#charming short stack to be named

[art0lies]

Draw your oc December: My migrant laborer Gallow with a smol and lovely new friend belonging to @korsithkoris .

[sugurufic]

Co-Parenting with Suguru

AU where Geto didn't kill the entire village but adopted Nanako and Mimiko (I love mommy geto)

Word Count: 5.3k

Summary: Geto is able to adopt Mimiko and Nanako with your help, and how the girls with Gojo set you two up. Acquaintances to lovers, idiots who care for each other. (pure fluff, and i've tried to avoid using y/n)

You wouldn't say you and Geto were good friends, but when you were asked to testify on his behalf in front of the higher ups, you readily agreed. You were tasked to look after the twin girls he had brought back from the village and they were the sweetest little girls you had ever met. Even if Geto had killed those villagers, you couldn't blame him - they were torturing two innocent souls on problems caused by their own vices. 

Shoko and Gojo couldn't testify to Geto's character - everyone knew they were practically joint at the hip - the three of them are always together. You were closer to Utahime  your senpai, known to not like Gojo and Geto very much. With whatever casual conversations you had had with Geto, you hadn't really found a reason to dislike him. And hearing Nanako and Mimiko call him “Geto-Sama” in their sweet little voices only helped in solidifying your high opinion of him.

You heard their narration of the night and how Geto with his incredible bangs and magic powers stopped the evil people hurting them and took him away and dropped them into your arms.

“Do you really think any of those could be trusted with kids?” Geto asked. You snorted in response and gladly accepted to take care of the two lovely little girls.

“Your Geto-Sama will be right back with you,” you promised the girls while closing the buttons of your uniform. “I will be back in a bit. I've got dolls for the both of you,”

“Thank you,” they tell you, adding “sama” to your name. You blush but don't say anything, having already told them to not address you as such multiple times over the couple of days.

“I don't believe that Geto-San could have gone out of his way to hurt those people. In fights with curses, collateral damage is always there, and Geto had two little sorcerers to take care of. I think we can excuse him this time.” You said when you were asked to speak.

“I don't see anything wrong with letting Geto-San take care of the two girls. They clearly trust him much more than anyone else, after how horribly they were treated by the village. I pitch on his behalf, that he would take utmost care of the two sorcerers under his care.” You said when the question for their custody arose.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” Geto said bowing in front of you once the elders were done with the hearing. They had dismissed everyone else to discuss the matter.

“You've got some lovely girls to parent now, Geto-san,” you say, returning his charming smile. “Are you sure you are ready to be a parent?”

“Not really, no,” He admits. “I will try my best though,” 

“Oh they are such lovely girls, I have half a heart to keep them for myself,” You fawn, feeling suspiciously giddy. “If you ever need a babysitter-”

“I will definitely call you,” Geto nods with a smile on his beautiful face. He has always been beautiful, but today with his hair half-up, half-down, he looks especially charming. He rushes away on hearing footsteps and you walk the short distance to the dormitories. 

“Hello girls!” You excitedly enter your room, holding out a bunch of cookies in your hands, thanks to Utahime. “The final decision of the higher ups will come later today, but Geto should be free to see you,” You give them the stack of cookies and then seeing the styled dolls add, “Do you girls like dressing up?”

You smile with the way their eyes widen with excitement and open your humble wardrobe in the dormitory, giving them access to everything they'd need to get dressed up. They decide to dress you up instead, and the three of you are full of giggles as they take your makeup and freely draw on your face - and be surprisingly good at it. You play some of your favourite music, which the girls seem to enjoy and then they paint your nails. They dress you in your best clothes and you love the way they've styled you.

There's still a long time left before the higher ups will announce the decision, so you take the girls out shopping to distract them. Fortunately, your income as a sorcerer allows you to have the freedom to spoil your girls - and you love it to an alarming extent. Mimiko and Nanako have got excellent taste, you'll credit them that - they pick out the cutest dresses for each other and coloured lip balms that compliments each other's hair well. You encourage them to change into their new clothes in the mall itself  and take so many pictures of them and with them - and you are almost sad at the thought of letting Geto have them, but that's something you will be sad for later.

You've lost track of time at the mall, and when you get back it's already twilight. The girls had a lovely day, and they are still buzzing with excitement when you enter. 

Geto is sitting on your bed, in a semi-clear spot with almost all of your stuff on it - from the whirlwind that dressed you earlier. 

“Geto-Sama!” The girls scream with delight and kneel down in front of him with bows, showing how grateful they were to him - he motions them to get up and hugs them both simultaneously, but his foxy eyes hold your gaze as he says, “Mimiko and Nanako can live with me, from now.”

Your body reacts to the news faster than your mind, and you've already planted a kiss on his cheek and have your arms wrapped around him before you realise what you have done. A crimson blush colours his face along with your lipstick as he thanks you, his voice softer and breather than usual.

Your whole body heats up when you see the colour of your lipstick on his cheek  and the way he makes no attempt to wipe it off his flushed cheeks as Mimiko and Nanako look up at him with glittering eyes. 

You hear your name from Nanako’s mouth, noting the “sama” she had added yet again. Geto's eyes are affectionate as he hears them gush to him about you, about the fun they had with you. 

While Mimiko is in Geto's arms, Nanako makes her way into yours and you feel silly for tearing up. You hug her close to your chest, feeling her little arms around your shoulders. “Thank you for bringing back Geto-Sama,” Nanako whispers to you. You pat her head and plant a gentle kiss on her cheek, now mindful of the transferring lipstick.

The sound of a camera clicking snaps the four of you out of the trance, and you find the Gojo Satoru standing at the threshold of your room, clicking pictures of the four of you. “Suguru, you get a girlfriend and daughters and you forget all about your best friend,” He tuts, dramatically putting a hand over his chest, his icy blue eyes peeking from behind his sunglasses.

Gojo gasps on seeing the lipstick mark on Suguru’s cheek and takes out his phone to snap even more pictures of a blushing Suguru. “You forgot to mention things were this serious!” He says, mock offended.

“Gojo/Satoru, shut up!” You and Geto speak simultaneously.

“You're even saying the same things now,” Gojo sighs like an old man. Mimiko and Nanako burst out into a fit of giggles. “You agree with your godfather, Satoru, right girls?”

“Godfather? Where did that come from?” You ask, scrunching up your nose.

“Well it was gonna be Suguru as mother and myself as the father but now you've taken in as their mother and Suguru as their father so I've got to take the next best thing-!”

You hit him upside his white-haired head, veins on your forehead popping out with irritation at his words. Gojo rubs the top of his head muttering something under his breath. “This is why I always stay with Utahime Senpai,” you say, making Suguru and the twins laugh.

“Get him, girl!” Geto cheers you on.

“I won't give you Nanako and Mimiko if you continue to be roommates with him,” you declare, narrowing your eyes at Geto.

“I'm renting a place outside Jujutsu Tech,” Geto confesses with a sigh.

“WHAT-?” You and Gojo both yell in shock.

“It's for the best,” He says.

“You’re taking my girls away from me!” You complain, hand on your chest. “This is so unfair, Geto-kun. How will I see them now?”

.

It's been a couple of weeks, and the twins have adjusted well to Tokyo. You've adjusted too, opting to spend your time with them rather than with anyone else. Gojo keeps teasing you relentlessly, not even bothering to stop when the teachers are around. You've grown closer to Suguru as well, spending most of your off-time with him. Shoko has become your refuge now, with Utahime leaving for Kyoto.

It's one of your lazy Sundays, and you wake from your and the twins afternoon nap. They are snuggled to either side of you, and it’s unbearably hot but you don't dare move; admiring their serene, sleeping faces. Your left eye twitched at the thought of the torture your girls were subjected to by those foolish villagers, blood boiling once again.

You reach for your phone instead, going through some old photos. You've scrolled down to when the girls were living with you, a picture of the three of you with matching white bows in your hair when the door quietly opens, and Suguru quietly enters with a pitcher of water and some glasses. He chuckles at your grateful face, pouring out some water for you. You gulp down the water, your overheated body giving out a sigh of relief when the cold water hits your stomach. 

“It's time to wake them up,” He whispers, leaning down to your laying form.

“I don't really want to,” you whisper to him, pleading, not looking away from his pretty dark eyes. “Five more minutes?”

“Okay,” He relented with a sigh, sitting beside Nanako. You think of how different he is now, different from when he is exorcising curses and when he is with Gojo. You also find yourself liking this side of him, that only his girls got to see. And you, one of his girls. 

“Have you thought about their schooling?” You ask, voice quieter than a mouse. Geto lays down, facing you.

“I’ll have them homeschooled,” He replies just as quietly, frowning.

“That’s boring,” You say. “How will they adjust to the outside world? We can’t always be with them.”

“I’m terrified of the curses getting -”

“Teach them to defend themselves, just a little.” You suggest. “You know they can’t rely on others, they will need to learn to keep each other safe.”

Nanako stirs between the two of you, mumbling a hushed “papa,” under her breath as she snuggles into Geto. You fawn all over this, his pretty eyes wide and looking at you, seeking assurance. A gentle smile graces his beautiful face as he caresses the girl’s caramel hair and you have to resist the urge to pull his silky hair out of the bun and run your fingers through them. You opt to lightly pat Mimiko’s dark head instead, and she snuggles into you mumbling, “mama,”

Admittedly, you’ve teared up a little and you excitedly turn to Geto, who is giving you his prettiest smile that you’ve ever seen. In this little moment, you can pretend to be a happy family, living in a rose-coloured dream.

.

Suguru loves spending time with his girls, and it’s even more delightful when you join in. He especially loves it now that you’ve practically moved in - the guest room slowly filling up with your scent and trinkets. He enjoys taking all of you out to different spots in the city - the parks, the malls, cute cafes and even back to Jujutsu Tech, occasionally. 

Suguru wonders if the two of you could even be friends if not for Mimiko and Nanako - just adding to a long list of things that he was grateful for from that night. Your easy smile and sparkling eyes and the way you shower his girls with your love and care just keeps on adding to all the things he admires about you. He half wishes Satoru’s mindless teasing to become a reality, but he lacks the courage.

Currently, he’s sitting on the floor with Nanako behind him, brushing his hair out and Mimiko sitting beside her twin, acting as her inventory. He’s in pure bliss, and the only thing that can make this better is your presence.

Soon enough there is a knock on the door, and Suguru feels bad for hoping it’s you. Of course, he enjoys your company, but you deserve a chance to live freely and not spend every waking hour with him. Satoru and Shoko are there instead, with amazing takeout for Friday evening.

Satoru spoils his self-proclaimed goddaughters (Suguru wouldn’t trust anyone else, either) with the best of everything. Shoko loves teaching them new things, reading, maths, curses, the human body - everything watered down to suit their tender young age.

The four of them play board games while Suguru does the laundry, putting the clothes on the drying line. Usually, you would be here helping him with the clothes, words flowing easily between the two of you. 

He's distracted from laundry when he hears Satoru call your name followed by a whistle, then yelling, “I can't really blame Suguru, you look so hot!” He hears your grumble something, and then Mimiko and Nanako’s excited cheers on your appearance. “You had a date?!” Satoru says again, his voice loud and surprised.

Suguru’s heart feels heavy, and he makes his way to the rest leaving half of the clothes in the dryer. 

“It wasn't really a date honestly.” You complain. “That guy had no manners! Chewing with his mouth open and not even using the napkins properly! And he barely asked me anything, kept on boasting about himself - it was boring.”

Suguru feels half guilty for the way his chest relaxes, but his breath is taken away as soon as he sees you - you are always beautiful, but you look especially pretty with your brown leather skirt and black jumper. Your jewellery compliments your complexion, and your hair looks perfect. And he has to agree with Satoru- you look hot.

“Where's Suguru?” You ask, looking around.

“Right here,” He says, coming to stand beside you.

He loves the way your eyes sparkle - the lids decorated to match the outfit and a delighted glimmer in your eyes.

“So, I was at the mall and this reminded me of you,” you say, picking up the paper bag on the floor beside you. “The only good thing that came from today, to be honest.”

“You were thinking of me while out with another guy?” He teases.

You get flustered, but respond “Do you want this present or not?” You try to sound stern, but you hand him the bag regardless.

The bag feels heavier than he had expected, and glances in to see the professional camera he had been eyeing for a long time but didn't buy in favour of getting Mimiko and Nanako some limited edition dolls. His pretty eyes widened with delight. “How did you know?” He asks, unable to hold back his excited smirk.

“I am not blind, you know.” You retort, happy that he loved the gift.

“What is it?” Shoko asks. Satoru snaps the bag towards himself, taking out the box of camera and different lenses. “That is one expensive investment,” she remarks.

You chose to ignore her comment, distracting everyone with the little cake you had bought. “And I've got cake!”

“Is today someone's birthday?” Mimiko asks.

“No, baby.” You say, “It's okay to have cake without any reason,”

The little girls are delighted to see the half sky and half forest cake. Neither Suguru, you or his girls have any idea as to when the exact birthday is, so you have them cut the cake together, pretending it to be their birthday. When Suguru takes the cake to the kitchen to cut it up, you follow him, leaving the twins with Shoko and Satoru.

“Suguru, you should get dressed up fancy too,” You say. “Let’s take some good pictures with our girls. I’ll cut the cake up.”

“Okay,” He agrees.

Suguru decides to match you, consciously picking pieces that compliment your outfit well. He is inappropriately fancy dressed up for this photo session. He is thrilled to use the camera you’ve gifted him, and there is no better scene to be his first than his girls(you included) and his friends. He’s brushing his hair out, putting it up in a half updo before giving himself a once-over then leaving.

He’s surprised to see Mimiko and Nanako dressed up too, sitting on either side of Satoru as Shoko and you clicked pictures on the phones. His camera is sitting on the table, still in its box. He has a child-like excitement as he opens the box and checks the lenses with it - the excitement of setting up the camera is unmatched. Even though he enjoys spoiling his girls, he cannot deny that being spoiled is a nice feeling.

Once his camera is ready, he snaps a picture of the scene - you sit between your girls now as Satoru and Shoko click pictures. The flash from the camera distracts everyone, and his eyes find yours sparkling, looking at him with the sweetest smile on your face. He cannot help but wonder how your lips would taste. Suguru smiles at you instead as you wave him over, Mimiko and Nanako between the two of you. Satoru and Shoko give him a knowing once over, the deliberate matching not missing his best friend’s six eyes.

Your hand touches his - neither of you attempting to move as Satoru clicks a picture of the four of you in Suguru’s new camera. Satoru is grinning like an idiot seeing Suguru’s blushing face, motioning Shoko to click some pictures of their idiot friend in love with his daughters’ mother. It is stupid, Gojo thinks, the way that the two of you act like an old married couple but are too terrified to confess your feelings for one another.

“Mimiko, Nanako, come here for a moment, dears,” Gojo calls them. “Suguru, Y/N, please stand closer. You aren’t rivals.”

Suguru narrows his eyes at Satoru, but doesn’t comment on it, too happy when you’ve pressed yourself at his side, your arm wrapped around his waist. He swings his arm over your shoulder and leans his head towards yours. His face burns with the soft warmth of your body pressed against him - but he holds his smile steadily, looking at the camera. He looks at your beautiful face for a moment, the serene smile on your face and he forgets all about the jerk who had taken you out.

He just prays that he gets the courage to ask you for a dinner date - perhaps before someone else snatches you out of this perfect life of his.

.

Satoru is at Suguru’s flat, spending time with the sweet little girls. Both you and Suguru had some unavoidable business to attend to - you with some curses and him with his parents - and he finally got the chance to babysit them. Satoru is currently sitting on the floor of the twin’s bedroom, with pink bows in his white hair and getting his nails painted in a pale blue colour by Mimiko and Nanako.

It's not his favourite thing for amusement, but he lets it pass. He does get why Suguru lets his girls do these things to him - they look just so precious with the little forehead creased in concentration. His mind is cooking up a scheme - a scheme which can only be fulfilled with the little one's help. It’s only with him that they address you and Suguru as mama and papa- feeling too shy to address the two of you as such face-to-face.

“Dears, do you think your papa and mama love each other?” He asks the little angels painting his nails.

The girls share a secret look with a smirk that tells Gojo everything that he needs to know. “I’ve seen papa look at mama the way Nanako looks at crepes, Gojo-sama!” Mimiko snickers. “He always has a big smile when mama is home.”

“Mama is also the same, Gojo-sama!” Nanako says. “She looks at papa the way Mimiko looks at ice-cream!”

Gojo laughs at their childish description of the two, wondering how blind you guys must be to not see that the feelings are shared.

“Gojo-sama!” Nanako jumps, excited, as she remembers something else, her caramel bob shaking. “One evening, when mama fell asleep on the sofa, papa carried her to her room. We brought her blankets and he tucked her in, but she held his hands in her sleep.”

“Yes!” Mimiko jumps up too, brown eyes gleaming with giggles. “Papa had turned so pink when Mama did that. He could barely speak.”

“That sounds familiar,” Gojo giggles with them. “Do you want to help me set-”

“Yes!” the twins shriek before he even finishes the question.

Once the three of them are done with the set up, Gojo calls Geto to let him know that he has some urgent clan business to attend to, while Mimiko calls you to tell you that Nanako had a bad dream and she misses you terribly. Both of you rush to return while Gojo and his goddaughters leave for the evening. Gojo leaves a little post-it-note on the fridge, with a brief message.

Geto has been running for 10 minutes straight, red faced and out of breath as he reaches the door of the flat. The elevator dings open and you step out, looking just as out of breath. “Did Mimiko call you too?” you ask, panting.

“No, Gojo told me he has some clan business - ” He says, taking a moment to completely process your question. “Why did Mimiko call you?”

“Nanako had a nightmare, she was asking for me only, apparently.” You say, standing beside him now. The enticing smell of your perfume fills his senses and he is grateful that his girls have you to comfort them. He too finds comfort in your presence - albeit it’s for different reasons than his girls.

When no one opens the door for a couple of minutes, you put your ear to the door and try to hear something. The house is quiet, devoid of any movements.

“I think they’ve fallen asleep.” you comment.

Geto then opens then closes the door as quietly as he can, trying not to disturb the girl’s sleep. He bumps into you standing in the hallway after taking off his shoes - only to gasp as he sees the immaculate set up in the living room. A sheer white canopy covered in fairy lights and seemingly all of the pillows and some mattresses of the house thrown in the tent - and some of his and your favourite snacks. There’s a movie paused at the beginning and red roses and candles and mild incense decorating the room. Geto blushes when he realises that it’s a set up for a date, heart pounding against his ribs in part-annoyance and part-excitement as he sees your shy face. He’s half mad at Gojo, but he can see the traces of Mimiko and Nanako as well - with the way the pillows are laid out and the flowers are placed.

Geto’s phone rings, breaking the tense silence. It’s Gojo. “Suguru! Put me on speaker!” Gojo’s excited voice says from the other end. He can hear his girls giggling in the background. 

“Fine,” Geto sighs.

“Oh hey!” you turn around on hearing Gojo call your name, face hot and worrying your lip between your teeth. “Your little girls, they thought we should let you guys have an evening to yourself - relax and watch a movie. How did you like that set up?”

“You didn’t really have to-” You start to speak as Geto rolls his eyes, fully knowing it was Gojo’s plan. He knew Gojo well.

“Nonsense, you won’t let your daughters down by saying that,” Gojo says, and Mimiko and Nanako giggle louder. “Alright, bye! Enjoy yourselves. There’s wine in the fridge, Suguru.” He says before handing up.

“I’ll get the wine,” Suguru offers. You smile at him before sitting down in the fairy-light canopy, looking much like the woman of his dreams, like a princess waiting for her prince. His heart aches, for he can’t call you his, not outside of his mind. He smiles too, pretending that it’s date-night for you.

There’s a note on the fridge in Satoru’s messy scrawl which gets his attention first. Suguru, take one for the team and ask her !!! Your daughters and friends are rooting for you. She likes you, you blind idiot. A blush colours his face as he crumples the note and throws it in the bin.

His favourite wine is in the fridge, and Suguru is half surprised at Satoru’s thoughtfulness. He pours out two glasses and brings them to you, the bottle left back in the fridge. “Wine for you, ma’am,” he says, and you get the cutest blush on your face as you accept the glass, humming in delight at the taste. He follows your stead and lazily relaxes against the mountain of pillows under the canopy.

“What’s this movie?” You ask, fidgeting with the remote.

“I have no idea,” He says, praying that Satoru doesn’t embarrass him.

The movie begins with the main character, the girl getting ready to go work. It seemed like a cheesy hollywood christmas movie at the beginning, where the girl would be frustrated with her job and go to her small town and never return. That would have been better, in hindsight. Because as the movie progresses, and the love interest comes in - a single father, who had to send his daughter into foster care because he was wrongfully accused of embezzlement - the foster parent being the main character. The girl testifies for him in court while she lives with a new normal - caring for the love interest’s daughter as her own.

Suguru's face burns with how similar the movie is to you and him - he can barely even look at the screen. While the movie played, he subconsciously reached towards you, your warm cheek now resting against his shoulder. It’s hard for him to ignore it now that he realises that this movie was a deliberate selection, and the comment in the note about him being blind. 

Suguru steals a quick glance at you, finding you looking at the screen with a little smile, cuddling one of the bigger pillows. You seem totally unaffected by the movie. “It’s so cute,” you murmur. 

“Hm?” he prompts.

“The story,” you say, glancing up at him then back at the screen. 

“Would it be cute if it were real?” he asks, heart pounding against his ribcage.

“Even cuter,” you nod, cheek moving against his shoulder.

His heart threatens to crawl out of his throat at the admission. He eyes the two hands, one his and the other yours - so close but not touching, afraid to cross that invisible boundary which has built over time. He dares now, for once to cross that boundary, to test the waters and puts his pinky finger over yours, interlocking them. He can feel your smile get wider as his heart nearly makes a hole in his ribs.

You take it a step further and intertwine your hands with his.

“I love the way your hand fits in mine,” he says after a long tense silence, sounding breathier than usual.

“You have nice hands,” you shyly say.

It brings him confidence, the way you say it. Emboldened, he turns to face you and wraps his free arm over your waist, pulling you closer. His nose touches your forehead and he inhales the smell of your shampoo, never tired of smelling it in the pillowcases of your room. He lowers himself to your eye level, stroking your cheekbone. “Would let me kiss you?” he whispers to your lips.

“Always,” you whisper, parting your lips to welcome him.

The kiss is everything he could have imagined and more. It’s pure bliss, the way your mouth slots against his and the way to taste better than he could have possibly imagined. Of course, you have always been pretty, but he found you the most beautiful in this moment, in his arms, with your soft tongue fighting against his. His brain has short circuited and he fears that he might get addicted to your taste. He chases your mouth when you pull away to catch your breath, letting go of the intertwined hands that had sweat in the heat of the moment.

Suguru misses your lips instantly, scanning your face for any signs of regret or discomfort. You place one of your hands on his neck, reach the back of it and caress the delicate spot where his hair ends, and a gasp leaves his mouth at the sensation. You put your other hand on his collar and pull him close, his face dragging against the soft pillows and you kiss him. This kiss is much more desperate than the first one, with your teeth occasionally crashing and tongues exploring, the movie long forgotten still playing on the screen.

When you’re both out of breath, you pull back, still breathing the same air and noses touching.

“It was the best fucking kiss of my life,” Suguru confesses, sounding out of breath.

“Mine too,” you say.

He doesn’t want you to think that it was a spur of the moment thing, so he puts on his serious face and says, “Would you like to go out for dinner with me? As more than co-parents?” 

“I thought you’d never ask,” you reply with a giggle.

“Dress fancy,” He says. “Let’s go.”

“Now?” you ask.

“Why wait ?” he shrugs.

“I don’t have - ”

“You do,” he says, shy. “I had got something for you a while back, but never mustered up the courage to give it to you.”

You sit up, looking down at him with an excited gleam in your eyes. “You’ve gotten me an outfit for our first gate, it seems like you were prepared.”

“I swear to you that I wasn’t.” He says. “Just try it once.”

The dress Suguru brought compliments your figure and complexion well, and you’re surprised to see that it fits perfectly. You uber to a fancy place, and with the man on your side, this is the most perfect first date ever. The maroon dress hugs your figure in the right places, and you feel giddy knowing that Suguru had bought this lovely dress with you in mind. 

He looks even prettier today, sitting in front of you as your date, dressed in an equally fancy maroon suit. You take plenty of pictures with him, distracted by his long silky hair in a half-up, half-down look. You can barely process the food, distracted by the beautiful man in front of you taking in the way he talks. The way he says your name, almost purring, has you wanting to throw your feet and giggle like a little girl.

Suguru isn’t better off himself. Of course, he loves the way his name rolls off your tongue, but right now dressed in the dress he bought for you, sitting in front of him with flushed cheeks, the delicate smile never leaving your face as you speak has his heart threatening to burst out of his chest. He finally has you with him the way he had been wanting for years, finding you pretty even when you were both mere acquaintances. 

He cannot wait to call you his, but he supposes he’ll save that question for the next date - for you to give this relationship a name. In his head, he is already yours - heart, mind and soul - the only question bugging him is whether you want to be his. That’s a worry for later, he thinks, as he plants a delicate kiss on your lips as the long evening comes to an end.

[lesservillain]

inmate!eddie munson x teacher!reader

cw: drinking, explicit fantasies

September 16th,1994 

The idea to you was asinine from the moment Principal Williams brought you into her office to explain the program details to you. How no one else thought that the idea of thirteen-year-olds becoming “pen pals” with prisoners wasn’t insane baffled you. It was dangerous at worst and inappropriate at best, but,  despite your best efforts to reason with her, your opinion as a “newer” teacher was dismissed. 

Now here you are listening to the speech of the prison rep, Mr. Bridges, as he explained the program to your 7th grade class. Not like you had a lesson planned for them today.

Mr. Bridges stands a whole 5 feet and 6 inches with a short stack military fade and the most unsettling sunny disposition. He reads as incredibly fake, like a snake oil salesman, and his shiny, white, slightly too big for his mouth veneers not doing him any favors. It doesn’t surprise you that your newly divorced principal was able to be persuaded by this guy's charms, but thankfully you’re used to his kind of tactics from your own previous relationship. 

Before leaving, Mr.Bridges approaches you at your desk. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he starts, leaning too far into your space. One of his thick fingers points at a paper he had given you before he started his speech, “but is a student absent today? We have an unassigned inmate—”

“We had a student move,” you say shortly, keeping your voice monotone and not bothering to glance at his paper, “so I’m short one student in this class.”

Bridges nodded, clearly deep in thought. His brows furrowed for a moment before perking up. 

“Maybe you’d like to take on a pen pal?’” He proposes, his chipper disposition coxing on the migraine that wants to break through behind your eye.

The look on your face must have said it all as he tried to convince you further. “The inmates that signed up are all trying to better themselves before being re-released into society, ya’know?” His eye’s shift, landing on the floor with a solemn look. “We thought talking to kids that grew up while they were incarcerated would help them get in touch with the times, be able to cope with time they’ve lost. Give them something to look forward to when they get out.” 

The pads of your fingers dig into your temples, eyes rolling to the back of your head before finally giving him the eye contact he so desperately craved from you. 

“Fine, I’ll take whoever you have left, I guess. What’s his name?”

“Perfect!” Bridges hands clap together next to your ear, “The leftover inmate wants to go by The Banished One and he—”

“Banished what?” You ask, confused.

“Oh, The Banished One! It’s his nickname for the project. We have all the inmates disguise their names just in case the kids may be related to one of them.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, resting your head in your hand, “Okay, fine, sure I guess that makes sense.” 

 Bridges continued to assure you that all the letters are anonymous and would be vetted both ways, adding that only ‘good behavior’ inmates were allowed to take part in the program as a last push for your participation, you reluctantly agreed. Mostly just to get him to leave your classroom before your head explodes, but not without the stipulation that if you thought it was too much for your kids that you would pull them out. That seemed to be enough to satisfy him.  

October 7th, 1994 

The first writing session took place on a Friday, the soft sound of music from your mixtape playing for the kids to help them relax. It had been a long week of testing and you felt like an easy day was in order for both you and the kids, most of your other classes would just be doing free work. 

You grabbed the stack of letters from your desk, Pictures of You by The Cure filling the air as you hand each student their respective letter. 

“Don’t forget to keep personal information like names and where you live out of your letters. Once you’re done, bring them to my desk.”  

Once the kids were settled, you returned to your desk and grabbed your own letter. The envelope before you had “Teach” written across the front, the pen name you chose to go by. The handwriting was like chicken scratch. Not much different from the 13 year old boys whose papers you grade, though, so you were confident in your ability to decipher the rest of the letter. But still had a roughness, an edge to it.  

