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rosie-read-that · 1 month ago

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a nonsense christmas / tyler owens x reader

summary: an unexpected snowstorm traps tyler owens with his workplace nemesis over the holidays. bonus points: there was only one bed.

content warnings: f!reader, allusions to smut

word count: 9k

author’s note: happy holidays! 🎄🎊🤶🏻🕎 i hope they were merry and bright and as stress-free as possible. thank you so much for supporting my three little fics. this is unedited, but i wanted to post it before i went out of town as a gift made specially for the glen girlies - i wrote it to bring you some december cheer. see you next year!

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Over the span of the last twelve hours you’d lost count of the number of times you’d muttered that sentence underneath your breath.

First, it was the office building in New York, where Tyler had the appointment right after yours at a ritzy funding agency. Then it was the airport, where you’d both flown standby and had a Wild West confrontation over the last seat on the plane, only for another passenger to volunteer their place in exchange for a travel voucher. (“It’s not like I’m in a rush to see my family, anyway.”) The woman manning the desk had given you both a look that said, “See, this is how an adult behaves,” which you thought was rich when the guy was clearly trying to cheat his way out of a Christmas dinner. Then, Tyler got assigned the seat behind you on the plane, and in keeping with his infuriating personality, spent the entire flight kicking your seat - or, I’m sorry, just trying to stretch his legs.

After landing, you’d raced to the same rental car company. The woman at this desk kept pointing out that the weather seemed dire and that a snowstorm might hit at any moment, to which you assured her that you weren't headed far—a lie—and glared at Tyler’s back before shuffling into the parking lot with your borrowed keys, hoping his heater would break or that an ex-girlfriend had broken into his house during his absence and left coal in his stocking.

It turned out that the woman at Enterprise was right. The weather was dire; your visibility was shot to hell after the first forty miles, leaving you to squint through the flurry-turned-blizzard, your knuckles white on the steering wheel as you inched forward in your seat, as though you could magically see through the storm if only you pressed your nose just so to the windshield.

After a while you gave up and started to admit that unless you wanted to turn into a human Popsicle, you might need a Plan B. You let out a weary sigh, listening to the weather report on the radio—“If you're safe and cozy at home, it's gonna be a white Christmas, folks, but if you're out on the road, I suggest taking cover and waiting it out for Santa Claus to slide down the chimney.”

You scanned the passing road signs for fast food restaurants, gas stations, and rest stops, even took a few exits just to be hit with NO VACANCY in bright neon reds, making mental calculations for the rest of your trip.

Home was still a long way off: three hours, after dark. Normally you’d power through with an extra-large coffee, but it was snowing, and your window to remain safely on the road was closing with every passing minute.

Dammit.

After the fourth failed attempt at finding lodgings, you sat in the driver’s seat with the heater on and called your sister.

She answered after a few rings. In the background you heard your nephew and nieces screaming their heads off in that kid way. God, you loved those little rugrats but they were undoubtedly a nightmare—you imagined Margo plugging up one of her ears and waving at them to be quiet. Of course, to no avail.

“Where are you?” she demanded, the accusation sharp in her voice. You knew to expect it, so instead of answering, “Well, hello to you too, I can’t control the weather, in case you haven’t noticed,” you went with a plain response, facts only.

“Somewhere in the middle of Benburg.”

“Where?”

“Exactly.”

You heard her sigh. “The snow’s getting pretty bad.”

“No shit.”

“Hey, don't ‘no shit’ me! I told you traveling right before Christmas Eve was going to be a nightmare.”

“And I told you I had no choice.”

She paused. There was whispering on the other end, an almost-silence that put your body on high alert until, finally, she said, “Mom wants to talk to you.”

“Margo, no!”

Your protests fell on deaf ears. The phone was jostled as your mother took it and began to speak.

“Honey, are you almost here?”

Covering your face with your hands, you kept your voice light, knowing she’d be able to detect even the smallest hint of frustration, and then you’d have to put up with another round of “why on earth did you take a meeting in New York right before the holidays?”

“No, mom, I’ve still got a-ways to go.”

You pictured her narrowing her eyes, maybe placing a hand on her cocked hip.

“How long a-ways?”

“Less than two hours,” you lied.

It was absolutely more than two hours.

A pause. “Well, I guess that's okay.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Through gritted teeth and the voice of a demented schoolteacher, you added, “Mom, can you put Margo back on the phone now, please?”

“She wants to talk to you,” you heard her saying from a distance.

After some more jostling, you felt the caller change as you merged back onto the highway and left the motel behind.

“Marg, can you tell her to cut me some slack, please? I’m doing my best.”

“Ha!”

You glared at the console, hoping she could feel it over the phone.

“Gee, thanks! So much for the Christmas spirit!”

“Listen, when you have three kids, two dogs, a husband, all of your in-laws, your parents, and your stepmom breathing down your neck, I’ll have a little more sympathy.”

“Fine… But I promise I’m not leaving you in the lurch on purpose. My flight from New York got delayed, I had some asshole kicking me in the kidneys the whole time, and I can barely see a yard in front of me because of this storm—it’s not exactly a walk in the park for me either.”

No cigar; it was you who felt her glare over the phone this time. Clearly, her issues outweighed all of yours on this occasion, and knowing her sister-in-law, you were inclined to agree.

You added: “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You’d better.”

The wipers on your rented car worked overtime to clear your windshield. You were about to end the call to focus on driving when, up ahead, you saw the red and blue lights of a highway patrol vehicle stopping traffic.

“Oh shit,” you muttered under your breath.

“What?”

“The road is closed.”

“The whole road?”

“Yeah, Marg, the whole road.” She would've argued with you over your tone, except you cut her off with “Hold on—I’m being flagged down.”

A middle-aged man with a mustache came over to your car. He was wearing a fuzzy hat and holding a flashlight now that the purpling sky was fading to black. Without being asked, you lowered your window and shivered at the stream of icy wind that cut through the artificial heat.

“Evening, officer.”

“Good evening. Where’re you headed?”

“Sayre or roundabouts.”

“Rough night to be doing so. This road is no good, you're gonna have to turn around, find a place to wait it out for the night.”

Your heart sank. You knew Margo was listening to everything. By the time you made it home, your ledger would have a massive list in the red which she’d make you pay off somehow—by doing the dishes, playing horse with the kids, or worse, entertaining Kayleen, who would say as she always did that you really ought think about having children soon unless you wanted to get used to “a self-absorbed lifestyle.”

God forbid.

“Do you know anywhere that might have a last-minute vacancy?” you asked the officer, whose shiny name tag read HARRIS.

He scratched behind his ear, twisting his mouth in thought.

“Try the Sunnyside Inn. Back this way to Fairmont, right after the exit, left on Vail.”

“Thank you.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Right. Merry Christmas.”

You put your window back up.

“Did you catch that?”

“Sounds like you're grounded,” said Margo. Her eyebrow must be arched because the judgment could be heard loud and clear—if you hadn’t gone to New York…

Well, there was nothing you could do about it now.

“It’s meant to clear up by morning. I’ll still be there long before Christmas.”

“You’d better be.” She sighed.

Your niece Haley was screaming out the words to “The Twelve Days of Christmas” like a possessed banshee and giggling at what she knew must be an ear-splitting performance. You didn't know whether to be more horrified or amused; you remembered doing something similar when you were a child, back when you didn't have to worry about spreadsheets and grants and the trials and tribulations of flying Economy during the worst time of the year.

Margo must be thinking the same. Her tone sounded a little more sympathetic when she said, “Drive safe, and let me know when you find somewhere to spend the night.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Don’t get murdered.”

“I’ll try.”

“Don’t try—do. Someone’s got to help me defuse the tension during Christmas dinner.”

“Me? Defuse tension?”

“Good point.”

After hanging up, you followed Officer Harris’s directions to the Sunnyside Inn. Wherever it was in relation to the highway, there weren’t any signs you could see from the road and it reminded you of a famous, albeit fictional, location where people did go to end up murdered.

You only hoped whoever was on duty at the check-in desk had zero resemblance to Norman Bates or you’d have no choice but to sleep in your car.

Ten minutes later, you arrived at a quaint little building like something out of a Hallmark movie with six parking spaces and no neon out front. The facade was fake stone, the ornamental bushes lining the circular drive covered in a postcard layer of fresh snow. The wooden sign read VACANCY and had an empty slot where the NO might go, which gave you the tiniest sliver of hope, tempered by the thought that a place like this might not pay the utmost attention to a detail like that, especially in the middle of a storm. All in all, it was the sort of place you stayed at when you had no choice, being off the beaten track, but it looked as well maintained as it could be given its age, which you dated back to the 70s because of its slanted roof.

You parked and got your suitcase out of the trunk, the wheels clattering and then coming to an abrupt stop when you saw a figure across the way doing the same with his black carry-on.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you called out.

Tyler Owens grinned. Even from here you could see the dimple on his cheek.

“Road closed?” he asked, still walking towards the entrance. You did the same, glaring as you tried to keep pace with him—no, tried to beat him to the front door.

“You know it is,” you answered, eyes narrowed, dashing the rest of the way just for his hand to reach the metal pull bar first. Damn his longer limbs.

With a smile, he opened the door and waved you through like a Manhattan doorman.

“Ladies first.”

“Wow, I didn't think you were remotely a gentleman.”

“What gave you that impression?”

You brushed past him into the heated lobby, pausing long enough for him to close the door so you could send him a pointed look.

“Oh, I don’t know… maybe your knee on my back?” you enunciated.

“I told you—that was an honest mistake.”

“Right.”

The Sunnyside had a single check-in desk that looked more like the host’s stand at your favorite restaurant than the counter at the cheapest Marriott, but it was decked in cute bells and garlands and baubles that glittered in the light. Behind it stood a woman around your age with straight, shoulder-length hair partially covered by a Santa hat.

As soon as she saw you walking in, she pushed the red strands out of her face and cleared her throat visibly before launching into a practiced spiel.

“Welcome to the Sunnyside Inn, where every day is sunny!”

She was smiling from ear to ear. The effect was a little like that of the creepy twins in The Shining and bah, humbug, were you not in the mood.

“Can I have a room for the night, please?”

You were made to feel guilty by the sudden fall of her face. But clearly Carol—you had to do a double take. Was her name really Carol? At-Christmastime Carol?—had gone to one hell of a customer service training program. Instead of letting your frown turn her smile upside down, she tacked it on with impressively greater fervor. The bell at the end of her hat rattled as she cleared her throat again.

“You’re in luck! We have one vacant room left in the entire hotel—continental breakfast included!”

“I’m sorry,” Tyler butted in, “did you say only one room?”

“Yes, er…” She looked between you, biting her glossed lip. “Is that a problem?”

“We’re not together,” you said, refusing to look in Tyler’s direction.

Carol blushed. She was so pale that you thought it might be her actual blood you were seeing rising to her face and turning a shade of Veruca Salt. Or was it Violet Beauregarde?

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I thought—well… you arrived together.”

“We arrived separately.”

“That’s not what it looked like.”

She blinked owlishly. Your own face was heating up as you felt Tyler putting his hand on his hip and sending you a shit-eating grin. You wouldn’t hear the end of this. You could practically hear him bringing it up at a later date, saying, “You’d be so lucky.”

You felt your jaw lock and your dentist cry. Lips together, teeth apart! She’d obviously never met anyone like Tyler Owens before.

“I can assure you, that's what it is,” you said in a steel-laced voice.

Carol might be an A+ at the customer service thing, but you were an A+ at staring people down until they begged for mercy. The only person you knew who was better at it was Margo, and the only person immune to it—though it drove you crazy to no end—was standing next to you, all six feet of him, in a jacket with snow at the shoulders that had quickly melted and rolled off the fabric. Shoulders… his annoyingly broad shoulders, which you’d had occasion to see with more frequency than you would’ve liked, dressed in what Samantha, one of your colleagues, described as his “slutty little white tees.”

It wasn’t enough for him to be a perpetual thorn in your side, he had to be attractive too, thereby proving that there was no God or that, Whoever they were, they must have an evil sense of humor.

“I’m so sorry.” Carol hung her head. Her hat drooped, the glitter-paper trimming on her suit drooped—there was a high chance that she was actually an elf and you’d just worked your way onto Santa’s Naughty list. Come midnight, you’d be visited by the ghosts of all your ex-lovers and Sarah DeAngelo, your high school nemesis.

Meanwhile, Tyler swooped in like the big hero.

“No worries, I’ll just stay at the next place,” he said. “What is the next place?”

“That would be the Cozy Roadside! But they're all booked up, I’m afraid… It's the storm, you see. Everyone’s trying to hunker down for the night.”

“Right…”

Well, he was taking it better than you’d have done—though it was clear he wasn’t jumping for joy at the thought of turning around and trying his luck in the growing whiteout.

And that was if there weren't more road closures along the way.

“Are you sure you're not together? I’m just saying… it is the holidays.” Carol’s little damn bell jingled again. Could you be charged with assault if you snatched it off her head? you wondered.

You pinned her with a stare and she had the temerity to flinch like a little cartoon dormouse.

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning, it's a time to let bygones be bygones! You make such a lovely couple…” Her laugh was high-pitched, nervous.

You might have ruffled like an angry bird of prey. “We are not—”

“Absolutely not,” said Tyler.

“‘Absolutely’?”

It was the closest you’d ever come to seeing Tyler crack under the force of your EF5 stare. He looked sheepish, his hands in his pockets, giving a little hunkered down shrug that might have been read as boyish and kind of adorable to someone else.

“Listen”—turning to Carol before you could rip him to shreds—“do you know of anywhere I could stay until the roads open up again?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

“What about the lobby?”

“I would if it were up to me, but it's against hotel policy. I could get a write-up.”

This hotel has a policy? You stopped yourself from blurting out the words. There was still a chance this Strawberry Shortcake of a person was one of Santa’s little helpers and, if you kept up being a meanie, you’d end up going to the Bad Place—the Bad Place being the seat next to Margo’s sister-in-law at dinner.

You sighed. “Does my room have a couch?”

“It has a chair,” Carol offered.

You exhaled through your nostrils like an angry bull—would the creature metaphors ever cease? Turning to Tyler, you held up a finger and said, “You’re gonna owe me big time,” and fished your wallet out of your bag.

You slammed your card onto the stand and waited for Carol to check you in. She took out a book from a little cubby and took down your name and ID number, then fiddled with one of those old-school credit card imprinters, the ones you had to use actual elbow grease to use.

“I can have extra linens sent up! And I’ll give you our Friends and Family rate—in honor of the season!”

You have got to be kidding me…

Tyler put his hand on your elbow, stopping your words.

“Thank you, Carol, you've been a real gem.”

Carol flushed again, preening under Tyler’s cowboy charm. I’m gonna be sick, you thought, grabbing your suitcase by the handle and wheeling towards the stairs before you could say anything else.

Your case banged against each carpet-covered step. Tyler was behind you, carrying his without sounds of trouble. You supposed that was a benefit to having arms the size of tree trunks, but you’d rather drop dead on this commercial grade floor than ask him for help.

To drown out the sound of the obvious weakness in your upper half, you adopted a high-pitched baby voice that was nothing like Tyler’s and said, “‘You’ve been a gem, Carol,’” just to mock him.

From Tyler came a huffed-out laugh. “Why, ’re you jealous?”

“As if. I hope your chair has bedbugs,” you called over your shoulder, arriving at the landing and looking for room 227. You unlocked the door without waiting, tossing your bag and coat onto the bed to stake your claim.

In the open doorway, Tyler paused to stare at the promised bit of furniture.

“Oh,” came out of his throat. “When she said chair, I thought she meant…”

You followed his gaze. Like Tyler, you’d pictured a dusty old recliner when Carol guilted you into sharing a room with him. The relic actually taking up space across from the queen-sized bed was a chair that might have come out of your high school principal’s office. The seat was covered in a similar material to the carpet, deep purple, not falling apart at the seams, but still just a chair.

Not in your wildest dreams would you think of making an enemy sleep on a thing like that. And here you were, poking fun at sweet, freckle-faced Carol… sweet, sweet Carol who had done you a bigger solid than you could’ve ever imagined.

Tomorrow at check-out, you were going to leave her a $50 tip. You might name your firstborn after her.

You looked at Tyler. He looked at you. The poor man was aghast, and the more he glanced despondently at his abode for the next eight hours, the funnier it got until you were cackling, actually cackling like a Disney witch.

You unzipped your suitcase and took out your toiletries bag, still laughing as you stepped into the room’s bathroom and sent him a little wave.

“Sweet dreams, Owens!”

Hell, it was Christmas—you’d be leaving Carol an even $100.

You made a point of taking your time in the shower, luxuriating both in the steam and the dejected look on Tyler’s face. A chair! An actual chair! After finishing, you took the robe hanging off the hook, figuring it was your prerogative as a lady, and opened the door just the tiniest crack to see what Tyler was up to. What you saw made you snatch your phone off the counter and leap from your hiding place like a fearless war photographer.

The shutter clicked, a series of lightning-quick flashes that caught Tyler’s attention. By the time he whipped his head to the side with a glare and a command to “delete that!” you’d snapped half-a-dozen photographs of his position on the makeshift “bed.”

Carol must have sent up linens while you were in the shower because he’d pushed the chair up against the coffee table in a futile attempt to be more comfortable; his legs stuck out to a truly comical degree and he was covered in a floral blanket that could only be described as grandmotherly. Your phone—bless it—had captured the exact moment of shock mixed with absolute indignity.

There was no way he’d be able to sleep without falling over. You only hoped that when he inevitably fell on his ass it happened with enough volume to wake you from the sound sleep you’d be having in bed by yourself.

You tucked your phone in your pocket, smiling like one of Hell’s angels.

“Absolutely not,” you said to his request. “Shower's yours.”

Tyler grabbed a bundle of things off the floor.

“Let me guess, you used up all the hot water.”

“You wound me,” you lied. “I’d never be so petty.”

He scoffed, gestured to his eyes in the universal symbol of I’m watching you and moved past, locking the bathroom door with a resolute click.

A few moments later, you heard the sound of the shower turning on and settled into bed—your lovely, only-yours bed—pleased that the sheets were clean, the mattress soft, the pillows comfortable, and debated whether or not to turn on the TV, but the shower taps squealed sooner than you expected.

Huh. Guess Tyler isn’t a fan of an ice-cold rinse.

You rushed to turn off the bedside lamp, adopting a deep-sleep pose. You barely managed in the time it took him to pad out into the main room, bringing with him a warm, clean, soapy smell.

