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[fixdex-fastening-technology]

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[starlightkun]

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[mosspapi]

Just realized I'm supposed to be doing a still life with "objects around the house." Brother there are no objects around this house I am in an empty ass hotel room for the weekend

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Predicting the present

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/09/radicalized/#deny-defend-depose

Back in 2018, around the time I emailed my immigration lawyer about applying for US citizenship, I started work on a short story called "Radicalized," which eventually became the title story of a collection that came out in 2019:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250228598/radicalized/

"Radicalized" is a story about America, and about guns, and about health care, and about violence. I live in Burbank, which is ranks second in gun-stores-per-capita in the USA, a dubious honor that represents a kind of regulatory arbitrage with our neighboring goliath, the City of Los Angeles, where gun store licensing is extremely tight. If you're an Angeleno in search of a firearm, you're almost certainly coming to Burbank to buy it.

Walking, cycling and driving past more gun stores than I'd ever seen in my Canadian life got me thinking about Americans and guns, a subject that many Canadians have passed comment upon. Americans kill each other, and especially themselves, at rates that baffle everyone else in the world, and they do it with guns. When we moved here, my UK born-and-raised daughter came home from her first elementary school lockdown drill perplexed and worried. Knowing what I did about US gun violence, I understood that while school shootings and other spree killings happened with dismal and terrifying regularity, they only accounted for a small percentage of the gun deaths here. If you die with a bullet in you, the chances are that the finger on the trigger was your own. The next most likely suspect is someone you know. After that, a cop. Getting shot by a stranger out of uniform is something of a rarity here – albeit a spectacular one that captures our imaginations in ways that deliberate or accidental self-slayings and related-party shootings do not.

So I told her, "Look, you can basically ignore everything they tell you during those lockdown drills, because they almost certainly have nothing to do with your future. But if a friend ever says to you, 'Hey, wanna see my dad's gun?' I want you to turn around and leave and get in touch with me right away, that instant."

Guns turn the murderous impulse – which, let's be honest, we've all felt at some time or another – into a murderous act. Same goes for suicide, which explains the high levels of non-accidental self-shootings in the USA: when you've got a gun, the distance between suicidal ideation and your death is the ten feet from the sofa to the gun in the closet.

Americans get angry at people and then, if they have a gun to hand, sometimes they shoot them. In a thread /r/Burbank about how people at our local cinemas are rude and use their phones in which someone posted, "Well, you should just ask them to stop." The reply: "That's a great way to get shot." No one chimed in to say, "Don't be ridiculous, no one would shoot you for asking them to put away their phone during a movie." Same goes for "road rage."

And while Americans shoot people they've only just gotten angry at, they also sometimes plan shooting sprees and kill a bunch of people because they're just generically angry. Being angry about the state of the world is a completely relatable emotion, of course, but the targets of these shootings are arbitrary. Sure sometimes these killings have clear, bigoted targets – mass shootings at Black supermarkets or mosques or synagogues or gay bars – more often the people who get sprayed with bullets (at country and western concerts or elementary schools or movie theaters) are almost certainly not the people the gunman (almost always a man) is angry at.

This line of thought kept surfacing as I went through the immigration process, but not just when I was dealing with immigration paperwork. I was also spending an incredible amount of time dealing with our health insurer, Cigna, who kept refusing treatments my pain doctor – one of the most-cited pain researchers in the country – thought I would benefit from. I've had chronic pain since I was a teenager, and it's only ever gotten worse. I've had decades of pain care in Canada and the UK, and while the treatments never worked for very long, it was never compounded by the kinds of bureaucratic stuff I went through with my US insurer.

The multi-hour phone calls with Cigna that went nowhere would often have me seeing red – literally, a red tinge closing in around my vision – and usually my hands would be shaking by the time I got off the call.

And I had it easy! I wasn't terminally ill, and I certainly wasn't calling in on behalf of a child or a spouse or parent who was seriously ill or dying, whose care was being denied by their insurer. Bernie's 2016 Medicare For All campaign promise had filled the air with statistics (Americans pay more for care and get worse outcomes than anyone else in the rich world), and stories. So many stories – stories that just tore your heart out, about parents who literally had to watch their children die because the insurance they paid for refused to treat their kids. As a dad, I literally couldn't imagine how I'd cope in that situation. Just thinking about it filled me with rage.

One day, as I was swimming in the community pool across the street – a critical part of my pain management strategy – I was struck with a thought: "Why don't these people murder health insurance executives?" Not that I wanted them to. I don't want anyone to kill anyone. But why do American men who murder their wives and the people who cut them off in traffic and random classrooms full of children leave the health insurance industry alone? This is an industry that is practically designed to fill the people who interact with it with uncontrollable rage. I mean, if you're watching your wife or your kid die before your eyes because some millionaire CEO decided to aim for a $10 billion stock buyback this year instead of his customary $9 billion target, wouldn't you feel that kind of murderous rage?

Around this time, my parents came out for a visit from Canada. It was a great trip, until one night, my mom woke me up after midnight: "We have to take your father to the ER. He's really sick." He was: shaking, nauseated, feverish. We raced down the street to the local hospital, part of a gigantic chain that has swallowed nearly all the doctors' practices, labs and hospitals within an hour's drive of here.

Dad had kidney stones, and they'd gone septic. When the ER docs removed the stones, all the septic gunk in his kidneys was flushed into his bloodstream, and he crashed. If he hadn't been in an ER recovery room at the time, he would have died. As it was, he was in a coma for three days and it was touch and go. My brother flew down from Toronto, not sure if this was his last chance to see our dad alive. The nurses and doctors took great care of my dad, though, and three days later, he emerged from his coma, and today, he's better than ever.

But on day two, when we thought he was probably at the end of his life, as my mother sat at his side, holding the hand of her husband of fifty years, someone from the hospital billing department came to her side and said, "Mrs Doctorow, I know this is a difficult time, but I'd like to discuss the matter of your husband's bill with you."

The bill was $176,000. Thankfully, the travel medical insurance plan offered by the Ontario Teachers' Union pension covered it all (I don't suppose anyone gets very angry with them).

How do people tolerate this? Again, not in the sense of "people should commit violent acts in the face of these provocations," but rather, "How is it that in a country filled with both assault rifles and unimaginable acts of murderous cruelty committed by fantastically wealthy corporations, people don't leap from their murderous impulses to their murderous weapons to commit murderous acts?

For me, writing fiction is an accretive process. I can tell that a story is brewing when thoughts start rattling around in my mind, resurfacing at odd times. I think of them as stray atoms, seeking molecules with available docking sites to glom onto. I process all my emotions – but especially my negative ones – through this process, by writing stories and novels. I could tell that something was cooking, but it was missing an ingredient.

Then I found it: an interview with the woman who coined the term "incel." It was on the Reply All podcast, and Alana, a queer Canadian woman explained that she had struggled all her life to find romantic and sexual partnership, and jokingly started referring to herself as "involuntarily celibate," and then, as an "incel":

https://gimletmedia.com/shows/reply-all/76h59o

Alana started a message board where other "incels" could offer each other support, and it was remarkably successful. The incels on Alana's message board helped each other work through the problems that stood between them and love, and when they did, they drifted away from the board to pursue a happier life.

That was the problem, Alana explained. If you're in a support group for people with a drinking problem, the group elders, the ones who've been around forever, are the people who've figured it out and gotten sober. When life seems impossible, those elders step in to tell you, I know it's terrible right now, but it'll get better. I was where you are and I got through it. You will, too. I'm here for you. We all are.

But on Alana's incel board, the old timers were the people who couldn't figure it out. They were the ones for whom mutual support and advice didn't help them figure out what they needed to do in order to find the love they sought. The longer the message board ran, the more it became dominated by people who were convinced that it was hopeless, that love was impossible for the likes of them. When newbies posted in rage and despair, these Great Old Ones were there to feed it: You're right. It will never get better. It only gets worse. There is no hope.

That was the missing piece. My short story Radicalized was born. It's a story about men on a message board called Fuck Cancer Right In the Fucking Face (FCKRFF, or "Fuckriff"), who are watching the people they love the most in the world be murdered by their insurance companies, who egg each other on to spectacular acts of mass violence against health insurance company employees, hospital billing offices, and other targets of their rage. As of today, anyone can read this story for free, courtesy of my publishers at Macmillan, who gave permission for the good folks at The American Prospect to post it:

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2024-12-09-radicalized-cory-doctorow-story-health-care/

I often hear from people about this story, even before an unknown (at the time of writing) man assassinated Brian Thompson, CEO of Unitedhealthcare, the murderous health insurance monopoly that is the largest medical insurer in the USA. Since then, hundreds of people have gotten in touch with me to ask me how I feel about this turn of events, how it feels to have "predicted" this.

I've been thinking about it for a few days now, and I gotta tell you, I have complicated feelings.

You've doubtless seen the outpourings of sarcastic graveyard humor about Thompson's murder. People hate Unitedhealthcare, for good reason, because he personally decided – or approved – countless policies that killed people by cheating them until they died.

Nurses and doctors hate Thompson and United. United kills people, for money. During the most acute phase of the pandemic, the company charged the US government $11,000 for each $8 covid test:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/06/137300-pct-markup/#137300-pct-markup

UHC leads the nation in claims denials, with a denial rate of 32% (!!). If you want to understand how the US can spend 20% of its GDP and get the worst health outcomes in the world, just connect the dots between those two facts: the largest health insurer in human history charges the government a 183,300% markup on covid tests and also denies a third of its claims.

UHC is a vertically integrated, murdering health profiteer. They bought Optum, the largest pharmacy benefit manager ("A spreadsheet with political power" -Matt Stoller) in the country. Then they starved Optum of IT investment in order to give more money to their shareholders. Then Optum was hacked by ransomware gang and no one could get their prescriptions for weeks. This killed people:

https://www.economicliberties.us/press-release/malicious-threat-actor-accesses-unitedhealth-groups-monopolistic-data-exchange-harming-patients-and-pharmacists/#

The irony is, Optum is terrible even when it's not hacked. The purpose of Optum is to make you pay more for pharmaceuticals. If that's more than you can afford, you die. Optum – that is, UHC – kills people:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/23/shield-of-boringness/#some-men-rob-you-with-a-fountain-pen

Optum isn't the only murderous UHC division. Take Navihealth, an algorithm that United uses to kick people out of their hospital beds even if they're so frail, sick or injured they can't stand or walk. Doctors and nurses routinely watch their gravely ill patients get thrown out of their hospitals. Many die. UHC kills them, for money:

https://prospect.org/health/2024-08-16-steward-bankruptcy-physicians-private-equity/

The patients murdered by Navihealth are on Medicare Advantage. Medicare is the public health care system the USA extends to old people. Medicare Advantage is a privatized system you can swap your Medicare coverage for, and UHC leads the country in Medicare Advantage, blitzing seniors with deceptive ads that trick them into signing up for UHC Medicare Advantage. Seniors who do this lose access to their doctors and specialists, have to pay hundreds or thousands of dollars for their medication, and get hit with $400 surprise bills to use the "free" ambulance service:

https://prospect.org/health/2024-12-05-manhattan-medicare-murder-mystery/

No wonder the public spends 22% more subsidizing Medicare Advantage than they spend on the care for seniors who stick with actual Medicare:

https://theconversation.com/taxpayers-spend-22-more-per-patient-to-support-medicare-advantage-the-private-alternative-to-medicare-that-promised-to-cost-less-241997

It's not just the elderly, it's also the addicted and mentally ill. UHC illegally denies coverage for mental health and substance abuse treatment. Imagine watching a family member spiral out of control, ODing, or ending up on the streets with hallucinations, and knowing that the health insurance company that takes thousands of dollars out of your paycheck refused to treat them:

https://www.startribune.com/unitedhealthcare-will-pay-15-7m-in-settlement-of-denial-of-care-charges/600087607

Unsurprising, the internal culture at UHC is callous beyond belief. How could it not be? How could you go to work at UHC and know you were killing people and not dehumanize those victims? A lawsuit by chronically ill patient whom UHC had denied care for surfaced recorded phone calls in which UHC employees laughed long and hard about the denied claims, dismissing the patient's desperate, tearful pleas as "tantrums" :

https://www.propublica.org/article/unitedhealth-healthcare-insurance-denial-ulcerative-colitis

Those UHC workers are just trying to get by, of course, and the callouses they develop so they can bear to go to work were ripped off by last week's murder. UHC's executive team knows this, and has gone on a rampage to stop employees from leaking their own horror stories, or even mentioning that the internal company announcement of Thompson's death was seen by 16,000 employees, of whom only 28 left a comment:

https://www.kenklippenstein.com/p/unitedhealthcare-tells-employees

Doctors and nurses hate UHC on behalf of their patients, but it's also personal. UHC screws doctor's practices by refusing to pay them, making them chase payments for months or even years, and then it offers them a payday lending service that helps them keep the lights on while they wait to get paid:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frr4wuvAB6U

Is it any surprise that Reddit's nursing forums are full of nurses making grim, satisfied jokes about the assassination of the $10m/year CEO who ran the $400b/year corporation that does all this?

https://www.thedailybeast.com/leading-medical-subreddit-deletes-thread-on-unitedhealthcare-ceos-murder-after-users-slam-his-record/

We're not supposed to experience – much less express – schadenfreude when someone is murdered in the street, no matter who they are. We're meant to express horror at the idea of political violence, even when that violence only claims a single life, a fraction of the body count UCH produced under Thompson's direction. As Malcolm Harris put it, "'Every life is precious' stuff about a healthcare CEO whose company is noted for denying coverage is pretty silly":

https://twitter.com/BigMeanInternet/status/1864471932386623753

As Woody Guthrie wrote, "Some will rob you with a six-gun/And some with a fountain pen." The weapon is lethal when it's a pistol and when it's an insurance company. The insurance company merely serves as an accountability sink, a layer of indirection that lets a murder happen without any person being the technical murderer:

https://profilebooks.com/work/the-unaccountability-machine/

I don't want people to kill insurance executives, and I don't want insurance executives to kill people. But I am unsurprised that this happened. Indeed, I'm surprised that it took so long. It should not be controversial to note that if you run an institution that makes people furious, they will eventually become furious with you. This is the entire pitch of Thomas Piketty's Capital in the 21st Century: that wealth concentration leads to corruption, which is destabilizing, and in the long run it's cheaper to run a fair society than it is to pay for the guards you'll need to keep the guillotines off your lawn:

https://memex.craphound.com/2014/06/24/thomas-pikettys-capital-in-the-21st-century/

But we've spent the past 40 years running in the other direction, maximizing monopolies, inequality and corruption, and gaslighting the public when they insist that this is monstrous and unfair. Back in 2022, when UHC was buying Change Healthcare – the dominant payment network for hospitals, which would allow UHC to surveil all its competitors' payments – the DOJ sued to block the merger. The Trump-appointed judge in the case, Carl Nichols – who owned tens of thousands of dollars in UHC bonds – ruled against the DOJ, saying that it would all be fine thanks to United's "culture of trust and integrity":

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/the-antitrust-shooting-war-has-started

We don't know much about Thompson's killer yet, but he's already becoming a folk hero, with lookalike contests in NYC:

https://twitter.com/CollinRugg/status/1865472577478553976

And gigantic graffiti murals praising him and reproducing the words he wrote on the shell casings of the bullets he used to kill Thompson, "delay, deny, depose":

https://www.tumblr.com/radicalgraff/769193188403675136/killin-fuckin-ceos-freight-graff-in-the-bay

I get why this is distasteful. Thompson is said to have been a "family man" who loved his kids, and I have no reason to disbelieve this. I can only imagine that his wife and kids are shattered by this. Every living person is the apex of a massive project involving dozens, hundreds of people who personally worked to raise, nurture and love them. I wrote about this in my novel Walkaway, as the characters consider whether to execute a mercenary sent to kill them, whom they have taken hostage:

She had parents. People who loved her. Every human was a hyper-dense node of intense emotional and material investment. Speaking meant someone had spent thousands of hours cooing to you. Those lean muscles, the ringing tone of command — their inputs were from all over the world, carefully administered. The merc was more than a person: like a spaceship launch, her existence implied thousands of skilled people, generations of experts, wars, treaties, scholarship and supply-chain management. Every one of them was all that.

But so often, the formula for "folk hero" is "killing + time." The person who terrorizes the people who terrorize you is your hero, and eventually we sanitize the deaths, and just remember them as fighters for justice. If you doubt it, consider the legend of Robin Hood:

https://twitter.com/mcmansionhell/status/1865554985842352501

The health industry is trying to put a lid on this, palpably afraid that – as in my story "Radicalized" – this one murderer will become a folk hero who inspires others to acts of spectacular violence. They're insisting that it's unseemly to gloat about Thompson's death. They're right, but this is an obvious loser strategy. The health industry is full of people whose deaths would be deplorable, but not unsurprising. As Clarence Darrow had it:

I’ve never wished a man dead, but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure.

Murder is never the answer. Murder is not a healthy response to corruption. But it is healthy for people to fear that if they kill people for greed, they will be unsafe. On December 5 – the day after Thompson's killing – the health insurer Anthem announced that it would not pay for anesthesia for medical procedures that ran long. The next day, they retracted the policy, citing "outrage":

https://www.cnn.com/2024/12/05/health/anthem-blue-cross-blue-shield-anesthesia-claim-limits/index.html

Sure, maybe it was their fear of reputation damage that got them to decide to reverse this inhumane, disgusting, murderous policy. But maybe it was also someone in the C-suite thinking about what share of the profits from this policy would have to be spent on additional bodyguards for every Anthem exec if it went into effect, and decided that it was a money-loser after all.

Think about hospital exec Ralph de la Torre, who cheerfully testified to Congress that he'd killed patients in pursuit of profit. De la Torre clearly doesn't fear any kind of consequences for his actions. He owns hospitals that are filled with tens of thousands of bats (he stiffed the exterminators), where none of the elevators work (he stiffed the repair techs), where there's no medicine or blood (he stiffed the suppliers) and where the doctors and nurses can't make rent (he stiffed them too). De La Torre doesn't just own hospitals – he also owns a pair of superyachts:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/28/5000-bats/#charnel-house

It is a miracle that so many people have lost their mothers, sons, wives and husbands so Ralph de la Torre could buy himself another superyacht, and that those people live in a country where you can buy an assault rifle, and that Ralph de la Torre isn't forced to live in a bunker and travel in a tank.

It's a rather beautiful sort of miracle, to be honest. I like to think that it comes from a widespread belief by the people of this country I have since become a citizen of, that we should solve our problems politically, rather than with bullets.

But the assassination of Brian Thompson is a wake-up call, a warning that if we don't solve this problem politically, we may not have a choice about whether it's solved with violence. As a character in "Radicalized" says, "They say violence never solves anything, but to quote The Onion: that's only true so long as you ignore all of human history":

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2024-12-09-radicalized-cory-doctorow-story-health-care/

[punkshort]

Evergreen | Chapter One: Denial

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Chapter Summary: Tommy encourages Joel to join bereavement group counseling, where he meets you. You connect over a similar loss and the common thread of loneliness, leading to something unexpected for you both.

Chapter Warnings: grief, angst, mentions of OC deaths, mild references to: suicide, self harm, drug use (none by reader or Joel), language, panic/anxiety attack (Joel), Joel POV

WC: 8.8K

A/N: I've been working on this goddamn series since May. Sorry it's taken me so long to get around to it but I am committing to a posting schedule now that it is almost complete and I appreciate you all for being so patient. Hope you enjoy tons of fluff and softness and angst.

Series Masterlist

Joel's hands gripped the steering wheel as he stared blankly at the faded brick building connected to the small, run down parking lot. He watched as the clock ticked down to six in the evening, and with each passing minute a new car parked nearby or someone walked through the double doors. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he was surprised to see people of all ages streaming inside.

Then he saw a young woman with two children, one in each hand, neither of which could have been over seven years old, walk inside with watery eyes and he dropped his gaze to his lap in shame.

Mia had been gone for nearly ten years. He had no business being there. His grief wasn't fresh. Over the years, he's learned to cope with it, to live alongside it. The people who were there that night needed the support.

Joel didn't need support. He was just lonely.

He reached for his key, still dangling in the ignition, when his phone rang. With a sigh, he patted down the front of his jeans until he located his phone, then lifted his hips off the worn seat with a grunt so he could fish it out.

"Yeah?"

"You better not be thinkin' 'bout leavin'."

