confuse her and exploit her lost track, her snapped synapsis, boldly standing in the pathway, blocking her easily escape. And even if she was thinking about any psychological espape among the whole variety of her brain cells, I would position myself at the very centre of her attention, deafening her instincts and burning to become her obssession. But in the process I did not want to betray any emotions. I wanted and craved to show my distant indifference and pretend to be someone I was not.

I saw that very scene. The way she wanted to escape and not having to answer my one-way questions. I was standing in her way, trying to catch her in my arms and not letting her go away. I wanted to ambush her, to find her inadvertently, inconspicuously behaving as if nothing had in fact happened, but she could not know of the truth that I was so ready to conceal.

-- No, I'm simply asking you. But i know you like questions, enjoying your petty - she put extra emphasis on the word to use her malice against me. - role of a professor, with your enigmatic glasses and always ready to indulge in your obsessions and expand the flowery language. And I will pinpoint and analyse your unconscious. I will be your Anne Freud, if you wish it or not. - she squinted and I struggled to see what she meant behind the surface of seemingly joking and light atmoshere. Was she really so innocent as she pretended to be?

-- I remember once walking out of my flat and suddenly seeing that I had something dirty on my coat so that I could not see it earlier in the mirror. I was a little embarrassed, catching myself thinking that it would be quite nice to have someone in the flat to tell you that you have a dirty stain on your coat and you look ridiculous. However, since I don't have anyone in that post - I said singing lightly as if in a tune of a sigh - I must look at myself more carefully next time.

She laughed........................

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kafka-ish · 4 years ago

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what billy doesn’t know won’t hurt him | r.t.

when things get heated between bill and richie, richie takes it a step further. now things are heated between bill, richie, and bill’s girlfriend.

word count: 7,429

warnings/included: nsfw (smut but it’s vanilla), cheating, pining, angst(?), fem!reader

a/n: this concept is awful and this whole fic was written for my own self indulgence so i hope you’ll forgive me

It was no surprise that Bill would be the first of the Losers to get a girlfriend and Richie knew this. What’s not to like about Big Bill? He had a certain leadership quality and charisma to him that no girl could resist. His stark auburn hair and tall figure probably didn’t help either.

Richie first met Bill’s new belle at the arcade. The Losers made plans to meet each other there one Friday night in celebration for their exam week ending.

“Guh-guys, I’m br-bringing my guh-guh—”

“Guacamole? That’s cool and all, Billiam, but I’m sure you can just get some there.” Richie erupted into a fit of laughter because that was the thing about Richie; he always laughed at his own jokes whether they were funny or not.

Bill’s backhand flew to the underside of Richie’s chin and Eddie cringed at the jarring sound of skin on skin. Bill grew tired of Richie’s incessant interruptions. His friend never seemed to let him finish a thought.

“No.” He let out an annoyed sigh, hoping it would come across as an indication for Richie to maybe, for once in his life, get his head out of his ass. “Mm-my girlfr-friend.” Once he finished his sentence, he made sure to shoot Richie a smirk. It looked the same as his smirk he wore when he finished beating him at chess or when one of the other Losers’ got in the last word instead of him. This time Bill got in the last word.

“That’s good for you, Bill!” Bev piped up. “We need another girl around here.” She looked to the room of all boys in slight disgust. “Not that you guys aren’t great —”

“Well... Now you’ll have someone to have ‘girl talk’ with.” Ben looked around to Bill, Richie, Stan, and Eddie. All except Richie nodded in agreement.

“Tough crowd. You can count me in on the girl talks, though.” Beverly slapped the suggestive look right off Richie’s face which he yelped at.

“Richie, you’ve been slapped so many times, you should be numb to the feeling by now.” Stan shook his head as a disappointed mother would, but his smile said differently.

Their conversation continued; ranging from what grades they received on their finals and what time they would meet up.

They decided on six.

But Bill was late. Bill was never late.

“Where’s Bill?”

The Losers were squeezed together in one of the booths the lounge area of the arcade had to offer. Beverly and Ben’s shoulders pressed together while they sucked down the same strawberry milkshake. Mike sat beside the couple, because neither Stan nor Eddie would, while picking through the fries to find the crispy ones.

Eddie, Stan, and Richie sat on the other side. Stan kept complaining to Mike about how he “shouldn’t touch every one of the fries” and that he was “hogging all the good ones.” Eddie, on the other hand, ran his mouth about the multiple diseases Ben and Beverly could catch from sharing their food (or anything for that matter).

“Probably getting one-off in the bathroom with—”

“Beep Beep, R-Richie!” It was the man of the hour. Bill silenced his friend to which the rest of the group was thankful for. Even though Richie’s anecdotes could be entertaining, they did not want to hear about their friend’s sex life: made up or not.

“Hey, Big Bill!” Richie turned a ninety in his seat to see the look on his friend’s face, but he didn’t expect to be met with the scene of Bill and his arm wrapped around some girl. A hot one at that.

Bill kissed her temple before directing his attention to the group. “Everyone, th-th-this is—”

“I’m y/n.”

“Mmm-my guh-girlfriend.” Bill said this almost too proudly.

“I didn’t know Billiam was actually capable of getting some.” Richie fell into a fit of laughter and held up his hand for a round of high fives he was expecting. But instead of a slap on the back and a “good one, Rich”, Richie was given a variety of bored and ‘are-you-serious’ looks.

“Anyway,” Stan broke the silence. “y/n, you wanna pull up a chair? Sorry, we didn’t get a table big enough…”

“It’s ff-ine,” Bill said as he was climbing into the booth next to Richie. “There’s room.” He gave y/n a suggestive look, raising his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth upturned slightly. His girlfriend ducked her head; embarrassed in front of Bill’s friends she had never met before. She could feel her cheeks heating up and the group’s stare on her when she went to sit on Bill’s lap.

To that, Richie whistled and said, “What’s next, are you gonna make her give you a lap dance?” Anger took over Bill’s body. His muscles tensed under his skin and it became harder to conceal his scowl. “Don’t worry, doll.” Richie started whispering into y/n’s ear. “If Bill gets hard you won’t—you won’t notice since he’s —”

Richie couldn’t finish his sentence. Partly because his laughing prevented him from doing so. Bill had also jabbed him in the shoulder causing Richie to pull away from the couple.

“Gee, Bill, I didn’t know you could—”

“Richie, that’s enough!” Bill, no longer able to keep his composed expression, raised his voice.

All the Losers watched intently. Bill never raised his voice, so to say that this was a rare occasion was just as much of an understatement as saying, “Stan liked birds.”

“Luh-look, Richie, I th-th-hink you’re a funny guy. A li-little too vulgar fo-or my taste, but yo-you make the room laugh. But luh-late-ly you’ve been making a lot of juh-jokes regarding muh-me—”

“Or what you don’t have.”

“Th-this is what I’m ta-talking ab-out.” Bill watched his friend sternly, waiting for an apology. Even the smallest sorry would be good enough for him.

Richie stayed silent.

“You… you know, it-it’s funny that you muh-make all th-these jokes ab-about mm-me when you’ve nev-her had a girlfr-hend. God, Richie, cuh-can you even guh-get a girl to… to like yo-you back?” He recalled all the times Richie had been rejected. How Richie must be the least desirable kid in school with his track record of turn downs.

Stillness filled the air. Aside from Bill’s lengthy speech, none of the Losers had said anything for the past five minutes. What was there to say? Even Richie was left speechless.

“We’ll b-be guh-going now.” y/n slid off Bill’s lap. She waited passively for him as he got up from his seat. Bill wasted no time for goodbyes. He walked out of the door with a swagger that none of the Losers had seen on him before. But y/n stayed behind, awkwardly shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“It was nice meeting you all…” Her attempt to ease the uneasiness between them was admirable. “I hope we can do this again sometime, yeah?” She was a sweet girl. The words that left her mouth were... genuine, not just being said because of the unexpected outburst at the table.

She parted from the group shortly after, not wanting to keep Bill waiting long. Richie’s eyes were glued to y/n’s backside while she pranced towards the door. The way her hips swayed were captivating and even though her dress was loose it was just short enough to—

“Richie, you’re staring.”

“Am I?” Richie averted his eyes away from Bill’s girlfriend, now finding the voice who’d scolded him.

“Yes, and it’s disgusting,” Stan scoffed. He shot Richie a glare but not his usual glare. Stan was actually disgusted. His eyes were squinted slightly, and Richie could tell his brain was trying to figure out what was going on in Richie’s own.

“Okay, everyone agrees with me that y/n is way too hot for Bill, right?” Richie asked the group. A little gossip never hurt anyone right?

But the responses were lackluster.

“I think Bill and y/n look cute together!” Beverly was the first one to defend Bill. Ben nodded after her because let’s be honest, that boy agreed with everything she said just to keep himself on her radar.

“I don’t feel comfortable talking about this behind Bill’s back.” Mike was next and he wore an uncomfortable look on his face. Multiple Losers (everyone except for Richie) had agreed with him on that one.

“y/n seems nice—”

“Exactly!” Richie could almost jump out of his seat as he cut Eddie off. “Bill doesn’t deserve her!”

“I think someone’s jealous.” Richie snapped his head to look at Stan who wasn’t doing the same. He was too busy wiping off the condensation from his drink glass.

“Why would you say that?” Richie’s eyebrow rose at the accusation and there became a burning need for an answer that grew inside him. The rest of the Losers had also become intrigued.

“First of all, you think she’s hot—”

“Richie thinks anything with legs is hot,” Eddie said, and everyone forgot what the conversation was about for a moment as they took a minute to laugh at his remark.

“Richie, why don’t you think y/n’s good enough for Bill?” Stan asked.

There was no response while Ben, Beverly, Eddie, Mike, and Stan had their eyes on him. Although Richie usually handled himself well under pressure and in social situations, he felt a bad concoction of the coke he had just downed and the fries he was snacking on creeping their way back up his throat for a second taste.

“Hey, Stanny, I didn’t ask for ya to go all Freud on me.” Richie chuckled; trying to brush off the funny feeling in his stomach.

Richie felt a sort of relief wash over him when he was let off the hook. Ben and Beverly were playing a game of tic tac toe on a napkin and Mike, Stan, and Eddie found themselves in a three-way debate: Jurassic Park versus Jaws. Eddie was offering The Wizard of Oz to the table since his mom hadn’t let him watch either yet, but Stan and Mike wouldn’t budge.

But it didn’t help that Richie’s thoughts drifted back to Bill’s words earlier that night. God, Richie, cuh-can you even guh-get a girl to… to like yo-you back? Could he? A swarm of unwanted memories infiltrated his mind. Cierra from math class who had laughed in his face after he said, “Are you a forty-five angle? Because you’re a-cute-y.” Or when he asked out Elle, his longtime crush, to homecoming only to be told she had a boyfriend. The list goes on.

Those words apparently had such an impact on Richie because they followed him to the weekend which was spent laying on his bed as Bill’s voice echoed through Richie’s brain over and over again.

You… you know, it-it’s funny that you muh-make all th-these jokes ab-about mm-me when you’ve nev-her had a girlfr-hend.

“Never had a girlfriend, huh?” Richie thought aloud to himself in the safety of his own room. Just like a lightbulb would, Richie’s eyes lit up as an idea took place in his head. It was totally selfish, evil, and went heavily against the ‘bro code’. But who would Richie be to not go through one of his plans?

The bell signaling dismissal had just rung when Richie finalized his plan.

Meet y/n at her locker.

Drive her home from school.

Show her what she’s missing.

Serve Bill some sweet, sweet revenge.

Richie was the first one out the door—as always. But instead of his usual pace which solely relied on his long legs to carry him, he dashed for the hallway—like a prisoner making a break for it.

After peering through the sea of people long and hard, he spotted the same silky hair and small figure he’d seen the other night at the arcade.

“Hey, beautiful.” Richie propped himself against the row of lockers attached to y/n’s.

“I have a name.” And if it weren’t for the smile on her lips, Richie would’ve thought she was actually annoyed at him.

“You got a ride tonight?”

She shook her head while closing the door to her locker. “Yeah, actually.” y/n swung her backpack strap over her arm. “My boyfriend’s taking me home.” She felt the blood rush to her cheeks, and she wouldn’t be surprised if her face turned a bright shade of red in front of this boy.

“That’s a shame.” A disappointed clicking sound left his mouth. “I got a seat next to me in my car that’s calling your name.”

“Maybe tomorrow?” y/n offered. Her tone sounded just as angelic as it did the other night.

“I’ll hold you to that.” Richie left y/n with a wink and nothing more.