You held your breath, imagined he could tell you were faking—especially when he paused his movements at the foot of your bed. But then his footsteps moved towards his sad little chair and he turned off his own light.

All you heard for a while was the rustling of sheets, the creaking of the chair beneath his weight. There was a moment of total silence when you almost fell asleep. Then he tossed and turned. The chair protested. You heard him groan.

“Y’alright over there?” you asked, hoping the answer was no.

Tyler’s words were laced with sarcasm.

“Who, me? Just peachy.”

“Nighty-night, then.”

You sighed contentedly and dozed, thinking about Tyler’s future back pain and the satisfaction of winning Carol over to your side with a generous tip. Take that, Tyler’s dimples! The problem was, you actually wanted to get a few hours’ sleep; there was still a fair bit of driving left for you to do, and Tyler just wouldn't shut up.

You heard every creak, shift, and sound of frustration.

Finally, you sat up and growled, “Could you try being more quietly uncomfortable?”

“Hey, I’m just trying to sleep.”

“I can hear your breathing all the way over here!”

“That's not my breathing,” he said, “that’s your guilty conscience.”

You glared into the dark. I will not let him get the better of me. You took a fortifying breath and kept your voice light—viciously light.

“You know, there’s still time for you to sleep in your car. You’ll be the first person ever to be cryogenically frozen.”

“That's not how cryogenics works, you muppet.”

You launched a pillow in his direction, pleased when it made contact. He sat up and protested, “Hey!”

“Did you just call me a muppet?! You know, if you disappeared I could always blame the storm.”

“Carol would remember me,” he rejoined.

“Maybe I’ll disappear Carol too.”

“Wow, two bodies? Sounds like you'll have your work cut out for you.”

“I’m very resourceful.”

“Oh, I bet you are…”

Argh! Slamming your fists down, you ground out the words you’d been holding back ever since you saw his grinning rodeo-ass face in New York:

“There is no way I’m letting you win that Heller Grant!”

Your nostrils flared, chest heaved, eyes all but emitted laser beams. Tyler, for his part, remained annoyingly composed.

“I don't think that's up to you. But,” he added, “I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you.”

“Really? And why’s that?”

“No reason, just a friendly head’s up.”

“Something tells me there’s nothing friendly about it.”

He paused. “Hey, what’s a little harmless competition between meteorologists, right?”

“…Did you really just ask that question?”

You both knew scientists were messy as fuck. Denying that they could be egotistical, overly dramatic, delicate with their egos, and especially prone to schadenfreude was a cheap attempt on Tyler’s part.

He chuckled, as if admitting it was true.

“Fine, touché. But it’s really not personal. It's a grant—everyone wants to win it. It’s not like we’re trying to run you out of business or anything.”

“Oh, believe me, we aren’t worried about that,” you shot back. “Everyone knows Kate Carter is the ace up your sleeve. But that’s it—one ace.”

“One ace is all you need.”

“Not in this economy it’s not.”

“It’s about the storms!” Tyler said. “You do get that, don't you? Saving lives, limiting damage…”

“Right, I forgot—you're Saint Tyler, the Tornado Wrangler for profit!” you mocked.

There was a silence in the room, accusatory. Deafening. After this, you were definitely going on Santa’s Naughty list, you thought, not only this year but for at least fifteen to life.

“Sorry, that was shitty,” you admitted, swallowing your pride.

“Yeah, it was. You have no idea why I do what I do. And obviously I have no idea why you’re such a—”

“Bitch?” you supplied.

“I wouldn't use that word. I wouldn't,” he reiterated seriously. “I was going to say ‘why you’re such a bee in my bonnet.’”

You let out a snort. “Shut up.”

“Has anyone ever told you you're unreasonably distrustful?”

“Only about three-point-five therapists.”

“Why the point-five?” he asked.

“One was a grad student.”

He laughed. “Guess weather research doesn’t pay—even if you do wear fancy suits.”

That made you smile. You and Tyler were as diametrically opposed as two could people get, even down to your clothes.

“Let’s just agree,” you said, remembering the spirit of the season, “that we rub each other the wrong way and leave it at that.”

“Hey, I’ve never had a problem with you. I mean, yeah, we’re always up against each other for funding. It’s a race to the top—winner takes all, whoever publishes first gets the bragging rights. But that’s the game—I know that. Now, if you have a problem with me, this seems like as good a time as any to clear the air because I really have no idea what I could've done to make you hate my guts like this.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Oh, sure, be the mature one, take the high road… Tell me, Owens, does it ever get exhausting being so fucking perfect all the time?”

Another pause.

“What the hell are you going on about?” The chair creaked. “‘Perfect’? I’ve never said I was—FUCK!”

You perked up, reached an arm to turn on the light. Tyler was sprawled on the floor. The coffee table and chair were no longer attached and he was nursing what looked to be his hip while kicking at the granny blanket tangled round legs.

“Did you just fall into the gap?” you said eagerly, trying to record the image in your brain.

He wrestled the blanket until he finally won, then stood resentfully, his hair mussed, a crazed look in his eyes.

“Yes, I fell into the gap! But there was no video evidence,” he said pointing. “You can’t prove it. At this rate, it might be smarter to sleep on the floor.”

“Looks like it.”

You watched him kick the chair away with his foot and lay the blanket on top of the coarse brown carpet. He tossed his pillow down and picked up the sheet, holding it in front of his body and looking like he might actually prefer to try his luck in the parking lot than on the inhospitable floor. You observed him with interest, biting your thumbnail and watching his throat move with a sigh, the dejected set of his shoulders, the strong jaw set until it looked like it would break glass.

“Oh, fine!” you said. “You look like my senior dog trying to decide where to lay down!”

“You have a dog?” he asked with enough skepticism to be insulting.

“She lives with my sister.”

“What’s her name?” His jaw relaxed, eyes softened.

“Doppler. Don’t laugh!” you exclaimed, though it fell on deaf ears.

“That’s kind of… really nerdy.”

“Do you want to sleep on the floor?”

“I’m sleeping on the floor anyway.”

You whipped the covers off the left side of the bed. Tyler’s eyes almost bugged out of his head.

“No.”

“Come on, Owens, I don't have cooties.”

“It’s not about the cooties, I’m trying not to get killed Basic Instinct-style!”

You knew the scene: Sharon Stone fucking her rock star boyfriend before stabbing him to death with an ice pick. Unbidden, your mind filled with images of Tyler underneath you, his throat bared to you as you rode him.

“You wish!”

Tyler looked at you sternly.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“We’ll make a divider out of pillows!” you suggested, starting the master feat of engineering by plopping all your extra ones vertically down the center of the bed.

You didn’t know where this sudden stroke of generosity had come from. Only ten minutes before you would’ve been perfectly fine—nay, ecstatic—to know that Tyler was about to spend six hours in pain and discomfort.

Maybe it was your guilty conscience. Maybe he’d convinced you that this vendetta you had against him was one-sided and kind of silly. Maybe you just wanted to get some damn sleep without feeling like you were racking up bad karma by not offering to share the bed.

He eyed your attempts like a skeptic, his hands on his hips.

Damn, they were slutty little white tees… you thought.

“This is ridiculous,” he pointed out. And yet he’d dropped the sheet and stopped all attempts at sleeping on the floor like an imprisoned martyr.

“Ridiculous” was a good way to describe what the start of this holiday was turning out to be. If you’d told your past self that come December 23rd you’d be sharing a hotel room, even a bed, with Tyler Owens, you’d have laughed in your own face. But here it was—courtesy of the weather, a possible redheaded Christmas elf, and a series of minor coincidences that had all resulted in this: you shrugging and saying, “Tell me something I don’t know. Tick-tock,” you added with a clap for emphasis, “my goodwill has a time limit!”

“Very festive of you. Are you sure this is okay?”

He approached you with a cautious air, turning down the covers like you might yell “psych!” and attack him at any moment. Even when he laid himself down, it was at the very edge of the bed, and you thought he might end up on the floor anyway given a hasty mid-sleep roll, but then, that would be his own doing and he’d have nothing else to blame but his own clumsiness.

“Just keep your hands to yourself,” you decreed.

“Obviously.”

You turned the light off.

This isn’t so bad, you thought. If you closed your eyes, you could almost forget he was there. You hummed to yourself, snuggling down, finally making headway on the quest for rest and relaxation. Twenty minutes passed, maybe an hour. Hell, it might have been two—all you knew was that Tyler was not keeping up his end of the bargain.

“You’re encroaching on my space!” you hissed, pushing back against pillows that had moved to your side of the bed.

Tyler turned, not remorseful in the least. “I’ve got, like, half-a-foot on you! What do you want me to do?”

“That’s sizeist,” you sniffed.

There was a sound from his direction.

“Are you laughing?” you accused.

“Yeah, I’m laughing… You’re funny. And that’s how I know I don’t have a problem with you.”

You were unexpectedly pleased, despite his bed theft and the rehashing of your previous conversation. No one had ever called you funny before, though you’d always thought you were.

Tyler Owens thinks I’m funny?

So sue me—you were only human and not above hoarding little compliments.

“What did you mean,” he started to ask, shifting so that he could lay on his back, “about me being ‘perfect’? Not that I don’t find it flattering, it's just not true at all and it didn't sound like a good thing, by the way that you said it.”

You kept silent, staring at the A/C unit attached to the wall.

“I know you’re not asleep!” he declared, poking you in the back.

“And how would you know what I sound like asleep?”

“Well, it wouldn't sound like speaking, now would it?”

Shit. He had a point.

You let out a sigh, regretting your magnanimity now that you were in a dark room side-by-side with the man and couldn't avoid his charm or the ease he inspired like magic.

You’d always found that the most unsettling thing about him.

“You’re gonna get the grant,” you admitted with more sincerity than you meant. In your voice you could hear the layers of frustration and insecurity and anger and disappointment that you couldn’t face in the day, when you had people counting on you and a reputation to uphold.

Tyler was quiet a moment.

“You don't know that.”

“Yeah, I do. I’m not good with the whole… schmoozing thing. Not like you are.”

“Schmoozing?” he asked.

“That’s what it is! You’re good with people.”

“So are you.”

“No, I’m not,” you laughed bitterly, craning your neck to say it over your shoulder. “I’m prickly.”

“That’s bullshit,” Tyler said. “And, anyway, this is research, not a personality contest.”

“Ha!”

“You do know there are plenty of prickly scientists out there getting people to throw money at them all the time? Sometimes, it’s the pricklier the better—people think that if you're really a genius, you should treat everyone around you like the bottom of the garbage pail.”

“It’s different for you,” you pointed out.

“How so?”

You sat up, eyeing his shadowed form.

“Well, sweetie, there’s this thing called discrimination—it’s what happens when having certain anatomy makes people more inclined to think you know what you're doing.”

“Very profound… That’s not what you meant.”

He was right. While sexism did come into funding, as it came into a lot of things where it had no place, your main gripe about Tyler had nothing to do with him being a man and everything to do with him being, well, him.

You raked a hand through your hair.

“All you have to do is walk into a room and get pally with the panel,” you confessed. “I can’t compete with that.”

Somehow, through the dark, his eyes found yours. His expression was unreadable, but you could feel his attention on you, his scrutiny—thoughtful, patient, wanting to understand.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said at last.

“Seriously? You’re gonna make me be honest with you and then leave me holding the hot potato of awkwardness?”

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” he laughed. “I just… It’s not like I get up in the morning thinking, ‘Hm, what grant can I possibly steal from you today?’”

“Right,” you drawled, “you just can’t help being you.”

“I can’t!” he insisted, rising up on his elbows. “I like people. I like meeting them… talking to them—even the buttoned-up ones that look like they haven't been outside of an office building in months. I can't apologize for that. But it is a little unfair of you if your sole reason for being mean to me all the time amounts to two cents and a bit of pocket lint.”

“I am not mean!” you protested.

Tyler cocked his head.

“Okay, maybe I’m a bit brusque,” you allowed. “But I let you sleep in my bed!”

“For which I’ll be forever grateful…”

You opened your mouth.

“…but not enough to turn down the grant.”

You shrugged, not expecting him to hand you the award on a silver platter.

“It was worth a shot,” you said. Another joke.

Tyler gestured with his hands; you could see them fluttering around expressively in the near dark.

“You’ve just gotta stop approaching people and automatically assuming that they’re not on your side,” he said gently, and because you were a contrarian, you chose to take at least one-sixteenth of offense.

“Are you mansplaining relationships to me?”

“Not mansplaining, just a friendly bit of advice. Take it or leave it,” he tacked on, shrugging his shoulders—damn his shoulders…

“Thanks.”

You were trying to wrestle your brain away from the thought of his bare chest again.

His bare chest… the expanse of his chiseled abs, the dip of his hips…

You looked away, your face as hot as your shame. You would not have sex thoughts about a man you were sharing a bed platonically with. You would not admit to yourself that your traitorous gaze had wandered down to the outline of certain parts while he was standing there in gray sweats and a white T-shirt that left little or nothing to your debauched imagination.

You would not.

Santa, come get me before I forfeit all brownie points for life.

“Now this is awkward.” The words slipped out of your mouth. You pulled the sheet up to your chin as if it were a straitjacket and Tyler chuckled to himself, probably thinking that you meant awkwardness at having a moment of vulnerability rather than red-hot lust.

“Go to sleep,” he said kindly, turning back on his left side.

“Alright. Night.”

“Night.”

Later, you would swear it didn't happen on purpose. At some point in the night, after Christmas Eve had settled well and truly over this random Oklahoma town, the pillow fort was forgotten as you and Tyler fell asleep, succumbing to the fatigue of the day’s travel and your late-night conversations.

The first inkling you had was that your pillow was far too warm against your cheek—and it moved, up and down, like the gentle swaying of a boat upon a calm sea. When you regained enough consciousness, you realized that the “pillow” kept a beat, and that's when you realized your pillow wasn't a pillow at all but the cradle of Tyler’s chest.

He’s quite comfortable, you thought, still half-asleep. He had his arm thrown around you and the tips of his fingers rested against a patch of naked back where your shirt had ridden up.

So far, so good; you couldn’t complain about the weighted blanket treatment—at least not in your hazy, sleep-softened state. You sighed happily, snuggling further into his shirt.

You felt his arms tighten.

His breathing shift.

You were straddling the line between dream and wakefulness when you noticed his legs tangled up in yours…

…and the hard protrusion pressing right against your stomach.

You opened your eyes. Tyler was awake and springing out of bed like he had a whole swarm of bees in his bonnet.

“Oh god,” he exclaimed, “I am so sorry! That is not… I did not—”

“It’s fine,” you tried to say.

“No! No, it’s not.”

“Tyler, would you stop acting like a virgin with the vapors? It’s cold, I’m not the stillest of sleepers, nothing was meant by it.”

He ran a hand through his hair, then put it on his hip, then pointed—you didn’t know at whom, he was simply unable to be still, and the more he panicked the more you thought it was silly how he was making such a big deal out of nothing.

(Okay, so maybe it wasn't nothing, but one of you had to be the adult about it.)

“I was not trying to put the moves on you,” he emphatically declared.

“That was made abundantly clear by what you said to Carol. Also by the drool on your pillow.”

“The—”

His gaze darted. His face took on an added hue of pallid as he bent over his pillow and straightened, eyebrows battened, finding nothing there.

“See, that was mean.”

“No, that was funny,” you laughed.

The whole time, you did your best to keep your eyes trained above his shoulders, though you had a bone-deep curiosity now that you’d felt the impression of his dick against your skin.

If your periphery was to be trusted—which, your doctor said you had excellent vision in that regard—he was as well-endowed as he was rumored to be, sometimes with envy, sometimes pejoratively and in relation to his ego. Now that you’d spent an entire day crossing paths, you weren't so sure about that last bit. But you were sure that in the privacy of your own thoughts, you’d have a bitch of a time unknowing that Tyler Owens was, in every regard, unfairly blessed.

“Back to neutral corners?” you asked, patting the bed.

Tyler stared at the mattress with something like horror.

“You are not being normal about this!” you exclaimed.

“Maybe I oughta sleep on the floor.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, it’s just for a few hours more.”

You sighed.

“Tyler James Owens, now you are the one being a muppet.”

“Take that back! And how do you even know my middle name?”

“It’s called Google. Now stop acting like a muppet and I’ll stop calling you one!”

Drat… You were so close, but your eyes snagged on the bulge in his pants at the exact moment Tyler was looking at you. There was no way to deny it.

You wiped your face of all expression.

Tyler pleaded, “Do not make this worse for me than it already is.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You don’t have to, it's written all over your face.”

Me? My face? You pointed at yourself.

Tyler huffed, “You aren't letting me forget this for as long as I live, are you?”

“Not in your dreams…” you fessed up. “Need me to pace around the hall for ten minutes, let you take care of business? I have a spare sock you can hang on the door.”

“You’re evil.”

“Nooooo, where are you going?” you needled, watching him head to the bathroom with a scowl on his face. “I was having so much fun!”

“Mind your own business!” he yelled back.

“But Tyler, it’s perfectly natural!”

He locked the door.

Only then did you cover your mouth and really let yourself have a laugh.

He took exactly 23 minutes. You knew because you timed him, a childish impulse you indulged in trade for not probing the question of what he might be thinking about as he got off. Obviously, you knew enough biology to not flatter yourself into believing that his morning wood was down to you; still, you allowed yourself to believe it just the tiniest bit. It made you feel better—to think he was affected by you. To believe you weren’t alone in being provoked to unexpected places.

He came up to the bed with a wary glance. On purpose, you pretended to be uncommonly interested in your nails.

“I thought you’d be asleep.”

“Didn’t feel like it,” you said, buffing a nonexistent spot on your shirt. “All good?”

“Don’t start.” He took his pillow and made for the chair.

You clicked your tongue. “You really don't have to sleep on the floor, you know…”

Which was kind.

“...I thought that was the whole point of Tyler’s Special Solo Time.”

Which wasn’t.

He rounded on you with his finger outstretched.

“Do not call it that!”

“Okay!”

“Never again!”

“Fine!”

“And for your information—that isn’t what I was doing in there.”

“Oh!” you said, genuinely surprised, “I just assumed…”

“Well, you know what they say about assuming.”

You make an ASS out of U and ME.

Color me surprised—you genuinely thought Tyler had been in the bathroom rubbing one out.

Could it be that he was too much of a gentleman to do it with you the next room over? That seemed like the likeliest explanation.

You were touched. Weirdly, inappropriately.

Also let down by the fact that you weren’t sexually irresistible enough to make him lose all sense of propriety—granted, you hadn’t been trying to be sexually irresistible at the time, more like drooling into his shirt.