As you opened your letter, unfolding the paper to it’s full state, the first thing to catch your attention was the graffiti like drawings along the margins of the paper. It reminded you of a flash sheet at the tattoo shop your friends took you to for your 21st birthday, a permanent reminder of that day on your inner ankle in the form of a small butterfly that was already starting to fade. There was nothing too offensive; a rose, a sailor ship, a dove with an olive branch, all impressively done for just being pen on paper. 

Once you got past the artwork, you began to take in the letter's contents. The single page was filled from front to back, barely any room for the signature at the bottom.

“Hey there, “Teach”... if that is your real name…” the letter starts. The lame opener makes you crack a small smile that you quickly cover with your hand. You read on, taking in each sentence, and you start to get the idea that your pen pal doesn’t take this pen pal assignment too seriously. 

The letter is casual, a few puns here and there, with some Tolkien references that would have been missed if one wasn’t familiar with his work. It’s clear that this person is young, or at least young at heart, which saddens you to think about, but you try not to dwell on it. 

Getting into the meat of the letter, your pal explains that went to prison in 1989 for drug related charges, but is set to get out in about a year if he keeps up his good behavior.

 “I’m ready to get out of this place and get back to my hometown in Hawkins.” 

A shiver goes down your spine for a moment when you read that he’s from Hawkins. Bridges assured you that the inmates wouldn’t know what school the kids would be from, but you weren’t expecting to be talking to someone from this small town. You wonder if Bridges knows more than he’s letting on with his comment about the kids being related to the inmates.

Once the creepy feeling dissipates you continue to read on. The details your pal gives about himself tell you that he’s very different from the people you usually hang out with. His favorite genre of music is metal and he used to play guitar and do vocals for a band every week before he started working as a mechanic full time. They’d have a crowd of 20 or so some nights, but it was usually just the regulars at the place they would play at. 

The final paragraph of the letter consists of a seemingly scripted warning about the dangers of drugs and that no one should make the same mistake he did. You wondered if this was obligatory for the project. At the bottom of the page your pal signs with his chosen moniker “The Banished One.” When thinking about it, you find that it’s very fitting for an inmate.  

After taking a moment to check in on your class, Morrissey’s somber voice serenading them as  “I Know It’s Over” plays from the small radio’s speakers, you pull out your own pen and paper to start your response.

 As you ponder on where to start, a thought that crosses your mind; does your pen pal even know they’re talking to an adult? The pen name you chose might be on the nose but you didn’t want to assume. Granted, your handwriting itself may be a dead giveaway if you were to compare it to a teens.  

It took you a couple of tries to start your letter. Instinctively, you wanted to be formal, but the longer you thought about it the more you didn’t want to come off as a boring writing companion. You tried and failed to come up with something witty to match the vibe of your pal, but comedy wasn’t your strong point, though you’d argue that it wasn’t his either. Instead, you approached it as if you were writing to a friend.  

“Hello! Nice to meet you “Banished One." Though, it sounds like you won't be banished much longer.” 

Erring on the side of caution you chose to only respond directly to things he wrote, slipping in that you also enjoyed the works of Tolkien with your own reference. You mention that you listen to metal from time to time, more into radio rock at the moment, but you’d really listen to anything.

 It took you a minute to calculate how to respond to the reveal of his dealings in drugs, ultimately deciding to lightly say that you hoped he learned his lesson unless he saw himself returning to prison in the future. You shared that you were familiar with Hawkins, noting that you loved the milkshakes from the old diner in town, but left it at that. As you closed the letter you complimented his artwork, informing him that the rose was your favorite and that you looked forward to seeing his artwork on future letters.

You’d manage to write enough to cover the majority of the back of your lined paper, signing your pen name a few lines away from the bottom. Going over your letter again, you can't help feeling like it’s a bit dull. Safe, but that’s what it's supposed to be.

October 24th,1994 

It only took two weeks for Mr. Bridges to return with new letters for your class. Truthfully, you had almost forgotten about the letters entirely while trying to keep your students on track as the holiday season approaches. The emotional whiplash of seeing your ex out with his new, younger girlfriend while you were out looking for Halloween decor for your apartment wasn't helping either. It felt like no matter what you did, how much your friends tried to help, you just couldn’t catch a break. At least the manager of the local liquor store was nice to you. 

When your students seemed too preoccupied with the stack of letters on your desk to pay attention to your lecture, you decided to call it a day and give all of you a break. You click on your small stereo and let the tune of Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah take over the room while you pass out letters. 

Once the letters were distributed, you settled at your desk where your eyes met with the same chicken scratch handwriting as before. It was tempting to reach for it… until you glanced at the pile of ungraded papers that sat next to it, taunting you. You desperately needed to go over them, the deadline to turn in grades fast approaching.

You deliberated on what to do. You had to admit you were curious about the letter. Part of you wondered if you’d even get one back. You didn’t want to give any personal information away, so you couldn’t blame the random man in prison for not responding if he thought he was talking to an old lady teacher. 

But the stack of papers is practically glaring at you.

A thought; you could always finish your papers later at home. But you did tell yourself you would be better at bringing so much work home with you this year…Your friends had an influence on that decision, making sure you took at least every other weekend to go out and do something — anything to keep you from shutting yourself in again. 

With a sigh, you tuck the letter into your work bag, grabbing your pen to start grading.

“Damn it, why can’t I find one stupid pen!” 

Slamming drawers and stomping around, the red liquid of your cup sloshing around in your glass as you grew more and more frustrated in your search for a pen to write out the checks for the coming month’s bills. 

After searching the kitchen, you make your way to the living room and spot your school bag on the coffee table. In your rage, you slam the glass on the table and begin haphazardly pulling the contents out of the bag, praying you still had a pen that hadn’t been “borrowed” to never be returned by one of your students. 

The feeling of plastic on the tips of your finger almost brought you to tears of joy. Pulling out a purple ink pen you decided that it would have to be good enough if your landlord wanted your rent on time. 

After finishing with the checks, you return to your bag to put the envelopes inside to drop off tomorrow at the post office. As you lift the bag, your eyes meet with chicken scratch again away. A burst of buzzed excitement runs through you at the sight, even if for just a moment before you shook it off. It was just an envelope from some random man sitting in a jail cell, why are you getting so excited? Is it because you’re at home and not feeling the pressure to be uptight and rigid? 

Or maybe it’s because you can’t remember the last time you received a letter that wasn’t a bill. It sort of gave you a feeling of nostalgia, taking you back to a time when you wrote letters to your mom when you were at camp, or when you would write to your grandparents around the holidays. It even reminded you a bit of writing in your diary, if your diary could write back that is. It’s not like he would have room to judge you from his jail cell, right?

You snatch the letter from the bag and walk back into the kitchen, grabbing the dark bottle of wine to refill your glass and plopping down at the table. Ripping open the envelope, you pull out the letter and immediately notice that it is covered in artwork just as the last one was.

This time you notice a 20-sided dice with a banner that read “critical hit”, a very detailed dragon head, and a stylized version of the skeleton guy that you’ve seen on the cover of Iron Maiden albums. The biggest piece was of another rose, but in the fully bloomed center was an eye. It was…interesting. Well done, but not what you were expecting. Not that you were expecting anything anyway.  

Getting the artwork out of the way, you take a large sip of your drink and begin reading.

“Hello again, Teach,” the letter starts, “I think we need to discuss the elephant in the room before I can write anything else.” Your brow quirks up, a slight nervousness begins to creep in your mind. 

“I was already suspicious when I was told the person I was writing to wanted to go by Teach. And no seventh grader I’ve ever known can write as nicely as you. Not that I know a lot of seventh graders...Anyway, can I ask how I ended up being pen pals with the class teacher? I know I could ask Bridges, but I think it would be more fun to hear it from you.” 

Your lips tug into a smile, but this time you don’t feel the need to cover it. Why did it feel like a game he won or a riddle he solved? It wasn’t exactly like you were hiding it. But something about him figuring out something about you was…exciting.

As you get into the meat of the letter itself he goes on to ask you what subject you teach and how long you have been teaching. He asks if you like working with kids and if they ever made you want to pull your hair out. The phrasing of his words make you giggle. 

“I was never good in school,” he states. “It took me three tries of my senior year to graduate. I used to blame my teachers saying that they didn’t like the way I dressed or my taste in music. I guess now I have to admit that it was probably because I didn’t bother to show up to class or do any of my homework…” 

A full laugh shook you in your chair. Was he actually funnier in this letter? And why did it come off feeling so personal? The air about it was different, like you were talking to a long-distance friend rather than a felon, your cheeks starting to ache from smiling as you continue read his sketchy handwriting.

He went on to ask more about you, like what your favorite band was since you “liked rock so much more than metal,” with a little frowny face to punctuate his disagreement. He says the prison lets them watch MTV sometimes, which has been his main exposure to new music. Sometimes he gets a hold of new music every once and a while, but usually just listens to his old cassettes on his Walkman that his uncle gave him when he first entered the system.

“Some people have tried to steal it from me, but they learned pretty quickly that I have my ways to get things back, and that I'm not one to be messed with.”

That left you curious. A small glimpse into the inner workings of prison. You never really thought about what a person in prison could or couldn’t have. It was nice that he could have at least a small luxury, an item of value if it was under constant threat of being taken. You also couldn’t help but wonder what he meant by not being messed with.

Before you know it you’ve hit the end of the letter. You can’t help but feel a little disappointed. It felt like there could have been so much more to say, but his pen name barely fit at the bottom of the paper as it is. You take a piece of paper out of your notebook, pulling the frayed pieces off the edge and replacing the one in front of you with it.  Hopefully your pal won't mind the purple pen or the probable lack of coherence compared to your first letter as you feel the wine really start to kick in.

Referring back to the paper like a student answering a question in class, you make sure to answer all of his questions to the best of your ability.  

“Hello again, Mr. Banished. I see you have uncovered my secret that I am, in fact, a grown woman and not a 13-year-old. I hope that doesn’t bother you. I have been teaching English since I graduated college, coincidentally in 1989. It's like we traded places; I got to leave the prison of being a student in college and you went to prison for whatever drug related charges you acquired.” You laughed at your own joke as you continued. 

“As for why you are stuck with writing a late 20’s school teacher rather than one of my students, that would be because of the aforementioned Mr.Bridges. We had a student move a few weeks into the school year and Bridges practically got on his knees and begged me to take on a pen pal.” You left out the detail of not being totally comfortable with the program. Not that you weren’t still hesitant, but the last thing you wanted to do was offend him by insinuating anything about the type of person he was for being in jail. The wine had rationalized with you that sometimes good people do bad things when they’re in dark places.

Continuing on, you wrote that he was probably right in both his opinions on why his teachers failed him. The older teachers at your school were stuck in their ways and judged students before really trying to help them. You did your best not to be the same way, hoping to be a teacher that your students could trust and come to if they needed help. It was a passion of yours since you were small, wanting to help people learn and grow, so what better way to do that than to teach?

“I am interested in what you wore that would call for such harsh judgment. I try to be as unbiased as I can with all my kids. If you asked them, they would say that I’m stuffy or rigid most of the time, but it’s mostly because I care about their education. And partly because being a new teacher is…really freaking tough if I’m being honest. These older teachers don’t take half of the things I say seriously because their own kids are older than me. It’s kind of bullshit, actually, but I just deal with it until I can get more experience under my belt.” 

A sigh slips through your lips, pen tapping against the kitchen table as you feel the frustration bubbling. It’s not fair to dump these feelings on him, but the anonymity made it so easy to just put everything out there. He doesn’t know anything about you, and if you were to weird him out by getting a little real, then he could just not write back, right? 

After taking a moment to collect yourself, you decided to just move on to a different topic. 

“Sorry, that was a lot of feelings on my part. Is it too personal to ask what you do in prison? You mentioned getting to listen to music, but what else do you do? I’ve seen in movies that inmates work out a lot and play basketball outside. Is that real or made up for the audience? If it is real, does that mean you are super buff from working out all the time? Do you beat people up if they try and take your Walkman, or do you stab them? I’ve seen people do that in movies, too. I hope you don’t stab them, that would be scary.” 

You can feel yourself getting a bit rambley in your tired state, so you decide it’s time to call it a night. You wrap up the letter by telling him that you’re going to go to sleep and that you were looking forward to his next letter. You sign your name and draw a small doodle of a flower next to it.

November 18th,1994

It was 3 am when you woke up the first time. A nightmare had you shooting up from your pillow, cold sweat drenched the collar of your sleep shirt, chest heaving as you caught your breath. 

He had been knocking at your door, your pen pal. You never saw his face, but heard the anger in his voice as he yelled for you to let him in. You remember sitting in front of the door begging for him to leave you alone, telling him it was too soon. That you weren’t ready.  

The nightmare became reoccurring, waking you at least 2 or 3 times a week. Sometimes it’s your ex, but most of the time it’s your pen pal. Even though you have no inkling of what he looks like, you just know it’s him on the other side.

The disturbance in your sleep was starting to affect your daily life, one of your coworkers asking if you were okay after over pouring a cup of coffee in the teacher’s lounge.

“Are you okay?” Mr.Clarke asks, helping you mop up the spilled coffee with some paper towels.

“Yes, I’m sorry, yeah,” you say, trying and failing to reassure him.

“Hey, I know that midterms can be rough with the holidays coming up. But, try not to stress out about it too much. I’ve heard good things about you from the kids in my classes that have you this year. You’re doing a good job, so don't kill yourself, okay?”

It was damn near impossible not to burst into tears at your coworkers words, but you held it together until you could hide in the faculty restroom.

The dreams didn’t stop though. Even Mr.Bridges felt the need to comment.

  “Holidays stressing you out?” he asked with an energy that seemed inhuman to you, his sunny disposition could make the snow outside melt.

“No.” You stated shortly as you looked through your lesson plan for the day.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” he said with a nod, “This is the most wonderful time of the year after all. We try to stay busy at the prison, keep the morale high and what not.” 

He placed the stack of letters on your desk, along with a small box that read “Greeting Cards” with a wintery scene displayed on the front. 

“These are for the students to give to the inmates.” You look at him with “no shit” written on your face. He cleared his throat, “But, uh, I’m sure you could figure that out. I know this time of year can be hectic for everyone, but we all deserve some holiday cheer, right?” Your expression remains unchanged as he continues on.

“Right, well, I’ll be giving the inmates their own cards to send to the kids with their letters. It might be a bit difficult for me to come back before Christmas, family affairs to attend to and all that. So, I went ahead and wrote the address and stamped the envelopes for the cards. If I don’t come back by, oh, let's say the 15th? Just go ahead and stick those in the mail and I’ll make sure the inmates get them!” 

Before you could protest having to go out of your way to do his job, Mr.Bridges quickly made his exit as the warning bell rang, wishing you a happy holiday as he disappeared. 

With the lack of free class time as you all crammed for test week, you decided to let the kids take their letters and cards home for the weekend to work on. As you passed them out, keeping the addressed envelopes in the box, you told the kids to write something nice in their cards. 

“This may be the only card some of these men get, so think about that when you’re writing them this weekend.”

Getting to the last letter, you feel your stomach twist as you read your actual government first name in the familiar chicken scratch handwriting instead of your pen name. You hadn’t even realized that you had stopped dead in your tracks until the sound of the bell brought you back to your body. 

“U-uh, ge--get your letters done by the end of class Tuesday!” You yell over your class as they begin migrating out of the room.

Quickly, you return to your desk and rip open the letter. Unsurprisingly, it’s once again covered in artwork. The pumpkins and bats and other Halloween inspired art felt out of place, putting in perspective how long it had been since your last letter. But before you could look much further into the writing your next class began to file in, forcing you to set the letter aside for later. 

You’d felt nauseous the rest of your morning classes, You wracked your brain about how the hell your pen pal could have figured out your actual name. You may have been...a little tipsy when you wrote that letter a month ago, but you’re sure you didn’t say anything personal enough that he would know who you were. Could he have asked someone on the outside to look into you? No, Mr.Bridges assured you that the inmates don’t know what school they are writing to. Maybe Bridges said your name to someone at the jail and the inmate overheard?  

As soon as the bell rang for your lunch period, you practically rushed your students out the door and closed it. Throwing yourself into your chair, you grab the letter and begin reading. 

“Well, well, I wasn’t expecting to be getting more lore in your newest letter! You have a very cute name by the way…Sorry I hope that wasn’t weird. Anyway! I guess I can tell you my name, too. Call me Eddie.”

  Eddie. 

So you had included your own name in your letter somewhere. You sigh with relief, though it still makes you a little uncomfortable that this stranger knows something personal about you. Sure he’s been nice, but he was still a felon. Though knowing his name made you feel a little better. Made him feel a tad more human to not use silly nicknames.

“Can I start by saying I loved reading your last letter?” Your eyebrows raised in surprise.“The purple pen was a nice touch. Something about a teacher complaining about other teachers is really funny to me, too. Nice to know the torment of some teachers isn’t just limited to students! And I doubt your kids think you’re stiff or whatever. You seem pretty cool to me. Even if I’ve only gotten to talk to you through a couple letters, you talk to me a lot nicer than I probably deserve.”

The smile that had made its home on your lips from his sentiments dropped into a frown. You felt yourself wanting to get defensive, wanting to tell him that he shouldn’t think that way about himself. That even if he was a felon, he still deserves respect.

“Being a younger teacher must be hard. You did all the college stuff to be a teacher so that should be enough to get their respect in my opinion. I don’t think I had a teacher who wasn’t at least in their 50s so they probably can’t see anyone under 30 as anything other than a kid I guess.”

“Hit the nail on the head,” you say to yourself with an airy chuckle. 

As you keep reading, he changes the subject to something you don’t remember asking in your previous letter.

“So you wanna know what I look like, huh? Well back before I was in here I would wear my band shirts, Metallica and Judas Priest and all the bands that make the old ladies cringe. My jeans had holes in them, too. And I have this battle vest that I’ve put together with some patches of my favorite bands on it. My uncle Wayne says he’s keeping it safe for me at home. It’s not much, but I learned how to stitch patches on by myself, so it means something to me. Gives me something to look forward to when I get out.” 

Your mind paints an image of a gangely teen trying to look cool to impress his friends or scare off the old ladies at the mall. Sounds like the kind of guy you had crushes on in high school. There may have been a picture or 2 of Kirk Hammit or Vince Neil or Eddie Van Halen tapped to the inside of your locker door in high school, but you’d never admit that now.

“I also had long hair when I was younger. Can’t call yourself a metal head without having long hair ya know. But I’ve had to cut it since I’ve been in here. I’ve got pretty curly hair and it was getting hard to keep up with it. It’s short enough to keep out of my face most of the time. I’m actually due for a haircut, so thanks for reminding me! Hair cuts are free in prison so I get it done way more than I ever did on the outside. You gotta tip your barber though or else they might “accidentally” shave all your hair off next time. Learned that one the hard way.”

He goes on to answer some of your questions about the inner workings of the jail. They do get to work out a lot, but says he’s not a “big meat head” like some of the other inmates. He doesn’t like basketball for “personal reasons” so he prefers to run laps. “When you’re trying to get out of a big fight it’s better to be faster than stronger.”

“I am also proud to admit that I have never stabbed someone. Almost been stabbed myself, but I used to get my shit rocked in high school so I’ve learned to dodge over the years.” Your hand comes to your face, almost forgetting that you asked such a stupid question. Of course he hasn’t stabbed anyone. You could excuse it if it was out of self defense maybe. But then you recall him saying before that he doesn’t get “messed with”, so what is he doing that people aren’t bothering him if not stabbing them? Your head spins with possibilities as you think about it more.

As you are about to read on, you are interrupted by a knock on your door, the sound causing you to jump in your seat. Quickly closing the letter and shoving it into your bag, you rush to the door to find a student from your 3rd period class, a shy one at that, needing clarification on the newest assignment. You let her in, forgetting the letter for the rest of the period. 

The rest of the period then turns into the rest of the day. It goes by like a blur as everyone seems to be getting last minute things turned in for the week. Grades for the upcoming report cards would be due by the end of next Tuesday, so you told your classes to get any missing work in by today and you would give them partial credit. It was setting yourself up for a busy weekend, but anything to keep your mind off the upcoming holiday was welcomed. 

It would be your first Thanksgiving single in almost 10 years, and your 4th since your mom passed. Your soon to be ex-husband, Henry, had convinced you to move to his hometown of Hawkins after your mother died to be closer to his family and to help his dad’s business as his accountant. It wasn’t your first choice of places to live, and after looking back on the situation, you realized that he had used your vulnerability to get a lot of what he wanted. 

Things seemed fine at first. His parents bought your house and he had a good paying job. All you had to do was cling to his arm and keep quiet. You were kept well manicured, your appearance catered to his liking as he paraded you around at office parties.

The not so hushed whispers from the women in his office always talking about how lucky you were to bag an older man reached your ears. But you kept your tongue against your cheek. They could be jealous all they want, because if they knew what happened behind closed doors they wouldn’t be singing the same tune. 

Waking up early in the morning, way before he ever did, just to put on your face. God forbid you weren’t presentable to him always. Afterwards you’d iron his white button ups and khaki slacks, make him a huge breakfast, present his clothes to him, and be waiting by the door on your knees for him to use your mouth before he walked out the door. 

At the time, you felt like you had a purpose. That being a housewife was what you were meant to be. But the degree you had worked so hard on stared at you as you cleaned the house everyday. Your passion was just in reach, boring you every day.

That is, until fate, and the well timed retirement of your predecessor, gave you the opportunity to start teaching that year. When you got the call, you were over the moon. Henry even said he was proud of you. 

Until you forgot to iron his clothes. It was just a stern talking to the first time, an anger in his eyes like you’d never seen before had you on edge the entire first day of class. You made it up to him by waking up extra early, using your mouth to start his day since you couldn’t be at the door for him anymore.

But, then you started falling behind on chores during the week as grading papers took up most of your free time when you weren’t tending to his needs. It’s not that you didn’t clean, it just wasn't the only thing you had to do every day anymore. Passive comments about becoming lazy were brushed to the side until they collectively spilled over into your first big argument. You told him he could help, too. He smacked you across the face. 

Too busy juggling work and cleaning the house full time caused you to miss the signs that things were declining. It started when Henry had to start staying late for work, claiming that they had a “big project” that was going to require him to stay over longer. He made it seem like a temporary arrangement that ended up becoming a pattern for months. But, he assured you that a raise could come from his hard work. So you continued to sit at home, a cold, untouched plate sitting across from you as you finished another bottle of wine. At least he wasn’t there to put his hands on you.

Then it was the pair of panties that you didn’t recognize when you did his laundry. When you confronted him, he told you that it must be a pair you owned back in high school that was mixed in with his clothes somehow when you moved. When you pressed on, he gave you a black eye. 

Then it was the perfume you didn’t recognize on your pillow case when you came home from a weekend trip to see your new nephew. He told you it smelled like your perfume, you just hadn’t been home all weekend to smell it. You didn’t argue this time.

Then it was his father’s secretary, Missy, calling your home and telling you that she was sleeping with your husband. She had been nice at last year's Christmas party when you first met her. Nineteen, dumb as a box of rocks.

“Are you and Henry still married?” she had asked with her valley girl accent, “Because when I stayed over I saw that he still had pictures of you two at his house.”

Now you’re stuck in this tiny town, your closest relative being your brother who has his own family out in Chicago. Thankfully, you had made friends with the ever charming Steve Harrington, who’s father also worked with Henry. He came as a package deal with his roommate Robin Buckley, and the two of them quickly became your best friends. They were as blindsided as you about Henry’s affair and helped you move into your new apartment. Steve offered to let you live with him and Robin, but you didn’t want to live in the same house as your ex’s coworker, even if he was never there.

“We should make a grocery list for next week.” Robin called from the kitchen to where you and Steve were sat in the living room. “Do we want to bother making a turkey or should we do something easier?”

“Do you know how to make a turkey?” you asked looking over the top of your wine glass as she taps a pen to paper scowling.

“She can barely make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, d’ya really think she can make a turkey?” You watch as a roll of paper towels is launched from the kitchen into the side of Steve’s head and your laugh erupts.

“Well, then were fucked,” you say between giggles, “because I can’t make a turkey, and I know Steve “grabs a pan without a mitt” Harrington also can’t cook one.”

“Oh, that was ONE TIME!” 

Steve goes to throw the paper towel roll at you, but you dodge, “One time is enough to never let you live it down, Steven. Maybe we should get some chicken instead.”

“Oh, I can make us some potato salad!”

After some back and forth about what to make for your “Friendsgiving” as Robin had been calling it, claiming inspiration from a new episode of Friends, Steve was begging to talk about anything else. 

“School seems to be better this year,” he looks at you carefully, “You haven’t been talking about it as much lately. Not negatively at least.”

“Yeah the only thing you’ve complained about is that prison thing your class was supposed to be doing.” She looked at you with a look of curiosity, “How’s that going?”

You blink and suddenly remember the letter that you had gotten earlier. It was sitting in your bag back home where you had left it on your coffee table again. You were so busy getting ready to go to Steve’s that you had forgotten to finish it.

“It’s going okay. Hey, did you guys go to high school here?”

They both look at each other, then back to you. “Yep, graduated a year after dingus, though. Class of ‘86.”

Steve gave Robin an annoyed look at the nickname before returning his attention to you, “Why do you ask?”

You pondered for a moment if it would be okay to tell them about Eddie. The program was supposed to be anonymous, but that was just to protect the kids. If he wasn’t allowed to give you his name they would have confiscated the letter, right? Bridges said the letters were vetted both ways, so if it was a problem he would have told you. But this seemed like a breach of privacy. You only had a first name to go off of and a vague description. He never said his age, so could be older than even you, or younger than Robin. 

“Um, do you guys know anyone that goes by Eddie?” 

They both perked up at the name, giving each other a look that you couldn’t read. You swore they could communicate telepathically.

Steve was the first to speak after a moment of silence. “Yeah, we know an Eddie. Why?” His tone was curious as he side eyed you.

“Oh, well my pen pal from the, uh, the prison thing. See his name is Eddie, and he told me that he’s from Hawkins. I don’t know much about him, but I think he may be close to my age and maybe he was in school with you guys-”

Robins laugh caught you off guard. “If it’s the same Eddie we know, then yes he was in school with us. Way longer than he was supposed to be, and we didn’t really get close until the end of my senior year.”

The look on your face prompted Steve to elaborate, “Eddie was -- is, a friend of ours that we got to know better through a mutual friend. He did go to prison a few years ago, but it was because he was scapegoated by a guy he bought weed from. We thought he was gonna go to jail for, like, the rest of his life or something. I had to convince my dad to get our lawyer that he keeps on retainer to represent him in court. The guy owed my dad a favor and he did it, Eddie only got five years.”

“There’s no way,” you said incredulously. Your jaw had to be on the floor. You knew this town was small, but was it really this small? Robin and Steve would be the type to forget to mention they had a friend in prison, too. 

“What’s his last name?”

“Munson. Eddie Munson. We still talk to him on the phone every once in a while. Usually his uncle gets a hold of us, tells us that he’s going to call at a certain time so we can stay by the phone. Oh!” Steve stands up from his spot on the couch, clapping his hands, “I have my senior year book up stairs. He should be in it as long as he showed up to picture day.” 

As Steve walks away, you turn to Robin, who has an amused look on her face.

“What?” You laugh, still in disbelief at the information that has been given to you. She shrugs, lips turned in a downward smile, “Nothing. So what do you and Eddie talk about?”

“What do we talk about? Not much really. We’ve only sent maybe two letters to each other. He always covers the letters in artwork though. They look like little tattoos.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely our Eddie,” She shakes her head, “His notebooks that he would carry around with him are covered in art. He told us he’s given himself some tattoos while he’s been there. We keep telling him he’s going to look like a felon when he comes out.”

“Isn’t he a felon, though?” 

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have to look like it!”

“Found it!” Steve yells as he comes back into the living room, blowing the dust off the book. He plops down on the couch between you and Robin and starts to look through the pages. “See, the funny thing about Eddie, he was supposed to graduate in ‘84, but he kept fucking around and ended up repeating his senior year -- three times.” 

“Holy shit,” you were in absolute disbelief, “he told me that in one of his letters. He said he was because the teachers didn’t like him, too.”

“Yeah, that sounds like something he would say,” Robin chuckles. 

“Ah-ha, He did show up! Here he is right here!”