Richie, did in fact, hold y/n to that. And to Richie’s surprise, y/n did keep her word. The next day followed like the last. His shoulder slanted against the metal doors while he watched the girl pack her stuff. Even her smallest actions were mesmerizing.

“You know, doll, I’m surprised you took me up on this offer.”

“Oh, really?” y/n’s eyebrow raised slightly, almost as if she were challenging him.

“Kind of.” Richie forced himself to chuckle. He turned so that his back was now held up by the lockers. “Won’t your boyfriend be mad?” He was now rethinking his plan. This awful plan of his that would most likely be the end of his and Bill’s-

“Nah.” The sound of metal slamming startled Richie and he was now standing upright. “Besides, what Billy doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” She threw a suggestive wink in his direction. Did Billy know his girlfriend was a cheater?

“Jeepers, babe. Don’t tell me you’re only kidding.” A quizzical look sprawled itself across Richie’s face and his eyes searched hers as if he were looking for something.

A giggle so saccharine it was probably drenched in maple syrup beforehand left the girl’s glossy lips. “I’m joking.” She shoved Richie with her elbow as they walked side by side. “Bill doesn’t know.” Her voice lowered, “but you’re his friend so it’s not like that matters, right?”

“You betcha’.” Richie had to swallow down one of his stupid remarks just to make himself sound convincing. He looked down, once they’d got to his car, and tried the handle only to be met with the fact it wouldn’t budge. A string of curses fell off his dirty mouth and he could hear a series of muffled laughs coming from the other side. “Ha. Ha. Laugh all you want, hot stuff, I’m here all week.” It took Richie long enough to realize that his car was locked.

Begrudgingly, he fished the keys from his pockets and finally got the door open.

“You’re a great chauffeur.” y/n rolled her eyes while buckling her seatbelt. “Hot!” She seethed, cradling her left hand that touched the hot metal from the buckle with her right.

“Aw. You need someone to kiss it better?” Richie cooed, delicately taking her hand in his.

“I’m good.” If y/n were any other girl Richie swore she would’ve flicked his head and called him an idiot. Instead, she coyly retracted her hand and looked out the window—actively facing away towards him.

A few seconds of quietness passed between them before y/n decided to break it. “So, tell me, Rich.” Richie had to keep himself from taking his eyes off the road. “Why’d you offer to drive me home?”

“Is chivalry so dead I can’t drive a gal home?”

“I mean…” She took a moment to stare at the car’s ceiling so she could find the right words. “Bill’s your best friend.”

“Don’t pretend what happened on Friday, like, didn’t fuckin’ happen.” Richie was being sarcastic, of course.

“I know he said some harsh words but—”

“Hey.” His voice calmed. “If Bill and I are best friends, then he shouldn’t have a problem with this. Right?” Richie looked over at y/n to see if she’d agree with him. “Right?”

“Okay,” she gave in. She shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes, but it was enough confirmation for him.

“So, what’s the story between you and Big Bill?” Richie drummed on the steering wheel while y/n mulled over an answer.

y/n felt herself shy away at the question and as she recalled the events of Bill asking her out.

They first met in chemistry. Somehow, y/n had managed to let the dean switch her schedule so late in the year since Henry Bowers had accidentally spilled an aluminum chloride mix on her brand-new jeans.

“I’ll be deciding your lab partners today. Ever since last time I don’t think I can trust you guys to pick your own partners anymore.” Mr. Davis looked tired and y/n couldn’t blame him. In her head, she kept track of everyone who got paired together. Once he’d gotten to Gretta Keene, she soundlessly thanked god that she had been paired with Stacy. “y/n y/l/n and Bill Denbrough.”

y/n almost missed the bored voice as she was too lost in her thoughts.

Bill Denbrough?

Her eyes curiously darted around the room, searching for the sea of students in the desks surrounding her.

A pair of bright blue eyes finally caught hers. A pair of bright blue eyes that had to belong to Bill Denbrough.

“You-you’re y/n, rih-right?” Bill was now standing in front of her. She didn’t realize when he got up from his seat.

“Yeah.” y/n stood up to reach his eye, but she still stood noticeably shorter than him.

Bill’s once apprehensive demeanor visibly morphed into an expression filled with calmness and relief. Aside from his friends, she was the only other person who wasn’t impatient with his stutter. He felt he could immediately be vulnerable with her—not that he would be. But if this chemistry lab were the only time he would find himself interacting with this girl, Bill would seriously beat himself up for it.

The rest of their story was, essentially, history.

y/n liked having Bill as a lab partner. He was smart. He did his share, unlike her past partners who would pass notes to pass the period while y/n slaved away on the project by herself. He also didn’t hold any of the chemicals they were working with dangerously close to her, pretending as if he were going to spill them on her and then actually spill them on her.

It was on a Thursday morning when Bill met y/n on her way into school. Even though his watch showed seven-thirty am, the moon was still out and the only light in the sky was from the lampposts cemented into the sidewalk.

“H-hey, y/n!” It was odd to be as enthusiastic as he was this early, but y/n brushed it off—it must be post-coffee jitters and the effect was still wearing away.

“Hello.” Her voice still had a tiredness to it from when you first wake up in the morning.

“I was… I was won-wondering ih-if you wuh-would…”

“Yes?” y/n prompted. She glanced at him, making eye contact, which only worsened Bill’s nervousness.

“Would… would yo-you want to go ou-out wih-with me?”

Waiting for an answer felt like forever.

“I thought you’d never ask!” y/n beamed, and all signs of grogginess seemed to leave her body.

From then on, Bill and y/n went on dates. They were casual for the most part. y/n never felt the need to dress up and Bill never felt the need to buy her flowers. The only thing he did end up getting her was a stuffed bear which was twice her size.

The carnival would only be in town for a few days and y/n practically begged Bill to go—not that he needed much convincing. You could count him in as long as she was there.

Bill didn’t normally bother with carnival games—he knew they were rigged. But maybe it was the way the carnie teen running the booth talked to y/n that night. Or maybe it was the way y/n stared adoringly for the stuffed animal hanging from the plastic tent. In either scenario, Bill still spent twenty-five bucks and wasted an hour in the frigid air to eventually hook the ring over the milk bottle and win y/n that stupid bear.

“I think I’ll call it Bill,” she whispered as she squeezed the plush doll close to her chest.

“I-it’s the luh-least you cuh-can do.” Bill wrapped his arm around her even though he was the cold one.

“Wuh-wuh-we’re here,” Richie said. His voice masked with Bill’s stutter pulled y/n out of her dream-like state.

“That’s not nice, Rich.” But y/n couldn’t help to let out the smallest of laughs. She unbuckled her seatbelt only to find it wasn’t her house he drove her to once she opened her side of the door. “This isn’t my house.”

“Oh… it isn’t?” Richie never missed a beat; making sure to put on his ‘I’m-a-big-stupid-head’ act that his teachers never bought. It was worth a try.

“Take me home.” y/n crossed her arms and kept herself planted in the passenger seat of Richie’s car, which was just Wentworth’s old one that he’d given to his son once he splurged on a new one.

“Shit, toots. I thought you’d wanna stay a while. Have some fun.” Richie wiggled his eyebrows and wore a clown’s grin. How could she say no to him?

“We can have fun another time.” Like that apparently. “I really do need to get home, though.”

Richie’s been rejected loads of times before and he’s resented every one of them. He couldn’t resent y/n though—with her puppy dog eyes and the way she had him like a worm on a hook. She was something else.

“Alright.” Richie gave in. He keyed the ignition and started for the road again. His arm slung around y/n’s seat as he backed up and y/n couldn’t help but feel fuzzy at the small action. “So, you’re tellin’ me Big Bill never got you flowers?” Richie’s eyes never left the road no matter how much he wanted to stop the car and pin y/n down right then and there.

“Nope,” y/n said, popping the ‘p’ sound. “But I don’t mind.”

y/n minded.

Richie could tell she minded when he greeted her at her locker with a bouquet of daisies. He was sure if y/n didn’t already have a boyfriend she would’ve jumped him right then and there.

Oh right. Boyfriend.

“Are these for me?” y/n gasped, in awe at the dinky looking bouquet. It was just ten flowers held together with the same twine you’d use to tie a package with, but it was ten flowers she’d cherish.

“Who else would they be for, sugar?” Richie scoffed and handed off his homemade bouquet to the most stunning girl he’d laid eyes on.

y/n gave him a sly look and shoved him in the arm.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Ready to go where?” A look of confusion was drawn on her face and Richie couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

“I’m takin’ you home again, aren’t I?” But Richie was disappointed when y/n just chuckled in response instead of interlocking hands with his and skipping off into the sunset with him.

“I didn’t know you changed your name to Bill.” y/n brought the daises up to her nose. They didn’t have a scent, but her eyes fluttered at the petals tickling her nose and her stomach did backflips.

“Bill-Bill’s taking you?” His expression faltered and he had to swallow to keep his cool.

“I don’t know who else would,” y/n said this as if she just forgot what happened yesterday.

“I’ll be going then.” Richie pointed to behind him with his thumbs and looked back. He took one last look at y/n until he noticed a Bill Denbrough coming into view: a sign he really needed to leave.

His head hung low and his back hunched forward as he walked out the doorway. It was useless. y/n was utterly in love with his best friend while he was—was he in love with y/n?

No.

Richie Tozier does not love unless it’s his mom and rock n’ roll vinyls.

And y/n did not love Richie Tozier.

Richie felt himself mope all the way home at the thought of him being unlovable. Hell, he moped all the way to the weekend.

After his last encounter with y/n, Richie couldn’t bear to face her again. Embarrassment filled his chest every time Bill mentioned her at lunch, and he felt like shoving himself in a locker any time he spotted her in the halls.

That was until seeing her became unavoidable.

At first it was at the quarry.

Stan had already arranged for the group to meet up over the weekend and of course none of the Losers would pass up an opportunity to hang out with each other.

What Richie didn’t know was that Bill would be bringing his girlfriend. It seemed he’d be doing that a lot from now on.

“Is bringing y/n gonna be, like, a regular thing?” Eddie whispered in Bill’s ear.

Bill laughed awkwardly, unsure if he should reconsider taking y/n to the next hangouts he’d already planned to. “Wuh-when yo-you start dating, yo-you’ll under-sta-hand.” Bill then gave Eddie a pat on the back and walked off, looking for a rock he could leave his clothes on before he started for the water.

“Yeah, Eddie.” Stan laughed from behind Bill. “Wait until you’re older. Then, maybe, you’ll understand.”

Richie, on the other hand, was watching his friends from afar. He became uncharacteristically quiet as soon as y/n and Bill showed up. Only until Bev called that the last one in would be a rotten egg was when he finally shed himself of his clothes and raced the others to the water.

“Guess you’re the rotten egg, Eds!” Richie swam over to Eddie, splashing him in the face while doing so. Anything that would distract him from y/n would do. Even if it was a stupid conversation like this to pass the time.

“I told you to not call me that,” Eddie said crossly. “And if you’re going to splash like that, aim anywhere else but my face because who knows what’s been in this water—”

“Yeah, yeah. Cute story, Eds.” But Richie didn’t care for yet another lecture of Eddie’s. His eyes began to wonder. He was looking for y/n and good grief he had to stop himself before he was in too deep.

But it was a little late for that.

“Are you even listening to me?” Eddie swatted at Richie’s arm just like the times Richie had done to him.

“No,” Richie admitted.

Luckily, the contact between him and y/n had been limited. The only time he had to talk to her was when he was about to part from the group and say his goodbyes.

“Looks like I gotta blast, guys.” Richie looked down to the wristwatch Stan was wearing and Stan sneered at his friend for standing so close to him.

“Bye!” y/n was the last to call out, but her voice was the most prominent of the group’s.

The next two times the group met up, y/n included, Richie had also been able to get by with the least interactions as possible between her and him.

It was only until one lowly Sunday night when Bill and y/n had gotten into a fight when avoidance had become impossible for Richie.

“I can’t believe you would say that about me!” y/n had somehow accomplished being louder than the music blasting from the jukebox sitting in the back of the arcade and the sound of machines running combined. “I thought you were better than that, Bill.”

“I-I don’t guh-guh-get wuh-why you’re s-so off-f-hended.” Bill maintained a calm composure which only bothered y/n more.

“I think it’s the fact that you think I’m a prude that offends me so much.” y/n scoffed. Her arms were crossed, and she wore a stare that could kill.

“Yo-you know… i-if you-you’re so mm-mad I don’t underst-stand why you cuh-came.” The anger bubbling inside y/n started to radiate onto Bill.