Joel swiveled around in alarm, searching the parking lot for his brother's truck, but all he saw were the last few stragglers hurriedly walking up to the front doors, the anguish practically weighing them down as they moved.

"You watchin' me now?"

Tommy chuckled on the other end.

"Nah, I'm at home. I just know you."

Joel rolled his eyes as the clock ticked to 6:01 on the dash.

"This is stupid, Tommy."

"It ain't stupid. It's been almost ten years and you've never looked twice at another woman. You can tell me you've moved on or that you're fine, but I'm not buying your bullshit," Tommy said sternly on the other end. "I don't think you ever gave yourself a chance to process what happened and it's important you do that. For your mental health and all that."

"Maria tell you to say that?" Joel scoffed, but still unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door.

"Maybe. Don't matter who said it, it's true."

"Fine. I'm walkin' in now, I'll call you later," Joel said, then hung up without waiting for a reply.

The building wasn't very big. From the lobby, Joel could hear a male's voice making what sounded like brief introductions as he strolled quickly down the hall. He rested his hand on the push bar and took a deep breath. Right as he was about to enter, he heard someone else's light footsteps jogging up behind him. He turned around as you approached, a little breathless and with a guilty smile.

"Oh, good, I'm not the only one who's late," you said, nodding towards the door.

"Uh, yeah," Joel said, clearing his throat softly, "we can share the heat," he joked, opening the door and stepping aside so you could walk through first. You shot him a grateful look and mouthed thank you before entering the room.

The group all turned their heads at the disruption, as expected, but the counselor waved them in with a warm smile.

"Welcome! Have a seat, we were just getting started."

Joel found the first empty chair he could, in the very last row closest to the door. You glanced around the room before sliding into the same row as him, just a few seats down.

"As I was saying, welcome to the grief and loss support group. I'm Dr. Harris, but please feel free to call me Ryan."

Ryan was young. Definitely under forty. Something about that irked Joel. He imagined this man going to school to learn how to be caring, how to listen and say all the right words at the right time so he could make a decent paycheck and call himself doctor while he went home to his wife and picket fence and his patients went home with a gaping hole in their hearts.

"There is no wrong way to grieve," Ryan was saying from the podium with a practiced look of solemnity. "All of you are here for different reasons. And while you may look around here and think nobody else could possibly understand what you are feeling, I am here to tell you that you are simply wrong." Ryan took a moment to let his words settle over the group before continuing. "We have all lost somebody in our lives. That is the common thread that weaves us all together. And I'm here to tell you to use it." Ryan clenched his fists for emphasis and Joel had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. "Lean on each other. Listen to one another. This is a safe space. Nobody will judge you here, no matter what you may think, everybody in this room is here for the same reason."

After what felt like an eternity, Ryan invited the people in the room to approach the podium to speak, no longer than ten minutes, he had said, reminding everyone that their time was limited and they always could speak again at the next meeting.

One by one, people trickled up to the front of the room. First it was an elderly woman who explained with tears in her eyes that her husband of forty years passed away a month ago.

"It sounds silly," she sniffled, "but it feels like I'm... untethered. Like I lost my connection to this world when he left and I'm scared I might just... float away."

Next was a man around Joel's age who visibly struggled to hold back his tears about his late sister.

"I just keep reminding myself I didn't cause it, I can't control it, can't undo it. I'm really mad at myself for not paying attention to the warning signs. She was struggling, y'know?" His glassy eyes addressed the group briefly before he cast his gaze back down. "The best thing I can do is try to rebuild. Don't let the anguish fester. Don't let it consume me. Because she wouldn't want that."

After that, a girl no older than twenty, arms and neck covered in tattoos walked to the front. "She was my best friend since we were eight. And I know it's my fault, I know it is," she choked out, tears slipping down her cheeks. "I gave her her first hit. I could see she was falling too deep into it and I didn't try to help her, I was too focused on my own shit and not seeing what was right in front of me. To this day, I can't look her mom in the eye-" the girl hung her head and took a moment to gather herself. Chairs squeaked as the group patiently waited for her to continue. "But I'm clean and sober almost six months now," she said with a watery smile. A small round of applause broke out amongst the group and she nodded her thanks. "I'm thinking about going to school for social work. Maybe I can honor her memory in some way."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw you cross and uncross your legs nervously but made no move to walk to the front.

Same as him.

When the clock on the wall ticked closer to seven, Ryan addressed the group one final time.

"I'll stick around in case anybody wants to have a talk after group. Just a reminder that I'm only here once a week, but my esteemed colleague, Grace, runs another group on Tuesdays, so please feel free to stop by one or both. I also left some cards in the back next to the coffee. My information is on there if you would like a one on one appointment and on the back is the crisis hotline. Please take one, you never know when you may need it."

The room collectively seemed to stand, a murmur rippling through the group as people began to softly speak again, reaching out to neighbors, either introducing themselves or catching up from the last session. Joel scratched at his chin and looked around the room as people continued to filter around. Some paired off to grab coffee, some went to talk to Ryan, but Joel just stood there. All alone.

He took a deep breath and headed for the back, then lingered at the small stack of business cards Ryan had mentioned. He picked one up and flipped it over, studying it, when he heard a soft voice behind him.

"Excuse me," you said, and he swiveled around in surprise.

"Oh, sorry," he replied, stepping to the side so you could reach the coffee. He pretended to look at the card but watched as you filled up a cup. He waited for you to add cream or sugar but you didn't. You lifted the cup to your lips and took a tentative sip before recoiling at the heat and doing it again.

"That, uh, any good?"

Your eyes locked onto his and you shrugged. "'Bout what you'd expect."

He smiled and looked around the room, fidgeting with the edge of the card before sliding it into his pocket. "This your first session, too?"

You shook your head and stepped aside, a little closer to him, so others could get to the coffee. "I've been coming here almost two months."

That surprised Joel. Based on the way the rest of the group seemed familiar with each other, he had suspected the two of you were both new.

"Two months? Wow," Joel said, "how's it workin' out for you, if you don't mind my askin'?"

You sighed and gave him a little smile.

"Some days are better than others. But I figure it doesn't hurt, so..." you trailed off and crossed your arms, your fingertips tapping against the paper cup. "My mom begged me to come, so I did. I think it makes her believe she's helping in some way by pushing it and I grew tired of feeling like an emotional burden."

Joel frowned. "I'm sure that ain't true. No parent thinks their kid is an emotional burden."

You chuckled and drained the rest of your cup. "You'd be surprised." You tossed the cup into the trash before giving him a brighter smile. Although expressing your emotions was the entire reason you were there, you still felt uncomfortable doing it. "So this was your first time? What did you think?"

"Jury's still out," Joel replied honestly. "Promised my brother I would give it a try, same as you. My daughter just went off to college last month and I think he and his wife are worried 'bout me bein' all alone for the first time in, well... forever, I suppose." His lips pursed in thought for a moment. "Feels kinda like I don't belong here. My wife passed almost ten years ago. I've learned to live with it by now. It ain't as raw as all that-" he gestured up to the podium, referencing all the individuals who poured their hearts out for the past hour. Then he realized he was rambling and chuckled. "Sorry. Can't seem to shut up." He looked at you sheepishly and you smiled back.

"That's good. That's what you're supposed to do here," you assured him, then took a deep breath. "I lost my fiancé a year ago, so I can relate... kind of."

"I'm sorry," he said, furrowing his brow and examining your face. "You're so young, you shouldn't know what that feels like at your age."

"Not that young. I'm thirty-one," you joked. He laughed and rubbed his chin.

"Well I got twenty years on you, seems pretty young to me."

"You're fifty-one?" you asked, and he nodded. "You look good, I wouldn't have guessed a day over..." you trailed off as you studied his face and he grinned.

"Go ahead, be honest."

"Forty-three," you decided, and Joel laughed. When was the last time he felt this lighthearted?

"Well that's the nicest thing I've heard all week," he replied. The room began to thin out and you shifted your weight.

"Well, I guess I should get going," you told him, almost sounding regretful. Then you pinched your eyebrows together. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Joel," he said, sticking an arm out to shake your hand. You gave him a warm smile before telling him your name, your hand getting dwarfed by his thick, rough fingers.

"Will I see you next week, Joel?"

"Yeah," he replied, walking out with you and holding open the door. "I'll give it another chance."

"Good. I mean, you know, I'm glad you're giving it another chance," you found yourself inexplicably stumbling over your words and before your face began to heat up you veered off towards your car with a quick wave.

Joel's eyes trailed after you for a minute before he opened the door to his truck and climbed inside. He absentmindedly rubbed his thumb against his lower lip, lost in thought while he stared straight ahead at the emptying parking lot. Then you drove by in a higher end white SUV and he watched as you took a right turn out of the lot and disappeared down the road. He sighed and started his truck, realizing he was one of the last cars in the lot, and decided to stop at a fast food drive thru on the way home.

"Uncle Tommy told me you went to a grief support group the other day, how did it go?" Sarah asked him over FaceTime. He pushed the lever on his recliner and leaned back into the chair with a grunt.

"S'alright," he mumbled.

"Did you share anything?"

"No."

"Well, why not?"

"'Cause, baby girl, these people just lost someone close to 'em. I can't get up there and talk 'bout your mama, it's been so long-"

"That doesn't matter," she said, interrupting him. He could hear other kids in the background laughing but she remained focused on her screen. "I don't think you've ever really processed Mom's death and it's important to me that you try. I worry about you, old man," she teased, and Joel grinned.

"No need to worry 'bout me, I'm stayin' busy."

"Yeah, doing what? And don't tell me you're eating frozen meals and watching baseball because it'll break my heart."

Joel's eyes drifted to the empty plastic tray on the coffee table.

"No," he said gruffly. "Ain't baseball season. I'm watchin' basketball."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Dad," she whined, "what about your friends? The guys from work?"

He didn't have the heart to tell her they were busy with their families, with their wives, so he lied.

"Yeah, I'm gonna get together with Jimmy later this week. Gonna shoot some pool."

"That sounds great!" Sarah exclaimed, her face instantly brightening. Her eyes snapped up to someone behind her phone and she grinned, holding up one finger, then looked back at him. "Listen, Dad, I gotta run. I promised a few friends I would go to the football game with them."

"Oh, so you'll watch football with your friends and not me?" he teased, and she giggled. "Alright then, text me when you get back home safe."

"I will. I love you."

No matter how many times he heard it, those words always warmed his heart.

"Love you too, baby girl."

The call ended and he set his phone down with a sigh. Sarah was right. He couldn't waste away in his house all alone, waiting for her to come home to visit or for Tommy and Maria to come by for dinner. He needed to get a hobby. He glanced outside then looked at the time before turning off the television and pushing himself out of his recliner with a groan. He shuffled down the hall to his bedroom to change out of his old sweatpants and ratty tshirt, then snatched his keys off the kitchen counter and headed out to the driveway.

He drove aimlessly through town, his window down with his arm hanging out, soaking up the sun's rays. Kids were playing on the sidewalks and people were walking their dogs or pushing strollers. Everyone just seemed so... happy. Content.

Maybe he should get a dog.

Maybe he should start with a fish, first.

He jumped on the highway and cruised with one hand on the steering wheel. Hank Williams crooned from the radio and Joel took a deep, relaxing breath. He was coming up on the exit for the mall. Sarah loved dragging him to the mall. A smile played on his lips and he figured why not.

He veered off the highway and slowed when he approached the red light, the mall parking lot straight ahead. It didn't look terribly busy. With the weather as nice as it was, he imagined most people would be spending their time outside.

Joel found a good spot right out front. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and walked inside through the Macy's. A blast of freezing cold air conditioning hit him like a ton of bricks, cooling the sweat that was collecting on the back of his neck. He managed to make his way through the maze of the department store and entered the mall itself. There were a few groups of girls around Sarah's age giggling and carrying shopping bags and the random couple here or there walking into William Sonoma or Brookstone.

When he passed by the food court, he saw a few solitary older men sipping coffee and reading the paper or people watching. Joel huffed under his breath, wondering who on earth would come to the mall just to read a paper until he realized he was no better.

Was he going to become just like them one day? Would he come to the mall to nurse a coffee just so he wouldn't feel so alone? The thought had his throat closing up.

He paused and leaned against a railing overlooking the bottom floor of the mall, pretending to be looking for someone when in reality he was struggling to breathe. His heart was fluttering too fast in his chest and his vision was narrowing.

"Shit," he whispered to himself, rubbing his eyes and trying to focus on taking deep breaths. It was like reality crashed down around him all at once: Sarah was moved out of the house. Tommy was happily married. And Joel was going to die all alone.

He gasped and blinked, trying to clear his head and mentally talk himself down, but it was no use. He leaned forward a bit to rest his forehead on the cool, stainless steel railing but his knees began to buckle. Just when he thought he would need to stop someone and beg them to call an ambulance, he heard someone say his name, temporarily snapping him out of his daze.

"Are you okay?" you asked, the smile slipping from your face when you noticed how flush he looked. He could only manage to shake his head. Without hesitating, you wrapped an arm around his shoulders and helped him stand, then glanced around. Spotting an empty bench, you led him over and helped him sit. You rubbed your palm over his upper back soothingly and sat next to him, reminding him to breathe deeply until his vision cleared and he felt his strength return.

"Christ," he mumbled. He sat up and leaned back so the back of his head rested on the bench and stretched his long legs out. "Thank you," he added, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"No problem," you said, "is everything okay?"

"Yeah. Or, no. I don't know," he sighed, dropping his hand from his face. "I think it just hit me all at once."

You slid over on the bench to give him more room. "What hit you all at once?"

"That my little girl is growin' up and -" he stopped himself, the words and I'm all alone getting trapped in his throat. "And I just miss her, is all."

You slowly nodded and glanced around the mall. "What does she like?"

He smiled. "Clothes. Music. Makeup. Books."

"What kind of books?"

"The fantasy kind. Y'know, like Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter."

A huge grin spread across your face. "Follow me, I have an idea," you said, standing up and looking down at him before you realized you might have overstepped. "I mean, unless you're-"

"No, let's go," he replied, standing up and stretching out an arm for you to lead the way. He fell in step next to you as you led him down towards the other end of the mall and after a few minutes, he realized where you were leading him.

"The bookstore?"

"Yep," you said cheerily, shooting him a playful grin. "Trust me."

And he did.

"There's some really incredible series out there right now. Why don't we pick one out, you can read it and share it with her so you guys have something to do together from a distance? Do you know if she's read The Word of the Heir? That's by an incredibly talented author who actually got the idea when she was only seven years old," you told him excitedly, leading him deep into the bookstore, dodging tables and displays until you made it to the fantasy section. Joel slowed down and looked around, his panic attack slipping further and further from his mind.

"Uh, I ain't sure," he replied as you held up the book. You tucked it under your arm and began to look again.

"How about Empire of Kings? I haven't read that one but the author is relatively new and I've heard he's an extremely talented storyteller."

Joel shrugged, again unsure what Sarah may or may not have read. All of the titles sounded so foreign to him until his eyes landed on the spine of a thick, hardcover book.

"Oh, this one sounds familiar," he said, plucking it from the shelf. "The Crimson Stone. I think she wanted to read this but I don't think she ever finished it. It's a series-"

"Yeah, I know that one," you told him quietly. He glanced down at the book again and read the author's name.

"Daniel Davis, ain't this the guy who died in that bad wreck downtown?" Joel mumbled as he flipped the book over in his hands to read the back. You nodded. "Maybe I'll get this one."

"Don't waste your money, I can give it to you for free," you said, gently taking it from his hands. You ran your palm distractedly over the cover before flipping it open and looking at the tiny black and white photo of the author on the inside jacket. "This was my fiancé," you added, your voice thick. Joel's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Shit," he mumbled. "I-I'm sorry, his name just sounded familiar, I remember it from the paper..." he trailed off, floundering for what to say to comfort you. Why couldn't he fucking think?

"It's okay," you told him, waving him off, but the guilt still laid heavy in his chest. "There's no way you would have known." You slowly closed the book, giving the picture one more glance, and handed it back to him. "But really, if you want to read them I have tons of copies just sitting around. He had a few other books outside of this series, as well, if you guys wanted them."

Joel's eyebrows knit together. "I don't wanna take your books. They gotta have sentimental value or somethin'."

"No, seriously, I have boxes of them just sitting there. He was in the middle of signing copies for readings he was supposed to do before-" you stopped yourself and cleared your throat. "Anyway. I can bring them to group next week or you can come by the house and look through them yourself if you like."

Joel nodded and nervously chewed the inside of his cheek. "Do you wanna talk 'bout it?"

You looked up at him then, all wide eyed and filled with so much sadness that it made his chest ache. No one so young and pretty should have to go through so much pain. Your eyes drifted over his face for a moment, quietly studying him before responding. "Yeah. I kind of do."

Joel looked over his shoulder and spotted the café across from the bookstore. "You wanna get a coffee and find a quiet bench or somethin'?"

"That sounds nice," you replied, so he put the books back on the shelf and walked out into the mall. He spotted a bench near an empty storefront and he told you to go have a seat with the promise of bringing you back something to drink. There wasn't a line at the counter. He couldn't imagine many people wanted coffee that late in the day, so it only took a few minutes before the barista slid the two cups of black coffee across the counter and he met you back at the bench.

"Black, right?"

You smiled and gingerly took the cup. "Yeah, how did you know?"

"From group the other day," he replied, then sat down with a grunt. You sat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, each of you letting your coffees cool before you spoke.

"I usually don't talk about it. Every week I tell myself I'm gonna go up to that podium and pour my heart out and every week I chicken out."

Joel didn't say a word. He learned early on with Sarah when she was upset, she just wanted someone to listen to her. So that's exactly what he did. He sipped his coffee and just listened. And before you even realized it, you were telling him everything.

You began by telling him Daniel was from Austin but you met in Portland, where you grew up. For a while, the two of you tried doing a long-distance relationship, but once you were finished with school you took him up on the offer to move in with him in Texas. Shortly thereafter, he proposed and you had spent the last year of his life planning your dream wedding. The night of the accident, you had been touring a venue an hour outside the city. It was dark when you finished up and drove back home.

Daniel didn't do anything wrong. You insisted Joel knew that first.

A truck driver had fallen asleep at the wheel and ran a light, completely crushing the driver's side and killing Daniel instantly. Somehow, you had only come out of the accident with a small concussion and a badly bruised chest from the seatbelt.

"Jesus," Joel muttered when you exhaled a shaky breath. "I'm sorry, darlin'. That's some fucked up shit." His eyes widened and he straightened up in his seat. "Shit, sorry for cursin'... twice." He scratched the back of his head uncomfortably and a slow smile spread across your face. He nearly jumped out of his skin when you burst out laughing.

"Thank you," you said in between giggles. He grinned, confused but happy you were laughing and not crying. "I needed that. And you're right, it was some fucked up shit."

Joel chuckled and took a sip from his coffee. He heard his phone ring so he pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen before silencing the call and putting his phone away.

"You can take it," you said, wiping a stray tear from your eye and jutting your chin towards his phone.

"Just my brother. I'll call him back later."

"Ah, the infamous brother that made you go to group?"

"The very same."

"Younger or older?"

"Younger, but the way he bosses me 'round you'd never know it," Joel said with a grin.

"He's probably just looking out for you."

"He knows I'm feelin' especially lonely without Sarah. Sarah's my daughter, by the way," he said, pulling his phone out and showing you his lock screen: it was a selfie of him and Sarah on the beach, Joel looked red as a lobster and Sarah's hair looked tangled from the wind but there was no denying the happiness in both their eyes.

"She's beautiful," you said warmly. He smiled and put his phone away.

"Got that from her mama."

"I don't know, I see a little bit of you in her smile," you teased, bumping up against his shoulder playfully. He rolled his eyes but didn't argue.

"What I'm tryin' to say is, I can relate a bit to what you're goin' through. Y'know, losin' a partner and feelin' like you got no one left," he said. You took a deep breath.

"Yeah, sounds like you do."

Joel nervously picked at his jeans, trying to figure out the right way to say what he wanted to say without sounding like an old creep, but before he could open his mouth, you spoke first.

"Maybe we can hang out together and keep each other company?" you offered. He turned his head and grinned.

"I was 'bout to suggest the same thing."

"Really?" you asked, looking as relieved as he felt. He nodded.

"Sounds like we both could use a friend."

Something in your expression shifted. It was too quick. He couldn't pinpoint it but whatever it was disappeared, leaving behind a genuine smile.

"I would really like that, Joel."