“God, what?” he asked, eyes boring into yours like he was trying to crack open your mind and read it like a book, pushed to the brink when he couldn’t figure out what you were thinking or if you believed him about not masturbating in the bathroom.

“Nothing! Why are you chewing me out just because you got an erection?”

“Don’t say ‘erection’!”

You rolled your eyes.

“I’m not gonna call it a boner—I’m not in middle school anymore!”

“You have gotta be kidding me…”

He face-planted onto the bed, not consciously, you didn’t think, more like the natural result of a situation that’d understandably fried his brain.

You could relate… and it was supremely satisfying to hear him say the words you’d been thinking for over a day: you have got to be kidding me, indeed.

“This is the weirdest fucking Christmas I have ever had,” he mumbled into the mattress.

You laughed, feeling not an ounce of animosity as you watched his prone form. He was funny, and he’d been nicer than you deserved. You no longer believed that he had kicked you in the back during your flight on purpose.

“What are your plans for the holidays?” you asked him, letting him off the hook about his penis.

He turned his head and searched you for any trace of nefarious intent. He answered when he was sure you weren’t going to keep messing with him.

“The team and I are going to Kate’s. Then I’m spending the start of the New Year at home, hopefully, if there isn’t another fire to put out.”

“You’re from Arkansas,” you said.

“Mm.”

“‘Regnat populus.’”

He quirked his brow.

“‘The People Rule,’” you explained. “You don't know your own state’s motto?”

“Nobody knows their state’s motto.”

“I had to learn them all for school.”

“High school?”

“Elementary.”

“Oh,” he laughed, “so you grew up rich.”

“Shut up.”

He sat against the headboard next to you, crossing his ankles.

“What made you want to become a meteorologist?”

“Seriously?” you asked.

“What?”

“It’s a cliched question.”

“It’s a getting-to-know-you question!”

You frowned.

“Why would you ever want to get to know me? I’ve done nothing but fight you since the day we met.”

“Why wouldn't I?”

Plain, simple.

The lamplight made it impossible to hide a thing. There was a line between his brows, as if he couldn’t for the life of him understand why you couldn’t understand. “I like people.” You’d thought it trite at the time, you didn’t trust it, but you were thinking maybe it was true. Instead of judging you by the way you challenged, harangued, goaded, mocked, judging him, he’d kept trying to figure you out. It was one of the reasons he was good at his job—the merging of both science- and people-smarts.

If you had a brain in your head, you might learn from him. But to do that you’d have to get your head out of your ass and stop seeing him as the enemy.

Except you didn’t.

Sometime between the Heller offices and this moment in the Sunnyside Inn, your feelings towards him had changed. The animosity? Gone. All that was left in its place was a newfound respect, fresh like the layer of snow sitting over the world outside the walls of your hotel room, and, if you were being brutally honest, an attraction that was hard to ignore.

You held your breath.

His hair, glinting bronze, was sleep-mussed—the detail intimate, arousing, just like the stubble on his cheeks and the rugged line of his throat leading to the curves of those shoulders you couldn’t stop thinking about. What was that one corny-as-fuck phrase some fuckboy musician had once said?

Sexual napalm.

Tyler Owens was sexual napalm and you weren’t immune.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you said.

It was Projection 101, but in this case you weren’t entirely wrong.

Tyler’s eyes wandered down to your mouth, seductive without even trying. He was breathing as fast as you, his lips parted, tongue peeking out to wet them when he said, “Can’t.”

And that was all it took. One second you were staring at each other with twin fuck-me expressions and the next you were in his lap, your hands buried in his hair. The kiss was eager—messy—uncaring of finesse, indifferent to perfection. It was the exact opposite of the way you’d been living your life and it was mostly down to him. Even when he’d been driving you absolutely insane, there was no denying that Tyler brought out in you something hard to control. He made you ambitious, competitive, unfiltered—sometimes to an unflattering degree—but God, did it feel good.

He tilted his head and delved his tongue into your mouth. You groaned, pulled him back by the hair until you felt a rumbling sound in his throat which you decided to chase on instinct, latching your mouth onto that part of him you’d been obsessing over for the last few hours, sucking, biting, laving your way down to his clavicle.

“This is not how you get to know someone,” you joked, feeling him get hard again underneath you.

“Yeah, it is…”

“Don’t say 'biblically.’”

He laughed—it was a giggle that made you smile and peer into his face.

“You said it, not me. Are you gonna kick me out of bed later?” he asked, stroking a hand up your thigh.

“No. Are you gonna run for the hills like I soiled your virtue?”

He balked. “That is not what I did.”

“Yeah, it is!”

“Well”—he nipped your jaw, hand slyly making its own path up to your breast, which he stroked open-palmed so that you rocked your hips against his—”I promise not to be virtuous at all for the next…” He glanced at his watch. “Three hours.”

“Three hours?”

“What can I say,” he shrugged. “I’m a people pleaser. It’s my curse.”

Suffice to say, by the time 10:00 o’clock rolled around and you and Tyler made your way down so you could settle up the room with Carol, you were feeling like a million bucks. Not even a full spa day could have infused you with this much energy.

There was a pep in your step, a smile plastered to your face, and when Carol said, “Happy holidays! It was nice having you with us!” you were so smug that you slipped the tip in her hand and said, “Thank you, Carol, you sure made it sunny!”

Tyler cackled, but tried to do it subtly. (And failed.)

Right on the money, the snow had stopped falling during the night. It’d be a white Christmas, all right, but you should be able to drive home safely and arrive in time for lunch.

Tyler loaded your suitcase into your car, gallant as ever.

“So,” he said.

“So.”

You exchanged shy glances, which was new for you. You’d never had reason to feel shy around Tyler before, but then, you’d had him inside you not too long ago and the memory of the things you’d done, the things you’d said, which you wouldn’t admit even under threat of perjury, were enough to make you almost blush.

“We should hit the road,” you said dumbly, schooling your features into an unbothered mask.

“Yeah. I’m sure the others have already made it to Ms. Carter’s farm.”

“Well… merry Christmas.”

“Yeah, merry Christmas.”

You opened your door, settled into your seat. You were about to pull the door closed when Tyler stopped it, hand closed around the top.

“Can I call you, after the holidays?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.”

“Cool.”

He laughed. “Who’s holding the hot potato now, you or me?”

“I think we’re sharing this one,” you replied.

“I don’t mind that.”

“Yeah,” you said, “neither do I.”

He smiled at you for a while, then closed your door and watched you drive off. You followed his movements in the rearview until your paths diverged, then turned up the radio.

“Merry Christmas Eve, one and all! It’s a gorgeous one out there—we couldn’t have asked for better weather. Here’s one just for you. I’m sure you know it, so sing along: it’s Dean Martin and it’s our ‘Winter Wonderland,’ right here, in the heart of good ol’ Oklahoma…”

#rosie.fic #tyler owens #tyler owens x reader #glen powell x reader

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nneteyamss · 4 months ago

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ROSES — 13. frat party

(half written)

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“okay, once someone gets sick, it gets too crazy, someone makes a bad decision, or something else we’re leaving. got it?” mark turned from the drivers seat to face his friends before they entered the party.

mina and y/n nodded and gave mark a thumbs up while yangyang saluted him with a straight face.

“alright now get the fuck out my car and let’s go party” he sighed at yang and gave a small smile, hoping tonight would be smooth and fun.

“where do you guys think hyuck is right now?” yang asked as the 4 of them walked gingerly to the front door. the music was blasting and as they got closer it was harder to hear.

mark shrugged and mina don’t bother answering the question. “i don’t know but if he’s with his other friends, he can stay far away from me. last thing i need is jaehyun seeing me.” as y/n was finishing her sentence, they entered the house, almost instantly being greeted by hyuck who was passing by to get more drinks.

“you guys made it! drink are in the kitchen to your left, snacks are on the kitchen counters and dining room table, and yeah. i gotta hurry and go now, i got a hottie waiting for me.” he spoke fastly before dashing out of their sight.

the four of the scooted to the side so they weren’t blocking the entrance and took a look around. people walking past who knew them waved and said hello. it wasn’t long before y/n tapped mina on the shoulder and whispered in her ear to beat the loud music “wanna grab some drinks?” to which mina nodded. the two girls told mark and yang where they were going and disappeared from their previous spots.

not a lot of people crowded the kitchen but there were a good amount of people standing around and talking. y/n grabbed two bottles and handed one to mina as leaned back against the counter.

“oh dude i’m so glad these have the twist caps, i would’ve been pissed if i had to find someone to open this.” mina nodded with y/n’s statement while they twisted the caps off their drinks and took a sip.

“i know, and i didn’t even think to bring my bottle opener. also i’m not gonna lie… this music kinda sucks ass, i could’ve done better in my bedroom with a playlist and a dream.” the two girls laugh at the image of mina in her room dressed up like a frat boy, headphones around her neck, sunglasses on, and doing the frat flick with playing something probably like ‘baby’ by justin bieber.

“i’ll be standing right beside you hyping up the crowd like this” y/n jumped up and down with her hand in the air fist pumping, almost spilling her drink in the process.

after a while of talking the two finished the drinks they first opened, ended up taking some shots with random drunk girls who came into the kitchen (twice), and grabbing another drink. after starting to feel buzzed mina stopped drinking but y/n kept going. the two girls made their way out onto the makeshift dance floor where they saw their friends on the side talking.

“heyyy guys!” y/n walked towards them while waving, stumbling and almost falling while doing so.

“damn girl how much did you drink?” mark asked with a raised eyebrow. y/n only laughed and brushed him off.

“i dunno but that’s not important, i thought you said you weren’t drinking?” her eyes zeroed in to the red solo cup in his hand with a clear liquid inside.

“this is water, which you should get some of”

“guys can we sit down somewhere, my feet are starting to hurt.” mina interrupted the conversation to complain with a completely valid point. after standing around in the kitchen for who knows how long, who else’s feet wouldn’t start to hurt.

“couch is empty over there” hyuck pointed out a vacancy, to which they all ran over to the couch before someone would sit down and take it. as soon as y/n sat down she suddenly started feeling a little sick from the multiple drinks she had. her face was flushed red from all the alcohol and the stood right back up.

“i’m gonna go to the bathroom, i’ll be right back”

“do you need me to come with you?” mina looked up at her, ready to tag along.

“no i should be good, thank you though my babygirl” y/n blew a kiss and mina blew one right back, ignoring their guy friends around them. with that y/n left to use the bathroom.

this definitely wasn’t the first nct frat that y/n attended so she knew her way around the building decently well and quickly navigated herself to the bathroom. upon arrival she immediately rolled her eyes at the line to wait to use the bathroom, which was probably disgusting anyway. luckily y/n is somewhat close friends with nct member yuta and knew he had a bathroom in his room.

the way they befriend each other was kind of odd but they just happened to ‘click’ after a while of pestering. most people avoided talking to yuta as a friend, due to his resting bitch face, but when y/n got paired with him she was determined to be nothing but kind and become his friend or at least acquaintance. often yuta would ignore these attempts and just try to get their work done and over with. under all of his frat boy who gets around persona, y/n knew there was something deeper. so what does she do? pull out photos of her family dog back home, because who can resist a cute dog? this plan undoubtedly worked as yuta became obsessed with her little puppy who he now calls “his second daughter” and asked for new pics of her constantly. he keeps telling y/n that they need to set up a play date between her dog nova and his dog rapunzel.

after getting lost once, y/n finds her way to yuta’s room, trying to remember the way they would take when they studied here. much to her surprise yuta had told her the pin to his door and she quickly typed it in, still not feeling well.

“1026” she muttered to herself as she pressed the tiny buttons. the door unlocked and she swung the door open, ready to head into his bathroom.

not even getting to step all the way into the room she was met with two people already occupying the space. a male and female, the guy was sat on the bed with his pants pulled slightly down and the girl was on her knees in front of him, very obviously giving him head. the sound of the door opening caused her to pull off of him and they both looked at the door. the girl she didn’t recognize but the guy… she had been trying to avoid all night.

“y/n?” jaehyun looked at her shocked, trying to cover himself up somewhat.

“i’m so sorry” she said at the same time jaehyun said her name once she broke out of her frozen spot. just as she spoke, she gagged and ran right into yuta’s bathroom and to the toilet instead of out the room. thankfully the toilet seat was already up as she began puking into the white bowl in front of her. her hands on both sides of the toilet, not even thinking about her hair.

all of a sudden she felt her hair being pulled back and a hand on her back rubbing in circles “let it all out.” they said quietly, encouraging her to get all of this out her system. the puking went on for a couple minutes on and off before it finally stopped all together. y/n opened her eyes once she leaned away from the toilet to see jaehyun grabbing a piece of toilet paper to wiper her mouth and even flushed the toilet for her.

feeling worn out and tired, as well as still drunk, y/n closed her eyes again and laid her head on the wall behind her. “you feeling better now?” jaehyun spoke softly, to not scare her. not even wanting to respond, she shook her hand back in forth in an “eh” way to give a response.

“c’mere” jaehyun helped her off the bathroom floor and laid her down at the top of yuta’s bed. he quickly retrieved a water from the mini fridge located on the opposite side of the room and told her to drink it. she took small sips and drank a good amount before putting the rest on the nightstand. “lay here and get some rest, i’ll find your friends and let them know where you are” he stroked the side of her head softly and stood up to exit the room.

“no… stay here.” y/n finally spoke, her voice a little weak. she looked at him sadly and it worked, he came back over to her and sat on the opposite side of the bed.

“i’ll stay, just get some rest please.” she nodded and laid there next to him, subtly inching closer to feel comfort and quickly fell asleep.

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taglist (closed): @cloudmrk @yyangj3lly @vehaez @mmjhh1998 @nessaassen02 @alethea-moon @jkslvsnella @starfilledgaze @solvrse @dudekiss3r @nattan127 @nerdsungie @lovesuhng @tokitosun @dokgrayson @222brainrot @jakeshuneybby @kissablening @antifrggile @cyjzzl @nctseventeensworld @bloomyroses @doughyk @lovefooi @chaerinmin @chenlesfavorite @urlocalbeaner5 @thegracerammy @lionzyon @fairyoflia @nctjunie @sunflowerbebe07 @seventeeneration @apolloxxivmin @onlyhyunjin @pinklemonade34 @adorwooks @angelpiixie @bts-iris @hisrkive @sunghoonsgfreal @zzurao @mango-bear @bee-the-loser @callita @lttlekomori @neozon3nha @calssunflower @girlz4jaem @joonsprettygf

notes: feeling a little devious 😜 also this isn’t proofread bc it’s 3 am AND SORRY IF MY WRITING ISN’T THAT GOOD 🙏🏽 I HAVENT WRITTEN IN A WHILE!! anyway jaehyun enlistment era is coming upon us… i gonna rip out my hair 😭

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dewdropdinosaur · 11 months ago

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Go Heavy on the Red

ALASTOR x (F) READER Summary: SOULMATE AU. To say that you never thought you were made for love would be an understatement. All your life, black was all you knew. Black ink and a faded tattoo. Till you died and met him Warnings: Mentions of death, drunk driving, dugs, alcohol, and sex. Rating: PG-13 For the lovely @anon-of-the-void Requests are OPEN

In the chaotic realm of Hell, where demons and lost souls roamed endlessly, there existed a peculiar demon named Alastor. With a penchant for mischief and a flair for the dramatic, he ruled over his domain with unmatched charisma and power. But beneath his imposing exterior lay a longing, a desire for something more profound than the endless cycle of torment and chaos that he so loved.

All his life, Alastor’s wrist had been adorned with perfect neat red cursive spelling out the words ‘Going heavy on the red, huh?’. Whoever you were, your handwriting was pristine, perfect for someone like him. Yet, despite this, Alastor never truly believed that he would ever find the soulmate behind the words inked upon him. His tattoo was in red…his soulmate was alive or not yet born. A strange phenomenon for a soulmate not to be born within one’s time but then again Alastor was a strange phenomenon in and of himself.

You were no different. To say that you never thought you were made for love would be an understatement. All your life, black was all you knew. Black ink and a faded tattoo. ‘New to the whole being dead thing my dear?’ Your soulmate was dead, you always wondered how. You were born with the ink so black and murky that it looked like a void space. The handwriting was a fine print, definitely from a time long past. It looked as though it was printed by an old typewriter or someone who had an orderly and steady hand. Crisp and clean. Maybe your soulmate was like that too?

But fate is an even crueler mistress, and despite laying on the load of soulmates from different eras - your mortal thread was also fragile. As the years passed, your time on Earth drew to a close and when you closed your eyes for the last time after being slammed into by a drunk driver - you awoke not to pearly white gates but deep dark brimstone ones. Your bearings were slim and despite trying to orient yourself to your new environment, nothing was working.

Slowly working your way along the smoky streets, you peered upon an ad for a hotel - the Hazbin Hotel to be precise. The ad was clearly hand drawn with what seemed to be childish crayon but nonetheless the happy picture seemed to stand out amongst the dismal exterior. Following the directions, the streets you walked were perilous. Screaming, crying, the heavy smell of alcohol, sex, and sin filled your nose. Holding your stomach, you convinced yourself that expelling the contents of your stomach right before you approach a hotel didn’t seem like the best idea. You would at least wait to find a decent bathroom…if there was such a thing in this place. In fact, where were you anyway?

Soon, you came to gaze upon an older structure with a giant vacancy sign. Entering the Hotel, you observed your surroundings. A…cat…stood at the bar with a…spider demon there too? A shorter hyperactive woman ran around with a knife…and were those walking eggs?!

“OH MY GOSH!! Hello~! Welcome to the Hotel, my name is Charlie!” Without warning a younger woman with blonde hair and a red suit came up and shook your hand furiously. Dazed and confused, you shook back slowly.

“Oh, hello.”

“So wonderful sinner, would you like a room?”

“Wait, um sinner? I..I am not a sinner.”

“But you are—oh. OH. I see. You’re new!”

“Umm..new to what exactly?”

“Oh, this…this is Hell. You…died?”

“Oh.”

Suddenly, it all made sense. You saw the headlights, he sped through the red light. Crash. Now..now you’re here. Not in your car where you were. But here. In Hell. Hell, the supposedly a fiery pit of destruction and seduction that held the most enigmatic and psychotic of characters.

“Well, let’s get you settled in! Come on, I want to introduce you to everyone!”