“Because we have to talk about it!” She grabbed onto Bill’s arm when he tried to walk off.

“Can’t wuh-we juh-juh-just talk about th-this later?” Bill said in a growl. But later for him meant never.

The beginnings of what felt like tears started to form in y/n’s eyes. She let go of Bill’s arm and took a deep breath. “Okay,” she whispered, “we can talk later.”

Richie watched his best friend and girlfriend argue for what seemed like forever but was only about five minutes. He’d witnessed arguments before but none of them ended like this. When the couples at school argued they would usually make out right after. But this was different. y/n was hurt, and Bill was beyond annoyed.

“Hey.” Richie walked up to y/n as soon as Bill joined Stan and Mike for skee ball. “What was…” He traced his fingers against the brail of one of the arcade machines, doing everything he could do evade eye contact. “What was that about?”

“Will you take me home if I tell you?” A stray tear made its way down y/n’s hot cheek.

“Sure thing, babe.” Richie offered his hand for y/n to take. She did; her fingers intertwined with his and the pad of her thumb ran along the rough skin of the back of his hand.

When the two got to his car, Richie opened the door for y/n (as a gentleman should). This was followed up by a thank you and a shy smile.

“So, I’ll listen while you just sit back, enjoy the drive, and pour your goddamn heart out to me.” Richie started to turned his keys into the ignition. “Sound good, sweetheart?”

y/n’s heart jumped a beat and she could feel herself grow near feverish. She fiddled with her thumbs and swallowed her spit, hoping she’d find the courage to soon speak.

“It started last night,” her meek voice spoke up. y/n’s eyes were glued to Richie’s dashboard. It was covered in dust. “I was at Bill’s house and it was getting late.”

Bill craned his neck so he could find the time on his alarm clock that sat on his nightstand. He could’ve just asked y/n to check, but she seemed so at peace. He didn’t want to disturb her.

“It’s nine,” he said. His lips touched the shell of her ear, making y/n shiver.

“Should I go home?” y/n asked. She perked up and rubbed her eyes. She’d been dozing off, but even in a tired state, Bill found her perfect.

“Nah.” Bill tightened his already tight embrace on her. “I-I can tth-hink of some-something we can d-do.” He ducked his head so he could brush his lips against the sensitive skin on her neck.

y/n winced at his touch. Yet she still turned within his hold and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Her voice hushed and fragile.

“Yuh-yeah,” Bill said shamelessly. He cradled her head in his palm. His blue eyes bore into hers. The same blue eyes that had found her when their chemistry teacher paired them together. “C’m-mmon.”

“Bill, I…” y/n’s eyes danced across his features. His beautiful features she’d grown infatuated with from the moment they met. “We’ve gone over this, I thought.” Any sort of confidence she had was now lost.

Bill took a moment to study the girl in front of him. He loosened his hold around her and sat up, propping himself against his headboard. “I f-feel like we… like I’ve juh-just been wuh-wuh-waiting.”

y/n copied her boyfriend’s movements, making sure to not break their gaze as she adjusted herself. “And I respect that,” she said softly.

“Yeah b-but yo-you’re muh-my girlfriend.” He took her hand in his. “I wuh-wanna do guh-girlfriend and b-boyfr-hend things.”

“I thought we did do ‘girlfriend and boyfriend things.’” y/n’s left eyebrow started to raise.

“Th-there’s only s-s-so muh-many times a guh-guy can get himself o-off.” Bill immediately regretted the words that had just walked right out of his mouth and presented themselves to his girlfriend.

“Bill…” But that’s all y/n could seem to say. She sat there, confused. Bill would never say something like that. But he just did. The Bill y/n knew was kind, thoughtful, and patient. This wasn’t the Bill she knew.

“Do-do you tr-trust me?” Concern struck Bill’s face.

y/n was conflicted. “Trust doesn’t equal sex, Bill.” She drew her hand away from his and started mindlessly picking at the skin on her thumb. She got up from the bed and made her way to the door. Bill couldn’t quite read her expression as she did, but just her getting up was enough for him to tell she didn’t want to be around him.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow?”

y/n nodded before walking out.

But tomorrow was just as bad, or even worse, than that night.

y/n had spent the whole night ruminating over what Bill had said, and once he had arrived at her house, she was livid.

“What did you mean? Last night?” y/n began the car ride with a debriefing.

“I-it was s-stu-stupid, r-really,” Bill said nonchalantly.

“No.” y/n was relentless. “What did you mean?”

“I wuh-was ho-horny, y/n/n. B-but, god. It wuh-wouldn’t kuh-kill you t-to not be a pr-prude ff-or once i-in your luh-life.” y/n couldn’t believe what bullshit her boyfriend was spouting at her.

“Our fight continued until we got to the arcade,” y/n said, still sobbing from her previous encounter with Bill.

Richie was at a loss for words. All he could do was keep his eyes on the road and drive the two to their destination, which didn’t take long. Either y/n’s house was closer than he thought or just her company made ten minutes feel like three.

“Stop here,” y/n informed.

Richie slowed to a stop in front of a two-story house that looked like the others it was built next to. There was a bench swing that hung from the patio roof and a family of potted plants that resided in one corner of the porch. The house’s paint was dull and lifeless, resembling the rest of Derry.

“Thanks for taking me home.” y/n spoke again, drawing Richie from his thoughts of wondering what her room looked like.

“Ye-yeah. No problem-o.” He took in a deep breath and tapped his foot against the floor of his car.

y/n leaned over, as much as her seatbelt let her, and felt her lips graze his cheek.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Richie was quick to pull away. He stared at y/n with his big doe eyes and her glassy, soulful ones helped his case none. Isn’t this what he wanted?

“Really, Rich.” y/n then made sure to take off the seatbelt which was restraining her from doing anything further and scooted closer to him, ignoring how uncomfortable the gear stick felt as it dug into her thigh. “You’re sweet.”

“Well, I don’t like to brag but I do pride myself on being-“ y/n cut him off with a kiss to his lips this time. Richie sighed into her mouth. He knew it was wrong, but he just couldn’t help it.

God, Richie, cuh-can you even guh-get a girl to… to like yo-you back? The words he’d clung onto ever since that one Friday night made their way back to his frontal lobe. It must’ve been a month, yet the sentence stuck.

And Richie kissed back.

He swore he heard the faint sounds of fireworks clapping in the distance as his lips pushed into hers. Her soft, pouty lips that sent tingles down his back every time they connected with his. Richie’s right arm coiled itself around the small of y/n’s back and he found his left hand stroking her cheek. And just as fast as y/n planted one on him, she sprung back.

“You alright?” No, she’s not alright, dumbass. She just got into her first fight with her boyfriend and she’s coming to his best friend as a therapy session.

Much to Richie’s dismay, y/n nodded. “Your car’s uncomfortable.” Was all she said before opening the door to let herself out. Richie was about to curse himself out for letting her slip through his fingers and kissing his best friend’s girlfriend until he flinched at the sound of a knock on his car window.

It was y/n.

She opened the door for him like he had once done for her and waited for him to join her in the now moonlight. “Do you want to come in?”

“Christ.” Before then, Richie had never been so fast to take off a seatbelt.

The two hurried up the lawn and eventually her porch. Richie’s hand was squeezed by y/n’s smaller one. He reveled in the feeling of her holding onto him as if he were to float off if she didn’t. The two stood outside her front door like a shy kid, hesitant to ring the doorbell because it’s their first time over.

“Are your parents home?” Richie questioned, trying to get a peek through the windows even though they were closed off by the curtain.

“I don’t know,” y/n mumbled while she riffled through her mini purse. She was searching for the house key. “Finally!” She held up her key chain proudly before inserting the shiny, golden key striped with white nail polish into the lock. “Stay.” She looked to Richie like he was a puppy in training school.

y/n walked in reluctantly. Her hands messed with the strap of her purse. “Hello? Is anyone home?” She looked around the house for any sign of her parents. After a good few seconds, y/n turned to Richie with a slap happy grin on her face. “The coast is clear!”

Richie strolled in, acting as if he had all the time in the world. He made sure to shut the door behind him and y/n grabbed him by the collar as soon as he finished locking it. “My room is upstairs,” she said in between a needy kiss.

Richie didn’t need to be told twice as he ran up the wooden stairs with her. She surprised him with her lips on his once they got to the top. Her tongue swiped his bottom lip to which Richie granted access. y/n grew hungry with lust as her tongue danced with his. The only reason she broke apart from him was to better guide him to her bedroom. Surely, they couldn’t have sex in the hallway.

Richie was given no time to admire the yellow paint and magazine clippings that decorated y/n’s room. Instead, he was left to find y/n’s sweet spot and the lingering scent of her vanilla perfume as his lips roamed every crevice of her skin. He brought her down to her bed and he knows he’s never seen such beauty when her hair fans out against her sheets in every which way.

“Rich.” His name only leaves her lips when his aren’t on her. The same lips he’s tasted a thousand times already but would always be surprised at the taste the next time they collide. The same lips Bill’s claimed.

But this was Richie’s turn.

y/n’s hands dared reached for his dark roots, eliciting a moan from Richie that was downright animalistic.

“God, Rich. I didn’t even do anything,” y/n said, playing the innocent card.

“We can do something about that.” Richie offered. He licked the desperation from his lips as he waited for an answer.

“Okay.” y/n giggled and lifted her arms up. A sign for Richie to find the goddamn clue and undress her already.

Richie complied. He begged his excitable hands to stop shaking as he began to raise the fabric, revealing just how perfect y/n really was. Eagerly, his lips urged a kiss to hers once he got both their shirts off. It was quick and the start of his trail of kisses which lead down, down, down. His chapped lips tickled against the sensitive skin of her breast.

His mouth wrapped around the petal, causing y/n to squirm, entangling their legs together.

“Do you like that?” Richie teased. y/n moaned in response.

Taking the hint, Richie parted from her left nipple and began giving her right the same attention.

“Rich—” y/n was cut off by her own sigh of pleasure. “Do something.” Her voice was breathy and not at all stable. Richie grinned. He could listen to the noises she made any day.

Reluctantly, he broke his contact with her so he could undo his jeans. The sound of denim hitting the floor made y/n groan and she pulled him close again. They laid skin to skin. Richie was so close, y/n could tell he’d been smoking earlier.

Her arms encapsulated him and if this were any other girl under any other circumstance, Richie would’ve questioned it. But this was y/n.

He dipped down so he could connect his lips with hers and he could feel ten crescent shaped markings carving into the skin of his back. He didn’t have to be told twice to give y/n what he knew she wanted.

Richie slowly peeled off y/n’s skirt, the gradual pace left her yearning for him even more. He slid his index and middle fingers in at the same speed he took off the skirt.

y/n threw her head back at the touch. The whines escaping from her mouth egged Richie on even more.

Faster, faster, faster.

His thumb swept against her clit in circular motions. His strokes against her sensitive nerves drawing y/n closer to the edge. Her hips jerked up to feel closer to his touch. Her want had Richie chuckling. No girl would give him the time of day before her. Richie wanted to bask in the feeling forever.

“Do something, Rich.” y/n gasped and attached her lips to his neck. “Please.” Richie’s breath hitched in his throat at the request.

He hesitantly pulled his fingers from her heat, replacing them with him. Her folds slicked his length as she willingly let him stretch her walls.

“You’re so hot,” Richie whispered into y/n’s ear. He cringed at the words once he heard himself. “You feel so good.” The affirmations sent shivers down her spine. y/n fell into a state of bliss as his speed picked up. He hiked her legs up his waist and she ardently wrapped them around him.

His pace quickened. Richie felt like he was going to explode and the girl beneath him was close.

“Rich, Rich, Rich.” His name rolled off her tongue wonderfully and he would give anything to hear it til the end of time. Another cry fell from her beautifully parted lips. “Rich, I’m—”

“I know, doll face.” He placed a gentle kiss to her forehead while he pulled out. He took his thumb from previously, rubbing the bundle of nerves until she matched his high.

He collapsed onto the covers next to her as soon as they both finished. A final grunt escaped his throat while doing so.

The two were spread across y/n’s bed in silence for a while. y/n stared aimlessly at the ceiling; Richie doing the same. It had just then occurred to Richie that he fucked his best friend’s girlfriend. Guilt took the form of a teenage boy as he looked over at y/n. He still couldn’t help but think of how alluring she was. There was mascara smudged beneath her eyes. Sweat running down her brow bone. And her hair was a mess. He had more than enough energy to go at it again, but he knew better than that.

This was Richie’s cue to leave. He got up, throwing on his clothes. He didn’t even care that his shirt was on inside out. He just needed to get out of there.

