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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

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How unions won a 30% raise for every fast food worker in California

Tonight (September 14), I'm hosting the EFF Awards in San Francisco. On September 22, I'm (virtually) presenting at the DIG Festival in Modena, Italy.

Anything that can't go on forever will eventually stop. 40 years of declining worker power shattered the American Dream (TM), producing multiple generations whose children fared worse than their parents, cratering faith in institutions and hope for a better future.

The American neoliberal malaise – celebrated in by "centrists" who insisted that everything was fine and nothing could be changed – didn't just lead to a sense of helplessness, but also hopelessness. Denialism and nihilism are Siamese twins, and the YOLO approach to the climate emergency, covid mitigation, the housing crisis and other pressing issues can't be disentangled from the Thatcherite maxim that "There is NoA lternative." If there's no alternative, then we're doomed. Dig a hole, climb inside, pull the dirt down on top of yourself.

But anything that can't go on forever will eventually stop. For decades, leftists have taken a back seat to liberals in the progressive coalition, allowing "unionize!" to be drowned out by "learn to code!" The liberal-led coalition ceded the mantle of radical change to fake populist demagogues on the right.

This opened a space for a mirror-world politics that insisted that "conservatives" were the true defenders of women (because they were transphobes), of bodily autonomy (because they were vaccine deniers), of the environment (because they opposed wind-farms) and of workers (because they opposed immigration):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

Anything that can't go on forever will eventually stop. A new coalition dedicated to fighting corporate power has emerged, tackling capitalism's monopoly power, and the corruption and abuse of workers it enables. That coalition is global, it's growing, and it's kicking ass.

Case in point: California just passed a law that will give every fast-food worker in the state a 30% raise. This law represents a profound improvement to the lives of the state's poorest workers – workers who spend long hours feeding their neighbors, but often can't afford to feed themselves at the end of a shift.

But just as remarkable as the substance of this new law is the path it took – a path that runs through a new sensibility, a new vibe, that is more powerful than mere political or legal procedure. The story is masterfully told in The American Prospect by veteran labor writer Harold Meyerson:

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-09-13-half-million-california-workers-get-raise/

The story starts with Governor Newsom signing a bill to create a new statewide labor-business board to mediate between workers and bosses, with the goal of elevating the working conditions of the state's large, minimum-wage workforce. The passage of this law triggered howls of outrage from the state's fast-food industry, who pledged to spend $200m to put forward a ballot initiative to permanently kill the labor-business board.

This is a familiar story. In 2019, California's state legislature passed AB-5, a bill designed to end the gig-work fiction that people whose boss is an algorithm are actually "independent businesses," rather than employees. AB5 wasn't perfect – it swept up all kinds of genuine freelancers, like writers who contributed articles to many publications – but the response wasn't aimed at fixing the bad parts. It was designed to destroy the good parts.

After AB-5, Uber and Lyft poured more than $200m into Prop 22, a ballot initiative designed to permanently bar the California legislature from passing any law to protect "gig workers." Prop 22's corporate backers flooded the state with disinformation, and procured a victory in 2020. The aftermath was swift and vicious, with Prop 22 used as cover in mass-firings of unionized workers across the state's workforce:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/05/manorialism-feudalism-cycle/#prop22

Workers and the politicians who defend them were supposed to be crushed by Prop 22. Its message was "there is no alternative." "Abandon hope all ye who enter here." "Resistance is futile." Prop 22 was worth spending $200m on because it wouldn't just win this fight – it would win all fights, forever.

But that's not what happened. When the fast-food barons announced that they were going to pump another $200m into a state ballot initiative to kill fair wages for food service workers, they got a hell of a surprise. SEIU – a union that has long struggled to organize fast-food workers – collaborated with progressive legislators to introduce a pair of new, even further-reaching bills.

One bill would have made the corporate overseers of franchise businesses jointly liable for lawbreaking by franchisees – so if a McDonald's restaurant owner stole their employees' wages, McDonalds corporate would also be on the hook for the offense. The second bill would restore funding and power to the state Industrial Welfare Commission, which once routinely intervened to set wages and working standards in many state industries:

https://www.gtlaw-laborandemployment.com/2023/08/the-california-iwc-whats-old-is-new-again/

Fast-food bosses fucked around, and boy did they find out. Funding for the IWC passed the state budget, and the franchisee joint liability is set to pass the legislature this week. The fast-food bosses cried uncle and begged Newsom's office for a deal. In exchange for defunding the IWC and canceling the vote on the liability bill, the industry has agreed to an hourly wage increase for the state's 550,000 fast-food workers, from $15.50 to $20, taking effect in April.

The deal also includes annual raises of either 3.5% or the real rise in cost of living. It keeps the labor-management council that the original bill created (the referendum on killing that council has been cancelled). The council will include two franchisees, two fast food corporate reps, two union reps, two front-line fast-food workers and a member of the public. It will have the power to direct the state Department of Labor to directly regulate working conditions in fast-food restaurants, from health and safety to workplace violence.

It's been nearly a century since business/government/labor boards like this were commonplace. The revival is a step on the way to bringing back the practice of sectoral bargaining, where workers set contracts for all employers in an industry. Sectoral bargaining was largely abolished through the dismantling of the New Deal, though elements of it remain. Entertainment industry unions are called "guilds" because they bargain with all the employers in their sector – which is why all of the Hollywood studios are being struck by SAG-AFTRA and the WGA.

So what changed between 2020 – when rideshare bosses destroyed democratic protections for workers by flooding the zone with disinformation to pass Prop 22 – and 2023, when the fast food bosses folded like a cheap suit? It wasn't changes to the laws governing ballot initiatives, nor was it a lack of ready capital for demolishing worker rights. Fast food executives weren't visited by three ghosts in the night who convinced them to care for their workers. Their hearts didn't grow by three sizes.

What changed was the vibe. The Hot Labor Summer was a rager, and it's not showing any signs of slowing. Obviously that's true in California, where nurses and hotel workers are also striking, and where strikebreaking companies like Instawork ("Uber for #scabs") attract swift regulatory sanction, rather than demoralized capitulation:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/30/computer-says-scab/#instawork

The hot labor summer wasn't a season – it was a turning point. Everyone's forming unions. Think of Equity Strip NoHo, the first strippers' union in a generation, which won recognition from their scumbag bosses at North Hollywood's Star Garden Club, who used every dirty trick to kill workplace democracy.

The story of the Equity Strippers is amazing. Two organizers, Charlie and Lilith, appeared on Adam Conover's Factually podcast to describe the incredible creativity and solidarity they used to win recognition, and the continuing struggle to get a contract out of their bosses, who are still fucking around and assuming they will not find out:

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

Like the fast-food bosses, the Star Garden's owners are in for a surprise. One of the most powerful elements of the Equity Strippers' story is the solidarity of their customers. Star Garden's owners assumed that their clientele were indiscriminate, horny assholes who didn't care about the wellbeing of the workers they patronized, and would therefore cross a picket-line because parts is parts.

Instead, the bar's clientele sided with the workers. People everywhere are siding with workers. A decade ago, when video game actors voted on a strike, the tech workers who coded the games were incredibly hostile to them. "Why should you get residuals for your contribution to this game when we don't?"

But SAG-AFTRA members who provide voice acting for games just overwhelmingly voted to authorize a strike, and this time the story is very different. This time, tech workers are ride-or-die for their comrades in the sound booths:

https://www.latimes.com/entertainment-arts/business/story/2023-09-13/video-game-voice-actor-sag-strike-interactive-agreement-actors-strike

What explains the change in tech workers' animal sentiments? Well, on the one hand, labor rights are in the air. The decades of cartoonish, lazy dismissals of labor struggles have ended. And on the other hand, tech workers have been proletarianized, with 260,000 layoffs in the sector, including 12,000 layoffs at Google that came immediately after a stock buyback that would have paid those 12,000 salaries for the next 27 years:

https://doctorow.medium.com/the-proletarianization-of-tech-workers-ad0a6b09f7e6

Larry Lessig once laid out a theory of change that holds that our society is governed by four forces: law (what's legal), norms (what's socially acceptable), markets (what's profitable) and code (what's technologically possible):

https://cs.stanford.edu/people/eroberts/cs181/projects/2010-11/CodeAndRegulation/about.html

These four forces interact. When queer relationships were normalized, it made it easier to legalize them, too – and then the businesses that marriage equality became both a force for more normalization and legal defense.

When Lessig formulated this argument, much of the focus was on technology – how file-sharing changed norms, which changed law. But as the decades passed, I've come to appreciate what the argument says about norms, the conversations we have with one another.

Neoliberalism wants you to think that you're an individual, not a member of a polity. Neoliberalism wants you to bargain with your boss as a "free agent," not a union member. It wants you to address the climate emergency by recycling more carefully – not by demanding laws banning single-use plastics. It wants you to fight monopolies by shopping harder – not by busting trusts.

But that's not what we're doing – not anymore. We're forming unions. We're demanding a Green New Deal. And we're busting some trusts. The DoJ Antitrust Division case against Google is the (first) trial of the century, reviving the ancient and noble practice of fighting monopolies with courts, not empty platitudes.

The trial is incredible, and Yosef Weitzman's reporting on Big Tech On Trial is required reading. I'm following it closely (thankfully, there's a fulltext RSS feed):

https://www.bigtechontrial.com/p/what-makes-google-great

The neoliberal project of instilling learned helplessness about corporate power has hit the wall, and it's wrecked. The same norms that made us furious enough to put Google on trial are the norms that made us angry – not cynical – about Clarence Thomas's bribery scandals:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/06/clarence-thomas/#harlan-crow

And they're the same norms that made us support our striking comrades, from hotel housekeepers to Hollywood actors, from strippers to Starbucks baristas:

https://thetyee.ca/News/2023/09/13/Starbucks-Workers-Back-At-Strike/

Yes, Starbucks baristas. The Starbucks unions that won hard-fought recognition drives are now fighting the next phase of corporate fuckery: Starbucks corporate's refusal to bargain for a contract. Starbucks is betting that if they just stall long enough, the workers who support the union will move on and they'll be able to go back to abusing their workers without worrying about a union.

They're fucking around, and they're finding out. Starbucks workers at two shops in British Columbia – Clayton Crossing in Surrey and Valley Centre in Langley – have authorized strikes with a 91% majority:

https://thetyee.ca/News/2023/09/13/Starbucks-Workers-Back-At-Strike/

Where did the guts to do this come from? Not from labor law, which remains disgustingly hostile to workers (though that's changing, as we'll see below). It came from norms. It came from getting pissed off and talking about it. Shouting about it. Arguing about it.

Laws, markets and code matter, but they're nothing without norms. That's why Uber and Lyft were willing to spend $200m to fight fair labor practices. They didn't just want to keep their costs low – they wanted to snuff out the vibe, the idea that workers deserve a fair deal.

They failed. The idea didn't die. It thrived. It merged with the idea that corporations and the wealthy corrupt our society. It was joined by the idea that monopolies harm us all. They're losing. We're winning.

The BC Starbucks workers secured 91% majorities in their strike votes. This is what worker power looks like. As Jane McAlevey writes in her Collective Bargain, these supermajorities – ultramajorities – are how we win.

https://doctorow.medium.com/a-collective-bargain-a48925f944fe

The neoliberal wing of the Democratic party hires high-priced consultants who advise them to seek 50.1% margins of victory – and then insist that nothing can be done because we live in the Manchin-Synematic Universe, where razor-thin majorities mean that there is no alternative. Labor organizers fight for 91% majorities – in the face of bosses' gerrymandering, disinformation and voter suppression – and get shit done.

Shifting the norms – having the conversations – is the tactic, but getting shit done is the goal. The Biden administration – a decidedly mixed bag – has some incredible, technically skilled, principled fighters who know how to get shit done. Take Lina Khan, who revived the long-dormant Section 5 of the Federal Trade Act, which gives her broad powers to ban "unfair and deceptive" practices:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/10/the-courage-to-govern/#whos-in-charge

Khan's wielding this broad power in all kinds of exciting ways. For example, she's seeking a ban on noncompetes, a form of bondage that shackles workers to shitty bosses by making it illegal to work for anyone else in the same industry:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/02/its-the-economy-stupid/#neofeudal

Noncompete apologists argue that these merely protect employers' investment in training and willingness to share sensitive trade secrets with employees. But the majority of noncompetes are applied to fast food workers – yes, the same workers who just won a 30%, across-the-board raise – in order to prevent Burger King cashiers from seeking $0.25/hour more at a local Wendy's.

Meanwhile, the most trade-secret intensive, high-training industry in the world – tech – has no noncompetes. That's not because tech bosses are good eggs who want to do right by their employees – it's because noncompetes are banned in California, where tech is headquartered.

But in other states, where noncompetes are still allowed, bosses have figured out how to use them as a slippery slope to a form of bondage that beggars the imagination. I'm speaking of the Training Repayment Agreement Provision (AKA, the TRAP), a contractual term that forces workers who quit or get fired to pay their ex-bosses tens of thousands of dollars, supposedly to recoup the cost of training them:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/04/its-a-trap/#a-little-on-the-nose

Now, TRAPs aren't just evil, they're also bullshit. Bosses show pet-groomers or cannabis budtenders a few videos, throw them a three-ring binder, and declare that they've received a five-figure education that they must repay if they part ways with their employers. This gives bosses broad latitude to abuse their workers and even order them to break the law, on penalty of massive fines for quitting.

If this sounds like an Unfair Labor Practice to you, you're not alone. NLRB General Counsel Jennifer Abruzzo agrees with you. She's another one of those Biden appointees with a principled commitment to making life better for American workers, and the technical chops to turn that principle into muscular action.

In a case against Juvly Aesthetics – an Ohio-based chain of "alternative medicine" and "aesthetic services" – Abruzzo argues that noncompetes and TRAPs are Unfair Labor Practices that violate the National Labor Relations Act and cannot be enforced:

https://www.nlrb.gov/case/09-CA-300239

Two ex-Juvly employees have been hit with $50-60k "repayment" bills for quitting – one after refusing to violate Ohio law by performing "microneedling," another for quitting after having their wages stolen and then refusing to sign an "exit agreement":

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-09-14-nlrb-complaint-calls-noncompete-agreement-unfair-labor-practice/

If the NLRB wins, the noncompete and TRAP clauses in the workers' contracts will be voided, and the workers will get fees, missed wages, and other penalties. More to the point, the case will set the precedent that noncompetes are generally unenforceable nationwide, delivering labor protection to every worker in every sector in America.

Abruzzo has been killing it lately: just a couple weeks ago, she set a precedent that any boss that breaks labor law during a union drive automatically loses, with instant recognition for the union as a penalty (rather than a small fine, as was customary):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks/#if-blood-be-the-price-of-your-cursed-wealth

Abruzzo is amazing – as are her colleagues at the NLRB, FTC, DOJ, and other agencies. But the law they're making is downstream of the norms we set. From the California lawmakers who responded to fast food industry threats by introducing more regulations to the strip-bar patrons who refused to cross the picket-line to the legions of fans dragging Drew Barrymore for scabbing, the public mood is providing the political will for real action:

https://www.motherjones.com/media/2023/09/drew-barrymores-newest-role-scab/

The issues of corruption, worker rights and market concentration can't – and shouldn't – be teased apart. They're three facets of the same fight – the fight against oligarchy. Rarely do those issues come together more clearly than in the delicious petard-hoisting of Dave Clark, formerly the archvillain of Amazon, and now the victim of its bullying.

As Maureen Tkacik writes for The American Prospect, Clark had a long and storied career as Amazon's most vicious and unassuming ghoul, a sweatervested, Diet-Coke-swilling normie whose mild manner disguised a vicious streak a mile wide:

https://prospect.org/power/2023-09-14-catch-us-if-you-can-dave-clark-amazon/

Clark earned his nickname, "The Sniper," as a Kentucky warehouse supervisor; the name came from his habit of "lurking in the shadows [and] scoping out slackers he could fire." Clark created Amazon Flex, the "gig work" version of Amazon delivery drivers where randos in private vehicles were sent out to delivery parcels. Clark also oversaw tens of millions of dollars in wage-theft from those workers.

We have Clark to thank for the Amazon drivers who had to shit in bags and piss in bottles to make quota. Clark was behind the illegal union-busting tactics used against employees in the Bessamer, Alabama warehouse. We have Clark to thank for the Amazon chat app that banned users from posting the words "restroom," "slave labor," "plantation," and "union":

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/05/doubleplusrelentless/#quackspeak

But Clark doesn't work for Amazon anymore. After losing a power-struggle to succeed Jeff Bezos – the job went to "longtime rival" Andy Jassy – he quit and went to work for Flexport, a logistics company that promised to provide sellers that used non-Amazon services with shipping. Flexport did a deal with Shopify, becoming its "sole official logistics partner."

But then Shopify did another logistics deal – with Amazon. Clark was ordered to tender his resignation or face immediate dismissal.

How did all this happen? Well, there are two theories. The first is that Shopify teamed up with Amazon to stab Flexport in the back, then purged all the ex-Amazonians from the Flexport upper ranks. The other is that Clark was a double-agent, who worked with Amazon to sabotage Flexport, and was caught and fired.

But either way, this is a huge win for Amazon, a monopolist who is in the FTC's crosshairs thanks to the anti-corporate vibe-shift that has consumed the nation and the world. As the sole major employer for this kind of logistics, Amazon is a de facto labor regulator, deciding who can work in the sector. The FTC's enforcement action isn't just about monopoly – it's about labor.

Now, Clark is a rich, powerful white dude, not the sort of person who needs a lot of federal help to protect his labor rights. When liberals called the shot in the progressive coalition, they scolded leftists not to speak of class, but rather to focus on identity – to be intersectionalists.

That was a trick. There's no incompatibility between caring about class and caring about gender, race and sexual orientation. Those fast food workers who are about to get a 30% wage-hike in California? Overwhelmingly Black or brown, overwhelmingly female.

The liberal version of intersectionalism observes a world run by 150 rich white men and resolves to replace half of them with women, queers and people of color. The leftist version seeks to abolish the system altogether. The leftist version of intersectionalism cares about bias and discrimination not just because of how it makes people feel, but because of how it makes them live. It cares about wages, housing, vacations, child care – the things you can't get because of your identity.

The fight for social justice is a fight for worker justice. Eminently guillotineable monsters like Tim "Avocado Toast" Gurner advocate for increasing unemployment by "40-50%" – but Gurner is just saying what other bosses are thinking:

https://jacobin.com/2023/09/tim-gurner-capitalists-neoliberalism-unemployment-precarity

Garner is 100% right when he says: "There’s been a systematic change where employees feel the employer is extremely lucky to have them, as opposed to the other way around."

And then he says this: "So it’s a dynamic that has to change. We’ve got to kill that attitude, and that has to come through hurt in the economy."

Garner knows that the vibes are upstream of the change. The capitalist dream starts with killing our imagination, to make us believe that "there is no alternative." If we can dream bigger than "better representation among oligarchs" when we might someday dream of no oligarchs. That's what he fears the most.

Watch the video of Garner. Look past the dollar-store Gordon Gecko styling. That piece of shit is terrified.

And he should be.

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

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/14/prop-22-never-again/#norms-code-laws-markets

EFF Awards, San Francisco, September 14

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sl-vega · 7 months ago

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♫ 05; ↠ STARTING ON A SOUR NOTE

↳ my heart beats for you-a scaramouche smau

Both of your hands rested on either side of the sink in front of you as you pushed your weight onto it. The restrooms in Favonius were surprisingly fancy (and somehow super clean?) for a live house.

You lifted your gaze to make eye contact with your reflection.

Were you having an existential crisis in the bathroom to avoid an incredibly awkward encounter with your ex?

Yes.

Would Lumine scold you like a disappointed parent once you get back? (Assuming that you'd actually leave the peace and lovely solitude of the enclosed room)

Also yes.

You splashed some running water on your face to try and bring yourself back to your senses-not that you had any in the first place-but you'd digress.

You groaned as you lightly slapped yourself, hands still moist due to the sink water.

You looked into the mirror once more, your reflection's gaze daunting, it was almost as if the mirror was also telling you that you had to face the music (pun intended).

Suddenly you heard a knock, and an unfamiliar voice came from outside the restroom door.

"Um excuse me? Is someone in there?"

It was the voice of a young girl, probably around your age, most likely one of the employees.

You silently cursed underneath your breath, how long had you been in there? An hour? Two? Three?! It would be a miracle if they didn't think you had gotten sick or something.

"One second!"

You called out from inside, quickly smoothing out your clothes and drying off your face from the splash earlier. You zipped up the purse that you had brought into the room and you lifted your guitar case that was leaning against the wall and you turned towards the exit.

You opened the door, and the swing was more aggressive than intended. After stepping out of the restroom, you were met with a petite girl with light green hair with glasses and a name tag that read "SUCROSE" in gold print.

"Sorry I was just..."

You paused trying to think of a good excuse that wouldn't embarrass you.

"...doing my makeup!"

Yeah, real smooth there (Y/N)

The girl looked at you with a blank expression, her mouth forming an "o" shape, clearly trying to make you less uncomfortable by trying to believe your clearly untrue excuse.

"You're Miss (L/N) right? From C✧LESTIA?"

Wow, so formal...

You gave her a curt nod in return.

"The rest of your group was looking for you."

Shit

Well, you may as well start digging your grave now, Lumine was probably planning on doing it for you.

"They're in studio six by the way, just turn left and keep walking until you see it."

The girl, Sucrose you assumed, had explained gesturing down a wide hallway with glass panes and doors, all numbered one through fourteen with gold engraving.

You muttered a quick "thank you" to Sucrose before making your way towards the studio, lugging your guitar next to you as you walked by the other numbered doors.

Taking several breaths, you stopped a few feet before studio six, the door seemed almost daunting before you.

Maybe you could turn back now, call in sick maybe? But then again Sucrose already saw you, and chickening out now would certainly cause several problems once you saw the rest of the band back at school.

All you had to do was open the door, and walk into the room, and you were just about to do the latter, but then it turned out someone else did it for you.

To your surprise, the door had slowly creaked open, and a familiar green bard with his signature braids had walked out holding a mic set. He was calling out instructions to some other people into the room before turning to you and realizing your presence.

"Heizou, just let Xiao carry the drum set what're you trying to prove-Oh! Hi (Y/N)!"

Venti exclaimed, he leaned against the door to keep it open for the rest of his band mates.

"We're just gonna run some sound checks at the stage so you guys will have the studio all to yourselves."

He flashed you his signature grin before the rest of 5WIRL started trickling through the door, first Kazuha who smiled and gave you a quick hello, who was quickly followed by Heizou who did the same. Then Xiao, who just glared at you, but said hi nonetheless.

Then the ever so lovely Scaramouche, who simply side-eyed you and murmured "Took you long enough..." followed by a prompt roll of his eyes.

You didn't care about decorum so you just stuck your tongue out at him, yeah both of you were being childish but it was the norm for you two.

And followed by Scara, was the one and only Aether who smiled at you, the same smile he always seemed to reserve for you, before, during, and after your past relationship, he was practically beaming at you.

"Hi (Y/N)!"

You muttered a quick "hello" in response looking down at the ground.

Archons, why can't I just be normal around him?!

The band made it's way past you and you picked up brief snippets of what they were saying, mainly of Heizou teasing Aether, and brief mentions of your name could be heard.

Well opening the door was already done for you, now all you needed was to step inside.

And so you did.

The second you entered the room you were met with silent greetings from your fellow bandmates, and most importantly, a certain vocalist making her way towards you.

"Unpack and tune that guitar in the next three minutes or else I'm turning our next gig into your fucking funeral."

You could basically feel the tension radiating off Lumine.

"Yes ma'am."