Grabbing your arm and dragging you around the Hotel, Charlie introduced you to everyone in an effort to get your bearings and settle down. Little did you know that from the shadows a figure lurked. Watching with glowing red eyes, Alastor peered and sized up this newcomer to the Hotel. Fresh meat was always a good idea and especially with all the changes going around, he felt a need to grasp onto some entertainment. Distract himself with unworthy souls who would fail here spectacularly.

His soulmate tattoo had turned black this morning and his mind began to reel with all the possibilities. Would his soulmate be in Heaven or in Hell like himself? Would fate be too cruel again and separate them not only across time but planes of death? Throughout the day, his wrist started to burn with a fiery pain. They were close…and as this newcomer approached the Hotel, his interest peaked. Maybe they knew something, he would find out sooner or later.

“Alastor, where are you? We have a new guest for you to meet! Oh, he may be a bit creepy but just don’t try and focus on that.”

With a flicker of shadow, Alastor appeared in front of you in all his 1930s red pinstripe radio glory. His voice was static with radio waves, he extended his hand to you.

“Going heavy on the red, huh?”

Static crackle. His grip tightened around your own as he heard your words. With an evil crackle he spoke with a smirk.

“New to the whole being dead thing my dear”

Alastor's grin widened as he reached out, grasping your hand and drawing closer to his wrist.

"Look closely, my dear," He started tracing the intricate patterns etched into their skin. "Do you see it?"

Your eyes widened in awe as you beheld the tattoos adorning their wrists, glowing softly amidst the darkness of Hell. "It... it's...," you trailed off, breath catching in your throat.

"Our soulmate tattoos," Alastor finished, his voice softening with an unexpected tenderness. "Fate's cruel joke on us my dear has come to an end."

For a moment, you were speechless, heart pounding with a mixture of wonder and disbelief. "I... I never imagined..." you began, voice trailing off as you searched for the right words.

But before you could speak further, Alastor locked his gaze with yours in an unspoken promise. Manipulation has its place and it was Alastor’s preferred tool.

"In this realm of chaos and despair, we may have found each other against all odds," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the din of Hell. "But together, my dear Y/N, we shall defy fate itself."

And as they stood there, their souls intertwined in a bond that transcended the boundaries of Hell, you knew that they had found not only their salvation, but also your truest companion amidst the darkness. Alastor knew that he had found his only weakness, the tinge of his dark black heart beating once again. Feelings he knew were real despite his aversion to such moments. Maybe hiding and indulging in this one weakness wouldn’t be so bad after all.

#romance #hazbin hotel fandom #answered #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel alastor #vizziepop #hazbin hotel alastor x reader #radio killed the video star #request #alastor x reader #alastor soulmates #soulmates #soulmate au #fic idea #one shot #help me this fandom has a hold on my soul #alastor imagine #alastor fluff

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jerzwriter · 8 months ago

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Thank you to @alj4890 for this ask from this list! I've done all three of yours, and I'll be working on the others. Thanks to all who sent in requests!

Story: Crimes of Passion (Book 1 Timeline) Trope: There's only one bed... Characters: Trystan Thorne x Carolina Rose (F!MC) Rating: Teen Words: 2,000 Summary: A rainy night, a brokedown car, and a cheap motel lead to amusement and some discoveries.

Participating in @choicesjunechallenge2024 - Car and MHotel Original prompt from @creativepromptsforwriting's "There's one bed" prompts is highlighted below

Trystan x Carolina Masterlist Complete Masterlist

If Murphy himself had created a day, it would have gone something like this. Everything that could go wrong did, and as Trystan stood in the pouring rain, intently looking for… something… under the hood of Carolina’s car, he didn't foresee it getting better.

Carolina was seated in the driver’s seat, her frustration mounting by the minute. The thought of honking the horn and making the Drakovian know-it-all jump into the stratosphere crossed her mind, which brought a smile to her face.

She looked at her watch – it was getting late. While her little fantasy may have brightened her mood, it wasn’t going to get them out of this jam. Still soaking wet from before, she stepped into the drenching rain with her jacket lifted over her head and settled at her partner’s side.

“Trystan,” she groaned. “It’s time to give up. You can’t fix this.”

He looked at her with vexation; his desire to save the day greater than he cared to admit.

“I just need five more minutes…”

“What will five more minutes do?” She exasperated. “I looked at it for a half hour. Now you’ve been staring at it for 20 minutes without so much as touching anything. Besides, if I couldn't get it started, you're not going to get it started."

Trystan gasped audibly, clutching his chest as if her words had delivered a mortal wound.

“Et tu, Carolina?”

“Et tu, nothing,” she said, trying - and failing - to contain a grin. “Let’s just be real. Who is more likely to know how to fix a car? A sassy but usually broke boricua from the Bronx with a string of shitty cars and hundreds of hours of her father’s mechanical tutelage….or the spoiled little prince who was chauffeured everywhere in his personal Rolls Royce?.”

“Hey!” He snapped back. “That’s not fair! Sometimes, I was driven in horse-drawn carriages.”

“I rest my case!”

In truth, Trystan was tired of being wet and cold, so Carolina quickly convinced him that the car needed an expert and probably a tow truck. After leaving a note on the dashboard, the two of them made their soggy way to a roadside motel they had passed before.

“Are you sure there is no place more… suitable?” Trystan groused.

“We're in West Bubbafuck, Your Highness. I am sorry, no Four Seasons or Ritz-Carlton’s here.”

“I don’t require a five-star property, but I would rather not stay at the Bates Motel.”

“Well, it’s that or sleeping in the car, big boy! Personally, I’d rather not have a tractor-trailer driver careening into us at 2:00 AM. But I’ll let you make your own decisions.”

“You make entirely too much sense,” he sighed as they reached the front door of the motel’s front office.

Carolina grabbed the door handle with a satisfied grin. “And don’t you forget that!”

After securing a room, they walked down the outdoor corridor toward their room.

“I can’t believe this place has only one vacancy tonight.”

“Believe it or not, this area is pretty popular this time of year, and those who prefer not to camp, stay here. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be.”

“Really?”

“Look,” she said, slipping the key into the door. “As long as it’s clean, has warm beds, and functional plumbing. We’re golden!.”

She pushed the door open, and when the room came into view, Carolina lost that edge of positivity, but Trystan laughed with delight.

It was minuscule, so small they'd have to take turns walking in some places, as side by side would be impossible. But that wasn’t the real issue. The real issue was the one bed. The one twin-sized bed.

“But look,” Trystan smirked. “The place is clean, I'll give it that.”

“Are you freaking kidding me!” She spat.

“Should I check if it’s warm,” he continued to instigate.

“I mean, one bed is one thing, but one twin-sized bed?”

“What’s the matter, Carolina?" he winked. "This is a great way for us to... bond.”

“That’s it!” She said, her hand already on the doorknob. “Being careened into by a tractor-trailer doesn’t sound that bad anymore.”

But Trystan reached over her and pushed the door shut. “Carolina, stop it. You were right; the car isn’t safe to sleep in overnight. This may be awkward, but at least we’ll be safe.”

“Awkward? I’m not concerned about awkward. Try impossible! How can the two of us fit on that thing? And this place is so small the floor isn’t even an option.”

“There’s always the bathtub,” he said, flicking the bathroom light on. “Or the shower stall?” he corrected with a sigh. “I could attempt to sleep atop that old console TV; it’s certainly big enough.”

The vision alone made Carolina laugh despite herself. “You’re not sleeping on the TV, Trystan. We’ll figure out a way to make this work.”

They took turns taking warm showers, which both had to admit felt heavenly. They also took turns using the small hair dryer to dry their underwear and shirts, their only options for sleeping that night. Trystan was sitting in the small sleeping area, holding a pair of boxers in one hand and the dryer in the other, when Carolina barged into the room, vigorously drying her hair with a towel and wearing another tied around her. They looked at each other with very distinct reactions: Carolina’s was one of amusement, but Trystan’s was... something else.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Carolina chuckled. “I bet you never thought you’d be drying your underwear by hand in a dinky little motel one day."

If she expected a reaction, she was about to be disappointed. The man sat on the edge of the bed, mouth agape, trying and failing to string a logical sentence together.

“Trystan,” she said, waving a hand in front of his face, when she finally caught on. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she laughed. “Come back to Earth. I'm sure you've seen a woman in a towel before.”

“Not this woman,” he affirmed.

Carolina looked at him with amusement. “This woman isn’t all that special.”

“I think I can draw my own conclusions on that,” he assured as a blush settled on Carolina’s cheeks.

“Fine,” she sighed. “My shirt is dry enough. I’ll put it on if it makes you feel better.”

She marched into the bathroom, shirt in hand, as Trystan contemplated how he could be so stupid.

“I don’t know if that will make me feel better... or worse... if we're being honest.”

Carolina emerged from the bathroom in her long, white, button-front shirt, damp locks falling down her shoulders.

“You know, you were wearing no more than a towel when I met you, but I was able to keep my composure.”

Now, it was Trystan's turn to blush.

“In fairness, we were too battling one another for you to give it much thought."

“Says you,” she winked, leaving him unsure of what to think.

“Are you flirting with me, Detective Rose?”

“Me,” she chortled. “No. I’m teasing you. There is a difference. Flirting is your domain.”

“Ah, but flirting and teasing are very close cousins.”

“Then you should know I don’t speak to most of my cousins,” she yawned, pointing to the bed. “So, how are we doing this? I really need to get to sleep.”

“Here’s what we'll do. I'll lay flat on my side, against the wall, and you figure out what you can do with the rest of the bed.”

"We’re obviously going to be touching," Carolina pointed out. "There’s no way to avoid that.”

“I know," he grinned lasciviously, playfully wiggling his brows.

"OK, Casanova," she smiled while tossing a pillow at him. "That touching means nothing. Do you understand?"

“Casanova was Italian, not Drakovian," he said with mock disdain. "Do you learn anything in America?”

“I know he was Italian! That’s not the point, you know... never mind.”

Trystan jumped onto the small bed, his back uncomfortably plastered against the wall as Carolina struggled to decide how she would sleep. Facing him would be just plain awkward, but facing away was bound to lead to unintentional spooning. She finally decided to face away; at least she wouldn't have to look at him if spooning occurred.

Despite the various forms of discomfort, Carolina managed to fall asleep quickly, but Trystan had no such luck. As the hours ticked away, he had given up any hope of quality sleep, so he lay awake with a million thoughts running through his mind. He chuckled as he recalled the first time he and Carolina met and marveled over how much they had been through together in such a short time. He wondered if she thought his voracious flirtation was all a joke, just a part of his persona - because, in reality, it was in his nature. But the more time he spent with this rare and astonishing Rose, the more he knew he'd love for them to become so much more.

But, as far as he could tell, she didn’t return those feelings, and setting himself up for another heartbreak was the last thing he wished to do. It would be best to push those feelings aside and take nights like this for what they were - rare and precious gifts from the universe that he would always, always treasure.

He had just begun to doze off when Carolina's voice awakened him.

“Huh, what?” he blurted, but she didn't stir.

Incomprehensible words fell from her lips, with the rare mention of ice cream sundaes thrown in for good measure.

“Dear God," Trystan lauged. "She talks in her sleep!”

Now that free entertainment was being provided, he lost all inclination to return to sleep. He wanted to hear every unintelligible word she said, finding it equal parts amusing and adorable. It was all great fun until his heart nearly stopped... did she just say?

“Trystan,” she mumbled. “Yeah, he’s cute.”

A pompous grin appeared on his face as he validated his sleeping partner's nocturnal confession. "Naturally!"

“I don’t know,” she sleepily giggled. “Maybe one day.”

Now, he had no idea of the context. Perhaps she wanted to get an ice cream sundae with him one day? Or perhaps the topic in her head changed completely and had nothing to do with him. But Trystan was going to take the "Maybe one day" the very way he wanted. Perhaps he didn't need to give up. With hope restored in his heart, he easily drifted off to sleep.

When the morning light broke through the tiny space where the drapes didn't meet, Carolina was quick to wake. She was fully dressed and scrolling through her phone when the exiled prince began to stir.

"Good morning," she smiled. "Did you sleep well?"

He wriggled around in bed, rubbing his eyes before responding with a groggy voice.

“How do you say I slept like shit in English?”

“I slept like shit," Carolina laughed.

“Well," he said, rising on an elbow. "There's your answer.”

“I’ve already called for a tow truck, and I’m arranging a rental car. I’ll drive back to the City so you can sleep." She stood up and grabbed her purse. "I saw a little coffee shop just down the road. I'll go get us some breakfast while and give you some privacy to get dressed."

“Thank you,” he muttered, then he recalled the detective talking in her sleep. She was at the door when he called out. “Oh, Carolina?”

"Yes," she replied without turning.

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk in your sleep?”

He watched with amusement as her shoulders slumped, and he heard her breath escape her. Carolina had forgotten about that little habit. She turned to him in horror.

“All right, what. What did I say?" She ordered. "Just get it out, how much did I embarrass myself?”

But Trystan's warm smile was quite reassuring. “Not at all,” he insisted. “Though you were talking about ice cream sundaes quite a bit. How about I get you one when we’re back in the City. I know of a great place on the Lower East Side.”

“I think I’ll take you up on that," she smiled in relief. "But I'm getting the biggest sundae they have. I don't come cheap."

"I never expected you would," he smiled, and she was gone.

He fell back into the pillows with a look of wonderment.

"Maybe one day," he smiled. "Maybe one day."

@choicesficwriterscreations

Tagging others separately.

#crimes of passion #crimes of passion choices #trystan thorne #trystan thorne x mc #m!trystan thorne x f!mc #choices fanfic #choices stories you play #playchoices #playchoices fanfic

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em1e · 2 years ago

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⠀ ⠀ ༝ your mother said to pick the very best girl - and i am.

こづめ + てつろう + コウタロウ + けいじ // TAG, YOU’RE IT ⠀ ༝ ༝ slasher!au ft. kuroo + kenma + akaashi + bokuto ⠀ ༝ ༝ 4.4k words ⠀ ⚠︎ final girl!reader, VIOLENCE, CHARACTER DEATH(s), implied fem!reader but no pronouns used, reader's bf and friends are oc's! ⠀ — a fun camping trip! what could go wrong.

you really wish you could pinpoint when everything went to shit.

you could guess, sure. maybe it was when your boyfriend suggested coming to this hicktown, the promise of a campground for your friend group of four to have a wonderful, fun, and cool outing. maybe it was when his friend invited his new girlfriend - some girl from your college that talked too loud and popped her gum too much the entire car ride over. maybe it was when the lock to your cabin didn’t fully click into place.

or maybe it was when your boyfriend slumped against the wall, his head cracked open with blood and what you could only guess was brain matter leaking freely from the hole.

you should probably backtrack a little. think for a second.

“does he have to bring his new girl?” you’re almost whining at this point, shoving the last of your bags in the back of the minivan your boyfriend, akio, thought would be perfect to rent for this weekend trip.

‘so we can all ride together!’ he’d explained with a grin. you really couldn’t tell him no if you wanted.

he hums in thought at your complaints, shrugging, “i mean he’s already invited her. he said she’s excited, too, i don’t wanna be the one to tell her she can’t come when we’re gettin’ him from her place.”

you find it hard to believe that hana’s excited to be out in the middle of nowhere with bugs biting at her and no cell service, but you take the new addition in stride, “whatever,” you wave off, climbing into the front seat, "we’re getting chiyo and aya first though, right? they dislike her more than i do.”

the twins, grouped nickname given to them by their brother and one bringing the parasitic gum-popping girl, have voiced their complaints about her coming more than once, but are ultimately shut down by said brother, riku.

“mhm,” akio confirms with a thumbs up after he’s settled in the driver’s seat, offering you the aux as he starts the van. a passenger princess through and through, you start the playlist you’d carefully crafted days before - full of things everyone will enjoy, “then we’re gonna get hana and riku.”

akio doesn’t miss the small thank god that falls from your lips, but he chooses to ignore it in favor of turning up the music.

༝ ༝

“i’m not really fellin’ this song.” hana leans over the center console to peek at what you have queued next on your phone, popping her gum loudly in your ear as she does. you grimace, but she doesn’t seem to notice while trying to decide herself what song to play instead.

you lean away from her, head hitting the window with a small frown that barely disappears when akio’s fingers tangle with your own.

“we’re like 30 minutes from the campsite, can you just sit down?” aya groans, happy to voice her distaste to anything hana does. to be fair, she’s been bouncing from seat to seat in the van, and you think it’s even been pissing riku off, if the way he grumbles a small yeah, please is anything to go by.

you tune out any further argument while looking out the window, squeezing akio’s fingers with a small hum as you pass some dingey motel in the dingier town you’re passing through before you hit the woods, “if any bugs land on me or i see a snake or a spider, you’ll be able to find me there.”

“the motel?” akio asks, grinning while glancing back in the mirror.

“mhm,” you nod, sitting up slightly and stretching your legs as much as you’re allowed, “not dealin’ with that.”

“we’re gonna be in the woods,” he reminds you with a laugh, “s’gonna be kinda hard to avoid all of that.”

you shrug, “good thing that ‘no vacancy’ light was off.”

“you’re funny.” he untangles his fingers from yours to squeeze your thigh instead, and the action leaves you smiling.

and true to aya’s word, thirty minutes later you’re in the middle of the woods, in front of a pretty cabin akio rented on airbnb. hana complains before she’s even out of the van, swatting away invisible bugs that seemed to swarm her as soon as the door was opened.

you do your best to ignore her, bumping hips with chiyo as you begin to remove everything from the van, “let’s have a fun weekend, yeah?” you offer with a small smile.

chiyo returns it with a scrunched nose, “one could only hope.” and removes her two suitcases from the pile.