Your eyes snapped to where Steve’s fingers pointed to the tiny black and white square. Eddie wasn’t kidding when he said his hair was super curly. The close up of his face makes his hair almost completely take the background out of the picture. You can barely see it but it looks like he’s wearing a Judas Priest shirt under a leather jacket and what you suspect to be the leather jacket he seems to treasure so much. When you finally let yourself focus on his face you’re met with a bright smile and dimples on either side. Dark eyes scrunched up from how high his cheeks were. You definitely would have had a crush on him if you had gone to the same school. 

“Soooo…what do you think?” Robin sing-songs with an expectant look on her face. 

You can feel yourself smiling and try to reign it in, “Well, he’s not a 40 year old biker looking guy with a beard so that makes me feel better. He looks nice, actually.” 

“He’s a good guy,” Steve starts flipping through the pages of the book, “but everyone gave him shit because…of…this.” Stopping on another page in the book, you see a picture of a group of students leaning up against a wall, all of them wearing matching shirts. 

“Hellfire Club?” You look between Steve and Robin. 

“He hasn’t mentioned Hellfire Club?” Robin was baffled. “That’s like, his whole thing!”

You shake your head, brows furrowed,“What is it?” 

“His D&D club? He’s seriously never brought it up?”

“No, not yet at least.” Taking the book from Steve, you get a better look at the picture. “Like I said, we've only sent a few letters back and forth. I wouldn’t say we’ve exhausted all of our topics for discussion yet.”

“You’ll never run out of things to talk about with Eddie,” Steve states sarcastically, “You’d think prison would have had an effect on his social skills, but that guy could talk for an hour about a crack he saw in the sidewalk.”

Hearing that made you wonder if he ever held back when writing to you. His letters were usually front and back all the way to the bottom of the pages. You wonder if they only allow him one page or if has to pay for the paper. Hopefully he wasn’t wasting his money to talk to you. 

“When was the last time you guys talked to him?” 

“Uh-“ Robin starts.

“It was still hot outside I think,” Steve interjects, “Like early September?”

“Yeah,” Robin nods, eyes wide, “September sounds about right.”

“Hmm, that’s around when we started writing to each other. I guess he wouldn’t have mentioned it if he didn’t know about me yet.” 

“If it’s been that long we’re definitely due for a call from him.” Robin looks to Steve, you miss the mischief in her eyes, nor do you see the look he gives her back. “Maybe you could talk to him next time he calls us?”

Your head snaps up, eyes wide meeting Robin’s gaze. You saw the look now and immediately started shaking your head in protest. 

“No, no, Robin I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You stand up from your spot on the couch, handing the yearbook back to Steve. Taking a few steps back to look at them, you bite one of your nails, thinking about the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. “Actually, if he does call, I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t tell him you knew me either. I’m sure he’s a nice guy but…”

“Hey,” Steve stood up and placed a hand on your arm, “It’s cool. You didn’t know Eddie before, and you barely know him now. I think Robin just meant that you could get to know him more since he is our friend. He’s gonna get out of prison eventually and we promised him that we’d just continue on like how things were before.”

“But,” you look at Steve with worry in your expression, “being in prison that long can change a person.”

“Eddie is too stubborn to let anything break him of being himself. He didn’t repeat his senior year twice because he’s dumb. He did it because he was too busy with what he wanted to do to bother with his schoolwork.”

“Actually,” Robin says, “he said prison is easier because he gets three meals a day and doesn’t have to do math, so…”

“But,” Steve gets your attention again, “My point is that you don’t have to go out of your comfort zone to be his friend for our sake if you don’t want to. Just keep talking to him on your own and see how you feel.”

You swear these two really were the only good people in Hawkins. 

“Yeah, okay,” you nodded,” I’ll keep writing him, but I won’t mention that I know you two. Not yet at least.”

November 27th, 1994

Ever since your talk with Robin and Steve, your nightmares have changed. Now that you have a face to the name they’re not really nightmares anymore. Instead of a nameless, faceless voice at your door, you can see him through the peephole. He’s not knocking on your door with rage, but out of desperation. Still begging to be let in, but the lock is on his side. You hold the key in your hand, you just have to slide it under the door…

A sharp, grating ring wakes you from your sleep, eyes shooting open and taking in the room around you. The sun peaks from behind your bedroom curtains, the light just bright enough to pester the hangover migraine that’s already in full effect. You have to strain to get your eyes to focus on the numbers on your alarm clock that read just past noon. 

The continuous ringing of the phone finally throttles you out of bed and into your kitchen. When you pick up the phone you hear Steve on the other end. 

“Oh, good, you lived,” he exclaims, “Robin, she’s still alive!”

A muffled, “oh thank god” comes from the background in the receiver. You hadn’t anticipated being so emotional the night before, thinking you were past feeling sorry for yourself that you were alone on a holiday while your bastard ex had someone keeping your side of the bed warm every night.

All the emotions came up at Steve’s during dinner. It was just the three of you there, all with broken families. They had other friends who were home for the holidays, but they were doing their own thing this weekend. Robin and Steve insisted that you join in on the festivities but you declined, using not knowing them as an excuse.

Really you just wanted some alone time. Time to yourself, to let yourself feel whatever you need to feel without having to mask in front of strangers, brush off any awkwardness if the topic of your failed marriage were to arise. 

You think Robin and Steve could tell that you were in your own head. They suggested taking you out to the only dive bar in town still open on the holiday, and assuming the place would be pretty dead, you said fuck it and all piled into Steve’s car. Sharing drinks and playing pool while metal music that made you think of your pen pal. You wondered what he was doing as you stepped outside to smoke a cigarette you bummed off an older, balding guy sitting at the bar. 

After drinking so much that Robin had to drive your car home for you, their phone call really didn’t come as a surprise to you. 

“Yes, god, I’m alive. Don’t yell into the phone, please.” You pinch the bridge of your nose to try and relieve some of the tension. The phone call is brief, Steve just wanting to check in on you and confirm that you didn’t want to participate in their outing. 

“We’re going ice skating! And if you can’t skate, our friend Max would enjoy having someone sit on the sidelines with her.”

“Sorry, Steve,” you press your forehead against the cool wood of the door frame, “I’m sure everyone is very nice, but I’m just not feeling up to it.”

After a few cups of coffee and a long shower, you settle on your couch, flipping through the channels on the tv for something to watch and settling on a Beverly Hills: 90210 rerun marathon. It didn’t take you long to lose interest and you began fidgeting for something else to keep your mind from wandering into dangerous territory. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your work bag on the floor at the end of your couch. The memory of tripping and knocking the bag over last night comes back to you, making you internally cringe at yourself. You grab the bag and see that the contents were an unorganized mess compared to how you normally keep it. The longer you looked the crazier it made you feel, so you carefully took the papers and folders out, laying them in front of you. 

When you picked up your first period folder, the familiar envelope that you had forgotten a week ago fell out, landing in your lap. You quickly pick it up and open it, remembering that you hadn't even had the chance to properly finish reading it. 

Something about seeing the letter again made you feel good. As you look at the artwork, you see the picture of the shirts his club members wore and smile as you realize he made the shirts himself. 

You reread the description of himself and can laugh because he must have worn the same thing every day, recalling the holes in his jeans and his battle vest from his pictures. It was hard to imagine the wild mane of hair he had being cut short. Do they get conditioner in prison? Because his hair must be a mess without it. 

Finally, you get to the part of the letter you hadn’t read. You felt your heart beating in your chest, an anxiousness building that you couldn’t explain. 

“I’m running low on space to write and I don’t know when I’ll hear from you again, but I just wanted to ask-“

You’re thrown off when you see two lines of the letter have been blacked out with a black marker or sharpie. There’s no way to make out what was written, and the last line is just him wishing you a “happy whatever holiday you celebrate,” his real signature greeting you at the very bottom of the page. “What the hell?” You asked the empty apartment. The first assumption that comes to mind is that Eddie must have messed up what he was going to write and decided to black it out since he wrote in pen. Or maybe he wanted to write more, but realized he was running out of space? That would go with your theory that they are limited in the paper they can get. 

There’s also the possibility he said something inappropriate and whoever checks the letters made him redact it. That was probably the least likely, but it makes you laugh to think about. Robin and Steve brought him up a few times while you were drinking and gave him the highest praises. But, you never know what someone would be willing to say or do when they’ve been touch starved for almost 5 years.

Butterflies invade your stomach when you think about it more. He’s probably had to take care of himself quite a bit while he’s been locked up. Where does one even do that in prison without prying eyes?

Your thighs clench together at the image you’ve conjured in your head. Steve had shown you some pictures of Eddie that he found from not too long before he went to prison. Sure, he resembled his yearbook picture, thin and lanky he once was. But the picture of him and Steve at a lake, both of them shirtless and clearly soaking wet, displayed muscles that he had likely gained from the mechanic job Robin mentioned he had. The tattoos that he had on his body were taking over, almost covering one of his arms completely. 

The image of soaked curly hairs clinging to his face as he’s leaning into a shower wall comes to the forefront of your mind. Toned arms flexing as he holds himself against the wall with one hand, stroking himself with the other. You imagined his hands were rough and calloused from playing guitar and working on cars. He was long and hard as he pumped himself, water dripping off the tip with each down stroke. God, you can only imagine his face as he cums, a loud groan falling from his lips as he spills onto the shower floor, calling your name…

You throw yourself into the couch cushion next to you and physically cringe. Where the hell did that come from? Was this the result of your dry spell since you left Henry? A guy that you’ve never even met before gives you a little attention and your brain automatically goes into the gutter. Sitting up, you rub your face in your hands in an attempt to keep the scenario from replaying in your mind. At least you had successfully distracted yourself from the self pity you were wallowing in. 

You roll onto your back, holding up the letter in your hand. You admire the artwork, the sloppy handwriting. A person wrote this letter. Someone who did something illegal and paid the price for it. Someone who is very loved and has an uncle waiting for him somewhere in this town, and friends who would do anything for him. And now, he’s writing you letters, and you wonder if he is feeling the same way that you are starting to feel…what are you feeling, exactly?

Sitting up from the couch, you grab a pen and paper from your bag.

“Hello Eddie” no.

“Hey, stranger” no.

“What’s up!” definitely not.

Another balled up paper tossed to the ground. 

“Dear Eddie,” sure why not, “I hope you are having a wonderful holiday season yourself. Hopefully your uncle can come and see you for whatever you celebrate. If not, at least a phone call would be nice. Does the prison give you anything special for the holidays? Like a turkey for Thanksgiving, ham for Christmas, the traditional stuff. I spent the holiday with-”

Steve and Robin. You know them! I know who you are, too. Totally not weird, right?

“-my friends. They called it “Friendsgiving,” I think it had something to do with a TV show. None of us like to cook, so we ended up just picking up stuff at the store and then going out to a local bar. I’m writing this letter the next day, a little hungover I have to admit. But, writing this letter has helped distract me from the migraine I’m trying to stave off. It’s been very busy at school lately with projects, exams, a choir…thing? All that means for me is that I have mountains of paperwork to grade, and I spent the last month trying to get kids to turn in anything missing. It’s like trying to get squirrels to stay in a basket.

Winter break is just around the corner, though. Which means two weeks of getting to sleep in late, watching terrible TV reruns, and using the cold weather as an excuse to stay inside. Although, I think my friends will manage to get me out of my apartment one way or another. I feel like a cat who was adopted by two dogs who share the same brain cell. But, they have helped me a lot over the last couple of months so I owe it to them to be their voice of reason sometimes.”

You pause and have a laugh to yourself. You think about all the ridiculous adventures the two of them have taken you on in the last few months, doing things that you would never have done before Henry. They’ve taken the hard metal bones out of your binding and started loosening the strings. You wonder if you would have even said yes to doing this letter thing if you hadn’t already had your boundaries pushed a little.

“I hope this isn’t too much to ask, but do you have any big plans for when you get out? Places you want to go? Food you want to try? People you want to see?”

You smile when you dot the last question mark. It feels sneaky to ask when you know that your meeting is inevitable, and there is a small voice in your ear telling you that he wouldn’t want to meet you. You’re boring. Simple. Dull. Only shades of grey fill your wardrobe, your heart, where there was once colour. Broken.

The new bottle of wine you got at the gas station stares at you from the kitchen.

Anyway.

“Hopefully you’re able to get out in time for the summer. Wouldn’t it be nice to walk outside as a free man and get to feel the sun on your skin? I think Hawkins is having a Rose festival again next year. There could be some inspiration there for you for your art, and if not, the funnel cakes are worth the admission price. Everything else is overpriced, but what isn’t nowadays?”

Filling the last bit of the back of the page, you felt it only fair to give a few details about yourself. Just a general description, nothing too revealing. Not that there was much to give away since becoming a professional educator has taken any creative freedom from your sense of style. You did tell him that on the weekends you treated yourself by wearing comfy clothes all day. You didn’t tell him that you only felt okay to do that recently, since your ex husband always expected you to look your best.

As you reached the bottom, you remembered the redacted section of his last letter. Do should you ask about it? Would he even be able to tell you? You went ahead and brought it up.

“Before I close this letter, I am curious to know why the last bit of your letter had been marked out. I can only imagine what you could have asked that it had to be taken out. I hope it wasn’t inappropriate, Mr.Banished.” You added a little “ha ha” in parentheses so he knew you were just joking, careful once again not to offend.

“Looking forward to your next letter,”

You signed your name, fighting the urge to draw a heart next to it like the girls in your class writing notes to their crush. There was no way that feeling like this for someone that you’ve only had correspondence through letters and the bit of hype from your mutual friends can be healthy. Grabbing the box of greeting cards that you had sat on the coffee table, you wrote some well wishes and folded your letter to fit within the confines of the red envelope. You took a look at it for the first time since Bridges had handed them over and your heart dropped. 

In one of the ethics classes you took in college a classmate did a presentation on Pendleton Prison. It had just come out the year before that there had been an abuse of power and prisoners were basically being tortured. It was hard to observe but informative. You couldn’t even imagine something like that happening to Eddie. You wondered if the reason they were participating in this program to begin with was to help with their reputation. We’ll let them talk to some kids and it will seem like we’re not abusing our inmates.

You look at the wine bottle again.

It’s fine. If Eddie was going through something like that, surely he would have told Steve and Robin, his uncle. But you wanted to be sure. You walk into your kitchen.

December 25th, 1994

“…You can say hello when you see me. You don't have to be afraid. There's a lot of things going around about me, but none of it's true. Okay?”

Your eyes flutter open, and you quickly close them when the harsh light of your tv playing Home Alone was too bright. Another dream about Eddie had taken over your mind in your sleep. You sit back to the door, the key in your hand. He doesn’t push you anymore, says to only give the key if you want to. That he enjoys your company no matter what. 

Sigh.

As you sit up from the couch where you had dozed off the night before, you decide to make a cup of coffee and ring your brother. 

“I could have come to get you. And brought you back. You know I don’t mind-“

“No, no, it’s okay, really. You have your own family now, I don’t want to dampen the mood,” you say as if you mean it. Coffee swishes around in your mug as you talk. It was true that your brother had a family of his own and was living the American dream. You liked that he invited you to be part of that, but you just couldn’t get past the notion that everyone would just look at you with pity. You’d rather be alone

Steve and Robin also invited you to Colorado with them. Steve’s parents had a house in Aspen where they were hosting Christmas this year. Steve insisted his parents wouldn’t care if you tagged along since they started to become fond of Robin. As much as seeing the beautiful snow covered mountains of Colorado sounds like a great reprieve for your mind, you still lied and told them you were going to your brothers. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. 

The sound of Kevin McCallister’s hijinks in New York got your attention. The movie distracted you for a while, until it didn’t. You watched the tv -- well, rather you looked at it for until you stood up, deciding to get out of the house, even if just to drive around.

The movie-esque scenery of small town Hawkins covered in snow was quiet and still, say for the few cars that you passed likely on the way to see family, traveling between houses. Something you and Henry did to make things fair for both of you. Your mom’s house first, then his parents.

Cars sat outside the Hideout, piquing your interest as you watched a man get out of a pick up truck and walk inside. It was close enough to five o'clock that you decided to pull into the lot, pulling into a spot by the door. Inside you were surprised to see it fairly occupied, mostly by men who looked like they worked at the factory in town or drove the big rig that was parked on the side of the building. The patrons seemed to talk amongst themselves, some semblance of holiday cheer keeping their spirits alive as their glasses clanked and boisterous laughs filled the air.

Sliding into an empty bar stool, you grabbed your purse to get your ID and some cash. 

“Ain’t ya little young to be sittin’ alone at a bar on Christmas?”

You looked up from your purse at the man sitting next to you at the bar. He sipped from his glass, cigarette smoke seeping from his lips, attention set on nothing in particular. He was an older man, bald on top and plenty of aging on his face, but you had the feeling he was younger than he looked. Some of his features felt familiar to you but you weren’t sure why.

“Um, well, I guess so,” you stutter as you set your purse down between your feet. “But, uh, I really didn’t want to spend Christmas alone.”

A hum and a nod, “I guess loneliness knows no age.” He huffed a laugh before getting the bartender's attention. “What are you drinking?”

“Oh, no, please, you don’t-” you begin to protest, but he puts his hand up and waves you off.

“Trust me,” he takes a long drag from his cigarette, “I would be buying it for someone else if they could be here.”

Ah. You tell the bartender your order and the man tells him to put it on his tab. 

“Thank you,” you give him a genuine smile, turning towards him to speak as the bar patrons become louder. You paused for a beat before speaking again, “I’m sorry you’re alone today.”

“Makes no difference to me really, just another day to me,” he takes a sip of his beer. You almost miss it, but you see the flash of a smile on his face. 

“Just another day, huh,” you say smugly, dipping your head into his line of vision. He must have realized he was smiling because he covered his hand with his mouth shyly, the motion a contradiction to his hard exterior. Clearing his throat, he sat up in his seat, opening from his hunched position to talk with you properly.

“It’s just another day, always been to me, but,” He looks at you for a moment, then back down into his beer, “I used to celebrate, for my boy. Haven’t gotten to do that properly in a while. I’m hopin’ this year will be the last, that next year will be different.”

His endearment made your eyes misty. “That’s so sweet,” you coo, putting a hand on coat covered arm, “I’m sure things will work out.” You pull back when your drink is dropped off, quickly taking a few sips. 

The man watches you, his head shaking in your peripherals. “So, what’s really got ya out here celebrating with Hawkins finest? Besides the, uh,” he gestures vaguely, “cheerful atmosphere.”

You stay quiet for a moment, eyes focused on the straw floating in your drink. Deep breath in, and out. “Do you want the half truth or the full truth?”

His body bounces from a chuckle, “I got a little time.”

Pouring your heart out to a stranger over drinks felt therapeutic, and not in the same way as talking to Robin and Steve. He just listened, nodded his head, grunted in what you assume to be agreement. This man, who looks like he hasn’t taken a day off in his life, made you feel more valid with no words at all than anyone else has in your entire life besides your own mother.

“And now I’m, like, kinda into this guy, but he doesn’t know I exist,” your words are a little slurred as you take down another drink. “Sorry, no, he knows I exist, but he knows nothing about me. Like, he knows some things, but he doesn’t really know me, ya know?”

His head bobs up and down, takes another drag of his cigarette.

“I feel weird feeling this way, because I would never have even considered a guy like him before. Henry, I told you about Henry, he was super uppity, snotty. A real tight ass. But, this guy is funny. Genuine, and his friends talk him up. Who wouldn’t fall for a guy like that? Even if he is rough around the edges.”

“Well, if it doesn’t work out with you and this guy, I outta introduce you to my nephew. He was always picked on in school for being different, but he’s a good kid. Just got into the wrong stuff,” the mans face sunk a bit, “My fault really.”

You tilt your head in confusion, “How so?”

“Heart attack. Had one while at work. Stayed in the hospital for a few, got the bill and almost had another one,” he chuckles at that. “I wasn’t even gonna tell ‘em, but he came over to visit and I forgot about it. Saw it sittin’ on the counter. Next thing I know he’s callin’ me sayin’ he’s booked on ‘possession with intent to distribute’. Buncha bull for some grass.” He put his cigarette out with a harsh stab. “But, he’ll be good soon. My deadbeat brother’s been keepin’ an eye on him in there and he’s been keeping his good behavior streak.”

“He sounds like a good kid,” you rest your cheek against the cool counter as you smile up at him.

“Yeah, he is.” His smile reaches his eyes, and so does yours.

“Well, gotta go, darlin’,” he slaps a couple bills on the counter and nods to the bartender, “Excpectin’ a call here soon. Get you some pretzels or somethin’ before ya take off.”

“Thank you,” your brows come together, “sorry, I don’t think I ever caught your name?”

“Names Wayne.”

“Nice to meet you, Wayne.”

thanks for reading.

[monzabee]

🪩 || bee's masterlist

AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR!

welcome to my masterlist! you can find all of my works as of now under the cut, and here's a masterlist key to help you navigate your way through!

masterlist key: — social media au - ✧ — fic - ✶ — drabbles - ✫ — headcanons - ᕯ

MAX VERSTAPPEN (MV1)

fuck being underrated ✧ : the one where Max is dating his team principal's daugther, who happens to be the hottest model of the year.

third time's the charm ✧ : the one where you are there to celebrate Max winning his third title, and the whole world is there to witness it.

two sides of the same coin ✶ : the one where you try to convince yourself that you're not falling for your teammate, but can't help it when you realise that he is not that different from you after all.

beach read ✶ : the one where you and Max go on a holiday for the first time, and you realize just how much you love 'Vacation Max'.

viva las vegas (+18) ✶ : the one where you and Max celebrate his win in a way you’ve never done before. [minors dni!]

prison for life ✶ : the one where if anybody hurts you, Max is going to prison for life.

CHARLES LECLERC (CL16)

how you get the girl ✶ : the one where you and your boyfriend Charles attend a gala for a friend and run into Harry Styles – who happens to be your ex.

in my lover era! ✧ : the one where Charles becomes a Swiftie because of his girlfriend.

like real people do (+18) ✶ : the one where you are having sex with your boyfriend, Charles, for the first time but he wants everything to be perfect for you. [minors dni!]

you'll change your name or change your mind ✶ : the one where you find your way back home, even if the journey takes longer than you think.

this is a relationship, that i don't think anyone saw coming ✶ : the one where you and Charles think you are successfully fooling everyone on the grid, when in reality you are the ones being fooled.

the name game ✶ : the one where you and Charles try to get through one of the first hardships of parenthood.

lean on you ✶ : the one where you learn to lean on Charles more than you thought you ever could.

red, white, blue's in the sky ✧ : the one where Charles has an olympian girlfriend.

T.G.I.F ✶ : the one where writing your thesis is harder than you think, but Charles is here to help you through all of it.

pon de replay (+18) ✶ : the one where Charles decide to prove to everyone that it is him that you belong to, and only him. [minors dni!]

the smallest man who ever lived ✶ : the one where you’re thrown into a conundrum when you learn the news of your husband, Charles’, infidelity.

you can check out the rest of the series from here!

DANIEL RICCIARDO (DR3)

nonesense ✧ : the one where you and Daniel fall in love with a song, so you must share it with the whole internet.

girl crush ✶ : the one where both you and Daniel meet your celebrity crushes in the course of a weekend, and decide to give it a go.

you can check out the rest of the series from here!

redbull gives you wings ✧ : the one where red bull brings together people, again..

LANDO NORRIS (LN4)

good riddance ✧ : the one where internet discovers that Lando's girlfriend is a singer, who happens to be on a world tour.

short stack ✧ : the one where the internet is obsessed about the height difference between you and your boyfriend, Lando.

déjà vu (beyoncé’s version) ✶ : the one where a bad prank leads to you and Lando exploring an option you thought was not an option.

bad idea right? ✶ : the one where seeing Lando tonight is a bad idea, right?

greedy ✧ : the one where lando finds a certain singer cute.

diet pepsi (+18) ✶ : the one where you and Lando have a rather interesting way of resolving an argument. [minors dni!]

MICK SCHUMACHER (MS47)

a vettel and a schumacher walk into a bar ✶ : the one where Mick is dating Seb's eldest daughter, but forgets to mention this to his mentor and close friend. another problem? he can't seem to keep his eyes (or his hands) off of you.

you can check out the rest of the series from here!

heartbreak hotel ✧ : the one where you run into your ex, Mick, at Las Vegas, and chaos ensues.

ARTHUR LECLERC (AL12)

baby honey ✶ : the one where Arthur swear he's not thinking about you, his best friend, all the time – just today, yesterday, and tomorrow night.

LEWIS HAMILTON (LH44)

eight words when i think about us (+18) ✶ : the one where Coachella has both you and Lewis high on each other. [minors dni!]

he's a genius ('cause he loves a woman like her) ✧ : the one where you and Lewis (attempt to) soft launch your relationship.

hot girls support 44 ✫ : the one where your husband realises that you are, indeed, his number one fan.

what you do to me (+18) ✶ : the one where Lewis returns home to you – the one thing he desperately wants, but won't let himself have completely. [minors dni!]

partition (+18) ✶ : the one where you and Lewis are stuck in traffic in Paris, and decide to make the most of the situation. [minors dni!]

bom dia! ✧ : the one where Lewis decides to spend some time in Brazil during winter break with a special someone.

PIERRE GASLY (PG10)

feather ✶ : the one where Pierre is the one left mourning after your relationship ends.

all around the world (pretty girls) ✧ : the one where the internet finds out about you and Pierre's relationship.

CARLOS SAINZ (CS55)

the lusty month of may (+18) ✶ : the one where it's that darling month when everyone throws self-control away, and you and Carlos decide to do a wretched thing – or two. [minors dni!]

mr.big ✧ : the one where there he was, wearing armani on a sunday, your boyfriend, Carlos.

you can check out the rest of the series from here!

OSCAR PIASTRI (OP81)

short n' sweet ✧ : the one where in an attempt to figure out who Y/N is dating, the internet come up with theories only to realise she is dating none other than Oscar Piastri and chaos ensues.

LANCE STROLL (LS18)

kiss it better ✶: the one where a crazy idea turns out to be the best possible thing for you and Lance.

©𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗓𝖺𝖻𝖾𝖾 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟥. 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗅𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗌.

[saddleups]

𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒.

★ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 . . . 4.4k

★ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 . . . series of one shots, ongoing STARS!ALBERT WESKER X F!READER !! 18+ SMUT MDNI !!

★ 𝐂𝐖 . . . boss x employee dynamic . slight dom/sub ( nothing too out there ) . use of honorifics ( "sir"/"captain", at the moment reader will not refer to wesker by his name ) spanking . creampie . unprotected . incredibly down bad behavior. ask for triggers man i'm doing my best out here ;-;

★ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 . . .  you are a receptionist at s.t.a.r.s headquarters and are quite popular among the employees for your many charms. captain albert wesker , your boss , is not your biggest fan. so one night you decide to stay late to get some extra work done and you find yourself creating a new , unexpected relationship with the man you swear is such a jerk.

★ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 . . . none of this is very christian of me. anyways. this was a series of drabbles i wrote a while ago but never shared until i decided to re-do this account. it's just pure smut. there's a few parts to this so if this is something you're interested in keeping up with just let me know !

The skirt you wore today was short—not scandalous, but toeing that fine line of propriety. You hadn’t planned it, much like those days when the office AC was set just a bit too cold, and your body betrayed you through thin fabric. It just… happened. And apparently, it worked; the men in the office seemed to linger longer by the receptionist desk, asking about your day, chatting about lunch options.

Today, it was Chris Redfield who made his way over, his broad shoulders and strong arms accentuated by the fitted uniform he wore like a second skin. He leaned casually against your desk, biceps flexed just enough to catch the eye, and gave you a friendly smile.

“So, what are you doing later?” he asked, a hint of mischief in his tone.

You smiled back, coy. “Haven’t decided yet.”

“Maybe I could help you decide?”

Before you could respond to his playful offer, the familiar sound of precise, deliberate footsteps filled the room. Captain Albert Wesker approached, his presence like a sudden chill. He stopped a few feet from your desk, and his gaze, sharp as ice, settled on Chris.

“A slow day for you, Officer Redfield?”

Chris straightened immediately, clearing his throat. “No, sir.” He cast you a quick, apologetic glance before retreating down the hallway, his footsteps fading as you rose to stand in front of the captain. You adjusted the hem of your skirt, feeling the weight of his gaze.

“Captain,” you greeted, polite as ever.

Wesker’s voice was low, almost a warning. “I don’t appreciate distractions in my department.”

“It wasn’t my intention, Captain.”