He was almost out the door until a voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Rich.” The same voice he’d give anything to hear for eternity.

“Yeah, baby?” Richie was about to curse himself out for calling her that if she hadn’t replied so soon.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.” He could’ve creamed himself at the words. He could’ve ripped off his clothes again and taken her once more.

But Richie knew better than that.

He didn’t even look back; only nodded and strolled out the door as if nothing happened. Because as far as Bill was concerned, nothing happened.

279 notes · View notes

kookiepleasee · 5 years ago

Text

Distracted.

Pairing: Taehyung x Fem!Reader

Genre: Yandere growth, stalker behavior

Summary: Your voice distracts Taehyung from class, and it was enough for him to spiral.

Taehyung scribbled on his notebook, trying his hardest not to slow down any further. The professor was talking in rapid speed and the slides displayed on the wall were being clicked next one after another. He hated being rushed during important lectures such as this one, but he couldn’t do anything about it as he gripped onto his pencil tighter hoping it’d change his writing pace.

Kim Taehyung was never one to be distracted in class. His peers enjoyed watching the boy stress as he couldn’t finish his notes before the next topic was discussed in his younger days. Even now, in his college days, Taehyung could easily become worked up if he didn’t write down his thoughts fully before his professor changed the slide. He keeps it to himself though, not wanting to cause a scene in front of his classmates. Taehyung hated he had to get everything right, or his whole world would come crashing down. He couldn’t accept mediocre scores.

“Now, onto Sigmund Freud. Can anyone tell me anything about him?” The professor asked aloud. Taehyung praised the gods when his professor didn’t change the slide onto the next one. He disregarded the question already knowing that Freud was the sole reason Psychology has so many misconceptions. He finished the last note on the slide, putting his pencil down to relax his fingers.

“Well, he thought we were all sex driven robots.” A student snickered throughout the room, causing for the rest of the class to giggle at his lewd language.

“You, my sir, are not wrong.” The professor laughed at the students joke before continuing on. “Anyone else?”

“Psychoanalysis.” Taehyung raised his head due to the surprisingly calm voice. It was feminine; sweet.

“And what about it?” The professor urged on the student, hoping to get more information out of the girl.

“He created the concept of a patient speaking to a psychoanalyst for treatment; a clinical method.” She continued speaking, making Taehyung desperately search through the spacious lecture hall.

“Yes! See, he did something right.” Taehyung’s professor mentions, pressing his clicker to go onto the next slide. Taehyung picked up his pencil again, prepared to jot down his notes.

“What’s your name again, miss?” The professor turned back around and pointed at the person. Taehyung followed his line of sight, landing on the girl who sat a row in front of him.

“Y/N, Y/N Y/L/N.” There was that voice again, so leveled and gracious. Taehyung tilted his head in curiosity, repeating the name one more time in his mind. He blinked away his thoughts, returning his focus on his notebook.

•

Class had ended, and Taehyung remained in his seat. He was trying to finish up the notes the professor had just thrown right before class ended.

Taehyung’s peripheral vision caught the girl stand. His eyes shot up, observing her every move as she zipped up her bag and collected her phone from the table.

Taehyung didn’t lose focus on the girl. He scrutinized her every move as she waited for others to pass her before going up the stairs herself. The girl was nothing what he had expected.

She was so ethereal.

•

Taehyung relaxed his hand again, letting the pencil rest atop his lined paper. He hadn’t finished his notes, but he had to take another look.

Y/N.. what a lovely name.

And truly, it was a lovely name. Taehyung found it so endearing that he wrote it down in the top right corner of his notebook.

•

“Alright, until next class.” The professor’s clapped his hands together as his voice boomed throughout the lecture hall. Taehyung jumped in surprise, dropping his pencil in the process. How was it the end of class? It seemed as if five minutes had only just passed. Taehyung looked up to see the herd of students leaving the classroom, and proceeds to look down to his notes-

He didn’t take notes. Taehyung freaked out as the girls name was etched throughout the page. There were small ‘Y/N’s’, big ‘Y/N’s’, cursive ‘Y/N’s’. He littered his page with the thought of her, and it’s only been two weeks that he’s known her name.

How the hell was he supposed to study now? Taehyung mentally beats himself up for being so distracted. He feels an unsettling weight coat his body as he remained seated, overlooking the lecture hall.

He’s doomed; going to fail the class.

“Hi, I’m pretty sure you dropped this.” Taehyung’s head shot up, taken aback by the beautiful girl holding a pencil; his pencil.

“O-oh.” He slams his notebook closed, hoping she hadn’t seen her name scribbled with his handwriting.

“Y-yeah, that’s mine. Thanks.” He stutters through his words, and reluctantly grabbed the pencil from the girl. He wrapped his fingers around the small object, relishing in the moment as his finger brushed against her hand. It seemed time had gone by faster than it should have as she dropped her empty hand.

“No problem. I know how it feels to lose the only pencil you have, it’s devastating.” She smiled, the kind of smile that made her teeth show and her eyes squint.

“You’re Y/N, right?” God, he probably sounded like some freak. “You answered the Freud question a few weeks ago.” Now he sounded like a fucking weirdo. He cringed at his words, hoping she couldn’t see his embarrassment.

“Yeah! That’s like the only thing I know about the dude other than he ruined the name of Psychology...” The girl stood beside him as Taehyung tries his hardest to calm himself down. He packed his books, nodding along with her words, mesmerized by her voice.

“I’m Taehyung, by the way.” He finally introduced himself, noticing that they were the only people in the lecture hall.

He could do so many things to her right now.

“Well Taehyung, I have to get going to my next class. See you around!” She waves her hand, walking out of the room.

“Yeah.. see you around.” Taehyung is then left to himself.

He looks around the empty space. His breathing is surprisingly calm by then. Taehyung hunches over the notebook, flipping open the page with the art he created. He traces his finger over the writing.

She said his name so carefully. The way his name rolled off of her tongue was so gracious he could hear her speak his birth name all day.

His perched elbow supported his head as he took the pencil she held. He holds it tight, not caring about his unwritten notes anymore.

•

Taehyung was still surprised at himself for having a full fledge conversation with Y/N. It’s hard to admit but he recounted the shared words over and over at night as he laid in bed multiple times throughout the week. He craved to hear her heavenly voice again.

He slowly didn’t care for the slides displayed on the wall anymore. He wasn’t failing the class, yet. He could manage the tests without paying much attention, but it wouldn’t give him the best grade. Taehyung didn’t mind the mediocre scores though, knowing one class won’t decide if he’ll continue onto graduate school or not.

He plays with the pencil which Y/N blessed with her touch with his hand, swirling it around with his fingers. He stared at Y/N, watching her eyes follow the professor’s as he spoke. Her neighboring peer touched her shoulder, whispering to her as they point at their notebook.

Y/N nodded at the peer, pushing her own notebook towards them. Taehyung could hear the quiet ‘thanks’ leave the peers mouth, scribbling down Y/N’s notes.

•

He couldn’t muster up the courage to speak to Y/N again, afraid that he’d fuck up such a transformative moment. Taehyung would just watch her. Every time she’d answer a question, he’d focus on her, ingraining every syllable into his brain.

Sometimes he’d write down her answer, rereading it in his head at home as he pretended he was in class again, listening to her beautiful voice.

•

Was it illegal? Watching someone from afar, mentally taking notes of their behavior? Taehyung was doing nothing wrong, right? He was just observing; enjoying the view.

She had a few friends, but not enough to get in between her and Taehyung. She takes advantage of the library, her nose in a textbook as she types onto her computer. She leads a simple life; minimalistic. Taehyung admires the lifestyle. Unlike her, Taehyung was materialistic. Name brands was all he knew while growing up. Having the finest clothes and dining in five star restaurants became normal for the boy. College life humbled him a bit though. He could care less about his next PR package from Louis Vuitton when all he could care about was the analysis paper due in two days.

Nonetheless, Taehyung could always teach his ways to her. He could fly her out to Paris, exposing her to the lavish lifestyle his parent’s gave him. He just had to wait for the right moment.

•

Months had gone by, and never once a man like him spoke to Y/N, his Y/N. Taehyung’s done his research: Jeon Jeongguk. Two years younger than him and much leaner.

He wished for his death every time the young boy would pat her shoulder, or move strands away from her eyes. That was supposed to be Taehyung, caring for his girl.

His academics had gone to shit, and his mother had scolded him over the phone, but how could he focus on his papers when someone else was trying to steal his girl away.

It wasn’t fair. Taehyung had set his sights on her first, and he will have her first.

•

Taehyung hastily wiped the bloody knife with his Armani t-shirt, collecting the black trash bags littered across the motel room he’d rented for the night. He’s disappointed that there would be a possibility that the inside of his luxury car would be stained, but he was doing this for both her and Taehyung’s own good.

Taehyung should’ve done some research, but all he knew was to go for the throat and everything would go smoothly, which it did. He wished he could’ve switched his clothes for cheaper ones though, but there was no time for him to regret his fashion choices.

He would’ve thought he would be traumatized from the whole ordeal, but Taehyung felt better than ever that Jeongguk will no longer be able to touch his Y/N.

It was easier than he thought, and found some thrill to the activity.

•

He drove the car through the empty highway, mindlessly listening to the quiet songs playing on the radio. Soon, he will finally come home to Y/N. He always stood outside her window at night, watching her sleeping form through the sliver of space between the curtain and window.

He’s risked it once before, sliding open the unlocked window and quietly throwing one leg over the ledge, and climbing inside the bedroom. His adrenaline had shot up by one hundred percent and his heart pounded in his chest. Soft snores had left Y/N’s mouth as one leg was thrown over the comforter. He carefully walked toward the girl, reaching down to feel her smooth skin. Her arm had gained goosebumps after his touch, but she didn’t stir. He continued his actions throughout the night, watching the beautiful scene in front of him.

He decided he’ll try again tonight. Maybe even try to take something of hers to have her scent with him at all times. Taehyung smiled at the thought of having something so delicate that belonged to her in his grasp.

Before he could do anything else though, he had to take out the trash that was starting to smell in his car.

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futurewriter2000 · 5 years ago

Text

Opposite Numbers - pt.6

Nobody knew what had happened to you. Your father made sure that every information there was, was hidden, burnt or thrown away. It was what you wanted. To just say you weren’t missing for four days but on a funreal of a family friend. It was bullshit but people seemed to buy it.

Except for one person.

He knew. He knew everything. He is curious, determined, resourceful and capable but overral, he is caring. During the summer, he understood everything because everything there ever was, was just physical. It was sexual and he was the sort of person who took pride in his appereance, wheter that was messy or in a shape of troll. He knew his stand during the summer but when school came he lost that stand. Could there be something else? Because if there even was a futile posibility of the “more” in your relationship, it made him not understand it even the slightest bit.

When the rumor of a student going missing spread around school, he brushed it off. Because that is all it was. A rumor. When he heard it was you, he hoped it was a rumor. And when he didn’t see you in classes, during meals, courtyard, library, corridors or anywhere in his sight, he could feel himself in a state of panic; anxiety, fear and wild thoughts yet if he could do anything best, it was hiding it.

That is all he has been doing with you. Acting. Acting as if he has never seen you in his life. Acting as if he didn’t know where you loved to be kissed or touched. Pretending that during all that summer of you and him never meant anything to him.

Now, you were there. Everybody was smiling with you, laughing with you, touching you- you flinched? Why did you flinch when Silvia Bradwood touched your shoulder?

You smiled again, as if nothing ever happened. But he knew you better than that. He knew the supressing emotions, he knew your every face feature when you had different expressions. He knew you more than he knew himself and maybe that was the problem. He didn’t know himself. He perhaps knew you but he surely didn’t know nor understand himself when he was looking at you.

He should talk to you- No, he shouldn’t. You don’t want to talk to him.- Do you? You haven’t noticed him since he got here but he has been staring at you this whole time.Why hadn’t anybody noticed? You should have noticed. Why didn’t you pay attention?

“Prongs!” something flew at his face and James immediately shot his head at his friend.

“What?” he glanced at the pack of napkings that were thrown at his face.

“You’re not with me on this.” Sirius threw him another pack of napkings. “And please wipe your mouth. You’re drooling all over the table.” he teased and James only threw the napkings back at him.

“I didn’t.”

“You might as well have.” he leaned on the table, looking your way. “Why (y/n)(y/l/n)?” he asked and James only slapped his head.

“Don’t stare, Pads. She’ll know we’re talking about her.”

“But that’s what you want, isn’t it?” Sirius smirked and sat upstraight, stretching his arms.”That’s all you’ve been doing since you came here. Trying to get her attention.” he spoke between a yawn.