Well today was off to a great start...

additional notes:

NEW CHAPTER LETS FUCKING GOOO

so sorry for not updating

technical issues and shit have been happening but chapter 5 is finally out!!!!

i've been meaning to tell y'all for a while but the love @ectomotive has created a playlist for this smau! the link is here

give it a listen I ADORED it

notes on the actual plot:

xiao seems to have smth against our leading lady here, maybe it has something to do with her breaking the heart of his beloved bestie perhaps 👀

(XIAOAETHER ANYONE-)

ahem not spoiling anything tho <3

and oml sorry for not including that much scara in this chapter T^T

dw he'll totally get his chance to shine in the next few

hope y'all enjoyed! and ty again for being so patient with my super inconsistent updates

masterlist

MY HEART BEATS FOR YOU

Pairing: [BASSIST!] Scaramouche x [GUITARIST!] Reader

Genre: rivals/enemies to lovers, rivals to friends to lovers, fluff, crack (?), comedy, angst (?), slowburn, high school au, band au, modern au, social media au, smau

Synopsis: You're the lead guitarist for your band, C✧LESTIA and Scaramouche is the bassist of 5WIRL. The two of your bands have a friendly rivalry, but you and Scaramouche don't. On top of being academic rivals, you and him have never been on good terms. Always one-upping each other in grades and in music. Even your bandmates have grown tired of your constant bickering with each other. But when your usual practice hub gets flooded, you and the rest of C✧LESTIA are forced to find a new place to rehearse. So when 5WIRL offers to share their studio with you who are you to refuse? Of course, this forces you to spend time with your sworn rival whether you like it or not. But maybe the two of you can overcome your differences and actually be friends?

Or maybe even more?

(OPEN) TAGLIST: @featuredtofu, @levianamor, @danfelions, @thatoneswordgirl, @lolmeowing, @bananasquash, @xiaosantenna, @kaitfae, @mujiwuji,@peaceindreams, @freyao7, @rinquin, @justpeachyteastea, @cobraz, @b2ne, @skyoverkill1, @scaradooche, @morallyrainyday, @adres-tia, @justadvena6, @agaygothicmushroom, @aiher, @kyon-cherri, @aether-darling, @ukinya, @sketcheeee, @ibawa, @shutingstar, @eutopiastar, @kunimix, @twilightclouds, @waffledforbreakfast, @ectomotive, @yourfavoritefreakyhan, @b4tm4nn, @h3xi2g0n3, @rine39, @danfelions

(names in bold mean i cant tag you)

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vivmaek · 11 months ago

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MOON IN THE 6th HOUSE: Observations

People who have this placement within their natal chart are natural caretakers. It is easy for them to step into the role of a nurse. Fulfilling the needs of others comes intuitively for moon sixth housers. Their compassionate nature and generosity attract people in need of healing. It can be hard for them to establish their own routines because they prioritize the needs of others. The activities of their day to day life are in constant fluctuation, and much of this is dependent upon who is currently relying on them. These types enjoy the feeling of being needed, so it can be difficult for them to truly see the negatives that can arise from these types of situations. They find comfort within service and turn to work when they have to deal with difficult emotions. This is a productive way to deal with emotions, but it doesn’t tackle the bigger issues at hand. Re-organizing the entire house and buying self improvement books won’t solve all their problems. Emotions need to be felt in order to be properly released. Moon sixth housers also have to realize that they won’t take care of people to the best of their ability if they can’t take care of themselves. Their needs are just as important as the needs of others and they will become burnt out if this isn’t recognized. At work, people often turn to them in their times of crisis. Their leadership qualities are greatly appreciated and often utilized, their co-workers look up to them. Their reputation for being a hard worker results in them taking on more responsibility in comparison to their peers. People with this placement put a lot of care and attentiveness into their tasks. Their sense of efficiency and talent for finding solutions to difficult problems are characteristics that truly stand out. They are irreplaceable employees and often act as the glue holding everything together. At times, this can be a stressful position to be in. Moon sixth housers are placed under a lot of pressure. It is important that they surround themselves with people who will look out for them, friends who aren’t afraid to tell them to take a break. Many of the health issues they face will be psychological, stress and anxiety are ever present emotions. Much to their disbelief, being open about their problems and issues will not result in the world burning to the ground. Sometimes, moon sixth housers need to allow the opportunity for others to step into the role of the healer.

✰ my masterlist

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mariacallous · 3 months ago

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This is a gift article.

The truth is, it’s getting harder to describe the extent to which a meaningful percentage of Americans have dissociated from reality. As Hurricane Milton churned across the Gulf of Mexico last night, I saw an onslaught of outright conspiracy theorizing and utter nonsense racking up millions of views across the internet. The posts would be laughable if they weren’t taken by many people as gospel. Among them: Infowars’ Alex Jones, who claimed that Hurricanes Milton and Helene were “weather weapons” unleashed on the East Coast by the U.S. government, and “truth seeker” accounts on X that posted photos of condensation trails in the sky to baselessly allege that the government was “spraying Florida ahead of Hurricane Milton” in order to ensure maximum rainfall, “just like they did over Asheville!”

As Milton made landfall, causing a series of tornados, a verified account on X reposted a TikTok video of a massive funnel cloud with the caption “WHAT IS HAPPENING TO FLORIDA?!” The clip, which was eventually removed but had been viewed 662,000 times as of yesterday evening, turned out to be from a video of a CGI tornado that was originally published months ago. Scrolling through these platforms, watching them fill with false information, harebrained theories, and doctored images—all while panicked residents boarded up their houses, struggled to evacuate, and prayed that their worldly possessions wouldn’t be obliterated overnight—offered a portrait of American discourse almost too bleak to reckon with head-on.

Even in a decade marred by online grifters, shameless politicians, and an alternative right-wing-media complex pushing anti-science fringe theories, the events of the past few weeks stand out for their depravity and nihilism. As two catastrophic storms upended American cities, a patchwork network of influencers and fake-news peddlers have done their best to sow distrust, stoke resentment, and interfere with relief efforts. But this is more than just a misinformation crisis. To watch as real information is overwhelmed by crank theories and public servants battle death threats is to confront two alarming facts: first, that a durable ecosystem exists to ensconce citizens in an alternate reality, and second, that the people consuming and amplifying those lies are not helpless dupes but willing participants.

Some of the lies and obfuscation are politically motivated, such as the claim that FEMA is offering only $750 in total to hurricane victims who have lost their home. (In reality, FEMA offers $750 as immediate “Serious Needs Assistance” to help people get basic supplies such as food and water.) Donald Trump, J. D. Vance, and Fox News have all repeated that lie. Trump also posted (and later deleted) on Truth Social that FEMA money was given to undocumented migrants, which is untrue. Elon Musk, who owns X, claimed—without evidence—that FEMA was “actively blocking shipments and seizing goods and services locally and locking them away to state they are their own. It’s very real and scary how much they have taken control to stop people helping.” That post has been viewed more than 40 million times. Other influencers, such as the Trump sycophant Laura Loomer, have urged their followers to disrupt the disaster agency’s efforts to help hurricane victims. “Do not comply with FEMA,” she posted on X. “This is a matter of survival.”

The result of this fearmongering is what you might expect. Angry, embittered citizens have been harassing government officials in North Carolina, as well as FEMA employees. According to an analysis by the Institute for Strategic Dialogue, an extremism-research group, “Falsehoods around hurricane response have spawned credible threats and incitement to violence directed at the federal government,” including “calls to send militias to face down FEMA.” The study also found that 30 percent of the X posts analyzed by ISD “contained overt antisemitic hate, including abuse directed at public officials such as the Mayor of Asheville, North Carolina; the FEMA Director of Public Affairs; and the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security.” The posts received a collective 17.1 million views as of October 7.

Online, first responders are pleading with residents, asking for their help to combat the flood of lies and conspiracy theories. FEMA Administrator Deanne Criswell said that the volume of misinformation could hamper relief efforts. “If it creates so much fear that my staff doesn’t want to go out in the field, then we’re not going to be in a position where we can help people,” she said in a news conference on Tuesday. In Pensacola, North Carolina, Assistant Fire Chief Bradley Boone vented his frustrations on Facebook: “I’m trying to rescue my community,” he said in a livestream. “I ain’t got time. I ain’t got time to chase down every Facebook rumor … We’ve been through enough.”

It is difficult to capture the nihilism of the current moment. The pandemic saw Americans, distrustful of authority, trying to discredit effective vaccines, spreading conspiracy theories, and attacking public-health officials. But what feels novel in the aftermath of this month’s hurricanes is how the people doing the lying aren’t even trying to hide the provenance of their bullshit. Similarly, those sharing the lies are happy to admit that they do not care whether what they’re pushing is real or not. Such was the case last week, when Republican politicians shared an AI-generated viral image of a little girl holding a puppy while supposedly fleeing Helene. Though the image was clearly fake and quickly debunked, some politicians remained defiant. “Y’all, I don’t know where this photo came from and honestly, it doesn’t matter,” Amy Kremer, who represents Georgia on the Republican National Committee, wrote after sharing the fake image. “I’m leaving it because it is emblematic of the trauma and pain people are living through right now.”

Kremer wasn’t alone. The journalist Parker Molloy compiled screenshots of people “acknowledging that this image is AI but still insisting that it’s real on some deeper level”—proof, Molloy noted, that we’re “living in the post-reality.” The technology writer Jason Koebler argued that we’ve entered the “‘Fuck It’ Era” of AI slop and political messaging, with AI-generated images being used to convey whatever partisan message suits the moment, regardless of truth.

This has all been building for more than a decade. On The Colbert Report, back in 2005, Stephen Colbert coined the word truthiness, which he defined as “the belief in what you feel to be true rather than what the facts will support.” This reality-fracturing is the result of an information ecosystem that is dominated by platforms that offer financial and attentional incentives to lie and enrage, and to turn every tragedy and large event into a shameless content-creation opportunity. This collides with a swath of people who would rather live in an alternate reality built on distrust and grievance than change their fundamental beliefs about the world. But the misinformation crisis is not always what we think it is.

So much of the conversation around misinformation suggests that its primary job is to persuade. But as Michael Caulfield, an information researcher at the University of Washington, has argued, “The primary use of ‘misinformation’ is not to change the beliefs of other people at all. Instead, the vast majority of misinformation is offered as a service for people to maintain their beliefs in face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.” This distinction is important, in part because it assigns agency to those who consume and share obviously fake information. What is clear from comments such as Kremer’s is that she is not a dupe; although she may come off as deeply incurious and shameless, she is publicly admitting to being an active participant in the far right’s world-building project, where feel is always greater than real.

What we’re witnessing online during and in the aftermath of these hurricanes is a group of people desperate to protect the dark, fictitious world they’ve built. Rather than deal with the realities of a warming planet hurling once-in-a-generation storms at them every few weeks, they’d rather malign and threaten meteorologists, who, in their minds, are “nothing but a trained subversive liar programmed to spew stupid shit to support the global warming bullshit,” as one X user put it. It is a strategy designed to silence voices of reason, because those voices threaten to expose the cracks in their current worldview. But their efforts are doomed, futile. As one dispirited meteorologist wrote on X this week, “Murdering meteorologists won’t stop hurricanes.” She followed with: “I can’t believe I just had to type that.”

What is clear is that a new framework is needed to describe this fracturing. Misinformation is too technical, too freighted, and, after almost a decade of Trump, too political. Nor does it explain what is really happening, which is nothing less than a cultural assault on any person or institution that operates in reality. If you are a weatherperson, you’re a target. The same goes for journalists, election workers, scientists, doctors, and first responders. These jobs are different, but the thing they share is that they all must attend to and describe the world as it is. This makes them dangerous to people who cannot abide by the agonizing constraints of reality, as well as those who have financial and political interests in keeping up the charade.

In one sense, these attacks—and their increased desperation—make sense. The world feels dark; for many people, it’s tempting to meet that with a retreat into the delusion that they’ve got everything figured out, that the powers that be have conspired against them directly. But in turning away, they exacerbate a crisis that has characterized the Trump era, one that will reverberate to Election Day and beyond. Americans are divided not just by political beliefs but by whether they believe in a shared reality—or desire one at all.

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madamechrissy · 2 months ago

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Hello, dearest!

I saw your comment about having to read Sukuna fics before writing your own. As a Sukuna enthusiast, I have a few to recommend, if that can help you.

The stories below are some of my favorites. I’m not a fan of true form Sukuna, so you won’t find any here (just not that much into monsterfucking *shrug* ).

Hesitance

Synopsis: sukuna is a gym owner and is very fond of his least productive employee.

I like this one because it’s a well-rounded idea of who Sukuna would be as a normal human. Also the vignettes keep it light, while exploring different ideas easily.

The F*ck List

This is the series that made me start reading fanfiction on Tumblr. It’s multi-character (with a big Gojo part, which you may enjoy. The Nanami part is also just delicious ;-) ), but Sukuna’s characterization is interesting and multilayered. He also has an extra short fic and he’s in the F*ck the List sequel too. This series is long though, so after you get the gist of the plot, you could decide to skip to the Sukuna part. although…it’s all very good and I recommend all of it 😛

They kiss on the ring. I carry the crown

This is a Yakuza Sukuna who is interested in you (a realtor). There are also follow-up shorter fics. I looove the universe that was painted here, including his relationship with his brother (see spin-off short fics with Yuji too!)

The same author has plenty of versions of Sukuna. I also enjoy their hockey player Sukuna series:

I wanna be your Endgame.

The rough yet cerebral version of Sukuna (also, a fuckboy…) is just perfect for me. I smell an ending coming, but I don't want it too. This fic has great smut, but I come back for the very satisfying fluff.

Roommate Sukuna

Synopsis: This housing crisis sure is no joke huh? Rent is just too expensive to live alone, so you put out a listing for a roommate and ended up living with none other than the tattooed bad boy Ryomen Sukuna!

I like how this one has a more punk version of Sukuna. He’s rough and mysterious. Unfortunately, the series is now on hold, and just when it was getting good!

Hunter and Hunted

College (summer) break au: a fic in this y/n is pining over Yuji's older brother Sukuna, while unbeknownst to her, Choso is doing the same thing for her.

This is a harder Sukuna, but with some evolution. Can’t say much more without spoiling it, but the characterization is very different from the other ones on this list.

So, that's it! I hope it's enough material to give you some inspiration on crafting your own Sukuna.

Happy writing!

Aww thanks SO much, you're the freaking best. I will def get into these so I can get more into Kuna. I appreciate you taking so much time sharing all of these! <3

#jjk smut #jjk x reader #inbox #sukuna

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all-pacas · 5 months ago

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i think private lives might be The best episode of house??

BE NOT AFRAID can you believe wilson’s porno was like the third most interesting thing in this episode. can you believe not a single person in the hospital didn’t watch it and doesn’t respect wilson enough to not let him know that

speed dating!!! everyone crying to wilson about cancer. i bet the numbers he got just wanted consults. two people gave house they number and i want to know who and why. CHASE and his awful american accent and immediate existential crisis

“god you’re pretty” — normal boss employee relationship

absolute birth of the chase-13 relationship/best friends/siblings thing. she tells him to go suck dick. he tries to manwhore his way into borrowing her car. they manage to have a sincere and honest conversation but also the hilarity of 13’s “the fact that my first love was 30 should have been a red flag.” obsessed with these two

wilson and chase scheming together! rare pair!! is this the first time they’ve ever spoken?? and what do they speak about?? house. wilson turning to chase for manipulation tactics. chef’s kiss

chase knowing house to an absurd level of detail from the bookie he uses to the times he wears his glasses. and is only interested in using this power for evil

wilson dropping his revenge prank because of house’s daddy issues. house printing a banner for the lobby about wilson’s porn

the birth of Dumb Whore Chase. can you believe this man thought people were attracted to his personality. his PERSONALITY

something insane about chase reaching out unknowingly to house’s biological father and probably having a nice conversation about god with him when house has not spoken to him and Can not

#hate crimes md #house md #malpractice posting

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here2bbtstrash · 2 years ago

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real magic (explicit)

genre: smut, fluff, bangin’ your boss, m attempts kidfic - part of a hyung holiday collab !

pairing: namjoon x reader

summary: the holiday season has never meant anything to you beyond suffering long hours for minimum wage and awaiting the collapse of capitalism— but this year, you’d be willing to add making out with your dilf coffee shop boss to the list.

word count: 16.7k 😩

contains: ~*~explicit sexual content (after kind of a slow burn sorry lol)~*~ the "moving back to your hometown" hallmark trope, a nick jonas poster (yes that's a warning), some taekook slander in the beginning because i thought it was funny, namjoon is so buff and so dumb but so wise and so hot, moni is a little shit, namjoon is a dad!, namjoon's kid uses they/them pronouns but it's not like A Focus of the story it's just flavor, reader thinks joon has a dead wife for like one second 💀 mentions of teenage pregnancy and co-parenting, one incredibly stupid asshole customer lmao, mint choco slander (it's what namjoon would want 😌), obviously there is an employee/boss power dynamic but they talk about it and figure it out because this is namjoon and he overthinks everything, namjoon driving (he's a dad i have to assume he would get his license if he had a literal child!!!!!!!!) and a lotta sentimental holiday and life talk. here are ur sex specific warnings: making out/going to second base in a car in a parking lot (what is it with my namjoons and cars in parking lots yo), fingering, semi-drunk sex, and fuckin' rawwwww with a smidge of size and breeding kink lmao (but she's on the pill!!! no more kids!!!!!!)

A/N: hello hello hi merry crisis this damn fic is finally here lmao~ as i have been babbling on about for days i really really (REALLY) love how this namjoon turned out he's just hesjkrgdhtgk such a fucking himbo but a good dad and wise and did i mention hot aaaaaa 🫠 all the love in my gay little heart to @goodsoop for their barista wisdom and real life experiences that went into this one (the cookie story will never not make me laugh) ! and to @sailoryooons for beta reading this 50 million times and encouraging me when i was convinced it sucked ass, and also for making all the gorgeous banners for this collab 😭

which btw - be sure to go check out @gimmethatagustd & @sailoryooons & @nabiolive 's fics tooooo !!! i've loved collabing with them so very much even when we were all hashtag Going Through It, we got the whole damn hyung line you hear meeeeee 🎁🎁🎁🎁

read on AO3!

Rudely awoken by the incessant beep of your alarm, you open your eyes to find Nick Jonas staring back at you, and you sit up with a scream.

Realization washes over your sleep-addled brain in waves: first, that you aren’t actually staring at a real person. He’s just smizing on a hot pink poster, held up by some remarkably durable masking tape you stuck to the wall fifteen years ago. Second, it comes back to you that you are staring at said poster because you’ve woken up in your childhood bedroom. It’s been left untouched since you were a teenager, like a weird time capsule of all your high school obsessions.

After reaching for your phone to silence the alarm, you kick your way out from under the blankets, trying not to make eye contact with Nick, or Justin, or Zayn as you stumble to the bathroom. The circumstances of your grand return to living in your goddamn parents’ house linger like a bad taste in your mouth, one that all the tongue brushing in the world can’t remove.

It still doesn’t feel real. Taehyung, your best friend in the world since freshman year of college, kicked you out. Sure, it may have been phrased more like a gentle request, but as far as your ego is concerned, it still feels like exile. Banishment, even. The person you thought you could never be parted from made his choice, and he chose his fucking boyfriend over you.

Jungkook. You think the name with all the venom your cold, dead heart can manage as you spit toothpaste into the sink.

Jungkook, the weird, bug-eyed kid who put his toe-socked feet on your couch, drank his banana milk out of your favorite mug, and ate up all of your Samyang ramyeon because he ‘thought it was communal’.

Jungkook, who ruined your sleep schedule nightly, either by fucking Taehyung senseless on the other side of your paper-thin apartment wall, or by blasting the same four Ariana Grande songs over and over on his bluetooth speaker and singing along in an annoyingly good voice. Either activity would go on well into the early hours of the morning, until you had to bang on the wall so hard you nearly put your fist through it.

Jungkook, whose dog once took a shit right on the floor in the middle of the kitchen.

Bam was cute enough to forgive, of course. But you can never forgive Taehyung for his betrayal. Especially when he knew you’d just been fired from your shitty coffee shop job for the stupidest reason ever, and he didn’t let that derail or even delay him. He still went ahead and delivered the killing blow.

Et tu, Taehyung? you think angrily to yourself as you stand in front of the suitcase containing as much of your closet as you could possibly fit. You still need to go back for your bigger furniture, and little things like your plates and your mugs and your silverware, which Jungkook is probably putting his grimy little fingers all over at this very moment. But until you’ve checked out of your indefinite vacation at the Nightmare Parental Hotel, there doesn’t really seem a point.

If you were less upset, you might take consolation in the fact that your parents aren’t actually here, that they’ve jaunted off to their timeshare until the new year, but you’re busy being too swallowed whole by your misery to find an ounce of joy in any piece of your current reality.

You dig through the pile of clothes until you manage to pull out something halfway decent. The first order of business now that you’ve moved back in is simple: acquire another stupid coffee shop job. You have no plans to stick around long, you just need something seasonal that will give you some meager income while you start looking for a real gig, one that is ideally not in your hometown.

Watching yourself in the mirror as you pull on a simple black blouse and your least-stained pair of jeans, you attempt to mentally dust off your interview skills. You conjure up your best fake smile and customer service voice, both of which are second-nature at this point.

Why do you want this job? “I’m just so passionate about coming home sticky and verbally abused by caffeine-addicted assholes every night.”

What’s your biggest weakness? “Clearly it’s the fact that I’m a ray of fucking sunshine.”

Why were you terminated from your last job? “Oh, well, I attempted to get my previous employer to improve their standards of worker treatment. You see, I selfishly requested that they raise the bar a single notch above hell. Certainly won’t happen again!”

This should go well, you tell yourself, and your reflection grimaces back.

With several hours to kill before your job interview and a growing desire to avoid the weird nostalgia of your childhood that seems to lurk in every corner of your parents’ house, you decide to take a walk.

The sky is bright blue and cloudless, and though the air is brisk, it isn’t terribly windy. You tuck in your earbuds as you shut the front door behind you and pick a direction, aimless, letting your mind wander to the soundtrack of your “seasonal depression” playlist.

A whole new crop of families must have moved into your parents’ neighborhood in the years since you moved out, because the streets are more alive with kids than you can ever remember them being, even when you were a kid yourself. Bikes and scooters lay abandoned on the sidewalks between homes, and you can hear the repeated echo of a basketball dribbling on a driveway, punctuated by distant, playful screaming.

Even in the daytime, you can tell these families have spared no expense when it comes to Christmas decor: some homes have every eave outlined in string lights, some have candy cane stakes dug into the perimeter of their perfectly manicured lawns, and some have been seemingly invaded by small armies of inflatable reindeer and snowmen. You can’t help but giggle a little at the inflatable decorations that have been set to turn off during the day, the way the airless material lays limp in the grass, giving the impression of a yard strewn with dead bodies.

But you remember what it looked like when you drove in last night, everything lit up and brought to life.

Your parents definitely didn’t have inflatable lawn decorations when you were a kid, but you’d get so excited every year when your dad would drag the ladder out and spend the day stringing up the simple rainbow lights you did have. You still remember the little spark of joy you’d feel in your chest when the colors would click on after dark, the way you would run outside every night just to see them twinkle, your breath puffing steam clouds in the air, your bare feet freezing on the ice-cold driveway.

It felt like magic then. But somewhere along the way you grew up. And now that feeling’s gone. Even at night, the lights just look like… lights.

Distracted as you are by the music in your ears and thoughts of your childhood that have brought you to a standstill on the sidewalk, you don’t notice what’s happening until it’s too late.

A blur of red and white is suddenly circling around and between your legs, and you feel something twining over your ankles, then tugging with a force that threatens to knock you off balance. As you lean forward in an attempt to right yourself, the chaos in question slows enough for you to realize it’s a fluffy white dog in a red sweater, who has excitedly tangled you up in his leash.

You manage to find the looped end of the leash and slowly get yourself unwrapped while the dog continues to pant and jump and occasionally yap at you. With your legs freed, you squat down for a proper greeting, laughing to yourself as he lifts up on his hind legs, balancing his paws on your knee to lick an enthusiastic greeting across your cheek.

“Hi, puppy,” you murmur, trying to get him to hold still long enough to read the name on his tag. A voice beats you to it.

“Moni!”