Beneath his calm, unyielding exterior, it was impossible to read his true thoughts. You were used to the effect you had on people; most found your charm and warmth inviting, and it was part of why you’d been hired. Clients and staff alike appreciated your ever-present smile, the soft touch that eased the tension of the office. But Wesker was a fortress, all business, no play.

With two taps on the edge of your desk, he dismissed you. Without another word, he turned, striding through the double doors to his office.

You turned to a nearby coworker, rolling your eyes. “He’s such a jerk.”

“He's your boss,” they teased. “Not everyone can fall for your charms.”

The day wound to a close, and as the office grew quieter, Chris circled back to your desk, his smile as easy as ever. “So, any chance I get to steal you away for a bite tonight?”

You tapped the stack of paperwork on your desk with a rueful smile. “Long night for me. Maybe next time, Chris.”

He chuckled, giving you a wink. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Before long, the office had emptied out, and the eerie quiet of after-hours set in. Only a few dim lights remained, casting long shadows across the empty cubicles. You checked the time and decided to finish the remaining tasks in the morning. Gathering a few scattered papers, you noticed a sealed letter addressed to 'Doctor Albert Wesker' buried in the pile, something you’d overlooked in the day’s shuffle.

Your gaze flicked to the closed double doors of his office. Knowing how he already seemed to regard you with thinly veiled disdain, the idea of interrupting him after hours felt daunting. But you were determined to make a good impression, so you took a steadying breath, stepped to the door, and gave two light knocks.

“Come in,” came his voice, firm and unyielding.

You entered his office, a space you rarely saw, and felt its chill immediately. The room was as stark and impersonal as its occupant: dark stone walls, polished surfaces, no hint of comfort or warmth. He sat at his desk, the dim light casting sharp lines across his face as he worked. Only the sound of your heels clicking against the polished floor could be heard.

“Yes?” he asked, glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose as he pored over some report or another. For a moment, his eyes flickered up to meet yours, you felt like a rabbit caught in the gaze of a predator.

You hesitated a moment. “I didn’t mean to intrude, but…”

“What is it?” he pressed, clipped.

You steadied yourself, lifting the letter. “You received a letter, sir.”

He extended his hand, expression unreadable. “Then give it here.”

You stepped forward, letter in hand, feeling the weight of Wesker’s attention settle briefly on you before his eyes dropped back to his paperwork. His fingers tapped impatiently on the desk.

"Here’s your letter." You placed it in his hand, waiting a beat, hoping he’d say something more than his typical brisk responses.

But his gaze remained fixed on the document in front of him. "Thank you," he replied curtly, not looking up. As he grasped the letter from your possession, his fingers brushed against yours for the briefest of moments. An unexpected strike of electricity shot through you at the contact.

You shifted your weight, trying not to feel foolish for expecting more. "Long night for you as well, I suppose?"

"Yes," he said, dismissively, barely glancing at you. "As you can see, I’m a busy man. Not much time for idle chatter." His tone held a distinct edge, one that made it clear he saw this exchange as a disruption.

You felt a slight flush creep up your cheeks but pushed on, hoping to soften his walls even a little. "I just thought it might be nice to… check in, make sure everything’s in order before I head out."

Wesker’s mouth barely twitched, his voice all business. "Everything is in order. You’re dismissed."

The finality in his tone stung, yet you nodded politely, preparing to leave. But as you turned, your hand brushed over the stack of papers on his desk, causing them to cascade on the floor in a chaotic rain of white.

"Apologies, Captain," you murmured, quickly bending down to pick it up— cursing under your breath while doing so.

Bent over gathering the papers in a haste, you felt your skirt inching up, however you were too focused on your task to notice the slight pause in Wesker’s movements above you. The room fell silent, save for the quiet rustle of your clothes. The short skirt you wore betrayed you, exposing your black lace thong and the garter belt holding your stocks up.

Finding balance on your feet, you shake in your heels. Hair always neatly placed had now become undone, strands hang loosely to frame your face, cheeks flustered in a pinkish hue.

If the skirt hadn't had it's fun already, it was now your blouse, just a half-size too tight. The button had spoke it's last words while you were occupied with gathering the papers on the floor. It revealed the bra matching your thong, black lace with a tiny pink bow at the center. Eager to leave after dropping his papers, you hardly notice.

"Here," you said softly, placing the paper back on his desk. "I am... so sorry."

Wesker’s face was as impassive as ever, though there was a slight tension in his jaw that hadn’t been there a moment ago. He stood to tower over you, you could feel his aura— authority. It left you breathless.

He says your surname, low and menacing. "Did you think this little performance would change my opinion of you."

Through the tint of his glasses, you could sense his eyes lingering to your chest. The pinkish hue on your cheeks now coursed through your body, leaving you flustered and embarrassed beyond belief. Attempting to hold your blouse together with a weak hand, Wesker is unable to shift his gaze elsewhere, enthralled by your two mounds being propped up by your delicate, manicured hand.

You look up at him, trying to muster some semblance of defiance. Perhaps as a last ditch effort to spare your dwindling pride. "I don't know what you mean, Sir."

Wesker's eyes raked over you, burning into your soul. "Do not lie to me. I see that you look at the men in this office. The way you dress to provoke them. You can try your luck with the likes of Officer Redfield…" He leaned down, close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath against your skin.

"But do you really think you can seduce me?"

Your pulse quickened, swallowing hard you respond. "No, sir. That's not what I was trying to do."

Wesker rose from his chair and towered over you, his face unreadable. "Over my knee," he commanded with a voice that brooked no disobedience. His intense gaze never wavered from yours, pinning you in place with the weight of his scrutiny.

As fear and excitement waged war within you, hesitation flooded your senses. But there was no escaping his will, and deep down, maybe a part of you didn't want to. So with a racing heart, you walked over to his desk and bent over his knee.

Your eyes fixated on the floor as sweat formed on your brow, anticipation building in the pit of your stomach.

To your surprise, Wesker's touch was gentle as he lifted the hem of your skirt, exposing your bare backside to him. The wetness between your legs couldn't be ignored, and you stammered out a feeble, "d-don't look."

With a dark chuckle, Wesker replied, "My dear," causing your throat to constrict. "You and I both know that's not what you truly desire."

His hand came down hard on your exposed flesh, the sting of the impact reverberating through every nerve in your body. You gasped, gripping onto something - anything - to ease the pain.

"That's for lying to me," Wesker growled, his fingers digging into your skin. "And for thinking you could manipulate me."

Before you could respond, his hand landed again, this time even harder. The overwhelming sensation sent electricity coursing through your veins, flooding your body with a heady mix of adrenaline and arousal. You couldn't help but squirm beneath his touch, craving more punishment from your boss.

You could feel his erection pulsating against you. Even clothed, tucked away— you could imagine the length and girth of it begging to break free from its confides. Yet you don’t dare to disobey, frame cemented over his knee until he wills you in another position.

“Captain, p-please…” your stutter is pathetic, trembling with need that further stokes the fire burning in Wesker’s chest.

Wesker’s grip tightened, his fingers wrapping around your waist like a vice, keeping you firmly in place as he surveyed the sight laid out before him—a juxtaposition of power and vulnerability. The corners of his mouth curled into a prideful smirk, dark eyes glinting with satisfaction as he savored the moment, each second stretching into eternity.

“What is it that you want?” The question laced with mockery, dripped from his lips like honey, sweet yet tinged with a hint of risk. Your heart raced at the implication, knowing all too well there was no room for mischief when it came to Wesker. Every whisper of your deepest desires hung unspoken in the air between you.

“Just—just more,” you breathed, desperation spilling from your lips before you could reign it in. The thrill of his dominance sent shivers coursing through your body, igniting something primal within you that thrummed with longing.

“More?” he echoed, your admission seeming to fuel his ego. His hand traveled down lower, fingers trailing along the curve of your backside, teasingly light despite the forceful position.

“Is that what you think will keep me interested? Dear, do you truly understand what you're asking for?”

A tremor ran through you at the challenge hidden in his voice.

"Yes, Sir," you whispered, trembling. The heat of his hand lingered on your skin, a reminder of both the punishment and your willingness to submit. The air was thick with tension, a charged anticipation that made your knees weak beneath you.

Wesker chuckled softly, a sound that sent both dread and thrill cascading through your veins. His fingers grazed the edge of your garter belt, teasing but unyielding.

"You think you know what you're asking for. But I assure you, this isn’t just a game." He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear,

"And I am not one to play lightly."

The flutter in your stomach intensified as he emphasized each word, filling you with a mixture of yearning and fear of the unknown. You wanted to speak again, to assert yourself in any way you could—but the words fizzled out at the last moment, trapped by the weight of his intense gaze.

He’s such a jerk, isn’t he? Never a smile, barely a glance your way, and he ignores you so thoroughly it feels deliberate—like you’re nothing more than the potted plant on your desk. So why, exactly, did you want this?

“Do you want more?” he repeated slowly, savoring the moment like it was an exquisite wine. “Then you will have to prove yourself worthy.”

With that, Wesker's fingers gripped tighter around your waist, lifting you effortlessly back up to standing position. You found yourself pinned against his desk, back pressed against the cool surface while he towered over you yet again—with knees pressed together you watch as your boss situates himself, fiddling with the collar of his work shirt as he prepares to undo the buttons.

In a haze, you force yourself upright, shaky hands fumbling toward the same buttons Wesker had begun to unfasten, your touch hesitant but fueled by intent.

"Allow me, Captain," you murmur, voice barely a whisper as your fingers trail over his collar.

Wesker’s smirk widens, a glint of satisfaction in his gaze as he tilts his head. "It seems you’re learning your place rather quickly."

"I'm a fast learner," you reply, feigning innocence, each button slipping free under your fingers as you slowly reveal the toned expanse of his chest. The firm lines of muscle, the coolness of his skin under your touch—it sends a thrill through you, amplifying the steady thunder of your pulse, beating wildly against the quiet.

God, you don't just want this. You need this.

Your hand rests flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat—steady, controlled. A stark contrast to the furious rhythm of your own. His eyes are locked onto you, unreadable yet searing, like a hunter watching every twitch of its prey.

Wesker’s expression remains calculating, composed; he’s in his element, the hunter is savoring each second. The tension between you is palpable, a rush of arousal and adrenaline flood your system. Despite your best efforts to maintain composure, rival his steadfastness with your own, your legs trembled beneath you— a testament to the power he wielded over you.

Wesker lets go of your waist but only for a second—long enough for him to unbuckle his belt and loosen his pants. His erection sprang to life, long and hard, pulsing with need. The head glistened with a bead of pre-cum. Your breathing becomes ragged at the sight of it, the curvature of it. The pulsating vein that ran up the shaft. How far it’d go inside you, poke at your womb and fill you.

“Lay back.”

Your heart thumped wildly against your ribs as you situated yourself on his desk, eyes never wanting to leave his throbbing proof of arousal. This was what you craved deep down—submitting fully to him, deferring to his every whim and command. A part of you relished in the humiliation; how far would you go for this? How much could you endure?

You shivered under his intense gaze, feeling a thrill of excitement course through you. His fingers trailed along the edge of your garter belt, skimming over the curve of your hip before dipping lower, brushing lightly against the thin fabric of your thong. You bit your lip, trying to stifle a moan, but it escaped anyway, a soft, needy sound that only seemed to fuel his determination.

"Do you want it?" he asked, his voice a low growl. "Do you want my cock inside you, beautiful?"

Your cheeks flushed hot at the crude words, but there was no denying the truth in them. "Yes, Captain, please," you whispered, your voice trembling with need. "I need it. Please, I need you… Sir."

His hand slaps your wet cunt. The sound echoed in the small office, and you cried out, a mix of pain and pleasure shooting through you. He repeated the action, again and again, each slap harder than the last, his eyes never leaving yours as he punished you for daring to beg.

"Beg properly," he demanded, his voice cutting through the haze of arousal clouding your mind. "Tell me how much you need it."

You whimpered, your body trembling under his ministrations. "Please, Captain," you sobbed, your voice breaking. "Please fuck me. I need your cock inside me, Sir. Please, I can't take it anymore…"

His lips curled into a slow, prideful smile. "Good girl," he murmured, his tone approving. "That's what I wanted to hear."

With one swift motion, he hooked his fingers into the sides of your thong and yanked it aside, baring your aching, wet pussy to his gaze. You could feel the coolness of the air against your sensitive flesh, and it only made the ache in your core more unbearable.

Wesker didn’t keep you waiting. He stepped closer, positioning himself between your spread legs. His huge cock, already hard and throbbing, brushed against your slick folds, teasing you mercilessly. You gasped, arching your hips up in an attempt to get more contact, he held you still with a firm grip on your thighs.

"Control yourself," he growled, his voice gruff.

But you couldn’t wait. Every second that passed felt like an eternity, your need growing more urgent with each heartbeat. "Please, Sir," you begged again, desperation coloring your words. "Please, just put it in…"

Finally, finally, he granted your wish. With deliberate slowness, he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing the rim before slowly, oh so slowly, sinking into you.

"Captain!"

The sensation was overwhelming, a perfect blend of fullness and pressure that made your entire body tremble. You clenched around him instinctively, your muscles spasming as he filled you completely.

Wesker inhales a breath, chest rumbling. "Fuck," he groaned, closing his eyes briefly as he adjusted to the tightness squeezing him. When he opened them again, they were dark with lust.

"Tight… so damn good."

You could barely form a coherent thought, your mind consumed by the incredible sensations radiating from where he was joined with you. Each slow thrust sent waves of pleasure crashing over you, making it difficult to focus on anything other than the feeling of being claimed by him.

Wesker wasn’t content to let you languish in blissful ignorance. With a harsh command, he wrapped his hands around your wrists, pinning them above your head as he began to move. His thrusts were controlled, restrained, each one precise and calculated to drive you wild.

“Look at me,” he ordered, his voice brooking no disobedience. “Don’t look away.”

You met his gaze instantly, your eyes wide and vulnerable as you stared up at him. Even through the tint of his glasses, the intensity in his eyes was staggering, a searing heat that seemed to burn right through you. It was impossible to look away, even if you’d wanted to; his stare held you captive, ensnared by an invisible force stronger than any physical restraint.

“Good,” he purred, his expression almost feral. “That’s what I like to see.”

As he continued to thrust into you, his pace increasing, your vision blurred with tears of ecstasy. His cock pounded relentlessly into your cunt, pushing you ever closer to the edge. Each stroke rubbed against your clit, sending shocks of pleasure straight to your core.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice rough and demanding. “Say it.”

“Y-yes,” you panted, the words torn from you by sheer force of will. “I’m yours, Captain… all yours…”

He grunted in approval, his movements becoming even more aggressive. You could feel the strain building within him, the tension coiling tighter with every passing second. But still, he held himself back, refusing to let go until he was absolutely sure you were ready.

“Come for me,” he demanded, his voice cracking with urgency. “Now.”

And just like that, the dam broke. Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, roaring through you with such force that your hips raised up from the desk, bucking against his uncontrollably. Your walls clamped down on his cock, milking him with desperate intensity as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you.

Wesker followed you over the edge, his own release coming hard and fast. His cock erupted inside you, filling you with his hot seed as he came deep within your pulsing channel. His grip on your wrists tightened painfully, but you barely noticed; all you could focus on was the incredible sensation of being so thoroughly claimed by him.

A moment of silence washes over you as you attempt to catch your breath. Wesker's eyes bore into your own, an almost primal connection that made your heart race. His fingers delicately moved through your hair, pushing stray strands away from your face. His touch was gentle, thoughtful yet it felt like a claiming.

"Thank you," he swallowed. "You've been…exemplary."

His hand trailed down to cup your cheek, thumb gently caresses your skin. The warmth of his palm against your skin was comforting, the simple act of affection amplified something within you. Your breath hitched, and you could feel the heat radiating between your legs, even though he had already taken you to the brink of ecstasy.

Wesker leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "You may go now."

With that, Wesker straightened, his movements precise as he strode over to a cabinet behind his desk. He retrieved a fresh work shirt, pressed and ironed to perfection, every detail meticulously in place. As he slipped it on, buttoning each button with practiced ease, the familiar aloofness settled back over him, as if the brief moment of vulnerability had never existed.

The dismissal was unexpected, but the way he said it made it clear that this was not a suggestion but an order. You nodded, feeling a mix of relief and disappointment wash over you. Relief because the intensity of the encounter had been overwhelming, and disappointment because you craved more of his attention, more of his control. Regardless, you can't help but to think: dude, you just came inside me and now you're asking me to leave?

As you began to gather yourself, Wesker was now seated behind his desk, his eyes never leaving you. The silence in the room was thick, filled with unspoken words and lingering touches. You stood up, your legs still slightly shaky from the force of your orgasm, and adjusted your clothing. The thong you wore was damp, evidence of the passion that had just transpired.

Without a word, you turned to leave, but before you could take more than a few steps, Wesker's voice stopped you in your tracks.

"Wait."

Your heart skipped a beat, and you turned back to face him, curiosity and anticipation mingling in your chest. He gestured for you to come closer, and you obeyed without hesitation.

When you reached him, he stood up, towering over you once again. His presence was commanding, and you felt a rush of adrenaline at being so close to him. He reached out, his hand gripping your chin firmly, tilting your head up so that you had no choice but to look into his eyes.

"I want you to remember something," he said, his tone authoritative but not unkind.

"You are mine. In this office, you belong to me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Captain," you replied, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you.

Wesker released your chin and stepped back, his gaze raking over your body. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you, assessing, admiring, wanting. It was both exhilarating and terrifying.

"Now go," he said, his voice softening just a bit. "But know this—next time, I won’t be as merciful."

You nodded, feeling a thrill run through you at his words. Merciful? What was merciful about this encounter? Wesker had been anything but, and yet, there was a part of you that yearned for more, for the relentless dominance he wielded over you so effortlessly.

As you left his office, you couldn’t help but replay the scene in your mind. The way his cock had filled you, the sounds of your flesh meeting his, the taste of his skin when you dared to kiss him. Each memory sent a jolt of desire through you, making it hard to focus on anything else.

By the time you reached your car, you were a bundle of conflicting emotions. Exhausted from the physical exertion, yet energized by the raw power of the experience. Gripping the steering wheel, you contemplate to go back. Demand him to take you again, or at least take you home. Yet you don't, you follow his order and drove home in a daze. Your mind constantly drifting back to Wesker’s office, to his command, to the way he had made you feel.

He made you feel desired in a way that went beyond the clothes you wore or the subtle charms you wielded around others. There was an allure in his unexpected charisma, a pull that felt impossible to resist—as if you were caught in a spell only he could cast.

When you finally arrived at your apartment, you stumbled inside, stripping off your clothes as you went. The sheer stockings clung to your legs, still wet from sweat and arousal. You tossed them onto the floor, along with your blouse and skirt, leaving a trail of discarded garments leading to your bed.

Finally you unite with your bed, the sensation of Wesker’s cum inside you was unmistakable, a warm reminder of what had just occurred. You closed your eyes, letting the memories wash over you, each one more vivid than the last. The feel of his hands on your body, the sound of his voice commanding you, the sight of his intense gaze locked onto yours.

You drifted off to sleep, dreaming of Wesker, of his office, of the next time he would call you into his domain. And as you slept, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning, that there was so much more to come.

[millersgirl80]

Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby (18+)

Pairings: DBF!Joel x f!reader

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings:unprotected P in v shit (keep ya shit wrapped people), age gap (24,36), Joel kinda sucks in this 😩🫣

Summary: You finally act on your feelings towards your dad’s best friend.

My notes: I’m hoping to turn this into a series 🤭🫣 also credit to the owners of the pictures and banner! I can’t remember the name

Part two here, Part three here

"It's just a harmless crush," I told myself for the hundredth time, trying to downplay the intense attraction I'd felt for Joel ever since I was a teenager. I was now a 24-year-old woman, but the way my heart fluttered at the sight of my dad's best friend hadn't changed one bit.

Joel was a tall, ruggedly handsome man with broad shoulders and a chiseled jawline, his chocolate hair and tanned skin. He embodied the classic Texas gentleman, always polite and charming, but with a hint of a wild side that I found utterly irresistible.

As I stood in the kitchen, cleaning up dinner from my dad, Joel,and I. I couldn't help but notice the way Joel's eyes lingered on me a little too long as he helped clean the table. His stoic demeanor often hid his emotions, but I could sense a subtle shift in his gaze whenever our eyes met. My short, petite frame seemed to catch his attention, and I wondered if he noticed the way my curves had developed over the years.

"Thanks for helping out, Joel," my dad said, clapping him on the back. "I appreciate you always being there for us."

Joel smiled, his eyes softening as he looked at my dad. "Of course man, always happy to help” My dad pats Joel on the back walking to the fridge to grab a beer, walking to the livingroom.

My dad had been a widower for as long as I could remember, my mom died after I was born, and Joel had become like an uncle to me, always there for family gatherings and special occasions. But as I grew older, my innocent crush transformed into something more intense, something I knew I had to keep hidden.

After I cleared the table, my hands trembling slightly as I stacked the dishes. Joel offered to help, his broad hands brushing against mine, sending a jolt of electricity through my body. I caught him staring at my lips as I spoke, and I couldn't help but wonder if he felt the same desire.

"I'll take these to the sink," I said, my voice hoarse as I tried to maintain my composure. I wanted to be alone with him, to explore this attraction that had been simmering for years.

In the kitchen, I leaned against the counter, my heart pounding in my chest. I knew it was wrong, but the temptation was too strong. I had to act on my feelings, even if it meant crossing a line that could never be uncrossed.

Joel entered the kitchen, his tall frame filling the doorway. "Everything alright in here?" he asked, his deep voice sending shivers down my spine.

I took a deep breath, my eyes locking with his. "Yes" I nod, my voice catching in my throat.

He took a step closer, his eyes darkening with an unspoken desire. "What is it, sweetheart?"

The way he called me 'sweetheart' sent a rush of warmth between my thighs. I wanted him to call me that as he drove his body into mine, claiming me as his. I knew it was wrong, but the thought of being forbidden fruit only made the temptation sweeter.

"I've always had a crush on you, Joel," I blurted out, my words spilling out before I could stop them. "I know it's wrong, but I can't deny it anymore."

His eyes widened, and for a moment, I thought he might reject me. But then, a slow smile spread across his face, revealing a hint of mischief. "I know darlin’ I seen the way you’ve looked at me"

I felt my cheeks flush, but I stood my ground. "I'm an adult now, Joel. And I want you. I know it's wrong, but I can't ignore these feelings any longer."

Joel took another step forward, his tall, muscular body now mere inches from mine. "And what do you want me to do about it, hmm?" His voice was low and husky, sending a thrill through my body.

I swallowed hard, my gaze dropping to his lips. "I want you to kiss me, Joel. I want to feel your lips on mine."

Without another word, he closed the distance between us, his strong arms pulling me against his chest. His lips claimed mine in a hungry kiss, his tongue sliding against mine in a passionate dance. I moaned into his mouth, my hands gripping his broad shoulders.

Joel's hands roamed over my body, cupping my breasts through my shirt, his thumbs rubbing against my hardening nipples. I arched into his touch, my breath coming in short gasps. "Oh, Joel," I whispered, "I've wanted this for so long."

He broke the kiss, his breath hot against my ear. "I want you too, sweetheart."

I giggled, a mix of nerves and excitement. "Then don't resist anymore, Joel."

His hands slid down my body, tracing the curve of my waist before landing on my hips. He pulled me closer, his hard cock pressing against my stomach through our clothes. I could feel his desire, his need for me, and it only fueled my own hunger.

Joel pulled away, my body buzzing with anticipation, my heart pounding as I waited for Joel to make his move.

It was a bold choice, I know especially with my dad in the room down the hall, but the thrill of getting caught only added to the excitement. I had been dancing around this forbidden desire for far too long, and tonight, I was finally going to give in to my cravings.

As I leaned against the countertop, my fingers traced the cool marble, feeling the smooth surface under my fingertips. The kitchen was my domain, a place where I usually found comfort in baking and cooking, but tonight, it would become the setting for something far more intimate. The soft glow of the pendant lights above highlighted my curves, accentuating my slender waist and full breasts, which strained against the thin fabric of my camisole. I felt sexy and powerful, ready to take control of this situation.

Joel, standing across from me, was a towering figure, his broad chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. His usual playful smile had been replaced by a look of raw hunger, one that sent a shiver down my spine. I knew that look; it mirrored the longing I had tried to hide for years.

"Darlin," he whispered, his deep voice sending a thrill through my body. "Are you sure about this? We can't be caught."

I bit my lower lip, my eyes never leaving his. "I've never been more sure of anything, Joel. And I know you do too."

He took another step closer, his strong hands gripping the edge of the countertop on either side of my hips, caging me in. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, and my nipples tightened in response, pressing visibly against the flimsy fabric of my top.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he growled, his breath hot on my neck. "I've dreamed of tasting every inch of you, but I had to respect your dad's wishes. He's my best friend, and I couldn't betray his trust."

I turned my face up to his, my lips brushing against his stubble-covered jaw. "He doesn't have to know. He doesn’t own me, Joel. I'm a woman now, and I make my own choices."

With that, I reached up and pulled his head down, capturing his lips with mine. The kiss was explosive, filled with years of pent-up longing and unspoken desire. Our tongues danced feverishly, exploring and claiming each other. I could taste the hint of whiskey on his breath.

My hands found their way under his shirt, mapping the contours of his muscular back. His skin was warm and smooth, a stark contrast to the roughness of his hands as they traveled up my thighs, I moaned into his mouth as his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

Breaking the kiss, Joel stepped back, his eyes dark with need. He slowly peeled off his shirt, I couldn't help but admire his physique, the product of years of hard work and dedication.

"I want to see all of you," he rasped, his voice thick with lust.

I smiled, feeling empowered by his desire. With slow, deliberate movements, I untied the straps of my dress and let it slide down my arms, baring my breasts. My nipples, already hard and puckered, strained towards him, begging for attention.

With a growl, he spun me around, pressing me against the countertop. His strong hands gripped my hips, and I felt the hard length of his erection against my buttocks. He kissed and nibbled the sensitive skin of my neck, sending shivers down my spine.

"God, I've wanted to do this for so long," he murmured between kisses. "I want to make you feel so good, Darlin."

His words sent a rush of wetness between my thighs, and I pushed back against him, seeking relief from the growing ache. Joel's hands slid over my ass, before he slapped the right cheek.

Then, with a firm grip on my hips, he pulled me back against him, aligning his thick shaft with my wet slit. I could feel the broad head of his cock probing at my entrance, teasing me with its promise of pleasure.

"Please, Joel," I begged, my voice hoarse with need. "I need you inside me."

He obliged, thrusting his hips forward, impaling me with one smooth stroke. I gasped as he filled me completely, stretching me around his thick girth. One hand held my hip firmly, ensuring I took every inch of him, the other across my mouth.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he grunted, his breath hot against my ear. "So fucking tight and wet."

He began to move, pulling almost entirely out before slamming back into me, his balls slapping against my clit with each deep thrust. The countertop provided support as I braced myself, my hands gripping the edge as Joel pounded into me with abandon. The sound of our bodies slapping together filled the kitchen, mingling with our muffled moans and gasps.

I could feel my orgasm building, a tingling sensation starting at the base of my spine and spreading throughout my body. Joel's hand lets go of my hip and his fingers found my clit, circling the hard bud as he continued to thrust, driving me closer to the edge.

"Come for me, Darlin," he urged, his voice strained. "Let me feel you milk my cock."

His dirty words were all it took to send me over the precipice. I cover my mouth and cry out as my body jerks around his cock as waves of pleasure washed over me. Joel grunted, his thrusts becoming more erratic before he pulls out and emptied his load on my ass.

I straighten up, my heart pounding in my chest, as I watched Joel hastily adjust his clothes, his face flushed with a mixture of pleasure and guilt.

I could see the conflict in his eyes.
Composing myself, I reached for my dress, my fingers trembling slightly as I buttoned it up, trying to ignore the desire still coursing through my veins. Joel, usually so confident and charming, seemed at a loss for words. His usual easy-going demeanor had vanished, replaced by a look of torment.

"Darlin, we can't do this. It's wrong," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.
I paused, my hand frozen on the last button. "Why? What just happened between us was... incredible. We've both wanted this for so long." I spoke with conviction, determined not to let him push me away.

Joel ran a hand through his dark hair, a gesture I'd seen him make countless times, but now it seemed laden with uncertainty. "I know, honey. I want you more than I've ever wanted anyone. But I'm your dad's best friend. He trusts me, and I can't betray that trust. I have to think of the consequences."
I felt a stab of disappointment, but I refused to give up. Stepping closer, I placed my hand on his broad chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my palm. "Consequences be damned, Joel. We're both consenting adults. We can keep this between us, a secret. No one has to know."