“I just don’t buy the funreal bullshit- and look at her cheek. There’s a bruise on it.”

Sirius looked and squinted his eyes. There was a line on your cheek but it was barely visible. “I haven’t even noticed that. Maybe a cat scratched her.”

“That’s like saying a hamster bit me after a full moon of our furry little friend turning ballistic.” James retoded. “Oh look, I have this huge bite mark on my hand but don’t worry, it was just a hamster. I’ll just turn into a hamsterman every full moon.” he rolled his eyes and pushed his breakfast away.

“No need to be a git about it, jeez.”

“It’s just... I don’t know.” James sighed.”I have a girlfriend. A beautiful, talented witch I have been after since I was eleven and after (y/n) left for that funreal, all I’ve been thinking is her. And not like in moments when I’m alone but every single second of my day I think of her and it’s exhausting. It’s exhausting because I love thinking of her but at the same time I feel guilty that I’m not thinking of Lily.” he blabbered out and Sirius only huffed.

“Well, mate. You’re think-cheating.” was all that he said.

“I will throw this fork at your forehead.” said James, putting up his fork. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I’m serious, mate. You’re thinking of another girl when you have a girl right in front of you. You’re thinking beautiful thoughts of little missy over there instead your girlfriend. If that’s not think cheating than I don’t know what is.”

“It’s guilt, Freud.”

“Or that, yes.”

---

It wasn’t easy recovering since you left the hospitals but there were visits to the Healer’s office you were most excited to go to. It had everything to do with the Healer. He was handsome, kind and gentle on the eyes. You have asked him a few quiestions about himself. The curiousity was getting the better of you. He is from Bosnia and Herzegovina, which explains the gorgeous genes and the colour of his skin. He said that his education as a Healer in his country was easy to get but when he wanted to learn more, help more, he deicided to move somewhere else. He had always fancied Great Britian, traveled a few times when he was younger, and always dreamed for this country to be his destination. He had to go through another two years of education but he never had a problem with the language.

“He is so handsome, Angie.” you swooned and continued to walk by her.

“And you’re seeing him again later on today?” she wiggled her eyebrows.

“Yes.”

“I hope looks is not all with him.” she looked at you with a doubtful expression.

“It’s not.” you smiled.

“Oh shite. I’m late for Muggle Studies.” she looked at her watch. “Fuck my life, I am so going to get detention.” she started running away, leaving you behind to giggle at her.

“Haven’t heard that giggle in a while.” you heard him say. Of course, you knew his voice. If he would drink the Volubilis potion, you’d still know it was him.

No. You told yourself you weren’t doing this to yourself. So you walked away.

“Ignoring me now?” he walked after you.

“I thought that what we were doing all year. Ignoring each other.” you replied, not turning around nor stopping to see him.

“Were we?” he played daft, not knowing the exact words to say to you.

“What do you want, James?” you turned around sharply, almost hitting his chest. “I don’t have time for your mind games or your pranks. I don’t want anything to do with you anymore just like you don’t have anything to do with me. You made that perfectly clear. Summer fling. That’s what we agreed on.”

“I know but that doesn’t mean I can’t check up on you. I wanted to know how you are.”

“You had plenty of time to check up on me or even look at me, which you haven’t done since the summer. Do I suddenly disgust you or something?!” you started to get angrier. You didn’t want to but it kept coming out.

“No, of course not.” he denied quickly. “Why would you think that?”

“Because, James! All you have done was ignore me, all bloody year! At least have the balls to say it to my face! ‘It’s over. I don’t want anything to do with you. It was fun while it lasted.’ That’s all you had to say.“ you continued to speak loudly. “ Fuck then fuck off, right?”

“You know I’d never do that.”

“Well, James... that’s excatly what you have done, so you tell me? Am I reading this wrong? Should I have run after you like some pathetic girl just because we had sex all summer?” you continued but he was only quiet. He had no words to express himself. He couldn’t even think straight when you were around, giving him your perspective on things. And he didn’t like that perspective very much. “You know what James? Just get lost.” and you were already gone.

#james potter x reader #james potter #james potter imagine #sirius black #sirius black imagine #remus lupin #remus lupin imagine #peter pettigrew #peter pettigrew imagine #marauders x reader #marauders #maruaders imagine #marauders imagines #maruaders era

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cupidsbower · 8 years ago

Text

Hiding in the shadow of love

Supernatural 12x15, “Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell.”

Hmmmmmm. <-- that is my dubious hmmmm, in case you were wondering.

You see, the cynic in me says that it’s obviously that time in the season -- time to ramp up the annual Destiel/Drowley/Wincest queerbaiting. Because no matter which way I read this episode, it’s all about thwarted male love.

On the other hand, the slightly-less-cynical-and-a-lot-more-queer me thinks this is delicious. ;)

youtube

Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell, by Kiss

So. Kiss. It seems an unlikely source for the title of this episode, right? Yeah, that was my thinking too. Buuuuuuuut....

Let’s be real, if there’s ever been a character dying to have the stuffing kissed out of him in the most romantic way possible by a heartbreaker with a lock on Heaven’s door, it’s Dean Winchester. I mean... Once you think about it, the song just becomes more and more plausible. Just listen to those lyrics. “I’m so hungry.” Remind you of anyone?

*squints at the subtext like Castiel at Kelvin*

Okay, okay. I’m willing to concede the fact Kiss have a song with exactly this title, and not much else does according to Google, could be a coincidence given Supernatural does actually have actual Heaven and Hell in the show. Maybe the title of the episode is more directly related to show content and less metatextual.

Let’s go with that reading. In this more literal case, what exactly is between Heaven and Hell? We’ve been given two answers to this in canon so far:

Purgatory (ie. season 8, the most romantically queer-coded season of all), or

Earth (ie. Dean/Humanity, who certain people are “loaded pause” in love with).

Are you starting to get the picture yet? Is it rubbing off all over you??????

*makes the Drowley face*

And then there’s that. Drowley. We have Crowley turning up while on the phone to Dean, exactly as Castiel did back in My Bloody Valentine. We have Crowley and Dean flirting, and Crowley slathering on the innuendo so thick Dean will need yet another shower after that little exercise in Liam Neesoning it up.

Like, is there any doubt in anyone’s mind at this point that this is innuendo? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

*crickets*

Right. Where was I? Oh, yeah, the non-Kiss reading of the title. Didn’t get us very far away from the queer subtext right? In fact, I think it might be worse than the Kiss reading in that regard. Who knew that was even possible? They’re called Kiss! It’s right there in the band name!

Let’s go with the Incidental music next. While Castiel is being seduced by his very own Ketch, in obvious contrast to what went down with Dean last week, we have Ballad of a Truck Driver’s Wife playing in the background. I can’t find the full version by Lorene Mercer, but you can find a snippet of it here. Suggestive, yes? “When I need you so, that’s when you have to go. That’s how it is when you’re married to a truck driver man. Here today and gone tomorrow...” Not exactly subtle, in terms of the parallels to what’s happening in this episode. I mean we joke a lot about Dean and Castiel being an old married couple, but here the subtext is, basically saying exactly that.

I mean... casual watchers probably don’t catch the background music? Don’t remember the Kiss song? Didn’t notice season 8′s trope-fest? Assume Crowley is a queer villian who is just joking about wanting to rub off on Dean????

I guess.

Anyway, I was really interested in this plot point for Castiel for several reasons. Firstly, Kelvin has much better bait than Ketch did, and is much more successful at luring Castiel into at least listening to the full pitch from Joshua. I’m just as hooked as Cas and want to know more, especially the catch. Secondly, this sets Castiel up perfectly to have to make a deliberate choice about which family he belongs to, without being coerced, or the decision made for him. This is something I want to see very much, so I’m super keen to see how this plays out. Third, there’s so much emphasis on the murder of the nephilim now, that I’m increaasingly convinced it’s going to live, and we’re heading into season 13 with Three Male-Shaped People and a Little Nephilim as the main story arc.

A girl can dream.

*Imagines Dean, Castiel and either Crowley or Sam co-parenting the little tyke, who probably grows into a teenager in about three episodes and then wafts around exuding angst*

I want that sooooo much, you don’t even know. It would be the perfect way to continue to the nature vs nurture theme too. Also, with Mary back in the text, and Dean and Sam’s relationship shifting away from parent/child, the very obvious next life goal is raising the next generation. Will the sins of the fathers be visited on the children and all that. It could be so good. But I digress.

What am I even up to with this review? Ah, I know. The reading in which the title is actually about Sam. Because you see, Sam has never really wanted to be a hunter, he’s just wanted his family, and he’s always seen family and hunting as synonymous. He’s stuck between Heaven (his love for his family) and Hell (hunting), and lying about it. Enter our rescuee of the week -- Gwen -- and her speech to Sam about how lying to someone about not wanting the same things they want ends badly.

It’s a pretty pointed speech, and Sam does take the point, coming clean to Dean about the BMOL giving him info on hunts. But that is just scratching the surface, and there’s still so much more he needs to say that he’s still not saying.

And here we come to another favourite part of the episode. Dean is becoming more and more impatient with lies of all kinds. Including, one assumes, lies about what people want.

Dean is so deeply not okay about Sam’s choices, but trying to respect them. I’m actually loving how done Dean is with lies. That’s a genuinely interesting development and I want to see more of it.

Which leads me into my big question for this ep -- How is this going to resolve in a new way? I don’t want it to fall back into the rut of Sam and Dean just being on the outs, or of both brothers silently suffering to maintain the relationship. So how do they find a way to remain family and still both get the things they need?

The one way I can see this working at the moment, is for Sam to come clean about not wanting to hunt, and then basically become the US Men of Letters, assuming Bobby’s old job, and doing the research and that kind of thing, and Dean continuing to hunt with a new partner. I’d actually really like to see something like that -- to see hunting becoming more organised and safer, while not adopting the genocidal agenda of the BMOL, or the sexism of the original US MOL.

Okay, it’s ridiculous o’clock in the morning, so I’m going to wrap this up. I think I’ve talked about all the main things I reacted to. Oh, except that as I was looking around for potential sources for the episode title, I found this gem:

youtube

Between Heaven and Hell (1956)

This is actually a pretty good movie, but it doesn’t exactly decrease the queer reading of this episode. At all. Hahahaha.

(If you’re wondering, you can find the whole movie here.)

Overall, I liked this episode a lot, despite some clunky moments. But I really was serious at the start of this review, about the cynic in me looking at this ramp-up of the queer subtext with some suspicion. It always seems to ramp up at around this time in the season, and they never pay it off. I want to be pleasantly surprised with some overtly textual Destiel to wrap up this season, because it really is so close to maintext now it’s kind of hilarious.

I’m just tired of being yanked around. Give it to me or don’t. Sure, I love subtext as much as the next person, but I’m getting old here, dudes. And so are Cas and Dean. Just cross the rubicon already, and show us what kind of delicious drama is on the other side.

Hint: Three Male-Shaped People and a Little Nephilim.

I’ll just leave that suggestion there for you, Mr Dabb.

Previously:

The Ministry of Information vs Wayward Sons Carrying On (12x01)

My, my, how can I resist you? (12x02) and follow-up about Bohemian Raphsody

So what am I so afraid of? (I think I love you) (12x03)

I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy Down in my heart (Where?) (12x04) and a follow-up about the codependency and about Dean’s self-flagellation and issues with space

There can be only one! (12x05), and a follow-up conversation with elizabethrobertajones on Freud vs Schwartz.

They shall fall by the sword: they shall be a portion for foxes (12x06)

Presenting the Immaculate Heart Reunion Tour (12x07)

I'm still living the life where you get home and open the fridge and there's half a pot of yogurt and a half a can of flat Coca-Cola. ~Alan Rickman (12x08, 12x09)

When the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men (12x10)

in re (12x11)

Making the most of teachable moments (12x12) and an added thought, In-and-out-laws

Don’t fuck with the branches on my family tree (12x13)

To Protect and to Serve (12x14) and some more thoughts

#supernatural #season 12 #spoilers #meta #spn meta #dean winchester #crowley #drowley #sam winchester #castiel #destiel #theme #queerbaiting #lies #truth

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fiftyshadesofdimmadome · 7 years ago

Text

Book 1; Chapter 24

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome stands in a steel-barred cage. Wearing his soft, ripped jeans, his chest and feet are mouthwateringly naked, and he’s staring at me. His private-joke smile etched on his beautiful face and his eyes a molten gray. In his hands he holds a bowl of strawberries. He ambles with athletic grace to the front of the cage, gazing intently at me. Holding up a plump ripe strawberry, he extends his hand through the bars.