When you glance up to find Moni’s owner jogging up the sidewalk, you have to make a conscious effort to keep your own tongue in your mouth, because good lord, he is fine.

He’s tall, towering over you even once you bring yourself back up to standing, and the black workout tank and athletic shorts he’s wearing do absolutely nothing to hide the thick, well-defined muscles of his arms, chest, and thighs.

Despite his lack of clothing in the cool winter air, you can see his face and neck are slick with sweat, his white-blonde hair damp with it too. There’s even a dark patch that’s soaked his shirt at his sternum, making the firm swell of his pecs that much more apparent. It takes you an extra second to break eye contact with them, but when you do finally manage to drag your gaze up to meet his, you realize his face is just as nice of a view: honey-tan skin, full lips, and cute dimples that pop as he gives a sheepish, appreciative laugh.

“Thank you,” he says, a little breathless; his voice is deep and slightly husky in a way that makes your face grow hot. You blink stupidly at him for a few moments, your mind reeling, and then it occurs to you that you still have his dog’s leash in your hand.

“No problem,” you manage, handing the looped end back over and double-checking to make sure your ankles are still free from their entanglement. Though now that this man is holding the leash, you kind of wish they weren’t.

“Moni’s usually good about not taking off when I stop to do a circuit,” he explains, like you’re the dog owner police. It makes you wonder what kind of Karens must have moved into this neighborhood since you left it. “I don’t know why he ran, maybe he saw a squirrel or something.”

“It’s okay,” you reassure him with a smile, admiring Moni as he stretches and settles into a polite seated pose. “I like his sweater.”

“Thanks,” he laughs again. “C’mon Mon.”

You can’t help focusing on how big this guy’s hands are as he slips his fingers through the end of Moni’s leash, tugging slightly as if to encourage the dog back in the direction he came from.

Moni blinks and stays right where he is.

“You little shit,” his owner huffs under his breath, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from laughing. You distantly realize you should probably leave them to it and continue on your walk, but this is too entertaining to turn away from now. Your hot neighbor tries one more futile attempt to get Moni to move, then seems to give up entirely.

He stoops down with a low grunt of effort that makes your core flutter as he grabs the fluffy dog and hoists him up in his arms. You try to force yourself to stop noticing the way his biceps flex, the fact that the muscles of his arms are nearly bigger than your head.

“Thanks again,” he says with a final grateful smile, and your only response is to swallow hard and stand there like an idiot as he turns and carries his spoiled dog back home.

When you arrive for your interview, you’re delighted to discover that Indigo Coffee is nothing like your last job. It’s warm and bright, with large picture windows that flood the space in sunlight, and there’s a cozy personal touch to it, the likes of which you’d certainly never see in your former corporate shell of a workplace. The sitting area is dotted with live edge wood tables and mismatched chairs. There are an array of framed paintings on the walls that look handmade in a good way, simple yet bold brush-stroke lines in a deep blue color scheme. And, you realize as your eyes linger, the shop is absolutely overflowing with plants: in simple clay pots lined up along the windows, free-standing between tables, and tucked into bookshelves placed artfully throughout the space.

You step closer to inspect one as you wait on your interviewer and are pleased to see that it’s real, that they all are— no waxy fake leaves jammed into a thick block of cement, but real greenery sprouted in real dirt, deep brown soil gone soft from what must have been a recent watering. These are plants someone cares for, coaxed and kept alive by someone’s time and patience and love. The thought makes you smile a little despite yourself.

There’s still fucking Christmas music playing, but you figure that’s inescapable this time of year.

“Are you here for the interview?” someone asks over your shoulder. As you turn away from the plant, you wonder if you’re imagining that the voice in question sounds slightly familiar, and then you find yourself once again staring up at a fine-ass man with white-blonde hair and a sweet pair of dimples.

He’s clearly showered since your last encounter, and is now slightly more covered up in a pair of faded jeans and a gray-green flannel thrown over a black shirt emblazoned with bold white lettering: Protect Trans Kids.

“Oh.” Moni’s owner blinks back at you, and the shock on his face is so apparent that a giggle escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Uh, hi again.”

“Hi,” you echo, equally flustered, before realizing you failed to answer his initial question. “Oh, yeah. Yes. I am. The interview. I’m— that’s me.” So well-spoken, you mentally kick yourself.

One dimple deepens slightly as he extends a hand. “Kim Namjoon. Owner of Indigo Coffee. And the world’s least obedient dog, as you saw earlier.”

You offer your best handshake in return and a smile that you surprisingly don’t have to force as you give Namjoon your name. He gestures to a table in the corner, and you each pull back a chair to have a seat. You try to banish any potential horny thoughts from your brain, but shifting into interview mode proves difficult as he rests his large hands on the table in front of him, drumming idly along to the horribly cheery music.

You manage to tear your gaze away from Namjoon’s fingers when he speaks again. “If it’s cool with you, we can just chat a little? I’m not so good at conducting formal interviews. Too inauthentic.”

It’s like you can feel some of the tension release from your shoulders. “I— yeah. That sounds great.”

“Cool,” he nods, and you try to ignore the rush of heat up your neck at the intensity of his stare. Professional, be professional. “So I saw on your resume that it looks like your last few jobs were out of town. Did you just move here?”

“Moved back,” you say quickly. “Yeah. I grew up here, actually.”

Namjoon’s eyes widen a little in clear interest. “Really? What brings you back?”

You purse your lips as you consider how to phrase it. “My life… kind of fell apart. So. I moved in with my parents for a bit. Like a winner.” His dimples pop when he smiles at your joke, and you drop your gaze to the table. “Just trying to figure out what’s next, and find something seasonal in the meantime.”

“Well, we could certainly use the help,” Namjoon admits. When you chance a glance up, there’s a look on his face like he’s choosing his next words carefully. “I saw in your application that you were terminated from your last position.” He leans in, lowering his voice slightly as he continues. “I’m gonna be honest, I hate that we even ask that question. But can you tell me a bit about what happened?”

You keep your stare fixed on the wood grain in front of you as you try to stay calm. “Well, if I can be honest too...” Squeezing your eyes shut, you tell yourself to just say it. “I was fired for trying to unionize.”

“Oh.” Namjoon sounds surprised, but you can’t manage to look at him. “Really?” You nod slowly, biting down on your bottom lip. “That’s— fucking illegal.”

That makes your gaze snap back up to meet his. His brow is furrowed slightly, a muscle in his jaw pulled tight.

“Yeah,” you say belatedly. “Yeah, I know. They made up a bunch of fake excuses as to why I was fired, but I knew what it really was. It was because I wanted them to actually pay us what we were worth, and hire more workers so we weren’t being scheduled to death. And I was getting everyone else riled up too, and I guess it scared them.”

Namjoon sits back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “Huh. Man. Well, I’m sorry that happened to you.”

It takes you a second to process what you’re hearing. Union has always been a scary word for any person in upper management you’ve previously encountered. You hadn’t expected this to be so… easy. For him to understand, or sympathize. “I— yeah. I am too.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Namjoon continues quickly, “I think it’s great, what you tried to do. I’m very pro-union.” He pauses for a moment, his face twisting slightly in thought. “I mean, admittedly, we don’t have one here. Granted, there are only five of us. I should probably ask, though, if they want one.”

You can’t quite hide your smile. “I’m gonna take a guess that you probably treat your employees pretty well as-is.”

“I try,” he says with a shake of his head. His eyes meet yours again. “So, here’s the deal. You have a ton of experience, and with holiday time off and a few people out sick, I’m super understaffed right now. You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders, and hopefully you feel like you can come to me if you have any issues, without fearing retaliation.”

You blink slowly, and he must be able to read the disbelief on your face. “What I’m saying is I’m offering you the seasonal position,” he clarifies. “Is that— do you, uh, accept?”

“Yes.” The word is chased by a dazed laugh, and Namjoon’s dimples resurface around a small smile.

“Cool. I told you I’m bad at interviews,” he huffs, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. You try to ignore the swell of his bicep, clearly visible even beneath his bulky flannel. “I know this is a lot to ask, but. Is there any chance you can start, like, right now? Because Jimin’s shift ends in…” He tilts a little, fishing his phone from the front pocket of his jeans, and his mouth drops open in surprise when he gets a glimpse at the time.

“Oh, shit,” Namjoon murmurs, and then he raises his voice to call across the mostly empty store. “Jimin-ah! I’m so sorry!”

You turn around, your gaze landing on the barista leaned up against the counter next to the register. His dyed-gray hair dusts over his eyes, which pull into crescent moons as he laughs. “It’s cool. I knew you were almost done. But I’m gonna clock out now, if she’s good?”

“Yeah,” you answer, turning back to Namjoon. “Yeah, I can start now.”

The two of you move behind the counter, and you sweep your hair up out of your face while Namjoon starts to go through a basic run-down of where everything is located. The overhead bell tinkles as Jimin shoulders the front door open, and he lifts a hand over his head in parting.

“See you after the holidays!”

“Alright,” Namjoon says as he waves to Jimin, a little breathless from having rambled on for the better part of several minutes. “That was a lot. Do you want to just start on register? I feel like that should be easy enough, and I can train you on everything as people come in, since it’s pretty dead right now.”

You shrug. “Works for me.”

Within half an hour, there’s a line out the door, and Namjoon has managed to spill espresso grounds all over his shoes for a second time.

“Ah, shit,” he groans, taking a step back. “Sorry. Been a minute since I’ve had to be back here.”

“It’s okay,” you try to reassure him, but you can see from the faces of the customers who have been waiting on their drinks for several minutes— including one who’s had hers remade three times, all of them incorrect— that it is very much not okay. You certainly lack the people skills to smooth over any of Namjoon’s mistakes, and you can feel a stress-induced eye twitch starting to flare up, brought on by Kelly Clarkson’s incessant yuletide belting.

You give your boss five more minutes, wherein he scalds his hand on the milk steamer, forgets about a cookie in the warmer until it’s burnt entirely black, and nearly turns the blender on with the lid off, before you finally intervene.

“Hey, Namjoon?” You do your best to keep your expression pleasant when he glances over at you, wiping at his brow with the back of his hand. “Maybe we should switch?”

“A-are you sure?” he stammers, apparently torn between wanting to be a good boss and a clear desire to just take the L. “I feel bad, this is literally your first shift.”

“I think I can handle it,” you reassure him, lowering your voice a little. “Let me take care of the drinks, and you can do your… endearing golden retriever thing. Keep the people entertained.”

Color blooms in the apples of his cheeks as his dimples make a brief appearance. “Oh, okay. Can do. Just let me know if you need help.”

You can’t imagine a universe where his clumsiness could in any way be considered helpful, but you keep that thought to yourself as you smile at him. At least he’s cute.

Things improve dramatically once your roles are reversed: as you expected, Namjoon is far more charismatic than he is coordinated, and he chats endlessly with the people waiting on their drinks, hardly pausing long enough to take a breath, while you scramble around trying to get your bearings in a new environment. The steady stream of customers doesn’t let up for the rest of the evening, until the last few finally trickle out of the store a few minutes after close, and you waste no time locking the door behind them with a sigh of relief.

You spin around, letting your back thud against the door for a moment as you watch Namjoon fight with a broom and dustpan in a futile attempt to get espresso dust out of the grout between the tiles. There’s a dull ache starting to thud in your skull, and it’s only deepened by the shrill opening notes of another fucking a cappella song.

“Namjoon?” you ask as you cross toward the counter, and his head instantly snaps up. “Do you think we could maybe turn off the Christmas music?”

“Oh, sure.” He’s already fumbling to grab his phone, and he taps a few buttons until the music suddenly switches, a soft voice starting to croon over an old school beat.

“Thanks,” you say, and you can’t help the pity smile that pulls up your mouth when he returns to his useless task. “I think the grout might be a lost cause, but I can go ahead and mop whenever you’re ready.”

He rights himself with a defeated sigh, nodding his head to the storage closet in the back. You follow his lead to retrieve the mop, then set about filling up the bucket with water and cleaning solution. Namjoon’s voice floats in from the front of the shop as he busies himself with his own closing tasks.

“Imagine smokin’ weed in the street without cops harassin’ / Imagine goin’ to court with no trial / Lifestyle cruisin’ blue Bahama waters / No welfare supporters, more conscious of the way we raise our daughters...”

You’re laughing a little as you roll the bucket out, starting at the door to work your way back. “Is this… Nas?”

He glances up, like he’s just remembered other people exist in the world. “Yeah, sorry. I can turn it off.”

“No, no,” you say quickly when he starts to reach for his phone again. “This is good. Much better than Pentatonix. I’m just… you really know every word.”

Namjoon shrugs, clearly embarrassed. “He’s my favorite.”

The revelation surprises you, and you pause to think as you pull the mop back and forth over the tile floor. It didn’t even occur to you that Namjoon would have a favorite kind of music, apart from the soft elevator muzak you imagine must play on a steady loop in his brain, given the way he fumbles through life.

“I actually wanted to be a rapper,” his voice comes back, and you look up again, your interest piqued. “When I was younger. But you know. Life had other plans.”

“Ah yes, the rapper to coffee shop owner pipeline,” you muse, and he barks a laugh that you wish you didn’t find so hot. Shaking your head, you force yourself to look back down at the espresso-studded tile, doing your best to shove your attraction aside and not think about it. He’s your boss, dumbass.

Still, it’s hard to ignore, particularly as he continues to rap along to each song that comes on, his voice deeper and huskier than you’ve heard it thus far in casual conversation. He doesn’t miss a word, and you can’t deny that it’s impressive. And sexy. Fuck.

Once the floor has been successfully mopped and everything else is put back together, you hop up onto the counter to wait for the tile to dry, and your gaze lingers over Namjoon’s large hands as he cashes out the register. He flips through the bills in time to the music, still humming under his breath as he goes, and you do your best to hold in your laugh when he inevitably loses count and has to start over from the beginning. Thankfully the second attempt sticks, and he smiles proudly to himself as he zips everything up into the deposit bag.

“First shift down,” he announces, as if you might have forgotten, and then his eyes find yours and you swear your breath gets stuck in your throat. “How do you feel?”

It only occurs to you now how close he’s standing to you, and with the way your legs are casually dangling over the edge of the counter, it wouldn’t take much for him to step between them. And god, he’s so damn tall, you’re practically eye-to-eye.

“Uh,” you manage, your mouth suddenly gone dry. “Good. I feel good.”

“That’s good,” he answers, his voice dipping into that throaty tone again. You find yourself wondering absentmindedly if maybe Namjoon has a customer service voice, too, and then for the briefest flash of a moment, his gaze flits from your eyes to your lips and back again. It’s so quick, you can’t be sure it even really happened.

You tell yourself it’s just your exhausted post-shift brain seeing things that aren’t there, wanting this fine-ass man to be into you, too.

A sudden bang on the front door makes you flinch so hard, you come dangerously close to kneeing Namjoon in the crotch. He takes a large step back as you whip around to look over your shoulder, only to see a kid’s face pressed to the glass, framed by two small hands. You’ve never been great at telling the age of children on sight, but this one looks like… maybe a middle schooler?

“Whose fucking kid is that?” you say automatically, blinking, dumbfounded. Namjoon’s laugh is a low rumble behind you.

“That would be mine.”

It takes several days for the shock to wear off. Your boss has a kid. Kim “could’ve burnt the building down with a single cookie” Namjoon is at least partially responsible for keeping another human being alive. Which means you have a crush… on a father.

A father who also happens to be your boss.

You try not to think about any of it.

There’d been brief introductions when you left the shop that first night, but all you’d really managed to glean was the kid’s name, Sol, and their pronouns. As someone who is historically terrible with children, you’d excused yourself the minute Namjoon locked the front door, after what felt like an eternity spent watching him pat each of his pockets twice before he finally managed to find his keys.

“I hope it wasn’t weird,” your boss says out of nowhere in the middle of your next shift, during a much-needed moment of peace after the morning rush. “For you to meet Sol like that. It’s just been hard, since their mom, uh…”

Namjoon trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished. You glance up, eyes widening as you put the pieces together.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “I’m so sorry.”

His gaze meets yours, and it’s like you can see the wheels in his head turning before he catches up. “No, no,” he says quickly, and then he starts to laugh. “Wow, I really did not start that sentence well. She’s not dead. She just got married, and she’s on her honeymoon for most of December. The logistics have been hard, is what I meant.”

An embarrassed heat creeps up your neck, and your elbows thud against the countertop as you press your face into your hands, attempting to muffle your own laughter. “In my defense,” you groan, “you really made it sound like you had a dead wife.”

“Not dead! She’s fine!” Namjoon’s dimples are as prominent as you’ve ever seen them when you peek up at him from your full-body cringe. “Very much alive, very much not my wife.” The muscles in his arms flex as he crosses them over his chest, leaning up against the counter next to the register. “Never was, actually.”

“Really?” you answer automatically, your damned curiosity getting the better of you.

He nods, his voice a little more serious when he continues, rambling on in the way that you’ve already started to suspect is his default setting, talking as if to fill empty space. “We were seventeen when we got pregnant. I knew we were young then, but I don’t think I really realized. Now that I’m almost thirty, I know: seventeen is fucking young.”

The line of his jaw tightens, thoughtful, as his gaze sweeps over the floor. “I thought I wanted to marry her, or at least felt obligated to. Like it was the right thing to do, but. We didn’t have any money, and then it all got so hectic after Sol was born. Didn’t even take a year for us to realize it wasn’t gonna work, not for us.”

You blink, trying to take in all the new information. “That sounds really hard.”

“It was,” Namjoon admits. “But we were both on the same page about it. That no matter what, Sol had to come first.” He glances up with a shrug. “It’s all good now. She’s a great co-parent, and her new husband is really good for her. And… well, I have Indigo.”

The tinkling of the bell at the front door snaps you out of a daze, makes you realize you’ve been staring at him, dumbfounded. You do your best to shoot Namjoon a soft smile, and to ignore the pang in your chest as he turns to greet the customer that’s just wandered in, already starting to babble on about the weather.

You find yourself more grateful for Namjoon’s presence with each passing shift, in a way that you try to convince yourself is thoroughly platonic. Between fairly steady work and his very steady chatter, your time spent in the warm, sunny space of Indigo turns out to be a good distraction from your own miserable excuse for a life. The repetitive motions of making drink after drink are oddly comforting, and you have to admit, Namjoon really is good with the customers.

“Peppermint mocha to go.”

You do your best to follow up the sentence with a polite smile as you set a drink down for the customer who has done nothing but scowl at you the whole time you were making it. The silent prayer you’ve sent out to the universe that he’ll take whatever personal problem he has elsewhere and leave you alone has clearly gone unanswered.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he snaps, and you can feel your shoulders creep up towards your ears in anticipation of nothing good. Here we fucking go.

You blink twice, trying to keep your service persona engaged. “I’m sorry, is that not what you ordered?” It is, you know it is, you heard him say it.

“No, that’s mine,” the man quickly responds, reaching out to snatch the cup in a motion that makes you flinch. “But do you hear this fucking song?”

The honest answer is no: at this point the ever-present Christmas music might as well be white noise, so you have to make a conscious effort to tune back in and listen. It’s a few seconds, and then you pick up on the melody. “…Last Christmas?”

“Uh, yeah,” he continues, explaining like you’re stupid. “The original. Last Christmas by Wham!” When it’s clear you still aren’t putting the pieces together, he scoffs in pure frustration. “You just made me lose Whamageddon! I’ve won every year for the last five years, I can’t believe you would even put this on your fucking playlist!”

Your face pulls into an incredulous grimace before you can think to control it. “Uh, I’m sorry, but I didn’t make the—”

He cuts you off. “First off, I don’t need the fucking attitude. And surely you’re at least capable of checking what songs are on there, right? That’s not too advanced for you to handle?”

You didn’t even hear Namjoon walk up from the back office, but he’s suddenly stepping in front of you, and you’re more than glad to move back and let him handle this dude before you end up in jail. “Woah, woah, alright,” Namjoon interjects, his voice loud enough to carry. “What’s going on?”

The man beats you to it. “I’m trying to file a legitimate complaint and she’s rolling her fucking eyes and getting an attitude with me!”

“It’s the song,” you explain briefly, trying to keep everything about your expression neutral. “He’s mad that we’re… playing Wham.”

Namjoon’s face twists in an expression that you would find funny if you weren’t so fucking livid, one that you’re pretty sure is the mirror image of your own reaction minutes earlier. “The song? Seriously?”

You can see the guy scrambling, clearly starting to get embarrassed at his own dramatics. “Alright, I don’t have time for this. I guess I just need to take my business elsewhere, because this is ridiculous. What ever happened to the customer is always right?”

Namjoon goes silent for a minute, and you try to ignore the way the look on his face makes your pulse quicken, thudding brightly in the hollow of your neck. His voice is deadly serious when he speaks again. “I appreciate that you’re upset, but if you’re going to look my employee in the face, after she just performed a service for you, and disrespect her like that? Over a fucking song? Nah, I’m not gonna tolerate it. Maybe the next time you want someone to make you a toothpaste drink, you should take your ass to Starbucks.”

It takes every ounce of strength you have to keep the reaction off your face until the asshole has stormed out the front door, nasty drink in hand. As the bell finally tinkles to signal his departure, you collapse forward, just barely catching yourself on the counter so you don’t crumple straight down to the floor.

“Oh my god.” Your laugh of disbelief comes out more like a groan, at the ridiculous complaint and your boss’ insanely attractive comeback alike. “I fucking hate this time of year.”

“Hey.” The word is punctuated by Namjoon’s shoulder bumping into yours, and you look back up at him, still laughing a little at your own misery. His eyes search yours, sincere. “Assholes are assholes no matter what season it is. I’m sure that guy finds plenty of things to complain about the other eleven months of the year, too. Don’t let him ruin it for you.”

You can’t help rolling your eyes, if only because you can do it freely now, without a man standing over you and yelling about your ‘bad attitude’. “I guess,” you huff. “And thank you.”

Namjoon shakes his head, like it’s nothing. “Chin up, okay?”

The two of you breeze through closing that night, familiar enough to fall into a steady routine now. You’re wiping everything down behind the counter and humming along to Tupac when Namjoon’s voice drags you back out of your thoughts in a way you’ve already grown accustomed to.

“You know…”

You glance up, only to realize that he’s started to flip chairs on top of tables to clear the floor, and is grabbing them two at a time, one in each hand. The image makes you a little dizzy, and you tell yourself to focus on his words, not his biceps.

“I think we make a pretty good team,” he concludes.

“Yeah,” you breathe, trying to keep your composure at the unexpected compliment. “I was thinking the same thing. And thanks again for, you know. Handling that guy.”

Namjoon shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Hey, you’re doing me a favor, taking this seasonal job. I’m not about to let anyone fuck with you.”

You bite down on a smile as you head towards the back to grab the mop, and then you hear a loud bang on the front door— it’s another sound you’ve gotten used to in your brief time at Indigo. There’s the click of the deadbolt, chased by the tinkling overhead bell and Namjoon’s chiding voice. “Homie, if you break my door I’m gonna make you get a job to pay me back for it.”

“You think I don’t know about child labor laws?” you hear Sol retort, clearly not intimidated, and the attitude in their voice has you biting back a laugh.

Wheeling the mop bucket out of the storage closet, you glance up to see Namjoon jut his chin toward the large front window, indicating Sol to take a seat on the ledge. “Feet off the floor, she’s tryna clean.”

Sol complies, plopping down in the window with their eyes glued to their phone as Namjoon disappears back toward the office to grab his things. You watch as Sol pulls their knees into their chest so their chunky black boots clear the tile, and you can’t help noticing that said boots are adorned with oversized silver bat-shaped buckles, reflecting the amber streetlight gleam that leaks through the window.

“I like your boots,” you say, more to yourself than Sol, half expecting them to be so engrossed in TikTok that they don’t even hear you.

But to your surprise, Sol looks up.

“Thanks,” they say, glancing at their feet. “I just got them. I’m in my post-hardcore era right now.”