He captured my hand in his, his rough fingers entwining with mine. "It's not that simple, Darlin. Your dad and I go way back. I've known you since you were a little girl. I never imagined..." His voice trailed off, and he shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts.

Then let's not overthink it," I whispered, leaning in close, my breath caressing his ear. "We can't deny what we feel. I want you, Joel. I've wanted you for as long as I can remember. And I know you want me too."

A shudder ran through his body at my words, and I saw the battle raging within him. "God, Darlin, what ya want me to tell you," he admitted, his voice gruff. "I can't. I won't risk our friendship, or worse, your father finding out. It would destroy him."

I pulled back, hurt and frustration welling up inside me. "So, that's it? You're just going to walk away? After what we shared?" My voice trembled, and I struggled to keep my emotions in check. Joel stopped looking over his shoulder before walking out.

[sunhee27]

In Person

Short Drabble PAIRING: Nerdy/Loser! Heeseung x Popular! Reader

SYNOPSIS: Heeseung confessing

GENRE: Fluff, fluff and more fluff

WORD COUNT: 658

You open up your locker and the first thing you see is a stack of white envelopes with big heart stickers and small bows here and there. It wasn’t really a surprise to you, it would happen often, that people would confess their love to you through these letters.

You were veryyyyy popular in this school after all, both because of your looks, but also personality and intelligence. Girls at school were either super jealous of you, or they loved you just as much as the guys. You friends were a good example of that, they adored you. 

Heeseung made his way down the hallway, seeing you at the very end. This was the moment he had waited for, he finally took the courage to do it. Fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, hands sweaty and heart was running a race in his chest −a very nervous Heeseung.

It was so sad how people only saw the worse in Heeseung, everybody just thought he was a loser, a nerd who just got lucky to look good.

Oh god you looked gorgeous; you were so cute when you tucked your long, silky hair behind your ear. He was growing so weak for you, which only added up to the nervousness. You were doing things to him. 

He approached you, tapped you on the shoulder. You turned around, he quickly fixed his glasses that had fallen down slightly. But when his eyes directed to your hands that were closed around a massive stack of love letters, all the confidence he had disappeared.  And he suddenly found himself lost and embarrassed. He should have known that it was a bad idea. You were way over him and there were so many guys you could chose, also sporty and hot ones. He felt stupid and embarrassed.

You quickly noticed what was happening and look down into your hands as well. 

“Oh…s-sorry” He stuttered and took a step back.

God, he looked so cute when he was like this, and you suddenly felt so bad for him. Everybody in the school knew that he had a massive crush on you, also you, he didn’t know that people knew. And you would be a liar if you said that you didn’t also think he was charming and sweet. 

The courage it must have taken for him to go over and confess was incredible, and you felt thankful that he was the first person EVER, to ask you face to face.

You took the stack in one hand and threw it into the nearest trash can.

“No, it’s okay, what is it Heeseung.” You tilt your head, he looked so confused by your action. He fiddled with his fingers as the blush crept in his face. He was about to melt when his name rolled of your tongue.

“No, its nothing, you probably think it is weird.” He was about to walk away, when your hand tucked on his shirt, stopping him.

“I won’t, I promise.” You looked into his wide, doe eyes. He blinked a few times, adjusting his glasses again. He swallowed down before speaking.

“Uhm…uh, d-do you wanna go out on a date sometime maybe?” He looked down, super nervous, but very happy that he did it.

“Ofc Hee, I am thankful that you ask me in person, talk to you later about it” You tiptoe to peck just in the corner of his lips. He touch the place you placed your lips and smile, super flustered. People around you guys are covering their mouths out of adoration.

“In person?” He ask confused.

“You’re cute.” You smile and walk away looking back at him. He waves slightly to you.

“I knew you could do it.” Jake comes out of the blue and swing an arm around Heeseung’s shoulder, who’s smile it super wide, and his red cheeks speaks for itself. 

“In person…” Heeseung looks over at his best friend and nods.

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

Bikes and Bees 🐝

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Inspire by THIS post of mine and the picture I took at the Riverside Museum in Glasgow <3

It's the 50s, the weather is a dream, and your lover just returned from a short deployment. How to spend your time better than to explore the countryside and have a little rendezvous underneath a tree?

《Content》: NSFW. proceed with caution. cowgirl, PiV, creampie. It's so corny and cute and disgustingly sweet but I love it so much 🥹

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The soft tunes of the little radio that stood on your bedside table carried through your room like clouds, gently bouncing off the walls. You hummed along to the melody as you sat in front of your vanity, running the bristles of the brush through your hair.

Amongst the many cosmetic items that were splayed out on your desk such as compacts, lipsticks and a nearly empty cake mascara was a messy stack of handwritten letters.

The sight made you smile as you put down your hairbrush and picked up one of the papers, ghosting your fingertips over the handwriting that you knew by heart.

They were all from Johnny, some from when he was on deployment and others just because. They always had a little doodle by his name, ranging from a little elephant holding a flower with its trunk to small landscapes he had seen. You wanted to frame all of them and plaster them on every empty spot on your walls.

You wanted to be engulfed by the beauty of his mind.

A dreamy sigh slipped past your lips when you were reminded once again how hopelessly in love you were.

Johnny had promised to take you out today, show you the lovely and lesser known spots of the countryside.

He'd been on a short deployment, and although he returned a couple of days ago, you hadn't found the time to spend time together yet.

A knock on your front door echoed up the stairs, and with a quick and precise swipe of Johnny's favorite lipstick, you were rushing downstairs, lacy gloves in hand.

The weather was perfect. It was sunny but not too hot and there was a gentle summer breeze raking through the flowers in your garden.

You smoothed down your dress one more time before grabbing your purse and opening the door.

Your heart beat faster when you saw Johnny waiting with a soft smile on his handsome face.

"Johnny!" You exclaimed, throwing your arms around his neck and hugging him tightly.

"Oh, bonnie... ma bonnie lass.." he chuckled, wrapping his strong arms around your waist, one of his hands snaking up your back to form a steady presence between your shoulder blades.

"I'm so glad you're back." You sighed, your forehead resting against his shoulder.

He hummed and pressed his lips against your temple before gently pulling your face away from his shoulder with his hand cupping your cheek.

"Le' me get a good look at ya." He smiled, your round cheeks molding perfectly into his palm.

"Ye get prettier everytime Ah get back." Johnny said quietly, stroking his calloused thumb over your cheekbone.

"And you're still as charming as ever, hm?" You smiled, placing your hand over his and slightly pulling him down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

When you pulled back, a giggle escaped you and you covered your mouth with your hand.

Johnny raised a brow at you.

"What's so funny, hen?" He asked, a smirk tugging at his lips while he tilted his head to the side.

As silly as he looked with a bright lipstick mark plastered on his face, the sight made your heart swell with adoration.

"Oh, nothing. I'll get it for you, my love." You giggled softly.

Reaching into your purse, you pulled out a handkerchief with a little thistle embroidered on the corner before swiping it over your tongue and rubbing at the stain on Johnny's face.

He leaned into your touch when you gently held his face.

"Good as new." You placed a chaste peck to his lips so you wouldn't leave any more marks.

Johnny hummed with a smile before taking your hand and guiding it to his lips for a kiss to your knuckles.

"Ah can always count on ya tae take care o' me."

You smiled in response, dragging the back of your knuckles down the length of his cheek.

"I'm just returning the favor."

He chuckled and wrapped you up in his arms, peppering kisses all over your face, wherever he could reach.

You squealed and tried to flee from the rough scratch of his stubble.

"Johnny- stop!" You laughed, using all your might to try and get him off of you, the hair on his face tickling your skin.

"Cannae Ah appreciate ma bonnie lady?" He asked in between kisses, his lips curling up into a smile when he pulled away from you, his thumb stroking the soft line of your jaw.

"I didn't say that, but you promised to show me all the beautiful spots in the deep countryside! You spoke of streams, endless meadows of blooming flowers, thick forests- can you blame a girl for being a little impatient?" A small pout on your colored lips.

A sight that made Johnny both want to coo at you and pinch your cheeks and kiss you until you were breathless, gasping for air.

"Ah suppose not. Shall we?" He held out his hand for you to take, a real gentleman as always.

With a firm grip around your hand, he led you down the path from your front door, all the way to the gate of your fence.

Your bike rested against the white wood and you slipped on your gloves that were previously secured to your purse with a shining glove clip.

"After you." Johnny grinned, holding open the gate for you with a dramatic gesture of his hand.

"How very kind of you." You giggled in reply, putting an equally theatrical tone to your voice as you pushed your bike through.

Your eyes landed on the brand new bike Johnny had gotten, the paint glistening in the sun. With a smooth leather seat, matching handles and a sturdy frame.

A whistle escaped your lips on which then a grin appeared as you eyed the cycle that rested against the outside of your wooden fence.

"Nice ride, sweetheart." You smiled, watching as a proud grin stretched over his cheeks.

"A beaut, ain't she? 'The flying Scot'. Much better than tha' Chevrolet yer snob of a neighbor has." His grin only widened when you laughed, a sound that he wished he could put on a vinyl record and play on loop forever.

"Let's see how well you can fly, then." You challenged, swinging yourself on your bike, adjusting your skirt and dropping your purse in the small weaved basket attached to the front.

Your polished shoes were moving the pedals before Johnny even had a chance to answer, and with a shout of your name and a hearty laugh he, too, got his wheels in motion and raced after you.

You rode down the lane where your house stood, past all the well-kept gardens of your neighbors and the short cobblestone wall that guarded a line of big trees. Behind them were endless fields of green with a few splotches of color sprinkled throughout.

Sometimes you could spot a cow or a handful of sheep that grazed peacefully in the warm sun. Johnny had caught up with you and was cycling beside you at a comfortable pace.

You laughed and talked, still being mindful enough to not fall or accidentally pummel someone into the ground. The strong breeze combed through your hair that you'd set into bouncing curls the night before.

He reached out for you hand, patiently waiting as you shifted your weight on the bike and tightly clasped his hand in yours.

The calloused pad of his thumb rubbed over your lace covered knuckles subconsciously, a gesture that never failed to make your heart swell. With a gentle squeeze of your hand, he signaled you to slow down, letting the momentum of the bike do the remainder of the work before coming to a stop.

"Here we are." Johnny announced, swinging his leg over the frame of his bike and resting it against the continous cobblestone wall.

He helped you get off your own cycle, steadying you with a firm grip on your forearm and positioning your bike to lean on his.

You snatched your purse from your basket, giving it a place in the crook of your elbow as you admired the beautiful scene before you.

A field with clusters of color, all shades of the rainbow. In the middle stood a mighty tree, it's majestic canopy of leaves leaving a ring of shadow around the base of the strong trunk. On the edge of your vision, you could see a small stream pulling a line through the landscape, the water glittering like diamonds as the sun fell upon it.

On the other side of the stream began a thick forest, many hues of rich green and brown harmonizing in a way that would make any artists heart melt.

While you admired the beauty of nature, Johnny was busy admiring you.

The way your eyes sparkled when you took in the sight in front of you.

Or how your plush, painted lips were pulled into a sweet smile.

He couldn't help the soft smile of his own as he leaned against the stone barrier with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

"It's so beautiful, Johnny. It.. it feels like it belongs in a painting." You chuckled softly, turning your torso in his direction.

He only hummed and took your hand in his once again, a thing he'd grown to miss when he was away from you.

"So do you."

The confession was a soft melody between the rustling of leaves and the chirping of birds. It was so raw and sincere, so vulnerable, as if it had fought its way from the bottom of his heart all the way up his throat and past his lips.

A flustered smile sat on your cheeks as you felt warmth bloom in your chest and stunning butterflies emerge from their cocoons in the pit of your stomach.

"Only if you join me."

The reply hadn't been what he expected, but it didn't fail to cement your place in his heart, his very soul, even more. He huffed, soft and nasal, before pulling you against him with a steady hand on your back.

"Always." He whispered, a sacred truth only meant for the both of you.

The wide smile on your face melted into the kiss as he pressed his lips to yours. He held you so gently, so carefully, as if you were made of porcelain, a precious doll he'd keep close to his chest.

Johnny leaned into the touch of your bare hand on his cheek when it migrated from his arm all the way to his face. Your gloves were back in their rightful place secured in the glove clip on your purse. He pulled away, although reluctantly, and placed his forehead against yours, taking in the closeness.

He could smell your perfume and your setting mousse, feel your soft breaths on his face and the steady, calm beat of your heart.

"I love you." He said quietly, so quietly, in fact, it would stay between the vicinity of your hearts.

"I love you too." You replied softly.

Neither of you wanted to leave this embrace, but there was so much to explore on the other side of the cobblestone wall.

"Come on; Ah promised ya an adventure, no?" The softness lingered even has his signature grin broke out onto his face.

Before you could respond, you where whisked away with a tug at your hand.

Johnny watched as you were on your knees at the shore of the little river, searching for pretty rocks to add to your collection. He'd started to call you his little Magpie, and even though you huffed and pouted at the nickname, you found it quite endearing. You didn't care about grass stains or how the pebbles dug into the skin of your knees and would leave indents in their wake.

You watched him when he bent down to pluck a bright poppy from the selection of wildflowers. He tucked it behind your ear and swiped his thumb over your cheekbone with a smile. To him, you were the prettiest flower of them all.

You brushed the wooden chips off his shoulders after he'd carved your initials into the big tree you'd previously admired from afar, surrounded by a choppy heart that would tell the tale of your love for centuries.

So here you sat, beneath the carving, shielded by the leaves with your head resting on his shoulder. Your fingers were intertwined as you soaked in the loving atmosphere and the warming sun.

You were in the shade, but the warmth carried itself all the way beneath the tree's canopy. Johnny fiddled with your fingers, tracing every knuckle then smoothing down the back of your hand. His caresses moved to your wrist, up your forearm before he pulled you into his lap.

You only giggled in response, raking your fingers through his hair. They settled at the base of his skull, pressing into the muscle with your thumb.

He groaned in appreciation and dragged you against his chest.

"Need something, handsome?" You smirked, watching has his brows furrowed and he mumbled something into your hair.

"Jus' need tae have ya close.."

You hummed, resting your cheek on his shoulder. His arms were wound around your middle, keeping you pressed against him. You enjoyed the moment, letting your eyes fall shut.

You ignored it when his hand moved to your hip and gave it a gentle squeeze. You even let it slide when it trailed down to your thigh. But your eyes snapped open when they brushed the inside of your thigh and pressed against the gusset of your panties.

"Johnny, what are you doing?" You asked frantically, tightly gripping his wrist.

"What do you think, hm?" He smirked.

Your lips parted and you had a bewildered expression on your face.

"You can't be serious. Not here!"

"No one's around, mo leannan." He replied gently, grinning slightly when your grip on his wrist loosened.

Your brows furrowed in worry.

"What if-"

"Shh. Just enjoy it." Johnny cooed, pressing forward until his thumb was stroking over your clothed folds.

You sighed softly at the sensation. He added more pressure to your clit and you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from making any noise.

"That's it, bonnie." He said softly, a wet patch forming underneath his thumb.

Soft and breathy moans slipped past your lips and you began rocking your hips against his hand.

"Johnny..." You breathed, finding his lips in a feverish kiss while he quickly unbuckled his belt.

Your hands were in his hair and when he'd freed his throbbing cock, he slid your panties to the side and rubbed the tip of his lenght through your wet slit, earning a mewl from you.

"Can I?" He asked, breathless and desperate.

"Yes." You nodded swiftly, helping him lift you up so you could sink down on him.

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, and a moan got caught in your throat when he was nestled all the way inside of you. Johnny groaned, a bruising grip on your hips as he began moving you up and down, back and forth on his cock.

"Oh god-" You cried, tugging at his messy locks to connect your lips in another kiss.

Your lipstick was smeared, no doubt, but you couldn't care about that when Johnny was kissing your breath away, slipping his tongue past the seam of your lips, and hitting that spot inside you so perfectly.

You'd been away from each other for a while, a while that felt like an eternity to you. The symphonies of your shared bliss echoed through the air as you bounced on his lap, chasing that sweet release only he could give you.

"Look at ya. So fuckin' pretty." He moaned, your velvet walls squeezing him so nicely.

One of his hands found its way underneath your skirt and rubbed at your puffy clit, an action that ripped a sound from your throat that could only be described as obscene.

"Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.." you begged, coming closer to the edge of your release.

Johnny obliged your wish and smashed his lips to yours, practically devouring you as you rode him. He fucked up into you in sloppy thrusts, signaling he was close as well.

You held onto him tightly when the perfect nudge of his cock and swipe over your clit shattered your resolve and you pulsed around him with a strangled sound that he greedily swallowed up. With a last few hard thrusts, he spilled inside of you, moaning into your mouth as you milked him dry.

You pulled away from the kiss with a heaving chest, steadying yourself with your hands on his shoulders before you slumped against his chest with a chuckle.

"Steamin' Jesus..." Johnny panted, holding you tight to his chest.

"You can say that again." You smirked.

He chuckled, pressing a loving kiss to your temple. You rested against each other, catching your breath.

When you sat back up with a soft whimper no less and looked at him, you broke into laughter. He looked at you with a quizzical expression on his face.

"What're ya laughin' about?"

"Oh, nothing." You wiped tears from your lashline before placing a peck to his lips.

He was covered in lipstick marks, his lips stained with the color.

It would take more than a little spit and a handkerchief to fix this.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Let me know if you liked 50s!Johnny!!

More of my CoD and other works -> 💫

🩷

Please excuse any typos, it is 2 am 🥲

[magpiepills]

I’m Not Really A Waitress

Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ MDNI

Pairing: Javier Pena x f! Reader

Word count: 1.4k

Summary: Javi takes you for a pedicure then reaps the rewards.

Warnings: SMUT! Unprotected PIV, fingering, foot job, toe sucking, cum eating, dirty talk, pet names, potential sugar daddy Javi, no age gap specified, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader beyond their genitals.

A word from the author: I have finally finished the anon request! ANON! Please let me know if this is what you wanted! No need to be shy! I love you. Javi loves you…anyway, this is my first foray into foot fetish fic and it was fun! I can definitely see Javi being into your piggies. I hope I did this justice. I did watch some foot fetish gifs to prepare!

“I can’t take it, Javi. Please, it’s too much.”

“You can take it. You’re going to. You’re going to take it and then you’re going to show me how much you like it. Gonna thank me properly, hm Carino?”

Javi pressed the money into your hand. He had done it for weeks and it hadn’t gotten any easier to take his money. Every Saturday morning he drove you to the little strip mall and sat in his Jeep, window down, cigarette smoke billowing out like a smoke stack, fidgeting anxiously, eyes scanning the parking lot behind the yellow mirror of his aviators while you went inside for a fresh manicure and pedicure.

Spoiling you was one of his only joys. Long days toiling in the office or in the field, sweating under his tactical vest, chain smoking as he watched Escobar slip away once again. If he could make you happy, even if he was damned for all he had done wrong maybe it wouldn’t all be for nothing.

He tried to stay alert, but he couldn’t take his eyes off you through the plate glass, settled placidly in the chair, long legs bare and feet soaking in turn as a woman an a smock knelt before you, painting your toenails, massaging your feet, buffing and lotioning them, kneading your calves as you closed your eyes, shoulders soft and head dropped against the back of the seat, serene.

After some number of cigarettes had been smoked, you floated back out to him, stepping carefully in little pink flip flops, toes held apart by a strip of foam with little prongs between each toe, sandals dangling from your hand as you climbed into the passenger seat, smelling sweet and, like every week, slid your feet into his lap for his inspection.

Gently he pulled the little divider from your toes and slipped off the flimsy slippers. “What color is this?” You always got red. You knew that was his favorite. He couldn’t tell the shades apart, but you always told him the silly names of each color, insisting that they were all very different. He was charmed. “It’s called I’m Not Really A Waitress. What do you think?” Javi squeezed your foot, pressing his thumb into the ball of your foot, watching as your toes flexed. “Looks really pretty, baby.” He chuckled, pulling your hand close to his face to admire your fingers. Soft and delicate, you rested your fingers over his, and he pressed a kiss into your knuckles. “We gotta get home.” He made the short drive to his apartment with your foot held against his thick, eager cock.

•••••

Javi wasted no time, guiding you in the door and through the dark living room to his bedroom. You knew the routine. He liked undressing you himself, undoing buttons, untying bows, pulling down zippers. He saved his favorite for last, guiding you to lie on your back on his bed so he could unbuckle your sandals. He liked to take his time, working open the little clasps with his big fingers, taking the time to look closely at your freshly lacquered toenails, shiny and red. He was gentle, reverent as he held your ankle, kissing your toes, sucking the smaller ones obscenely, making you squirm. He released them with a pop before he kissed down your delicate sloping arch, up to the curve of your ankle before resting it on his shoulder. Taking a long moment to gaze from the soft little pads of your toes, down your legs, so long and smooth, so shapely. He let his eyes move further, down to your pretty pussy.

He mumbled something in Spanish and palmed his cock through his tight jeans. You loved seeing the thick roll of him, knowing it was just for you. As much as he loved to pamper and spoil you, indulging in your maintenance and care, you loved to show him how much you loved and appreciated him. You skimmed your other toes up his leg and over his thick cock.

Javi groaned, flicking his gaze from your shining folds to where your arch rested lightly over his cock. He rutted gently, guiding you to stroke up and down his concealed length for a few blissful moments before pulling his shirt over his head and hurriedly tugging open his jeans, pushing them down while you watched, mesmerized by his golden skin, the width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips drew your gaze like an arrow down to where he held his turgid member. Mindlessly, your had drifted to your center, your fingertips softly circling your clit. You watched each other, unashamedly touching yourselves.

With his free hand, Javi circled your ankle, using his leverage to press your knee back and open you up to his hungry eyes, dark and laser focused on where you spread your slick over your clit. He loved how your fingernails matched your toes.

“That’s it. Get it nice and wet for me. Put your fingers in.” You could hear the strain in his voice as you followed his directions, sinking two fingers inside. “More, querida.” he insisted, but didn’t give you a chance to obey. Instead he took his hand from his cock and pushed two of his own fingers inside along yours, making you gasp and jolt with pleasure. The fullness and the vulgarity of his fingers slipping against yours covered in your ample slick and your palm rubbing just so against your clit brought you quickly to orgasm.

With barely enough time to catch your breath, Javi was on top on you, kissing you, licking into your mouth greedily, letting you feel his weight and his need grinding against your thigh. His hands never stayed in one place long, trailing up and down your sides, groping the curves of your body. He tried not to rush, he really did, but you were still breathless as he kneeled between your legs, eagerly notching at your still sensitive entrance but only allowing the thick head to rest just inside. You wiggled your hips for purchase, “Javi. Javi please. Don’t tease me; I need you.” Your hand returned to your soaked seam, you rubbed the flat of your fingers over your swollen folds and spread the warm wetness up over the length of Javi’s cock that he refuses to give you.

He watches, rapt, at hope you use his body to try to get yourself off. He would gladly be your plaything another time, but now he has to move. “That’s it baby. Keep rubbing that little pussy for me. Got you so nice and wet, huh baby?” He continues talking as he inches in slowly, watching how your pretty cunt takes him. You’re still rocking your hips in small movements as he bottoms out, chasing your second release and he finally fills you. “Fuck me.” His eyes are glued to where he is sheathed inside you, so snug and warm. You increase the speed of your fingers against your clit as he increases the tempo of his thrusts, squeezing him as you reach your peak. He rolls his hips firm against you as you moan and writhe, he has to close his eyes and will himself to not come right this instant. Not before he gets to finish the way he wants.

With you sated and boneless, Javi feels like he can finally indulge. You know what he wants. You let him move you, stretching your legs above you, crossing your ankles and squeezing your thighs as he rests your heel on his shoulder. You can feel his cock smearing your slick across the back of your thighs as he kisses your toes, nibbles the soft little delicate digits. This is the part he loves, he’s held off long enough. Once again he takes your ankles in his hands and pushes your knees to your chest. He brings your pretty feet to stroke his cock between them. “Rub your tits.” He directed you with a nod his head. You do as he says and surrender the rest of your body to his will. He thrust slowly, stroking over your feet, holding them firm against his length. He loved how it looked to have you laid out for him, naked, satisfied, slick and swollen, letting him take control. He rubbed his thumb over your toes and directed them to drag over his cock and gently over his balls. It didn’t take long for Javi to bare his teeth and cover your toes in thick, milky spend. He panted, smiling and looking over you, and pressed a kiss to your big toe, licking the cooling cum from his lips.

“Gracias, carino.”

[honorarysimp]

2: Coffee is the Answer to Everything

series masterlist

This is the single thought that goes through your mind as you exit the hotel early the next morning. Showered, dressed in a fresh set of clothes, and a freshly brewed cup of coffee in hand. You take a deep breath of the crisp morning air, savoring the feeling of waking up rested and ready to start the day.

Looking around, you realize the town isn’t as gothic horror as the late night arrival had made it seem. The buildings in town are fairly nice and well together, the houses could use a bit of external love and maintenance but clearly lived in.

With a purposeful stride, you headed towards the sheriff's station, which was a short walk away down the empty streets.

Perk of a small town.

As you approach, you do noticed the town does seem slightly ominous in the pale light of the early morning, or maybe it’s just the lack of towns people wandering about.

Charming.

You step into the sheriff's station, footsteps echoing off the linoleum floor.

An officer who’d been sat at her desk stands, setting the folder in her hands down on the wooden top and makes her way over.

As she approaches, she seems to radiate authority and a cautious nature. Her gaze is steely and her expression was one of guarded skepticism.

"Can I help you?" she asks in a brisk tone, her eyes roaming over you with an assessing look.

“I’m the Private Investigator hired and sent out here to help with-“

“Right. The city slicker” she cuts you off, dark brown eyes cutting into your soul.

You only hum, not necessarily offended. This isn’t your first time with small town folk, they’re the careful type with strangers, even more so after some of their people have gone missing.

“The sheriff around?” You ask, she doesn’t immediately offer a response as she turns to head back to her desk.

“Did he at least leave anything for me to go over?” You try again, sipping your coffee to hope it helps with the slight cotton mouth you have. It doesn’t.

“He’s out with a few other deputies doing another sweep of the woods, should be back soon” she says as she grabs a few files off her desk, turning to you expectantly.

She definitely is the “all-business no play” type, so you quickly walk over to accept the files from her.

But as you reach for them, she pulls them just out of your grasp, “these don’t leave this building, understand?”

You narrow your eyes, squaring your shoulders “look officer-“ you glance down to her nametag stitched into her uniform, “Carpenter. I’m not a goddamn rookie alright? I’m here for the same reason you are, we don’t have to be friends, we just have to find your people.”

Her eyes narrow, top lip twitching as if she’s going to rebuttal. Instead she cools her expression and shoves the files into your chest, making you stumble a step back and let out a surprised grunt.

“Don’t talk to me like you know me, you wanna help? Go back where you came from.”

And with that, she heads off further into the station. You take in a slow, calming breath, jaw muscle twitching as you clench your teeth and exhale.

With no guidance and no one to talk to, you head for one of the more empty desks and set yourself up.

You shuffle through the stack of files, flipping through them quickly to get a sense of the information contained within. The reports were detailed and thorough, listing each victim's name, age, occupation, and the last known sighting of each individual before they disappeared.

As you go over the files, you can’t help but feel a sense of unease. The town's history was steeped in superstition and folklore, and the disappearances fit the unpredictable pattern of those stories a little too well.

It might be damn near impossible to convince these people of a logical explanation, if and when one is found.

You pause as you notice a name appearing repeatedly in the files: Ghostface.

It was the name of a local urban legend, a specter that supposedly haunted the town and was blamed for the disappearances.

The name sent a chill down your spine. You’d heard of the legend before taking the case, of course, but seeing the name in every single report made it feel a little uncomfortably possible. In theory.

So focused on reading the reports, you fail to notice the front door opening and someone entering. It wasn't until a voice spoke up that your attention is pulled away from studying them.

"You aren't my sister," the voice said, making you turn your head to see a woman standing in the doorway “is Sam here?”

She’s pretty. Unfairly pretty. She has to be young, mid 20’s if anything, her hair a neat tangle of brown curls that framed her sharp facial features. She assess you almost exactly how the officer from earlier had, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she stared at you with a look of wariness mixed with curiosity.