༝ ༝

the first night was nice. riku might’ve made the damning decision to invite his annoying girlfriend, but he makes it up to the group easily by providing a surplus of booze, and the six of you get drunk off your asses and sleep until the middle of the next day. that saturday is filled with exploring around the cabin, walking down what trails were already there, and settling the next night off with a barbeque and sipping on what alcohol was leftover from the previous night.

the second night does not end as nicely.

you went to bed early. a headache, you think was your reasoning, probably from hana and whatever annoying habit she’d picked up for the day getting to you, but you woke up far earlier than intended.

one look to your phone told you it was a little past midnight, and you chasisted yourself for not plugging in the device before laying down - the blinking red of 7% flashing at you from a day of taking lots of pictures in nature. there’s a crash somewhere in the cabin, the living room you think, followed by a scream that has you stumbling to your feet and almost tripping over the covers as they try to hold you down to the bed.

hana’s holding what you assume to be her phone in one hand, pointing a finger at aya with a glare, “who the fuck gave you permission to go through my shit?”

aya looks impassive as she shrugs, “shouldn’t leave your phone out. maybe then we wouldn’t know about daniel, 32, who likes long walks on the beach and, what was it chiyo, country music?”

hana’s cheeks flush, scowl deepening when she finally realizes you’re standing in the hall, “of course you’re up the second there’s something going on.” and as if god isn’t sparing her any chances, your boyfriend and riku stumble in through the front door, cheeks pink from drinking.

hana’s eyes narrow between the three of you, before settling sweetly on her boyfriend (boytoy?), “riku, babe, i think we should head to our room. stinks in here.” she and aya share an intense glaring battle, before she clicks her tongue and saunters over to riku, who’s mostly being held up by akio.

just as she snakes her hand around his waist, pulls him close, the door swings open again. it lets in the chilly night air, leaves you wrapping an arm around yourself with a furrowed brow.

who the hell could that be?

tall. objectively attractive with a sharp grin and dark hair, taking in each of you with enthusiasm.

“um . . . do we know you?”

chiyo asks, head tilting while the two boys turn to face the intruder.

“me?” the stranger asks, mocking her head tilt, “no. not yet at least.” his grin is unwavering, and you decide then it’s unnerving, leaves a pit in your stomach when his eyes find your own.

“who the hell are ya then?” akio straightens his shoulders, and despite being over the line of tipsy, stands tall. the stranger however, remains taller of the two.

“is it a party in here or what?” someone behind you says, and you jump with a squeak when an arm wraps around your waist, a face you don’t recognize hooking their chin over your shoulder. gray and black hair finds way to your vision, and your body tenses before you’re shoving him away with a stumble. he pouts, slouching over, “thought a pretty thing like you’d be sweet.”

“can we help you guys with something?” aya snaps, pulling you back by the upper arm so you’re a decent distance away from him, “this is private property.”

the tall man from the door clicks his tongue, eyes narrowing, “maybe. we’re just here to have some fun.”

two more guys walk in behind him, one shorter with a mix of overgrown bleached-blonde hair giving way to dark black roots, and the other a taller man with dark hair following in close behind.

“is this a joke?” hana steps from riku, who’s looking just as annoyed as your boyfriend.

“no jokes, ” the first guy who came in promised, “just wanna play a game with you guys.”

“we’re not into games,” akio slurs out, “you guys should go ‘fore we call the cops.”

this seems to make the stranger grin wider, holding out his hand behind him to his friends. the shorter one puts something in his awaiting grasp, and it’s like everything starts happening in slow motion.

akio’s squaring his shoulders, getting ready to throw a punch, but the guy, without hesitation, is already swinging. except it’s not his fist that makes the contact - it’s a fucking bat. akio’s head turns with the impact, and the stranger takes another swing from overhead. it lands with a sickening crack, one that has akio stumbling backwards until his back hits the wall and he slumps over, fingers twitching once, twice, before stopping altogether.

you don’t know who screams first - if it’s hana or chiyo - unable to process anything around you as you openly gape at your crumbled boyfriend’s form on the ground.

“now,” the man with the bat wipes away a spot of blood that’d splashed to his cheek, “let’s talk about that fun, yeah?”

riku takes a stumbling swing at one of them, but is ultimately knocked on his ass when his own hit doesn’t connect while they make their way further into the room. hana is the first to try and run out the door, but it’s slammed shut by the last guy to come in, steel eyes freezing her in place when her hands make contact with the doorknob. she stumbles away instantly.

“let’s start with introductions, “ the bat man gestures to the couches at the center of the room, pulling a chair from the dining room to sit across from it. the slamming of another dining room chair on the ground has all of you scrambling to find a spot to sit while they find places in front of all of you, “‘m kuroo,” he points the bat to the one with blonde bits of hair, “that’s kenma,” to the one who touched you, “bokuto,” the final of the four, “and akaashi.”

his head tilts as he looks at each of you squished on the sofa together, pointing the bat at the group and grinning when you recoil, “eenie,” he points it at aya, “meenie,” chiyo, “miney,” riku, “you.” stops on you, “tell me your names, pretty.”

your eyes widen as you look between your friends.

“u-um . . .” and you introduce everyone with hesitation laced on your tongue, looking at him for confirmation that you’re finished when you’re done.

“and him?” he nods his head to akio’s body, smiles when your lip wobbles as you stutter out his name.

“good job,” he praises, “now, we are gonna let you guys go.”

hana visibly perks up at this, it’s not missed by the analytical eyes of the four studying your group. bokuto sighs from behind the couch, surprising both you and chiyo as he leans over the back of it and into your personal bubble again (when did he even move from beside akaashi?), “buuuut we gotta have some fun first.” he adds before kuroo can continue.

“fun?” chiyo parrots with a squeak. you think you can make out a smile from akaashi.

“fun,” kuroo confirms, “we’re gonna play a game. like hide and seek. you guys make it to the town that’s a few miles north from here, you win!”

he almost sounds excited as he explains.

“what happens if we don’t . . . make it?” aya asks with a frown.

“good question, aya,” kuroo stands, pushing the chair back as he does, “we’re going to kill you, if we catch you. you’ll join your little friend over there.”

you hear aya swallow hard.

“what if we don’t play?” riku counters with a glare, “we can just stay here and you won’t get a hard on from chasing us.”

“we’ll kill you here,” akaashi says easily, as if talking about something as miniscule as the weather, not about your life being held in the palm of their hands.

“speaking of -” kuroo’s eyes flit over each of you, “seems kinda unfair to be a 5 v 4, huh?”

you feel chiyo stiffen at your side from the implication, hand clumsily finding your own as kuroo towers over the five of you.

“who should it be, kenma?” kuroo glances to his right, and kenma’s head tilts before he points.

riku barely has the chance to stand before the bat is hitting him. he falls loudly to the center of the carpet, unmoving.

chiyo sobs, squeezing your hand, and aya wretches at the sight, vomiting over the side of the couch. you can only stare, wide eyed because surely this isn’t real. your boyfriend couldn’t have been murdered in front of you less than thirty minutes ago, riku’s not dead on the ground joining him right now, and these guys aren’t going to chase the four of you in the woods of some dense forest with such a minimal chance of escaping. . . right?

chiyo’s fingers digging crescent marks into the back of your hand is what pulls you from that hope.

“we’re gonna give ya fifteen seconds to get out of here-” kuroo starts, tapping riku’s back twice with the bat as if to ensure he’s down for good.

you interrupt him before you can stop the words from spilling off your lips, “twenty.”

“sorry?” kuroo’s brows furrow for only a second, before his head is tilting with a grin.

“w-we get twenty seconds,” you ration, ignoring the way chiyo’s fingers are squeezing your hand too hard, “and we get to put on our shoes.”

“you’re not really in a position to be making demands,” kenma comments impassively, but kuroo waves him off, closing his eyes for a second.

“no, it would be a little unfair if we let them zip outta here like that. we’ll give you twenty-five seconds to put on your shoes and go and it starts . . .” he looks at kenma, who gives a thumbs up, “now.”

only a second is wasted between the breath of his last words before the four of you are scrambling to stand. you have to drag chiyo up yourself, push her forward towards the door so she can slide on her shoes with shaky hands, and you’re following in suit as she’s opening the door.

one of them hollers excitedly as you slam the door shut behind you, and your eyes meet kuroo’s just before the door shuts completely. there’s no comfort in the way he smiles, the way his eyes bore holes in your trembling form.

༝ ༝

you’d been running for what felt like forever.

somehow, you’d lost everyone in the dark - hana dipped into the right of the woods the second she was out the door, and aya and chiyo’s hopes of climbing into the van were crushed when they realized the tires were slashed, so the three of you made a dash following the dirt road that brought you here. one minute they were with you, the next you’re alone, and your legs were starting to ache from exhaustion.

you freeze when a scream tears its way through the woods, echoing and desperate, but you don’t have a second to dwell on it when another body slams into yours. the impact knocks the wind out of you, and you almost scream until you fully realize who’s taken you down.

hana winces as she looks down at you, tears trailing down her cheeks with her hand held tight to her abdomen, and it’s then you notice the blood.

“t-the smaller one stabbed me,” she breathes out, a fresh wave of tears filling her eyes and spilling over her cheeks, “i didn’t even wanna come to this stupid trip.” she pushes herself off of you, sitting at your side.

“we gotta keep moving, hana,” you whisper, forcing yourself onto your aching legs and offering her a hand to stand as well.

she takes it with a frown, opening her mouth to say something before her eyes flit behind you. they widen for a second, before she’s shoving you back and stumbling away, ignoring your curse of her name as you fall flat on your ass.

“two for one?” someone says behind you, you whip your head around as you see kuroo emerging from the dark of the trees, smiling with a tilt of the head, “s’a shame. kenma just went that way, too.”

as if to confirm this, you hear a scream that has you cringing in on yourself.

“now what to do with you?” he steps around you, crouching in front of you with his head still tilted, “you were quite amusing with that twenty second rule - and the shoes. no one’s ever demanded anything from us like that. i’d hate to end this chase when you’re at such a disadvantage.”

his fingers tap the sole of your shoe, trailing up until his fingers brush against the skin above your ankle to poke there too, “you won’t make this boring for me, will you?”

you dig into the dirt at your side with a frown, and he opens his mouth to say more, but you’re tossing the mix of twigs and dirt and leaves into his face before he can get the words out. he even laughs, when you use the leg his hands wrapped around to kick at his chest. somehow, miraculously, your other foot connects with his face while he’s distracted with controlling the first, and it loosens his grip enough for you to push yourself onto your feet and stumble away.

you think you hear him laugh again as you disappear into the trees. you don’t stay long enough to find out what’s so funny.

༝ ༝

kuroo was really enjoying this chase with you.

they each took turns picking who they’d get to grab, and he was lucky enough to go first.

but something about you was really driving him wild. and now, here you were throwing dirt in his face, kicking him right after hard enough to make his nose bleed. he wipes at the blood as it makes its way past his lips, metallic and warm against his tongue. maybe they could have even more fun with you together.

don’t kill mine if you guys see ‘em. <

b> :(

k> you got something in mind with them?

you could say that <

a> I just got mine. I can help you guys if you need.

b> me pls !! mine’s slippery :(

a> 👍

k> stabbed mine couple of times. she’s annoying

just remember not to kill mine <

kuroo shoves his phone in his pocket as the three bubbles pop back up, uninterested in whatever else his friends might have to say.

he’s got a chase to get back to. he grins at the thought.

༝ ༝

you hadn’t seen anyone in what’s felt like hours and you were fucking exhausted.

your legs were begging you to just take a break, your lungs heaving painfully with each inhale you took, but the adrenaline in your veins spurred you on further. everything ached as you stumbled up a hill, leaning against a tree for support to use the height to your advantage and fuck, you could cry at what you saw.

just barely in the dark, you can make out the asphalt of the road - and if you squint your eyes, you can see a little further down the road is the shitty fucking motel you were gonna sleep in, the no vacancy sign shining bright against the dark of the world surrounding you.

but then someone’s grabbing you from behind, shoving your back against the tree you’d been using to hold yourself up. a scream rips itself from your throat, clawing at whatever skin your nails can come in contact with, but bokuto, you realize, only smiles and presses you harder against the tree.

“i’m so close,” you whimper out, shoving at his face when he drops it too close to your own, stomping on his toes and really doing whatever you can to shove him away from you. you glance to your right and you can still see the neon lights from the motel’s sign, the streetlights keeping the hicktown illuminated, “please.”

“kuroo’s gon’a be so happy i caught ya,” he leans down, nosing at your collar and inhaling despite you still struggling against him, “exciting since ‘kaashi got mine.”

you feel him frown against your neck, fingers tightening at your shoulders where they keep you in place. he pulls back with a pout, “that’s not even fair, is it! what’s the point of pickin’ who we wanna go for if someone else is gonna get ‘em anyways!”

you’re frozen at the implication of what ‘got mine’ could mean. the question of who dancing on your tongue, unable to voice it.

bokuto straightens after a second, smiling down at you, and you never really realized how much bigger he was than you until now - all muscles that flex as he readjusts his grip on you, “now, let’s go meet back up with kuroo, yeah?”

it frightens you how easily he picks you up and tosses you over his shoulder - and despite your desperate flailing, the way you kick and claw and scream, his grip never wavers. you can only watch as the red LEDs blink further out of sight, until the light that remains is eaten by the darkness of the woods that surrounds you.

by the time he’s walking up the stairs to the cabin, you’re worn out, and you don’t fight it when he places you on the living room floor.

riku’s no longer at the center of the carpet, and if you dared to look you’d see akio is no longer slumped against the wall as well.

bokuto crouches in front of you, toying with a piece of your hair as it falls in your face, and you half-heartedly push his hand away when he laughs, “we’re gonna have lots’a fun with you, i just know it.”

he stands when the door is pushed open again, akaashi walkin through the foyer, dragging a groaning riku in behind him. you stiffen at the sight of him, scrambling to stand only to fall back against the floor when bokuto pushes you down by the shoulder. akaashi, not so gently, pulls him until he’s laying in front of you, and you feel your fingers flex with tears welling in your eyes when he barely moves.

“r-riku?” you whimper out.

you’re answered in the form of a groan, his eyes fluttering open before they close again as if keeping them that way brought him pain. despite the way your hands shake, despite being pushed down before, you move to his side to examine what damage they could’ve done to him.

bokuto laughs again from your side, but doesn’t stop you from pulling him to you protectively, “look atcha, worrying ‘bout someone else’s skin.”

akaashi clicks his tongue, but makes no comment as the door swings open again - kuroo and kenma walking in with dirt and blood staining their hands and clothes. kuroo ruffles your hair almost affectionately as he passes and you duck away from the contact with a frown.

he looks away from you, whispers something to someone, but your heart beats painfully loud in your ears and you can’t hear much beyond your own breaths. kenma fiddles with an already blood-stained knife, twirling it between his fingers as he stares holes into your back.

kuroo takes the knife from kenma with a grin, kneeling beside you and tilting your chin up with the blade, “you do good, we’ll consider letting you go.” his hand finds itself at the nape of your neck, keeping you in place when you shy away from the metal.

“w-what?”

“you’re gonna kill him,” his eyes flit from your own to riku’s body lying beside you, then he’s turning the blade so the handle is facing you instead, pushing it into your hands, “it’ll be easy once you get past the first stab.”

your hands tremble at the weight of the knife, shaking your head with tears spilling over your cheeks, “no . . . no, i’m n-not gonna-”

kenma groans from behind you, and you flinch at the sound, closing your eyes as if that could make everything happening come to an end.

“they’re not gonna do it,” akaashi says boredly, moving behind you to somewhere else in the room, “told ya.”

“i think they can!,” bokuto adds, “they’re just scared of the first step.”

kuroo’s staring at you like he wants to eat you, like you’re stepping in the maw of a wolf and his teeth could sink into you at any second from the way he grins, “you’re right. first step is the hardest.”

his fingers wrap around your own on top of the handle, long and precise as he maneuvers you with his chest against your back, his arms surrounding you until all you can feel is him. it’s suffocating. he leans down, breath hitting the shell of your ear as he whispers, “let me help you.”

and he lifts the knife above riku’s body, and despite your protests, despite the way you fight against him, to try and squeeze your hand out from under his, the knife still lands right at the center of his chest. you’re sobbing with new vigor now, body vibrating when kuroo lets out a genuine hearty laugh.

he holds you upright as you curl in on yourself, numb. you so desperately want to fall. collapse, cold and lifeless just like riku. a nasty jolt snaps you back to reality. kuroo´s shaking you out of your stupor, his pupils dilated to the point where his eyes look black. he holds you vice-tight, cradling your head as you cry, your tears dampening his shirt. proud? maybe.

“now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

#salmon rowe #kuroo tetsuro x reader #tetsuro kuroo x reader #kenma kozume x reader #kozume kenma x reader #bokuto kotaro x reader #kotaro bokuto x reader #akaashi keiji x reader #keiji akaashi x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #x reader #akaashi x reader #bokuto x reader #kuroo x reader #kenma x reader

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yawneneteyam · 2 years ago

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gorgeous (14) — nothing I hate more than what I can't have.

— GORGEOUS, an avatar smau ( by yawneneteyam ) masterlist

— gorgeous, nothing I hate more than what I can't have !

although y/n was new to driving on busy roads, she thought she had become a pro over her trip away. it was nice to see her family again, but she was ready to come home and see neteyam.

they hadn't had the chance to speak about their kiss yet, not properly anyway. y/n could tell that neteyam wanted to speak in person about it rather than over the phone; that's why she was so eager to get home.

the sun was setting as y/n left the small diner she found on the way home. sitting in the driver's seat, she couldn't help but smile as she thought about going home to neteyam.

maybe she would call him and figure out when they would see one another, then she could-

y/n suddenly broke out of her thoughts when turning the key in the ignition. the engine wouldn't start.

she felt her heart begin to beat faster in her chest. y/n took a deep breath, trying to turn the key again. the engine just sputtered.

"no no no no," she shook her head, trying once more. "no no!" she put her head in her hands, not sure what to do. y/n knew she wasn't going to be able to think rationally, so she texted the person who she knew would in this situation.

— gorgeous, nothing I hate more than what I can't have !

there was no emergency tows available, only motel rooms. y/n walked a few blocks back to where she drove past a small building with a 'vacancy' sign flashing. she hoped her car would still be where she left it in the morning. only y/n would get her drivers license and then get her car stolen.

after she checked in for the night, y/n sat down quietly on the motel bed, the springs creaking as she sat down. y/n rested her head in her hands with a sigh. there was sadness and frustration bubbling in her stomach.

she just wanted to see neteyam.

y/n knew she would have to call him eventually and tell him that she wouldn't be home tonight. there's nothing y/n hates more than what she can't have, and right now it's neteyam.

her phone buzzed continuously in her pocket, his name lighting up her screen.

"hey mamas" his voice put a smile on y/n's face.

she sighed before responding, letting the weight on her chest slip away. "hey teyam," she smiled softly.

"what's up?" of course he would know something was wrong straight away, neteyam knew y/n. "Is something bothering you?" he asked her. his voice was laced with concern as he sat up on his bed back in pandora. he had been sitting by the phone all day waiting for any updates from y/n on her travels, his heart pounding at the thought of seeing her again.

"no, no" she shook her head, "nothing's bothering me, I'm fine" she didn't know how to tell him. hey! remember how we were supposed to finally see each other again after our insane kiss and how I was supposed to tell you how I feel tonight? yeah well my car broke down and now I can't get home until tomorrow, surprise!

there's no way.