“Eat,” he says, his tongue caressing the front of his palate as he enunciates the ‘t’.

I try and move toward him, but I’m tethered, held back by some unseen force around my wrist, holding me. Let me go.

“Come, eat,” he says, smiling his delicious crooked smile.

I pull and pull... let me go! I want to scream and shout, but no sound emerges. I am mute. He stretches a little further, and the strawberry is at my lips.

“Eat, Anastasia.” His mouth forms my name, lingering sensually on each syllable.

I open my mouth and bite, the cage disappears, and my hands are free. I reach up to touch him, graze my fingers through his chest hair.

“Anastasia.”

No. I moan.

“Come on, baby.”

No. I want to touch you.

“Wake up.”

No. Please. My eyes flicker unwillingly open for a split second. I’m in bed and some one is nuzzling my ear.

“Wake up, baby,” he whispers, and the effect of his sweet voice spreads like warm melted caramel through my veins.

It’s Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome. Jeez, it’s still dark, and the images of him from my dream persists, dis concerting and tantalizing in my head.

“Oh... no,” I groan. I want back at his chest, back to my dream. Why is he waking me? It’s the middle of the night, or so it feels. Holy shit. Does he want sex now?

“Time to get up, baby. I’m going to switch on the sidelight.” His voice is quiet.

“No,” I groan.

“I want to chase the dawn with you,” he says, kissing my face, my eyelids, the tip of my nose, my mouth, and I open my eyes. The sidelight is on. “Good morning, beautiful,” he murmurs.

I groan, and he smiles.

“You are not a morning person,” he murmurs.

Through the haze of light, I squint and see Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome leaning over me, smiling. Amused Amused at me. Dressed! In black.

“I thought you wanted sex,” I grumble.

“Anastasia, I always want sex with you. It’s heartwarming to know that you feel the same,” he says dryly.

I gaze at him as my eyes adjust to the light, but he still looks amused... thank heavens “Of course I do, just not when it’s so late.”

“It’s not late, it’s early. Come on up you go. We’re going out. I’ll take a rain check on the sex.”

“I was having such a nice dream,” I whine.

“Dream about what?” he asks patiently.

“You.” I blush.

“What was I doing this time?”

“Trying to feed me strawberries.”

His lips twitch with a trace of a smile.

“Dr. Flynn could have a field day with that. Up get dressed. Don’t bother to shower, we can do that later.”

We!

I sit up, and the sheet pools at my waist, revealing my body. He stands to give me room, his eyes dark.

“What time is it?”

“5:30 in the morning.”

“Feels like 3:00 a.m.”

“We don’t have much time. I let you sleep as long as possible. Come.”

“Can’t I have a shower?”

He sighs.

“If you have a shower, I’ll want one with you, and you and I know what will happen then the day will just go. Come.”

He’s excited. Like a small boy, he’s iridescent with anticipation and excitement. It makes me smile.

“What are we doing?’

“It’s a surprise. I told you.”

I can’t help but grin up at him.

“Okay.” I clamber off the bed and search for my clothes. Of course they are neatly folded on the chair beside my bed. He’s laid out a pair of his jersey boxer briefs too, Ralph Lauren, no less. I slip them on, and he grins at me. Hmm, another piece of Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s underwear a trophy to add to my collection along with the car, the BlackBerry, the Mac, his black jacket, and a set of old valuable first editions. I shake my head at his lar gesse, and I frown as a scene from Tess crosses my mind: the strawberry scene. It evokes my dream. To hell with Dr. Flynn Freud would have a field day and then he’d probably expire trying to deal with Fifty Shades.

“I’ll give you some room now that you’re up.” Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome exits toward the living area, and I wander into the bathroom. I have needs to attend to, and I want a quick wash. Seven minutes later, I am in the living area, scrubbed, brushed and dressed in jeans, my camisole, and Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s underwear. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome glances up from the small dining table where he’s eating breakfast. Breakfast! Jeez, at this time.

“Eat,” he says.

Holy Moses... my dream. I gape at him, thinking about his tongue on his palate. Hmm, his expert tongue.

“Anastasia,” he says sternly, pulling me out of my reverie.

It really is too early for me. How to handle this?

“I’ll have some tea. Can I take a croissant for later?”

He eyes me suspiciously, and I smile very sweetly.

“Don’t rain on my parade, Anastasia,” he warns softly.

“I will eat later when my stomach’s woken up. About 7:30 a.m.... okay?”

“Okay.” He peers down at me.

Honestly. I have to concentrate hard on not making a face at him.

“I want to roll my eyes at you.”

“By all means, do, and you will make my day,” he says sternly.

I gaze up at the ceiling.

“Well a spanking would wake me up, I suppose.” I purse my lips in quiet contempla tion.

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s mouth drops open.

“On the other hand, I don’t want you to be all hot and bothered, the climate here is warm enough.” I shrug nonchalantly.

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome closes his mouth and tries very hard to look displeased, but fails hopelessly.

I can see the humor lurking in the back of his eyes.

“You are, as ever, challenging, Miss Steele. Drink your tea.”

I notice the Twinings label, and inside, my heart sings. See, he does care, my subcon scious mouths at me. I sit and face him, drinking in his beauty. Will I ever get enough of this man?

As we leave the room, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome throws a sweatshirt at me.

“You’ll need this.”

I look at him, puzzled.

“Trust me.” He grins, leans over and kisses me quickly on the lips, then grabs my hand and we head out.

Outside, in the relative cool of the half-light of pre-dawn, the valet hands Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome a set of keys to a flash sports car with a soft top. I raise an eyebrow at Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome, who smirks back at me.

“You know, sometimes it’s great being me,” he says with a conspiratorial but smug grin that I simply can’t help emulating. He’s so lovable when he’s playful and carefree. He opens my car door with an exaggerated bow, and in I climb. He is in such a good mood.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” He grins as he slips the car into drive, and we head out on Savannah Parkway. He programs the GPS and presses a switch on the steering wheel and a classical orchestral piece fills the car.

“What’s this?” I ask as the sweet, sweet sound of a hundred violin strings assails us.

“It’s from La Traviata. An opera by Verdi.”

Oh, my... it’s lovely.

“La Traviata? I’ve headr of that. I can’t think where. What does it mean?”

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome glances at me and smirks.

“Well, literally, the woman led astray. It’s based on Alexander Dumas’s book, La Dame aux Camelias.”

“Ah. I’ve read it.”

“I thought you might.”

“The doomed courtesan.” I squirm uncomfortably in the plush leather seat. Is he try ing to tell me something? “Hmm, it’s a depressing story,” I mutter.

“Too depressing? Do you want to choose some music? This is on my iPod.” Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome has that secret smile again.

I can’t see his iPod anywhere. He taps the screen on the console between us, and be hold there is a play list.

“You choose.” His lips twitch up into a smile, and I know it’s a challenge.

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s iPod, this should be interesting. I scroll through the touch screen, and find the perfect song. I press play. I wouldn’t have figured him for a Britney fan. The club-mix, techno beat assaults us both, and Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome turns the volume down. Maybe it’s too early for this: Britney’s at her most sultry.

“Toxic, eh?” Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome grins.

“I don’t know what you mean.” I feign innocence.

He turns the music down a little more, and inside I am hugging myself. My inner goddess is standing on the podium awaiting her gold medal. He turned the music down. Victory!

“I didn’t put that song on my iPod,” he says casually, and puts his foot down so that I am thrown back into my seat as the car accelerates along the freeway.

What? He knows what he’s doing, the bastard. Who did? And I have to listen to Brit ney going on and on. Who... who?

The song ends and the iPod shuffles to Damien Rice being mournful. Who? Who? I stare out of the window, my stomach churning. Who?

“It was Leila,” he answers my unspoken thoughts. How does he do that?

“Leila?”

“An ex, who put the song on my iPod.”

Damien warbles away in the background as I sit stunned. An ex... ex-submissive? An ex

“One of the fifteen?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“What happened to her?”

“We finished.”

“Why?”

Oh jeez. It’s too early for this kind of conversation. But he looks relaxed, happy even, and what’s more, talkative.

“She wanted more.” His voice is low, introspective even, and he leaves the sentence hanging between us, ending it with that powerful little word again.

“And you didn’t?” I ask before I can employ my brain to mouth filter. Shit, do I want to know?

He shakes his head.

“I’ve never wanted more, until I met you.”

I gasp, reeling. Oh my. Isn’t this what I want? He wants more. He wants it, too! My inner goddess has back flipped off the podium and is doing cartwheels around the stadium. It’s not just me.

“What happened to the other fourteen?” I ask.

Jeez he’s talking take advantage.

“You want a list? Divorced, beheaded, died?”

“You’re not Henry VIII.”

“Okay. In no particular order, I’ve only had long term relationships with four women, apart from Elena.”

“Elena?”

“Mrs. Robinson to you.” He half smiles his secret private joke smile.

Elena! Holy Fuck. The evil one has a name and its all-foreign sounding. A vision of a glorious, pale-skinned vamp with raven hair and ruby-red lips comes to mind, and I know that she’s beautiful. I must not dwell. I must not dwell.

“What happened to the four?” I ask to distract myself.

“So inquisitive, so eager for information, Miss Steele,” he scolds playfully.

“Oh, Mr. When Is Your Period Due?”

“Anastasia a man needs to know these things.”

“Does he?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to get pregnant.”

“Neither do I! Well, not for a few years yet.”

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome blinks startled, then visibly relaxes. Okay. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome doesn’t want children.

Now or never? I am reeling from his sudden, unprecedented attack of candor. Perhaps it’s the early morning? Something in the Georgia water? The Georgia air? What else do I want to know? Carpe Diem.

“So the other four, what happened?” I ask.

“One met someone else. The other three wanted more. I wasn’t in the market for more then.”

“And the others?” I press.

He glances at me briefly and just shakes his head.

“Just didn’t work out.”

Whoa, a bucket-load of information to process. I glance in the side mirror of the car, and I notice the soft swell of pink and aquamarine in the sky behind. Dawn is following us.

“Where are we headed?” I ask, perplexed, gazing out at the 1-95. We’re heading south, that’s all I know.

“An airfield.”

“We’re not going back to Seattle are we?” I gasp, alarmed. I haven’t said goodbye to my mom. Jeez, she’s expecting us for dinner.

He laughs.

“No, Anastasia, we’re going to indulge in my second favorite pastime.”

“Second?” I frown at him.

“Yep. I told you my favorite this morning.”

I glance at his glorious profile, frowning, racking my brain.

“Indulging in you, Miss Steele, that’s got to be top of my list. Any way I can get you.”

Oh,

“Well that’s quite high up on my list of diverting, kinky priorities too.” I mutter, blush ing.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” he mutters dryly.

“So, airfield?”

He grins at me.

“Soaring.”

The term rings a vague bell. He’s mentioned it before.

“We’re going to chase the dawn, Anastasia.” He turns and grins at me as the GPS urges him to turn right into what looks like an industrial complex. He pulls up outside a large white building with a sign reading Brunswick Soaring Association.

Gliding! We’re going gliding?

He switches off the engine.

“You up for this?” he asks.

“You’re flying?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, please!” I don’t hesitate. He grins and leans forward and kisses me.

“Another first, Miss Steele,” he says as he climbs out of the car.

First? What sort of first? First time flying a glider... shit! No he said that he’s done it before. I relax. He walks round and opens my door. The sky has turned to a subtle opal, shimmering and glowing softly behind the sporadic childlike clouds. Dawn is upon us.

Taking my hand, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome leads me round the building to a large stretch of tarmac where several planes are parked. Waiting beside them is a man with a shaved head and a wild look in his eye, accompanied by Taylor.

Taylor! Does Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome go any where without that man? I beam at him, and he smiles kindly back at me.

“Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome, this is your tow-pilot, Mr. Mark Benson,” says Taylor. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome and Ben son shake hands and strike up a conversation, which sounds very technical about wind speed, directions, and the like.

“Hello, Taylor,” I murmur shyly.

“Miss Steele.” He nods a greeting at me, and I frown. “Ana,” he corrects himself.

“He’s been hell on wheels the last few days. Glad we’re here,” he says conspiratorially.

Oh, this is news Why? Surely not because of me! Revelation Thursday! Must be something in the Savannah water that makes these men loosen up a bit.

“Anastasia,” Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome summons me. “Come.” He holds out his hand.

“See you later.” I smile at Taylor, and giving me a quick salute, he heads back to the parking lot.