You smoothly collect yourself, set the files down on the desk and stand, addressing her with a smile “no I definitely am not, I’m Private Investigator (Y/N)-“

“I didn’t ask, what I did ask was if Sam is here” she cuts you off, and that’s when you realize she also has the same dark brown eyes as the officer from earlier. Now that you’re actually taking a second to observe rather than gawk, you see the similarities.

“She’s in the back” you say as you jut your thumb over your shoulder, she offers nothing and walks right past you.

You watch her go, tongue clicking against the top of your mouth “I definitely see the resemblance.”

Once she’s gone, you sit back at the desk and resume going through the files. Memorizing the locations, going through all the records of every person missing and how they could be connected.

A bit of time passes when your stomach growls, you sigh and rub your eyes as you sit back in your chair, taking a peak at the time on your phone. Damn, noon already?

You hear footsteps behind you, making your ears perk as you hone in on it. Lighter footsteps, an unprompted smile tugs at your lips as your gaze goes up to the ceiling.

“So you’re our saving grace then huh? Big city hot shot?”

You hum as she approaches, head tilting to the left as she leans back against the side of the desk, arms crossed yet again. At least this time her expression seems to be a bit more open, curious if anything.

“It’s always a team effort” you say as you stretch your arms over your head, back popping and making you hum in approval.

She looks at you incredulously, “you, a Detective who’s investigating a multiple missing persons case, aren’t a lone wolf?”

You scoff, not bothering to correct her as your arm drapes over the back of the chair and the other resting on top of the desk, angling your body towards her.

“How stereotypical of you.”

“Me? Please, I’m sure you’re already picking me apart with your own assumptions” she says as she pushes herself off the desk, casually making her way around the front of it.

Again you turn and face forward once more, arms crossing, “unfortunately for you, that’s my job” you say easily, but the look she gives you makes something in you stir.

She lays her palms flat on the desk in front of you, looking down at you with those piercing eyes that seem to read through your carefully constructed exterior.

“Why is it unfortunate?” she questions, head tilting slightly.

You purse your lips, eyes trailing down her arms and back up to her face, “what’s your name.”

The corners of her mouth quirk, but she doesn’t answer. Instead she wraps her knuckles to the top of the desk and then pushes away from it once more, pointing a finger at you.

“My sister is right, you should get lost. Haven’t you heard? The Boogeyman is on the loose” she makes a point of dramatically making jazz hands, turning away from you and heads for the front door.

“Another cliché, telling me to go knowing I won’t” you call after her, and again she says nothing.

But she does offer one last glance at you over her shoulder, a half smile displayed across her face before she slips out the door.

You find yourself staring at the now closed door, a sliver of curiosity picks at the back of your brain but you ignore it.

Just as you look back down at the files, the door opens again, only this time when you look up your expression instantly shifts to something serious.

A man, if his badge and stature didn’t tell me enough of who he is, walks in followed by two deputies that hurry past and further into the station.

“You must be the Detective” the man says, reaching up to take the hat off the top of his head, offering a nod to you, “I’m Sheriff Riley.”

You stand, flattening down your shirt and walking over to him, “pleasure” you return the nod and accept a quick but firm handshake from him “and I’m a Private Investigator, sir, not a Detective.”

He makes a face, “it’s the same thing” he says with a tilt of his head side to side, “I’m gonna assume you’ve brushed up on the files I left you, let me show you what we’ve got so far on the guy we believe responsible.”

As he gestures for you to follow him in the direction all his officers had gone to, you can’t help but mutter “it’s not the same thing.”

previous, next

[lilibethwrites]

Confessions of a Valyrian Opium-Eater

Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Female Reader Mini Series

Summary: You meet a gloomy, handsome guy at an addiction support group meeting. He’s charming, he’s smart, and he’s plagued by the ghost of a lover past.

CW: Angst, eventual smut, smoking, drug use and addiction, abuse, toxic behaviour

Word Count: 3500

You can also find this on AO3

It only took you a year of your friends’ begging to admit you might have a problem. It took you another year to consider seeking help.

From the moment you woke up in the ER with a tube down your throat all the way to your stomach, you’d say it didn’t take you all that long to stand at the paved way of this stupid building with a terribly colourful pamphlet in your hand.

Begin your recovery today at All Addicts Anonymous!

You looked through the list again, scoffing at some as though it would make you feel better about yours. Sex and love addiction? Come off it. But then again, love might have killed more than food or drugs. People walked past you, all with their heads hanging down, in their inconspicuous outfits, blending in the crowd; you followed them into the building.

There was a plump woman at the door with the Substance Use Disorders banner plastered, smiling a big smile in her gaudy, flower-patterned dress. You wondered if anyone had bothered to tell her she was rather discouraging than welcoming, trying to hug everyone and making failed small talk.

“Don’t be shy, now. Welcome,” she tried to usher you in with a hand held out. “You’re not alone. You’re so brave for doing this… Have you got any questions before the meeting starts?”

Gods, would you mind if I bashed your head in, you wanted to ask. Instead, you gave her a tight, much-practised smile and shouldered past her. The room was about as carnivalesque as you’d expected. All walks of life were conflated with paper cups in their hands and regret in their eyes.

Your eyes fell on the table at the back with what you assumed were stale doughnuts, biscuits and coffee with a stack of dry creamer packets. Then, to the brooding man leaning against the wall next to it. With a hand in the pocket of his leather jacket and another wrapped around a cup, he was staring down at his boots. His straight, waxen hair cascaded down his shoulders and fell like heavy drapes on the sides of his face. You wondered who forced his hand to come to this charade of a meeting.

All the talk of bravery for taking the necessary steps and opening up went in at one ear and out at the other. Your eyes fell on each and every one around you as they spoke, one of them had a terrible haircut, the other ill-fitting clothes; the one that stayed silent as a grave the whole time commanded your interest the most. With one slender leg in slim black jeans over the other and his back to the wall, the guy was unmoving save for the slow leaning of his head from one side to the other. There was a pin on the lapel of his jacket, a milestone pin that proclaimed to the world how many months you’ve been sober. It was hard to make out the number, and as if on cue, he lifted his head and locked eyes with yours—or rather, an eye. You sharply turned your head away, but you assumed it only made you seem more… guilty of staring.

At least the woman was merciful enough to let you off the hook with a short introduction. Your name, your “battle”, then, it was monotone greetings and droning on and on about how brave you were again, how this step was half the battle won already. You tuned out the meeting after that, your own sob stories were enough for you.

The small garden outside the building was too muddy for anyone to bother stopping on their way out. You gave your back to the warm, slightly damp stones of the half wall and shut your eyes. The night breeze stung in your lungs, and you thought those meetings must’ve spiralled more than they’ve helped recover.

“You’re in my spot,” came a low, velveteen voice.

The guy in the back from the meeting stood so close, looking so terribly like a modern greaser that you had half the mind to laugh and another half to leer.

“Oh?” You looked around in a moment of distraction, and then, scooted to the side. It was a half-wall with plenty of space for a lithe guy to lean on.

“Was only pulling your leg,” he mumbled, and the street lamp illuminated the upturn of the corners of his shapely lips.

He fished out a half-empty, half-crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and tapped a lighter out of the packet. He held it out to you. You shook your head no, and he pouted out his bottom lip in mock admiration.

“Were you at the smokers’ session, too?” he asked in earnest with the cigarette held between his lips and a hand covering the weak fire of the lighter.

“No. I mean, I probably should’ve been, but the runny tar did my stomach in. Don’t think a smoke’ll do me any good, now.”

He snorted at that, and held his chin up to blow the smoke up into the night air.

“You get used to it. With a handful of creamer and twice as much sugar, it’s digestible.”

You saw the pin more clearly, then. Eight months sober.

“Congratulations, by the way,” you gestured to the lapel of his jacket. “You must be like royalty around here.”

“Hm? Oh,” he looked down at the pin, and back at you. “Hardly. Edna’s three years clean, I think she likes coming here still because she doesn’t have anybody else to pester. I don’t think she was even using in the first place.”

You chuckled and the silence soon fell like a heavy blanket. It was only Aemond’s huffs and puffs and the occasional car driving by.

You pulled out your phone out of habit, to keep your hands busy, though you wish you’d done so earlier. Shit.

“What’s wrong?” Aemond asked, tilting his head to blow the smoke away from you.

“Missed my last bus by almost twenty minutes.”

“Oh. Should I feel guilty? I’d offer you a lift,” he nodded to the black muscle car parked underneath a streetlight, shining like a dark diamond. “But you wouldn’t really want an AAA bloke knowing your address, would you?”

“You could drop me off a block away, but I might trade my street for your name.”

“Right. ‘Course. Aemond.” He held his hand out to you, and you took it perhaps too eagerly. “I could’ve tailed you, but now you know too much. Not worth the risk, I’m afraid.”

You snorted and looked down at your feet.

“Fair… I’ll hail a cab.”

You gave him a two-fingers salute and began to walk off when he took one last, deep drag and crushed the butt of the cigarette under his boot.

He didn’t expect you to be on his mind by the time he pulled up to his flat. He didn’t expect he’d be on your mind, either, when you lay in your bed, tossing and turning.

Aemond walked into the familiar flat that’s been home to him and his lover for so long now with a bouquet of roses in his hand. But the smiling face of Alys turned into a sour scowl the moment she smelled the roses.

“They smell like someone else, Aemond,” she spoke sharply, and Aemond shook his head in defence.

“Tell me now, and I promise I won’t be too mad. Have you moved on? From me? I thought we were forever? Until death?” She took a few steps, and each time her feet dragged, the woodwork split open.

“You left me, Alys. What am I supposed to do?”

“Grovel at my feet again. Beg for me. Flay yourself open. Cry. You know I like it when you do that… so handsome. You know there are no women like me. Only me. And… her? Really? How is she gonna give you your fix?”

She turned to the couch, and there you were, sitting with terror in your eyes. Aemond felt his eye burn, and soon he was back in his bedroom with moonlight filtering through the blinds and sweat rolling down his forehead and naked chest. He ran his trembling fingers through his hair. There was no use staying in the bed, sleep never came again after such nightmares. He washed the residue of her from him under cold water.

You’d have to admit you only kept up with the AAA to see the tall, brooding guy who might or might not have been joking about moonlighting as a serial killer. You saw him leaning on his car near the building. The same leather jacket, the same black jeans, the same boots; instead of nursing a cup, he was fiddling with the silver rings on his fingers with a lit cigarette between them.

“Hey, you,” you sounded positively chipper, but his eye dragged slowly from his bony hand to your face, and one side of his lip twitched ever so slightly.

“Hi,” he sounded gruff, his voice was deeper than when he had seemingly made a willing conversation with you the last time.

“Small world, huh?” you tried again, and he only hummed.

You stood by his car in silence, awkwardly shifting your weight from one foot to the other, pulling the sleeves of your jacket as embarrassment began to set in.

“So… do you always come? To the meetings?”

“I try to.”

“Okay… What’re you in for?” You tried to sound unaffected, leaning closer, but you weren’t courageous enough to nudge his shoulder playfully as you intended to.

“Hm?” his brows were knitted when he looked up at you. He flicked the ash of his smoke, and took a drag while staring at you with a vacant expression. He was tapping his feet as if he were in a hurry and your small talk was delaying a life-or-death situation.

“Why are you here, I mean? Booze? Pills? Cigs?”

“That’s a conversation for inside the building, isn’t it?” He sounded sharper for a moment, slightly annoyed and terribly impatient to change the subject.

“Right… Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry. I’ll see you inside, then?”

He hummed again, and that was the only interaction you were to have with him for the day. He was a ghost in the back, staring down at his cup or out the window; and a breeze once the meeting was over, dashing out with long steps. The loud engine of his car was revving already when you were merely out of the building.

The affirmations that were supposed to take you out of bad mental spots didn’t work with Aemond. You sulked over tea, you sulked with a pillow hugged to your chest and cheery shows on. You kept playing that curt interaction in your head over and over again, dissecting it like a detective. Was it your outfit? Was it your hair? Did you look ugly in the golden hour? Did you make a bad joke? Were you offensively boring? Did he like to play with minds? He seemed the type, somehow. He seemed the type with closets of skeletons. There wasn’t a reason left to go anymore. The meetings didn’t tell you anything you didn’t know, you weren’t in the deep end like some of the others that went there anyway. You were managing just fine on your own. If anything, you thought Aemond was a risk—a siren’s song if sirens looked less like birds and more like a tall, lithe, brooding guy that caught your eye and mind and hasn’t let go. You were happier before your nights were occupied by him and what might’ve set him off so that he’d treat you like he despised you.

Aemond’s heart was crushed each time Alys made it clear he loved her infinitely more than she’d ever love him. His heart was shattered to bits when she walked out; and that clumsily mended heart lost a few pieces when he didn’t see you in your regular spot with your arms crossed over your chest, rolling your eyes at melodramatic stories of being born-again. He missed catching your eyes, raising his brows until you had to hide your lips behind your hands to stifle the laughter he so easily dragged out of you. He missed you staring into his cup, insisting his coffee was pudding. He missed lighting your cigarette with his each time.

The more he thought of you in his waking hours, the more Alys haunted and terrorized him in his sleep. She came to him as he first saw her, in high-heeled boots, fishnets and a short skirt that made her shiver in the night breeze. She came to him as how he first had her, with her hair done up and him riding the high of a race well-won, in the backseat of his car, her blood-red nails digging into his flesh and whispering in his ear that she’d had to pay him for how good he was fucking her. She came to him as his lover, watching telly with her head on his thighs and telling him she wouldn’t trade a thing for that. She came to him with her brows furrowed, telling him she was bored, that she didn’t like this Aemond anymore, that she missed the rebel without a cause and that she wasn’t made for domesticity like that. She came to him as she mocked him, running a finger down his scarred cheek and pouting, telling him he was much too young to know what love was, and just how long forever was. Were you surprised I’d never want another bloke? So what if I shagged him once? Be a man and stop whining. She came to him thrashing their flat, tearing Aemond’s books page by page, breaking plates, screaming that she wanted excitement, not this. You won’t even hit me back? What kind of man are you?! The worst of all, she came to him with a rubber band in one hand and a needle in another, sitting between Aemond’s legs and encouraging him to live a little, that being so uptight wasn’t such a good look for a guy who drove like the devil and threw fatal punches without breaking a sweat. Come on, daredevil. Not scared of a little sting, are you? She undid the knot of the band, and kissed where the needle drew blood. Then, she undressed as though it was Aemond’s reward each time.

Aemond hated you for this. It took him choking on his own vomit and his mother nearly dying on the spot to cast out the ugly ghost of Alys the first time she haunted him so terribly. The more he saw her in every corner of that flat, the more he turned to the poison she first injected into his veins. He was good, it was more than half a year that he had peace. Then, he saw you walk in, and he felt himself drawn to you like a moth to a flame that would burn him to ashes. He thought he’d have a friend in you, if he were lucky. But instead, you became another addiction, an obsession. The more he chastised himself for being so wicked, for thinking of you in ways he shouldn’t, the more you invaded his mind and heart. And instead of balming his loneliness, you brought his vengeful ghost back.

Aemond stirred in his bed to the droning of late night game show re-runs. He knew it wasn’t you he hated, it was him. Weak, weak, weak, Alys’ voice echoed in his head to the rhythm of fake laugh tracks and applauses. You act tough, but you can’t even go to sleep now. You can’t even ring her. Text her.

You were more fortunate. You had friends to take you out to pubs, to come over and keep your mind occupied. You had shoulders to cry on and ears to chew off about him. But even then, he was on your mind day and night. His quiet snorts, the twists of his lips, the cigarette held between his fingers, the jacket that almost teased you to pull off of his shoulders, the car that you’ve been waiting for another invite to enter, of how he so subtly sneaked into your mind and heart, how it was already too late when you caught on… Eventually, you were left to yourself, and it all came flooding back each time without fail. Yet, you managed to convince yourself Aemond was a crush that you got over. You told yourself again and again how you were better off without him in your life whatsoever, how you weren’t the one to hold his hand through whatever battles he had with his demons.

The veneer of indifference broke apart the moment you went back to AAA. A stupid pin was your undoing. You had planned it meticulously. The hour was odd, the meeting wouldn’t start for another hour. The day was odd, you knew Aemond didn’t come on Thursdays. But he’d made a change once your seat was vacant. To run from your ghost, he joined another group. He saw you at the end of the hall, talking with an acquaintance with a pin on your collar. He wanted to run, he wanted to scream until he lost his voice and his lungs collapsed, he wanted to dig a hole in the ground and bury himself alive, but he simply froze where he stood, staring. It took him you staring back, your face going from disbelief to shock, and much to his dismay, discomfort and your back turning to him to gather his courage and hurry after you. 

Aemond found you where he first talked to you, with your back on the stone wall, with a trembling hand struggling to light a cigarette. You’re in my spot, he wanted to say. He doubted you’d find it so endearing anymore. Instead, he simply walked up to you and leaned on the stones next to you in silence.

“You were kind of an arse. You are a massive arse, actually,” you muttered once the silence became unbearable.

“You’re right. I was. I am.”

“I mean—why did you even talk to me if you were gonna turn around and give me the cold shoulder later? Over nothing? It felt shitty. I felt shitty.” It was an understatement.

“Can I make it up to you?” He asked so simply, without a moment’s hesitation. Against your animated outburst, he was calm. The tempest inside of him wasn’t betrayed by how he looked or spoke to you.

You didn’t expect a guy like him to own up to his mistakes let alone try to make up. You didn’t doubt his sincerity, but his demeanour took you by surprise nevertheless. 

“How?”

“Coffee? Tea? A pint? Desserts? Let’s go somewhere nicer? Anywhere you like.”

“Is this a date, Aemond?”

“Would you like it to be?” He didn’t miss a beat. His eye was wide and unblinking, staring at you unflinchingly.

“Oh—I—we hardly know each other?” But it wasn’t a no. It was a convince me. It was a chase after me even if for a moment.

“Alright. Just a friendly hangout, then? Let me apologise, then I’ll drop you off. At the bus stop. That’s it.”

Your shoulders dropped though you knew you had no right to deflate. Aemond was being a gentleman. He gave you exactly what you asked for.

“What if I won’t accept your apology?” You spoke after a short pause.

“Then I’ll leave you alone. I promise I won’t bother you again.”

The thought made your brows knit and tied your stomach into a tight knot. Until today, you found it comforting that you’d never see him again—or so you told yourself. Now, the same thought gave you dread.

“Okay… alright.”

Aemond perked up even before you said more. Just your accepting to hear him out was more than he could hope for. You saw him stand up taller, smiling ever so slightly with a glint in his eye.

“Anywhere I like?”

“Anywhere,” he caught up in two long steps, walking by your side.

“You’re paying?”

He nodded with twitching lips—what passed as a smile by his severe standards. “I am.”

You couldn’t keep the stern look on your face anymore, so you smiled in return, big and warm; the kind that warmed him up all over like the first sip of soup on a cold winter evening.  You suspected you gave in too easily, that you might be setting yourself up for another week or two of despair; Aemond thought this little friendly non-date a second chance at life.

[thedeviltohisangel]

Can you do a request for John Egan where a new recruit calls the reader “the major’s girl” in front of them both despite the fact that they aren’t together, just obviously in love with each other?

All The Things I Did (Interlude): A Feeling I Want To Get Used To

chapter 1 chapter 2 interlude 1 chapter 3 interlude 2 interlude 3

a/n: ok tooth rotting fluff. john egan is literally holding on by a thread. which also means my brain wants to put him through hell. if anyone is feeling devious and wants to talk about a spook/bucky disagreement please reach out. let me know your thoughts, interlude requests still open!

Cass was used to whispers and shadows. Sought comfort in them even. You’d be surprised what you learn when people think you’re not around. It was how she learned she’d been given the nickname of Spook. How she had learned Colonel Huglin was coughing up blood. It was also how she learned that, apparently, she belonged to Major John Egan. 

She was sorting through her mail at Mary’s desk when her ears prickled with the sounds of whispers coming down the hall. When she heard her name, she paused her sorting momentarily but regained herself. 

“...and then apparently he laid her down on top of the table and kissed her right there!”

“No! Lieutenant Cooper would never be so public.”

“Maybe Major Egan is driving her that crazy.” There was giggling that drifted away as they turned down a separate hallway away from Cass. It was not like her and John were trying to keep their burgeoning relationship a secret. He would bring her flowers every morning and they sat together in the mess hall for almost every meal. But they hadn’t been dancing at the base social club or kissed each other on the airfield for all to see. She was certain John would if the idea crossed his mind. Was certain he would do it right this very second if she asked. But she didn’t like being the topic of gossip. 

“Find everything you were looking for, Lieutenant?” The secretary came from around the corner and sat back at her typewriter.

“Yes, Mary, thank you.” Cass turned to go but stopped short, unable to help herself. “Mary, I do have a question for you. Were Major Egan and I a topic of conversation amongst the girls last night?”

“Lieutenant-” Mary, for her part, was blushing furiously. 

“I’m not asking because I’m upset. Just curious.” 

“I didn’t confirm or deny anything, promise ma’am. But the girls all have such a crush on Major Egan and they’ve noticed you two spending time together. And someone mentioned maybe seeing you two at the pub in town and before we knew it, we were planning your happily ever after.”

“Oh.” Cass’ words were catching in her chest. Her heart hammering at the notion that not only had people noticed the something between her and John but that they were writing their own fairytale of it. “Well, on his good days, I do suppose he has a certain Prince Charming quality to him.” They both giggled. 

“I promise, Lieutenant, it was just girls chatting.” Cass tapped the stack of envelopes on the desk a couple times.

“Thank you for your honesty, Mary. Enjoy the rest of your day, will you?” She slid her own pair of aviators over her eyes as she stepped out into the morning sun. “John, John, John.” Even the sound of his name put a smile on her face. Happily ever after indeed.

----

John was antsy. Gale was watching him with a toothpick between his lips. The rest of the boys were either dancing with a girl, talking about dancing with a girl or huddled together laughing over training stories.

“I don’t understand, Bucky. She said she wasn’t feeling like going out tonight. You shouldn’t be surprised she isn’t here.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t be upset about it.” 

“Your pouting is ruining the night for the rest of them.” John scanned the room and they all seemed fine enough. 

“Where’s that girl we were looking at the other day?” Two younger men walked past Bucky and Gale and took a spot at the end of the bar. 

“James told me they call her Spook.” John’s eyes whipped to the side so quick it made him dizzy. “If she shows tonight, I’ve got to have enough of these to ask her to dance.” 

“I’m not sure, Robbie. That nurse I was dancing with said she heard Spook is Major Egan’s girl.” 

“Well, if that was my girl, I’d make sure there were no questions about it.” Gale readied himself to intervene in whatever was about to ensue.

“Alright, gentlemen, let’s get a couple of things straight.” John squared his shoulders and held himself to his full height. His threatening words were never able to make it out of his mouth as he watched the two plebeians in front of him look over his shoulder in both shock and awe.

Cass had decided that no one was going to wonder about John and her after tonight. The entire time he had been giving her all of him. Open and honest about what he wanted and willing to go at whatever pace she dictated. In return, Cass had interpreted their dynamic as him trying to find a crack in her armor. To expose the real her. She had been fighting to regain the upper hand. Barely treading water trying to work through the feels he stirred up. But she didn’t want there to be any ambiguity. For him or for anyone else. John Egan was hers. And she was his.

The whole room had gone silent, even the saxophone squeaking out a wrong note, as she stood in the doorway in a red dress looking like a pin up they would paint on the side of a fortress. It was slightly off her shoulder, John drooling over the sight of her bare collarbones, the fabric hugging every inch down to her hips before flaring out into a skirt. 

“Maybe this was a mistake,” she whispered to herself as her heels carried her over to the bar. She waved away the Coca Cola he went to place in front of her. “Something stronger tonight. A double.” It went down in one go, Cass afraid to turn around and face the crowd again.

“Cassandra Ann Cooper, you are the most phenomenally beautiful, gorgeous, angelic woman I have ever had the honor to lay my eyes on.” John had love in his eyes. That was the only way she knew how to describe it. And, God, if she didn’t think her eyes were showing love right back. 

“Thank you. I’m not used to all these eyes on me.” His eyes flicked down to the empty shot glass on the bar before flickering back to her. 

“We can get out of-” His hand was running from her bicep to her wrist to her hand, ready to whisk her somewhere far, far away if that is what she wanted. She shook her head.

“No. That’s the exact opposite of the reason why I came and wore this dress.” She thought back to the hyperbolic version of her date she had heard this morning. Thought back to Mary saying someone thinks they might have seen them. Cass worked in the shadows but she didn’t have to live in them. “Dance with me?” She grabbed his hand before he could answer, as if he would have ever thought to say no, leading him out onto the floor just as the band was beginning to switch to something slow. 

“Cass, not that I’m complaining, but did I miss something?” One arm wrapped and settled around the small of her back and the other held their interlocked fingers to his chest. 

“Have you noticed people whispering about us?” He thought back to the airmen at the bar.

“Yes.”

“I’m sure it’s my fault for not being as forward or open-”

“Cass-”

“-but I want everyone to know you’re mine.” She felt his heart skip a beat under her hand. “That is, if that’s okay with you.” Words failed him so he chose action. Afraid the word he felt and meant but couldn’t say would slip out.

John held her face between his hands and groaned at the first sweet release of her lips on his. Even with heels on, she pressed onto her tiptoes to get all of him. Cass gripped the lapels of his jacket to pull him closer and closer and closer. She could hear the whistles and the cheers but they were muffled by her heartbeat echoing in her ears. He kept her bottom lip between his teeth when he pulled away, Cass whining and chasing his lips for more. John obliged her with a laugh, a genuine and happy laugh, barely able to oblige her kissing antics around his smile.

“I’m holding onto my last strand of fucking sanity, Cass, but I’m yours. I’m fucking yours.” She smiled wickedly and kissed him again in the hopes of branding his words onto her skin. John lost himself in her easily. Easier than breathing. Easier than flying. Easier than singing the words to his favorite song while he drove down an open road on the perfect summer evening in Wisconsin.

“You’ve got a little bit of lipstick on, Major.” He looked downright sinful with his swollen lips and blown pupils and her red lipstick smudged against his skin. Cass nuzzled her nose against his sweetly, her eyes closing with the warmth of being with him for all to see. “Hey, John?” He kissed her forehead and held himself there.

“Yeah, angel?”

“I’m yours if you’ll have me.” He wanted to say something cool. Be suave and charming and impressive. 

“Never letting you go.” Instead he was truthful. They both just had to get through this damn war first. “Cass, I have to tell you something.”

“Can tell me anything.” She stroked her thumb over his cheek and kissed him again, insatiably high on her feelings for him. Cass knew the word to describe them. But she couldn’t say it. Not when it would devastate her.

“I lov-” His declaration was interrupted by Meatball’s barking as he ran towards them. She dropped to embrace him with a giggle, accepting his kisses and scratching behind his ears. “You’re a horrible wingman, Meatball.” John quickly recovered from his near declaration of his love for her. The word and the feelings that went along with it were simmering in his soul the past few days. He was desperate to tell her. Desperate for her to know the truth behind what she meant to him. John didn’t know how much time they truly had but knew they had to make the most of it. 

“Sorry, you were going to tell me something.” She stood back up and twisted her fingers with his. John brought the back of her hand to his lips as he shook his head. 

“Not important.”

“Everything going on in that beautiful head of yours is important to me.” 

“Don’t let Gale hear you say that,” he mused as he leaned in to kiss her again. Cass looked around and noticed they had been swaying to their own beat as the music had changed around them. “I told him I was jealous that he and Marge were able to create their own world whenever they were together.”

“I think we’ve created our own solar system, John.” One where she was the sun he revolved around. One where he hung the stars in the sky just for her. One where they could build a life together and live forever. 

“And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” He let the way he kissed her and held her and danced with her express the words he had tried to say. Let the way he carried her back to her billet and brought her flowers the next morning, as he always did, express his promise for tomorrow. Wrote the words on a piece of paper and put her name on the envelope before tucking in his trunk. If anything happened to him, he wanted Cass to have it. Wanted her to know he was hers as long as he had known her. That he had dreamt of an after with her. That as long as he was here, that is what he was fighting for. 

John could only hope the universe deemed him worthy of having it.

[purecantarella]

Behind the Scenes

short jihyo fic because her solo made me feral in the best wayyyy AHAHAHAH i hope yall will enjoy this one and do stream the zyolo 💓 park jihyo x reader disclaimer/s : none, this is purely floof and i needed this floof in my life rn

"...by tomorrow we'll be having consultation for the outfits in the videos and once alterations have been made to suit you, we'll proceed to filming." Jihyo's manager finished briefing her for the preparation of her first solo. The vocalist was rather excited for the whole ordeal but at the same time it was still nerve wracking.