"don't say you're fine, something is clearly wrong."

silence.

"y/n?" tears welled up in her eyes as he called her name, "my y/n, please" he whispered, "talk to me,"

"I'm not coming home tonight, teyam" the first tear fell, she knew more would follow.

"wha- what do you mean?"

"my car it-" his heart broke as her heard her cry on the other end of the phone, "it broke down and I can't get home, so I have to wait for tsireya and ao'nung to come get me tomorrow so we can tow my car back home," she cried. "I'm so sorry, I know we were supposed to see each other,"

"no no, my y/n" his voice was soft and calming, "don't cry, please. it's okay! everything's okay,"

"but neteyam we were-"

"I know, I know," he soothed her as she sniffed, "but I will see you tomorrow. I waited a week, what's one more night yeah?"

y/n let out a teary laugh, neteyam was glad to hear her happier than before, "just one more night,"

"one more,"

they sat in comfortable silence together, thinking of the next morning when y/n arrived back in pandora.

"so where are you now?" neteyam asked, "are you safe?"

"yeah, I'm safe," y/n nodded, laying down on the bed, "in some little motel down the road from my car,"

"you need to go to sleep soon, it's getting late my y/n," neteyam laid down on his bed, putting one hand behind his head. "I can tell you're tired," he smiled.

"yeah, how?" y/n chuckled.

"because you don't ever cry," neteyam laughed.

"I just-" she sighed, "I really wanted to see you tonight neteyam,"

"I really wanted to see you too, y/n" he whispered, "but I will see you tomorrow okay?"

"okay," she smiled softly, closing her eyes.

"go to sleep, my y/n" neteyam told her quietly, "I'll stay on the phone until you do okay?"

"neteyam?"

"yeah?" he asked.

"I really like you,"

y/n felt her heart brace for impact at neteyam's silence.

"y/n," neteyam sighed, "I really like you too,"

— gorgeous, nothing I hate more than what I can't have ! yay! very happy to get this one out. only 2 more chapters left ahhhhhh. but then we move onto the Jamie flatters fic so life will be great. will post some polls about that fic soon so we can hash it out, but I know exactly what im going to be doing with it <3 love you all, thank you for your patience.

#•°. * gorgeous smau #neteyam sully #neteyam x reader #avatar 2 #avatar the way of water #avatar x reader #*࿐ neteyam #avatar 2022 #avatar smau #avatar fanfiction #avatar au #avatar #jamie flatters #•°. 𖥸 celeste’s works

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yuzukult · 2 years ago

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crush 01 | jww & oc/reader

title: crush 01 / part of the attacca series pairing: jeon wonwoo x reader/oc (ft. seokmin) rating: 16+ (for this chapter) genre: angst, fluff, eventual smut, racecar driver!au, mechanic!au wc: 7.6k summary: all he knows are fast rides, drag-strips, and speed ovals until he meets you, someone that’s got his heart racing instead of his car. warnings: explicit language, smoking, suggestive content (but nothing follows through) a/n: !! sighs i know im back with another mechanic!au but !! hear me out, there’s racing involved okay !! i hope you guys enjoy this (and no i did not neglect my other series!! this just has been something i’ve been working on forever, so i hope you all like this :) -- and yes, i switched this from a one-shot to a series bc it was killing me how long i was holding it hostage !!

comment if you’d like to be included in the future taglist :) i’m starting fresh bc i felt bad for how long i’ve kept this lol

Nose twitching, you cross your arms over your chest with a thermos in hand, housing your favorite coffee—the Folgers’ classic roast instant coffee crystals that melt the moment it meets with boiling hot water because you can’t be bothered to wait for the coffee machine to brew the grinds. Normally, you’d be able to smell the freshness of the caffeine, but instead, you’re met with the aroma of burnt rubber on the asphalt wafting underneath your nose. Of course, you shouldn’t have expected anything else—this only ever happens at the track.

To be quite fair, you should’ve been used to all of this by now. The zooming of the cars when they make laps around the track, the whiff of the smoke that spits out of the exhaust, and the crisp clicking that the high-powered impact wrench makes when it’s changing the four tires on the cars at a pit box. And yet, every time you’re here, it feels like an entirely new experience.

Truthfully, you don’t know if you love it here. There’s always too much going on during the races; the chaos on the track, the abundance of people at the bleachers who watch attentively with their favorites in mind, the hollering and screaming, occasional fight breakouts, and the obsession with the cars themselves is too much to handle. You already have a lot going on in your day job—why are you even here?

Oh, right. Because that driver over there—the one with the chestnut color hair, beaming bright smile, and contagious laugh with that cute little beauty mark on his cheek—is your best friend. The one that you might be head over heels for since the beginning of time.

It’s a bit dramatic to introduce him like that, but it’s the only way your heart sees him. Helmet tucked underneath his arm, his loud yet saccharine guffaw fills the air as he exchanges words with one of his crew mates. You don’t know what that’s all about, but what you know is that he asked you to be here, claiming that you’re his ‘good luck charm’ of some sorts.

Whether or not that’s true, you’re still present.

Although you’ve voiced your feelings a handful of times, Lee Seokmin has made it clear: relationships aren’t his priority at the moment—his dreams are.

But, you remain by his side while wearing a blissfully oblivious mask, pretending like you don’t know about his late night escapades where he meets women at the track and takes them out for drinks before inviting them back to his hotel room. Clubs, afterparties, celebrations, tailgates—he’s encountered them through it all, but the only one he hasn’t brought back is you.

Mostly because he ‘treasures’ your relationship too much. You’re the type of person he’d take home to his mom, he says, not to a shoddy motel room right off the highway next to that gas station with the flickering vacancy sign.

And if this was someone else sharing their story, you would’ve told them to lose the guy and find someone worthwhile, someone who wouldn’t take their time for granted, and someone who would love them the way they deserved to be loved.

Unfortunately, this was you you were talking about here, and the only thing you are is delusional and clueless. (You can admit that much).

You choose to turn a blind eye when Seokmin is stumbling out of a club, shirt unbuttoned down to his chest, hooded gaze and slurring words with a girl underneath his arm with her skirt hitched nearly up to her upper thigh, breasts almost falling out of the cups of her top. Because even though he’s bringing her to his bed tonight, you hoped he’d eventually be ready to bring you to your shared forever home one day.

You want to be his everything, his endgame—so if this is what it takes to get there, you’d suffer a little.

(Sounds pathetic, you don’t need another reminder).

“You did good.” You grin, calling out to Seokmin who turns his attention to you. It seems like his smile gets wider at the sight of you walking down to where he’s stationed, wearing that sweatshirt he gave you last autumn with his car sewn in the pocket area and his name in the back.

“You probably didn’t know what you were watching,” he chuckles, handing off his helmet over to a teammate. Sometimes, you wondered if Seokmin knew their names without checking what’s sewn into their suits. “You just sit in the stands and watch me diligently. Do that thing where you furrow your brows like you’re concentrating.”

You mimic the description by scrunching up your face. “I’m not even a fan of racing, you asked me to come here.”

He pats your head affectionately. “I know. And I’m thankful for that.”

Your heart swells. It didn’t help that Seokmin was always like this, and because of that, he made it harder for you if you ever wanted to detach from him. He lures you in effortlessly, like you’re afflicted from the aftermath of a love potion but it’s all because of that charming smile that he shoots your way and not because you were shot by Cupid’s arrow itself.

Seokmin clears his throat, stuffing his hands into the front pockets of his racing overalls. He looks good like this; the white compliments him and brightens his face—not that he needs it but it compliments him. “Listen… I know you seem to always have the latest scoop on people…”

“I don’t, but go on.” Totally a lie, the last dinner you had with your friends was entirely a gossip session–but that’s besides the point.

“Have you ever heard of some guy by the name of Jeon Wonwoo?”

With a slight tilt of your head, you blink blankly. It’s not familiar, mostly because you don’t know the person yourself but also since the name hasn’t been brought up at any tea spilling outing. But from the tone of Seokmin’s voice, you’re almost tempted to do your own digging. “Jeon… Wonwoo… no, can’t say that rings a bell. What’s up?”

Seokmin waves you off, clicking his tongue after. “Some street racer. Said he was gonna come in here and start racing professionally. Can you believe that?” he scoffs in disbelief. “Doin’ it illegally then suddenly you want it as a career.”

You shrug. ��I mean, everyone starts off somewhere. His start might’ve not been ideal, but at least he’s trying to make things right.”

For a moment, it’s hard to read the expression on Seokmin’s face. There’s a hint of annoyance, you manage to make out, but before he lets you analyze any further, it contorts into an adoring one as he leans over to ruffle your hair. Why does he purposely continue to tug on your heartstrings like this? It makes you feel like a middle school girl crushing on a boy in her class.

Are you really this whipped?

“You’re always looking for the good in people. Sweet, but street racers are assholes. If you ever meet one,” he states warily, but there’s a playful inflection embedded in his words, “don’t trust them. They’re bad news.”

But when he says that, you can’t help but get a flashback of all the times he’s hit on girls for a one night stand… in front of you, despite knowing your feelings for him. Or those times he’s led you on, had you on your toes, thinking that you’d be the next in line for his heart, but instead you find yourself here, as an equivalent to a four leaf clover, a rabbit’s foot or even a horseshoe for his tournaments.

Street racers aren’t the only bad people.

“Hey!”

Flinching, the two of you jolt your attention to the voice, and you spot a little Lee Chan in his matching porcelain white racing overalls as Seokmin—from the biggest to smallest companies out there, brands decorated Seokmin’s, and even though Chan only had two logos on his, he looked like the mini version of your best friend.

He grins cheekily, pointing to the one out of two brands on his clothes. ‘FIC’ in a red square with writing in brown is woven instead of some cheap iron-on patch right above his heart, and you let out a little laugh. “Your logo came!”

“Looks good, Channie.”

Seokmin furrows his brows. “The fuck is a FIC?”

You wave your navy blue thermos in his face before patting Chan’s back.

“Folgers’ Instant Coffee,” you both say in unison and Seokmin only shakes his head.

“Isn’t that copyright infringement?”

The two of you shrug in unison.

To Chan, Seokmin was a mentor. He had become everything Chan aspired to be—on the racetrack, that is, and getting to be this up and close to him was a dream come true. Seokmin is barely pushing twenty-five and he’s already won so many tournaments; trophies lined up the shelves back at his childhood house, providing nothing other than proving his mother wrong when she’d used to say ‘study, driving won’t get you anywhere in life!’ All this while bringing her home an abundance of gifts because there’s nothing better than refuting your mother’s expectations by exceeding them.

“Well,” Seokmin begins, tossing the driving gloves that one of his crew mates catches. “You’re gonna need a whole lot more sponsorship offers if you wanna upgrade your car. You can’t be riding that piece of shit on our track. Ruins the asphalt.”

“He could always drive my car.”

“Nobody wants your little ass 2004 Toyota Camry on our track,” he jokes, but you can sense the expression of Chan’s face dropping in your peripheral vision. “Chan needs a real car to make it.”

Chan juts out his bottom lip. “Those street racers—they always mod their cars and they still go super fast. Can’t we figure something out? Some people make it into the big leagues from working on their cars themselves and—”

“You can’t drive on the track with a mod, it’s gotta be a stock car,” Seokmin lets out a huge, frustrated sigh. “And can we cut the crap about those idiot street racers? They’re so fucking stupid, they can’t even figure out how to get into the main track, so they substitute it by racing illegally. Stop taking tips from those assholes. Just makes you one of ‘em.”

There he goes again. What’s his deal? You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but your best friend’s temper has shortened, and the tips of his ears were growing red each time the topic of those street racers would come up. And who the fuck was Wonwoo?

“Hey, you alright? You seem tense.” It’s only Friday, and although competitions happen on Saturdays, Seokmin doesn’t usually get nervous. But the way his fists clenched at his side is a different look on him. “You seem off.”

“Jeon Wonwoo is racing tomorrow,” he announces grimly, and even though you don’t know what that entails, the look of surprise and concern that washes over Chan’s face alludes to what it could mean.

“But—what—huh? How? And that’s so—oh my god, you’re gonna go up against one of the best street racers in our region. Or world, even,” Chan’s mouth won’t close and his eyes are practically bulging outside of its pockets. “What are you gonna do, Seok?”

“There’s no tier in street racing,” Seokmin scoffs, arms crossing over his chest in pride. “And I’m gonna bring the best to the table, that’s what. I’m not losing to a mediocre street racer.”

Didn’t he just say there wasn’t a tier for street racing?

You’ve spent a decent amount of time with Seokmin, and what’s strange about him today is that he looks… not as confident as he sounds. The words he says exudes the certainty he has for winning, but take that away and it’s been a blanket for his insecurity.

Was Lee Seokmin actually afraid of competing tomorrow? And if he was, why was this Wonwoo guy bugging him so much? Who was he? It didn’t help that your probing isn’t getting you anywhere.

“Coming tomorrow?” Seokmin asks you, but his eyes are elsewhere. Sneaking a glance, you notice his gaze is on one of the flag girls that you recalled from a race a couple weeks back. Black hair long enough to reach her ass, nose so pointy that it peeks through the clouds, and teeth so fucking white that it could blind you, she’s already bouncing her way to you three.

“Mm, yeah,” you respond as coolly as possible. Part of you wants him to remember how calm you were whenever he was pursuing other girls when he could’ve been after you. He’d rather have a girl like that in lieu of you. A cool girl. Well, sorta. You’re just chillin’… vibin’… going with the flow… patiently waiting for–who are you kidding? Why the fuck isn’t he yours yet? “As promised. Your lucky charm.” The words look sweet on paper, but they spill through your gritted teeth.

“Great.” He pats your shoulder. “Imma hang out with Chaeri. See you tomorrow?”

“Hah,” you let out an awkward laugh. “Yeah, yeah, tomorrow.”

You are, and will be forever, a hopeless romantic. Especially for Lee Seokmin.

As you watch him jog toward yet another pretty girl, Chan looks at you sympathetically. Geez, are you that pitiful? “Why do you keep waiting around for him?”

“I’m not.” Already, the mouthpiece of your thermos is at your lips.

“You should really consider going out and dating,” Chan suggests, watching as you do your best to avoid the topic by turning your head. “And I know you hate hearing it, but it’s really not worth it. I admire him as a driver, but as a boyfriend— let’s just say I don’t think Seok is going to change any time soon when it comes to his dating life. Maybe it’s better off finding another guy who would actually appreciate you coming to events like these. You don’t even like racing.”

“I… I like racing.” You don’t sound convincing, and the look on Chan’s face only confirms that he doesn’t believe you either.

You know Chan is right. Despite being younger, he’s got a lot of knowledge and words of wisdom to share – still doesn’t mean you want to listen though because you’re hard-headed and there’s a portion of you that’s a bit lovesick. There’s a dream that one day, Seokmin will realize that the person that was made for him was right beside him all along.

His best friend.

You.

But here you are, watching from the distance, him groping some chick’s ass on the side of a racetrack, ready to take her out for another day of fucking around.

Why do you insist on torturing yourself? You need to mentally smack yourself for not detaching your eyes from this very heart twisting scene.

“Fine,” you concede, shoulders dropping along with your efforts for that brief second. “Let’s go to a bar or something tonight. Pick me up? Then you can be my wingman.”

Chan’s smile stretches from ear to ear. “Great, I’m excited. We’ll find you someone with 8-pack abs, a sweet looking face, and a great personality.”

How do you tell Chan that finding someone with all the characteristics he described is pretty much impossible? For one, does he think someone with 8-pack abs and a sweet looking face could ever have a great personality? You swore the past couple guys you met on that dating site that your friends force you to hop on were exactly that—the type of attractive that had drool spilling from the corner of your lips that actually makes your head go blank until the morning after when you find yourself in their sheets and they still can’t tell you what 8 times 3 equals. How many times did you have to tell your friends that just because some of them found love online, it didn’t mean that you would too?

Nonetheless, the whole description of those men doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with a ‘great personality’ per say, but that adds onto it. If a guy can’t even do simple math or have any common sense, what good does having a nice personality do anyways?

You feel like you should give up. What the hell was Lee Chan thinking?

Puffing out a heavy sigh, you find your way through the crowd of people for that spot to lean against the wall. You’ll have to give him another list of reasons why this night cannot repeat itself, and you refuse to go on this dating venture that he wants you on. The bar he’s invited you to is packed—from the crowds that are hollering over the pool tables to the waves of people that frequent the counter, too awkward to stand elsewhere. The air was getting thick, so you opted to loiter at that spot by some old jukebox that’s probably been out of service since the year you were born.

From there, you spot Chan by the billiards table, cue sticks in hand with the cheekiest smile on his stupid face.

That’s when you spot the girl.

She’s got these cute baby blue jeans, white shirt with balloon sleeves, and cream chunky sneakers that make her even more adorable. As she shuffles over to lean over the table, she closes an eye in concentration, and with her stick, she does a quick push to hit the white ball. And she misses.

Chan releases the most melodious laugh, one saturated in nothing but elation at the sight of the girl who pouts and shoves him but the impact doesn’t do much to him. Pulling her close by her waist, he presses a gentle kiss onto the crown of her head.

Even that corny dork found love. You remember him talking about this girl he’s been dating since high school, Kyungmi, and how he’d been crushing on her since he saw her play at her soccer match. Granted, she slipped and fell onto the muddy field because she didn’t tie her shoelaces, her pants stained brown and he lent her his hoodie for her to wrap around her waist. Since then, they’ve been inseparable.

Why couldn’t you and Seokmin be like that?

Instead, he chooses to be a fucking ass.

Another weighted breath surrenders from your lungs as your shoulders slouches even further. The ice floating atop the margarita is thinning, a layer of water amassing above the alcoholic beverage. The loveseat is what it’s called; a strawberry lemonade margarita, the saccharine juices of both artificial fruit and a slice of the actual strawberry plopped in, it’s a combination of how you were starting to see love as. Seemingly naturally sweet, you eventually learn from the clumps of syrup at the bottom that it’s not as authentic as you used to think it was from the half cut berry that's saturated with liquor.

You take a sip of the watered down cocktail. So much for us, Lee Seokmin. Nose scrunching up, you’re debating if it’s from the thought of him or the tartness of the citrus.