The statement is delivered without a trace of irony, and you do your best to hold in another amused giggle as you respond. “Wow, you are… so much cooler than I was when I was your age.”

Sol seems to consider this for a moment, then shrugs. “I mean, you didn’t have the internet back then, right?”

The question hits you like a train, and you have to pause and press a hand over your heart at the impact. “Okay, ouch, I’m not that old.” They grimace apologetically, and you lean up against the mop handle in thought. “But the internet definitely wasn’t like it is now. The only social media that really existed was Myspace, and my parents wouldn’t let me make one. I mostly just used the internet to, like, play RuneScape.”

“Oh shit,” Sol remarks, sounding remarkably like Namjoon in the process. “You played old school?!”

It’s like you can feel your bones crumbling to dust inside your body, and you wince as you resume dragging the mop over the tile. “Hey, back then it was the only kind of RuneScape we had. But yes, you can consider me a… founding father of that game.”

“That’s cool!” they exclaim, sounding so genuine it makes your head spin. When did RuneScape become cool again? “My friends and I play old school all the time. It’s the best, for real.”

You shake your head in disbelief as you continue to mop, and a long pause settles between you, with Sol’s interest clearly returning to their phone.

Fuck, you think to yourself, what else do kids even talk about? Marvel movies? It’s like your mind has gone totally blank, unable to conjure up a single topic of conversation, and you practically huff out an audible sigh of relief when their voice breaks the silence again.

“I think my dad has been happier since you started working here.”

The mop nearly slips out of your hands entirely, and you glance up, eyes wide. “I— really?”

Sol nods, playing absentmindedly with the strings of their black hoodie, then bringing the end of one up to their mouth to gently chew on. “It’s a theory I have. A game theory. I plan to ask additional follow-up questions tonight.”

At this, you can’t help but laugh. “Well, I’m sure your investigation will be very thorough.”

There’s a flash of a dimple in Sol’s cheek, like the mirror image of their dad. “I can tell you what he says, if you want.”

You wonder how telling your own smile is. “I mean… I can’t say I’m not curious.” You’re distantly aware of the sound of the office door closing, chased by Joon whistling to himself, and you lower your voice conspiratorially as you drop the mop back into the bucket. “I look forward to hearing what you find out.”

Monday morning, when you wake up to the omnipresent smize of Nick Jonas, you can’t help smiling back.

You made it through your first week of work, and it wasn’t even that torturous. And best of all, Namjoon reminded you the night before that Indigo is closed on Mondays, which gives you an entire day to spend as you please. A real day off, which was truly unheard of at your last job, where you’d spend your non-scheduled days still anticipating an incoming emergency text asking you to cover a shift last-minute. More often than not, you’d end up working after all.

“But not today,” you announce to Nick.

A grand plan has already started to form in your head, one that involves a party size bag of Hot Cheetos and all eight episodes of The Fabulous, and yet. There’s a lingering urge at the back of your brain that you can’t quite ignore. With all the day-off energy you can muster, you drag yourself out of bed and tug on a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt, then shuffle into the bathroom to at least make yourself halfway decent.

You’re just going for a quick walk around the block to get some fresh air, you tell yourself. That’s all. Certainly no other reason.

It’s only a few minutes after you step out your front door that a fluffy white blur nearly collides with your shins, and when you stoop down to lift Moni into your arms, you once again can’t keep the smile off your face. Huh, who could’ve seen this coming?

But when you glance up, there’s no hot buff man jogging up the sidewalk after his dog. In fact, you realize as you look back at the ball of fluff in your arms, he isn’t wearing a leash or harness at all, just another cute sweater.

“Are you even supposed to be out here?” you ask Moni. His only answer is to drag his tongue up the side of your face.

You shift him a little in your arms so you can fumble for the tag attached to his collar, and thankfully, there’s an address listed. It takes you a second to get your bearings in the neighborhood, having not lived here for close to a decade, but it eventually comes back to you where the listed street is, and you start to walk. Moni is already blinking sleepily in your arms, clearly enjoying his preferred mode of transportation.

A laugh bubbles up in your chest as you approach the house in question— even if you hadn’t had Moni’s tag to guide you, finding his home would’ve been easy enough as soon as you passed this street, because you can hear old school hip-hop bumping through a speaker despite still being several houses down the block. You suppose Namjoon can get away with it during the day, when all the neighborhood kids are still in school.

As you make your way up the driveway, you realize the music is actually coming from behind the house, and when you follow the path that leads around back, you spot the culprit: a simple wooden-slat fence surrounds the yard, and the gate has been left wide open.

Before you can even make it over the threshold, a familiar voice reaches your ears, sounding much closer than the music. “Ah, shit.”

Namjoon comes barreling through the open gate so fast he practically runs you over, and Moni yaps, like he’s annoyed at being jostled as you quickly try to stumble out of his owner’s path.

“Oh. Uh, hi.”

You wonder if you’ll ever be able to take in how shock looks on Namjoon’s features without giggling a little. Today is certainly not that day. It’s just so endearing, the way his eyes widen and his mouth pulls into a perfect o-shape.

“Hi,” you breathe out around your laughter, trying to ignore the heat that flushes into your face when his dimples appear in return. “I think I found something that belongs to you.”

With a wave of his hand and several profuse thank yous, you follow Namjoon back through the gate, and wait until he firmly shuts it behind you before letting Moni down to trot off across the yard. It’s only now that you take Namjoon in properly: he’s in a gray hoodie under a pair of denim overalls, both of which are splattered artfully with paint in a variety of colors.

“I was just in my studio,” he explains, tipping his head toward the small shed in the yard, which you quickly realize is also the source of the music that led you here. “Doin’ some art. Do you, uh… wanna see?”

“Yeah, okay,” you answer with a nod.

“Fair warning, I’m really bad at it,” he calls over his shoulder as he leads you in the open studio door, raising his voice to be heard over the music. He reaches for his phone, propped up in the windowsill, to turn the volume down a few notches.

There’s an easel up against the far wall holding what must be his current project, a half-finished scene that you realize upon closer inspection is thousands of tiny dots of color, painstakingly blotted onto the canvas to form a mountain landscape at a distance. A few more pieces that he’s already completed have been leaned up against another wall to dry, one featuring an abstract array of featherlight brushstrokes, and another where the paint’s been globbed on in thick layers.

Namjoon is talking a mile a minute as you inspect the canvases. “I thought maybe I’d do cyanotypes today, but it’s not sunny enough, and I’ve made that mistake before. I’m really into texture right now, so I’m trying out some different techniques with paint. I want to get better at pointillism, but it’s a lot harder than you’d think it would be. ‘Cause it’s just dots, right? But you have to be able to see the forest for the trees, too.”

“These are amazing,” you finally manage to murmur, and to your surprise, the compliment actually renders him silent. When you turn back over your shoulder to look at him, he’s glancing down, almost like he’s embarrassed.

“Thanks. But I just do it for fun. ‘Cause I love art.”

“I can tell,” you say, and when he looks up, you offer him a smile you hope reads as encouraging. “Did you make the art at work, too?”

He nods, still sheepish, and that answer also surprises you. You recall thinking on your first day that the paintings hung on the walls looked handmade, but it never crossed your mind that they might have been made by Namjoon’s hands. Maybe because you’ve grown so accustomed to seeing him drop and break things, you haven’t ever considered him as also capable of… creation.

And yet, here he is. Proving you wrong.

“Sorry,” Namjoon’s voice makes you refocus on him, and your brow furrows in confusion at the unexpected apology. “This is literally your one day away from me and here I am, taking up your time. Thanks again for bringing Moni back.”

“It’s okay.” You shrug. “Don’t have much going on today, honestly. I never really know what to do with myself when I’m not working. Which I’m aware is very sad.”

“Well, uh,” Namjoon starts, and when he takes a single step closer, you swear you feel something flutter in your stomach— or maybe lower. “Sol’s got a half-day today, since it’s the last day before break, so I’m picking them up in a bit. And we were gonna go on a hike, probably take Moni too. You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like?”

Your eyes widen at the invitation. “Oh. That sounds great. I mean, if you’re sure I wouldn’t be intruding?”

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth pulling up just so. “Nah. I actually think Sol really likes you. At least, they wouldn’t stop asking questions about you at dinner last night.”

“Is that right?” You do your best to keep your expression neutral.

Namjoon drives far enough north that there’s actually snow on the ground when you climb out of his front seat. You shove your hands into the pockets of your jacket as you follow him across the gravel parking lot towards the trailhead, a few paces behind Sol and Moni.

Sol shoots an expression of pure mischief at you over their shoulder, and then immediately starts to sprint up the marked path through the woods, Moni easily keeping up.

“Bye, nerds!” you hear them call before they disappear between the trees.

“Stay on the trail!” Namjoon shouts back, sounding as dad-like as you’ve ever heard him, and you can’t help but laugh. The two of you quicken your steps slightly to not fall too far behind, tracking the set of boot and paw-prints they’ve left to mark their trail.

For a moment, it’s silent between you, save the crunching of snow underfoot. It’s nice, being out in nature like this, time spent with Namjoon where you aren’t suffering through Christmas music and ungrateful customers. Where you can just… breathe. It makes you feel a little less sorry for yourself, a little less fixated on your own miserable life.

You glance over at him as that strange seasonal melancholy starts to settle into your bones again. “Are the holidays… better? With a kid?”

Namjoon makes a face, like he’s surprised by the question. “I mean, they’re definitely different. Then again, it’s been a long time since I did the holidays without a kid— not since I was a kid myself. What do you mean by better?”

Self-consciousness washes over you, your gaze drifting down to the path beneath your feet. “I don’t know, there’s just… I can’t shake this weird feeling now that I’m back home. This time of year used to be so exciting for me when I was Sol’s age. Everything felt special. Magical. But now I’m back here, and nothing’s really changed, except me. But I just keep feeling like the magic is gone. It’s… sad.”

He nods, taking a moment before he responds, and he’s chuckling softly to himself when he finally does. “You know, it’s kinda funny. When Sol was younger I actually felt a lot of stress this time of year. I couldn’t really enjoy it, because I was too busy trying to make sure that they had the best holiday I could possibly give them. That they didn’t feel like they were getting any less, since, you know. Their mom and I aren’t together. It’s funny that you bring up the magic, because I put a lot of pressure on myself to make that magic happen. But now that they’re a little older, I don’t know, it’s different.”

“Different how?” you prompt.

A dimple deepens as he hesitates. “It’s gonna sound corny. But really, I realized that the holidays aren’t about the gifts, or the decorations, or every little thing going perfect. You can make yourself sick over that shit, and I did, but kids don’t really care about it.” He pauses, and for a second you think that might be it, but then he keeps going, eyes fixed on the towering pine trees ahead of you.

“The year I opened Indigo, I had sank so much fucking money into it that I was broke. Broke broke. I couldn’t afford a single gift, a tree, not even a turkey. Sol and I sat on the floor of my shitty apartment and ate Chapagetti and watched Friends. And I felt like the biggest fucking failure imaginable. And then you know what happened?”

“What?”

“Sol turned to me, and they said, ‘This is the best Christmas ever, because we get to hang out, just the two of us.’” He blinks a few times, like he’s trying to ward off tears, and his voice comes back slightly less steady than before. “I still don’t know if they said that because they really meant it, or if they could just tell that I needed to hear it. But either way, I thought to myself: how fucking lucky am I, to have such a great kid? Like what did I ever do to deserve them? I still feel that way.”

Namjoon shrugs, as if to shake off the emotion. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s not helpful to you, but. I just see it differently now. It’s not about the what, or the how. It’s about the who. Spending this time of year with the people you care about, and making sure they know you do. That’s the real magic.”

You realize the trail has carried you up the sloping hillside, and is now flattening out at the edge of a clearing, where you can see Moni chasing Sol through the snow, can hear their high-pitched laughter ringing out in the wide-open air.

When you turn back to Namjoon, he’s already looking at you.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel the magic right now. I didn’t either, for a long time. But it does come back, I believe that. It’ll come back for you, too.”

You blink up at him, overwhelmed by his willingness to be so honest, and by the wisdom of his words. “I— thank you,” you finally manage to say.

Namjoon doesn’t answer, just glances up to where Sol and Moni are still playing, and your gaze follows his out over the snow-covered field. Sol is dusting off a sizable stick, and they call out for Moni to fetch before launching it into a dramatic arc, high up in the air.

Moni watches it go, entirely disinterested, then settles onto his haunches in the snow with a yawn.

“You’re so bad at being a dog!” Sol shouts, and that’s enough to make you and Namjoon both dissolve into laughter. They look up at the sound, hands-on-hips, before yelling again, this time in your direction. “My dad said he has a crush on you!”

Your jaw drops open, and Namjoon’s eyes are wide as you’ve ever seen them when you look up at him.

“Damn, dude, you said you were gonna be chill about it!” he exclaims, and you press a hand to your mouth as a fresh wave of giggles overtakes you. Given how long Namjoon’s legs are, it only takes him a few strides to catch up to Sol. You stay a tentative distance behind him, but still close enough to be able to make out their conversation.

“Uncle Hobi says you need to be bolder with women,” Sol chides, matter-of-fact.

“Uncle Hobi says a lot of shit,” Namjoon mutters under his breath.

“He painted my nails,” Sol raises their voice, clearly talking more to you than to their dad, and holds up a hand for you to see, waggling their fingers proudly.

“They look great,” you call out in response.

Namjoon turns back to you as you step in closer, then juts his chin to a bench at the other side of the clearing. “Sit with me for a sec?”

With a nod, you follow him over, and he wipes the metal surface free of snow with his sleeve before gesturing for you to have a seat. For a moment, the two of you sit silently and watch Sol, who is already busying themself with building a snowperson while Moni slow-blinks encouragingly from a distance.

Namjoon’s words chase a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna be real with you, despite the fact that my child just stole my thunder. I like you a lot.”

Your heart swells in your chest, threatening to burst. “I-I like you too,” you stammer back immediately. “Have definitely been harboring my own crush… basically since I started working at Indigo.”

When you turn to look at him, it surprises you a little that he isn’t smiling. You can see a muscle working in his jaw, like he’s nervous.

“That’s the thing,” he finally relents. “Work. I don’t— I hadn’t really planned to tell you how I was feeling, or act on it. Because I’m your boss, and that means, you know. There’s a power dynamic there. And it would be… unethical of me to blur the lines like that, by getting involved with my employee. I wanted you to come out with us today because it was a chance for you and I to be equals, outside of work, but it’s not like that dynamic just goes away, you know? And I feel a little guilty about it now. Because I really like being around you so much, but I just. We can’t. It wouldn’t be right. Not while you’re working for me.”

You stare down at the snow under your boots as you take in his words, and you can’t help it. Try as you might to sit there and take his worries seriously, laughter flutters out of you before you can hold it in.

“What?” Namjoon asks, and you shake your head, trying to compose yourself.

“I really, really appreciate that you gave it so much thought,” you say, willing your voice to stay even. “I mean it.”

“It’s weighed really heavy on me, if I’m honest,” he says solemnly, and you glance over to see him staring into the middle distance, like he’s deep in contemplation.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching out to where his hand rests on the bench between you and covering it with your own.

“Namjoon?” you ask softly, and it seems to snap him out of his trance enough to look back at you.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” you preface. “But if I have to choose between you and my stupid seasonal coffee shop job?” The smile starts to flicker over your face again. “Then I quit. I quit right now.”

“Oh thank god,” Namjoon breathes, and you can only make a soft noise of surprise when all at once, he takes your face in his hands and kisses you. You need a split second for the shock to wear off, and then you’re moving your mouth against his, one hand fisting tight in the fabric of his jacket. His lips are full and warm, and it feels like far too soon that he’s pulling back again, his cheeks flushed with color.

“Will you, uh—” he pauses, like he’s remembering how to form a sentence. “Will you still work tomorrow though? Jimin’s back after Christmas, but I really don’t think I can survive a shift on my own.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, still a little breathless from his kiss. “Yeah, I think you’d burn the place down.”

Unable to deny the claim, he laughs brightly as you untangle from each other, then gets to his feet before offering a hand to help you up. “We should head out, it’s gonna get dark soon.”

It’s true: across the wide clearing you can already see the sun threatening to sink back down between the trees, casting a golden-pink light that gleams off the snow and paints the world in warmth.

Sol leads the way back through the woods to the car, tugging Moni along by their leash, while you and Namjoon bring up the rear. You glance over at him a few times to catch him staring, and you scrape your teeth across your bottom lip, unable to keep the smile off your face, unable to stop yourself from mentally replaying the moment when he kissed you, over and over.

Just as you step under the shadow of a large tree, snow-covered branches stretching up toward the clear sky above you, Namjoon stops in the path. It’s so abrupt that you continue a few more paces before you even realize, and then you stop, too, glancing back towards him.

“Hey Sol,” Namjoon calls. “Think you and Moni can make it all the way back to the car in ten seconds?”

“I know what you’re doing,” comes Sol’s cheeky reply, but when Namjoon starts counting backwards from ten, you can hear the crunch of their boots taking off down the path.

“Eight, seven, six…” You watch as Namjoon cranes his neck until he deems Sol far enough out of sight, taking a step toward you as his counting trails off, and you find yourself pulled into him like a magnet. “Come here,” he murmurs, and then his hands are slipping up your waist and guiding you backwards until your back hits the trunk of the tree.

In true Namjoon fashion, he uses way more strength than is necessary for the task, and though your winter jacket cushions you from the impact, you’re smacked against the bark so hard that it knocks a dusting of snow off the branches above you, covering you both in flakes that stick to your hair and eyelashes. The sudden rush of cold makes you gasp into Namjoon’s mouth, but then he’s rolling his tongue over yours and you can’t think about anything else. A heavy pulse has started to thud between your legs at the heat of his breath in your mouth, the way his hips have you pinned to the tree, his body big enough to cover yours entirely.

“Joon,” you find the air to breathe as his lips trail hungrily down the slope of your neck. You rake a hand through his hair, white-blonde strands studded with snow, to try and pull his attention back, despite very much not wanting him to stop. “Joon, we should go. Before someone steals your kid.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs against your skin, and then his mouth is on yours again for one more kiss, like he can’t get enough. “Okay,” he finally grunts as he pulls away, sounding as begrudgingly responsible as you feel. Your head is still spinning; you want nothing more than to stay here and let him kiss you dizzy.

“Let’s go.”

He takes a step back so you can right yourself, reaching out to dust some snow off your jacket, and then the two of you resume walking up the path, sharing a breathless laugh like confidantes. You assume it’s just his standard clumsiness when Namjoon’s hand knocks into yours, but then his fingers are twining through yours purposefully, until you’re pressed palm to palm.

The rush of heat that blooms in your chest at his touch keeps you warm the rest of the way to the car.

Your last shift at Indigo somehow manages to feel exactly like every shift that’s come before it and completely new at the same time.

The work is the same, the steady stream of customers unchanged, the Christmas music still an aggravating soundtrack. But you no longer feel like you have to ignore the butterflies that flutter in your stomach when Namjoon asks you a question, or meets your gaze across the shop.

The only urges you have to suppress are indecent ones, made worse by Namjoon seemingly taking advantage of every opportunity to touch you: hip-checking you when you’re both standing at the front counter, pressing a hand to the small of your back whenever he has to squeeze behind you, leaning in a little closer than necessary to be heard over the noise of the milk steamer. It’s enough to make your breath hitch each time, and you can’t help but wonder if he feels the same relief at not having to hold back anymore.

Towards the end of the night, it surprises you when the typically consistent flow of customers starts to slow down, until it seems to have ceased entirely. You still have two hours to go, but you find yourself staring at the walls, every table empty, having done all the side work you can think of to distract yourself from boredom.

The sound of the front door’s lock clicking shut makes you glance up, only to see Namjoon flipping the open sign over.

“What are you doing?” you ask, blinking dumbfounded, and he looks over his shoulder at you with a shrug.

“It’s Christmas Eve Eve, and I’m the owner, so. We’re closing early. Effective immediately.” The decree makes you laugh a little, and his dimples wink back. “Let’s finish cleaning, I wanna show you something.”

In record time, you find yourself standing outside the front door of Indigo as Namjoon locks up, only tonight your hands are kept warm by the hot chocolates he’d made for the two of you as you closed. He takes his cup back once his hands are free, and you try a tentative sip from yours, now cool enough to drink without burning your mouth. Given what you witnessed of his barista abilities on your first day, you brace yourself for the worst, but your eyes widen in pleasant surprise when the liquid hits your tongue.

“Being a dad means getting really good at a few specific things,” he says by way of explanation as he unlocks his car doors, and you smile as you slip into the passenger seat.

It occurs to you as Namjoon starts to drive that you don’t actually know where he’s taking you, but when you open your mouth to ask at the next red light, he leans over you to fumble open the glovebox and you lose your train of thought. He fishes inside for a few seconds before retrieving a CD case, then makes quick work of prying it open and sliding the disc into the slot on the dash. You attempt to hide your giggle behind the rim of your cup.

“No wonder you like ‘90s music so much. You’re still living there,” you say, nodding to his antiquated stereo, and he smirks as he turns up the volume.

“This is A Tribe Called Quest,” he remarks, quirking an eyebrow when he looks back at you. “You better show some respect.”

“Yes, sir,” you tease in response, and you don’t miss the color that flushes his cheeks.

The light turns green and he accelerates through the intersection, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching across the center console to grip playfully at your leg, a few inches above your knee. You can see his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, like he’s considering saying something, but when he finally opens his mouth, it’s just to rap along to the music.

It’s only a few songs later that he’s turning off the main road and following a barely-lit gravel path up to a large grassy parking lot, where he pulls into a space and kills the engine. You squint through the windshield, tucking your now-empty drink into the cupholder, but you can’t make out much except dusk and some vague lights over a hill in the distance.

“Was this crush thing just a ploy to murder me?” you quip, and Namjoon looks a little nervous when you glance over, like he took the question to heart. “I’m kidding,” you clarify quickly.

His voice comes out surprisingly soft. “This is one of my favorite things to do during the holidays. Thought it might help with, you know. The magic.”

Something cracks open inside you as you look back at him. “That’s… really sweet.”

“Ah,” he says, as if to dismiss the compliment. “You haven’t seen it yet. Maybe you’ll hate it. Come on.”

The two of you climb out of his car to start your trek to whatever he has in store, heading in the direction of the lights, and Namjoon’s hand slips into yours, like it’s already second nature. Easy and sweet. You grip tight to him, the night air colder now than it was when you left work, but then you finally crest over the hill, and the temperature is suddenly the furthest thing from your mind.

It takes you a moment to even understand what you’re looking at. The place is clearly some kind of arboretum, as the path ahead of you snakes through a perfectly manicured garden of various plants, but the only thing you can focus on are the lights. Every tree, bush, shrub, and other kind of greenery that lines the walkway has been intricately strung up with lights, each one boasting a different hue. The end result is nothing short of dazzling— a veritable rainbow of light and life and color, glittering diamond-bright against the deep-set night around you.

“Namjoon,” you breathe. “This is beautiful.”

There’s a dimple flickering at the corner of his mouth when you look up at him. “Thought you might like it.”

“I can’t believe I never knew this was here,” you remark, your eyes wide and blinking as you try to take it all in.

“Hey,” he answers with a shrug. “Maybe your hometown still has a few good surprises left in it.” You exhale a laugh as you lean into his side and he squeezes your joined hands; you can’t help feeling like you’ve already found the greatest surprise of them all.

After an hour spent wandering through the displays, each one more breathtaking than the last, Namjoon diverts you toward a small food stand. He comes away from the counter with a paper carton filled to the brim with long ropes of twisted, fried dough, warm enough to release steam into the air when you tear one apart to share, and dusted with cinnamon sugar that sticks to your fingertips.

The two of you take a few steps back down the path until you’re under an archway of glowing golden lights, then eventually come to a standstill, too hungry to do anything except devour your food.

Namjoon speaks first, mid-chew. “Can I ask you a question?”

“What’s up?” you answer as you reach for another piece.

He swallows, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth before he continues. “At your interview, you said your life fell apart. What happened?”