Her manager, seeing how distraught the singer was, smiled warmly before placing their phone down. "You're going to be amazing, you're going to look amazing. It's going to be a breathtaking debut." Pausing to stand up from the table they sat at, "Don't stress too much about it."

Try as she had, there was no getting the thoughts out of her head. All her thoughts, all the negative ideas in her head vanished in an instant when you ran into the room. Panting for air, mussed hair, and a stack of unorderly papers clutched in your arm.

You'd been running yourself ragged trying to keep your boss happy, working as an assistant to one of the clothing directors in the building. It was good work experience if you ever wanted to work in a field like hers. A shocked expression finds its way to your face when you see Jihyo staring at you, suppressing a giggle.

You smile sheepishly before bowing lowly. Hopeful, you look around the room, silently praying that another staff member was around to ask for directions around the massive building. The singer notices the look on your face, wanting to put you out of your misery she asks, "Anything in particular you're looking for?"

A nervous laugh claws its way out of your throat before you shift the papers to one arm, scratching the back of your neck. "I seem to have lost my boss and I think she might kill me if she finds out I'm asking you of all people about it."

In spite of the fact you were clearly on edge to talk to one of the influential idols in the company, Jihyo was charmed by you. She smiles before placing the mug back down on the table in front of her. "Depends what department your boss is from...Could be from anywhere."

You hear the teasing nature in her voice which makes you chuckle softly. "I'm working with wardrobe for a few artists, if I do well they might consider hiring me full time." You explain, straightening your posture.

The singer nods, eyes never straying from you. The intensity in her gaze leaving you absolutely speechless and in awe. "I'm pretty sure you'll find everyone on the third floor. That's where we usually have fittings before promotions anyway."

You nod quickly and are out the door in a flash, making Jihyo burst out laughing. In a second you were back, "Thank you so much...uh...yeah that's all. I hope to see you around!" You add before leaving again, the remainder of the singer's smile grows.

"I hope so too, little ball of sunshine." She whispers to herself before taking another sip of her drink. The thoughts of her solo drifting far away, in its place the thought of the easily-frazzled, new hire.

The next day, Jihyo was far too tired to even listen to the things her members were trying to pep her up with. She appreciated them nonetheless but none of it was sinking into her. She was nothing but a ticking time bomb waiting to explode then and there.

Upon walking into the fitting room though, she found herself staring at you as you plucked each outfit from the rack.

She couldn't help the smile that bloomed on her face when she saw your focused look. You were much more composed than when she first saw you. "Didn't think I'd see you again so soon." Jihyo says while walking up to you. It made her heart soar when she saw the composed expression just melt away into one of shock. After a giggle, she continues, "Would have caught your name if I'd known."

You smile and bow before her stylist, your boss, walks in with a dumbfounded look on her face when she sees you talking to Jihyo. You flinch before looking down at the sketches of other designs for other shoots. "I'll just have these sent to the execs assistants for approval-"

Before you could jolt out of the room, much like you did the day before, Jihyo took you boldly by the wrist. "No, I'd like it if you stayed." You and the other stylists were rather taken aback. Artists could ask for these types of things, but ordinarily they wouldn't ask interns to stay.

You look to the stylist for approval and when she nods off, you place the papers back down. Silently, listening and watching intently as the group discussed the outfits for the video and then the ones for the stage performances. Taking in every ounce of it. It was good experience on your end to just be sitting in the same room as them. However, it was rather difficult for you to focus with Park Jihyo sitting mere feet away from you.

Then Jihyo took you by surprise again.

"What do you think?" She asks looking in your direction. Your snapped out of the hazy thoughts. The lead stylist tries to distract her from asking you anything. She had nothing against you, but she was well aware you were new. As respectfully as she could, Jihyo pipes up, "I truly appreciate the effort, unnie, but I just want a fresh perspective on everything."

All eyes are on you again as she stares at you with a gentle smile, "If you were watching the music video, which outfit would be the most eye catching." You think for a moment, standing to get a better look at the photos of the designs.

Jihyo watches as your brows crease together, trying to figure out which one was the best. There's an adoration that blooms in her chest when you sort through every piece and as you stand upright with a photo of a top in hand. It's a photo of a black tube top with a denim accent, and you walk to the racks, sifting through the options on display.

She sees you smile as you pull out a pair of baggy denim jeans. "I think that this..." You lift the photo, then the pair of pants, "And this would be perfect...it's trendy right now and it would accentuate your..." You pause, clearing your throat, "...assets while still being comfortable enough to perform whatever choreography you have lined up."

You pause again, Jihyo smiles wider as you continue. "And for your hair it would be nice if you did something similar to what you did during the Alcohol Free performances, half up-half down with gold accessories to break up the primarily denim and blue colors." You finish with a proud smile.

You realize that you'd taken over the meeting and blush embarrassed. Again, you clear your throat, placing the pants back on the rack and the photo back on the table. "But that's just what I think anyway..." You say as your shoulders tense up. Finding your seat an entire table away from Jihyo again.

You're fully prepared to melt into the ground there and then when suddenly, "I love it." You look up and see Jihyo's wide, proud smile. A jolt in your chest made a small smile grow on your lips. "She has a point...with everything."

There's a swell of pride in your chest as the discussion of the rest of her outfits continues. You catch her sneaking glances your way and it leaves you flustered and blushing every time.

By the end of the meeting, the lead stylist smiled and whispered that you did a good job before leaving to meet with another group for their comeback wardrobe. You stayed a little longer to organize the files left on the table. All the while you were grinning thinking that Park Jihyo loved your ideas. That you were given the opportunity to play a bigger role than what you'd originally thought.

You'd always admired Jihyo, even before you met her personally. You weren't much of a fan of TWICE but you'd seen videos of how she was a competent and loving leader, an amazing vocalist, and one of the kindest people in the industry. The idea of her being exactly as her public image had your heart melting.

Not a lot of idols you'd met were anything close to the personas they projected.

You were pretty much done with fixing the rest of the files and photos when there was a light knock at the door. You lift your head to see the wide, bright eyes you couldn't get out of your head since yesterday. The smile on your face doubles in size and it clearly pleases Jihyo.

"Don't go running out just yet, please?" She teased, you blush and press your hands flat down on the papers in front of you. "It seems like you're in a rush every time I see you."

You chuckle softly before Jihyo walks up to you. "I just wanted to get your name before things get too crazy."

A brow immediately shoots up and a burst of confidence surges through you. "Just my name...?" You see the shock on Jihyo's expression and you're ready to take it all back in a heartbeat. But it morphs into one of amusement and a certain boldness to it.

"You're an interesting one aren't you?" Her laugh echoes through the empty room. "It might sound stupid, but I calm down when you're around. Everything doesn't seem as daunting..." The singer trails off, her gaze trailing from you.

There's a silence. It isn't uncomfortable. But it lingers, it's soft and the atmosphere is warm. The confidence still surging through you, you walk up to her, one of the stray papers in your hand. Quickly yet neatly, you jot your number down on the sheet with your name. You place it in front of her.

The singer looks at you, eyes warm but there was a lingering fear that had always been there. Before you know it, you're beside her with your hand on her shoulder. You take a deep breath, "Should everything become too much or overwhelming. I'm always willing to be behind the scenes helping you through it."

You smile, return to where you once stood preparing yourself to lug the other files to executives and to other designers and stylists. The smile returns to her face as you pick up the papers.

"I'll see you around, Jihyo." You say as you wave swiftly before disappearing out the door once again. The singer smiles warmly watching you run down the halls.

She presses her hand to her chest, as she reads the note you left. A serenity washing over her as she whispers, "I'll see you around, Y/n..."

okay this came out so much messier and so much later than i had intended ???? im working on getting back into the mindset of writing and back into the minds and personas of idols AHAHAHAHAH i hope yall enjoyed this regardless tho :"") i can't promise when i'll come back but i have a lotta drafts i wanna get out soon but until then, i hope you lovelies are keeping safe and healthy!! i love you all vv much and i will see you soon 💓 - r

[euelios]

thinking about the pets in pentiment and realizing that while staub is lenhardt’s dog, and “dusty” like flour, paul and anna’s kids almost certainly named süße 🥺

idk it’s really cute to me!!! the lives of animals are so short but tbh their bit parts are really effective when it comes to the game’s main charm which is—the way people shift and grow and soften and change over time. the kind of thing that gets passed on. so much of the game is concerned with perpetuity (art. history. buildings and paintings.) but so much of that is just little moments stacked up together. quiet signs of love and attachment that make up a life

you get teach your little ones to love their work and their art and their pets and their neighbours. you let yourself miss the people who are gone.

you feed the abbey ratcatcher a sausage one day, and then another and another on the days after that. and maybe at some point, you realize that you know this stray well enough to find and feed her kittens too

[artemis32]

Yandere Eli Jang?

Yandere Eli Jang I

He's so pretty, almost as pretty as Johan

Also we're going to ignore the fact that this has been sitting in my drafts for literally nearly a year - I said I was cleaning out my drafts and that's exactly what I'm doing

art's 21st birthday celebration masterlist

Lookism Masterlist

Firstly anon, you have wonderful taste, Eli is gorgeous. 

Secondly, yandere Eli Jang?? Big brain.

Right off the bat I can say that he definitely wouldn’t have met you when he first met Warren, Sally and the rest of Hostel. You would have come into his life at a later stage, when he first started at Jae Won high.

Like I said previously, you would have been part of the Baking department, meaning that the two of you would have met in somewhat unusual circumstances - unusual meaning it likely never should have happened.

The reason you first caught his attention was because you were extremely nice, but not just to him - to everyone. It was a refreshing change of pace to be completely honest. 

He was used to the girls in the Beauty department and other classes fawning over him and giving him special treatment just because they found him attractive. While he tried to remain kind to them, it irked him that they acted so superficially. He was certain that if he wasn’t as good-looking as he was, people would never treat him as well as they did.

When the two of you first interacted, he truly thought you were acting kindly just because of his looks, something that had caused him to act quite callously towards you in the moment. It could have been blamed on many things, namely his bad mood and lack of sleep, but all that would have been is a cheap excuse.

You weren’t really phased by his lack of decency towards you, quickly moving on and not sparing him a second glance.

He brushed it off in the moment, too preoccupied with other things to think about some small interaction for too long.

****

Two months later, he bumped into you again. Literally.

You were carrying a stack of boxes towards the baking department, walking briskly despite not being able to see where you were going. To be honest, the collision was all his fault - not that anyone said it wasn’t.

He’d been staring down at his phone, standing in the middle of the hallway while talking to the daycare about picking Yena up a bit later than usual. He had started walking while his attention was still on his phone. 

Exhaustion had a strange way of making people unaware.

Safe to say, his walk had been cut short. And your supplies had acted as collateral.

The two of you stood there for a moment, neither of you speaking, neither of you moving to clear up the mess of utensils and ingredients. Eli hardly dared to breathe. After all, it was all his fault. You had every right to be mad at him.

Only, you weren’t mad. 

You heaved a sigh, one deep and disappointed, before crouching down and picking up what you could, placing it gently into the boxes that remained intact. 

Eli remained frozen, staring down at you, waiting for the inevitable explosion of anger. Or perhaps he was waiting for you to turn sickly sweet - for you to tell him not so subtly that he owed you a favour - perhaps a date to make up for the inconvenience?

After what might have been ten minutes, you stood up, remaining boxes in hand, before turning to face him.

You seemed tired, but still gave him a small, tight smile.

“Sorry about that.”

Then you were gone.

His brain caught up a moment later as he stared down at the bits of flour and broken utensils that remained.

You apologised? Why?

Why did you apologise?

With a start, he realised that you had apologised to him.

By the time he realised what had happened, by the time his exhausted brain had caught up with him, you were long gone. 

****

As they say, third times the charm.

The third time Eli saw you, nothing went wrong. Everything went perfectly.

It was three weeks after he'd walked into you.

This time, he was prepared. Or rather, he was in a good mood.

He was out with Yena, taking her on a shopping trip for a new pair of shoes.

Meeting you, especially outside of school, could be chalked up to luck - that’s all it really was. There was no other way the two of you would cross paths, so there must have been a deity looking out for Eli, giving him this opportunity.

It was a few hours after lunch, and Eli had decided that he would treat himself and Yena to something sweet. After all, things were finally looking up, that in itself was cause enough for celebration.

Eli’s grades were improving, he’d finally found a job that paid him decently, Warren and Sally had come back into his life and they’d talked through all their past problems, and now he had more help taking care of Yena. 

Truly, he hadn’t felt this optimistic in a long time.

He decided to go to a bakery closer to home, not wanting to linger in such a busy area for longer than he had to.

That’s how he landed up in a small bakery about fifteen minutes away from his apartment. It was quaint, half hidden down a side alley. But for all its less than appealing characteristics, it was pretty nice inside. 

The lighting was soft and the interior smelt of coffee and cinnamon, and there was an assortment of mismatched chairs scattered throughout the cozy seating area.

His attention was split between listening to Yena’s adorable babbling and glossing over the menu, so much so that he nearly missed the barista calling him forward.

Stepping forward, eyes still on the menu, he greeted the person behind the counter, bobbing Yena on his hip.

“Can I get a minute to decide? There are so many options.” Eli said with a light laugh.

“Sure, take your time.”

Finally having made up his mind, he looked toward the barista who was waiting expectantly, and froze.

For weeks he’d mulled over ways to apologise when he finally saw you again, ways to ask why you had apologised when it was so clearly his fault. He’d thought up a multitude of excuses, reasons to explain away his bad mood and rude tone. He’d played through different scenarios of how exactly it would play out.

Except, now that he’s stood here, staring at you as you looked at him with such a blank stare, he had nothing. Nothing to say, nothing to do - absolutely nothing.

So he did the only thing he could think of.

He ordered.

****

“Let me read it back to you just to clarify. One black coffee, two iced lattes, two iced Americanos, one kiddie sized hot chocolate, twelve croissants; six chocolate and six plain. Is that right?”

“Yeah, thank you.”

You nod before telling him his total and his waiting time.

He waited at a table in the corner with Yena.

Instead of worrying about what to say to you, he busied himself with his phone, aimlessly switching through the same three apps while he waited.

"Here you go," you say with a smile, one he feels he doesn't deserve.

"I'm sorry," he blurts out, mind blank, wiped of every thought but your smile.

"...Huh? What for?"

....

You don't remember him.

"Oh, um, I bumped into you a while ago. At school, I mean. I just wanted to apologise."

You give him another one of your blinding, too-kind smiles, and wave him off.

"No, that's not a problem, don't even worry about it."

He stares at you, though you're distracted from the conversation a moment later.

"Oh, I have to go, but here," you say, handing him his order.

"I snuck in an extra cupcake for your sister," you whisper with a secretive wink.

Eli feels his throat constrict as he stares up at you.

"Sister-? Oh, no- um, Yena is my daughter."

You stand there for a moment before shrugging. "Well, either way, she's adorable."

Bidding him goodbye, you rush back to the counter to deal with the ever-growing line of customers.

Your utter lack of judgement had to be what solidified Eli's interest in you.

****

Eli sees you a lot after that. You think it's nothing more than a happy accident, but he knows that he goes out of his way to bump into you.

It's not easy, what with all those women constantly hanging around him. But he manages, catching you as you run between classes, or right after your shift at the bakery, or even as you enjoy a day off, strolling down the street, window shopping as you go.

Of course, seeing him so often, the two of you quickly develop a budding friendship, and he has no qualms about officially introducing you to his daughter, or Warren and Sally, or any of his other family in Hostel.

If you'd questioned it for a moment, you'd realise how convenient it was that you always bumped into him when you had no other obligations, nowhere to run off to. You'd also realise that it wasn't normal - the way your friendship with him progressed so quickly.

He's such a private person, no one knows as much about his personal life as you do.

But you don't question it, thankfully.

Yena loves you.

Understandable, since you bring her treats and gifts whenever you see her. You even overtake the Hostel kitchen on one occasion, consequently making the entire house smell like baked goods.

His entire family loves you after that. And why wouldn't they? You'd baked enough to feed a small army, and you'd presented it to them with a smile.

You truly do bring a sense of warmth to their home.

Which is why none of them question or argue with Eli's strange obsession with you. They understand. They do.

****

Eli makes sure that you become very selective with your time.

He doesn't quite force you to do anything, it's just that he has a certain air about him - one that makes you feel compelled to spend the majority of your time and attention on him.

Not that you mind - he's wonderful company, doting on you in the best ways possible. He's open with his affection, freely giving you his time and kind words.

He's big on PDA too, quick to grab your hand or sling his arm around your shoulder. If he thinks someone else is eyeing you, he'll wrap you up in a hug, gently kiss your cheeks and temples.

Sometimes he deludes himself into believing that you, Yena and himself are one big, happy family. It's a nice thought, one that warms his heart.

But despite all that, you're still slightly distant, not fully invested with any of them. Maybe it's because you know something is off. Or maybe it's because you're both teenagers and you see this as nothing more than a teenage romance.

Either way, he doesn't plan on letting you slip away.

He deserves peace, he deserves to be happy. He'll do whatever it takes to protect you, even if that means protecting you from yourself.

This is all for your own good.

Beating up creeps who try to follow you home, scaring off people in your class who get too comfortable around you, even forcing you to spend more time with him than you do with your friends or at work - it's all for your own benefit. You'll see that one day, whether that's tomorrow or twenty years in the future.

You'll thank him for his forethought, for how willing he is to get his hands dirty for you.

But don't worry, he won't ask for anything in return.

He does it because he loves you.

And he does love you. In his own twisted view of the world, he believes that what he feels for you is love.

It's self-destructive and it'll cause more problems than it solves, but Eli Jang would rather rip his heart out than lose anyone else, lose you.

If that isn't love, then he doesn't know what is.

[adore-laur]

ORANGE SLICES & POCKET LEMONS

— a girl falls for her niece’s charming & flirtatious soccer coach 🍊

——

Amaya's fingertips tap to the beat of an overplayed pop song, her hair whipping from the warm breeze from her car's rolled-down windows.

"Can we get McDonald's?" asks a soft-spoken voice behind her. 

She turns the radio's volume down to hear her niece better. "Not today, Willow. I don't want you running on a full stomach. And I thought you ate lunch before I picked you up!" 

Willow groans at her logical answer, her head dramatically lulling against the headrest. Amaya reaches back and pinches her knee. "Ow!" she squeals with a pout. "I did eat lunch, but I really want fries." 

"We're pulling into the school right now," Amaya says, turning left into the parking lot. "You need to ask me ahead of time." 

It's half past noon, and she's dropping her eight-year-old niece off at the local high school's athletic field for her first day of soccer camp. Amaya's sister works long hours at an office, so she happily agreed to take Willow to and from the sessions when needed. 

The camp is held three times a week for the entire month of July, and she has no idea what to expect. She doesn't know who the coaches are or what they'll do activity-wise during the two hours each day. All she knows is that Willow looks adorable with her frizzy ponytail, pink shin guards, and matching cleats. 

As Amaya pulls into an available parking space, she observes many cars and loitering families. Sticking her thumb's fingernail between her teeth, she nervously bites it. Most people here are probably snobby soccer moms who act above everyone else just because their child can kick a ball. Big whoop. Because of that, she always feels a little out of place in the town she's lived in her entire life, but she doesn't necessarily feel wrong about judging the locals. Her assumptions usually present themselves as true. 

Amaya steps out of the car, walks over to the side where Willow sits, and slides the door open. As she hops out, Amaya grabs what Willow needs from the trunk, including snacks and water bottles in a drawstring backpack, completed registration forms, a regular pair of shoes, and a headband if she needs something to hold her untamed hair back. She passes everything over to Willow, who's trying to break in her new cleats by jumping up and down.

"Ready?" Amaya asks while closing the trunk, knowing Willow has patiently waited for this for weeks. 

"I'm ready," she answers excitedly with a crooked smile. "I see where we need to give them my papers." 

Willow walks toward the people handing in their registration forms, putting her backpack on with a skip in her step. Amaya shields the sun from her eyes and follows her to the canopy tent. Two men are sitting behind a folding table and attending people, so she guides Willow to the line forming on the right where only a mother and her son stand. The son gets a stamp on his hand and then begins walking to the field with his mother. Amaya can't stay and watch since she has errands to run, but her sister said she trusts the people who run the camp, so she's not too worried about leaving Willow for a short time. 

Willow shuffles forward, and Amaya opens her backpack to take out the forms. A man wearing a grey hoodie and a black beanie looks up as he stacks a pile of papers. It's humid out, so she wonders how he's not dying from heat in his outfit. 

"Afternoon, ladies," he says in a deep and friendly voice. "I can take those from you." 

She hands over the forms, and he gives her a closed-lip smile. He's very handsome, with his clean-shaven face complemented by green eyes that sparkle from the sunlight upon a portion of his face. She subtly glances down and sees athletic shorts adorning his thighs, which are spread slightly on the chair he sits on. Tight compression shorts peek out from under them.

He skims the papers and checks whether Willow's name is on the list of kids who signed up. He then uses a highlighter to mark off her name before throwing a sugary orange slice from a bag next to him into his mouth.

"Nice to meet you, Willow," he says with calm enthusiasm. Willow holds her hand out, and he stamps it gently, the washable ink leaving an outline of a soccer ball on her skin. "I'm Harry, and you'll be in my group today. You can head to the red cones by the furthest soccer goal to warm up and make friends while we get everyone situated." 

Amaya peers at Willow and finds her looking up at her eagerly. With a ruffle to her hair, she tells her, "Have fun, okay? I'll see you in a couple of hours." 

With that, Willow is off and running toward the field with all her belongings. 

"Thank you so much for coming out today," Harry says, resting his elbows on the table. "I'm the head coach for the camp, so if there are any concerns, questions, or emergencies, my phone number and email are listed on our fliers"—he picks one up and offers it to her—"or on our website." 

"Perfect," she replies, taking the leaflet from him. 

"And what's your name?"

"I'm Amaya, Willow's aunt. Am I all set?" 

"All good to go, Amaya. Just so you know, everyone is allowed to stay and watch. There are chairs and bleachers available." 

"Oh, cool. I actually have to run some errands, but I'll be able to stay tomorrow." Amaya begins walking away, waving at him. "Have a nice day!"

"You as well!" he calls out, chewing on another orange slice. 

On Amaya's drive to the grocery store, the thought of seeing his face several more times throughout the month leaves her with an unexplainable feeling in her stomach. 

—— 

After crossing off all the errands on her list, Amaya arrives back at the high school two hours later. On the way, she decides to get Willow fries from McDonald's, knowing she'll love her forever for it. 

Walking to the field, she sees the kids just starting to pack up. She spots Harry, his beanie replaced with a baseball cap turned around on his head. His hoodie is also off, and his white T-shirt is damp with sweat on his body. He has a coach whistle around his neck and a clipboard in his hand, occasionally writing stuff down while chewing gum. Occasionally, a kid will pass him on their way out, and he'll give them a fist bump. 

Amaya scans the area and finds Willow trying to remove her cleats. She seems to struggle a bit, huffing in frustration and slapping her hands on her thighs after each failed attempt. A few seconds pass before Harry strolls over to her, handing his clipboard to another coach. He kneels in front of her as his mouth moves to form a question. Amaya can't hear him from where she's standing, but she assumes he's asking Willow if she needs help. She nods defeatedly, and he doesn't hesitate to set one of her cleats on his bent knee, untying the tight laces with ease. He untangles the other one and then stands with a smile. Amaya watches them exchange a couple more words before he gives her a fist bump. 

Harry smacks his gum and looks around, quickly recognizing her and pointing so Willow can see. She ungracefully grabs her stuff and begins running toward her, and Harry follows, his hands clasped behind his head. The hem of his shirt rises, and Amaya can't help but let her eyesight drift down to his soft, defined stomach with two tattoos symmetrically inked above the waistband of his shorts. He smiles, maybe even smirks at her, before returning his arms to his sides. She's luckily saved from any further embarrassment since he gets whisked away by a mom nearby. 

Amaya clears her throat as her eyes focus on Willow instead. "How was it?" she asks, taking her cleats from her. 

"So much fun! I'm tired." 

"Good. Your mom will be happy about that." 

Willow grabs the container of fries and begins stuffing her face with the salty snack. Amaya laughs before looking up to find Harry returning to them. He's lifting the bottom of his shirt and wiping sweat from his neck. It takes everything in her not to look at his abdomen again. 

"Hey," he says through heavy breaths, standing in front of her with his hands on his hips. "Not a very healthy snack to have after physical activity, eh?" He nods at the fries in Willow's greedy grasp. 

"I had some of your orange slices, which are healthy!" Willow says. Amaya is surprised by how comfortable she seems with him already. It fascinates her how kids can befriend just about anybody in a couple hours. 

"They're covered in sugar, you maniac!" Harry argues playfully, making Willow giggle. 

"Wanna trade?" Willow asks, giving him her best gap-toothed smile and offering him one of her fries. 

Harry pretends to mull it over before accepting her offer. His jaw flexes as he chews, and his eyes move to Amaya. He raises his eyebrows and smiles mischievously, flicking his knuckle under his nose. 

"Hi," she says eventually, shifting her footing. "It seems like she had a great time. Thank you." 

"We had a wonderful time. Right, Willow?" He glances at her, and she nods excitedly. 

"I'll be here to drop her off tomorrow. At this point, I'm basically her chauffeur." 

Harry laughs, deep dimples appearing. Willow is distracted and talking to a girl her age, leaving Amaya basically alone with him.

"She's delightful," he mentions, bending his knee and stretching it. "Fast learner, too. We had tons of fun today." 

"I'll be sure to tell her mom. Speaking of, I should get her home. 

"Yeah, of course. Will I see you tomorrow?" 

"Yes, you will. I think I can stay and watch next time." 

"Cool. Have a nice rest of your day, guys." He steps toward Willow and holds his fist out to her. She bumps it while he steals one of her fries and tells her, "Take care, kiddo." 

Once they're both back in the car with the air conditioning blasting, Willow says, "I like my coach. He's funny and gives us orange slices. He also told me to tell you to bring an umbrella tomorrow since it might rain." 

Amaya's heart skips a beat, her hands tightening around the steering wheel. Did he really say that? Why? It seems odd that he'd go out of his way to prepare her, a mere stranger, for the weather. But she's not going to complain. She has the bad habit of forgetting to check the forecast.

She shakes those thoughts out of her head by turning the radio on and letting lackluster lyrics fill her brain the entire way to her sister's house. 

—— 

On a dreary Wednesday, Amaya drives Willow to her second day of soccer camp. 

Her sweatshirt is haphazardly thrown over her body as she impatiently waits for the traffic light to turn green. She was running behind this morning and was only slightly speeding so they could make it to the high school on time. This session is held at nine in the morning instead of the afternoon, so her body is still waking up. She didn't get to make coffee before she left. However, Willow is wide awake, looking out the raindrop-covered window as she practically bounces in her seat. 

The town streets are slick as Amaya turns into the parking lot. Thankfully, they're only three minutes late. As she shuts her windshield wipers off, she suddenly remembers forgetting an essential item—an umbrella. She was so rushed to get on the road that she forgot to pack one. It's not raining too hard, and she has a hood, so she'll just have to suffer through it. Maybe a mom will kindly lend her one, but she doubts it. They'll be too worried about their highlighted hair getting drenched. 

Amaya and Willow walk to the field after they grab their stuff. Everyone is already warming up—kids are running around, soccer balls are being passed, and fast feet splash in shallow puddles forming on the grass. The rain has now subsided to a sprinkle, but a gloom still dulls the sky. 

Coach Harry is easy to identify, obviously because he's much taller than the kids, but also because he's wearing a multi-colored, retro-esque windbreaker with its hood thrown over his curls. He's holding a clear cup of green liquid while juggling a soccer ball with his feet. She watches his eyes focus entirely on the task below him. There's also another bag of orange slices peeking out of his pocket.

Willow joins her fellow campers, dropping her backpack on the short journey toward Harry. In Amaya's peripheral vision, she sees a heavily pregnant woman walking past her while holding her daughter's hand. Harry seems to have a sixth sense since his attentive gaze immediately spots the woman. He effortlessly kicks the ball into the nearby goal and then jogs over to her while sipping his drink. The woman waves and sends her daughter off, but not before Harry gives them each a fist bump. They must know each other well because he soon places one hand on her shoulder and the other on her rounded stomach as they converse, laughing and smiling. 