"What the hell? You couldn't call me back yesterday?" Tommy scolded when he marched into the small, messy office the following morning. Joel glanced up from behind his desk; papers, a calculator and a pencil scattered about in front of him. He took his reading glasses off with a sigh, abandoning his work. He hated doing the administrative part of his job. He always preferred to be on site or meeting with clients.

"I was busy."

"Busy?" Tommy repeated before collapsing in the worn out chair across from him.

"Yeah, busy. I was... with a friend," Joel mumbled, trying to sound nonchalant but Tommy's ears perked up.

"A friend? Who?"

Joel shrugged. "Someone I met at that group you made me go to."

Tommy's eyes lit up. "Hey, that's great. See? I knew it'd be good for you. What's his name?"

Joel pursed his lips before softly saying your name and Tommy raised an eyebrow.

"A woman? That's even better, Joel."

"It ain't like that-"

"'Course not," Tommy said, "I'm just sayin' it's a step in the right direction."

"She's too young," Joel said defensively, giving Tommy pause.

"Okay..."

"We're just friends. She ain't from 'round here, ain't got anyone in Texas."

Tommy frowned as he watched Joel shift uncomfortably in his chair, wondering what made his brother get so sensitive, so he chose to tread lightly.

"So you're keepin' each other company. That's nice."

"Yeah," Joel said, standing up with a grunt and rubbing his lower back before he snatched his coat from the wall. "Ready to go?"

"Sure," Tommy said, standing to follow Joel out of the office. While he locked the door behind him, Tommy couldn't help but ask, "How young is too young?"

"Thirty-one," Joel replied, fishing the keys out of his pocket.

Tommy shrugged, falling in step next to his brother as they walked towards the parking lot. "Sounds like an adult to me," he muttered, but Joel chose to ignore it. "When are you seein' her again?"

"End of the week," Joel replied before climbing into the truck.

"Friday?"

"Yeah, after work. We were gonna order some dinner and look through some books she's tryin' to get rid of."

The corner of Tommy's mouth twitched. "So, like a date?"

"It ain't a date," Joel said firmly, his jaw set as he pulled out of the parking lot and began to drive in the direction of the first worksite. "She's mourin' the loss of her husband, it's not a date."

"Husband?" Tommy repeated, then Joel shook his head, growing flustered.

"Fiancé. Not husband."

"When did he pass?"

Joel thought back to what you told him the night you first met. "A year ago."

Tommy hummed and looked out the window, tapping his fingers against the car door in rhythm with the beat from the radio. Joel side eyed him while they sat in silence for a few minutes before he rolled his eyes and sighed. "What?" Joel asked with an edge to his voice.

"A year's a long time, is all."

"She's in grief therapy, Tommy. She's in pain and tryin' to come to terms with it. Quit makin' it sound like somethin' it ain't."

"Just 'cause she's in grief therapy don't mean she ain't ready to move on-"

"Goddamnit, this is the last time I tell you anythin'," Joel grumbled as he made a left hand turn. Tommy hid a smile behind his hand and looked out the window.

"Alright, no need to get all defensive on me now."

Joel opened his mouth to argue but quickly snapped it shut. The more he pushed back just gave Tommy more ammunition. Besides, he knew the truth. You were looking for a friend, someone who could relate to what you were going through. There was absolutely no way you were interested in a man twenty years older than you. The thought was so absurd it almost made him laugh. You were young and beautiful and charming and you had your whole life ahead of you.

No, surely Tommy was wrong.

When Joel pulled up to your house, his eight year old truck the noisiest thing on the whole block, he let out a low whistle and threw it into park, deciding at the last second to keep his car on the street for fear of leaving an oil stain or something on your pristine concrete driveway. He sat in his truck for a moment, taking in the monumental Victorian house before him. He recognized it from his youth, but back then the siding was chipped and the windows were foggy, in desperate need of replacing. He always admired houses like yours and part of his heart broke whenever he saw one fall into such a state of disrepair that it was beyond saving, but not yours. No, at some point in the past ten years, the house was upgraded but managed to maintain the original charm.

There was fresh siding and new windows installed, the insides framed in what looked like delicate lace curtains, complimenting the style of the house. The roof looked like it had been replaced and the front door looked new, but the original architecture remained. He could easily tell whoever bought the house took great care with it, and the contractor in him breathed a sigh of relief that it didn't fall into the wrong hands, or god forbid, a flipper.

When he walked up your driveway towards the small stone path that led to your front door, he slowed to look at the garden that flourished in front of the wraparound porch. It was a beautiful mix of wildflowers and hedges, and while wildflowers had a tendency to look messy and unkept, you somehow managed to make it look neat and well put together. Fat, fuzzy bumblebees bounced drunkenly from flower to flower and as he climbed the wooden steps, a hummingbird buzzed past his ear, spooked by his presence.

He pressed the button to your doorbell, noting you chose not to install one of those camera doorbells and for some reason, that bothered him. Normally he wasn't a huge fan of technology, but you were all alone in this big house. You needed to be safe, to be careful. Your house was in a nice neighborhood, but that didn't necessarily mean anything.

The door swung open and you greeted him barefoot with a warm smile before stepping aside to let him in. You were wearing a loose tshirt that hung off one shoulder and he chastised himself when his eyes traveled down your tight fitting jeans to your ass as he followed you into your home.

He shrugged his reaction off to just typical male instinct and forced his focus onto the lovely foyer surrounding him as he slid off his boots. Polished cherry wainscoting lined the walls and his eyes widened when he noticed the small tiles in the shape of little octagons below his feet.

"Is this original?" he asked you in disbelief as he pointed to the ground. Your gaze followed his finger and you nodded.

"We tried to keep everything original, if we could," you explained.

"Wow," he breathed as he stepped forward into the hallway, his eyes unable to keep up with how fast his brain was operating. His gaze slid over the original hardwood floors of the hallway, fresh wallpaper, and wide, polished staircase with a plush carpet installed in the center of the steps. Much to his delight, you chose to furnish the house to match the style, as well. Antique fixtures hung from the ceiling and a real wood table was pushed against the wall. A small lamp sat on top with a stained glass Tiffany shade, and next to it was a pile of mail and a framed photograph he tried not to examine too closely out of respect.

"This way," you said over your shoulder, and he followed you blindly deeper into the house. You pushed open a swinging door that led into your kitchen, and for the first time since arriving, his nose was the first of his senses to respond instead of his eyes.

It smelled absolutely heavenly. He had no idea what you were cooking but his mouth instantly watered at the smell of garlic and salt and some kind of meat.

He swallowed and hoped his stomach wouldn't growl and embarrass him.

"Thought we were gonna order somethin'?" he asked as he watched you hurry over to the stove to stir something.

"Oh, I hope you don't mind, but I felt like cooking," you replied without looking. He glanced around the room, noticing you chose to update the counters and cabinets to look more modern, but kept the original flooring.

"Mind? Are you kiddin' me? Haven't had anythin' decent to eat since Sarah left for college."

Memories of fast food drive thrus and frozen dinners flashed before his eyes as he watched you turn off the burners on the stove. You opened a cupboard and stretched on your tiptoes to reach a bowl, the hem of your shirt riding up ever so slightly and revealing a small sliver of skin on your back and suddenly, his mouth was watering for an entirely different reason.

Stop it.

"Need some help?" he offered, and you fell back onto the flats of your feet, shooting him a nod and smile. He didn't mean to, but he reached up from behind you for the serving bowl, his front brushing gently against your back, and your shoulders tensed. Shit.

"Sorry, here ya go," he said, handing you the bowl and immediately giving you some space, not catching the glimmer of disappointment in your eyes.

"Thank you," you murmured shyly. He watched you spoon vegetables into the bowl for a moment, grabbing random jars of seasoning and sprinkling them on top before stirring it up, and he finally remembered his manners.

"Can I help?"

"No, no, I got it," you insisted, waving him toward a door on the other side of the kitchen. "Go sit down, I'll be right out."

He wandered over to the propped open door and entered your dining room. Pausing for a moment, he admired the chandelier above the table that looked old but the brass had been polished and the crystals cleaned. The drop ceiling was even remarkable: squares of textured patterns that repeated across the whole room, adding a whole other layer of elegance to the already impressive first floor. His eyes drifted to the dark wood table, where two spots were already set across from each other. He pulled out a chair and sat down, shifting his weight a bit and noting the chairs must have been recently reupholstered based on how firm the cushion was underneath him. You breezed in after him, hardly giving him enough time to take in the elaborate fireplace and mantle at the end of the room, and began to set down plates of food. His eyes bugged out of his head when he saw fresh, fried chicken and whipped mashed potatoes.

"You didn't have to go through all the trouble," he assured you, but you smirked at the way he stared at the chicken, the aroma from the breading overpowering his senses.

"It wasn't any trouble, I like to cook," you replied, disappearing into the kitchen to grab the vegetables and a basket of fresh rolls before finally joining him at the table.

Joel spread the cloth napkin over his lap, using every ounce of self control to stop himself from devouring everything in sight. He glanced up at you and you grinned.

"Go ahead, help yourself."

You watched with a small smile on your face as he loaded up his plate, then played with your own food until he took his first bite of chicken. He froze, his mouth full, and stared at you in awe before he dropped the chicken leg on his plate and leaned back, a deep, appreciative moan rumbling from his chest, making your thighs squeeze together under the table.

"Goddamn," he said once he swallowed. "That's the best fried chicken I've ever had in my entire life, darlin'."

You giggled and finally took a dainty bite of your own before nodding in agreement. "It's not bad."

Joel scoffed and took another bite. "Don't sell yourself short, now. I know what I'm talkin' 'bout. What'd you put in this?"

He listened, completely enraptured, as you explained how you soaked the chicken in buttermilk the day before and all of the seasonings you used in the breading.

"Oh! I almost forgot the lemonade," you said, standing back up and rushing into the kitchen, returning with two cold glasses and setting them down on the placemats. He nodded his thanks, mouth still full, and you giggled again.

You were already planning on packing up all the leftovers so he could take it home, but you still encouraged him to have as much as he wanted while it was warm and fresh.

"Did you make the rolls, too?" he asked after he took a bite.

You laughed and shook your head. "No, I'm not that good. I bought them this morning from a local bakery I like around the corner."

You had finished your meal long before he did, watching with your chin in your palm as he went back for seconds, reveling in the noises and compliments he made with practically each bite.

"Here, have some more," you told him, nudging the plate of chicken in his direction, but he leaned back in the chair and shook his head. "I can't, but everythin' was delicious. Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'm thrilled to cook for someone again," you replied with a sad smile before standing up and picking up your plate. He immediately stood and began to collect the rest, but you waved him back down.

"Sit, sit, I still have dessert," you told him, and based on the way he looked at you in that moment you would have put money down that he could be knocked over with a feather.

"Oh, darlin', you did too much," he replied, immediately flooding with guilt that he didn't even bring wine or flowers.

"Stop! I told you, I like doing it and I never get a chance to anymore, so please, sit down and I'll be right back."

Begrudgingly, he did as he was told and, while listening to you in the kitchen, peered out the back window at the meticulously kept grounds. Your house, like you, was absolutely beautiful. It felt like stumbling across an oasis in the middle of the desert.

You reappeared in the dining room with a bowl of diced, sugared strawberries and a plate of warm biscuits. He watched in stunned silence as you fixed him a plate, spooning the strawberries on top of a fresh shortcake, but told him to wait a moment before hurrying back into the kitchen and returning with a small bowl of homemade whipped cream.

Joel thought he died and went to heaven.

He could tell you didn't want to hear him complain that it was too much, so instead he lavished your baking with praise and thanks, both of which seemed to make your eyes shine bright and your lips remain curled into a smile the whole time.

"You're taking the leftovers home, too," you warned him once you finally allowed him to help bring things back into the kitchen. You were packing everything up nice and neat in matching Tupperware containers and stacking everything into a paper bag. As much as he wanted to decline, he really wanted your leftovers more, so he continued to thank you as he began to wash the dishes in your farmhouse sink. You had tried to fight him on it, but he finally wore you down and won. Stubborn little thing, he thought.

After dinner was cleaned up, you led him back down the hall and up the wide staircase, explaining that the books were all housed in a den at the top of the stairs, but when you opened the door to the room, den seemed like too small a word for it.

It was gorgeous, plain and simple. The cherry wainscoting continued in this room with a dark green wallpaper to accent the wood. All along the wall were antique sconces lighting up floor to ceiling bookcases stuffed full of literature. On the back wall was a large, heavy looking desk with a wingback velvet chair. The desk itself had books and papers scattered about, as if someone were in the middle of something and was rudely interrupted, but based on the layer of dust, he had to imagine nobody had sat there in some time.

And then it hit him: this was your fiancé's office.

A laptop sat open and turned off on the corner of the desk, along with a dusty printer behind the chair on the carpeted floor. He noticed what had to have been manuscripts of some kind based on the lack of coverings on the bound papers piling up next to the printer.

He was an author. This is where he worked.

That was when Joel realized you had been suspiciously quiet. He turned towards you, his eyes scanning your face, studying it. Your arms were wrapped around your middle as you stared blankly at the desk.

"We don't gotta do this today," he said softly, snapping you out of your reverie.

"No, it's okay," you replied, your voice so small it nearly broke his heart. You turned and walked toward the corner of the room, opposite the desk, where a small couch and coffee table sat. A few cardboard boxes were stacked nearby, two of which remained unopened, one recklessly torn into. You started with that one.

"Here," you said, pulling out a few books and handing them out. He stepped forward and took them, looking down at the covers and the beautiful artwork that adorned them. "These are the first trilogy, you should probably read them first before the next. They're different stories but they inevitably weave together so it'll make more sense if you-" you paused, your voice getting caught in your throat, and that's when he realized you had been fighting back tears.

"Hey, it's okay," he told you gently, putting the books down on the coffee table and carefully touching your shoulder, urging you to sit on the couch. After a moment's hesitation, you did, and he sat beside you. "This was too fast. I'll leave these here and maybe one day, when you're feelin' up to it, we can try again."

You looked up at him, eyes watering, and shook your head.

"No, take these now. I have more, I have tons, actually," you said, nodding towards the unopened boxes. "I just haven't come in here since he died and I didn't think it would be this hard." You wiped furiously at your cheeks, trying to hide your anguish.

Joel's heart thundered in his chest. He rubbed your back, trying to offer you a glimmer of comfort while he glanced around the room. "Maybe it was too soon," he offered again.

"No, it's been a year, Joel. I needed to do this." You took a deep breath and gave him a shaky smile. "Thank you. I know this is probably more than you expected-"

"Nah, hey, none of that, now," he cooed, mindlessly petting your hair. "If you needed someone to be here for this, I'm glad you picked me, okay?"

You sniffled and nodded, quietly thanking him again before taking another deep breath and exhaling with a nervous laugh as you looked around the room with him.

"Can I ask you something?"

"'Course," he replied.

"How long did it take for you to move on after your wife passed?"

He chewed the inside of his cheek as he thought about it, his fingers still playing with the ends of your soft hair as he slowly rubbed your back. "Well, hard to say. She was sick for a long time so I think I had time to come to terms with it before she died, y'know?" You nodded and listened to him, hanging on his every word and inadvertently leaning into his gentle touch. "Then I had Sarah to worry 'bout and, I don't know, time just... passed me by." He chuckled dryly for a moment before continuing. "My brother thinks I never got over it, Sarah thinks I never processed it, but they only think that 'cause I never dated anyone else."

Your eyes widened in surprise at his confession.

"Never?"

He shook his head and gave you a lopsided grin. "Been busy, I guess."

"But aren't you... lonely?"

He sucked in a sharp breath and cast his gaze to the floor. How did you manage to see right through him so quickly? Was it the common ground or something else?

"Wasn't too bad til Sarah left," he admitted, "but now... yeah. Yeah, it's lonely."

You scanned his face, watching the flicker of sadness in his eyes he tried to hide from you, and you inched a bit closer.

"I'm glad we found each other, Joel," you whispered. His eyes found yours again and he smiled.

"Me, too, sweetheart."

Then, without giving it another thought, you leaned forward and pressed a kiss against his lips. It was so tender and soft it felt like he was on the bus in fifth grade and Christine Murphy was giving him his fist kiss all over again while kids in nearby seats teased them with sing-song voices.

You pulled back and looked into his eyes, searching for any hesitation but all you must have seen was confusion because you leaned forward again, kissing him with a little more emotion, your small hand coming up to cup his greying, prickly jaw. You tasted like strawberries and lemonade and you smelled like vanilla and it was making every neuron in his brain fire all at the same time, to the point where his body had no idea what to do but remain frozen.

It was when your tongue first slipped past your lips and flicked nervously over the seam of his mouth that he finally came crashing down to earth. He sat back, breaking the kiss and holding you by the shoulders, staring deeply into your eyes. You were both panting slightly, probably from the excitement and adrenaline, as he tried to figure out what to say, what to do. You were in a fragile state, he decided. You made a mistake, the moment got away from you both and it didn't mean anything. It couldn't mean anything. You were too young and sweet and beautiful. You didn't really want anything to do with an old man like him. He just happened to be there when you were vulnerable and that was all.

The words never came. He couldn't form a coherent sentence. As the seconds dragged on, your face began to fall and embarrassment flooded your chest, the atmosphere in the room suddenly so thick that it was difficult to breathe. You cleared your throat and leaned back, his hands falling from your shoulders, and then you were the first to speak.

"Oh, no."

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[atlabeth]

too sweet

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: a night out makes hotch realize a few too many things.

a/n: me??? writing for criminal minds again out of nowhere??? what is going on. and i do not have an answer i was just in a hotch mood bc he's fine asf and i finally have the confidence to write for him here we are lol. hope u enjoy this short lil thing

wc: 2.4k

warning(s): alcohol consumption, a sexual joke or two, written in one go so might be a mess! aaron is all in his head but this is basically all fluff

Hotch can’t focus. 

Mostly because he can’t stop glancing over at you. Normally it’s not a problem—he’d lost count of how many times he’d distracted himself from mounds of paperwork by meeting your eyes through his office window, often accompanied by a smile that made even his heart beat a little faster—and especially now, it shouldn’t be a problem. 

You and Derek have had some kind of bet going on during the past few nights out—you didn’t believe he was as charming and suave as he claimed, and Morgan was all too happy to prove you wrong.

You bet that he couldn’t get at least five numbers every night, and come last Thursday, Morgan took the win at the end of the evening with a smile on his face. As punishment, the first round of their next night out was on you. 

And that’s nice, sure. Hotch is always thankful that his team can still joke around and have fun with each other despite everything they have to deal with each day. He hopes they keep the light in their eyes as long as possible, especially the younger ones. He’s fine with being the stick in the mud, the one who never smiles, the iron willed chief that scares local uniforms.

Hotch is not so fine with the way he feels right now. 

It’s a busy night at the bar, which is understandable. Hotch is sure half the precinct is out alongside them, celebrating the BAU finally solving the case that had torn them to shreds over the past week. You, Reid, and Garcia put the threads together an hour into scouring through evidence, and the unsub was cuffed before noon. 

Certainly something to celebrate—there’s a reason the whole team agreed to go out tonight and leave tomorrow. Even Rossi decided to join when he learned you would be buying, but he’s already abandoned them in favor of catching up with some old friends. Hotch even thinks they might have another round in their future because of their solve, courtesy of the local chief. They had a long night ahead of them. 

But you haven’t gotten the drinks yet, and Hotch wonders how long it’ll take even after you do. Because some officer is trying to talk you up, and you’re smiling and laughing along and giving him every bit of your attention. 

Hotch recognized him the moment he set eyes upon him, even in plain clothes. He’s some joke of an officer from the station, and he’s been trying to get your number—or even just get your attention—throughout their whole visit. Always sidling up to you during debriefs, specifically giving you any information or evidence he finds—Hotch has overheard him asking for your number more than once. 

Hotch has been so focused on the case he’s not even sure if you’ve rejected him or not, and the mere thought is enough to annoy him. If he wasn’t equally as sure of your ability to defend yourself and afraid of overstepping with you, he would have stepped in. 

But it makes sense. The officer is young and handsome, you’re young and pretty—not to mention you have a way of lighting up any room you step into. Hotch spent the whole first month of your employment wondering why you would want to do a job like this. He’s spent the rest of it thankful that you did. 