“Mr. Benson, this is my girlfriend Anastasia Steele.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I murmur as we shake hands.

Benson gives me a dazzling smile.

“Likewise,” he says, and I can tell from his accent that he’s British.

As I take Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s hand, there’s a mounting excitement in my belly. Wow... glid ing! We follow Mark Benson out across the tarmac towards the runway. He and Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome keep up a running conversation. I catch the gist. We will be in a Blanik L-23, which is apparently better than the L-13, although this is open to debate. Benson will be flying a Piper Pawnee. He’s been flying tail draggers for about five years now. It all means nothing to me, but glancing up at Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome, he is so animated, so in his element, it’s a pleasure to watch him.

The plane itself is long, sleek, and white with orange stripes. It has a small cockpit with two seats one in front of the other. It’s attached by a long white cable to a small, con ventional single-propeller plane. Benson opens the large, clear Perspex dome that frames the cockpit, allowing us to climb in.

“First we need to strap on your parachute.”

Parachute!

“I’ll do that,” Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome interrupts him and takes the harness off Benson, who smiles amenably at him.

“I’ll fetch some ballast,” Benson says and heads toward the plane.

“You like strapping me into things.” I observe dryly.

“Miss Steele, you have no idea. Here, step into the straps.”

I do as I’m told, placing my arm on his shoulder. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome stiffens slightly but doesn’t move. Once my feet are in the loops, he pulls the parachute up, and I place my arms through the shoulder straps. Deftly he fastens the harness and tightens all the straps.

“There, you’ll do,” he says mildly, but his eyes are gleaming. “Do you have your hair tie from yesterday?”

I nod.

“You want me to put my hair up?”

“Yes.”

I quickly do as I’m asked.

“In you go,” Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome commands. He’s still so bossy. I go to climb into the back.

“No, front. Pilot sits at the back.”

“But won’t you be able to see.”

“I’ll see plenty.” He grins.

I don’t think I have ever seen him so happy, bossy, but happy. I clamber in, settling down into the leather seat. It is surprisingly comfortable. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome leans over, pulls the harness over my shoulders, reaches between my legs for the lower belt, and slots it into the fastener that rests against my belly. He tightens all the restraining straps.

“Hmm, twice in one morning, I am a lucky man,” he whispers and kisses me quickly. “This won’t take long twenty, thirty minutes at most. Thermals aren’t great this time of the morning, but it’s so breathtaking up there at this hour. I hope you’re not nervous.”

“Excited.” I beam.

Where did this ridiculous grin come from? Actually, part of me is terrified. My inner goddess she’s under a blanket behind the sofa.

“Good.” He grins back, stroking my face, then disappears from view.

I hear and feel his movements as he climbs in behind me. Of course he’s strapped me in so tightly I can’t move round to see him... typical! We are very low on the ground. In front of me is a panel of dials and levers and a big stick thing. I leave well alone.

Mark Benson appears with a cheerful grin as he checks my straps and leans in and checks the cockpit floor. I think it’s the ballast.

“Yep, that’s secure. First time?” he asks me.

“Yes.”

“You’ll love it.”

“Thanks, Mr. Benson.”

“Call me Mark.” He turns to Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome. “Okay?”

“Yep. Let’s go.”

I am so glad I haven’t eaten anything. I am beyond excited, and I don’t think my stom ach would be game for food, excitement, and leaving the ground. Once again, I am putting myself into this beautiful man’s skilled hands. Mark shuts the cockpit lid, strolls over to the plane in front, and climbs in.

The Piper’s single propeller starts, and my nervous stomach relocates itself to my throat. Jeez... I’m really doing this. Mark taxis slowly down the runway, and as the cable takes the strain, we suddenly jolt forward. We’re off. I hear chatter over the radio set behind me. I think it’s Mark talking to the tower but I can’t make out what he’s saying.

As the Piper picks up speed, so do we. It’s very bumpy, and in front of us, the single prop plane is still on the ground. Jeez, will we ever get up? And suddenly, my stomach disap pears from my throat and free-falls through my body to the ground we’re airborne.

“Here we go, baby!” Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome shouts from behind me. And we are in our own bubble, just us two. All I hear is the sound of the wind ripping past and the distant hum of the Piper’s engine.

I’m gripping the edge of my seat with both hands, so tightly my knuckles are white.

We head west, inland away from the rising sun, gaining height, crossing over fields and woods and homes and 1-95. Oh my. This is amazing, above us only sky. The light is extraordinary, diffuse and warm in hue, and I remember Jose rambling on about ‘magic hour’, a time of day that photographers adore this is it. . . just after dawn, and I’m in it, with Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome.

Abruptly, I’m reminded of Jose’s show. Hmm. I need to tell Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome. I wonder briefly how he’ll react. But I won’t worry about that, not now I’m enjoying the ride. My ears pop as we gain height, and the ground slips further and further away. It is so peaceful.

I completely get why he likes to be up here. Away from his BlackBerry and all the pres sures of his job.

The radio crackles into life, and Mark mentions 3,000 feet. Jeez, that sounds high,. I check the ground, and I can no longer clearly distinguish anything down there.

“Release,” Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome says into the radio, and suddenly the Piper disappears, and the pulling sensation provided by the small plane ceases. We’re floating, floating over Georgia.

Holy fuck it’s exciting. The plane banks and turns as the wing dips, and we spiral toward the sun. Icarus. This is it. I am flying close to the sun, but he’s with me, leading me. I gasp at the realization. We spiral and spiral and, the view in this morning light is spectacular.

“Hold on tight!” he shouts, and we dip again only this time he doesn’t stop, suddenly, I am upside down, looking at the ground through the top of the cockpit canopy.

I squeal loudly, my arms automatically lashing out, my hands splayed on the Perspex to stop me falling. I can hear him laughing. Bastard! But his joy is infectious, and I am laughing too as he rights the plane.

“I’m glad I didn’t have breakfast!” I shout at him.

“Yes, in hindsight, it’s good you didn’t, because I’m going to do that again.”

He dips the plane once more until we are upside down. This time, because I’m pre pared, I hang on to the harness, but it makes me grin and giggle like a fool. He levels the plane once more.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he calls.

“Yes.”

We fly, swooping majestically through the air, listening to the wind and the silence, in the early morning light. Who could ask for more?

“See the joy-stick in front of you?” he shouts again.

I look at the stick that is moving slightly between my legs. Oh no, where’s he going with this?

“Grab hold.”

Oh shit. He’s going to make me fly the plane. No!

“Go on, Anastasia. Grab it,” he urges more vehemently.

Tentatively, I grasp it and feel the pitch and yaw of what I assume are rudders and paddles or whatever keeps this thing in the air.

“Hold tight... keep it steady. See the middle dial in front? Keep the needle dead cen ter.”

My heart is in my mouth. Holy shit. I am flying a glider... I’m soaring.

“Good girl.” Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome sounds delighted.

“I am amazed you let me take control,” I shout.

“You’d be amazed what I’d let you do, Miss Steele. Back to me now.”

I feel the joystick move suddenly, and I let go as we spiral down several feet, my ears starting to pop again. The ground is getting closer, and it feels like we could be hitting it shortly. Jeez, that’s scary.

“BMA, this is BG N Papa 3 Alpha, entering left downwind runway seven to the grass, BMA.” Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome sounds his usual authoritative self. The tower squawks back at him over the radio, but I don’t understand what they say. We sail round again in a wide circle, sink ing slowly to the ground. I can see the airport, the landing strips, and we’re flying back over 1-95.

“Hang on, baby. This can get bumpy.”

After another circle we dip, and suddenly we are on the ground with a brief thump, racing along the grass holy shit. My teeth chatter as we bump at an alarming speed along the ground, until we finally come to a stop. The plane sways slightly then dips to the right.

I take a deep lungful of air while Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome leans over and opens the cockpit lid, clambering out and stretching.

“How was that?” he asks, and his eyes are a shining, dazzling silver gray. He leans down to unbuckle me.

“That was extraordinary. Thank you,” I whisper.

“Was it more?” he asks, his voice tinged with hope.

“Much more,” I breathe, and he grins.

“Come.” He holds out his hand for me, and I clamber out of the cockpit.

As soon as I’m out, he grabs me and holds me flush against his body. Suddenly his hand is in my hair, tugging it so my head tips back, and his other hand travels down to the base of my spine. He kisses me, long, hard, and passionately, his tongue in my mouth.

His breathing is mounting, his ardor. . . Holy cow his erection. . . we’re in a field. But I don’t care. My hands twist in his hair, anchoring him to me. I want him, here, now, on the ground. He breaks away and gazes down at me, his eyes now dark and luminous in the early morning light, full of raw, arrogant sensuality. Wow. He takes my breath away.

“Breakfast,” he whispers, making it sound deliciously erotic.

How can he make bacon and eggs sound like forbidden fruit? It’s an extraordinary skill. He turns, clasping my hand, and we head back toward the car.

“What about the glider?”

“Someone will take care of that?”, he says dismissively. “We’ll eat now.” His tone is unequivocal.

Food! He’s talking food, when really all I want is him.

“Come.” He smiles.

I have never seen him like this, and it’s a joy to behold. I find myself walking beside him, hand in hand, with a stupid, goofy grin plastered on my face. It reminds me of when I was ten and spending the day in Disneyland with Ray. It was a perfect day, and this is sure shaping out to be the same.

Back in the car, as we head back along 1-95 towards Savannah, my phone alarm goes off. Oh yes... my pill.

“What’s that?” Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome asks, curious, glancing at me.

I fumble in my purse for the packet.

“Alarm for my pill,” I mutter as my cheeks flush.

His lips quirk up.

“Good, well done. I hate condoms.”

I flush some more. He’s as patronizing as ever.

“I like that you introduced me to Mark as your girlfriend,” I murmur.

“Isn’t that what you are?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Am I? I thought you wanted a submissive.”

“So did I, Anastasia, and I do. But I’ve told you, I want more, too.”

Oh my. He’s coming round, and hope surges through me, leaving me breathless.

“I’m very happy that you want more,” I whisper.

“We aim to please, Miss Steele.” He smirks as we pull into the International House of Pancakes.

“IHOP.” I grin back at him. I don’t believe it. Who would have thought... Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome at IHOP.

It’s 8:30 a.m. but quiet in the restaurant. It smells of sweet batter, fried food, and disinfec tant. Hmm... not such an enticing aroma. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome leads me to a booth.

“I would never have pictured you here,” I say as we slide into a booth.

“My dad used to bring us to one of these whenever my mom went away at a medical conference. It was our secret.” He smiles at me, gray eyes dancing, then picks up a menu, running a hand through his wayward hair as he stares down at it.

Oh, I want to run my hands through that hair. I pick up a menu and examine it. I real ize I’m starving.

“I know what I want,” he breathes, his voice low and husky.

I glance up at him, and he’s staring at me in that way that tightens all the muscles in my belly and takes my breath away, his eyes dark and smoldering. Holy shit. I gaze at him, my blood singing in my veins answering his call.

“I want what you want,” I whisper.

He inhales sharply.

“Here?” he asks suggestively, raising an eyebrow at me, smiling wickedly, his teeth trapping the tip of his tongue.

Oh my... sex in IHOP. His expression changes, growing darker.

“Don’t bite your lip,” he orders. “Not here, not now.” His eyes harden momentarily, and for a moment, he looks so deliciously dangerous. “If I can’t have you here, don’t tempt me.”

“Hi, My name’s Leandra, What can I get for you. . . er. . . folks. . . er. . . today, this mornin... ?” Her voice trails off, stumbling over her words as she gets an eye full of Mr. Beautiful opposite me. She flushes scarlet, and a small ounce of sympathy for her bubbles

unwelcome into my consciousness because he still does that to me. Her presence allows me to escape briefly from his sensual glare.

“Anastasia?” he prompts me, ignoring her, and I don’t think anyone could squeeze as much carnality into my name as he does at that moment.

I swallow, praying that I don’t go the same color as poor Leandra.

“I told you, I want what you want.” I keep my voice soft, low, and he looks at me hun grily. Jeez, my inner goddess swoons. Am I up to this game?

Leandra looks from me to him and back again. She’s practically the same color as her shiny red hair.

“Shall I give you folks another minute to decide?”

“No. We know what we want.” Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s mouth twitches with a small, sexy smile. “We’ll have two portions of the original buttermilk pancakes with maple syrup and bacon on the side, two glasses of orange juice, one black coffee with skim milk, and one English breakfast tea, if you have it,” says Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome, not taking his eyes off me.

“Thank you sir. Will that be all?” Leandra whispers, looking anywhere but at the two of us. We both turn to stare at her, and she flushes crimson again and scuttles away.