Waiting for Seokmin was starting to become embarrassing. A hopeless romantic is a nickname you never thought you’d find yourself possessing, one that sounds good on the pages of a fairytale or on a screen of a romcom but in reality, it’s naive to be in an unrequited love. The words that leave his lips are nothing but just that—the dialogue of a screenplay meant for a melodrama and not the genuine feelings he inhabits. These types of plots were only interesting in a form of entertainment–not the realities of life.

Maybe you should fuck around. Why are you wasting time anyways? If Seokmin gets to, you should too.

Oh. Right.

After the fourth guy that tried offering to buy you a drink at the bar, you realize how despairing the dating scene is. It’s not for you—well, it’s particularly due to the fact that you’re at some hippie bar downtown; beanies on beanies on plaid and plaid and plaid… it’s not even that cold yet for autumn, what’s with these people with no variety in their closets?

But that’s not to mention that you get attached too fucking quickly.

Your high school love? What was his name again? Just kidding—of course you remember his name, you doodled it all over the pages of your notebook with hearts all around it. Kwon Soonyoung. He dyed his hair a sunflower blonde and spiked it up once he figured out how to use the machines at the gym. Fawning over him was an understatement; you were one of the girls that sat tables away at the lunchroom, chin resting on the palm of your hand with a longing sigh. How could a jock like him ever notice a simple girl like you?

And how did you fall for him in the first place?

Home room, 6:28am, just 2 minutes away from the bell. You dropped your pencil on the floor, ready to snatch it up but Soonyoung was faster. He handed it off to you, fingertips brushing against yours as he showcased that pearly white teeth of his. Then in the candied voice, he said, “yours?” followed by, “your lashes are pretty.”

You were smitten within seconds.

So, yeah. This whole fuck around thing wasn’t in the cards for you, which meant dating is a lot more of a serious topic than Seokmin sees it.

Maybe you’ll keep giving it a shot.

Then there’s this guy. Man. Gentleman? His name is Eunwoo (or something, that’s what you hear over the loud bass booming through the speakers above you… suddenly you’re wishing the jukebox worked), he’s a mechanic and he loves fixing up old cars. You propose the idea of working on your old beast and he let out a chuckle, shaking his head with a lovely smile before saying, “I don’t normally do personal favors but… only if you really want me to.” He approaches you with an interesting greeting, in verbatim, “you look like you’re here against your will. Would you kill me if I used a sleazy pick-up line to ask if I could get a shot to make it better?”

Usually, you’d say no. But… you honestly are kind of bored and how much more disappointed could you get? It already feels like the rock bottom of the dating pool anyways.

But, luckily enough, you’re proven wrong. He’s different—a good kind of different. Eunwoo shares about how didn’t go to college, deciding that opening his own shop and utilizing the experience he had during high school working underneath cars would be more beneficial than a degree in bullshit. And he doesn’t ask if you want another drink—the half drunken margarita with condensation dripping from the sides is enough to give away that you’re done with it for the night. A man with manners, great observation skills and boundaries? Wow, can someone sign you up? (You don’t know if you really mean that).

When a couple of wasted boys start yelling at each other, Eunwoo does this thing where his hand hovers over your back as he leans in just barely, respecting your space and asks, “Wanna move this over there?” with his head gesturing in a direction away from the ruckus.

Fuck. He’s… sweet.

But you can’t fucking help comparing him to Lee Seokmin.

Good or bad, you’re not entirely sure. What you do know is that Seokmin… doesn’t look at you in the same way that Eunwoo does. He’s intrigued, and the swirls of coffee cups for eyes he has is sodden with adoration. When you talk about your job, Eunwoo asks questions that range from ‘What is it that you exactly do?’ to ‘Is this your passion?’ He shows genuine interest, not even realizing that his shoulder is sore from leaning on the jukebox too long that when he shifts in his position, his arm cracks multiple times.

“Should we get outta here?” he asks, slipping the old silver Zippo lighter from his pocket as the two of you slip out of the bar. He pops a cigarette between those pretty lips, a clink sound when he flicks open the cap and the wick heats up the bud. “You’ll see that car of mine that I told ‘ya about and we can stop by that diner five minutes out.”

A 2008 Spicy Red KIA Sorento.

“For a car guy, I wasn’t really expecting… a simple KIA.”

He laughs; it’s gentle and kind, just like his eyes, and he unlocks the doors with a click of a button on the fob. “It’s a friend’s car. He wanted me to check on some stuff. Just driving it around to see if I can hear that funny rattling sound he’s talking about.”

“Hmm,” you hum in amusement, stopping in your tracks when the two of you approach his car. “Then what do you drive?”

Eunwoo turns to you with a soft chuckle. “A Toyota Prius.”

“I don’t usually get into guys’ cars that I just met,” you confess, and Eunwoo’s smile widens even further. “And you’re not the exception either. How about I give you my number instead? Maybe if I trust you enough, I’ll let you take me for a spin in that Prius.”

He rests back against his car, a soft chuckle escaping from his chest as he shakes his head. “Although I wanted to take you out for an oreo milkshake from a diner—”

“—I might need to pop a lactaid pill before that—”

Eunwoo bites his bottom lip from letting out another snicker. “—I’ll make sure to take you to it next time and that you take that anti-lactose or whatever pill. You know what makes a good diner?”

You tilt your head. “What’s that?”

“If at least one of the letters on the sign’s light goes out or flickers,” he frees the puff of smoke from his lips before tossing the filter to the ground and stomping it with the bottom of his shoe. “But I respect that. Don’t go to the homes or into cars of men you just met.”

Eunwoo unlocks his phone and clicks the green phone app before handing it to you. “I’ll text you. I got an early morning tomorrow anyway, it was probably best that you rejected my offer. After all, we would’ve talked all night.”

As cheesy as that pick up line is, it holds some truth.

Eunwoo texts you through the night—he’s funny, charming, and manages to make a simple conversation engaging. Do guys normally tell you about how they ripped their pants in front of their 4th grade classroom because they dropped their pencil during their book report read-aloud? He even got you spilling about how when you took a nap after an exam in high school, you woke yourself up from a fart and looked around to make sure no one heard that. And that’s why you never go anywhere in public after a fiber protein bar.

Then it had you thinking: why can’t Seokmin seem as interested in you as Eunwoo?

Never has he once had a conversation with you that led to the point that you were talking about the most embarrassing grade school stories. It reached to the point that you somehow looped the topic to be about the first time you’ve ever gotten so drunk, you fell asleep in front of your dorm’s vending machine! (To be fair, three of your other college friends were also knocked out in front of that very same machine).

And if you’re comparing all the boys you’ve loved before fairly, Soonyoung still ended up being your first relationship in spite of your constant inner dialogue telling you that he’d never be with you. You ended up breaking up because of college—he had gotten into his dream university that was thousands of miles away, and you couldn’t turn down the scholarship that was being offered by yours.

Seokmin is only centimeters away and still couldn’t give you the same attention that Soonyoung did in freshman year of college before you both realized it wasn’t going to work.

It’s Saturday.

Which means it’s the day.

When you spot Chan in a booth towards the front of the venue, he looks a little nervous–well, little feels like quite an understatement in that sentence. The boy is bouncing on the balls of his feet with his eyes skimming the entire arena like the very thing he’s afraid of is going to pop up at any second. He’s got on the same white racing overalls that match with the rest of Seokmin’s team with his name plastered across his back and the logos of the companies that sponsored him.

You hope that someone will wear Chan’s name one day.

There are girls that stand beside Chan in shirts with Seokmin’s numbers displayed and it leaves you wondering if he ever did anything more with them other than signing their paychecks.

“Hey,” you greet, furrowing your brows. The way Chan continuously checks his surroundings like a prey, awaiting to run away from its predator doesn’t get missed. “Where’s my sweatshirt?”

“Uh,” he stumbles with his phone in his hands, nearly dropping it on the floor before he shuffles through the shelves underneath to grab yours for you. “H-Here you go..”

You take the sweatshirt from him. “What’s up with you?”

“He’s on edge,” Chan says, fingers tapping against the table. “Well, he will be the moment he spots Wonwoo. And he could be here any minute now. I’m not sure how the fuck he’s gonna act, but he’s gonna react for sure.”

“I don’t get the whole deal with Wonwoo,” you say as you slip your arms through, pulling the sweatshirt over your head as your words get muffled in the thickness of the fabric. “He’s just some racer, right? Plus, Seok doesn’t even know how the guy drives. Why’s he so—”

As your head peeks through the neckband, you freeze when you hear that infamous name slip from Chan’s lips.

“O-Oh, hi, Wonwoo.”

“Hey, you’re… Chan, right?” he greets, hands in the front pockets of his blue jeans, a soft smile upon his face. “I saw you at that newbies tournament a couple weeks ago. You did so good, proud of you. I hope to see you with the big dogs one day.”

Hold up.

The charm, the gentle voice… those cute glasses…

He’s… Wonwoo.

The bar was infuriatingly loud that you misheard his name.

He’s not Eunwoo, and the fact that it didn’t register in your head fast enough when he kept giving you clues last night while the two of you texted until the sun rose was dumb on your part. He kept saying, “I need to get up early to drive tomorrow,” and spoke about his car incessantly like it was his passion or something. He’s fucking Wonwoo.

Well, no shit.

He’s a fucking racecar driver.

“Hey,” Wonwoo greets. He’s got on a dark washed denim jacket, and thin wire framed glasses that compliments the amiableness in his grin. There’s something about him that’s disparate to Seokmin, and you figure that it’s his affable nature drawing you in. Seokmin was a great friend, but it took a while to build that trust. Wonwoo? It only took a brief conversation for him to get your number. “Didn’t think I’d find you here. Did you sleep well?”

“Can’t say that I did,” you admit, words not matching that grin you mimic on his face. He’s so contagious when it comes to his smile. “But… I think the results of what came out of it was worth it. Did you sleep well?”

“Can’t say that I did either,” he mocks jokingly. Wonwoo’s eyes detach from yours, now averted to the image sewn into the right side of your sweatshirt. “I was going to ask what brings you here but…” he points to Seokmin’s prized possession—aka not your heart but ironically placed right above it. His car. “Seems like I know what team you’re playing for.”

“I—” you clear your throat, unsure why you’re stuttering or trying to explain yourself. You’re allowed to be here, even if you’re rooting for another driver. “I, uh, I’m here for Seokmin.”

Wonwoo raises a brow playfully. “Really? Is that so?”

Chan lets out a laugh; it seems that when Seokmin is in the room, he feels more anxious on the topic of Wonwoo. But when Wonwoo is present and Seokmin is out of the equation, the weight of the burden on his shoulders lessens. “She’s Seokmin’s lucky charm.”

“Oh, wow,” Wonwoo crosses his arms with an amused expression. “I knew it was too good to be true for you to be single. Did I make that assumption too soon? I’m sorry if I was too forward, I—”

“Oh, she’s not with Seokmin like that.”

Tempted to whack Chan on the shoulder, he’s quick with his reflexes when he realizes he must’ve struck a chord. “Hey, hey, hey, I’m just stating the facts here!” He steps away from you. “You and him aren’t official, and probably won’t be for a while or even at all. I’m just saying, if Wonwoo here is shooting his shot, maybe let him aim for you, yeah?”

You narrow your gaze at the younger male. “Lee Chan.”

Wonwoo furrows his brows in confusion. “What am I missing’ at here?”

“She’s a hopeless romantic,” Chan adds, nudging you. “Seokmin said that if she’d wait for him, he’d come to her when he’s ready.”

Wonwoo clicks his tongue. “Sounds kinda fucked up.” It is fucked up, but what is also fucked up is that Chan is exposing you. What if Wonwoo has a certain perspective of you now?

The stern tone in your voice when you call his name doesn’t feel threatening this time around, only because in his mind, he sees a new boyfriend candidate for you. Chan’s a brother you never had, a kid who wanted the best for the girl who was close enough to be his sister. He smiles, learning speedily that Wonwoo might be the first guy other than Seokmin to tug on your heartstrings.

“I mean, Seokmin might not be happy about it but he’s never been mad at you, so I doubt you’ll piss him off,” Chan grins cheekily. “So, Wonwoo. How do you know my lovely friend?”

“We met at the bar last night,” Wonwoo begins, and although the answer was for Chan, his sparkling irises are on you. So… he wasn’t put off by the whole thing? “Clicked, hopefully hit it off, she gave me her number, and we had a nice talk over text. Needless to say, we talked all night.” He chuckles, finally breaking contact with you and glances over at Chan. “Probably explains the dark circles under my eyes, but definitely worth it. Even if she’s wearing merch from my competitor.”

With a hand slipping into your own back pocket, you roll your lips. Okay. He’s endearing. Somehow, he manages to get you to forget about Seokmin for a brief moment.

Wonwoo zeroes in on you. “I don’t know about you, but I enjoyed our conversation. And I’m hoping that you’d be okay if I asked you on a date sometime… even if you have your reservations about taking it up because of him.”

Mouth slightly agape, the fear of the race dissipates from Chan. Instead, awe is replaced at the sight of you and Seokmin’s competition. Since when did you steal the heart of one of the best street racers? Even you have to mentally give yourself a pat on the shoulder for being able to swoon two desirable men. What is this? Some shitty written romance movie?

To be fair, you never really want to say yes when a guy asks you out. They’ve never given you a good reason to, especially when you had Seokmin on your mind most of the time. But for once, just this once, Wonwoo makes you forget. Somehow he fogs up your thoughts with him instead of the guy you’ve been waiting for so helplessly. It was to the point that you found yourself pathetic, even, but with Wonwoo, you don’t feel that way anymore.

He listens. And for someone who you only met for a day, he talked to you as if he’d known you for a lifetime. Wonwoo shared his deepest insecurities, his dreams, and the things and people he loved within those late hours.

It’s more than Seokmin has ever done and he’d been your best friend for a while.

“I’d… I think I’d like that.”

He sort of makes your heart skip a beat. “Great,” there was an excited bounce in his stance, “what’s one thing you’ve always wanted to do?”

“I don’t know, anything but changing a tire,” you say in a second, and Wonwoo laughs at your response. He’s really good at this whole ‘make a girl fall in love with me’ thing because your face heats up in embarrassment when you realize how lame your joke was. “… I’m just kidding. But I’ll let you make the plans.”

“Sure, I’ll plan the date.” Rolling his lips, he tilts his head to the side with a narrowed stare. “But, I should ask. Do you know how to change a tire?”

You shrug. “My best friend says if that ever happened, he’s a call away.”

“And if he’s not?”

“He will,” you answer, the tone in your words firm but underlying, the foundation of it is shaky. “He promised.”

There’s uneasiness in his expression, watching as you fiddle with your fingers as if you’re the one who feels uncertain about what you said. “Alright, if he says so. But uh,” he sneaks a glimpse at the television screen that displays on the side of the track, quickly patting Chan’s shoulder before giving the two of you a slight wave. “I gotta head out. I’ll talk to ‘ya later, yea?”

And with that, he disappears along with the crowd of people who begin to flood the arena with their tickets in hand and cups of beers in the other. Wonwoo was mysterious yet an open book in unison, and despite what people say about strangers at a bar, he doesn’t feel like one.

“Shit, before I interrogate you and Seokmin beats the shit out of us—well, me, he likes you—we gotta go. They’re preppin’ and I don’t wanna miss anything. I’m supposed to be the understudy and he’ll be so pissed if I’m late.” He’s stumbling to grab his belongings, “And he’s already dumb mad that I put whole milk instead of almond in his coffee this morning.”

Although the words are ready to leave the tip of your tongue, Chan bolts out of there faster than they could spill.

Then it hits.

At the moment, it happens in the blink of an eye. The amount of anxiety that was churning through your stomach, and your heart racing at the speed of the cars on the track, you didn’t realize the mess you caught yourself in.

You agreed to go on a date with your best friend’s enemy.

But in all honesty, you didn’t think you’d be able to confront Wonwoo again and tell him that you couldn’t. He was so goddamn fucking charming, exhibiting manners that all the mothers around the world would praise him for. Anyone who would find out that you turned down a date with a guy like Wonwoo would probably give you an earful.

Then again, Seokmin might give you an earful.

Maybe you won’t tell him.

It’s one date… right?

Plus, with Wonwoo being himself, there’s no way that Seokmin could actually be that annoyed with him. He spoke to Chan in such a respectful way, treated him like a younger classmate, and even expressed how proud he was of him for getting to where he is now. Seokmin couldn’t actually hate Wonwoo on the track. Couldn’t be possible.

That is until you saw living proof right in front of you.

Seokmin is tempted; fists clamped shut at his side, you see him inhale in a deep breath that juts his chest out. His nose does a little spasm, irritated even though he attempts to hold himself back. “Go back to where you belong.”

You find yourself back in Seokmin’s pit, expecting him to do his frequent routine before he hopped into the vehicle. Instead, he’s standing right outside of his car, face to face with Jeon Wonwoo who remains calm, cool, and collected, paying no mind that Seokmin is just inches away from driving his fist into Wonwoo’s cheekbone. It’s enticing, but Seokmin knows he can’t do it in public with thousands of people watching.

“Come on, Dokyeom, I’m allowed on the track,” he’s got a smug look on his face as he speaks. “It’s not like shit’s got your name outside the stadium. You don’t own it.”

“Dokyeom?” You reiterate, head turning from Wonwoo to Seokmin. “Why’s he calling you Dokyeom?”

Seokmin doesn’t break his stare on Wonwoo. Jaw clenched, teeth gritting, he even sucks in his cheeks in the heat of the moment with his fists fully balled by his sides. The fury in his eyes were burning flames that you fear would somehow spread into reality and burn the arena down. “Wonwoo, I thought you said you’d stay out of my way.”

“I never said anything,” the other male says tranquilly, zipping up his navy blue racing overalls up to his neck. In comparison to Seokmin, Wonwoo doesn’t have as many sponsors other than for three companies that barely had any fame to their name. “All I said was that I didn’t know if I'd make it up here with the big dogs. And well, look at me. Livin’ the dream. You should be proud of me, Kyeom, not throwing a bitch fit.”

“You fucking lied.”

“Why’s it matter?” Wonwoo queries, tilting his head to the side in curiosity. “Are you nervous? I thought you didn’t get nervous. Is it ‘cause you finally found someone with the equal amount of skill here? You can’t win forever, Kyeom-ie. One of these days, you gotta be kicked off that goddamn pedestal. Not a hot look for you.”

“Alright, alright,” you interject, pushing Seokmin’s (or was it Dokyeom’s) chest back to prevent him from making the first swing. “It’s almost time to start and I’d rather have you both behind the wheel without a bruised eye.”