You’re sharp as a whip, naturally, but you’ve also done wonders for the team atmosphere. It’s hard to feel down with a smile like yours beaming his way. The job weighs you down like it does everyone, but you still manage to lift everyone’s spirits on the jet ride back before they jump into the next case. It’s impressive. 

It’s also trouble. You’ve been part of the BAU for almost two years now, and Hotch has spent just as much time tearing his eyes away from you as he has working. It’s wrong, and it’s wholly inappropriate in terms of your working relationship—he’s your boss, for god’s sake. 

But sometimes, Hotch will be beating himself up over one thing or another on a case, and you’ll plant yourself in his vicinity and refuse to leave until you’ve helped him work through it. If you ever tire of the FBI, he thinks you have a second calling as an elementary school teacher. 

Sometimes the hotel they’re staying at will have truly shitty coffee, worse than they’re used to at the BAU, and you’ll already be in the lobby with a tray full of the team’s orders. Hotch never recalls telling you his order—you just figured it out, and you remembered it. 

Sometimes his gaze will drift your way, and he’ll find you already staring at him. You look away just as quickly as he does, and it makes him wonder. 

Hotch has made a living off of studying the behavior of others. More often than not, he finds himself profiling his co-workers just out of instinct. His job is to know what others are thinking. 

But god. When it comes to you, Hotch doesn’t think he’s ever felt more unsure in his life. Especially when you look at him the same way he wants to for weeks, then act nothing but proper another day; when you fall asleep against his shoulder on the jet one night and entertain some desk jockey another night. 

It makes him feel like a highschooler again, trying to figure out if Haley really liked him or if she was just playing around, and it’s more embarrassing than it should be. Especially when he’s still dealing with the lingering emotions from the divorce. 

“Hotch.” JJ’s voice is enough to break him out of his trance, and he blinks as he turns to her. At least someone paid him the mercy to dispel his thoughts, even if only for a temporary time. 

“What?” 

“Did you hear a single word I said?” she asks, a slight smile curving on her lips. 

“Of course,” he responds. “The chief’s over there talking with the commissioner. He’s the same guy who made your life difficult the last time we were in Milwaukee.” 

JJ’s eyebrows shoot up, and she nods. “I didn’t think you were listening.” 

“I think he just got lucky,” Morgan cuts in, his gaze darting over to you momentarily. “I think you were too focused on our drinks.” 

Reid frowns. “I don’t think he was focused on the drinks. He’s—” 

“Just making sure they’re still coming,” Hotch interrupts, and he straightens his tie. Today really has been a long one—usually, he’s better at covering these things up. “And I wasn’t lucky. I was listening.” 

“Trust me,” Morgan says with a laugh, “I’m watchin’ her until I’ve got a glass in my hand. She’s not getting out of this after the way she bragged this whole month.” 

“The stupidest thing to make a bet on,” Prentiss remarks, “especially with you.” 

“She said she just wanted to prove you wrong,” Reid contributes. “She thinks you’re too cocky.” 

Morgan grins. “It’s not cocky if you can back it up.” 

Hotch’s attention goes back to you, and you’ve finally gotten their drinks. You’re loading them onto a tray like you’re the bartender yourself, and his brows crease. Maybe he should have gone up with you. 

“Do you think she needs help?” he asks. How obvious is too obvious? Why does it feel like his brain only works at half power whenever it comes to you? 

“She’ll be fine,” Prentiss says. “And if she needs it, that guy talking her up can help.” 

“Jason Rodriguez,” Reid remarks. “He hung around her the whole time we were trying to pinpoint a location, and he wasn’t any help, which makes sense because he's practically desk-bound at the precinct. I’m surprised she got any work done.” 

JJ chuckles. “I’m surprised he hasn’t given up yet. He’s been following her around all week, like some lost puppy.” 

Morgan shrugs. “I dunno. She seems pretty into him.” 

“I don’t think ex-frat boys are her type,” Prentiss says wryly. Hotch doesn’t think so either, but he doesn’t say anything. Contributing to this kind of conversation is certainly too obvious.  

“I doubt we’ll be back here for a while. She might as well.” Morgan smiled. “She probably needs a win after such an embarrassing loss.” 

Thankfully, before Hotch has to keep pretending not to care about this topic, you walk over carrying a tray of cocktails—and you’re alone. The subject of their previous conversation seems lost in the crowd, and he feels a dangerous amount of relief. 

“Are you all talking about me?” you drawl. 

“You know we are, sweetheart. Thought you were never gonna get here.” Morgan sits up, smiling at you. “What’d my win get us?” 

“Long Island Iced Teas,” you muse as you set the tray down. “Enjoy it, because I’m gonna be working some overtime to make up for all these.” 

Morgan grins as he takes his drink. “You should’ve never doubted my skills.” 

“I’m surprised you didn’t need any help,” Prentiss says. “You’ve done this before, huh?” 

“Bartended my way through college.” You slide into the booth next to Hotch, just a bit too close for a bit too long, and he hopes that no one can see his chest still for a moment. It’s impressive that he still hasn’t figured out how to lessen the effect you have on him. “I’ve probably got better hands than you, Morgan.” 

“Do we need to make another bet?” he asks. “Because I’d love to clean out your wallet.” 

“Maybe wait another month before you prey on any more poor, defenseless agents,” you croon, and Morgan laughs. 

He pivots the conversation away from you when you pick up your drink and take a sip, and you look at Hotch. Whenever your gaze is on him, you make him feel like he’s the only person in the room. He’s sure you never look at anyone else that way, but Hotch wonders how much of that is his mind trying to justify his imagination. 

“I’m surprised you agreed with this,” you say, mercifully interrupting his thoughts. “I thought you’d want us to go back tonight.” 

“You all earned a night out after the work you did,” Hotch says. He thinks about taking a drink, but he decides against it, at least for now. He can barely trust his sober mind. 

“You’ve earned it too,” you say. “We wouldn’t be anywhere without you, Hotch. You keep us all together.” 

He shakes his head. “I don’t think I ever would’ve connected the dots like you and Reid can with Garcia. I hate unsubs with secret codes.” 

“I’ve always liked puzzles,” you muse. “There’s nothin’ like it when it all finally clicks.” 

Hotch hums, and for a moment, he’s silent. Your gaze remains fully on him, and that might be why he has trouble thinking. It’s too easy to get lost in your eyes. 

“What did that guy say?” Hotch finally manages to ask, because he honestly can’t help it. Morgan’s points actually worried him a bit, and he wonders what that says about him. Ex-frat boy certainly isn’t your type, but someone forgettable for a one night stand isn’t the most absurd thing in the world. 

Your brows knit together as you drink some more. “What guy?”

“The officer you were talking with,” he says. “He seemed to like you.” 

He’d been flirting with you since the moment you stepped into the precinct, actually, desperate for your attention, but Hotch didn’t really want to say that. He’s sure you noticed either way, if the rest of the team did. 

“Oh. Him.” You shrug. “He’s nice, I guess. Definitely a looker. But he’s got nothing beneath that hair.” 

“Morgan’s surprised you didn’t bring him back,” Hotch says. He wonders if he’s pushing too much, and again, he feels like a highschooler testing the waters. Do you know what you do to him? What you reduce him to? 

You shrug as you take a sip. “If he knows what’s good for him, he knows he doesn’t have a chance. My attention’s on someone else.” 

Prentiss calls your name and you get drawn back into the middle of the team’s conversation, and thankfully, Hotch has a chance to digest your words—and the stunner of a smile you flash at him before you get pulled into their talk. 

His decision to not drink seems even wiser, now. Hotch has to loosen his tie, and he ignores Reid watching him. It’s futile trying to hide anything from Spencer Reid—the kid already knows everything. 

Again, it's dangerous how much satisfaction he gets from it—from knowing you never really paid that officer a second thought. You didn’t smile at him the way you smile at Hotch. You don’t smile at anyone the way you smile at Hotch. He thought he was imagining it at first, or that he was just a bit too stuck up, but it was the honest truth. You paid him special attention, and he couldn’t blame the warmth in his chest from the thought on any alcohol. 

He tunes back into the conversation just to hear Morgan demand you pay for his next drink. 

“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous,” you say. 

He puts a hand to his chest. “Generous? You’re just paying what you owe me.” 

You laugh and shake your head. “Pick your poison, pretty boy.” 

“How do you feel about tequila?” 

You make a noise of disgust and shake your head. “As long as I don’t have to drink it.” 

“You’re just paying, sweetheart.” Morgan’s eyes dart to Hotch, and he nods as he grins. “One for me and our fearless leader.” 

Hotch shakes his head. “Someone has to get us back to the hotel.” 

“That’s what cabs are for!” Prentiss exclaims. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Hotchner. You deserve to let a little loose.” 

“It takes most people an hour to process a drink,” Reid contributes, “so you’ll be fine before we leave if you want to drive.” 

“Come on, Hotch,” you say, and you nudge his shoulder. “You might as well—I’m paying.” 

“...Fine,” he says, and the whole team cheers. Even Reid smiles. 

“Y’know, you can smile tonight, Hotch,” you say with one of your own before you down the rest of your drink and stand up.

And one actually tugs at his lips. It feels a lot hotter in this bar with your eyes sparkling and you beaming right at him, and he fights the need to shed his jacket. Your grin somehow grows. 

“That’s what I came out to see,” you remark as you pick your wallet back up from the table. “I expect another when I get back, Hotch. There’s a lot to celebrate tonight.” 

Yeah, he thinks as he watches you go. There just might be. 

[vinelark]

i don’t remember if i ever shared this here, but a while ago i posted a little twitter thread about bats and gas station snacks and some very talented podficcers made a podfic of it! 🎧

[podfic] Jersey Vigilantes Don't Pump Gas by isweedan & reena_jenkins

original thread (text under the cut):

nested tweet reading: ever since i learned gotham is supposed to be in new jersey i can’t get this concept out of my head: [a badly drawn bumper sticker that says “jersey vigilantes don’t pump gas”] / quote tweet reading: the batmobile can’t just slip in and out of a gas station unnoticed. an employee HAS to go fill up the tank. meanwhile the tired night shift cashier knows the various robin eras because they come in to buy different snacks as time goes on.

one night while the manager is out filling *the literal batmobile* the cashier blinks and comes face to face with a child in a leotard and green boots, buying a pack of twizzlers. “thanks!” the first robin calls, somehow vaulting over two rows of shelves on his way out the door.

years later, after a stretch of quiet weeks, a new, curly-haired robin comes in and grabs a bag of flamin hot pepper puffs. the cashier doesn’t even think robin 2 actually likes them, but he looks really satisfied with himself every time he drops them on the counter.

(even after the second robin abruptly stops coming in, the cashier keeps slipping flamin hot pepper puffs onto their order list. no one else ever buys them, but it just—feels like the thing to do, somehow.)

a stretch of months without a robin, oddly tense. then the third robin appears, even smaller than the first two. he slips inside and buys a cup of black coffee and drains it in one go right at the coffee station, nervously eyeing the door like he’s afraid he’ll be caught.

the fourth robin, when she shows up, makes a beeline for the protein bars. finally, the cashier thinks, someone remotely sensible for this line of work. (though maybe not sensible enough—or maybe TOO sensible—because small caffeine robin is back a few months later.)

the fifth robin, when he first appears, approaches the counter. “you will direct me to the best snacks new jersey has to offer,” he tells the cashier.

“uh,” the cashier says. “i like sour patch kids, myself.”

robin 5 nods. “i will take a bag of sour patch children.”

(one night, not much later, red hood strolls through the door. the cashier has lived in gotham for over a decade now; they barely blink, even when nightwing bounds in after him.

“oh, shit, flamin hot pepper puffs,” red hood says. “i haven’t had these in ages.”

“aw, come on,” nightwing says, already holding a pack of twizzlers. “no one else can stand those.”

“why do you think i got them in the first place, dickhead?” red hood says. “to fend off new jersey’s number one snack thief.” and he buys buys every bag in stock.)

[peachysunrize]

[TANGERINE DREAMS]

Summary: being stood up on his wedding day, Aemond’s life takes a turn for the worse. Heartbroken and humiliated, he finds unexpected help in Helaena’s childhood friend, who helps him move back into his family mansion. Summer cocktail parties and a long stay at the Targaryen residency, Aemond might let the girl who’s always been in his life make a home in his heart.

Tangerines, in general, symbolize prosperity, good luck and happiness. So if these delicious fruits appear in your dreams - whole or in the form of juice - it is usually very positive. A dream with tangerines expresses the desire and the possibility of progress and prosperity

Warnings: none! Fluff, angst, tension! English isn’t my first language<3

Word count: 5.4k+

A/n: so so sorry for the delay… unfortunately I’m gonna be awfully busy this week so the next chapter might be also delayed😭 buttttttt hopefully this chapter will make up for it! Reblogs & comments are always appreciated <3

Taglist: if you wanna be tagged in the future chapters, please fill this form with your username!

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Chapter 4: push & pull

“I’m hungry!”

“Shh!” You put your finger on Helaena’s lips to keep her quiet, “you ate all of our snacks! How are you still hungry?”

“I don’t knowwww,” she whines, dropping her head back on your lap as you resume the movie, “I need sweets!”

“It’s three in the morning, I doubt you want to wake up the entire house just to find a chocolate bar,” you thread your fingers through her soft and freshly showered silver hair.

“Babe,” she turns around, reaching for the control to pause the movie before she looks up at you, “why do you think we live in a mansion in the first place?”

“Because you have billions of money and have no idea what to do with it?” You ask, chuckling and rolling your eyes affectionately when she slaps your arm, “as if there is another reason behind it.”

“Of course there is!” She sits up, plopping a pillow next to yours as she sits shoulder to shoulder with you, “Aemond is an awfully light sleeper, so is Mum! Aegon would even sleep through… I don’t know, imagine Michael Jackson screaming in a mic and putting the amplifier next to his ear. Daeron is the best, heavy sleeper but his survival instinct would save him from anything. Me—“

“You don’t sleep at all,” she gawks at you before laughing, “What? You think I don’t know my best friend like the back of my hand? Or why we’re watching The Dance of Dragons trilogy at this god-awful hour? I’m offended!”

She pushes you playfully, “That’s not what I meant! You’re right, I don’t sleep much, but that’s not the point. I’m saying living in a mansion is quite cool because we put Mum and Aemond at the back of the building and chose our rooms afterward. So if you sneak into the kitchen…”

“I’m not gonna sneak there and shuffle around your cabinets like a fucking thief, Hel!” 

“It’s literally your home too! You’ve been here a thousand times, no one would bat an eye if they catch you going through Aegon’s snacks!” She says, pouting a bit as she gives you her best puppy eyes, “One bag of his gummy bears, just one!”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No,” you glare at her, scoffing immediately when she gives you her most precious smile.

“Yes, please?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” you hiss, “Besides, I have no clue which cabinet I should search for.”

“The one next to the stove—“

“Helaena!”

“Please please please, I will take a walk with you in the morning—“

“I’m not dumb, why should going on a walk with you be anywhere near interesting?” You ask, crossing your arms on your chest as you give her a pointing look.

“Because… because I can take you shopping! You know, Aegon will probably give a theme for his party so what better reason than to go on a girl’s date and buy some clothes?!”

“No, and no—“

“One bag, that’s all I’m asking!”

“Fine!” She squeals in joy, “but you will make it up to me, you giant twenty-seven-year-old kid. And shopping is the least you can do.”

“Okay, babe, whatever you want! I can even set you up with one of Aegon’s friends—“

“I'll take the walk, please! Keep those boys away from me,” You stand up from the bed, shaking your head before you slowly turn the doorknob, and before you step out, you look at her and shake your head when you see her lying on the bed with her hands under her chin.

You look at the empty hallway, checking to see if anyone is around or not before walking downstairs, tiptoeing to make sure you wake up no one. Gripping the stair bars, you relax a bit when the wooden stairs don’t make a loud cracking sound.

The path to the kitchen is quiet and empty, but with the numerous vases and other home decor Alicent has put around the house, it’s hard to move around without breaking something or making a loud noise. You have been here many times, but the paintings and various pieces they have will always surprise you; they are so beautiful, and you expect nothing less from the Targaryens.

You finally reach the kitchen, slowly making your way towards the stove to find the cabinet or a drawer — because only those are next to the stove — Helaena told you about. Pulling the first drawer out, you find nothing but forks and spoons, nothing near a good snack, unfortunately. The next one contains spices and herbs, arranged neatly in jars with labels.

“What are you doing here?”

“Fucking hell!” You scream and turn around, hand on your chest as you look at Aemond who is equally surprised to see you here at such an hour, “you scared the shit out of me!”

“Shh…” he approaches you slowly, reaching to take your hand in his to calm you down, “I’m sorry, I thought you heard me, or even saw me.”

“How could I see you? My back was to you!” You exhale shakily, letting him take your hands in his larger ones, slowly caressing your skin, “what are you doing here? Creeping on me like that?”

“I was in the kitchen when you walked in,” he says, his lips twisting in a small smirk as he sees your lips part in shock.

“How did I not see you?” You gawk at him, laughing breathlessly, “You’re a giraffe, tall as fuck and your hair shines like a flashlight! Were you hiding?”

“No, no,” he steps closer, chuckling lowly to not make so much sound, your hands still in his, “I was searching for a cutting board.”

“What?” You smile a bit, looking up at him as he towers over you, “I’m really curious now.”

“No, you’re just nosy,” he smirks when he sees you open your mouth to disagree, but you catch on his teasing tone quickly and bat his hands away.

“Asshole.”

“I’m kidding,” with a kiss on the back of your hand, he moves past you to put the cutting board on the kitchen island, “I missed dinner and couldn’t sleep either so…”

“You wanna cook dinner? Now?” you ask him, rounding the island to stand close to him, “You are crazy!”

“I’m hungry,” he groans, shaking his head as he moves to another cabinet and pulls out a pot to fill it with water.

“What is up with you Targaryens being hungry at such an hour?” You lean on the counter, watching him put the full pot on the stove, taking your time to look at him from head to toe.

He is wearing a loose black T-shirt, with gray sweatpants that stay low on his hip bones. His silver hair is clipped and his glasses are on the bridge of his nose — he looks so cozy and welcoming, and he most certainly glides across the room so effortlessly, pulling out different ingredients to chop.

“What did Hel want anyway?” He asks, pulling out an onion and placing it on the cutting board next to you, leaning just like you with his hips on the counter.

“How did you know she wanted something?” You ask, crossing your arms.

“I doubt you’d come and snoop around for Aegon.”

“Why not?” You raise an eyebrow at him, taking a step closer to him, “Maybe I was in his room, what then—“

“No,” he whispers, putting the knife down before he puts one hand on each side of your hips, the heel of his palm on the dip between where your thighs meet your hips and his fingers against the kitchen island — not gripping you fully, but enough to make you tremble slightly, especially with the way he looks at you, so raw and playful, “you wouldn’t allow him to make a single flirty comment, and you want me to believe that you just left his room?”

“What if I have changed my mind?” You look up at him through your lashes, voice barely above whispering, “Maybe I have fallen for his Targaryen charm?”

“The only Targaryen charm you’ll fall for is—”

“Babeee!” suddenly Helaena’s hushed whisper echoes in the kitchen

Your eyes widen and in the blink of an eye, you push Aemond away and move to the cabinet Helaena told you about earlier, trying to make yourself look busy while Aemond puts his palms on top of the island, leaning down a bit as he sighs, his face forming into a deep scowl as he watches his sister tiptoe into the kitchen.

“Oh, hey, Aemy,” she waves at him, finally finding you crouched down next to the cabinet, “What’s taking you so long?”

“I couldn’t find the cabinet—” “It’s the one you are sitting in front of,” she says, smiling as she looks at her brother reaching for the knife, “and what are you doing here?”

“I was hungry,” he mutters, slicing the onion in half, “What do you want?”

“My promised gummy bears and a glass of water,” she shrugs and walks to grab her glass and you take the chance to stand up with her snack, standing side by side with Aemond, both of you following Helaena’s movements as she hums happily and fills her glass with water.

You glance at Aemond, catching him already looking at you with an unreadable expression that makes the hair on the back of your neck rise. Averting your eyes quickly, you watch Hel making her way to you before she gives you a quick hug.

“I’m going to bed, we will finish them another day.” “Sure, love,” you smile, “I’ll go to bed in a few minutes too, goodnight!”

“Goodnight,” Aemond says quietly, moving towards the boiling water on the stove before he drops uncooked spaghetti in it and walks back to the cutting board.

“What are you cooking?” 