“Oh.” You smirk as you rip the braided dough in two, then in two again, before popping it into your mouth. “It seems a little silly now, but. I got fired from that last job, like I told you. And the same day, my roommate pretty much kicked me out of the apartment, because he wanted his boyfriend to move in. He was also my best friend, so. It stung a little. A lot. Moving back in with your parents at this age is humbling, to say the least. Feels a lot like starting over.”

Namjoon hums, like he understands. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Eh,” you respond noncommittally. “I should probably be happy for him. The timing just… wasn’t amazing.”

“You know,” he murmurs, thoughtful. “I thought my life was over when my ex and I got pregnant. Not even eighteen and about to be a dad. I really felt like… I don’t know, like that was it for me.” You nod slowly, unable to even fathom what that must’ve been like.

“But, here I am. Still alive.” Namjoon flashes you a grin, and you find yourself smiling back. “Still figuring it out. I actually feel like I’ve learned a lot from watching Sol grow up. They’re like—” He shakes his head, as if at a momentary loss for words. “They’re like a different person every month, I swear. What they’re into, how they dress. Who they wanna be. It makes me feel, I don’t know. Like it’s okay. Like I can change too.” He shrugs. “That’s the thing about life. It’s long. And even when you feel like it’s ended… it keeps going anyway.”

His words wash over you, and you’re so in awe that you can’t help but laugh.

“Ah, sorry.” He grimaces, suddenly self-conscious. “I know that was corny.”

“No, no,” you interject, trying to keep your composure. “I just think you are like, literally the wisest person I’ve ever met.”

The lights glimmering overhead aren’t enough to hide the way Namjoon blushes at the compliment, and then he pauses, as if recalling something. “Didn’t I nearly run the blender with the lid off on your first day?”

You double-over at the memory, and he’s laughing now, too. “Okay, okay. Fair point.”

The thought keeps circling around in your brain as you dust cinnamon sugar from each other’s jackets and continue your way around the rest of the gardens, occasionally pausing to trade sticky-sweet kisses in the twinkling glow: you don’t want the night to end. You keep glancing over at Namjoon, wondering if he’s feeling the same way as he drives you back into town, the heat in his car on full blast, the CD player still underscoring your conversation.

“So, what do your Christmas plans look like?” he asks, eyes flitting briefly from the road to meet your gaze.

You fiddle with a button on your coat, wishing you had a less depressing answer. “I was just gonna spend it by myself. My parents already had a vacation in Hawaii planned, so I’m gonna do what I always do: hole up with booze and snacks and wait for it all to be over.”

He chuckles, tapping his fingertips absentmindedly against the steering wheel. “Well, I have about a hundred presents to wrap tomorrow night while Sol’s at their mom’s. Why don’t you come over and help? I can even provide the booze.” There’s a pause, and his voice comes back softer before you can respond. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

The corner of your mouth tugs up at his sincerity, the way he gently cares for you, has since day one. “Yeah, okay. I mean, you had me at free alcohol.”

Just like that, Namjoon is already turning back into the Indigo parking lot, where your car sits waiting for you. The two of you shrug off your seatbelts once he’s pulled into a space and parked, and he reaches to turn down the music before shifting in his seat to get a better look at you.

“So,” he starts, clearing his throat a little. “You are officially no longer my employee.”

“And you are no longer my boss,” you answer back, and a thrill buzzes in your chest at the statement.

“Which means,” he continues, doing his best to lean over the center console, “I can do this.” He barely finishes getting the words out before his mouth is on yours, your eyes fluttering closed, his kisses far less chaste than the ones you shared earlier. They’re open-mouthed and urgent this time, with Namjoon slipping his tongue into the heat of your mouth like he’s been waiting all night for it.

“Uh-huh,” you murmur between kisses, and then he dips his head lower, until his lips find the join of your neck and shoulder.

“And this,” he purrs before kissing you just as hungrily there, tongue-first. You can’t hold back the soft noise his mouth pulls out of you.

“Fuck,” you breathe as he sucks gently over the same spot, with just enough pressure to make you writhe in your seat. A shiver rolls up your spine when he hums against your skin, clearly pleased at your reaction.

“And, uh…” You slowly blink your eyes open when you feel the warmth of his breath dissipate, and he’s looking at you with his brow furrowed, as if attempting some difficult mental math. “Actually—” He reaches down for the lever to adjust his seat, and it drops all the way back with a graceless thud that makes a laugh flutter out of you. “Maybe you could take your jacket off and come over here?”

You don’t need him to ask you twice, and you’re moving quickly as you peel out of the thick material and scramble across the console to straddle him. You both groan a little when you duck down to press your mouth to his again, all of this suddenly feeling much more real now that you’re basically horizontal. His hands alight on your hips, tentative, like he isn’t quite sure what to do with them, and you smile against his lips.

“Touch me, Joon,” you instruct, and he does as he’s told.

His hands are warm as he slips them beneath the hem of your shirt, trailing over your skin until he reaches the band of your bra. When you hum encouragingly into his mouth, he keeps going, pushing the fabric up your chest so your tits spill free from their confinement. He cups one in each hand, and though you might’ve expected him to be clumsy or rough, given everything you’ve seen of him thus far, you’re surprised to instead find that he’s gentle, thumbs circling your nipples with just the right amount of pressure to tighten them into stiff peaks.

Unable to bite back your whimper at the heat that blossoms through you at his touch, at how much more of him you need, you pull away just enough to break your kiss, glancing up through the back window of his car to confirm the parking lot is still empty.

Namjoon groans low in his throat when you reach down to tug up the hem of your shirt, shifting a little on top of him to give him better access. He doesn’t hesitate, thumb still working at one nipple while he takes the other into his mouth, and your sigh of relief comes edged with a soft moan when he swirls his tongue over the bud of your breast.

“Shit,” you gasp. “Feels so fucking good.”

He pulls off with a wet pop to switch sides, and the slick heat of his mouth sends bolt after bolt of arousal through you until there’s a dull ache of need thudding between your legs. As you roll your hips in desperate search of friction, you can feel him beneath you, straining hard against the fabric of his jeans.

Namjoon pulls his mouth off your breast, letting out a hoarse laugh when you shift to drop your forehead against his collarbone with a groan, horny enough to practically be delirious. “I hate that I’m even saying this,” he rasps, “but I really can’t have sex in a car. I’m too—”

“Big?” you offer, and there’s a smile on his lips as he presses a kiss to your temple.

“I was going to say old.”

You can’t help giggling as you lean up to find his mouth with yours again. Namjoon kisses you a little while longer, lazily, his hands still kneading gently at your tits, until he finally tips his head back, heaving a sigh up to the roof of his car. “Okay, okay. You should go.” His tone is reluctant, like it’s the last thing he wants. “It’s late. And my jeans fucking hurt.”

There’s a self-satisfied smirk toying at your mouth as you sit up, tugging your bra and shirt back into place and not missing the bulge in Namjoon’s pants where your hips meet his. “I will take the blame for that one.”

He folds his hands behind his head, biceps and dimples on full display. “Damn straight.”

You lean down for one more kiss, letting it linger before you make your way back over the center console to retrieve your jacket. “Have a good night, Joon,” you murmur as you reach for the door handle, and when you glance back, his eyes are fixed on you, still heavy-lidded with lust.

“Get home safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I have booze, as promised.” Namjoon’s voice echoes in from the kitchen as you kick off your boots and hang your coat up at his front door come Christmas Eve. The aroma hits your nose as your socked feet pad down the hall to follow him: the spice of cinnamon and clove, paired with a hint of citrus. It smells like the holidays, like home.

“Mulled wine?” you wager a guess, and he nods, turning away from the stove to retrieve two mugs from a cabinet.

“I halved the recipe, since it’s just us,” he explains, mouth pulling down at the corners as he starts to ladle out servings from the pot full of deep red liquid. “Still made a lot, though.”

Your eyes drift across the kitchen until they land on the two empty bottles of red sitting next to the sink, and that makes you pause for a moment to consider. “So the original recipe called for four bottles?”

Namjoon’s brow is furrowed when he glances up, and then he follows your gaze, and a look of delayed understanding washes over him. “Oh, fuck.”

Your elbows dig into the kitchen island as you press your hands to your mouth, as if to physically hold in your laughter. “Did you… halve everything in the recipe except the wine?”

His eyes drop closed as he nods, his answer a resigned sigh. “Yeah. Yes, I did.”

You can’t help yourself: all at once, you’re circling around to join Namjoon behind the stove, so you can take his face in your hands and pull his mouth down to yours. He makes a soft noise of surprise, but then his lips fall into rhythm, kissing you hard enough to knock the air out of your lungs. Even through the fabric of your shirt, his large hands are warm when they slide over the small of your back, and then they keep going, until you finally break the kiss with another laugh when he reaches his final target and outright grabs your ass.

“Not the reaction I anticipated,” Namjoon admits, paired with a teasing squeeze. “But I’ll take it.”

You look up at him through your lashes, pressing your palms flat to the firm plane of his chest. “A very wise friend of mine once told me that the holidays aren’t about every little thing going perfect. I thought maybe you needed a reminder.”

His dimples deepen as his eyes search yours, and his voice is lower in his throat when he responds. “I think that fool was just sayin’ words because a pretty girl asked him a question.”

Heat flushes your face as you smile back. “Well, they were very good words.” You drop your gaze to the pot on the stove. “Come on, I bet we can salvage this.”

Determined to save Christmas, you throw in another handful of spices, chased with a few glugs from a bottle of orange juice Namjoon heroically digs out of the back of the fridge. After a few more minutes of simmering, you take a tentative sip of the mixture to find it perfectly adequate.

“I guess we just have to drink twice as much now,” Namjoon quips, filling up two fresh mugs with the remedied wine. You raise an eyebrow back at him, as if to accept the challenge, while you tap your drinks together in a cheers.

By the time you realize that a double-batch of mulled wine and gift-wrapping don’t exactly go together, it’s already too late. The booze makes Namjoon’s big hands go even clumsier, the few presents he attempts an absolute disaster, and you can’t stop laughing long enough to be of any help. At one point he reaches up to cup your jaw for a kiss, but completely misjudges the distance, deftly knocking into his half-drunk mug and spilling the contents all over a tube of wrapping paper and the crotch of your jeans.

You dissolve into giggles until you can scarcely breathe, scooting your chair a few inches back from the table as he jumps up to grab something to soak up the mess. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” you manage to gasp when he returns, immediately focused on cleaning you up first. You wave him away as you get to your feet. “Seriously, it’s not that bad, it’s mostly the table.”

“Jesus,” Namjoon groans as he drops the kitchen towels in his hands onto the wooden surface, doing his best to soak up the puddle, though there’s no saving the ruined gift-wrap.

“It’s not a big deal,” you murmur as he turns back, once again examining the extent of the damage done to your clothes. A shiver rolls through you as his thumb brushes over the waistband of your jeans, and he grimaces a little.

“This is probably gonna stain.”

“I mean…” Your pulse starts to quicken as his fingertips linger where they are, and Namjoon’s gaze flits up to meet yours when you speak, clearly hearing a shift in your tone of voice. “I could just… take them off.”

A smile teases at the corner of your mouth when his eyes widen. “Yeah,” he breathes, then seems to self-correct. “I mean, uh. If-if that’s something you would feel comfortable doing.”

You’re already reaching to undo the button, and then Namjoon takes over to tug open the zipper and push the fabric down your legs, and your nipples tighten beneath your bra at the reminder of how gentle his large hands can be. His lips find yours again and you don’t hesitate to lick into his mouth, jostling slightly as you try to make out with him and kick your pants the rest of the way off at the same time. It’s graceless, but you manage to make it work, and then he pulls away from you to glance back down.

“It looks like a little got on your shirt, too.”

He’s right, you realize: there are faint purple marks splattered just above the hem of your long-sleeve, and you smirk as you look up at him.

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you did this on purpose,” you tease, and then in one swift move you pull your shirt over your head, letting it drop to the kitchen floor next to your discarded jeans.

Namjoon’s hands are instantly on your bare skin, trailing heat as they trace the curve from your hip to your waist, and your breath hitches as he ducks down to brush his lips over your collarbone. The low tone of his voice reverberates through you when he speaks against your skin. “I like to think I could’ve gotten you naked tonight even without being an accident-prone idiot.”

You run a hand along the line of his jaw, tipping his head up to seek a kiss, before leaning back to murmur, “I guess we’ll never know.”

He kisses you again, and the two of you stumble across the threshold into the living room, pausing along the way to peel off his sweater and then his jeans, laughing into each other’s mouths, just drunk enough to lack any semblance of coordination you might have otherwise had.

When you drop down to lay back on his sofa, you’re both stripped to your underwear, and you can feel the thick bulge of him, pressing firm-heavy heat into your thigh as he settles his hips between your spread legs.

Namjoon’s eyes roam over your body beneath him, and then he’s tugging the lace of your panties to the side to slip a finger into your drenched center, beckoning it up to rub you just right. Your mouth drops open as he traces slow circles against your front wall, and when he adds a second digit, you can’t help but whimper softly at the stretch. It thrums through you like your lingering red wine buzz, hot and thick and good enough to get lost in, your head dropping back on the couch cushions as your hips rock up into his touch.

“Goddamn,” Namjoon groans, and your eyes flutter open again to take him in, his gaze heavy-lidded as he watches his fingers disappear up into you, coaxing slick sounds out with each pump of his hand. “I had a whole plan,” he rasps. “To take my time. But, fuck, I really want to fuck you.”

“It’s okay, Joon,” you breathe, not sure how much longer you could stand the torturous feeling of his clothed cock grinding into your thigh, so close to where you want him. An ache throbs in your cunt, needy, plugged up with two fingers but still begging for more. “Just fuck me.”

Realization flashes over his face, and then he suddenly heaves a sigh, looking defeated. You have to bite back a noise at the loss as he withdraws his fingers. “I— there’s an obvious joke here, but. I don’t have any condoms. Or if I do, they’re definitely expired.”

It takes you a second to process the revelation, and then you reach up to pull him down to you, smiling when he hums surprise into your mouth at the unexpected response. Your lips linger on his, and then you tip your head to press a kiss to the slope of his neck, not quite able to maintain eye contact as you murmur, “I mean. I’m on the pill, and I’m clean. So.”

“Yeah?” he replies, and your nose bumps against his shoulder as you nod. “Me too. Well, I-I’m clean, I mean. I’m not on the pill.”

You can’t help the giggle that slips out as you look up at him. “Right, no, I get it.”

“Sorry,” Namjoon huffs a laugh in return, his face flushing a little. “I talk a lot, when I’m nervous.”

“I just thought it was an all-the-time thing,” you admit, and the color in his cheeks deepens.

“I’m just always nervous around you.”

Your mouth seeks his out for a kiss sweeter than the last, slower for his shy honesty and the hummingbird thrum of your heartbeat behind your ribs. The heat of his breath ghosts over your lips when you tip back to answer, “You don’t have to be.”

“So, you’re okay?” he asks, almost reverent with his question. “If we—if I don’t—”

“Please,” you insist, and it’s all the encouragement he needs.

With remarkably little fumbling, he drags the lace of your panties down your legs, letting you kick them the rest of the way off while he moves up to unclasp your bra. You slip the straps off your shoulders and drop it over the edge of the couch, then watch as he shifts to strip out of his boxers, freeing his cock with enough force that it smacks against his abdomen with a hefty thud.

You swallow hard as you take him in: long and thick, flushed dark. Big, and fuck, you want all of him; you can feel how drenched you already are between your legs at the thought of all that cock filling you up.

When you tear your gaze away to meet his, Namjoon is staring at you just as hungrily, and he brings a hand to pump himself a few times, to coat his shaft in the wetness that’s started to drool from the head of his dick.

“Come here,” he grunts, his voice rough-edged, and you waste no time straddling yourself over his hips.

Given his considerable size, you figured it might take you a second to adjust, but you want him so bad, the feeling of his cock stretching you open is all white-hot pleasure. Your fingertips dig into his shoulders as you slowly lower yourself down on him, inch by overwhelming inch, until your ass is flush with thighs.

Namjoon’s head drops back against the couch as you slowly grind your hips into him, his hands gripping at your waist to guide the movement. You can’t help the soft sound that flutters out of you: he just looks so good like this, white-blonde hair swept off his forehead, beads of sweat trailing down his temples and glistening at his collarbones, his parted lips full and kiss-bitten.

“Baby,” he groans as you start to move a little more intentionally. “Fuck, I’m not gonna last long. Tell me what to do.”

“Touch me,” you breathe, and you close a hand over one of his, guiding him down to your clit.

Just like the night before in his car, his touch is so gentle when he begins to trace circles into the sensitive nub with his thumb. You can feel the slow-hum build of an orgasm in your core, drawn up by the steady rub of his hand, and you lean back to allow him better access, bracing yourself on his thighs as you rock along his length.

A moan rips through you as the new angle drags the head of his dick just right against your front wall, and it’s good enough to make your eyes roll back. Chasing the feeling, you shove your hips down harder, driving his cock into that spot over and over until your thighs have started to tremble.

“That’s it,” Namjoon grunts encouragingly, his voice husky. “Use me, baby. Look so good when you bounce on my cock like that.”

The words set every last one of your nerve endings alight, and you dig your nails into his skin as your spine arches from the pleasure. His thumb is still working steadily at your clit, and the heavy stretch of his cock has you so wet, you can feel arousal starting to leak down your thighs. Your pussy clings to him like a vice, a throbbing-tight heat, taking him to the hilt every time.

“Oh my god, Joon,” you groan, “I’m gonna come.”

His touch doesn’t let up, and you can feel yourself teetering right on the precipice of it, only able to manage little gasps as you drop yourself down onto his cock again and again and again, with enough force that there’s an audible sound of your skin slapping against his.

Your legs are outright shaking from the effort now, from how close you are, and then Namjoon ducks his head, using his free hand to guide your tit into his mouth. The swirl of his tongue laved across the tight bud of your nipple is just what you need to push you over the edge.

With a moan that’s more like a sob, you drop forward against Namjoon’s chest, sinking all the way down to bury him in your pulsing cunt as you come. He continues to rub you through the waves of your orgasm, breathing ragged in your ear while your pussy gushes around him, until you grab his wrist with a soft whimper of overstimulation, and he relents.

Too gone to get any words out, all you can do is take his face in your hands and kiss him. He rolls his tongue over yours, decadent, as his palms slip down to cup your ass. You groan a little into his mouth when he begins to shift you, your cunt still fluttering-sensitive at every little motion, but he manages to maneuver you onto your back while still keeping himself sheathed in you.

His hands move to your thighs, encouraging your legs to hook over his hips, and his mouth trails kisses down the valley between your breasts before he breathes against your skin, “Can I keep going?”

“Please,” you murmur, and it’s chased with a moan when he starts to rock his hips into you. You feel so full, so swollen from your climax that it’s like your walls were molded to take him, the crown of his cock stroking deep-deep over the place that lights you up inside, shooting sparks of pleasure all the way down to your toes.

Namjoon’s breath stutters on a laugh. “Shit, I’m already close.”

You tilt up to brush your lips against his, humming encouragingly into his mouth, and then he pulls back again, one dimple teasing at the corner of his smile. “God, I— wanna hear you say it.”

Somehow, you know exactly what he means. “Come in me, Joon,” you beg, fucked so good that you’re shameless for it, and you gasp when he bottoms out in you with his next thrust. “Fill me up. Fuck me full of your cum, baby, please.”

It’s like the words send him into overdrive, and he practically growls as he starts to fuck his cock into you forcefully, hard enough to make your tits bounce. Each snap of his hips punches a heady groan from your lungs, and you reach up to drag your nails across the skin of his back as he chases his own end.

“Gonna fucking— give it to you,” he hisses, rolling his hips one, two, three more times, and then you feel his cock twitching, shoved in as deep as you can take him. He heaves a final strangled groan as he comes, rope after rope of his release pumping into you to paint your walls, until you can feel it beginning to spill back down your thighs.

You kiss through the comedown, inhaling shaky breaths into each other’s mouths, your bodies still fitted together like puzzle pieces, sweat starting to cool in the places where skin is pressed to skin. Namjoon finally moves first, giving a grunt of effort as he rolls off the couch, and you throw an arm over your face while the world slowly settles into focus around you.

When he returns, it’s with a towel in hand, and you can’t help smiling as he cleans you up, trailing soft kisses along your collarbone in tandem.

His voice is soft, too, when he finally speaks. “Will you stay here tonight?”

You prop yourself up on your forearms to look at him, and a little glimmer of something lights up in your chest that you can’t ignore. The first spark of an ember, just enough to reignite a flame you’d long since believed to be entirely extinguished. But now he’s shown you: it doesn’t have to be. You don’t have to be alone.

“Of course. We still have presents to wrap,” you say simply, and he huffs a laugh as he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Joon?” you murmur into the crook of his neck, unable to keep your voice entirely steady.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” you breathe. “For the magic.”

#namjoon smut #namjoon x reader #namjoon x y/n #bts smut #bts x reader #a hyung holiday

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phoenixyfriend · 2 years ago

Text

Time for some tracts:

"How do we create jobs?" You raise the minimum wage, because if people don't need to work three jobs to make rent, those other two jobs will mysteriously open up.

"How do we support small businesses?" You raise the minimum wage, staggered to the biggest corporations first.

"How do we reduce homelessness?" You raise the minimum wage.

"How do we make sure raising the minimum wage doesn't negatively impact prices or--?"

Prices are already rising faster than wages are, this is playing catch up.

Put a cap on CEO salaries and bonuses, they can't earn more than 100 times more than their lowest paid workers. Current US ratio is 342, which is insane. (This list is mostly about the US.)

Hit corporations first, give small businesses time to adjust. McDonald's and Walmart can afford to raise wages to $20/hr before anyone else does, they have that income.

Drop the weekly hours required for insurance from thirty to fifteen. This will disincentivize employers having everyone work 29hrs a week, partly because working only 14hrs a week is a great way to have undertrained, underpracticed staff. Full time employment becomes the new rule.

Legalize salary transparency for all positions; NYC's new law is a good start.

Legislation that prevents companies from selling at American prices while paying American wages abroad. Did you know that McDonald's costs as much or more in Serbia, where the minimum wage is about $2/hr? Did you know that a lot of foreign products, like makeup, are a solid 20% more expensive? Did you know that Starbucks prices are equivalent? Did you know that these companies charge American prices while paying their employees local wages? At a more extreme example, luxury goods made in sweatshops are something we all know are a problem, from Apple iPhones to Forever 21 blouses, often involving child labor too. So a requirement to match the cost-to-wage ratio (either drop your prices or raise your wages when producing or selling abroad) would be great.

Not directly a minimum wage thing but still important:

Enact fees and caps on rent and housing. A good plan would probably be to have it in direct ratio to mortgage (or estimated building value, if it's already paid off), property tax, and estimated fees. This isn't going to work everywhere, since housing prices themselves are insanely high, but hey--people will be able to afford those difficult rent costs if they're earning more.

Trustbusting monopolies and megacorps like Amazon, Disney, Walmart, Google, Verizon, etc.

Tax the rich. I know this is incredibly basic but tax the fucking rich, please.

Fund the IRS to full power again. They are a skeleton crew that cannot audit the megarich due to lack of manpower, and that's where most of the taxes are being evaded.

Universal healthcare. This is so basic but oh my god we need universal healthcare. You can still have private practitioners and individual insurance! But a national healthcare system means people aren't going to die for a weird mole.

More government-funded college grants. One of the great issues in the US is the lack of healthcare workers. This has many elements, and while burnout is a big one, the massive financial costs of medical school and training are a major barrier to entry. While there are many industries where this is true, the medical field is one of the most impacted, and one of the most necessary to the success of a society. Lowering those financial barriers can only help the healthcare crisis by providing more medical professionals who are less prone to burnout because they don't need to work as many hours.

And even if those grants aren't total, guess what! That higher minimum wage we were talking about is a great way to ensure students have less debt coming out the other side if they're working their way through college.