Amaya looks away before she gets caught. 

Crossing her arms, she centers her attention on Willow, who's kicking a ball back and forth with a boy. She looks like she's in her comfort zone. It'll be nice to watch her today.

It's hard not to notice Harry going down the line of parents, shaking hands, and conversing briefly with each one. She realizes she's at the end of the line, and anxiety transpires. He reaches the person next to her, putting on a charming smile. She can immediately tell that the mom is trying to flirt with him since she's twirling her hair and looking at him like he deserves eternal worship. 

Harry smoothly moves the conversation along, waving at the woman before standing in front of Amaya. "Hi!" he says, surprised to see her, reaching his hand out for her to shake. 

"Hey, how are you?" she replies, shaking his hand gently. 

"Good, good. I'm happy to have you stay this time. The weather's a bit rubbish, but we'll manage." 

"Yeah, I forgot my umbrella at home. It's not too bad, though. It could be a downpour, I guess." 

"Here, I'll grab mine," he offers, already jogging toward the bleachers and opening a large duffel bag she assumes to be his. He strides back, opens a black umbrella, and hands it to her. 

"Thanks," Amaya mumbles shyly. 

"Anytime. I'll talk to you after the sessions, yeah?" 

"Oh, um, sure." She clears her throat. "By the way, I really like your jacket." 

"Thank you. One of the kids said I look like his granddad, so it's nice that someone appreciates it." 

"It's very eighties." 

"And there's nothing wrong with that, eh?" he says, smiling with his mouth wide open. 

She just laughs, not knowing how to respond to his charm.

"All right, I'll leave you be. Behave," Harry tells her with a wink before returning to his group of kids. 

With a small sigh, Amaya mentally prepares herself for the next two hours. 

—— 

The kids run to pack up their things when the final whistle is blown, indicating the end of today's activities. The sun had made a glorious appearance about an hour ago, yet the itchy humidity after the rain is making Amaya's forehead and upper lip sweat. 

As she's observing Willow gulp down water, the sprinklers on the field suddenly turn on. Every kid gasps and immediately runs back over. The bliss of being that young and carefree is always something Amaya wishes she could experience again. 

A few coaches bring out super soakers and spray the kids without warning. An eruption of screams and laughter travels through the air, the scene unfolding lifting the mood of everyone around. Amaya finds Harry curling his fingers in a beckoning motion to sneakily acquire a super soaker from a nearby coach. He catches one before sprinting down the field and blindly spraying behind him. The other coaches toss squirt guns on the field for the kids, and they clamber over each other to get first pickings. 

It's absolute chaos, but her cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

Willow goes after Harry by spraying his back relentlessly. He dramatically falls to the ground and plays dead, spreading his arms and sticking his tongue out. Willow giggles infectiously, attacking him again while other kids gang up on him. He's crying out in faux pain, acting like they're doing considerable damage. The white shirt that he has on (he took off his windbreaker when the sun came out) is now utterly soaked. It sticks to his abdomen, revealing a dark outline of something there. 

Harry eventually stands, holding his hands up in surrender, as the kids get distracted by their parents chasing after them. Amaya's breathing becomes shallow when he takes off his shirt—even more so when she sees his tattoos. His body is buff, and his tattooed arms are covered in sweat. Her mind has an impulsive thought of wanting to bite them. Is that too far? 

He bends over and shakes his wet hair like a dog. The whistle and gold chain around his neck glimmer from the sun as he looks around, ensuring no one else will attack. He does a double-take when he catches her eyes. Grinning lopsidedly, he salutes her using two fingers. She waves as he heads over to her, grabbing a backpack and water gun, his shorts riding low on his hips. Is that a tattoo on his thigh? 

"Am I in the clear?" he whispers, looking behind each of his shoulders as he tucks a water gun in his shorts, but not before flipping it theatrically like he's in a Western movie. 

"I would hope so, but they might sneak up on you," Amaya replies, trying to keep her eyes off his body. 

"Keep an eye out for me, yeah? It's brutal out here." 

"I've got you; don't worry." She smiles. "This was a pleasant way to end the session." 

"We try to do fun things for them after they work hard." He twists the bottom of his shirt and wrings it out. "Willow got me good; did you see that? She straight up attacked me!" 

Amaya laughs and nods her head. She suddenly remembers that she has his umbrella next to her feet. She picks it up and hands it to him, saying, "Thank you for letting me use this." 

"Of course," he says as he takes it. "I'm pretty sure the mothers were jealous of you, by the way." 

Her eyebrows twitch in confusion. "What?" 

Harry leans in closer. "They constantly flirt with me, and it's so annoying. One lady even squeezed my bicep all sexually." 

"I mean, can you blame them?" She pokes his firm bicep. "Look at those muscles." 

He bites his lip and smiles widely, looking a little flustered. He then opens his backpack and pulls out a bag filled with candy orange slices. "Want some?" he asks. "I've got a bunch of extra for the kids on their way out." 

"I would love some." 

"They're my favorite. I love fruit. Do you? What's your favorite fruit? You look like an apple kind of girl. Granny Smith, perhaps?" 

"Granny Smith is actually my favorite! Good guess." Harry beams with sparkling eyes before opening the bag of sugary treats and handing it to her. "Thank you kindly, sir," Amaya says as the sky clouds over, a grey gloom suddenly hanging over the field. 

"A fair exchange for watching my back," he replies with a wink. 

As if on cue, a sneaky Willow comes up behind Harry, and before Amaya can warn him, she unexpectedly sprays her. "Willow!" she shrieks, her mouth open in shock. "You're supposed to get Harry, not me!" 

"Hey," Harry says, sounding wounded. "Give me those back, then. You're a traitor." He reaches for the orange slices, but she throws them to Willow. 

Willow catches them and quickly eats one before running away with the bag and her squirt gun. Amaya shakes her head as a raindrop hits her cheek. She glances up at the sky—it looks like it's going to rain again. 

"Shit," Harry mutters to himself. "I have to shut the sprinklers off. Don't leave yet, okay? I want to talk to you some more." He runs off to grab his shirt, then continues toward a shed by the bleachers. 

It's drizzling now, so Amaya puts her hood back up. Harry soon jogs back with his shirt back on his body and opens his umbrella before standing beside her, holding it over both of their heads. It's strangely intimate.

Parents and children are now filing out, surely not wanting to get caught in the eventual downpour. As Harry chats with a coach beside him, Amaya feels her phone vibrating. It's a text from her sister. 

It's storming badly where I'm working. The roads are terrible, so I'll be stuck here until it passes. Can you please take Willow to your apartment for a little bit? I'll keep you updated. Drive safe! 

Amaya replies with no problem, then puts her phone back in her pocket as a distant rumble of thunder echoes over the field. Not even a minute passes before it starts pouring out of nowhere, and Harry instinctively brings the umbrella closer to their heads as everyone starts rushing to the parking lot. The coaches and remaining parents help pack the equipment. The grass quickly becomes muddy and slippery. 

Harry looks down at her after the coach he talked to walks away to put the cones away. "Where's Willow?" he asks, his eyes showing concern. 

Amaya points to where she is and says, "Helping pick up soccer balls." 

"Can she get any cuter?" He cups his hands over his mouth and yells, "Willow! Your aunt doesn't want to get any more wet, so let's go! And give me my orange slices back!" 

Willow's head snaps toward his bellowing voice. She kicks a soccer ball over to the netted bag and then runs carefully on the grass to them. The thunder has gotten louder, and there are flashes of lightning every so often. The rain comes down in sheets, and it looks like the beginning of the worst storm the summer has seen so far. 

"Are you driving her home, or is she getting picked up?" Harry asks, fitting Willow's small body under the umbrella. 

"My sister just texted me and said that she's waiting for the storm to end, so I'm taking her to my place," she replies while matting down Willow's hair. 

"The roads will be terrible, Amaya," he advises gently. Listen, I have to lock up the concessions building. We can go under the roof and chill until the storm passes—if you want to, of course. It's just that everyone's leaving at once, and the roads will be dangerous, you know?" 

"Yeah, you're right. My sister wouldn't want me driving home in this with her kid." Amaya looks down at Willow and asks, "Does that sound good?" 

She nods. "Can I get another snack? I ate all the orange slices. Sorry, Coach Harry." 

Harry laughs, huddling closer to her. "Don't worry about it. I've got enough to feed an army. Uh, you take this and head over," he says, moving the umbrella to Amaya's grasp. "And I'll meet you guys over there shortly."

"C'mon, Willow, think of what you want for a snack." 

They walk under the concession building's roof. The garage window is open, displaying a variety of snacks, candies, and drinks. There's no one behind the counter, so Amaya sits down at one of the tables while Willow hungrily grazes her eyes over the food selection. 

"I want nachos," she says firmly after contemplating. 

"Can't you just get a candy bar or a bag of chips?" Amaya asks, looking out at the field and seeing Harry run over, his windbreaker now on. He runs around the back of the building and appears seconds later behind the counter, sticking a pen behind his ear and leaning his forearms on the surface.

"What can I get you, ladies? Willow helped clean up, so it's on me today." 

Willow points to the chips and crockpot of cheese sauce in the back, and Harry fist-bumps her. "Solid choice. I think that just promoted you to my favorite camp kid. Even if you ate all my orange slices." 

He turns around and pours a bag of nachos into a cardboard tray, and Willow skips over to sit with Amaya. Thunderclaps and rainfall are nice background noises under the concession stand's soft lights. 

"And anything for Willow's chauffeur?" Harry asks with a sly glance toward Amaya while pouring hot cheese sauce over the chips. 

"You pick." 

He looks at the food choices and murmurs, "Brave choice. Let's see... You mentioned you liked Granny Smith apples. And look what we have here!" He pulls a caramel apple on a stick from the stand and presents it to her like an award. Amaya stands up to grab the nachos and apple, taking two napkins out of the dispenser. 

"Solid choice," she repeats with a smile. 

"Pretty convenient if I do say so myself. I would've given you our signature stale beef jerky if we didn't have any caramel apples." 

"Very funny." Amaya shivers from the slight chill in the air. "Hey, are we allowed to sit back there? It's getting kind of cold." 

"Yeah, there are stools back here. I'll sit on the counter and look pretty while you eat." 

She decides to hop over the counter, not wanting to go back out in the rain to go through the back door. She picks Willow up first, having her hold her candy apple while Harry gently maneuvers her to the other side. Amaya is next, and she hopes this doesn't quickly become one of the most embarrassing moments of her life. Reaching his hand out to her, Harry helps her hop up backward on the counter. She slides her body around, and his other hand goes to her lower back to make for a gentle landing. She gives him a grateful smile as she sits on a stool next to Willow. 

Harry jumps up on the counter to sit across from them both, his windbreaker rustling while Willow crunches on her chips. 

"Aren't the coaches going to wonder where you are?" Amaya asks, taking a bite out of the apple. 

"Nah, I told them where I'd be," he replies nonchalantly. His features appear softer, and his eyes are clearer. Amaya isn't used to seeing him up close and in dim lighting. He's mesmerizing. 

"I can't believe everyone else felt safe enough to drive home. I get anxious if I'm on the road and it's even a little bit windy. Then again, they're parents, so they have more experience." 

"Hey, don't put herself down like that. Better safe than sorry, right?" Harry kicks his legs against the counter and asks, "How old are you, by the way? You don't have to answer if you're uncomfortable."

"I turned twenty-four last month. What about you?" 

"Twenty-five," he says. "I'm getting old, right, Willow? She called me old today because I said my knee was hurting." 

"Yeah, you're old," Willow says distractedly, her eyes zoned out on the rain. "I'm eight, so I'm allowed to say that." 

Harry scoffs and reaches his foot out to gently kick her cleat. He then does the same to Amaya's sneaker, getting her to look up at him. 

"Are you not even going to defend me?" he says jokingly, pulling the bottom of his shorts up his thighs. "This is the second betrayal of the day, love." 

The pet name startles her. And so does his fully-revealed thigh tattoo. 

"Sorry, but you're pushing thirty," she taunts innocently, smirking at his offended expression. "Get it together." 

"Wow. I lend you my umbrella, give you orange slices, try to get you to like me, and this is what I get in return." He's acting like he's speaking to an invisible crowd, waiting for someone to defend him. 

"I already liked you," Amaya mutters, her eyes falling to her fidgeting hands. Willow is too distracted with her nachos to pay attention to what either of them is saying. 

"Sorry, I can't hear you over the rain." His feet trap her own, which are perched on the stool. "One more time?" 

Her lips form a thin line as she tries to move her feet away, but she purposely gives up because she secretly likes it. "I said I already liked you. You don't need to try. You're likable, and I'm sure the camp kids agree." 

"I like you, Coach Harry," Willow attests out of nowhere. "You're fun, and don't yell at us if we mess up." 

He laughs, but Amaya can tell it's out of bashfulness. "You two are boosting my ego. Better stop before I float out of here with a big head." 

"You're great at your job, and I've only watched you once," Amaya adds, flattering him even more. "I can tell you enjoy teaching these kids something you're passionate about. That's super special." 

Harry gazes at her, his eyes softening, and taps her foot with his before releasing them from his trap. "Thanks. It's demanding work, but every day, I come to the field and aim to have the kids go home having learned something. If not that, then the least I want is for them to go home happy, you know?"

She nods, finishing her apple. It's admirable that he talks so highly about what he does and what he wants the kids to get out of it. 

"How long have you been coaching?" 

"I coached a middle school team about four years ago," he answers with a reminiscent look. "Then, once I had to get an actual job at university, I stopped because I no longer had the time. I also lost my love for it with all the stress from my job and classes. After I quit that job, which was a blessing in disguise, I started this summer camp with a couple of friends two years ago. I got my passion for soccer back and became much happier with my life. I do this in the summer and work as an assistant P.E. teacher during the school year. I love it so much." 

"That's so incredible, Harry," Amaya commends, smiling at him with genuine awe. "Honestly, what you're providing for these kids is inspiring. I guarantee they go home and talk whoever's ear off about what they did." 

He sighs, leaning back on his hands with a soft smile. Willow then hops off the counter and reaches up to hug him. He freezes for a moment but quickly wraps his arms around her, rubbing her back. He whispers something in her ear, and she giggles. 

Amaya looks outside to see that the weather has calmed significantly, so she supposes she should get Willow home. "Ready to go?" she asks her. "The storm looks like it passed." 

"Do we have to?" she whines.

"Your mom misses you, so yes." 

Harry stands. "I can walk you to your car. I think I'll head out too." 

He locks up the garage window as Amaya throws away the garbage. Harry then leads them out the back door, locks it, and grabs his backpack on the way out. Standing under the narrow awning, he bends down, encouraging Willow to climb on his back. 

"I don't want her cleats to get muddy," he explains as Willow drapes her arms and legs over his body. 

When they arrive at the car, Amaya unlocks it and slides the back door open. Willow sits sideways so Harry can take her cleats off and set them under her seat. She holds her fist out to say goodbye, and he bumps it, moving a wet strand of hair out of her eyes. 

"Thanks for your help today, Willow. I'll make sure to get you nachos before we do drills tomorrow, so tell your aunt to be here early." 

Willow gasps in excitement, and Amaya rolls her eyes playfully. She closes her door and walks to the driver's seat. Harry follows with the umbrella as she leans back against the door, looking up at him. 

"Thank you again for the umbrella. And the food. And the company." 

"No worries at all. Will you be here tomorrow?" 

"Yep. Hopefully, the weather will be nicer. I'll try to be here early so Willow can get her nachos." 

"Sweet. Thank you for the pleasant company as well. And for the kind words. We'll have to do it again sometime." 

"I'd like that." She hands him his umbrella and opens the car door. "Get home safe, Harry." 

"Bye, Amaya." His deep voice bids farewell, saying her name like it was meant to be said. Harry then knocks on Willow's window and waves goodbye. "Bye, Willow. Meet me at concessions when you get here." 

She nods eagerly. Harry takes his keys out of his pocket and spins them around his pointer finger while walking backward toward his car, the rain dripping off his face and clothes. 

Amaya gives him a peace sign before closing the door. She sees him accidentally stepping into a puddle through the window, thoroughly soaking his shoes. He glances back at her and laughs, then turns around to get into his convertible. She puts her Minivan—which is quite embarrassing in comparison to his car—in reverse and pulls out of the parking lot.

Maybe one day she'll ride in his car with him, watching the sunlight hit his face as she learns more about the man who's effortlessly stealing her heart. 

—— 

The next day, Amaya arrives at the high school early so Willow can get her nachos and so she can steal some alone time with Harry. 

It's a sunny afternoon with weather that's not too humid or too chilly. She's wearing a white romper with sandals, two daisy clips in her hair, and sunglasses. Now that Harry is paying attention to her, she may or may not have gotten dressed up. 

Willow springs out of the car, hauling all her necessary stuff, and immediately heads over to the concessions building by the bleachers. She hasn't eaten anything since lunch to save her hunger for the nachos. The camp starts at three today, so she's definitely starving. 

Amaya follows her, already seeing her jumping up and down near the open garage window. Then she sees Harry behind the counter with a tray of nachos already made. Damn, he looks good. He wears sunglasses, a red bandana holding his hair back, and a black athletic jacket. For some reason, he looks more like a soccer coach today than the previous days.

She catches Harry's eyes, and he smiles while jerking his chin in greeting. She boldly hops onto the counter and sits cross-legged as Willow settles at the table and braids her hair. 

"Hello," he says, poking her daisy hair clips with his fingers. "I love those. Are you going somewhere fancy after this?" 

"This is fancy to you? But no, I just wanted to get a little dolled up." She shrugs, trying not to blush. "It's Friday." 

"Have any plans tonight?" he asks, fidgeting with his car keys on the counter. 

"Nope. Just me in my apartment with my dog." 

"Cool, cool. Nice. Uh, did you want a snack?" 

Amaya senses a hint of nervousness in his actions and tone. "I'll take some Skittles, please." 

Harry reaches into the fridge for the candy and then slides the package to her. She takes it and then lightly touches the bandana that secures his curls. 

"I like your bandana." 

"It'll be so fuckin' sweaty by the end of the day," he mutters quietly, so Willow doesn't hear his foul language. 

"Gross," she says with a grimace. "At least it's not raining." 

"Yeah, that's true. Did you guys get home safe and sound yesterday?" 

"It wasn't too bad of a drive. You?" 

"I had to put the top up on my convertible for the first time in a while." 

She opens her Skittles and pops one on her tongue. "Your car is so sick, by the way. Kind of sexy." 

"Amaya!" he scolds playfully and looks around, like what she said was controversial. "You can't be talking to me like that with your cute little outfit." 

Her skin heats profusely as she shoves more Skittles into her mouth. Suddenly, and thankfully, a coach walks over and signals Harry to get back to the field since the kids are starting to arrive. 

"All right, you two get out of here," Harry says. "See you in a bit." 

"Willow, let's go," Amaya says, heading toward the field while throwing the empty nacho tray into the trash. She really scarfed those down.

When she glances behind her at the concession stand, she sees Harry walk around the building with two items in his hands. Some fateful type of magnetism causes her to go back and meet him halfway. 

Once the distance is closed, she sees an orange in one of his hands and a lemon in the other. She furrows her brows, wondering why he randomly has two fruits. Harry starts juggling them as he casually approaches her while whistling a tune. She smiles wide and slowly shakes her head, wanting to question his weird antics. 

He stops in front of her, still juggling, until the lemon slips from his hand and drops to the ground. He picks it up and waves his hands. "You think I should quit coaching and join the circus?"

"Very impressive," Amaya says, admiring his large hand that effortlessly holds the two fruits. "May I ask why you have an orange and a lemon?" 

He shrugs cutely. "A magician never reveals his secrets." She narrows her eyes at him with a twitch of a smirk pulling at her lips. He's acting strange. "Well, I've got to dip and coach some kids," he adds breezily, tossing the orange up and down. 

"All right, you go do that. Have fun with your... fruit." 

When he brushes past her, he sneakily slips the lemon into the pocket of her romper. She turns around and stares at him in bewilderment, yet he just smiles innocently at her. The short interaction with him felt like a fever dream. 

Amaya stuffs her hand in her pocket and takes the lemon out. Her breath hitches when she looks at it. There's something written on it with a black marker. 

262-437-4584 

Call me. 

- H

She looks up and finds Harry distracted by talking to a coach as they write things on their clipboards. 

She puts the lemon back in her pocket for safekeeping and stands on the sidelines, a giddy feeling swirling around with butterflies in her stomach. 

—— 

When the kids are packing up again, Amaya spots Harry walking over, phone in hand, while typing something. Willow is getting picked up by her mom today since it was an evening session, so she decided earlier to stick around and hang out with Harry. She had already said goodbye to Willow before waiting for Harry on the field as he finished his coaching duties. He gave Willow his signature fist bump and a hug before she left.

Harry shuts his phone off and then jogs the remaining way, placing a gentle arm around Amaya's shoulders. Leaning close, he murmurs, "I was so nervous you'd think that lemon thing was weird, so I apologize for not paying attention to you for the past two hours. I was scared I would look, and you'd be gone." 

She laughs and heads toward the concession stand, thoroughly enjoying the weight of his arm on her. "I have to say, no one has ever given me their number on a lemon before. You get extra points for that." 

"I don't know why I did that. I was waiting for you and Willow to get here, then finally got the balls to make a move. And I didn't have anything to write my number on, so I stole a lemon from the fridge. It's a scientific fact that it's a close substitute for paper." Amaya snorts a laugh and subtly leans into his side as they clumsily walk under the awning. "I made that up," he adds quickly, guiding her to a table. 

"I figured," she replies as she sits next to him. 

The sun is taking its time going down, causing golden hour to be in full swing. Harry takes his jacket off, leaving him in a gray T-shirt, and Amaya feels like she could look at him forever. His tanned skin is glowing from the orange hue of the sky, and his eyes are bright with flecks of gold that look like they were taken from the sun. His lips look more pink and inviting than usual.

Harry reaches into his back pocket and takes out a packet of skittles. "I, uh, put these in the cooler so they wouldn't melt," he mumbles, ripping open the package and shaking some out in her palms. "They're for you." 

She eats a red one first—the best flavor—before saying, "Thank you, Harry. That's very thoughtful." 

He clears his throat and bounces his knee. "So, I know we'll be seeing each other during camp for the rest of the month, but I would really like to see you outside a soccer field filled with kids. We could maybe go bowling or mini-golfing. Something fun, you know?" He shakily runs a hand down his face. "A date is what I'm trying to say. And you can totally reject me. I gave you my phone number on a lemon, so I'd understand." 

Amaya places her hand over his so that it stops fidgeting. "Harry, I'm not going to reject you. I'd love nothing more than to go out together. I really like you." 

He goes still, looks up at her, then exhales sharply, shifting his legs to straddle the picnic table seat. "Yeah? You'd seriously like that? You can pick where we go. I don't care. I just want to hang out with you." 

She nods and flips his hand to intertwine their fingers. Harry nudges his foot against hers under the table with a radiant smile. They end up scooting closer to one another, and Amaya peeks behind her to check if people are lingering, but everyone seems to have left. 

"I haven't gone mini-golfing in ages, so we should do that," she says, staring at the horizon. "I should get home now, though. I have to feed my dog." 

Harry stands and releases her hand. "Mini-golf it is, then. Let me walk you to your car." 

He quickly locks the concession stand and then strides over to Amaya, slinging an arm around her waist. They make it to her car, and she leans against the trunk while reaching up to delicately drape her arms around his neck. However, she feels a weight in her pocket when she lifts them up. She forgot about the lemon.

Taking it out, she smirks at Harry. He shyly rests his forehead on her shoulder and mumbles something incoherent. She moves his head away and asks, "What did you say?" 

He sighs dramatically and lifts his head, poking at the fruit's wrinkly skin that spent hours in the summer heat. "I said I thought it would be romantic, but now I feel stupid. Look, it's starting to shrivel." 

"Harry, it's incredibly sweet. I'll remember this forever." 

"You could dry it out and frame it," he says with a breathy giggle. 

Amaya throws her head back, laughing, her cheeks aching from smiling all day. "Honestly, it's not a bad idea," she says, rubbing a hand across his firm chest. "But seriously, I can't wait to see you for our date—and to see you in something other than athletic wear." 

"Oh, get ready. I'm going to mini-golf in a full suit—perm, eyeliner, the whole shebang." 

"I wouldn't care. You'd annoyingly pull it off." 

Harry becomes silent before inhaling deeply and stepping closer to her. She places her hands around his neck again. "Drive safe." His hands squeeze her waist. "We'll talk on Monday about our date, yeah?" 

"Absolutely." She stares at his lips, and he instantly wets their plush skin. "Can I kiss you? Please?" 

"Please," he whispers. 

Amaya meets his warm lips, kissing his bottom one with pure infatuation. She feels the slight scruff on his cupid's bow, liking how it scratches against her flushed skin. Harry kisses her back as he presses her closer to his body. His tongue parts her lips and strokes hers with his, getting lost in the heat of the moment like two students trying not to get caught by the principal. 

Harry kisses her neck, starting with small pecks and then moving to slow, open-mouthed kisses, nipping softly every so often. Amaya leans her head back, tangling her fingers at the nape of his neck and playing with the knot of his bandana. He moves back to her lips and kisses her, making her quietly whine because she wants more, but she realizes they're in a public parking lot, and she needs to get home. They have all the time in the world to do this on their date. 

Resting her cheek on his collarbone, she regretfully says, "I have to go. I'll see you Monday, okay?" 

"That's too long," Harry says with a pout. 

"It's only three days away." 

"I know. Hey, can you wear these again on Monday?" he asks, fiddling with the daisy clips in her hair. 

She takes one out and clips it in his hair. "Yes, anything for you." He lifts her off the ground, and she squeals. "I'm leaving now. Behave." 

"Yes, ma'am," he says, setting her down and stepping back before another make-out session ensues. 

Amaya opens her car door and slides in. Harry taps the top of her minivan twice before kissing her cheek softly. "I'll miss you, Amaya," he murmurs against her skin. 

She shivers at his raspy voice and kisses his dimple. "Bye. I'll miss you, too." 

She shuts the door and starts the engine, rolling her window down and watching him walk backward to his convertible that's a couple spaces away. She notices he's a terrible parker. 

"Nice park job, dude," she says while pointing out his car, which has its front right wheel over the white line. 

Harry glances over his shoulder to survey his parking. He's still walking backward with his hands in his pockets, his brows furrowed. He trips over his own two feet and stumbles slightly before regaining balance. He looks up at her as she starts laughing at him, and he jokingly flips her off while turning around to get in his car. 

He jumps over the door like a charming idiot. 

Amaya can't wait to see him again. 

Before he can leave, she spontaneously decides to return his romantic lemon gesture. She takes it out of her pocket and grabs a black marker she keeps in her center console, which is full of random junk. She writes her number on the other side, which is luckily not too shriveled, and then adds a heart next to it. 

She honks the steering wheel's horn as Harry puts on his seatbelt, and he jolts and gives her the middle finger again. She claps her hands twice and opens her palms, motioning for him to mimic her. He does so with a confused expression on his face. Blowing on the lemon so the marker dries, she holds it up. His brows dip even more, but she gets ready to throw it. His hands are in a baseball umpire position as she throws the lemon over to his car, and he reaches forward and catches it with one hand, looking at it with a perplexed frown. 

He rolls it around in his hand and then finally sees her number. He slowly smirks and glances up at her. 

She waves at him before reversing out of the parking space. She watches him from outside the window and sees him peck his lips on the lemon. 

Slowing down her car, Amaya calls out, "Text me tonight! Drive home safe and stop parking like an asshole!" 

Harry smiles infectiously while biting his lip, his teeth peeking out. "We can video call if you're comfortable!" he calls back. "I'll miss your face as soon as you leave!" 

She rolls her eyes at his cheesiness. "By the way," she adds with her foot on the brake, "what did you whisper to Willow yesterday at the concession stand?" 

Harry tilts his head and smiles as he remembers. "I said her aunt is a beautiful woman." He rolls the lemon around in his palm. "And that I really like her." 

Blood rushes to Amaya's face as she stares at him in awe. She waves goodbye one last time before driving away, and as she adjusts her romper, she feels something in her pocket. She reaches in and pulls out a bag of orange slices that Harry must have slipped in there while they were kissing. 

On the bag is written: 

For Amaya, the one I desire. 

(Pretend that rhymes.) 

- H 

She squeals happily like a middle school girl who just found out her crush likes her back, then takes an orange slice out and bites into it. 

She lets Harry's sugary sweetness take over her senses the entire way home. 

——