“Penne alla vodka,” he replies, smirking when you roll your eyes at him.

“Of course, typical classy Aemond,” you say, groaning a bit because of how tired you are, “your sister is a menace for keeping me up so long. I can’t even stand on my feet!”

“Then you don’t have to stand,” he says casually, wiping his hands with the cloth hanging from the waistband of his sweats. He moves closer to you, backing you up against the kitchen island with a teasing look in his good eye, his hands coming up to grip your waist and before you know it, he picks you up effortlessly and sits you on the island, his fingers digging into your flesh.

You swallow, bracing yourself by your hands on his chest as you look at Aemond, finding him standing closer to you between your legs, his eye focusing solely on your face — how your lips part with a quiet gasp falling from them, how your pupils are blown with something he can’t read quite well. 

You are a vision to behold.

He leans closer, his face mere inches away from yours, his hot breath fanning against your face. You inhale sharply when he cranes his neck and his nose bumps into yours, his hooded eye hazy as he stares at you.

His grip tightens on your waist, and you feel his fingers caressing your back and the side of your tummy slowly, almost shyly, but with his lips only one breath, you know there is no shyness left within him, only determination.

As soon as he wants to lean down and capture your lips in a breathtaking kiss, the pasta in the oven is long overcooked and the boiling water pours out, making a loud hissing sound that makes Aemond break apart from you.

“Shit,” he groans, the warmth of his hand gone from your waist as he jogs to the stove and lifts the pot to empty the remaining water of the pasta, cursing himself in his head with how careless he acted — not only he nearly ruined your friendship but also his late dinner will taste like an uncooked dough.

“I-I think I should go to bed,” you stutter, jumping down from the island, smiling awkwardly at him, “goodnight.”

“Yeah, goodnight,” he watches you leave in a hurry, running a hand down his face — mindful of his glasses — he sighs loudly, “What the fuck was I thinking?”

If only he knew the answer to this.

“Okay kids, listen up!” Aegon claps his hands, stepping on top of the huge table in the guest wing’s living room, trying his best to give the four of you — six if you count Criston and Alicent — a very very pointed, dramatic and serious look, “tonight, we will drink!”

He points at Daeron and Aemond who are each holding two bottles of whatever drinks, or poison to put it better, Aegon has chosen to feed you tonight.

“Tonight, we will dance!” He points at Helaena who rolls her eyes and presses play on her phone so the music blasts through the amplifiers around the house but quickly pauses it so Aegon can talk.

“Annnnndddd!” He jumps down, striding towards you with a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. He grabs you by your waist, twirls you around suddenly, and dips you down on his arm before he leans down, “We will have fun!” He leans to kiss you, but you put your palm on his face and push him away roughly, laughing out loud with him when you make a gagging sound.

“Get away from me you moron!”

“I’m sure my kisses would make you feel much better—”

“I rather die than have your tongue down my throat,” you stand behind Aemond, and when Aegon sees how hard his brother is glaring at him, he whistles and wiggles his eyebrows at the two of you — Aemond blushes horribly and you only give a tight-lipped awkward smile.

“Alright!” Alicent says, walking towards the table Aegon was standing up to fix the tablecloth, “I know you’ll take care of everything, but—” she looks at Aegon, “no drugs,” she then turns to Daeron and Helaena, “No sneaking out of the house,” then she looks at Aemond, “no goddamn books!” “I don’t even read that much,” Aemond sighs, putting the vanilla vodka bottles on the table before he crosses his arms, “I haven’t had the time to read even one book.” “I don’t care, Aemond. No books, no workshop, no merging with the darkness and sulking in a corner of this house. Okay?”

“Yes, Mum, I get it,” he agrees, turning around to glance at you, only for you to give him an encouraging smile.

“Now that we’re all settled,” Aegon reaches and throws his arm around Alicent’s shoulder, “take out dinner, obviously—”

“What do you mean ‘take out’? I didn’t hire a chef for you to say you’ll get our guests nasty food,” Alicent frees herself from Aegon, giving him one last look before she moves with Cole on toe towards the exit, “Also, the catering will be here soon, if you wanna help, you’ll need to wait a bit for them.” “Did you hear that?” Aegon asks, eyes wide and a very large grin finds its way on his face.

“Billionaires have such a hard life, I pity you guys,” You say sarcastically, “what’s up with these faces? You don’t like having a private chef?”

“Babe,” Helaena comes and grabs your hand, “This means Mum really wants us to party! She only gets this generous when she wants us to have fun.” “A private chef is a pretty great thing,” Aemond shrugs, grabbing yet another two bottles of vanilla vodka with a grimace on his face and putting them down next to the other two.

“No shit Sherlock! Of course, it’s amazing! Who wouldn’t want a fresh plate of ribs in the middle of a partially illegal party?” he chuckles at you, nodding at the catering that finally arrived, putting his warm palm on your waist.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I am always in charge of dinner because these three,” he points at his siblings, “get absolutely hammered and won’t be able to order takeout.”

“I knew Helaena would get drunk if she set her mind to it but Daeron?” you ask leaning closer to his side, looking up at him, and occasionally glancing at the other three siblings who are helping the catering staff with the food and drinks.

“He is a mixed… combination of all of us,” he chuckles, his nails digging into your waist as he scratches your skin under your shirt gently, lit the fire of the memory of a few hours ago you shared, “He doesn’t drink much but when he does… well, rest assured he gets as bad and loud as Aegon.”

“I’ve been here countless times but never seen him acting like an idiot,” you laugh, walking to grab the closest tray to help with the setting. Aemond does the same and follows you around the room quietly, making small talk with you until everything is set and ready for the party.

You and him walk forward, and for the first time he doesn’t guide you with his hand on your back, and you see how he is pondering hard about something.

“He wanted to really kiss you,” he whispers for only you to hear. You stop and a soft yet confused expression overtakes your face as you look at him, waiting for him to continue.

“What?” “Aegon,” he says, “he likes you, maybe he would have gotten away with it if you let him kiss you.”

“Aemond, don’t be ridiculous,” you grab his wrist gently, forcing him to stop, “I said it once, I’ll say it again; I don’t like Aegon romantically, and I would rather die than let him get close to my face.”

He doesn’t look too convinced, so with one glance at your back to see where your best friend and the rest of her siblings are, you hold his other hand in yours as well, “Besides, I would rather kiss another Targ—” “Go find some clothes, kids! It’s a white party!” Aegon announces, and Helaena suddenly appears out of nowhere and wraps her arms around you, making you let go of Aemond’s hands immediately.

“Come on, babe! Let’s go get ready!” you don’t have time to finish your sentence so with one last look at Aemond, you leave with Hel towards your rooms to get ready.

Aemond pulls shirt after shirt out of his closet, all of them are either black or dark green and those who are colorful are blue. Nothing. He can’t find anything to wear and it has started to annoy him.

He sits on the edge of his bed, his hair unruly and in need of a good brush but that can wait. His outfit on the other hand can’t, and the fact that Aegon’s guests will arrive in a few minutes is driving him crazy. 

With a loud annoyed groan, he stands up and moves toward his hung clothes, searching through them, but again, all he can find is a pair of white sneakers that thankfully will go with any outfit he chooses.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair as he tries to think of any Shirts or pants he can find, but he is interrupted by a knock on his door.

“Hey,” you open the door a bit, smiling at him before slipping inside, but before you can stop yourself, your eyes roam over his topless figure leaning over the closet with his sweat hanging low on his hips.

Aemond is even worse than you; seeing you in a white sundress with sheer sleeves that hung low on your shoulders and the dress reaching your mid-thighs… he is speechless. His eye roams over your figure slowly, taking in the sight of you.

He can see how you get shy all of a sudden, caressing your arm as he literally looks you up and down.

“How do I look?” you ask, twirling to show the back of the dress as well.

“Wow,” breathtaking, gorgeous, mindblowing, earth-shattering, “Beautiful,” you make his heart nearly leap out of his chest, his cheeks turning pink as he gazes at you like a teen boy experiencing his first high school crush.

“Thank you!” you smile, rocking on your feet, “Why aren’t you dressed?”

“Well,” he clears his throat, “I couldn’t find anything.”

“Bullshit!”

“Excuse me?” he asks hesitantly, watching you curiously as you make your way to his wardrobe, standing in front of him to search within his clothes yourself.

“You wore those white shorts to the winery, hmmm, let me see—” You pull out a white shirt with baggy pants, both enough to make him much taller than he is, but he has to agree that the simplicity might actually look great, “here you go! But let me brush your hair first!”

You sit him down on the bed, crawling behind him with a brush and a hair tie you found on his vanity desk before you start slowly combing through his soft hair, detangling and making it look more presentable. 

He relaxes under your touch and lets you pull the front of his hair back and tie it so his face is shown more. He sighs and thanks you when you’re done, and to his surprise, you grab the shirt from him, forcing him to stand up to help him put it on, leaving the first few buttons undone before you do the rest slowly.

“Were you jealous?” You ask, letting your fingers brush over his pale chest, “When you saw Aegon wanted to kiss me?”

He swallows but as soon as you are done he pulls away and holds the pants up, signaling for you to leave so he can change, and you do but wait for him outside until he is ready.

“Maybe,” he says as you loop your arm through his, both of you walking toward the guest wing. You can already hear the blasting hip hop song Aegon is playing, the sounds of screaming and singing already filling the entire mansion.

“Really?” You ask quietly, letting go of his hand as soon as you reach the door, finding a few of Aegon’s friends around.

“I don’t know, I said maybe,” he moves away from you with one last smirk and enters the party. The smell of alcohol, cigarette, and smoke fills his lungs, and soon spots Daeron and Aegon mixing cocktails and handing them to the guests. Helaena is busy talking to an old friend of his, Cregan Stark, and she is all blushy and giggly while she sips on her drink — he makes a mental note to check up on her regularly.

“Here is our boyyyy!” One of Aegon’s friends screams and throws his arm around Aemond’s shoulders, shaking him as everyone erupts in joy and laughter, a shot of whiskey is thrusted into his hands and everyone is suddenly encouraging him to drown the drink in one go.

“Come on, Aemy! Don’t be a fucking pussy!” Aegon screams over the music, and with one final sigh, he brings the glass to his lips and empties the drink down his throat, making everyone around him scream and clap him on the back before they start shouting for another shot, which Daeron pours for him and as the first one, he drowns it again.

“That’s my fucking brother!” Aegon suddenly jumps onto an empty table, completely topless with two bottles of vodka in his hands as he screams and cheers for Aemond while holding the bottles up.

“He is so fucking insane!” Daeron shakes his head when Aegon starts rolling his hips to the music, his silver hair covered in sweat and possibly alcohol as he flexes his abs and chest for the girls.

“He is disgusting,” Aemond sighs, watching amusedly as Aegon jumps down and wraps his arms around two girls, moving to dance with them while their hands wander all over his body.

Aemond looks around and finds you and Helaena on the dance floor, clearly drunk out of your mind with how you are laughing and moving around. He drowns the rest of his drink before he sneaks out of the party, moving outside toward his workshop to clear his head, but before that, he goes back to the main building and grabs a bottle of water to sober up.

He finds Vhagar already waiting for him at the entrance, wiggling her tail when she notices Aemond. He crouches down to pet her softly, scratching behind her ears and kissing her furs before he stands up and moves to the backyard, his old lady following him quickly.

On their way to the workshop, they find Aegon and the two girls sneaking upstairs, making out with one while the other caresses his skin. Aemond rolls his eye in disgust as he moves past them, finding a pair of heels on the ground as she enters the small wood attached to their yard after where the Weirwood tree is.

He walks further inside the woods, following the path he once walked with you which leads to his workshop, Vhagar happily accompanies him there, even jogging and running past him numerous times to show her enthusiasm — she just loves being around him.

He notices a shadow in the workshop, moving around clumsily as it touches and picks different things up. He thinks it might be one of Aegon’s dumbass friends, wandering around their house drunk and exhausted. But how did someone, anyone find the key to unlock the door?

He opens the door, catching you of all the people snooping around his stuff, smiling when you find a pretty seven-pointed star keychain with Alicent’s name carved under it — he remembers when he made that. He was only seventeen, and he had moved past that amateur phase and got a grip on the woodwork and different types of it. What better way to celebrate his Mum’s birthday than gifting her something he made from scratch?

“Hey you,” he says slowly, not wanting to frighten you like he did this morning, “And what are you exactly doing here?”

“Look who’s here,” you turn around opening your arms, burping as you talk, showing how good Aegon’s cocktail must have been to get you this giddy, “sorry, Little nerd! I saw this really really pretty place and couldn’t help myself! Isn’t it strange that no one uses here? Urgh, what I would do to stay here.”

“Alright, darling, don’t pout,” he slowly reaches to grab your arm so you don’t trip over anything and fall down, “How did you get in here?”

“Did you just—” you gasp, letting him pull you to his side, “did you just call me darling?”

“Yes, I did,” he nods, keeping you secure on your feet before he offers you the water bottle, urging you to drink from it, “have this, clearly you need it more than I do.”

“What a gentleman! Thank you,” you say, taking a large sip after he helps you open the bottle, the cold water makes you feel slightly better so you drink the rest too, not sobering up completely but enough to remember where you are and who you are with and more importantly remember what you are doing.

“So, how did you get in here?” Aemond asks again, taking the empty bottle from you before tossing it for Vhagar, who happily claws at the plastic, jumping on it before she takes it outside to bury it somewhere — which Aemond would need to find later.

“Found a spare key under that vase,” you pointed at the vase outside his door on the floor, “You are not as slick as you think, Aemond, calling me darling and everything.”

“Do you want me to stop calling you that?” he asks playfully, watching you bite your lips in response, shaking your head slightly, “then I guess I won’t.”

You look around the workshop and find a wooden pallet with half a portrait carved on it. The lines are oddly familiar, a woman perhaps because of the details put in the jaw, and the hair looks so delicate and soft.

“Wow, Aemond…” You free yourself from his arms and move to take a closer look at the half-done wooden portrait, “Did you make this?”

“Yes…” he answers, rubbing the back of his neck in shame or perhaps anxiousness, because what if you recognize who the person is? All of his efforts will be in vain. What will you think of him? A boy with nothing better than observing women? A pervert?

“This is fascinating!” you keep looking at the wooden pallet but something catches your eye; a printed black and white picture of the person’s portrait, but before you can reach for it, Aemond grabs your forearm and pulls you away roughly.

You gasp as he pulls you between him and the desk the portrait and all of his stuff are on. His breathing is frantic, and his long fingers hold your forearm tight enough not to hurt you.

You look up at him, lips parted, a scene too familiar — this morning, so close to each other, one mingling breath away yet too far — but there is a fire burning within him, a newfound determination that makes his heart beat faster and his hands shake.

He is not a weak mean, quite the contrary, but when he looks down at you, catching how your gaze falls on his lips… he is no better than any other man.

He leans down a little, the sounds of the outside world fading away as he moves his face closer, and he notices how you slowly twist your arm out of his grasp, only to move them toward his chest, and he takes the sign and reaches to hold you by your waist, his nose bumping into yours as the distance between you decreases

You smell so sweet, like strawberry on a whipped cream once Aegon fed him when he was feeling down. It’s sweet but not too much to have him run away, to shy away from such a delicious taste. Will your lips taste the same if he musters the courage to just move down a bit and finds it by himself?

“Aemond…” One whisper of his name is all it takes for his restraint to shatter into a million pieces, and finally, finally, he leans down enough to capture your lips in a quick kiss. Both of you waiting for waited breath to see who will lean in, give in, and take what they want

Both, you both lean in, meeting each other halfway as your lips meet in a chaste messy kiss.

You taste so sweet just as he thought, but not just a strawberry tooth rooting sweet, no. you taste like a fresh cold morning breeze on a summer day, you feel like a cold shower after an exhausting day — so refreshing, so… so much like home. As if he has only found the solace he has been seeking with Alys for so long but something has always been amiss, but with you… oh, one kiss is enough for him to know how wrong he was.

You tangle your fingers through his hair, and he takes the chance to sit you on the desk, but by doing so, he knocks a little vase on the ground, and you freeze.

You pull away from the kiss, muttering his name but he doesn’t let you say anything before he seals his lips to yours in an endearing kiss. But you push him away by putting your hands on his chest, making enough room for you to talk.

“Aemond, we can’t—” “What do you mean we can’t?” He asks, panicking a little but you manage to ease his mind with a quick kiss, “What do you mean, darling?” He asks again, voice barely above whispering.

“I don’t want to be your rebound…” you pull him down enough so his forehead rests on yours, “I don’t want to be the person who you fuck just after you’ve been dumped.”

“You’re… you’re not that, you will never be that! Alys—“

“Alys… you’re still not over her, Little nerd,” you caress his cheek lovingly, pressing a gentle kiss on the apple of his cheek before you push him away and put a great distance between the two of you, and with teasr in your eyes you say one last sentence and leave.

“You still love Alys.”

[luveline]

hello miss jade ily! since you’re feeling the marauders right now, may i request something with any of the boys, pre-relationship and too lovestruck to speak? reader has done something innocuous, or she’s literally just standing there, and he can’t not break and smother her?

hello lovely, thank you for your request! ♡ fem, 1k

modern au 

You let yourself in quietly. Remus can tell without raising his eyes from his laptop that it's you. James would shout hello, Sirius would beeline for the downstairs bathroom. You close the door with care and leave your shoes under the stairs; Remus can picture you turning your head to one side gently, listening for signs of life. 

"James?" you ask.

"Just me," Remus says. 

You come around the doorway, beaming at him like he's the one you were looking for the whole time. "Hey, Remus. Don't suppose you know when James is back? He's going to take me to the garage so they don't rip me off." 

"Uh, no, but– but I could go with you?" he suggests. Remus isn't your boyfriend, but he wishes desperately that he was and he thinks that's a boyfriend's duty to perform, right? "I'd be happy to." 

Your phone dings. You pull it out with a smile. "Oh, it's James," you say, "he's still coming, but he's late. That's fine, I didn't have an appointment or anything. I'd love for you to come if you want, though, baby." 

Remus chokes on nothing, clearing his throat and sitting up to not seem so pathetic. "I'll come." Because baby? Baby?!

"Brilliant. How's you writing?" 

"Uh, it's, you know, happening. Slowly." 

Remus is admittedly much more collected regularly, but your sudden arrival, your smiling, and now your pet name, you've thrown him for a loop. He's doubly thrown when you sit down on the sofa beside him, no polite space, thigh to thigh and close enough to smell the oils in your hair. 

"I'm not looking, I promise," you say. 

Writing is a raw process. Knowing someone else's eyes are on it magnifies the flaws, but he realises with certainty that he doesn't care if you see it, flaws and all. "That's fine. I don't mind so long as it's you." 

"Lucky me," you say. 

You take your phone out. Remus doesn't mean to pry but you're right there, and your phone screen brightness is high. The text thread between you and James is open, your thumbs penning a quick response. 

Hey James, are we still meeting at the house? I'm omw. 2:17PM

yeah of course, remus is there so go have a cup of tea ill be there soon 2:30PM

ok 2:31PM

sorry running late !! Promise I'll be there, have remus make you a scone :) 2:40PM

I like him too much to have him act like my serf, you can buy us both big salted pretzels on the way home to say sorry for wasting his time 2:45PM

I'm sure he's just gutted to spend time with you 2:46PM

Nice one, James, Remus thinks incredulously. That's exactly what Remus needs, more evidence that he fancies you. You don't seem to have noticed either way, swinging a leg over your knee and finishing another text to James. 

I hope not, I love spending time with him 2:48PM

Remus turns to his computer screen, elated and guilty at once. He was not supposed to see that, surely. 

"Your word count is really climbing," you say, tucking your phone away. "A hundred and fifty thousand. I can't imagine writing so much… will you have to cut that down?" 

"Yep. Much more chance of being published if I fit their standard count. It'll need at least forty thousand words shaved off." 

You shake your head. "I can't imagine putting in all that work and then having to put in more work to get rid of it." 

"Think of it like refining, instead," he suggests, his fingertip sliding across the laptop's space bar. "I'm making sure nothing is boring." 

"I doubt it's boring if you're the one writing it." You stand to his surprise and stretch, a slice of your waist appearing as you twist away from him, an audible click emitting from your back as you roll your shoulders. "Can I make a cup of tea, please?" 

You've had a hundred cups of tea in this house. 

"You know you don't have to ask," Remus says. 

"But it's always nice to ask first," you say as you leave. 