------------------

Linda P requested something either really interesting or really silly and this is... definitely more of a tract on a topic of interest (the minimum wage and other ways business and government are both being impeded by corporate greed) than on a topic of Silly. Hope it's still good!

#economics #politics #personal #ko fi prompts #ko fi

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mangoisms · 1 year ago

Text

circle k (back to you)

summary: in which you're just the graveyard shift employee at circle k bombarded by vigilantes.

━ chapter twelve: back to you | read chapter eleven

━ pairing: tim drake x f!reader

━ word count: 5k

━ warnings: none

━ masterlist

━ a/n: the final part <3 my end notes if you'd like <3

ten months later

“Hey, you two. Where’s your aunt?”

“Having an existential crisis on the trampoline,” you hear Irey respond matter-of-factly.

“She’s no fun anymore,” Jai adds.

“Well, Bart just got here so—woah!”

Even you can feel the sharp gust of wind the twins create as they zoom off to see their cousin. Bart Allen runs at a million miles per hour—metaphorically and literally, so he and the twins get on like a house on fire.

Good thing everyone turned out for you and Steph’s pre-graduation party, otherwise Wally, Jay, and Max would have their hands full trying to make sure the three of them didn’t bring the house down.

And when you say everyone came, you really mean everyone.

That’s sort of the problem.

Barry Allen and Iris West-Allen were pleasant as always when they arrived—fifteen minutes late, the tardiness Barry is prone to considerably mitigated by his wife’s urging—and gave you big hugs in congratulations when they saw you.

“Well, early congratulations,” Barry amends, smiling.

“I just wish we could be there, too,” Iris says, letting you go.

You wave her off. Barry had a mission with the JL on the day of and Iris’s book tour was just starting, so there was no extra time to spare.

“No, it’s okay. Wally and Linda are already going, so that’s enough.”

“We’ll be there in spirit,” Barry says, grinning as Iris rolls her eyes. “Literally.”

Referring to the speed force and the way it tethers both speedsters and lightning rods. So, yeah, technically.

You chuckle. “Exactly. So, don’t worry.”

“We still wanted to give you our gift in person, though,” Iris says, passing you an envelope.

“You guys really didn’t have to but thank you.”

“‘Course we did,” Barry says. “You’re Wally’s… what is it? Close friend slash little sister slash niece? Us, well, we don’t mind seeing you as a niece.”

“Complicated labels aside,” Iris puts in, “you’re part of this family, too.”

And boy if that wasn’t going to choke you up.

You believe it now, almost a year since Wally revealed his identity; since then, you consider Keystone City and Central City as much of a home as Gotham. It was only inevitable that you met the others and you were lucky enough that they welcomed you with welcome arms.

But the ones part of this family are one and many. Not just the Garricks, not just the Wests, not just the Allens, not just Max Mercury, but—

“Ms. Chambers?”

Jesse Chambers grins at you. “Hey now, none of that. Here, Jesse works just fine. Pleasure to meet you. Everyone has had nothing but excellent things to say about you.”

Okay. Sure.

That bit is just a little obscured by your horrible confusion on how on earth she even knew everyone.

You have an inkling as to the answer but frankly, it feels impossible to believe. Not because you don’t think she is not capable of it but the fact that the whole billionaire-as-a-superhero/vigilante thing isn’t so uncommon as initially thought.

The confusion must be written all over your face. She laughs. Jay is at your side in the next instant, smiling at her in greeting.

“Sorry not to have told you sooner,” he tells you apologetically, though the smile pulling at his lips tells you he isn’t that sorry. “But we wanted to leave the decision up to her. And—”

“If you can keep these guys’ secret,” Jesse says, jerking a thumb to the kitchen, where Wally, Linda, Barry, and Iris are, “you can keep mine, too. Besides, you did great work during your internship. QE has had our eyes on you for a while.”

“Oh, you really don’t have to—”

“We want to,” she says. “We wouldn’t lose anything at all offering you a place with PR. But if you want to go somewhere else, that’s okay. I’d be happy to be a reference if so.”

Somehow, you managed to stammer out a thank you and get out of that situation without making a complete fool of yourself. Wally later told you Jesse taps into the speed force using an equation, which… sure, why not.

Jesse used to not like him, apparently, but recent events have allowed her to warm up to him; plus, the birth of her own son, Johnny Tyler, helped, too, that way Wade could have a friend to grow up with.

While all the others prepare dinner and attempt to keep Bart, Jai, and Irey’s shenanigans contained, you manage to snag a bit of time to yourself, not quite believing you’d just been offered a job by Jesse Chambers herself.

It’s all just… a little bit insane.

Then the twins came out and you indulged them on the trampoline in the backyard of the West house for a bit. Then you thought too hard about everything and sunk right back into your disbelief again.

Which leads to now.

“Speedsters, I swear,” Tim mutters.

You hear the soft sound of footsteps on the grass but make no move to leave from your place — star-fished on the trampoline, eyes closed. Early May in Keystone City is considerably warmer and tepid than Gotham City. You should shed your hoodie but you don’t want to. Mostly because it isn’t yours, exactly.

It’s Tim’s. The one you wore the night you got stabbed last year. Not the same one; that one was ruined beyond repair and anyway, you weren’t too happy to wear that exact one, either, since you nearly bled out in it. But it’s close enough. The same shade of brilliant azure. Big on Tim and baggy on you.

Of course, why should you want a hoodie when your boyfriend is right here?

The faint noise of the flaps of the netting be brushed aside. Then the trampoline itself moves, dipping with his weight as he comes over to you. You slide a bit, elbow bumping into his knee.

“So,” he starts, closer than before, one hand brushing your cheek as he tucks a few pieces of your hair behind your ear. “What’s this about an existential crisis? In the middle of the day?”

“It’s four in the afternoon.”

“Schematics.”

You grunt but don’t respond.

A soft chuckle. “Is this about Jesse Chambers’ offer? It’s too bad, you know.”

“What’s too bad.”

“Well, Wayne Enterprises was looking forward to offering you a position, too. And so were the Titans. And I can’t speak for this one personally but I’m fairly certain the Justice League was planning on sending an offer, too. You’re in high demand.”

You groan. “Isn’t that too much? I’m—I haven’t even graduated. There are so many other people with so much more experience—”

“Well, how are you supposed to get experience, too?” he asks, laughing softly. “Besides, you’re graduating with honors.”

“Oh, yeah, well, I’m sure it helps to have a boyfriend with an in at WE, who also just so happens to be a member of the Titans, on top of multiple people who are close to me that are also part of the Justice League.”

“And Jesse Chambers? Hers is the most reliable in that sense, then, isn’t it? Because she doesn’t personally know you—”

“But she knows Wally.”

“But their relationship isn’t that great. Sure, she’s good with Jay and Max but… You also have the advantage of having worked there briefly. They wouldn’t call you back if they didn’t like what they saw.”

Which is true. Jesse Chambers is a businesswoman. She wouldn’t do this as some pity play.

Then again, neither would the others.

You finally open your eyes, squinting immediately as the sun beams down at you.

Tim shifts, moving until his head can shield you from it, bringing him into your focus.

He’s smiling warmly at you, affection clear in his gaze; the sunlight does wonders for him, for his dark hair and blue eyes.

“This can’t be happening.”

“It is,” he says. “You’re graduating next week Friday. You and Steph. And no matter where you go and what you do, you’re gonna kick ass, you know that, right?”

You groan. “You’re supposed to say things like that.”

“Maybe,” he concedes. “But when I tell you I had nothing to do with the offer from WE, you have to believe me. You know I haven’t worked with them in a long while. That was all them.”

“Bruce?”

“Maybe Bruce.”

But then that’s ‘cause he feels… guilty about cornering you last year. Which serves him right. Your relationship with Tim’s adoptive father is a bit rocky, truth be told. Just because of the things Tim has told you. The things Steph has told you. And last year is certainly a factor. But all the others, you get along with them.

You don’t see Dick too often because he lives in New York but he’s kind. Jason’s cool when you see him. Cass and Duke are great. You hang out with them regularly on your own. Damian is a bit frigid but that’s just because of your choice in company and not anything personal, exactly, but you do get the advantage of also having Steph on your side, since they have a better relationship than he and Tim do. Alfred is pleasant as always, too; sometimes he sends grocery deliveries to you to make sure you’re sustaining on actual food and not just ramen.

Barbara Gordon is also very nice and volunteered to help you put together your resume and cover letters and applications; Jean-Paul Valley is kind, too. They’re both old family friends, you would learn. You have lunch with Helena Bertinelli once a month; you two bond over a mutual dislike for Batman and a mutual fondness for Tim—begrudging on her part sometimes but she undeniably sees him as a little brother and he sees her a big sister. And truthfully, your relationship with her is a bit similar.

You’ve made quite a few relationships with these vigilantes. Connections. So, you shouldn’t be surprised that all of this is happening. But one part of you, the prideful part, doesn’t like it. The other part, the rational one, says it was unavoidable. You were going to apply to QE and WE, anyway. Maybe toss out a few applications to the League and the Titans, too, just for the heck of it. Not expecting anything to come of it. Out of any of it.

But of course something would. You know too many of these people for nothing to happen.

“But then again,” Tim says a moment later. “Bruce is just attached to the company by name.”

“That is not a ‘just’ thing, Tim, that is a very big thing. They’d do whatever he wanted.”

“Not anything. Not if you didn’t have the grades, background, or potential to back it up.”

Also, technically, true.

“But like I said. Jesse’s is the most earnest in that regard.”

“Do you want me to leave Gotham, is that it.”

He laughs. The sound warms you.

“I don’t,” he chuckles. “I really don’t. I’d love for you to go with WE. But I also know that the news of us dating throws a wrench in that.”

Right. Ever since the gossip columns caught you two kissing on a date a couple months ago, they wouldn’t shut up about it. Only after digging their grubby little fingers into every inch of your past, of course, and using that to fuel the flames. Talking about your relationship with him as if you planned it, just trying to get a leg-up in the application process at WE.

But the thing is, objectively speaking, there isn’t anything wrong with that. You aren’t with Tim strictly for that purpose but you knew it would factor in. It’s undeniable, the way all these other offers are undeniable in who and why they came. You can’t help who you’re connected to.

But yeah. It would suck to prove all the tabloids right by accepting a job with WE right after graduation—like all of them said you would.

Of course, they would talk regardless. Even if you went with QE or the Titans or the Justice League. Wayne Enterprises is a known partner with Quickstart Enterprises, as well as a heavy funder for the League and the Titans. So…

You groan, wiggling closer to him by planting your head on his thigh and staring forlornly up at him. “What should I do?”

He smiles. “Whatever you want to, honey.”

“Yeah, that’s not really helpful, Timmy.”

He rolls his eyes fondly, bending down to scoop you into his arms. You let out a squeak as he pulls you into his lap, then you settle comfortably in the circle of his arms, dropping your head on his shoulder.

From here, you can spy the old bullet graze on the side of his neck, silvery and a little textured. Without a second thought, you lean forward to kiss it.

He shivers slightly, arms tightening around you.

You bite down a smile. “Cold?”

“Shut up,” he mutters, fingers digging into your side, making you giggle and try to squirm away from him.

He doesn’t keep up the torment, exhaling a soft laugh, too, as you lay your head back on his shoulder.

A cool breeze sweeps through the backyard. In the suburbs of Keystone City, it is quiet out here. Peaceful. Though you can still hear the others inside. Wally saying something. Steph laughing at it.

You’ve carved out a nice place for yourself here. The West’s and Garrick’s here in Keystone and the Allen’s over in Central.

You close your eyes, basking in Tim’s embrace and his proximity. You haven’t seen him much this month, with you and Steph in the throes of finals. But he promised to come, that he’d ask Bart to take him and his friend happily agreed.

You were surprised to learn of their relationship. That they had known each other. But they had met when they were younger, along with the rest of the original members of Young Justice. Put together because they were superhero kids. The relationship stuck. What a coincidence, that Bart Allen was part of the family you had quickly grown close to. But not unwelcome.

It is a small world, you would think.

Or maybe, when you feel indulgent, meant to be. You and Wally. You and Steph, you and Tim. All of this. Interconnected in ways you could only dream of. You don’t have to sacrifice much to have them together.

Tim squeezes your hip, one hand slipped underneath the hoodie. “What are you thinking about?”

That maybe this decision isn’t as hard as you thought it would be. That it’s not a matter of deliberation, is it?

You know you don’t want to prove all the tabloids right by going with WE immediately. Not to mention, for the longest time, it was a dream to work with them. You want more time, more experience, before you move there.

And you don’t think you are ready to jump head-first into working for the Justice League or the Titans. You need experience for that, too.

So…

“I’m pretty sure I could convince Wally to take me to Gotham to visit. When I start at Quickstart.”

“Not necessary,” he says and you raise an eyebrow, watching him pull back, his gaze warm, not at all surprised by your words. “I could just come and visit you. Unlimited access to the jet and all.”

“Racking up carbon emissions just for me?”

“You know the jet is clean energy,” he says, pouting a bit.

Yes, you do. He talked your ear off about it when they made the switch. But you just like seeing him get pouty about it.

You cup his cheeks, smiling, particularly taken with the way his whole face softens as he looks at you. The knowledge that he’s this soft for you is always so insane to you. Not at all good for your heart.

“I know. It’s still a bit of an expense, though, isn’t it?”

“It’s worth it.”

“Cornball.”

“I’m being serious,” he presses, hands tightening around your waist. “Whatever I have to do, it’s worth it for you.”

You know that. Tim is a devoted boyfriend. He doesn’t do things in halves. When he’s loyal to someone, when he dedicates himself, he does it wholly. You could ask him of anything and he would do whatever it took to get it for you, to do it for you. If you asked him to move with you, you know he would do it.

You also know the thought must’ve crossed his own mind. But he still won’t say anything, not unless he knows you want it, too, and… you do. You think that can wait, though, for a little while longer. Let you get settled in and then you two can discuss that possibility—if he wants to, of course, because while Wally and Linda do like him now, the former would not like having a Bat running underfoot in the city, in either of the cities.

You just aren’t used to that kind of devotion. Even after this long.

You slide your arms around his neck, threading your fingers in his hair. He leans into the touch. “I know.”

“I’ll take Steph when I can, too,” he adds and you smile again.

“I love you.”

He leans forward, forehead brushing yours. Your eyes flutter shut.

He nudges your nose with his, then finally closes the distance between you two.

Cotton-candy sweet warmth unspools in your chest he kisses you, soft and gentle. But it quickly edges into dangerous territory when you nip at his bottom lip and he yanks you closer and closer until there is no space between your bodies. It would be better if you weren’t wearing this hoodie but you make do with what you have, still able to feel most of his chest pressed to yours, hard and sturdy, heat licking up your spine.

Your fingers twine in his hair and he lets out a shuddery breath, the kiss turning open-mouthed in the next second and you can taste the gum he was chewing on earlier.

It’s a shade too hungry for your current location but you can’t help it, he’s just so… beguiling. You’re overwhelmingly attracted to your boyfriend and you think you always will be.

But of course, you still should know better, even with all that.

A sharp gust of wind hits you two in the next second and you both separate immediately, knowing exactly what—or who—it is. But instead of Wally or any other speedster here, a high-pitched giggle makes it to your ears and you both turn, eyebrows raising as you find one and a half year old Wade West now inside the trampoline, net fluttering behind him.

You and Tim turn to look at the back door, which is now open, Wally and Linda standing there; the former looks pleased, while the latter just raises her eyebrows.

“I thought,” he starts, mischief written on his face, “that instead of leaving space for Jesus, you could leave some space for Wade. So. Do that. And please stop desecrating the place my children play.”

“And come inside,” Linda adds. “Food’s almost ready.”

You slide off Tim’s lap, reaching for Wade before he tries to stand and walk over to you, not trusting his balance on the trampoline. Tiny hands grapple with the hoodie strings, tugging.

“Got it. Thanks.”

They both smile pleasantly and turn back inside.

You bite your lip, which already feels swollen from your kissing, and look at Tim. His face is flushed with red, lips swollen, too. A tempting sight.

He catches the look on your face. “Don’t.”

“It’s my graduation party.”

“It’s yours and Steph’s. Later.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Well, you love me, so what does that say about you?”

“That you’ve seduced me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’ve seduced you, okay, sure—” he looks at Wade, shaking his head “—can you believe this?”

All Wade can do is giggle in response. All you can do is smile at him, so painfully in love.

He smiles back, rising up on his knees and leaning forward to kiss your forehead.

“I love you, too, you know.”

Yeah, you do know.

four years later

“Goddamit, where is it?”

Fish, a miniature Italian Greyhound you rescued from the shelter, offers no answer or help for your plight. Instead, she just sits near you, happy to follow you around as you search, watching you with big eyes. Big, empty eyes. Absolutely nothing goes on in her little head and you and Tim love her very much for it but damn if you wouldn’t appreciate a little help in finding the security badge that seems to have mysteriously disappeared.

It’s perfect timing, too. That badge is your lifeline. That’s what your supervisor, Meena, said anyway, a couple days ago when you went in for it and had a chance to speak with her before starting work. You can’t get into the tower without it. You can’t do anything without it and guest badges do not have the same amount of clearance that you have.

You stop in the living room, taking a breath, frustration starting to make you hot, which would be the icing on the cake, if you managed to sweat through your clothes before you even started work.

Sighing, you look at her. “Do you know where it is?”

A sound behind you.

“You should know better than that, honey,” comes the sleepy voice of your boyfriend, and you turn. “Fish is lucky to have a single coherent thought once a week and she wasted that one yesterday when she managed to give Damian the high five he asked for.”

You chuckle despite yourself, remembering the pleased gleam that had come into Damian’s hazel green eyes when Fish successfully completed the trick. Only after six months of painstaking work, of course, but it hardly deters him. Titus passed away not too long ago and he’s fixated on Fish because of it. Even if he says her name is ‘completely idiotic.’

Brushing away those thoughts, you focus on Tim, still sleepy-eyed and rumpled. Then you see it—in his hand is your security badge, your picture smiling up at you, with your name beneath it.

“Oh my god, where—”

“You gave it to me, remember?” he asks, laughing softly as you pad over to him. “And said to keep it with my gear, that way it wouldn’t get lost between then and now.”

True. All true. After all, that gear—that is, his suit and tech—doesn’t get brought out other than for the occasional mission with the Titans, so, say, every six months or so. Other than that, it remains hidden in a panel behind your side in the walk-in closet, accessible only by him and you through fingerprint and retinal scans.

Easiest way not to get lost, especially since you’ve been particularly harried in the lead-up to the official start of your job at Wayne Enterprises as their spokesperson.

“Sorry,” you sigh. “Is that why you’re up? Because I told you, you don’t need to wake up for this, you can stay in bed…”

He raises an eyebrow. “And let you freak out for the next hour and a half before you have to leave?”

“Um. Yes?”

A soft smile. He reaches for you, hands settling on your arms, rubbing small circles there.

“Well, you’re wrong. It’s your first day at WE.”

“I know, but you didn’t have to get up now at least…”

The original idea when you decided to wake up at five-fifteen is that one, it would give you ample time to get ready—both yourself and your belongings—and two, it would let you try to relax.

Key word being try.

It’s now six, you’re supposed to leave in an hour and fifteen minutes to beat the morning rush traffic, and your nerves are none the better for it.

Your sleep was fitful, too, in anticipation of today, so you’re starting to feel sleepiness creep in at the edges; the fact that the sun has not yet risen and won’t rise for a while—cursed winter months and their late sunrises—does not help.

He eyes you. “I think I do.”

You groan, dropping your forehead on his shoulder. “I can’t do this.”

He squeezes your arms. “Yes, you can.”

“No, I can’t. They’re going to eat me alive.”

If not for being the new girl, then certainly because your boyfriend was, actually, once major shareholder of the company when he was seventeen and no, it doesn’t matter that he was just a figurehead and Lucius was actually pulling the strings—it still happened and Tim worked closely with the company for several years after. And then, of course, it will also be because your boyfriend is the adoptive son of the man who owns the actual company.

Even if you waited before joining, even if you actually applied for the position! Yes, applied! Contrary to what a few tabloids are saying right now, you did not go up to Tim (or Bruce, depending on which gossip column you’re reading) and demand the job. You went through the same channels as absolutely anyone else would.

Tim ducks his head to press a kiss to your neck. You can’t help your shiver and you know he feels it by the way he smiles against your skin. “No, they won’t. That’s my job. They can’t take that away from me.”

“Now is so not the time—”

He laughs, pulling away; you do the same to look at him.

“You’re going to be fine, gorgeous. You had Linda and Iris regularly pressing you these last few weeks and you did very well with them. Not to mention your last two jobs…”

You purse your lips.

“Two years with Quickstart Enterprises,” he lists. “Two more with the Justice League. Still bitter you picked them over the Titans, by the way.”

“They were more hardcore. Sorry.”

“Well, see? You and the rest of the team had to salvage the League’s image after each alien invasion or otherwise massive destruction committed during a mission and you guys did it. I mean, the publicity campaign you came up with was brilliant, you know that, right? Support was the highest it’s ever been while you were there.”

Right… In an effort to better the League’s image with the public after a particularly nasty fight that left multiple city blocks destroyed and more questions about the relevancy of the team, you decided the more prominent League members needed to create more solid images for themselves, that way each time the public or news saw them, it wasn’t always about the latest incident that brought their presence in. To do this, they needed to pick something to sponsor or support and start showing for it. Superman took an interest in accessibility to education, Wonder Woman focused on preserving wildlife and ecosystems, along with world landmarks, and Batman—with immense detail and planning to abide by his stiff rule not to be seen before the masses—focused on rehabilitation programs.

It brought in a lot of good coverage as more Leaguers agreed to do it and it did help. Helped a lot. Not to say those in the League were not helping, of course, either suited up in their own cities or with their public personas, but that was the issue. The League was capable of much more destruction collectively than individually and the public didn’t know that Batman was funding hundreds of programs to help impoverished communities in Gotham, mostly because he did that as Bruce Wayne and that connection would never be made known.

But that was the job. And you did it. Excellently. You would’ve stayed on for a little while longer but then you got kidnapped towards the end and that just wasn’t fun.

(Fortunately, however, there was a clause in your signing contract that states that in the event of a kidnapping, the League is obligated to rescue you.

Fair is fair, you think, for helping maintain their image and ensure that the UN doesn’t pull the plug and that the public doesn’t completely despise them.)

And of course, if you managed to survive working with the League and being kidnapped because of that work, then you should be entirely prepared to take on Wayne Enterprises. It should be chump change, if anything, but again, you go in with preconceived notions about yourself and your reputation. Not so great.

But would you back out?

No way.

“I believe in you,” he murmurs, his gaze warm and reassuring. “All of us do. You know Steph does.”

A pause, everything falling silent, save for the snores coming from the guest bedroom, where Steph is asleep.

“I’m not missing your first day at WE,” she had said the night before. “So, you better wake me up before you leave.”

He grins a bit teasingly at a particularly loud snore. “Like a train, right?”

“Like you’re any better.”

“I am not that loud.”

“What is it with me and attracting people who snore?”

Honestly.

“Speaking of, you know Wally and Linda believe in you. You can do this. It’s just ‘cause it’s the first day. Get through it and everything will be better.”

Which is true. You know that. Have been repeating that in your head as today approached and your nerves grew in intensity.

But everything is easier in theory than in practice.

“I know,” you whisper, closing your eyes. “I know.”

You can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks next. “That’s why I’m here. Why we’re all here.”

“To knock some sense into me?”

“To do that gently,” he chuckles.

“I don’t know. I might need the force.”

“Well, I can call Damian if you want.”

“I don’t need that much force… on a scale, maybe something like Linda.”

“It’s good thing she and Wally are going to be here soon for breakfast, then.”

For the same reason Steph spent the night and Tim dragged himself out of bed—for your first day of work.

For you.

You pull him into a hug, overwhelmed at the thought and not at all caring about wrinkling your clothes. You can fix that. But this… this needs to be made known.

“I love you.”