“The only fucking bitch leaving here with a bruised face is him,” Seokmin hisses, but his body loosens the tenseness when he feels your touch. “Get off my turf, Jeon Wonwoo. You don’t belong here.”

And just on time, his name is written in bright letters across the television screens surrounding the arena.

JEON WONWOO, RACER NUMBER FIVE.

With a cocky grin, Wonwoo crosses his arms as he glances up at his name displayed and back on Seokmin. “It looks like everyone here begs to differ. See you on the track, Kyeomie.”

With an exasperated scoff, he tosses his gloves onto the ground. Wonwoo doesn’t bat a lash or even sneak a glance at the turmoil he leaves behind, instead he waltzes his way to his crew members who don’t dress in uniform as Seokmin’s team did.

“That jackass,” he hisses. “Does he fucking understand that this place isn’t for him?”

“Why’d he call you Dokyeom?” It’s bold of you to ask a question in the middle of his tantrum, but you’ve been patient enough. “I thought your real name was Seokmin.”

The anger still pulls on his features–he used to go soft for you. “It was a nickname I had.”

“From what?”

“Don’t ask,” he says curtly. “You don’t need to know my past—all you need to be is here. You’re my lucky charm and I need you here so I can win.”

With that, he slips his helmet on, flipping down the shield to cover his face. Ever since Wonwoo’s name was brought up in conversations, Seokmin’s demeanor changes and he doesn’t feel right; he isn’t quite the same person as he used to be. There’s something about Wonwoo that irritates him, and although he incessantly states that it’s because he’s a street racer, you think there’s more than what he lets out to be.

As told, you sit in the bleachers patiently, legs pressed together anxiously with your thermos filled with your coffee in hand, watching as Seokmin climbs into the driver’s seat of his vehicle.

Like you’re supposed to.

As you’re asked to.

Just as you always do.

There’s always this part of you that wonders: Is it worth waiting for a guy like Seokmin to notice you in the way you see him? During those late nights, the ones where he doesn’t go off into the sunset with a pretty girl under his arm, he lays underneath the stars with you, and reminds you that you’re the person that he wants to settle down with. Seokmin says he sees the two of you, on the porch with your rocking chairs of your future home with a big lawn, kids running on the grass with screams and laughter, sharing nothing but love for each other.

But each time he walks away with someone who isn’t you, the wait becomes more of a struggle.

It’s worse than waiting for the results of an exam that you know you failed, that feeling of being sick to your stomach and on the verge of vomiting. Your chest aches more than a sad, angsty romcom you’d watch back in your teenage years as if you’d experience the same heartbreak as the couples on the big screen.

← you’re at the beginning | next chapter →

#wonwoo #wonwoo fanfic #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo x oc #svt fanfic #svt #seventeen #seventeen fanfic

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driverjob · 9 months ago

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evereverest2 · 6 months ago

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Pathetic — Terzomega

~part three of the Little Monster series~

3.1k words ~ smut

The night at the hotel doesn’t go quite as anticipated for the intoxicated Terzo and irritated Omega.

a tonal return to part one, but this time, the ending is not so mean spirited

[parts:] one | previous | next

—

The hotel they happened upon was not meant for someone like Terzo, who was drowning in his wealth and prowess. It was the type that the band usually stayed in while touring: cheap and convenient. It was neither trashy nor shoddy, but somewhere a middle-class family might stay on a road trip. Omega knew that Terzo would likely not prefer it.

Not that Terzo was lucid enough to complain.

The car driver ran inside. Terzo was lazily staring out the window. He returned after some minutes.

“They only have one room. It’s just a queen bed.”

“Ah, that’s fine,” Terzo slurred, waving him off. “We can all cuddle.”

Omega ignored him. “Are there any other hotels around here?”

The driver shook his head. “Not for another twenty minutes at least. Even then, they might not have any vacancy.”

Omega gritted his teeth. “Fine. Just get it.”

The driver ran back in. Omega left the car and walked around to open the door for Terzo, who sluggishly grabbed at random parts of the car to pull himself up. He was moving too slowly, so Omega yanked him out by the arm.

“Wait, my taco ring!”

Omega sighed, grabbing the box of tacos and slamming the car door shut. He supported Terzo as they walked inside, who seemed to have trouble walking straight. The driver handed Omega the keycard and told him the room they were in as they passed him.

“When would you like me back?”

“I don’t know.” Omega was too irritated to think with Terzo actively attempting to feel up his chest. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

The driver nodded and left.

Omega dragged him onto the elevator. Terzo tried to reach up to kiss him, standing on his toes, but he was too short to reach his lips. Omega refused to bend, even look down. Terzo grabbed at his shoulders and neck like a child, but he did not budge.

“You asshole,” he mumbled bitterly, giving up.

Omega guided them to their room. The moment he unlocked the door, Terzo leaped into the bed face-first. He sat up and enjoyed yet another taco.

Omega took off his coat and shoes, looking around the room. It was simple. Coffee-colored walls with green and white accents. He crossed the room and sat in the sage-green armchair, sighing. He did not care that they missed curfew; he only wanted to avoid spending the night with Terzo. In all their trysts, he had yet to sleep in the same bed as Terzo, and he was not ready for tonight to be the night.

“Mm,” Terzo waved at him, swallowing down a taco. “Come here.”

Omega stayed put. After a few minutes, Terzo stood and walked to him, standing between his legs. He looked down at him with unfocused eyes, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. Omega said nothing; just watched. Terzo slipped it off his shoulders, dropping it to the floor. He unbuttoned his tight pants, drawing attention to the bulge peeking out from the open zipper. He gazed at Omega, his eyes peering through him from just above his sunglasses.

Terzo moved to sit on his lap, knees pressed between the armrests and Omega’s thighs. He grabbed Omega’s hand, guiding it to run across his torso, down to his crotch. Omega stopped it there, giving it a small squeeze but moving no further. Terzo’s eyebrows pinched.

“Mostriciatto, won’t you touch me?”

Omega cocked his head to the side, prompting him to continue begging.

“Please, Omega,” Terzo thrust his hips forward for friction.

Omega continued saying nothing. He dropped his hand, using his fist to rest his head. He continued watching him boredly. If Terzo wanted him, he would have to work for it.

Terzo frowned, looking offended. He stood, turned around, and began grinding on Omega’s lap, doing anything to get his attention. Omega was still silent, but his legs widened welcomingly.

“You like it,” Terzo smirked. “Should I keep going?”

He said nothing. Terzo stood, pulling away.

Omega was just about done with this night and thought he might as well get something out of the whole mess. And, of course, he never minded an opportunity to punish the cardinal with his body.

“Strip,” Omega barked. Terzo did so quickly, eagerly. Omega reached down to undo his own zipper, quickly yanking Terzo against him, his dick sliding underneath him. Omega held him by the throat, the waist, his nails digging into his skin. He murmured darkly, “Ride me.”

Terzo wiggled slightly, his breath labored, moving to press Omega’s cock against himself, slowly slipping it in with a gentle whine. Omega let go of his neck, grabbed his hips, and forced the rest in, their skin clapping together with the effort.

“Ah, mostriciatto, you always do that…” he complained, looking over his shoulder. “You are not one for foreplay, si?”

“Move.”

Terzo grabbed his thighs for support, his feet planted awkwardly, and began thrusting himself up and down. It was slow; he was making a great effort at it, groaning all the while. Omega breathed out a slow, deep breath, enjoying the sensation, even slow. He would allow it for a while because he knew Terzo was trying to adjust to his size. And heavily intoxicated.

But Omega grew impatient. Frustrated. This was about his pleasure, not Terzo’s, who had already gotten off tonight. He sat up, grabbed Terzo by the throat again, and began powerfully rocking upwards into him.

“Mostriciatto—” Terzo choked out. Omega hummed lowly, almost a moan, focused completely on abusing Terzo’s tight ass. Listening to his staggered breaths, his breathy gasps as he was choked, his stuttered moans. He reveled in it, wanting more of it. The urge to watch Terzo unravel filled his being. He wanted to destroy him. If he had to suffer sharing a bed, he would ensure the pathetic man could not move by the night's end.

Their current position was not lending to his speed. Omega picked up Terzo like nothing and threw him onto the bed, bending him over at the side so his legs still touched the ground, lending to a perfect angle for Omega. Terzo went down with a grunt. Omega grabbed him by the hair and pushed his head into the mattress, thrusting into him as fast as he could.

“Omega— Omega— Wait—”

Omega sensed something was wrong, as this was not his normal tone. He let go of his head, pulling out and backing away. Terzo urgently got up, stumbling away into the bathroom. Moments later, Omega heard retching.

He entered the bathroom to find Terzo hanging over the toilet, the night’s fun projecting out his throat.

That misery returned, filling the room like the stench of vomit. Tonight, instead of angry rain storms, it smelled sour, like a carcass left to rot in the dark. Omega could feel it clearly now. It was painful and gut-wrenching. Terzo stared at nothing, lying his cheek on the toilet seat, eyes welled with tears, grime around his lips and chin. He looked as if his soul had left his body. It was no wonder. Through feeling his pain, Omega felt his heart was being strangled.

“I’m sorry, Omega ghoul,” he said weakly. The tears finally burst from his eyes, down his face. He shut them as if the very act of seeing was too much.

Suddenly acting as if not his own, Omega sat next to him. He pushed the loose strands of black hair from his face, ripping off squares of toilet paper to wipe his mouth. His eyes opened again, filled with a spark of emotion.

“Are you okay?” Omega asked quietly.

Terzo shook his head. “I am pathetic.”

Omega said nothing, which prompted him to continue.

“The side effects of fun.” He smiled weakly. “It always hurts when you can think again, no?”

“What do you think?”

Terzo stared at the ground. “Where is that, eh, vodka?”

“You left it in the car.”

“How about my… explosion beverage?”

Omega’s brows furrowed. This game Terzo played of destroying his body was irritating. To hide his misery. Omega would no longer tolerate it. Without a word, he stood, retrieved his drink, and returned to dump it down the sink. Terzo watched, clearly disappointed.

“Asshole mostriciatto. It was to settle my stomach.”

“That wouldn’t have helped.”

“Will you get my cigarettes in my pants?”

Omega sat across from him, against the bathtub. “Take a breather.”

Terzo winced, idly rubbing his stomach. “It helps with the pains.”

“No.”

“I have a guy; he can bring us crack,” Terzo suggested.

“No.”

“Weed?”

“No.”

“Fine. What would you like?”

“Nothing. You’re done tonight.”

Terzo pouted. “I’d rather not, monstriciatto. I appreciate the concern, but tomorrow, we will be back in the Ministry, and I will be free from your control. I would like to skip the pain in between.”

Omega knew he was right. “You’re not getting anything from me.”

“Then I will grab my phone and get it myself.” He made no attempt to move, though, still clearly nauseous. Omega crossed his arms.

“You must hate me, Omega ghoul.”

He did. Well— he thought he did. This night was making Omega doubt that now.

“Do you like me in pain? No— I already know you do. This is why you choke me and run me into furniture.”

“That’s different.”

“I know how you feel about me, mostriciatto. Even now, I see how your lips curl when I call you that. You don’t like me. I know you sleep with me just to hurt me more. It’s fun for you to hurt me. I am not stupid.”

Omega had no response. He thought Terzo was too blissfully unaware of the world to realize, too consumed by his own self-flagellation. Omega always thought Terzo either did not know or did not care.

“I am right, no? So now you torture me with withdrawal to prove a point.”

“You’re the one who keeps coming back to me,” Omega said defensively.

“Because you don’t lie to me. When you fuck me with your hatred, you tell the truth. This is why I call you mostriciatto. You only treat me this way. You are my monster.”

Omega shook his head. “I’m not your anything. I just want you to stop getting yourself so fucked up it makes you sick.”

“Don’t pretend you care about me,” Terzo laughed humorlessly. “Let me be as you always have.”

“Terzo, I know you’re in pain, but—”

“No, you shut your mouth!” he shouted. “You do not care if I drink until it stops you from fucking me! Omega ghoul, you should know my feelings all along with your powers, and yet tonight you lecture me? I like you because you do not lie to me before, but now you do. If I let you finish up my ass, will you leave me alone?”

Maybe Omega had known all along that Terzo was struggling and chose to ignore it. Was it not so obvious all along? After all, how could he have shared such intimacy with him, over and over, only to not realize how he was coping with his pain? Where had Omega gone, a quintessence ghoul who once thought himself so empathetic, that he could ignore such a broken man? He was speechless. For so long, he had been filled with such rage and hatred that he had been blinded to those he once sought to help. He had been pulling away from everyone. From his duties, from his music, from his own ghouls. All he did was stalk around the Ministry, belligerently doing his hundreds of duties, avoiding everyone except Terzo, who allowed him to vent his anger without judgment.

Why had he been so angry for so long?

“It’s for your own good,” Omega finally said. Perhaps helping Terzo tonight could be his first step to being himself again.

“No, I am not feeling very good. Tomorrow, I will go to my quarters and forget any of this happened at all. You are just making me hate you. I do not want to hate you.”

“...Why not?”

“You are all I have, mostriciatto.” His voice was thick with tears. He looked away from him, clutching his stomach. “It is fine for you to hate me because it’s better than being invisible. But if I hate you, then I will have nothing.”

Omega stared at him. Suddenly, Terzo dove for the toilet again. Omega cringed in disgust.

“You already have nothing.”

Terzo spat a few times and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His glaring white eye bored into Omega, which was unusually unsettling.

“You think I don’t know that? I do not need you to insult me after putting me through this.” His voice broke, and with it came more tears. “You are being worse than usual.”

Omega decided to stay silent. The situation was quickly becoming something he was unequipped to deal with. Indeed, Omega still felt his anger, turmoil, disgust, and hatred toward the cardinal. Even if he wanted to help, he had trouble finding the words.

Terzo wept quietly, swiping toilet paper across his face to catch his black tears. Minutes went by before Terzo looked up again. He asked, “Please, mostriciattio. Just my cigarettes. It will help the nausea.”

Omega relented because he felt enormous guilt about the situation. He stood and delivered his request without a word.

His fingers shook fiercely. It took him several tries to even flick the lighter on. He inhaled slowly, smoke drifting from his lips and nostrils. After a few drags, Terzo was calmer. He moved to stand, clearly unsteady. Omega caught him on instinct.

“Let me go,” he huffed. “I’m fine.”

Omega ignored him, and Terzo did not seem to care. When they were stood, Terzo leaned on Omega as they made their way out, eventually reaching the bed to lie down. Omega lay on the other side with a large sigh. He realized how exhausted he was all at once. For just a moment, he allowed himself to shut his eyes.

Suddenly, a weight was thrown around his waist. His eyes shot open to see Terzo mounting his hips.

“No, Terzo. You’ve had enough tonight,” Omega said sternly, glaring at him.

“What? You did not get off.” The end of his cigarette was clenched in his lips, looking just about ready to be put out.

“I’m tired.”

Terzo ground down on his hips a few times, inspiring a measly half-on from Omega that he had no desire to satiate. Terzo himself was rock hard, and he was stroking himself lazily.

“It will be rapido,” Terzo said breathily.

“No.”

“Mostriciatto—”

“I’m serious. Get off of me. I’m done.”

Terzo’s eyes flit back and forth, searching. He looked down at himself, then back at Omega. He slowly stopped stroking himself off. An overwhelming wave of self-hatred and desperation began radiating off him, bringing back a sickly sweet stench like rotting flowers.

“What…” His face changed, his eyes wide, his mouth open like a silent scream. “What is wrong with me?”

Omega watched him, uncertain.

“You do not want me anymore?”

“Not tonight.”

“No… You ended us. You do not…” Terzo turned his head away, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Terzo, I’m just tired, that’s all.” Omega watched him, unnerved at his instability.

“I will let you hurt me,” he burst out. “You can do anything you want. I don’t care.”

“No, Terzo.”

“No— no, you can do anything. You can bite me and break my bones, you can— you can kill me, mostriciattio, you can eat me alive. Anything.”

“No…” Omega was increasingly becoming disturbed.

“You like when I hurt!” Terzo sobbed, holding his head with one hand, his cigarette with the other. “When you hurt me, you see me.”

Omega shook his head slowly, stunned into silence. Terzo’s entire body heaved with his gasping breaths, crumpling into himself. He held up a shaking hand, with a burning cigarette butt between his fingers, and suddenly crushed it in his hand. He cried out in pain. Omega sat up, grabbing his wrist to force his hand open, letting the ash fall to the bed beside them. An angry red mark was visible on the top of his palm and fingers. Omega quickly swiped away the remnants of the cigarette.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Omega yelled in his face. His grip was tight on his wrist, his other hand grabbing his shoulder, shaking him once.

Terzo stared at him. A whimper. His cock twitched once, twice. Omega sensed it in him. Arousal. Hot and fast. His breath caught, and he came.

Omega looked down in shock, and when he looked up again, Terzo was crying inconsolably.

“You— you— see— mostri—” he heaved, almost incomprehensible.

“Stop it, just stop it.” Omega pulled him into a tight embrace, his walls broken down. Terzo needed him. He may have been a pain in the ass, an egotistical maniac, but he was broken inside. He needed someone to show him compassion. Anyone.

And it should have been Omega all along.

“I don’t want you to be in pain. I don’t.”

Terzo buried his head in his shoulder, his arms wrapped tightly around him. His sobs practically shook the bed. Omega ran his fingers through his hair, his claws scratching his scalp gently, the other hand rubbing his back.

He finally settled down, but it took a long time and many tears. At some point, Omega had laid him down on his side, but he refused to let go of the ghoul, so they were stuck intertwined. When Omega sensed he had finally fallen asleep, he detangled them to stand.

First was the matter of the ashes, which he did his best to swipe off the bed. Then, he carefully cleaned Terzo’s skin of his earlier excitement, but it had unfortunately long settled into the fabric of Omega’s shirt. He stripped his shirt off and, along with Terzo’s clothes, put it in the laundry bag in the closet and set it outside their room to be cleaned. He also picked up the box of spilled tacos and set it on the table.

Omega lay back in bed, and Terzo found him in an instant, attaching himself to him like a leech. His face settled against his hairy chest, and Omega found it in him to, for the first time in a long time, smile.

He quickly wiped it away.

[parts:] one | previous | next

buy me a kofi <3

#tw alcohol #tw drugs #tw vomit #tw self destructive behavior #hurt/comfort #terzomega #cardinal terzo #papa emeritus iii #omega ghost #omega ghoul #terzo x omega #terzo emeritus #ghost fanfiction #the band ghost #ghost bc #little monster - terzomega #worship the eversnake

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