He suspects you were talking more to yourself than him as you occasionally do, and he pays little mind to your movements in the kitchen. He has a lot of work to do and not nearly enough time to do it, and editing isn't as simple as cutting away. It's not obvious what needs to go. Remus has to have a deep think. 

He gets distracted. When you return he barely notices, busy rewriting a clunky sentence. It's not until your pinky finger brushes his arm that Remus remembers you're here, emphasis on you, and that he's besotted. 

When he looks up, he doesn't suppose he'll ever forget again. 

You're at his side neatening a plate of biscuits and toasted scones, the very tip of your tongue peaking between your lips in concentration. It's a simple thing, some might even find it unattractive, but you're totally focused on the plate of biscuits, your lovely eyebrows tightly pinched. 

You seem upset, for a moment. 

Then you meet his eye and any trace of unhappiness vanishes. You're smiling again, eyes alight with something he can't name. "I got you a couple of biscuits and stuff, hope that wasn't too forward. You never remember to eat when you're writing." 

"Oh, sweetheart," he says unbidden to himself, hands paused at his laptop, "that's not too forward." 

He sets his laptop aside and stands. There's nothing for it, no hold to bar —Remus steps forward to kiss your cheek and squeeze the top of your arm, the kiss swift and the squeeze less so. 

"Don't set up around me," he continues fondly, "we'll go have tea in the kitchen with the window open. You can tell me about your day, please. I should've asked you earlier." 

"Don't worry, there's nothing important to share," you say, and to Remus' delight, you've visibly flustered. 

His hand slides down the length of your arm to your hand, where he holds your fingers in his palm. "If it's about you, it's important. Mm?" 

You stare down at his chest and laugh softly. "Okay." 

It's a credit to his self restraint that he doesn't kiss you then and there. 

[capquinn]

Couldn’t Tell | Q. Hughes

summary: The relationship between you and Quinn is difficult to define. Friends and something more but you can’t be sure. Sidestepping the issue only prolongs the loop where the potential for something real stays just out of reach until one of you addresses it head on. pairing: fem!reader x quinn hughes content: nothing crazy, just a lil situationalship angst word count: 1.6k ↪ masterlist

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s not like you had come to the party as dates, but he had asked if you were going so you had been hoping you’d find each other and spend the night getting tipsy in a dimly lit corner of the bar. That expectation made the disappointment hurt all the more.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

There is no way that he can’t see that she’s flirting with him, right?

Your eyes drift back to your friend, tuning back into the conversation you had only been half-listening to, trying to appear indifferent.

“So there I was, sitting in this meeting, with all these big wigs, and suddenly the CEO turns to me and asks for my opinion. Can you believe it?”

You nod absently, stirring your drink with the straw, gaze flickering back across the bar where Quinn is standing. He’s still engrossed in conversation with a brunette, his laugh ringing out through the room, mingling with the ambient party noise. She flicks her hair and lolls her head to the side, commanding his full attention. His smile widens, and he stares back at her like an idiot.

“I was so nervous but I just went for it. Told him all my ideas about improving the marketing strategy, and he loved it! They all did. They might even implement some of my suggestions for next quarter,” your friend continues, unaware of your distraction, voice a bright thread in the background.

Over her shoulder, you exchange glances with Quinn and it’s like a jolt of electricity, snapping you back to reality. “That’s amazing,” you murmur, focussing back on your friend. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks!” She beams. “It has been such a whirlwind. And the perks… Free coffee, flexible hours, and we even have an office dog called Max.”

“Oh, a dog. That’s so cute,” you say, trying to muster genuine enthusiasm, but now, the brunette is touching Quinn’s arm and he isn’t flinching away from her touch.

He throws his head back with another bout of laughter, and a surge of jealousy washes over you, your heart crashing with heavy thuds in your chest. Is he serious? Your eyes meet again, and it’s a sharp reminder of just how out of sync you feel.

Each shared glance feels like a lifeline, as if he’s going to offer a smile and make his way towards you, but then he looks away and the chasm between you grows.

It’s not like you had come to the party as dates, but he had asked if you were going so you had been hoping you’d find each other and spend the night getting tipsy in a dimly lit corner of the bar. That expectation made the disappointment of seeing him with someone else hurt all the more.

“Anyway,” your friend says, leaning in, tone dropping conspiratorially, “enough about me. How are things with you and Quinn? I’ve seen you making eyes at each other all night,” she giggles, throwing a glance over her shoulder in Quinn’s direction. If she notices the other girl, she doesn’t mention it.

You force a laugh, bringing your glass to your lips, buying some time to think of an answer other than, ‘well, he’s over there with someone else and I’m pretty sure they’re flirting with each other and there isn’t anything I can do about it because I’m not actually sure where we stand and it’s driving me insane.’

You had hoped tonight would provide a renewed sense of clarity. A glimpse into whether or not the connection that shimmered between you both was more than a fleeting moment. Instead, his easy laughter with someone else highlights the lingering ambiguity and you wonder if you had been reading the signals wrong all along. Are you merely a casual acquaintance, just a friend of a friend, rather than someone he genuinely cares about? Are your feelings misplaced or have you been expecting more than he’s willing to give? Perhaps you’ll always be on the periphery of his affections rather than at the centre.

But once you swallow around your racing thoughts, you settle with, “it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” She raises an eyebrow. “What’s the deal?” The question hangs in the air, but your attention is already elsewhere.

What you had been dreading all night long finally happens. A cruel twist of fate.

The brunette glides closer to Quinn with deliberate grace, her hand trailing lightly over his arm, lingering just a moment too long to be casual. She leans in and her lips hover tantalisingly close to his ear, brushing against his skin. Intimate and unmistakable. Your heart twists in knots as the space between them charges with a private electricity, and it puts so much distance between you and Quinn that you don’t think you’ll ever be able to bridge the gap now.

And then there is a change in his demeanour that’s jarring. Quinn’s initial surprise morphs into a subtle discomfort. Body tensing and eyes widening slightly as the closeness of her whisper registers. The easy laughter falters, replaced with a hesitant smile. He shifts, creating a noticeable distance between them, gently moving away from her touch. In a swift move, his gaze sweeps across the room and lock on yours through the crowded space, his eyes a mix of concern and something that looks like an apology.

A ball of anxiety sits heavy in your chest as he looks directly at you, realising that he saw you witness the entire exchange. The weight of it feels like a direct confrontation to all your insecurities. The uncertainty of your relationship with Quinn has always been a hidden wound, but now it’s exposed and raw.

You turn back to your friend. “Sorry, I just need to…” you trail off, straining a smile as you collect your belongings. Unwilling to sit here a moment longer and bear witness to any further turmoil. “I think I need some fresh air. It’s getting crowded in here,” you excuse yourself, sliding on your coat.

She watches you fumble with your bag. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll be back soon. Save me a drink,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

When you reach the exit, the cool night air is a welcome contrast to the oppressive heat inside the bar. You take a deep breath, trying to shake off the tension of the evening. Just as you step outside, you sense a presence behind you, and then Quinn is suddenly in front of you, blocking your path.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice almost a whisper against the backdrop of the quiet street. “I’m sorry—”

“You don’t need to apologise,” you cut him short, your voice thick with exhaustion.

His brows furrow, a look of genuine confusion on his face. “I feel like I do,” he presses earnestly.

“It’s fine, Quinn.”

“It’s not fine,” he insists, his voice low and regretful. “I didn’t realise what was going on until it was too late. I’m sorry.”

“You really don’t need to apologise for being oblivious,” you start, your voice faltering slightly despite your best efforts to appear indifferent. “We’re not together so it’s not a big deal,” you hesitate, chuckling nervously, bracing yourself as you teeter on the brink of blowing this whole thing wide open.

You’re tired of the ambiguity that hangs between you, the way your conversations dance around the core of what you both really want. To be together or to go your seperate ways — you really couldn’t tell the difference anymore. The fear of pushing too hard and making things awkward has kept both of you on edge, leading to a pattern where everything remains in flux. It’s as if every time you think you’re getting closer to an answer, the goalposts shift, and you’re left grappling with even more questions than before.

But there’s a simmering resolve that builds with each passing moment. Continuing to sidestep the issue will only prolong the loop where the potential for something real will always stay just out of reach.

Gathering your strength, you take a deep breath and steel yourself. “It caught me by surprise because I thought you liked me back and that this was leading to something more. It made me realise that I don’t really know where we stand. Am I misreading the signals?”

Quinn’s eyes twinkle with a mix of amusement and warmth. “Am I doing this all wrong?” he asks, his smile playful.

You look at him, puzzled and twinging with frustration. Is this a joke to you? “What do you mean?”

He chuckles, a soft, disbelieving laugh that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Seriously. Am I not being obvious? I’m out here trying to apologise and explain so that you don’t get the wrong idea,” he pauses, gauging your reaction. “I’m interested in you, and I should have made that clear, not just to her but to you too.”

Your breath catches as his words sink in. “Oh,” you whisper. You take a moment, processing the shift in the conversation. “But tonight you were—,”

“I honestly didn’t even realise she was crossing lines,” Quinn interrupts, his tone apologetic. “Hand over heart. I thought she was just being friendly,” he laughs, scratching the back of his neck, a flush creeping over his cheeks. “I mean, I should have noticed.”

The haze is beginning to clear.

“So, you’re saying…what exactly?”

A smile grows as he steps towards you, eyes locked on yours. “I’m saying that I like you and I want us to be more than whatever this is,” Quinn affirms, his gaze steady and sincere, fingers intertwining with yours.

You squeeze his hand, relieved. “I want that too,” you confess barely above a whisper, acutely aware of how your heart is racing as your bodies inch closer.

His smile widens, his eyes locked on yours. His hand gently cups your cheek, breaths mingling as he leans in closer, your noses nearly touching.

In that moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. You push up onto your tiptoes, closing the gap between you and pressing your lips to his. The kiss is brief but filled with a depth of feeling that words can’t quite capture.

As you pull back, the world around you settles into a new rhythm and the boundaries of your relationship are redrawn. What were once blurred lines are clearly defined; all is made explicit.

[pseudowho]

Professor Higuruma: Part One, Star-Crossed

Leaving your job behind to study Law, you fall into the gravity of Professor Higuruma Hiromi. Soon, you find yourselves entwined in an affair so deep and alluring, you cannot see where Hiromi ends and you begin.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut from Part One, age-gap relationship (20s to 40s), 'thread of fate', tw- leaving an emotionally neglectful relationship, tw- alcohol use, wet dreams and daydreams

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The bottle would not draft his timetable, and as such, it remained corked. Hiromi's thirst extended past wine and warm bodies, to something altogether more elusive; an alleviation of his crippling loneliness-- that which ground him down to dirt.

Hiromi sat on his sofa, picking up the claret, rolling it in his hands, putting it down, running his fingers through his hair, clenching white knuckles against jittering thighs.

The week had been long. His Department was undergoing fresh demands for classes and time and curriculums and more, that Hiromi had not the staff to facilitate. With the new term about to start, and fewer professors than ever, Hiromi felt like the wick in the middle of a candle burning at both ends.

From the heated sneers that set to flame in the room around him, Hiromi wasn't the only one already balancing on a knife edge. He felt the frost crisp the earth around Nanami Kento, his Literature department already at the end of their tether.

If the rampant deep-seated loathing for the world in which he lived didn't kill him first, the stress would. The loneliness would. The drink would. The pressure would. The late nights would. The loneliness the loneliness the loneliness the loneliness--

Hiromi threw his bottle and responsibilities to the sofa. Too touch-starved for solitude, but too burned out for company, Hiromi grabbed his jacket and keys, and headed for his favourite bar.

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See you later? At the bar across the street.

Let me know when you'll be here.

Are you still coming?

Not dressed up, sorry. On your way?

Got you a drink. See you soon?

???

The Spring evening was too crisp for such chilly rejection. The sun had seemed hopeful, earlier in the day, and you hadn't brought a jacket. You felt the bite upon your exposed arms, a nipping punishment for your optimism. Whether he was here, or not, made no great difference; he had not given you his jacket in a long time.

He would come, you reassured yourself. You'd buy him his favourite drink, and he'd arrive late, all I'm so sorry baby, you know how it is, c'mere, I'll warm you up, with twinkles in his eyes like you'd hung his stars and his hand in yours and the life you had lived and shit don't cry you stupid bitch pull yourself together.

You scurried into the bar, embraced by your own arms, before ordering his favourite drink and yours, as if a summoning ritual. The bar had a happy thrum, warm with love and life, and you saw cherry blossoms drift across the torch lit balcony. It beckoned you. You remained, waiting for your spell to work, with your eyes on the door.

The torches dwindled. A barman went to refill them with oil. Your fiancé had not arrived. The ice in his drink had almost melted, and you sank into a sigh that shredded down to the very core of you. The first time you saw the man in the black suit, arriving on a thundercloud, and sitting a few barstools down from you, you registered him only briefly, past the knife in your gut.

Then, a pair of coal-dark eyes met yours. The torches on the balcony reignited with a whoomph, setting drifting blossoms to pink-spark ember on the Tokyo backdrop. Your breath caught halfway, the scent of smoky petals and spiced cologne on the sides of your tongue. The barest clink of ice cubes settling in the glass, cracked through the moment that time had paused.

The man in the suit opened his mouth, offering only the other half of the breath he had stolen. His hangdog eyes were so curiously expressive. A smile wrinkled his nose. You stumbled across yourself, pressing your fiancé's undrunk drink across the bar to the black-suit man.

"Would you like this? It's in need of appreciation." The black-suit man laughed, a breathy rumble.

"Is it indeed?" He took the glass with long fingers, and you followed the trail of a trickle of the glass's condensation, dripping down his finger's inner length, to pool at the junction between. "Will it taste bitter in the mouth of someone for whom it was not intended?"

You smiled, your eyes narrowing in tease. "It is a gift."

"Oh!" He uttered, laced with small joy. "Then it will be sweet." He took a sip, a vermouth-honeyed tongue darting across his lips with an appreciative hum. "Yes, quite. Welcome, little drink. There is joy to be found amongst the unwanted." You laughed, and Hiromi felt a curious yank upon his finger. He had fallen into your company, and could not get back up.

"I must be old," he laughed again, swiping commas of grey-streaked Inky hair from his temples, "because I've forgotten my manners. I'm sorry for pressing conversation upon you. Thank you for the drink."

You shook your head, without the appropriate words to express how a stranger had warmed you more in moments than you had been in years. Your black-suit man bowed his head, standing, and turning away before pausing. Fate rolled a dice.

"The balcony looks lovely. And, empty." Hovering on one footstep, his gait then steadied, and brogued black shoes clipped across the polished floor. You felt something fine and golden tug within your chest, as torchlight rolled across the black-suit man's disappearing shoulders. Another diceroll raised Fate's eyebrows.

You stood, hesitating between the balcony and the bar. The barman buried a scoop into some ice, watching two strangers interact with an oddly burgeoning certainty. He never interfered. Fate flipped a coin; how readily the stars did align.

"He likes red wine." The barman offered, nodding between your stuttering gape, and the void the black-suit man left in the doorway. You frowned, biting your bottom lip, unaware that your path had been decided before the words left your mouth.

"Then I like red wine, too." The barman smiled. He reached to a row of dusty wine racks above his head, pulling out a bottle with a glassy clink.

"Do you trust me?" The barman asked, placing the bottle before you with a muted thud. You felt a bubble of joy up your nose.

"I do, actually." You replied, awash with certainty as you paid, took two glasses, and headed towards the balcony. As you walked through the doorway, and firelight uncovered the gems hidden within your hair and eyes, your black-suit man smiled, and gestured to the rattan sofa opposite him.

As you sat, strangely comfortable under his gaze, in your state of plain dress, your black-suit man smiled over at you. He looked awkward for a moment, not trusting himself in his own shoes.

"...all this and I wasn't actually prepared for company." You both laughed. Your black-suit man watched you with a glimmer in his eyes, fingers plaited and clasped under his nose, leaning forwards on propped elbows. You struggled to open the wine. He huffed through his nose, your fingers brushing as you handed the bottle over with a scoff.

The man's eyes narrowed as the bottle opened with a brittle schtick; "Loosened it for me--" you laughed again, pinching your nose bridge, "--no no I mean it, I'm really very weak--" You rolled in your laughter together, with him babbling smiling reassurance, while he poured your wine.

"I have one condition to this rendezvous-- please can we not talk about work?" He groaned, clinking your two glasses together in his own hands before passing one to you, still warmed by fading laughter.

"Absolutely. I promise. No work talk."

He was older than you, by an uncertain amount, though you were no girl. You leaned on one palm, in easy silence as you smelled the petal-burst flames. He watched the aurora cast upon your cheeks, feeling his chest fill in a way he couldn't describe.

"...Hiromi." He offered. "My name's Hiromi."

"And it suits you. Should I remain a great mystery?" You gasped, melodramatic with one hand over your mouth.

"Appalling manners!" Hiromi shot. "You owe me a name."

"I gave you a drink! And a bottle of wine."

"Bullshit."

"I don't owe you a thing, in fact--"

The evening trailed away, all warm banter, easy laughter and lingering looks. The conversation grew sloppier, uninhibited, lubricated by wine, of which the bottles nestled, one, two, two and a half. Hiromi had laughed, as deep and rich and mature as the grapes, positively Dionysian, his laughter dying on his lips to catch you mid-shiver. He huffed into his glass, the scent of fermentation rolling back over his own face.

"Here." He dropped, lackadaisical as he sloped past on the way to the bathroom. You blushed to feel his jacket nestle, warm and homely, around your shoulders. He did not appreciate the enormity of the gesture, to you, as he walked away. On his return, you appeared muted, holding onto his jacket around with with two chilly hands. Hiromi felt a stutter in his chest, and sat down beside you.

"...are you alright?" He whispered, soft under the torchlight. Your head drooped onto his shoulder, your neck softened by wine, and he puffed his surprise, short and sharp across your cheek.

"I've had such a lovely time." You sniffed, feeling the clock tick far too late, and you had a busy day ahead, with the start of your new course, and you had to get home and prepare your mind for the beginning of a new life and--

"It...doesn't have to be over." Hiromi intoned, and your belly clenched as his voice rumbled through your core. Your head turned on his shoulder, your nose brushing his. Hiromi spoke again, stroking your nose with his until your eyes fluttered closed, having never felt more certain of anything in his life. "I...I've never done this, but...come home with me, just tonight, and--"

Your phone rang, shrill and piercing and you cried out, jolting away from Hiromi's touch. He chased your lips, his face twisting in a pain you didn't see, as you looked down at your phone screen, slurring.

"Shit...my fiancé..."

Hiromi's belly tumbled, sick with disappointment-- with something altogether more possessive-- and feeling that yank upon his finger, more insistent as he spoke, low and slow.

"Your...fiancé?" The words tasted rotten. Hiromi felt sick, bitter with the sudden loss, hobbled by the brutality of having gained the stars and lost them all at once. He watched you swallow, watched the flash of a wound reopening, piecing the puzzle together so fast now.

"The one who stood you up?" Hiromi toned, venomous with the injustice of the theft. You mistook the direction of his anger, and looked up, your face tight with apology. Hiromi shook his head, raising a hand. Your phone stopped ringing. A few moments passed before your phone buzzed. You read a message as Hiromi stood, turning on the spot, his hands cupped over his nose and mouth.

"You...shouldn't worry. I assume he's coming to pick you up, and I...thank you for such a lovely evening, it's been--"

You laughed without humour, eyes brimming with tears. You shook your head, and nodded, and shook your head again. Hiromi watched you, uncertain.

"I'll walk myself home. He's gone to bed." Hiromi paused, then scoffed.

"You're not walking home alone. Not a chance. Not like this."

He extended a hand to you. You took it, as if tied by the fingers. He held you, like this, all the way home to your cold bed.

You took each others' breath with you as you parted at the door. Hiromi was sure that his loneliness would not kill him first; the drink would not kill him first; the stress would not kill him first; the late nights would not kill him first; the pressure would not kill him first. Being taken to great heights, and then dropped in a dizzying fall, would.

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"Thank you for inviting me in." You whispered, smiling against the shell of his ear. In his bed, soft and open against his body, Hiromi sighed into your touch, your fingernails trailing across his scalp as he groaned. His cock throbbed, thick with promise.

"Couldn't leave you out there, naked." He mumbled against your lips, reaching under the covers to feel you and meeting only the cloth resistance of the mattress, but you were there because he could taste the wine on you, and you were opening yourself to him, he knew somehow.