He squeezes you—gently, trying to mitigate any wrinkles, and the thought makes your heart swell with unbridled love—and kisses your temple.

“I love you. We all do.”

And isn’t that something?

reblogs are appreciated!

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#tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #dc comics imagine #tim drake imagine #red robin imagine #tim drake x you #red robin x you #dc comics x reader #batfam x reader #batfam x y/n #batfam x you #tim drake x y/n #red robin x y/n

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thus-spoke-lo · 1 year ago

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A Hayride for a Hayride // slimeball Taxi Driver!Zoro x afab!reader // NSFW/18+ Written for @bastardblvd's House of Slimy Horrors Collab

Synopsis: Your date to the Grimetown Halloween festival cancelled on you last-minute, leaving you with nothing to do. Luckily, a certain moss-haired taxi driver lifeguard hayride operator offers you a free ride to get your mind off things, and you're soon in for the ride of your life. CW: slimeball au; afab!reader; no pronouns used for reader; mild action violence; vaginal fingering; unprotected vaginal intercourse; mild degradation WC: 5.4k // Fictober Masterlist

The sun descends in the evening sky over Grimetown, glowing through the permanent haze that hangs over the city and painting the landscape in tangerines and golds. You make your way around the festival grounds, sipping at something that tastes close enough to apple cider—you know better than to ask too many questions about the contents of beverages around here. The autumn leaves crunch under your boots as you traipse around, stopping to watch a fistfight that appears to be the result of a rigged pumpkin pie-eating contest—you’re rooting for the guy in the McDonald’s uniform.

The smell of all things greasy and sweet lures you towards the food stalls, and you almost consider trying the rat on a stick (rat isn’t in quotation marks but it’s gotta be a joke…they wouldn’t, would they?) when a noodly blonde man with a curly eyebrow poking out from his mop of blonde hair leans over the counter of the Flapjack Shack’s stall and begins to explain the complicated history of the humble omelet to you in between thinly-veiled innuendos. You nod and smile and wait for another customer to walk by in order to make your escape, plunking down at the edge of a fountain in the middle of the square, thick, white, foamy substance sloppily bubbling away inside. You would think they would have dyed the goopy substance green or something given the occasion, and you run a finger through the viscous liquid, wondering why the texture feels awfully familiar.

A sudden buzzing in your pocket pulls you away from thinking too hard about what you just dipped your hand into, but a quick glance at the message preview sends your fluttering heart right into a meat grinder.

[Soggy Man]: I’m still stuck at work, I’m so sorry. I don’t think I’ll make it tonight.

[You]: Yuuta noooo ☹ how come you’re stuck? Aren’t you closed?

[Soggy Man]: last minute customer came by for an inspection

“An inspection?” you mutter, narrowing your eyes as though he’d feel your questioning glance through the screen.

[You]: I thought you only did those in the morning

[Soggy Man]: well you know how it is, sometimes I have to make exceptions

You wonder if this is the type of exception that all DMV employees were inclined to give, or if it’s more like the exception he made to waive your registration renewal fee when you offered to blow him behind the counter after hours. Either way, this isn’t exactly the best way to start off your attempt at a real first date, not after weeks of back and forth, navigating your ever-changing shifts at the coffee shop, and his abrupt late-night work hours.

[You]: No worries! I understand!

[Soggy Man]: I’m sorry cutie, hope you have fun without me

[You]: it’s ok! I know how to entertain myself.

[You]: we’ll try again some other time!

“Well, shit.” You shove your phone back into your pocket with a sigh that turns into a groan that turns into a momentary existential crisis—this was the seventh first date you’d tried to set up recently, and the sixth first date where you got ghosted before ever getting to try to disappoint them in person. Not waiting to see if Yuuta has anything else to add, you wander off, glancing around the packed festival in search of something—anything—to occupy your unexpected free time.

As you pass the shoddily assembled Ferris wheel, watching it shimmy with every rotation, threatening to come unbolted and roll away at any moment, a light fog starts to accumulate at your feet. It stinks, and not like how you remember fog machines to smell from your glory days as a stagehand at the Grimetown Community Theater; no, this is thick, and pungent, and a little nauseating. You walk deeper into the foul-smelling haze, and glance down to see the cause—a stubbed-out cigar rolls towards your feet, a few stray embers spraying out across the dirt.

“You alright, honey?” a low voice rumbles from just beyond the dissipating vapors. “You look like something’s wrong.”

You cough and sputter, waving your hand in front of you to clear the remaining cloud of smoke and see a man with green hair and a tanned complexion standing with his back against a wooden wagon, his extraordinarily muscled arms crossed over his broad chest, a thin white t-shirt straining to contain his brawny form. Three gold earring jingle softly as he cocks his head to examine you with his one good eye, and you wonder if the scar over his other eye is real or fabricated for the occasion.

“I’m fine, thanks,” you fib, stuffing your hands in your pockets as you stroll towards him. The last thing you want right now is some burly stranger trying to play therapist when what would actually solve your problems is guzzling pumpkin-spice flavored alcohol and stuffing your face with candy apples, then passing out in that weird gloopy fountain ‘til sunrise.

“Come on now.” He raises an eyebrow and gives you a pitying grin. “You sure you’re okay?”

You kick at the ground with the toe of your boot and huff a sigh. “Fine. I, uh—I got stood up.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Dude texted me after I already got here saying he couldn’t come, and I don’t want to waste my ticket, so now I’m just kinda in limbo and not really sure what to do.”

“Pretty thing like you gettin’ stood up on a nice night like this?” He gestured towards the darkened sky, the moon covered in a dense mess of clouds, silver beams poking through and illuminating the space between you. “It’s a damned shame.”

“Tell me about it,” you chuckle in agreement.

“You know,” he says, running his tongue over his lower lip, “I’m technically supposed to wait until there’s a big group before I head out, but—I could give you a ride. A private one.”

“A private ride, huh?” You inhale sharply through your teeth and your eyes flit over his muscled form. A private ride with some grimy eye candy doesn’t sound like a bad way to recover from a hefty blow to your ego. “How much is it?”

“It’s free. Comes with your ticket.”

“You know what? Sure, why the hell not?”

“That’s what I hoped you’d say,” he grins, giving an exaggerated wink. “Don’t you worry—I’ll make you forget all about that loser.”

You head towards the back of the wagon, expecting there to be a step to hoist yourself inside, when a strong hand grabs your wrist and tugs you back.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks as you stumble backward into him, your back pressing against his firm chest, sending a little spark down your spine.

“I—I was getting in the cart.”

“Oh, now that’s just for regular, everyday hayrides.” He grasps your hand and leads you towards the front of the cart, gesturing towards the bench that sits just behind the horses; he places his warm hands on your shoulders and gives them a gentle squeeze. “Private tours get the best seat in the house.”

You climb aboard and he follows, letting out a quiet, satisfied-sounding groan as he settles in beside you, scooting closer until his warm body presses right against yours. The bench is more than long enough to afford you both some personal space, but it seems the private tour also comes with the bonus of physical affection and suggestive flirtation—not that you’re complaining. The hayride operator reaches over and pats your thigh. “Alright. Where to?”

“Uh, I don’t know.” You shrug and gesture vaguely in front of you. “Where do you normally take this thing?”

“Oh yeah.” He furrows his brow. “Sorry, I’m just used to my day job.”

“What do you do for your day job?”

“Lifeguard.”

“Wait, wh—” Your inquiry is cut short as the horses take off, jostling you and pitching you forward, then back. As you try to right yourself, something shiny catches your eye; you glance over and see three sheathed swords nestled in the hay just behind you.

“Say, hayride guy,” you ask, reaching over to poke at them, “what are these for?”

He grunts and brushes your hand away without looking over. “Protection.”

“Protection from what?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Ah, he must be doing a bit—they’re props. You smirk, settling back onto your seat, leaning your head against his sturdy shoulder as you listen to the steady clip-clop of the horses and the rhythmic squeak of the wagon’s wheels, the only sounds in the depths of the darkened forest. The festival is low-budget, to say the least, but they cared enough about attention to detail to have the hayride operator carrying swords; you start to wonder if this is supposed to be a haunted hayride, and perhaps your beefy driver will be showing off his faux-sword skills before the end, fighting off a zombie horde or two.

You sigh as you press your cheek against his bicep and try to ignore the troublesome feeling inside you—that maybe Yuuta was trying to get a hold of you, that you should have just waited longer to see if his late-night inspection was over quickly enough he could join you. The phone in your pocket has been silent for some time now, and you carefully pull it out, just to check; no signal at all, and no texts, only a notification about your rent being overdue again.

“Hey. Don’t let him get you down, sweet cheeks.” He covers the screen of your phone and pushes it down into your lap, leaving his hand there for a moment, precariously close to the apex of your thighs. His touch is warm, radiating a kind of animalistic heat—one that feels a little too raw, and little too dangerous. He smirks, making some clicking noise at the horses as you wind your way through the deepening woods. “You know, I think you could do better than him, anyway.”

I bet you do, you grin to yourself as your limbs flood with heat and your stomach twists in knots, chewing on your lower lip at the way his muscles flex with every flick of the reigns. You feel a fire lighting at the base of your spine the longer you stare at him, the longer your body seems to melt into his as you snuggle closer along the trail—perhaps you’ll have to pay him a visit after the festival closes and see if he offers any after-hour tours. He certainly seems amenable to the idea, and it had been a while since the last time you’d been bent over a piece of farm equipment and railed in a spooky, secluded wood after all. You start to wonder if he’s all bluster, or if he’s adept at putting his big hands and his smart mouth to good use.

The fog of lust in your head starts to clear a little and you glance around, not recognizing the trees and landscape in front of you, the horses trotting over a layer of decaying leaves instead of the paved path that had been stretching out ahead of you. No, the woods directly behind the festival grounds aren’t this dense, the branches don’t hang this low, the air is never this still. You sit up, a sense of dread creeping up into your throat, and tap the driver on his forearm with a shaking hand.

“Hey, uh, hayride guy?”

“It’s Zoro,” he grouses.

“Right. Zoro.” You swallow hard, an icy shiver running down your spine as a cold wind whips through the trees. “So…where are we, anyway?”

“Tch, we’re on the trail,” Zoro scoffs as he glances around. He suddenly sits up straight, his mouth opening and closing, only faint sounds of confusion coming out. “Or, uh…we were.”

“What do you mean ‘we were’? Don’t the horses know where to go?”

“They don’t have built-in GPS, they just go straight until I tell ‘em to not go straight.”

“So where the hell are we, then?” The skin on your arms prickles underneath your thick sweater and acid roils in your belly, that sense of dread that sits in your throat threatening to push its way out.

“Well, we’re in the woods.”

“I know that!”

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it, okay?” It feels like he’s reassuring himself just as much as he’s trying to calm your frayed nerves, as if the machinations in his mind are just starting to turn, to decide where you go from here. Zoro stretches and wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him; he smells like stale cigars and sweat and too much cheap body spray and it’s the most intoxicating thing you’ve inhaled all night. “Look, I can get us out of this. They don’t call me the world’s strongest hayride operator for nothin’.”

You slowly look up at him. “Is that—is that a thing? Do people actually call you that?”

“Ha! Exactly.”

A scream abruptly fills the air, cutting through the eerie quiet, followed by another, then another—the strangled cries for help of someone, or something, in distress. Zoro pulls you in closer, his fingers digging into your shoulder as you bury your face against his chest. It’s just part of the show, you tell yourself, choking on a shuddering breath. It’s just part of the show, and some dude in a shitty costume is gonna run out of the woods any minute and try to scare me. After a few agonizing moments, the bloodcurdling shrieks finally die down, the pained noises reducing to pathetic whimpers and then…silence.

“You know, you’re pretty cute when you’re scared.”

Before you can say something equally flirtatious back, the horses come to a sudden halt; they whinny and stomp in place, clearly disturbed by something that only they can sense.

“Zoro…what’s going on?” It’s just part of the show, it’s just part of the show…

“I dunno,” he says, making soft noises at the horses to soothe them, his hand moving down and settling on your thigh protectively. “Something’s got them all riled up.”

The quality of the performance is good, you force yourself to think as he squints into the near-darkness, but his delivery could be more authentic. You join him in his scan of your surroundings, searching the foggy woods for whatever had frightened the horses, their heads bobbing and nostrils flaring at something in the distance. Leaves crunch and branches crack as something approaches, its pace slow and hesitant, a low growling emanating from the darkness—the sound effects are impressive, and you try to find the hidden speakers within the foggy haze.

“Zoro,” you mumble quietly, as you wrap your arm around his waist and cling to him, “I think there’s something up there.”

“Where?” He leans forward, peering into the shadowy distance.

“Right—right there.” You gasp as you see the source of the noise ambling out of the woods. “Oh my god, it’s a dog—it looks like it’s hurt!”

Without another thought, you hop down from the cart and carefully approach the dog, who slinks closer to you, eyeing you cautiously with each step. The moonlight peers through the clouds and illuminates the creature, its dark grey fur stained with blood, bits of viscera clinging to the matted hair around its face.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Zoro shouts from the cart. “Get back here and stay on the wagon.”

“What? It’s fine, it’s all part of the show isn’t it?” Surely this was just someone’s pet, doused in red corn syrup and set loose as part of the haunted hayride.

“What show? This is just a hayride.”

“Sure, I got you.” You wink and snap finger-guns at him confidently, and turn your attention back to the injured pup. “Here doggie! C’mere sweetie, let me—oh my god.”

Your mouth drops open and a gasp pushes its way out of your lungs—the dog, you realize, is no dog at all.

The creature that stalks out of the woods appears to be a wolf, its eyes burning bright like smelted gold, teeth bared and lips curled back into a snarl, its fangs dripping with strings of blood-reddened saliva. You freeze in place, arms outstretched, hoping your vaguely threatening posture is enough to keep the wolf at bay as your heart hammers in your ribcage and your breathing comes in fits and starts. It senses something in you—fear, hesitation, weakness—and approaches slowly, one carefully placed paw at a time, sniffing the air and growling more desperately with every whiff of you that it catches.

“Get back.”

A strong hand on your shoulder jerks you back and shoves you towards the wagon. Zoro now stands in front of you—his shirt is gone, revealing a smooth expanse of streamlined muscle and sinew rippling under bronzed skin, a black bandana is tied around his head, and he wields his three swords, one in each hand, and the third held between his teeth. He widens his stance and maintains his position as the wolf approaches more boldly now, barking and growling, steam from its warm breath rising into the air. The creature leaps at him and he quickly crosses the two swords in front of him to block its attack, the metal shaking as he grunts and shoves the wolf back.

“Three-Sword-Style,” Zoro shouts, the words muffled by the sword still clenched between his teeth, “Grime Tornado!”

A strong gust of air suddenly swirls in front of him and disburses with great force, pushing the wolf backward as it struggles to stay standing until it’s shoved to the edge of the woods. The air settles, and the wolf pauses for a moment, teeth still glimmering in the moonlight, eyes glowing like embers, before it runs off into the trees again, its howls lingering in the still air. Zoro lowers his arms, letting the tips of his blades point towards the ground as he walks towards you, his broad chest heaving with every panting breath.

“I told you to stay in the damned wagon,” he mumbles through the sword still tucked between his clenched teeth. He walks over to the cart and carefully sheaths the three swords again, giving them a reassuring pat before turning to glare at you. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“It—it was all part of the show, right?” Your hands tremble, the wolf’s glowing eyes still appearing behind your eyelids with every blink; the way they pierced you was unnerving, almost as if there was something human about them.

And the blood. The blood looked so—so real.

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grunts as he walks over to you, scooping you up with startling ease and carrying you back to the wagon. He plops you down in the back like a sack of rice, your backside landing in a soft pile of hay, and he glowers at you. “Don’t get back out again. Not for anything. Understand?”

You nod, and the desire to jump into his burly arms again courses through you. As frightened as you are, the sight of him, shirtless and flexing, moving with a grace and speed you hadn’t expected from him, has a stranglehold on you—if he’d asked to bend you over right then and there, you would have gladly thanked him for his hard work and offered him payment in the form of whatever part of your body he most preferred.

“Thanks for saving me, Zoro.”

He grunts in response and jostles the reigns, the horses taking their cue and trotting off into the depths of the woods again. You pull your knees up to your chest and lean against a hay bale, your eyes focused on Zoro the whole time; he glances back now and again, quick looks of concern at first, then of something else, something that feels far less virtuous.

The horses seem to find their way back onto the path with some degree of ease, and before long, you can see the festival off in the distance, smell the greasy mystery meats-on-sticks, hear the noise that passes for music as some local band plays royalty-free Halloween music.

The wagon comes to an abrupt halt, the festival almost within reach—you can almost touch the goopy fountain again. Zoro heaves his arm over the divider that separates the two of you, leaning his bare torso towards you. “Listen. We need to talk.”

“Look, Zoro, let me be the first to say—I think the ride was spectacular,” you start to ramble, your hands gesturing wildly as you speak. “And I promise I won’t say anything to anyone about the—well, whatever the fuck happened back there. Or the, uh—the flirting. Not that I minded! I mean, I don’t know if it’s the most professional way of giving private rides, but it was, you know…appreciated. If you need me to fill out a survey about your services, I can certainly—”

“You talk too damned much, calm down.” He places a thick finger over your lips to shush you, leaning in until his face is just inches from yours. “Now listen to me very carefully, honey—you owe me.”

Your breath quickens, your chest rising and falling rapidly, and an aching heat that you had been trying to ignore begins to grow in your core. “For—for what? You said the hayride was free.”

“It is.” He licks his lips and raises a wide hand to your face, cupping your chin. “But the saving your life part is extra.”

“I—I’m sorry, I don’t have any money to give you,” you stammer, your voice a husky whisper. Your gaze flits over his face, noticing a certain predatory glint in his eye, a hunger lingering on the upturned corners of his lips. “I left my wallet at home.”

“Oh sweetheart,” he coos, stroking your cheek with the rough pad of his thumb, “I don’t want your money.”

“What do you want then?”

“Same thing you do.”

You bite your lip shyly, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes in your best approximation of an innocent glance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Tch. I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me since you found me. The way you wrapped your arms around me when you were scared—and even when you weren’t.” He climbs over the wooden divide and into the wagon with you, kneeling in front of you and placing his hands on your thighs. “You’re really gonna try to play the coy thing? Because it’s not workin’ for you.”

“No?” He’s big—so big—and his body almost engulfs you as he leans in and grips the edge of the cart behind you, his massive arms caging you in on either side, his broad chest almost pressed to yours.

“Nah. See, I what I think is,” he murmurs into your ear, warm breath spreading across your chilled skin, “that you want the big, strong guy who saved your life to make you forget all about that little shit that stood you up.”

Without another thought—your mind drained of all rational notions, left only with fleeting images of how he’d look on top of you, behind you, underneath you—you lean up and kiss him impulsively, your lips crashing against his hard and fast, trying to satisfy a need that had been growing all night. He inhales sharply at the sudden kiss, then places one hand at the back of your head to hold you in place as he claims your mouth, parting your lips with his tongue before plunging it into your mouth and entwining it with yours. His free hand roams up the hem of your sweater, groping at your breasts, tugging at the fabric of your bra until his thumb finds your hardened nipple. He makes firm circles over it and your back arches as warm, gentle waves of pleasure move through you, and he groans at the way you writhe under his touch.

“Bet you wanna get fucked, don’t you?” he growls against your lips, his grip on the nape of your neck tightening. He lets out a low chuckle as you nod and whimper, your hands moving down his bare torso towards the waistband of his pants, palm brushing against the sizeable bulge that strains against the fabric. “Mm, somebody’s needy. Lay down for me, then—let’s settle up what you owe.”

You obediently recline in the hay and kick your boots off, stripping yourself of your jeans with a frantic urgency; Zoro moves down between your legs, nudging them apart to kneel between them. He drags two fingers up your clothed slit, his fingertips catching on dampened cotton, and a satisfied hum vibrates in his chest as he finally takes in the extent of your arousal.

“This for me?” he purrs, pressing down against your clit, rubbing you through your panties until your legs tremble and your hands grasp at flimsy pieces of straw.

“D-don’t flatter yourself.”

“You sure? I don’t see anyone else around here to make your pussy this wet.” He grabs the waistband of your panties and pulls them down over your hips, stripping you of them and tossing them behind him. He quickly undoes his trousers and slides them down his lean hips, his cock springing forth from the confines of his pants. Your jaw goes slack at the sight of it—thick and veiny, sitting heavy in his palm as he slowly strokes himself for you, the head growing redder and more swollen with every vulgar caress.

“Think you can handle it?” He lets a wad of saliva drip from his lips and onto his cock, spreading it over his impressive length until it glistens in the moonlight.

“Think so,” you whimper back, spreading your thighs a little wider to accommodate him as he moves on top of you, aligning his hips with yours. Zoro wastes no time in collecting his payment for his earlier heroics and slowly pushes into you, stretching you with every agonizing inch that slides inside; little sparks of pleasure ignite in your limbs, and that deep ache in your core grows with every bit of his fat cock that he bullies inside you.

“There you go,” he growls as he finally fills you completely and his pelvis presses against yours. “Took it all like a good little whore.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and nip and kiss at his jaw. “Not a whore.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” he coos condescendingly, his hips rocking just enough to give you a few tentative, shallow thrusts. “Would you prefer ‘slut’ instead?”

“I’d prefer you sh—” Your words are quickly cut off by the gasp that shoves its way out of your lungs as he pulls out and plunges inside again, knocking against something inside you that makes your eyes go bleary and your fingers tingle.

Zoro’s thrusts are quick and feral, the kind that make you pulse and press your thighs into his hips, the kind that make your hands grasp for anything within reach—his bulging biceps, his mossy hair, a handful of hay underneath you—anything to ground yourself as he fills you again and again until all he is all there is. He drives into you over and over, and you lift your hips upward to meet his, deepening every plunge until you’re bucking and arching and colliding in a seamless rhythm.

“Touch yourself for me,” Zoro grunts as he slows his movements to angle his hips, and his cockhead drags against that sweet spot inside of you. “I bet you look so fucking good when you cum, pretty little slut.”

Your eyes flutter shut as you reach down and move your fingers over your clit, already swollen and pulsing with need. A moan of pleasure claws its way out of you and you writhe and thrash under him while he watches closely, his gaze focused on your face, his jaw hanging open the more your expression twists and contorts in pleasure. That tension in your belly winds tighter and tighter with every plunge of his length inside you and every swift movement of your fingers over your sensitive bud, until your body is trembling and your muscles are seizing and you mumble something unintelligible about being close, so close, so very, very close.

“That’s it,” Zoro rasps, his cock throbbing inside you as you start to tighten around him, “now cum on this big cock for me.”

A profound heat spreads throughout your lower half as you tense and release in waves of shaking spasms; you wail his name, not caring who or what that may lurk in the forest hears you, as your cunt pulls him further in. Zoro moans quietly and fucks into you with messy, erratic thrusts, hitting you so deep that it almost hurts, bordering on that delicious line between pain and pleasure. His breaths are shallow and fast, his teeth clenched, his body beginning to shake as your fluttering cunt urges him towards his climax.

“Fuck, sweetheart—you feel so damned good, gonna make me cum for you.” A long, low groan carries in the air as he quickly pulls out of you and jerks himself off, his hips tensing and shuddering as his aching cock throbs, coating your stomach with his thick, white spend. He bucks into his fist, milking every last bit of cum from his pulsating length, and collapses next to you, heaving a satisfied moan in between deep, panting breaths.

As you begin to reassemble yourself and pull hay out of random crevices, you feel a vibration against your foot—your phone is buzzing in the pocket of your discarded jeans.

[Soggy Man]: Hey I made it! did you still want to meet up?

“Aw, shit.” You glance over at Zoro, busy catching his breath, his chest rising and falling as his hands settle on his stomach. His toned body glistens with sweat in the moonlight, his half-hard cock laying against his thick thigh, leaking onto his bronzed skin; if it weren’t for the fact he was technically on the clock and you were technically now on a date, you would gladly spend the rest of your night right here, just outside the noise and the lights and the people, indulging in a little more holiday hedonism.