“You know it’s really not fair.” I glance down at the Formica tabletop, tracing a pattern in it with my index finger, trying to sound nonchalant.

“What’s not fair?”

“How you disarm people. Women. Me.”

“Do I disarm you?”

I snort.

“All the time.”

“It’s just looks, Anastasia,” he says mildly.

“No, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome, it’s much more than that.”

His brow creases.

“You disarm me totally, Miss Steele. Your innocence. It cuts through all the crap.”

“Is that why you’ve changed your mind?”

“Changed my mind?”

“Yes about . . . err. . . us?”

He strokes his chin thoughtfully with his long, skilled fingers.

“I don’t think I’ve changed my mind per se. We just need to re-define our parameters, re-draw our battle lines, if you will. We can make this work, I’m sure. I want you submis sive in my playroom. I will punish you if you digress from the rules. Other than that. . . well, I think it’s all up for discussion. Those are my requirements, Miss Steele. What say you to that?”

“So I get to sleep with you? In your bed?”

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes.”

“I agree then. Besides, I sleep very well when you’re in my bed. I had no idea.” His brow creases as his voice fades.

“I was frightened you’d leave me if I didn’t agree to all of it,” I whisper.

“I’m not going anywhere, Anastasia. Besides... ” He trails off, and after some thought, he adds. “We’re following your advice, your definition: compromise. You emailed it to me. And so far, it’s working for me.”

“I love that you want more,” I murmur shyly.

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me. I just do.” He smirks at me. He’s hiding something. What?

At that moment, Leandra arrives with breakfast and our conversation ceases. My stomach rumbles, reminding me how ravenous I am. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome watches with annoying ap proval as I devour everything on my plate.

“Can I treat you?” I ask Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome.

“Treat me how?”

“Pay for this meal.”

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome snorts.

“I don’t think so.” he scoffs.

“Please. I want to.”

He frowns at me.

“Are you trying to completely emasculate me?”

“This is probably the only place that I’ll be able to afford to pay.”

“Anastasia, I appreciate the thought. I do. But no.”

I purse my lips.

“Don’t scowl,” he threatens, his eyes glinting ominously.

Of course he doesn’t ask me for my mother’s address. He knows it already, stalker that he is. When he pulls up outside the house, I don’t comment. What’s the point?

“Do you want to come in?” I ask shyly.

“I need to work, Anastasia, but I’ll be back this evening. What time?”

I ignore the unwelcome stab of disappointment. Why do I want to spend every single minute with this controlling sex god? Oh yes, I’ve fallen in love with him, and he can fly.

“Thank you... for the more.”

“My pleasure, Anastasia.” He kisses me, and I inhale his sexy Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome smell.

“I’ll see you later.”

“Try and stop me,” he whispers.

I wave goodbye as he drives off into the Georgia sunshine. I’m still wearing his sweat shirt and his underwear, and I’m too warm.

In the kitchen, my mom is in a complete flap. It’s not every day she has to entertain a multi-zillionaire, and it’s stressing her out.

“How are you, darling?” she asks, and I flush because she must know what I was doing last night.

“I’m good. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome took me gliding this morning.” I hope the new information will distract her.

“Gliding? As in a small plane with no engine? That sort of gliding?”

I nod.

“Wow.”

She’s speechless a novel concept for my mother. She gapes at me, but eventually recovers herself and resumes her original line of questioning.

“How was last night? Did you talk?”

Jeez. I flush bright scarlet.

“We talked last night and today. It’s getting better.”

“Good.” She turns her attention back to the four cookery books she has open on the kitchen table.

“Mom... if you like, I’ll cook this evening.”

“Oh, honey, that’s kind of you, but I want to do it.”

“Okay.” I grimace, knowing full well that my mother’s cooking is pretty hit or miss. Perhaps she’s improved since she moved to Savannah with Bob. There was a time I wouldn’t subject anyone to her cooking. . . even who do I hate? Oh yes Mrs. Robinson Elena. Well, maybe her. Will I ever meet this damned woman?

I decide to send a quick thank-you to Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome.

From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Soaring as opposed to sore-ing Date: June 2 2011 10:20 EST To: Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

Sometimes, you really know how to show a girl a good time. Thank you Ana x

From: Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Subject: Soaring vs sore-ing Date: June 2 2011 10:24 EST To: Anastasia Steele

I’ll take either of those over your snoring. I had a good time too. But I always do when I’m with you.

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

CEO, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele Subject: SNORING Date: June 2 2011 10:26 EST To: Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

I DO NOT SNORE. And if I do, it’s very ungallant of you to point it out. You are no gentleman Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome! And you are in the Deep South too! Ana

From: Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Subject: Somniloquy Date: June 2 2011 10:28 EST To: Anastasia Steele

I have never claimed to be a gentleman, Anastasia, and I think I have demonstrated that point to you on numerous occasions. I am not intimidated by your SHOUTY capitals. But I will confess to a small white lie: No you don’t snore, but you do talk. And it’s fascinating.

What happened to my kiss?

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

Cad & CEO, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Holy shit. I know I talk in my sleep. Kate has told me enough times. What the hell have I said? Oh no.

From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Spill the Beans Date: June 2 2011 10:32 EST To: Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

You are a cad and a scoundrel definitely no gentleman. So, what did I say? No kisses for you until you talk!

From: Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Subject: Sleeping talking Beauty Date: June 2 2011 10:35 EST To: Anastasia Steele

It would be most ungallant of me to say, and I have already been chastised for that. But if you behave yourself, I may tell you this evening. I do have to go into a meeting now.

Laters, baby.

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

CEO, Cad & Scoundrel, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Right! I shall maintain radio silence until this evening. I fume. Jeez. Supposing I’ve said I hate him, or worse still, that I love him, in my sleep. Oh, I hope not. I am not ready to

tell him that, and I’m sure he’s not ready to hear it, if he ever wants to hear it. I scowl at my computer and decide that whatever I cook, I will make bread.

My mom has decided on gazpacho soup and a barbecue with steaks marinated in olive oil, garlic, and lemon. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome likes meat, and it’s simple to do. Bob has volunteered to man the BBQ grill. What is it about men and fire, I ponder as I trail after my mother through the supermarket with the shopping cart?

As we browse the raw meat cabinet, my phone rings. I scramble for it, thinking it may be Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome. I don’t recognize the number.

“Hello?” I answer breathlessly.

“Anastasia Steele?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Elizabeth Morgan from SIP.”

“Oh -hi.”

“I’m calling to offer you the job of assistant to Mr. Jack Hyde. We’d like you to start on Monday.”

“Wow. That’s great. Thank you!”

“You know the salary details?”

“Yes. Yes... that’s I mean, I accept your offer. I’d love to come and work for you.”

“Excellent. We’ll see you Monday at 8:30 a.m.?”

“See you then. Goodbye. And thank you.”

I beam at my mom.

“You have a job?”

I nod gleefully, and she squeals and hugs me in the middle of Publix supermarket.

“Congratulations, darling! We have to buy some champagne!” She’s clapping her hands and jumping up and down. Is she forty-two or twelve?

I glance down at my phone and frown, there’s a missed call from Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome. He never phones me. I call him straight back.

“Anastasia,” he answers immediately.

“Hi,” I murmur shyly.

“I have to return to Seattle. Something’s come up. I am on my way to Hilton Head now. Please apologize to your mother I can’t make dinner.” He sounds very businesslike.

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

“I have a situation which I have to deal with. I’ll see you Friday. I’ll send Taylor to collect you from the airport if I can’t come myself.” He sounds cold. Angry even. But for the first time, I don’t immediately think it’s me.

“Okay. I hope you sort out your situation. Have a safe flight.”

“You too, baby,” he breathes, and with those words, my Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome is back briefly. Then he hangs up.

Oh no. The last ‘situation’ he had was my virginity. Jeez, I hope it’s nothing like that.

I gaze at my mom. Her earlier jubilation has metamorphosed into concern.

“It’s Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome, he’s had to go back to Seattle. He apologizes.”

“Oh! That’s a shame, darling. We can still have our barbecue, and now we have some thing to celebrate your new job! You have to tell me all about it.”

It’s late afternoon, and Mom and I are lying beside the pool. My mother has relaxed to the point where she is literally horizontal now that Mr. Megabucks is not coming to dinner. As I lie in the sun, endeavoring to lose the pale, I think about yesterday evening and breakfast today. I think about Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome, and my ridiculous grin refuses to subside. It keeps creeping across my face, unbidden and disconcerting, as I recall our various conversations and what we did... what he did.

There seems to be tidal shift in Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s attitude. He denies it but he admits he’s trying for more. What could have changed? What has altered since he sent his long email and when I saw him yesterday? What has he done? I sit up suddenly, almost spilling my Dr. Pepper. He had dinner with... her. Elena.

Holy Fuck!

My scalp prickles at the realization. Did she say something to him? Oh... to have been a fly on the wall during their dinner. I could have landed in her soup or on her wine glass and choked her.

“What is it, Ana, honey?” Mom asks, startled from her torpor.

“I’m just having a moment, Mom. What time is it?”

“About 6:30 p.m., darling.”

Hmm... he won’t have landed yet. Can I ask him? Should I ask him? Or perhaps she has nothing to do with it. I fervently hope so. What did I say in my sleep? Crap... some unguarded remark while dreaming about him, I bet? Whatever it is, or was, I hope the sea of change is coming from within him and not because of her.

I am sweltering in this damned heat. I need another dip in the pool.

As I get ready for bed, I switch on my computer. I have heard nothing from Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome. Not even a word that he’s arrived safely.

From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Safe Arrival?

Date: June 2 2011 22:32 EST To: Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

Dear Sir

Please let me know that you have arrived safely. I am starting to worry. Thinking of you. Your Ana. x

Three minutes later, I hear the ping from my email in-box.

From: Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

Subject: Sorry

Date: June 2 201 1 19:36

To: Anastasia Steele

Dear Miss Steele

I have arrived safely, and please accept my apologies for not letting you know. I don’t want to cause you any worry, it’s heart warming to know that you care for me. I am think ing of you too and as ever looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

CEO, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Enterprises Holdings Inc.

I sigh, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome is back to formality.

From: Anastasia Steele Subject: The Situation Date: June 2 2011 22:40 EST To: Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

Dear Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

I think it is very evident that I care for you deeply. How could you doubt that? I hope your ‘situation’ is in hand.

Your Ana x

PS: Are you going to tell me what I said in my sleep?

From: Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Subject: Pleading the Fifth Date: June 2 2011 19:45 To: Anastasia Steele

Dear Miss Steele

I like very much that you care for me. The ‘situation’ here is not yet resolved. With regard to your PS: The answer is No.

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

CEO, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Pleading Insanity Date: June 2 2011 22:48 EST To: Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

I hope it was amusing. But you should know I cannot accept any responsibility for what comes out of my mouth when I am unconscious. In fact you probably misheard me.

A man of your advanced years is surely a little deaf.

From: Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Subject: Pleading Guilty Date: June 2 2011 19:52 To: Anastasia Steele

Dear Miss Steele

Sorry, could you speak up? I can’t hear you.

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

CEO, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Pleading Insanity Again Date: June 2 2011 22:54 EST To: Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

You are driving me crazy.

From: Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Subject: I hope so...

Date: June 2 201 1 19:59 To: Anastasia Steele

Dear Miss Steele

I intend to do exactly that on Friday evening. Looking forward to it

;)

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

CEO, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Grrrrrr Date: June 2 2011 23:02 EST To: Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

I am officially pissed at you. Goodnight.

Miss A. R. Steele

From: Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Subject: Wild Cat Date: June 2 201 1 20:05 To: Anastasia Steele

Are you growling at me Miss Steele?

I possess a cat of my own for growlers.

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

CEO, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Cat of his own? I’ve never seen a cat in his apartment. No, I am not going to answer him. Oh, he can be so exasperating sometimes. Fifty shades of exasperating. I clamber into bed and lie glaring at the ceiling as my eyes adjust to the dark. I hear another ping from my computer. I am not going to look. No definitely not. No, I am not going to look. Gah!

Like the fool I am, I cannot resist the lure of Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s words.

From: Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Subject: What you said in your sleep Date: June 2 2011 20:20 To: Anastasia Steele

Anastasia

I’d rather hear you say the words that you uttered in your sleep when you’re conscious, that’s why I won’t tell you. Go to sleep. You’ll need to be rested with what I have in mind for you tomorrow.

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome

CEO, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Oh no... What have I said? It’s as bad as I think, I’m sure.

#fsodd #fifty shades of dimmadome

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