"You're the one who undressed me." You said, your voice above him, but he was climbing above you, bracketing you to the bed while your voice whispered all around him. Hiromi felt his cock grasped, bucking forwards into the warmth and softness of it, chasing warmer and softer, and he begged you.

"Please you...never told me your name...let me in please, please--" He couldn't see your face with his eyes closed in this odd black moonlight, somehow within you and outside of you all at once. One more rock of his hips seated him within you, plush walls pillowy and smooth and all for him.

He groaned, low and desperate, rocking his cock inside you and he longed for you to welcome him with your arms, but any time he tried to draw them round him they flopped, useless, absent, so he urged you with his hips rutting faster, to pleasure you into holding him. Was it you crying out, or him? He couldn't tell, his pleasure mounting, pulsing through him in waves and why wasn't he trying to stop himself, he hadn't done anything for you--

Hiromi woke with a gasp, his pillow clutched between taut arms as he fucked involuntarily into the mattress, groaning into the mess of cum spurting between his sheets and belly. Hiromi's voice cracked, still lost in his dream, still spilling himself inside you in his mind. The blissful contractions of his cock dizzied him, surely the wettest dream he'd ever had.

Coming back to earth, Hiromi panted, face down in his pillow and a pool of his own sticky seed. His phone alarm rang. He groaned, feeling the catastrophic disappointment of the night before wash over him anew. Seeing the date on his phone in fumbling hands, sent another groan through him, and he buried his hooked nose in the pillow.

The new academic year began today.

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"Higuruma." More statement than question, Hiromi accepted Nanami Kento's proffered coffee as if being reminded of his own name. Hiromi took it, weary and silent, slouched at his desk beneath the crushing weight of having been scooped out in the middle.

Kento sat in Hiromi's visitor chair, regarding Hiromi with cool impassivity. He read the usefulness of any comments he could make, and set them aside for business.

"How do you plan on handling your evening classes? The high-school ones." Hiromi scoffed.

"Nanami, it is 8am on the first day of term, you cannot surely have a plan--"

"We'll offer assistant wages to one or two new First Years." Nanami said, before continuing, sniping and bitter. "If we must lose our Graduate Professors, and if we must host the accessibility courses ourselves, then at least the First Years can gain some income and some experience through teaching."

Hiromi rested his cheek on one palm. He stared Kento down.

"That...that's not a bad idea, actually, Nanami. I shall use that, I think." Kento and Hiromi inclined coffees and heads to each other, an easy camaraderie. Kento let the silence hang as Hiromi scribbled in his diary.

"I don't actually know how we'll do it, Nanami." Hiromi groaned, his face in his hands. "They make staffing cuts as if I can knit a new professor to take some of these classes. How much more 'self-directed learning' can I give these students? It's barbaric. They're being bled dry for this degree, and for what? So they can teach themselves? Shit."

Kento did not disagree, frosty again as the University Chancellors' departmental meeting montaged before his eyes.

"They're paying for a library, and the pleasure of our limited company." Kento sneered, as bitter as his coffee dregs. Hiromi sighed, trying to rub the alcohol away with his fingertips on his temples. Kento's eyes narrowed in cool regard, again.

"Home, or bar?" Hiromi grumbled, steepling his fingertips across his nose.

"Am I so fucking transparent?"

The faintest quirk lifted the corner of Kento's lips. He awaited an answer. Hiromi's head swam with the memory of you, interspersed with the false memories from the dream of being nestled between your thighs, and he felt his cock twitch. Hiromi shook himself out of it, sitting up and shaking his hands out with a huff.

"Bar, if you must know. It was...a late one." Kento hummed again. Hiromi did not elaborate.

"You should try harder to rest, before a work day. It is...irresponsible of you." Hiromi glowered over at Kento, Hiromi's junior by a good few years, quacking after him.

"Yes mother." Kento scowled.

"I could report you." Stony silence. Two chuckles in the office.

"No. You won't do that. You're my best friend."

"I don't have friends--"

"Shush."

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You recalled taking a day off work, on your fiancé's first day at University. You ironed his shirt the night before. You made him lunch, with notes and flourishes. You enjoyed a hot breakfast together, brimming over like the coffee pot about his future, while you worked to support him, and then your future, while he worked to support you. You had opened your arms to release him, and closed them around him on his return.

And god, you had worked, gruelling long hours for three gruelling long years, but despite the great chasm he had dug between you, you had brimmed over again when he landed his new job. A lucrative career. More than enough to pave your way, while he worked to secure your future--

He stayed in bed as your alarm went off. He accepted your affectionate nuzzles, before rolling away into the embrace of bed. Your fingers closed around nothing. You ate cereal. You packed your bag. You bubbled, low and alone. You wondered if he'd mind you slipping a banknote out of his wallet for your lunch. Your belly clenched with anxiety, and you packed a microwave meal instead.

You rocked, rhythmic with the clatter-back-and-forth of the train. Your eyes closed. Your music was soft. Though, not as soft as those coal-soft eyes, the gentle, brushing aquiline nose against yours, of the night before. Not as soft as the bittersweet ache of loss, of failing to know him better. The ghost of his touch soothed the stinging guilt, of wishing you had spent the night in his arms, instead.

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Hiromi was early to his first class, his nerves too frayed and electric to be anything other than hypervigilant. The lecture hall stretched up around him, an amphitheatre where he would slowly watch the soul and enthusiasm be sucked out of those wishing to learn Law.

He had held some optimism, years prior, that his own fractured soul (from years of systemic self-abuse in the Criminal Defense system) could be soothed by teaching the next generation of lawyers, solicitors, and barristers.

Alas, second to idealism, feckless optimism had oft been Hiromi's failing. Alas, the decaying state of education and academia could provide no such balm to his soul while it crumbled itself, and expected its professors to use their bodies and bones to prop up the teetering institution. The grind was different, but just as potent. Hiromi felt the crushing responsibility of leading his department through this storm, and wondered how many would remain on the ship once the rain cleared from his vision.

He resigned himself to filling his chalice with the immeasurable optimism of the fresh and uninitiated. Though under-subscribed compared to prior years, he was still excited to receive his first batch of students for the term. He hoped their passion could bounce off of him, and multiply, exponential.

While preparing his slides for the day, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, Hiromi heard the steady fill of the lecture theatre behind him.

He could not shake the ghost of your head upon his shoulder. He could not shake the taste of your skin from his dreams. He could not shake his regret, for not shaking you by the shoulders and insisting you deserved better, instead of delivering you back to the bed of a man who didn't appreciate the treasure within his grasp.

"I'll be with you in a moment!" Hiromi called behind him, waving one white-sleeved arm in a vague gesture. "Please be seated! I shan't be long."

The chatter crescendoed behind Hiromi, and he turned, clapping his hands together and affecting a smile and speech, gazing into the sea of new faces.

"Good morning everyone! Welcome to your first class. I'm delighted you have all chosen to study the Law-- it means the flow of the insane into our noble professions remains, as ever, consistent." A few smattered laughs from the audience. Hiromi grabbed his clicker, a slide slow flicking onto the great screen behind him.

"My name is Professor Higuruma, and while I will only be teaching you Case Law this year, today we shall talk about what to expect from your course, and--and..."

Oh, god. Those eyes, that haunted him. The body he had made love to while he slept. The shock, mirrored in your own eyes back at him, a participant in his new audience.

Hiromi's arm and mouth drooped, with the tug of the fine gold thread that you, too, felt. The night you had almost shared together passed across two pairs of distant, breathless lips. You felt every pulse, every nerve, every fibre of yourself skip a beat.

How readily had the stars aligned.

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Part Two, Interpretation, coming soon!

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[rafeandonlyrafe]

vip section

words: 400

warnings: drinking, no actual smut but multiple mentions of sex

you knock down another shot before heading back into the crowd, leaving the empty glass behind on the bar as you weave your way through dancing and grinding bodies back to your group of friends.

“oh my god, i love this song!” you shout as you squish your way into the center of the group, hips swinging back and forth as you dance, twirling in circles and letting your hands flow freely to the rhythm. 

you’re so into the song (and pretty drunk) that you don’t even bother to look behind you when a mans hands slip around your hips, tugging you into his chest. you immediately begin to grind back into him, ass pushing against his crotch as he dances into you.

“hey!” the man shouts into your ear, having to raise his voice over the club music. you finally turn to realize how hot the guy is. “wanna come to vip?”

you take one glance at your friends, the excited look on their faces and encouraging nods. “yeah, of course.”

the man keeps his arm around you as he leads you to the roped off section, the bouncer letting you both in as he slides into a booth, quieter and away from the packed dance floor.

“whats your name?” he asks as you sit down next to him, not bothering to be shy about your intentions as you press into his side.

“y/n.” you respond.

“im rafe.” he says, looking down at your lips before glancing up to your eyes. “what are you drinking tonight, y/n?”

you love the way your name sounds coming from his lips, your thighs clenching together as you think about what you want.

“shots?” you offer.

“my kinda girl.” rafe smiles, flagging the waiter down.

--

“god, my head.” you groan, pressing your hand into your forehead, wishing the light shining in through the window and curtain wasn’t so bright. 

you grab your phone, making to buy blackout curtains on amazon when you realize your phone was left open to a text message thread.

you click on the contact. rafe. the name rings a bell, but you were so drunk last night the memory is all a bit fuzzy, but when you click on his picture, you remember. when you saved his contact last night after spending the night in vip, you insisted on taking adding a contact photo and planted a wet kiss on his lips the moment you snapped the photo.

good morning gorgeous

you smile at the text, feeling excitement bloom.

did we sleep together last night? rafe may have fled before you woke up, the shots clouded your memory so much that you can’t say for sure either way.

no

you frown, wondering if maybe he didn’t want to sleep with you.

i told you, i want to sleep with you when you’ll remember it. when you’ll remember the way i make you scream.

[shotmrmiller]

the possibilities for bullying a girl into an inescapable marriage are endless … soap finding a girl from a catholic family, getting her into bed, then ‘accidentally’ letting it slip to her family and nodding along when her mother is like ‘you have to marry him it’s the only way to save yourself from sin’

price in vegas getting blackout drunk with some sweet thin he met at the casino bar, and both of them waking up in the morning with rings. so what if price wasn’t really that drunk? reader doesn’t need to know that.

ghost who convinces you to marry him for the benefits so he gets better housing and you get his health insurance. you think it’s purely transactional, so imagine your surprise when he starts expecting you to perform your other spousal duties and threatens to kill the guy you were gonna go on a date with.

gaz who agrees to be your fake boyfriend for a family dinner, so you don’t have to suffer through another round of ‘what do you mean you’re still single? when am i getting grandbabies?’ only to realize your mistake too late when you catch him in the kitchen with your mother, promising her she’s getting grandbabies soon.

soap's just looking at her mom like he hadn't a clue that it was that serious for "catholics" and he'll do right by them both and take her hand in marriage as if he doesn't have a crucifix around his neck that gleams against coarse hair and pale scars. as if he doesn't remember his ma giving him sharp twists to the ear because he'd made them late for sunday mass again. ofc not. and if he knows certain prayers, he'd learned for his future wife. obviously.

price is def the type to befriend the loud, drunken girl on vacation in some party city he'd just finished a job in. buys her drink after drink because she'd said she can hold her own. unsurprisingly, she was all talk no walk. she calls him handsome once, threads her fingers into his greying hair and his first stop is the nearest jewelry store. he doesn't touch the new mrs. price as she sleeps off the alcohol, he wants her awake for what he's got planned. (ghost ofc hears of his new wife and sends him a congrats text)

ghost gets signed up on tinder by soap against his knowledge will and when soap matches him with some girl only looking for fun, simon decides he's gonna give her more than that and if she's the type to try to kick him out the morning after, he's calling price to forge her signature onto a marriage certificate. (price eventually meets her and he's just like "shouldntve fed him, love. should've known he wouldn't leave." rip a girl just tryna have some sex)

kyle tells her that he needs a gf for the weekend because there's a wedding, soaps wedding actually, and she agrees. (every time she corrects him to his plus one he simply repeats himself.) he immediately goes back on his promise, "i won't even touch ya," cuz his hand is constantly roaming south, he sits her on his lap whether she wants it or not, and during the slow dancing he's prying her mouth open with his for, "just one kiss." if he fucks her in the groom's dressing room during the dinner, no he didn't. (he needs his hands on her, no one believes that they're dating:(

[mara-and-its-the-same]

let’s understand that this is Mara immediately post breakup so this means i get to have it as wild as i want it to be...but anyway, all i’ve been thinking about is rebounding with Danny, duh. Beyond suggestive, it's directly implied, 2k words and a big thank you to @frnchgirls, rose is a most gracious help. Enjoy 🥰

“What about like this?”

If anyone asked Danny the series of events that led him here, there would be no sane answer. Friday night he meets you at the Vandals’ bar, Saturday night he learns that you live in Chicago but were dating another Vandal in a different chapter and just suffered a messy break up, and by Sunday afternoon he’s got you posing on his bed with the brand new knowledge that before you got into that relationship you were a lingerie model until that guy made you quit. 

“Danny?” You ask him again, leaning on your elbows and one knee slightly bent to the side over the other.

He shakes himself out of his daydreaming to realize that reality is ten times better and hopes you don’t notice his dazed off gaze from your side of the camera. “Yeah?”

“Is this a good pose?” 

Kathy told you that you should get back into modeling, then offered Danny to help you practice, maybe get new photos to show some agents.  Neither of you were busy this weekend, so now here you are in a brand new soft blue babydoll negligee that she made you buy the minute she heard about the split, on Danny’s bed. 

God, how he washed those sheets and cleaned all over his apartment as soon as you asked if you could do it at his place. It hasn’t been so neat since he toured the place. But now there you are wanting him to tell you if you look good in your lingerie on his bed. But photography is his job, he’s a professional, he can do this.

He could do this, if his tongue wasn’t suddenly tied until he swallowed thickly. “Yeah, maybe you just lean back a little more?”

“Like this?”

“Perfect.” He captures the picture and tries some more from a few different angles. “What about laying down?”

“Mhm,” you move a bit further down the bed and let your hair fall around you as best it could on its own. “Here?”

“Yeah, can I move your hair?”

“Yeah,” he rearranges your strands so they frame your face perfectly and look as effortless as possible.

“Gorgeous.” The shudder clicks right as he said it, so fast that he hits it a second time just to catch your smile when he says it.

“Really?” He catches the moment your face changes from eyes closed and sultry, to open and joyous.

“Beautiful.”

“Me? Or just your pictures? 

“You, and the pictures of you.”

“Thank you,” you roll over again and he gets one from another angle. 

It was never anything crazy, the sets you modeled. Just some odd jobs for more local boutiques, never anything obscene or ridiculously lavish. Danny refuses to believe that though. You make plastic rhinestones shine like diamonds. Machine spun cotton lace looks like hand threaded silk from Paris the second it touches your skin. 

“Do you think we got enough of this one?” you ask.

“I think so. I can get these developed and have them ready in a few days,” he starts packing his camera away. “What size did you say you wanted?”

“Oh I don’t know, but— Well actually I brought one more thing to try on. Unless you want to be done?”

He’s not sure how much more of this he can really take. How much longer can he be in the same room as you before he busts just from looking at you. 

“Yeah, sure- I’ll be in the kitchen.”

He tries not to stare as you slide of the bed and start looking through the bag you brought on his way out the door. 

3 minutes later your head is poked out of the door and into the kitchen, “Danny, you can come in now.”

Oh what a sight you are. The black nightgown reaches down all the way to your ankles, the silky fabric falls over your hips so perfectly, and the only thing between the air and your chest is a thin layer of the finest lace he’s ever seen. “I haven’t worn this in years.”

“That’s a shame.” He can’t believe he’s said that, especially in the tone he did, like he couldn’t believe you wouldn’t even wear it just by yourself. You must know how you look in it, how it looks tailored to your body in every square inch. 

“I know. But he didn’t like it. It’s vintage Chantelle, all silk. Didn’t know how to appreciate it properly.” You sit back on the bed again and just then he notices the slit up one side that just about nears the top of your thigh. 

You’re about to take a new pose when he asks you a most peculiar question. 

“I’m sorry?” You ask.

“Do you mind if I move you?” He says with more confidence this time and what a gift that he did.

“Sure.”

He sets the camera down on his dresser and comes towards you. With his hands on your shoulders— your nearly bare shoulders, his thumbs fitting perfectly just into the dips of your clavicles —he leads you to lay down against the pillows and rearranges your hair. He takes one of your hands and places it beside your head, the other he moves across your torso with your hand cusping your hip bone. He steps back a bit to consider your legs, with respect to the slit. After slowly, so slowly coasting down the length of your leg, he softly pulls one ankle down straight, and pushes the other slitted one up so that it is slightly bent at the knee and tilts it towards the other. 

He takes a second to look at you, really look at you, and he can’t believe anyone would ever try to keep you from this. 

Maybe he’s just getting to know your form, for the sake of the composition, you think. But only for a moment before you see him suck his bottom lip between his teeth, just for a second but you notice. 

Finally, finally, he takes the first picture of you like this. With the click of the shutter you’ve made your mind up, you decide to press your luck. “What if I like…” you bring the hand that was on your hip up to your mouth and bite the top knuckle of your index finger.

“Yes.”

“What’s the look you’re thinking though?”

“They’re your pictures. I’m thinking whatever you want me to think.”

“But you’re the photographer, the artist.”

“You’re the art.”

“Would you kiss me?”

He nearly drops the camera. “What?”

“They like when pictures tell stories, the story would be that I’m messy and ravished and the clothes are serving their intended purpose. If you’re alright with that?”

He so absolutely, most certainly, positively is more than just alright with that. “Yeah, ok.”

You push yourself back up on the bed while he positions himself at the edge. “So how do you wa—“ he’s cut off by your pull to his collar and the press of your lips. Surpassing his initial surprise he brings a hand up around you to hold your waist, and the other up to your jaw. Messy, you want it messy. And salacious, lascivious even. Beyond suggestive, obvious is what you need. He can tell from the way you continue to pull him into you even as his chest is flush against yours. 

You pull away panting for no more than a second to order “Get the camera off the bed.” How sweet of you to be concerned, he nearly leaps over you to put it on the nightstand and he’d like to say ‘if it were any less expensive’ he would have just thrown it, but he knows that the price of it wasn’t what stopped him, it was the fear of damaging even a single one of those pictures of you. 

As he’s leaning over you, you slide down a little further on the bed so he can reach you easier. Or maybe to muss your hair up a little more if it’s against the pillows, or any other excuse you could make to make it seem like this is all for the picture and not your own desires. 

From there it is licks, bites, tugs, sucks of lips. And you’re trying, you’re both trying to keep your hands out of it, but how could you when his hair is so soft and the back of his neck is the perfect shape for you to hold. And how could he when your skin is so perfect and your bare leg is right there.

“I want a hickey.”

“Huh?”

“Kiss my neck.” He kisses you twice more on his way to your throat and you can’t help the sound you make when he reaches the perfect spot. Already he has you gasping for air. “Oh god.” His hand slithers up the slit, sliding even higher in search of your hip bone or waist to hold. 

“Wait,” He lifts himself to be eye level with you, “wait—“

“Hm?”

“Sorry, just…You’re—This is real now, right?”

“Yes, yes, very real.” You rush to pull him back down to your lips and nearly crash noses with the way he rushes down to meet you. 

“Mmph,” he groans at the scratch of your nails across his scalp and just the sound makes your back arch. Moving down again, he passes soft kisses down the valley of your chest. You’re positive he can feel the beat of your heart through every inch of your skin. How you’ve missed this, being wanted, being adored. And how he’s missed crossing beyond the other side of the lens, the feel of sculpting another body just by the skill of his touch. 

As he’s pushing the side of your skirt up and away a sudden fear strikes you, “Wait!”

“What is it?” He immediately sits back and takes his hands away, looking into your eyes for any cause for concern.

“I’m so sorry, but I really don’t want to rip it.”

“Oh,” you see him immediately relax, “So…”

You make no answer, though you do sit up to your knees and move the skirt out from underneath you. With a gesture to the strap that has fallen off your shoulder, he finally gets the message. However, in the spirit of fairness, his own shirt is the first thing to go and before you have time to remember your original intent you both rise on your knees just to kiss again. You feel before you look while your hands roam his torso. 

And slowly, so slowly, through wandering presses, pulls, and squeezes, he reaches the sides of your thighs and takes your nightgown by the seams to lift it over your head. He takes it by the straps to hang by the corner of the headboard rather than tossing it to the floor. 

You guide him forwards as you move to your back again, his knee moves between your legs while his fingertips smooth along your jaw. His eyes dance around your face, and as embarrassed as he may be to admit it, he takes a fleeting glance down the space between your bodies. An idea flashes before him, a bold one, but at this point in the afternoon he’s not sure there’s much left that could happen between you two that’d be too bold. He reaches for the camera slowly enough that you knew exactly what he wants. You resist the instinct to shy away when you still see his soft gaze over the camera. The shudder clicks and he drops it back on the nightstand, “That one’s not making it into the book,” Danny smirks at his own teasing before leaning back into you to finish what he started with a smile still on his lips. 

[cherbii]

INFERNO | Dabi (Touya)

summary ➜ being apart of the LOV meant battling heroes, and some were ruthless, leaving you tired and wounded. All that blood loss is getting to your head, and Dabi’s, and not in the way you’d expect.

warnings ➜ language, graphic violence, graphic gore, highly detailed death! smut! p in v, unprotected sex, biting, scratching, oral (M), fingering, face slapping (it happens once), choking, hickies/marking, pain kink, blood play, blood kink. mdni

reader’s quirk ➜ reader can create visions of opponents worst nightmare and become them.

Your day started out like any other, an absolute bore. By that, nothing out of the ordinary happened. Sure you were a wanted villain, one of the League of Villains, and were expected to be some ruthless villainess, but you weren't. You were baddass and feared by many, but you weren't blood thirsty like the others, ironically like Toga.

You lay half on the counter, seated on a bar stool while Kurogiri wiped glasses, paying no mind to you. A heavy sigh left your nose, your head leant against your arm that was starting to prick with pins and needles.

To your right was Shigaraki, who's nails clawed away at his pale skin. Upon your sigh, a gust of dust whooshed off the countertop making your head perk up in a cringe, arm sliding off. Red eyes spared a glance to you, before nonchalantly looking away.

Kurogiri was quick to swap from wiping the glasses to the counter, white cloth now coated in brown and grey. "Sorry about that." He apologised, and if he could, would've given you a small smile.

You shook your head, dismissing the fact before slipping off the barstool, walking over to the staircase that was held up by a thread just about, fingers nimbly moved to graze the splintering wood before the blonde girl bounced down the stairs.

"Morning!" Toga purred, tongue just prodding out of her lips as her gold eyes gleamed. Her fists curled inwards as she positioned them by the sides of her face, much like a cat would. She zipped past you, to the bar where she took her seat on the barstool you previously sat on, immediately going on a full banter when Twice made himself known.

You treaded up the stairs, to your room that was all lonesome, plain walls decorated with nothing, a single bed and nightstand, you didn't necessarily like your room, but it's all you had considering if you were to buy a house, it would be a death trap, a target would dangle over your house, a sign for the heroes.

On the windowsill, that displayed nothing but a view of concrete buildings, held a withering plant, the green leaves long turned yellow, and sagged. A symbol of misery.

Walking over to the window, you pushed the cracked glass up, the stale air plummeted into your room. Peering your head outwards, you had seen a man, shrivelled —only skin and bone—loitering on the streets, you couldn't tell what he was doing, other than the scraping of metal and grunts he made.

Almost feeling your presence, he looked up, with his only good eye, and gave you a horrid smile.

This was all before a dark figure came from the depths of the shadows in the alleyway, the sounds of boots grating against the chipped pavement. The man's head whipped to the noise before raising the object in his hand, he was constructing a blade.

With full power, he charged at the figure. However, an azure gust swallowed him.

A grim laugh bounced off the walls, you scoffed, a gut churning smell hit your senses before anything else making you choke. "Dabi, if you're going to fry people, at least find a decent place to do so.” You said once the flame had sizzled to a spark on his hand, he looked up with a smirk, sapphire eyes swirling.

"Gotcha, princess." He sent you a wink, before his cloak ruffled and he left into the banishing night.

With a grumble, you spun around to continue towards your bed when Shigaraki appeared, gripping onto your door frame, minus his pinky finger.

"Low-class heroes are trying to stop a nomu, it needs assistance." He left before anything else, you hurriedly left after him to find Kurogiri already forming a purple portal, reading to swallow anything up, Toga was bouncing on her feet, blood thirty much like everyone.

In an instant, you jumped through the portal, as quick as it had happened, you were standing on a rooftop. Below, on the suburban streets was in fact a nomu, with bulging muscles as well as some undergraduate heroes, Power Loader and Gunhead.

Power Loader desperately tried to latch his steel jaws onto the flesh of the mutant, but alas, got flung off, however he sprung up and was ready to jump back into action. The nomu's throw was weak, Shigaraki taking note on how the mutant's energy was quick to deteriorate.

Then, Gunhead's head shot out claw-like bullets from the barrels on his mask, clinging to the nomu's flesh, making the bird-like beast roar into the bellowing nights. "What are we doing here? Let's fight!" Toga whined to Shigaraki who all but all, surveyed the scene unfolding.

"I have to agree with nutjob over here, I'm getting bored." Dabi grumbled, folding his arms over his chest, sapphire eyes looking off into the distance.

Shigaraki called your name. "You'll go down there to distract the heroes, Dabi you go with, and I'll call in the nomu with Spinner." Toga let out an audible groan at his words, wishing to be able to jump down there. In a second, you and Dabi cascaded down the walls, hidden by the barely-lit streets.

"You get dunce-face and I'll get tool-works." Dabi said to you before his legs started moving on their own, blue blaze forming around his arm as he swung it at Power Loader, leaving you with Gun Head.

With a hum, you ran after the other hero, clasping your hands together in order to use your quirk, a faint red glow started to buzz around your fingers before your quirk started to construct Gun Head's greatest fear.

To your dismay, it wasn't anything major or actually scary, forming was a woman clutching two children, when your quirk was done, your mind synced into the creation.

"K-Koji," the woman whimpered his name, with wobbly lips and wide eyes, the children holding the same expression. The hero, trying to duck from the harsh embers of Dabi, looked over to his 'family', body freezing up. "We're s-scared."

"I..." the pro-hero tried to reel his mind over why his family is about two hours away from their home, here, in the dark nights of a dingy street. "Tomara..." he called his wife's name, taking a tentative step towards her. "Hiro...Ketsu..."

"Papa," the little boy with blue hair held his arms stretched out for his dad, taking staggering steps towards his father, wrapping his small arms around his legs before the second child joined, wrapping his arms around his waist. "We missed you."

You observed the scene, wondering what was the actual fear of the pro-hero, it wasn't until a sparse second later, when Tomara—his wife, joined in on the hug that the lizard like villain jumped out, purple hair breezing in the wing, and chomped down on the family, blood spraying out onto the pro-hero who had no time to think.

He let out a choked sob, watching Spinner devour his family before scampering off, before Gun Head was able to go after the lizard, you sprung out onto him, it was a harsh tumble to the ground where you and the pro-hero wrestled, he was stronger, much stronger.

Easily pinning you to the road, mask whirring as he was about to use his mask—to shoot a bullet right between your eyes, before your whole entire body burned red, in a blink of the eye, you were now a male with a thick moustache, glaring at the pro-hero.

"Dad?" The pro hero choked, head quirking to the side.

"I'm disappointed in you son, you're here fighting your own dad, this is why we sent you to Osaka, you're no good, this is why your family died." His father (you) said, the pro-hero's head hung in shame, before slowly loosening his hold on you, his mind not even thinking straight and completely forgetting about you.

"I'm s-sorry, pa."

How you loved manipulating emotions, you were a sucker for it. Your guilty pleasure was watching someone fall apart in front of you.

He stood up and helped his father up, in a fleeting moment, you grabbed for your dagger, balling your hands into a fist around the handle and bringing it down onto his mint hair, red squirted on your face.

His body staggered back, barrels blazing as little claw like structures shot out askew, one dug into the side of your abdomen, making you grunt in pain and scowl.

His body went flat, due to the keratin claws usage, then went limp, a puddle forming by his head, it was unfortunate, but it's what had to be done.

With your crises averted, you turned around to see Dabi wiping away at some blood that dribbled down his lip, a heap of substance and metal in front of him.

With the heroes...out the way, you could relax, it was about time others were alerted, so you had to flee the scene as soon as possible.

Back at the hideout, Shigaraki was attending to the nomu. You were in the cramped bathroom, shirt off, dabbing cotton balls against your wound, just to decrease the blood, as well as scratching off the dried blood.

The door to the bathroom reeled open, revealing a shirtless Dabi, white towel draped over one shoulder.

"Out, gotta shower,” he told you, blue eyes shamelessly staring at your cleavage, pupils swelling at the sight of your blood, feeling himself twitch in his black shorts. "Or stay, could use some company."

"Gross, I just need to clean the blood up, I'll be out of your hair." You rolled your eyes, continuing to wipe away at your wound with the plain cotton balls.

Dabi shrugged the towel off of him, walking across the bathroom and setting it on the toilet, turning the handle almost all the way to the hottest setting, letting the bathroom fill up with steam.

With low, ultramarine eyes, he watched as the cotton balls were turning red with blood.

He sauntered closer to you, catching your frame between his arms that rested against the counter, you looked up from your wound to his zombie, skin-patched chest. The purple, sewn on flesh contracting against his toned skin, stuck on with staples, muscles flexing in your woke.

Then was the dog tag chain dangling from his neck, a skull and cross bones etched on the metal. Then him smirking at you, his bright eyes, and dark hair that held a millimetre of white by the roots. "Can I taste you?"

"What?" You blurred, eyebrows deepening at his words, Dabi just ran the ball of his tongue piercing over his lips, smirking.

"Don't act like we haven't fucked before." He chuckled.

"Yeah, but I'm bleeding." You scoffed.

"I know, I wanna taste." And before you even registered what he actually wanted to taste, his lips were licking around your wound, tongue flattening, catching a smear of blood on his tongue, it was a strange noise that gurgled from your mouth, it shouldn't have been so arousing, but it was.

You felt and heard him suck deeply on the wound before he removed his lips, bringing his hand up, he pried your lips apart and smashed his lips to yours, tongue swirling around your own, making you taste your own metallic blood.

Your hands went to grab his shoulder while his tangled in your hair, pulling you impossibly closer to him, letting out a groan into the kiss, when he pulled away, his lips were darker from the hard kiss, and your blood that's mixed with saliva, shining on his lips, yours matched.

Silently, he moved back, eyes still trained on you before he turned half way around and slid out of his shorts which he used as boxers, meaning his cock sprung free, hard, shining, and pierced.

One of Dabi's secret yet not secret secrets, was he had a pierced tip, it was a very scandalous piercing that poked through the slit of his dick and just underneath the head (a Prince Albert piercing).

Many would cringe at the pain, but not Dabi—who secretly enjoyed it, leaving the piercer scared for life when he almost came. 

You noticed a flash of blue look your way before he stepped into the shower and drew the curtain closed.

You watched as his shadow moved, continuing to bathe himself. You felt your bottom lip jut out, hating how your pussy was throbbing.

Sneakily, you peeled away your bottoms, leaving you in your thongs, then gliding a hand past your waistband of your underwear until your finger met the plush wetness of your pussy.

It swirled around your puffy clit, you started off slow, wanted to have a steady pace but it did minimal to help the ache, so you brought your middle finger to your clit and started to furiously flick at it.

Your legs, almost immediately started to vibrate at the same speed that your finger flicked at, your eyes dropped closed and your head lolled back, hitting the mirror. Your other hand joined in, sticking two fingers into your puckering hole, immediately getting coated in your sticky arousal, you should've felt ashamed for your actions, but you couldn't find a damn to give.

Your body felt on edge, prickling everywhere with lust and pleasure, stomaching feeling full, your lips fell apart, letting out tiny whimpers, it wasn't until one rather loud moan that the shower curtains were pulled back, that Dabi realised what you were getting up to.

He swore under his breath, cock twitching at the sight of you pleasuring yourself, droplets of water ran down every square inch of his body.

You were too preoccupied and caught up in the moment to have realised the shower had stopped, it wasn't until you felt a warm, wet body press against your legs that your eyes snapped open, and your finger stopped.

"Oh, don't let me stop your fun,” he purred, voice gravel with how turned on he was. To his dismay, you had stopped, and when he saw your hands slowly start to pull away, he grabbed a wrist. "I didn't say stop."

He, instead, used his own hand, grabbing the bottom of your underwear, the part covered in a patch of your previous arousal, in his fist, and burnt it right off, leaving you with a charred strap around your hips.

Using the same, warm hand, he pressed it harshly to your clit, rubbing aggressively before copying your previous actions, flicking over the bundle of nerves. He watched with sparkling eyes, and a growing smirk how your eyes rolled back into your head.

A gasp left your lips when you felt his hand wrap around your neck, and squeeze, with the addition of his quirk, imprinting a handprint around your neck. "'s too hot, Dabi, too hot." You babbled, your own hand pawing at his wrist, but he held your neck with a vice grip.

"You can take it, baby. I know you can,” he grinned, finger quickening on your clit. "You've taken my cock before."

"B-But, please, Touya, please?"

Something inside of Dabi snapped, he retracted both hands, making you whimper and sputter for air before his hand whipped hard against your cheek, leaving a second hand print.

"Don't you dare fucking call me that again," his hands moved, dug into your waist and rolled you around, cheek smushing up against the foggy mirror, ass pressing right into his hard-on. "Nasty sluts wants to act like one, then they'll be treated like one."

Another hard slap given to your body, this time on your ass cheek. The stinging sensation went straight to your core, still aching and empty.

"Dabi, fuck me.” You whined, words slightly muffled from the mirror, your eyes shut in pleasure when he gave you another slap, over the same bruising spot as before.

Dabi loved your ass, so it was no surprise when he started to squeeze away at the flesh, leaving darkening spots and crescent dents on your skin.

"I'll fuck you when I feel like it." He grabbed for your hips again, pulling you closer to him, raising your hips with impressive strength until he was able to watch saliva ooze from his lips and onto your pussy lips, which were already shining under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom.

He watched as your hole fluttered around nothing, before dropping your hips back down to the counter and shoving two, thick fingers inside your hole.

"Fuck. Your pussy is so needy, sucking me in."

"More." You managed to get out between moans, hips thrusting back on Dabi's fingers, you were so desperate for a release. Dabi curled his fingers, stretching you out further, and pushing against one pleasurable spot within you.

"Cock hungry slut, that's what you are,” he added a third finger, your hole gaping around his fingers, your mouth fell open as a spew of curses and moans left your lips. "Say it."

"'m a cock hungry slut." You mindlessly blabbered, Dabi pulled his fingers out of you, watching your pussy clench again around nothing.

He grabbed his cock with his sticky fingers and pumped it a few times before pressing the ball of his piercing against your clit and dragging it between your folds, to where you needed him the most.

He pushed himself in, just the tip, his fat, pink tip that sent a chill down your spine from the stretch. "More." You groaned, throwing your hips back, hoping to get more of him.

"Relax, don't be such a greedy bitch." He presented you with another slap to your ass, before fucking you with the tip only, it wasn't enough, despite the toe curling stretch it gave you, it wasn't the fullness you desired.

Dabi slowly thrusted the tip in and out of you, watching as his Prince Albert piercing got coated in your slick. He grabbed a handful of your ass, spreading the cheeks apart before slowly bottoming out, he groaned as he felt your pussy swallow him whole.

Dabi hated slow sex, but what he hated more were greedy sluts, much like yourself, so to torment you, he went slow, like really slow.

His dick now glistening as he pulled out, then inching back in, then out before pulling right out. He grabbed his cock yet again, prior to him now slapping it against your ass.

His pre-cum dropping down onto your ass in tiny, white pebbles. Dabi took his middle and forefinger and wiped the semen off before bringing them to your pouty lips and shoving them right down your mouth.

He watched as you choked around his fingers, he pushed them as far as they could before curling them, really making you gag.

His eyes lit up when he saw tears swell in your own, breaking away and falling down your cheeks. Dabi moved himself closer to your face, tongue lolling out before licking up your salty tears.

He let out a groan at the taste before pulling his fingers out your mouth, pulling you by the back of your neck to the ground, forcing you to turn around to face him.

"Open up, pretty girl." Dabi was oddly being gently right now as he caressed your hair, you opened your mouth for him, tongue prodding out, he slid his tip over your tongue, back and forth, back and forth before plunging his cock into your warm cavity.

His hold on your hair tightened, yanking at your scalp as he brutally fucked your mouth, giving you no time to breathe.

Dabi ignored the scratches at his leg, looking down here his stomach continuously bumped against your nose, eyes spilling with tears, only then did he decide to pull out, giving you a second to catch your breath before thrusting back in.

His hands loosened from your hair, opting to wrap around your neck where his thumbs just pushed against your throat, feeling it bulge from his cock.

Your hands assisted your mouth, squeezing his balls while he bottomed out in your mouth. His thrusts turned sloppy and slowed to hard thrusts before he clamped your head within his hands and forced you to swallow his cum that dripped down your throat. When he moved his dick out of your mouth, a mixture of spit and cum fell from your lips.

What was surprising was how erect his cock still was. "Up," he commanded, when you stood up, he lifted you and threw you back onto the sink's countertop. He took a finger to your lips. "Spit."

And so you did, your saliva dropping onto his finger, he added his own to the mix before bringing it to your still very much needy heat, lubing up your hole.

Dabi wasn't going to be slow, not now, not anymore. He slammed himself back into your pussy and started to fuck you at a savage speed. He didn't care how your body slumped to the side from pure euphoria, you were just a fucktoy in the moment.

"'s good, Dabi!" You moaned, back arching, chest pressing against his, he could feel how your breasts bounced against his skin, scraping against the metal staples. "So deep."

Your arms linked around his neck where your nails found haven in his skin and scratched away, red lines on his real skin and dark purple at his grafted skin. He hissed when you lifted staples but it made his lower belly heat up and it stirred something inside him.

You clawed so hard at his skin that you drew blood, that started to situate underneath your nails.

The tip of his cock repeatedly nudged against your cervix, the dull pleasure sending sensations throughout your entire body.

In the heat of the moment, you kissed Dabi, something he scarcely ever did, was kiss someone yet he always made exceptions for you and only you (and still denies any feelings whatsoever).

The kiss was a sloppy make out, saliva dribbling down your chin, shared groans, huffs, and oxygen. The kiss broke from Dabi's forceful thrusts that sent your body back to the mirror, he was quick to bring his lips back to your body.

This time, his teeth clamped down on your shoulder, before he suckled on your skin, he moved onto another patch of skin, then another, until your entire neck was covered in vibrant spots and imprints of his teeth.

Your stomach tightened, you were close, Dabi could tell by your walls fluttering around him and so was he. Your hands fumbled for his hair, tugging harshly at it, a moan left his lips from the pain, his chin lifting upwards, mouth apart by a centimetre as heavy breaths left them.

His face was a few inches away from yours, you still held his hair, the hair covering his forehead now swept away, exposing his entire face, and lust blown eyes, you didn't want to admit it, but he looked beautiful.

Yet, he also didn't want to admit how he was also appealed by you right now (Dabi is thriving in denial), wishing to always have you like this since he was so captivated. "Dabi, I'm close." You moaned, Dabi brought a thumb to your lips where he gently rubbed your bottom lip. "Touya, 'm so close."

Dabi didn't care that you called him by his real name, in fact it edged him on, thinking it sounded pretty falling from your lips.

"I know, pretty girl, me too." He mumbled, hands going back to your waist to anchor you, you wrapped your legs around him, his body almost flush against yours before your stomach tightened further before bubbling, the knot coming undone as you creamed around his cock, a loud, melodic moan left your throat before Dabi was quick behind you.

His cum buried deep in your cervix, now a cocktail with your own before he pulled out, watching your pussy squeeze out the substances.

Dabi stood there, breathless. Watching your pussy with his head hung low, his shoulder muscles flexed before he pulled himself away from you, wiping his nose with a sniff and out the bathroom, not caring if anyone were to see his family jewels on display as he went to his room, truth was, he left because he was scared.

Scared of how warm he felt around you, how tingly and fuzzy he got, which was not like him, so he did what he does best, and left.

You cleaned yourself up with a shower, before crawling into bed, the night sent you into a blissful sleep, where your mind kept reeling over the words he mumbled to you when he came... "I love you."