[You]: in a little while. I’m on a hayride right now

[Soggy Man]: that sounds fun! we should go together when you get back

“Hey, uh…can I ask you something?” You sit up and fumble for your jeans again, pulling your wallet out of a back pocket. “How much would you want to, um—to keep quiet about what just happened?”

“Hm.” He puts his hands behind his head and stares up at the night sky, considering his options for a moment. “Give me a taste of that slutty little pussy of yours and we’ve got a deal.”

“I suppose I can’t say no to that,” you whisper under your breath, your cunt fluttering at the thought of him between your legs again.

“Hey…what’s this?” Zoro rolls over and snatches the wallet out of your hand, using it to point at you accusatorily. “I thought you said you left this at home.”

“What? Wow, that’s so weird, why would I say that…”

“Careful now. Lies are gonna cost you extra.”

He moves down between your shaking legs, shoving them apart and grunting something lewd about how good you look the way your slick spreads out across your thighs. He lays down on his stomach, hooking his thick arms under your legs, and lets out a satisfied groan as he nips at the inside of your thigh, lowering his head down to give your slit an exploratory lick.

“Extra?” A low moan tumbles out of you as his wide tongue licks a thick stripe up your cunt, then plunges it inside you, shallowly fucking you with it. “Then how about, after you’re done down there, I ride you—then you give me a ride back?

“A ride for a ride, huh?” Zoro murmurs against your skin, stopping his movements for a moment to glance up at you. He smiles, high on the fucked-out expression etched into your features, before flicking his tongue over your aching clit, groaning as you softly rock your hips into his face. “Man, I fuckin’ love this job.”

#lo writes #fictober 2023 #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro x reader #zoro smut #slimeball au

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gurugirl · 2 years ago

Text

Tell Me You Hate Me*

Summary: Based on this request - You and Harry work together as bartenders and your relationship is hot and cold which infuriates you to no end. But you can't say you don't find him attractive, regardless of his cocky attitude.

A/n: I have never written anything like this before so please give it some love and keep an open mind! This is harry x male!reader/ enemies to lovers and I had a lot of fun writing this one. Thanks for the idea 🐊 anon!

12k+ words

Warning: Smut, angst, mentions of an accident, a little bit of forceful & unwanted attention/flirting (not from reader or Harry), mentions of smoking weed

✻✻✻✻

You couldn't stand Harry most days. He was a cocky asshole and he didn't care about anyone but himself. You both worked the same shift at the local bar in town, Reggie’s, and so you'd gotten to know Harry by default. And when a couple of patrons were making some joke about you liking guys, Harry shut them down quickly and it left you confused because you didn't think he gave a shit.

But he was still a cocky asshole. It didn't change his personality or anything. However, you did find a small warm spot for him after that day.

And tonight, he was either leading you on or genuinely flirting with you. You couldn't tell actually. At first, it seemed genuine. You were at an after-work party for the employees at Reggie’s. The boss had hit a milestone and so he invited all of his employees (and you were sure some of his neighbors as well) to his house for a night of partying as thanks for all the hard work. And from the moment you arrived, Harry began complimenting you. Then when he cornered you in the living room, he stood close and you saw his eyes travel down your body before he lightly pinched your arm, winked, and walked away.

When you found him again a little later he asked you to join him to get a drink in the kitchen. He was standing close again, leaning in to make sure you could hear him. Told you that you smelled good. Licked his lips while he watched your mouth when you responded. Touched your arm and your chest. Your limbs heated up and the hair on your arms raised after he brushed his hand on your skin. You kind of thought it might go somewhere but you were both pulled away from one another when Harry was called over to join a game of beer-pong and Cynthia from work was going through a mini-crisis and needed your advice.

And then as the house was clearing out and most people were gone, you went upstairs to get your backpack (which was where everyone had put their stuff at your boss’s directions). You hadn't seen Harry for nearly an hour and assumed he'd left already.

But you were wrong.

The moment you opened the door to the bedroom there he was, pants pulled down with a girl between his legs sucking him off. You were stunned at first, paused mid-movement when you locked eyes with him.

The cocky smirk on his face made you feel hot but it was Harry's words as he stared back at you that had you feeling frustrated and angry even. And maybe the tiniest bit turned on. Just the tiniest bit.

"You like that don't you?" He breathed his words out as he put his hand on the back of the girl's head and you heard her hum affirmatively.

"Yeah? So fucking hot isn't it? My big cock getting sucked on..." Harry's smile was infuriating. You swallowed hard, trying to move but you were frozen as if his eyes on you had some kind of magic spell that kept you from motion.

Harry leaned back a little further and the girl worked harder, "I'm gonna come if you keep doing that..." his deep breathy voice had you tingling. Was he talking to you? Why was he looking at you when he spoke?

The girl gurgled and shifted on her knees. She still didn't know you were standing there and Harry didn't bother to notify her either.

"That's it... just enjoy it..." he groaned as his eyes got droopier, but he continued looking at you, "yess... don't stop. M'gonna come now, keep looking at me like that..." his moaned words were clear and the girl grunted and stopped what she was doing, popped her mouth off of Harry's cock and looked up at him.

"But I wasn't looking at you..." Harry laughed and took the back of her head, pushing her back down on him.

He turned his eyes back to you, "That's okay... just keep doing what you're doing."

You snapped out of it and blinked, shooting your eyes around the room, and spotted your backpack. You couldn't leave without the backpack because your keys were inside. If you walked past Harry to grab your bag the girl would know you were there but you had no choice. You. couldn't just stand there and watch Harry get head while he stared at you.

So you took a deep breath and broke the spell of Harry’s gaze and walked past the threshold of the door and grabbed your bag. The girl stopped what she was doing with wide eyes and gasped, covering her mouth.

"Sorry!" You spoke quickly but the girl hopped up and ran from the room in embarrassment. Poor thing.

Harry laughed and tilted his head to the side and nodded toward his cock, which was a very pretty cock by the way, "Want to finish me off?"

You shook your head as you muttered, disgusting, and left the room as quickly as possible. What an asshole. The way he'd just treated that girl (and you) was awful. You hurried down the stairs and shook your head. As hot as he was, he was a cocky asshole and that was the truth.

You pulled your backpack straps over your shoulders and hastened your steps away from the house. You had planned on getting an Uber but you were so flustered and upset over everything that had just happened, you figured a brisk walk would be better.

You cursed to yourself as you remembered the way he made you feel earlier in the evening. His subtle flirting and soft touches… you started to think a little differently of him, fondly even. But then that last little stunt had you feeling angry and disappointed even. Disappointed in yourself for thinking Harry was actually flirting with you. Maybe even disappointed that Harry was still the Harry you knew he was. Just a cocky asshole.

On Friday night the bar was packed. Guests filled the bar stools and tables, and Harry was nowhere to be seen. He was late for his shift. Again. It wasn’t too uncommon to have to deal with Harry being late. But on a busy Friday night? That was unusual. He was always on time when it was a busy night.

You did your best to man the bar by yourself while Cynthia and Joe served the tables and busted them between guests. Normally it was you and Harry at the bar serving the drinks and manning the cash registers. You felt your anger for Harry build with every minute that he was late.

Finally, an hour after his shift began, Harry trudged through the door with his hair pulled back in a messy bun, dark circles under his eyes, and he smelled. It was as if he hadn’t showered or bothered to make himself look presentable. You could still admit he was hot but your hatred for him at that moment overrode your hormones.

Harry walked into the back room to clock in as you uncapped two beers and handed them to the girls sitting at the end of the bar. The two girls were young. They were ID’d right away because you weren’t going to get into trouble for them being underage. But their IDs said they were 21. You’d keep an eye on them, though. They even acted very immaturely. It was normal for people to get a bit tipsy, loud, and flirty… it was part of the atmosphere of being at a bar late at night. But these two were obnoxious. In fact, they were attempting to flirt with you. Unfortunately for them, you weren’t into females. But they didn’t need to know that. If you had to suffer through their annoying screeching laughter and attempts at hitting on you, you’d deal with it if they gave you a good tip at the end of the night. You could only hope.

Harry joined you behind the bar and began getting to work right away. He served a few drinks, used a rag to wipe up the condensation and spills on the bar top, and tucked the rag into his back pocket as he went to the register to add the order to his guest’s tab. You hated that he was so fucking good-looking. His tight black jeans hugged his thighs and his ass and made that lump at the front of his zipper look like a delicacy you could snack on. He wore a black t-shirt that was loose at his hips but was the tiniest bit snug at his broad shoulders. You tried to ignore the way your thoughts turned carnal at just the sight of the fucker.

One thing about Harry was that he was actually good at his job. He rarely missed a beat, cleaned as he went, smiled and chatted when it was appropriate, and stayed professional (with the guests at least). You didn’t usually mind working with Harry. He wasn’t a bad co-worker. But when the bar would clear out and you two would be cleaning up and restocking for the following day was when his true colors shined. He was a dick.

“You were late today. We needed you on time, Harry,” you spoke to him as you poured Jim Beam into a glass and Harry poured two shots for the obnoxious girls at the end of the bar. You could smell the slightest touch of his body odor mixed with his cologne when you spoke to him. Normally Harry smelled good like cologne and soap. But today he was off.

Harry glanced at you with an unamused look, and lifted up the shot glasses, bumping into you as he walked past. The glass of Jim Beam sloshed and some of the liquid spilled over the lip of the glass. You cursed under your breath as you corrected the issue by wiping the outside of the glass and then pouring a splash more inside.

And that’s how the night went. You’d get nary a glance from him and he continued to bump into you, jostling you and one time nearly making you lose your footing. Yet never once a sorry or even acknowledgment of his actions.

“Hey! C’mere!” One of the annoying girls was motioning to you with her pointer finger.

You sighed and rolled your eyes. Harry had just refilled their drinks. You couldn’t understand what they might want at that very moment.

You whipped the rag in your hand over your shoulder and made your way to the end of the bar the girls were seated, “What’s up?”

“I was hoping you could take a picture of us. Would you mind?” The blonde asked.

You shrugged, “Sure. No problem.”

The girl looked at her phone screen and then glanced at her friend with a grin and handed you the phone.

You watched as the two girls smushed together for the picture and then looked down at the screen and groaned in annoyance at the picture that was staring you in the face. It was of the blonde. With her naked boobs in view and the curve of her hip popped out to the side, holding her fingers up in a peace sign.

You frowned and sat the phone down and looked back to the girls who were giggling and just before you could say something Harry was plucking the phone up from the bar and laughing.

He leaned over the bar top toward the girls, placing his elbows down and turning his head to look at you before looking back to the obnoxious set, “He’s not interested in boobs. Sorry girls. Me, on the other hand…” he tapped his fingers as he slid the phone back to the blonde, “I love ‘em.”

The girls' laughter was loud and forced. It pissed you off. Harry’s attitude all night had been the worst, and now these girls were laughing at something he said, which included mentioning your preferences. It wasn’t that you cared much if people knew you liked guys. It’s just that that was your business. You told people when it made sense to. Otherwise, no one needed to know what you liked or what you were attracted to. But Harry just alluded to your preferences without even asking you if that was okay. And the way he acted with those girls was also unlike him. He normally kept very professional while he was working.

And you knew that Harry liked guys too. He liked everyone really. You’d seen him with that girl at the party, and he talked about giving head to a guy he dated a few months ago. But you’d never just freely tell people what you knew about him.

You grabbed the back of his tricep and gripped hard so he understood your anger as you leaned in to say, “Fuck you, you nasty asshole. Pretty sure they’re both minors with fake IDs anyway. Have fun getting your cock sucked by a kid.”

You steered clear of the girls the rest of the night and continued serving the rest of the guests as if nothing had happened. But inside you were fuming.

After you told Harry you thought the girls were minors he also kept his distance. Served them when they wanted something but he toned down his flirtations with them immediately. Dumb fuck.

When the bar closed Joe and Cynthia told Harry that he was going to stay after to help them clean up and restock for opening since he was an hour late for his shift. You grabbed your bag and made a beeline to the door, not wanting to do anything with Harry or hear him make any snide remarks.

Just as you opened the front door you did hear him, though, “At least I can get my dick sucked.”

You paused for a moment before walking out into the night, the door closing behind you with a thud.

You just couldn’t understand his attitude toward you or why he took up for you that day all those months ago, or why he flirted with you at that party. You decided it might be time to find another job. Harry was insufferable tonight and if you had a repeat of tonight it’d end in a fight. Harry would probably win in all honesty, but you wouldn’t back down in taking a swing at him if necessary.

The next evening at Reggie’s you were notified that Phillip was filling in for Harry. Harry had supposedly had a family emergency and would be taking a little time off. You hated to be thankful that Harry had an emergency, but you were. And the whole night at work was great. Phillip was excellent to work with and no one tried making you feel like shit. But your mind did wander to Harry a time or two. You figured he was making something up so he didn’t have to be at work. It made you feel better to think that anyway.

~~ two weeks later ~~

Your day off midweek was something you always cherished. Most people wanted to have their weekends free but you loved having a day during the week while everyone was working so you could grocery shop, go to a matinee, walk around downtown and enjoy the streets that were not nearly as busy as they were on the weekends in peace. Which is what you were doing today. You had planned on getting your haircut, then you’d sit by the river at Mary’s Tap and get a glass of white wine and Baja tacos and enjoy the sunshine, have a quick trip to Trader Joe’s, then head back to your apartment.

You didn’t have a whole lot of friends. A few close ones with whom you kept in touch but you saw them once a month and that’s really all you needed. You got enough interaction with your fellow humans at work. You were a typical introvert. You did well in social settings but at the end of the night, you appreciated your alone time at home by yourself. Some nights you felt like it would be nice to have someone to enjoy your alone time with. Maybe one day.

After you got a bit of a trim and did some window shopping on your way to Mary’s Tap. You were waiting under the bridge at the light as cars were traveling and you could see the river and Mary’s just across the sidewalk on the other side when something caught your eye.

It was Harry. And he was with a young woman. He had his arm wrapped around her back and they were walking very slowly. It almost seemed as if the woman was hurt and Harry was holding her steady. You watched on for a bit in curiosity.

They began to cross the street at the green light and they were headed your way. Slowly. You looked up and down the street, hoping it was clear so you could cross without Harry seeing you but it was too busy and by the time you turned your head back toward the strange sighting, Harry had already seen you.

You raised your brows and nodded at him and he nodded in kind before you turned back to look across toward the river hoping the light would change fast before you were forced to say something or have any awkward exchanges with him.

Unfortunately, they were headed in the same direction as you were.

“Oh. Do you guys know each other?” The young woman asked and you turned to look at her and then at Harry.

Harry gave her a soft smile and nodded, “Yeah. He’s a coworker.”

The light turned and the three of you began to walk across the street together. You felt like you were somewhat obligated to walk with them since the girl seemed nice and she responded to Harry, “Ah! Well, sorry that you probably haven’t seen Harry in a while. He’s been doing the good brotherly thing and taking care of his poorly sister for a bit,” she laughed and then coughed.

You looked at the woman and smiled. She had some similar features to Harry. You could see the resemblance now that she’d called herself his sister.

Once you were safely on the sidewalk you turned and put your hand out, “I’m Y/n.”

She smiled and put her hand into yours, “I’m Gemma. Harry’s older sister.”

You made small talk as you walked along the sidewalk and just as you were about to say your goodbyes to the pair they followed behind you to the path that took you to the river to Mary’s Tap, “Oh. Are you two getting lunch here?”

Harry nodded, “Yeah. S’Gemma’s favorite spot. It’s nice by the river and it’s a sunny day so figured some food and sunshine would be good.”

Gemma laughed and nudged at Harry, “He’s been trying to get me out of the house for the last couple of days. Finally worked today. Still so sore from the accident,” she inhaled a sharp breath as you three made your way down the steps toward the river.

You got on Gemma’s left side and reached your hand out, “Do you want help?”

Gemma nodded and Harry shrugged as he looked at you so you took her left arm and put it over your shoulder gently to give her more support as she made her way down the steps to the river.

And because Gemma was absolutely a gem (it was no wonder her name was Gemma) you sat with them when she invited you. Harry didn’t protest or act put off so you accepted. Hesitantly.

You learned that the night Harry was an hour late to work, Gemma had been in a terrible car accident that morning. He was with her at the hospital all day until they told him they needed to do surgery and he wouldn’t be able to see her until the following day anyway. He made the decision to go to work to keep his mind busy and off of the accident and how worried he was for his sister.

That was why he was late. And only an hour. Given the circumstances, that was actually quite good. You felt bad for being happy he had a family emergency that had kept him away for two weeks.

The waitress came around and took your order. You were a little surprised that Harry ordered the Baja tacos. So you picked something else off the menu not wanting to make it look like you were copying him or anything. But that was a bit disappointing. The Baja tacos at Mary’s were the best.

The three of you chitchatted and Harry was being quite pleasant to your absolute shock. You figured that he was pushing down his urge to be his usual self around his sister. He even commented that he liked your haircut. He noticed it. Another surprise.

“These are the fucking best,” Harry said with his mouth full of the crispy fish taco, “Have you ever tried these? Like, the first time I got them I couldn’t believe they were good because this is just some random tourist bar, but goddamn these are good.”

You nodded with a smile as you looked down at your mushroom burger. The Baja tacos were the best thing on the menu but you made the sacrifice and went with the veggie mushroom burger. Which was good. But not Baja taco-good.

“So… how’s it working with this dickhead?” Gemma said as she gestured toward Harry with a big grin.

Harry groaned and rolled his eyes and looked at you. He knew you weren’t a fan of his. He knew he was a dickhead. He was probably curious as to how you’d respond to his sister with this question.

You laughed and looked from Harry to Gemma, “Well, he is a dickhead. But he’s professional and he works hard. The people who come into Reggie’s like him.”

It wasn’t bad sitting with Harry and his sister. Harry was a bit more charming than he normally was. He wasn’t acting cocky or shitty. He was just being a nice, normal guy. It was a different side to him that you’d only gotten small glimpses of before. But the entire hour and a half with Harry and Gemma, Harry had been kind. And his eyes on you had you feeling like there was something there. It wasn’t obvious or anything but he'd flirted with you in the past and you’d seen the look before.

When the waitress came back you split the bill and then stood up from your chair to help Gemma up with Harry on her other side.

“Guys, I’m sorry to do this but I’ve got to pee, so…” she spoke as she stood to her feet.

You followed behind her and Harry as they made their way inside Mary’s so Gemma could use the toilet. You figured you’d help them back up the steps to the street. It definitely was for Gemma’s sake only because she was so sweet. Certainly not because you found yourself enjoying your time with Harry or that you were hoping for another stolen glance. Certainly not that.

When Gemma disappeared into the women’s room Harry turned to you, “Hey… I know I’m kind of shit. I have no good excuse for how I treat you. Or how I treat anyone else. Gemma’s accident has made me think about things a little differently,” Harry picked at his finger and looked up at you, “Anyway, I’m sorry, Y/n, for being a prick.”

You took his apology in as if you’d just won a free vacation. It was unexpected but also something you felt you deserved. You weren’t sure how to respond at first. You just stared at the handsome man for a moment dumbfounded.

When Harry grinned softly and perked up a brow he asked, “Are you okay?”

You shook your head to clear your confusion and blinked, “Uh… yeah. I’m okay. I just didn’t expect an apology at all. I’m… Well, thank you for that. I accept your apology.”

You helped Harry steady Gemma up the steps to the sidewalk and said polite goodbyes as you parted. But you didn’t stop thinking about Harry on your way to Trader Joe’s. How different he was at Mary’s Tap. He was… kind, likable even. And he apologized on top of it all. It had you regretting how angry you were with him that night and how you were glad he was gone from work with you for two weeks. He actually had a reason for it all. A fucking good reason and so you felt bad. Not too bad, though. Harry had been an absolute dick to you. There was no excuse for the way he treated you that night. But now you understood it at least.

You grabbed your favorite items at Trader Joe’s (chicken soup dumplings, Palak paneer, and cauliflower gnocchi were always on the list) and walked home with your head in the clouds a little. You’d always found Harry quite attractive. Most people did. Harry was physically gorgeous. Lanky and slightly muscular, broad shoulders, a handsome, angular face with a prominent nose, light green eyes, long, soft dark curly hair, a pretty neck… You kind of had a thing for necks and when Harry put his hair back in a bun you could stare at the back of his neck when he was turned away without him noticing. And then there was his voice. God his voice… The first time you heard him speak you thought you were in a dream. A handsomely deep voice with a bit of a rasp, and a breathy laugh, all wrapped in a sexy British accent. And god you couldn’t even get started on his dimples. Or his big hands…

Harry wasn’t just your type. He was everyone’s type. But his personality left something to be desired. You always imagined that if he were just a tiny bit nicer you’d have been more willing to suck him off that day at your boss’s party. You didn’t need a nice guy. Just someone who was respectful and didn’t treat you like shit. Your standards weren’t wildly high you didn’t feel. But Harry had been too disrespectful toward you at times.

But now? Had he really changed for the better? Did his sister’s accident make him a little nicer? Or was this just temporary?

For the first time in weeks, at your next shift, you were disappointed Harry wasn’t working with you behind the bar. Phillip was great. He’d been a star. You appreciated how pleasant he was but you had really been looking forward to seeing Harry. Finding out if he really was a little more pleasant. But that wasn’t in the cards for you that day.

Instead, at around 11 pm, a past mistake named Jude walked into the bar and as the night progressed he made it clear he wanted to see you after you got off work. He was never one to be shy, but why would he? Jude was a very attractive man. Used to getting anything he wanted. He was dressed in a button-down shirt, nice and crisp, tucked into well-fitted trousers. He had his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, showcasing his strong forearms and he kept his eyes on you for most of the night, despite the guy sitting next to him.

“There’s a small get-together tonight at a friend’s. Would be nice to have you join me if you’re free when you get off,” Jude had his elbows on the bar, leaning in toward you. The wire-rimmed glasses on his face somehow made him look super sexy. Like a hot professor or something. You were trying so hard to ignore the way you wanted to indulge in your past mistakes but his blue eyes, soft lips, curly hair, and that stupid smirk were wearing away at your resolve.

You shook your head, “I get off at 1. No one’s having a get-together at 1 am, Jude.”

Jude didn’t falter, “Love how you say my name. Always have. But honestly, my friends told me to come by whenever. They said they were staying up all night. Besides, if it winds up being too late, I happen to live in the same building…” his smile widened, “and we can just have our own little get-together. Up to you.”

And there it was.

You hadn’t gotten any in a while. Months. In fact, it might have been Jude who was last in your bed now that you thought about it. You weren’t hard up or anything but Jude was looking awfully tasty tonight.

You squinted as you looked him over before turning back to serve another guest. You weren’t going to give him an answer just yet. The last time you got involved he hurt you. You two were casually dating for a couple of months but you’d gotten too attached too fast. Jude was not interested in anything serious and you knew that. But it didn’t stop your heart from breaking every time he was out with someone else. And then one day he told you it was over because he’d fallen in love with someone else and he wanted to get serious with them. That was a big blow to your ego. He was the first man you’d ever cried over.

But now here was looking like a hot daddy and asking you back to his place to fuck. Well, he didn’t say it in so many words but that’s what he wanted. It was clear. And you did too. Maybe just a night of fun with an old fling would be fun. Right?

Needless to say at 1 am when you left Reggie’s, Jude was leading the way to the Uber he’d ordered.

The condo building was across town. On the drive to this “get-together,” Jude wasted no time in shoving his tongue down your throat and groping your crotch. But you did little to stop it. You were definitely feeling the effects of his charm. Or maybe it was just that you were missing the action.

The party was on the 5th floor. Jude lived on the 7th, you remembered. He knocked on the door and you could hear some music slipping under the door into the hallway so you figured there really was a party of some sort.

When the door swung open you were met with a pair of forest green eyes and long dark hair. The newly familiar face was staring back at you with a big grin.

“Y/n? What are you doing here? Oh my god! Harry!! Look who’s here!” Gemma shouted into the hallway behind her.

Gemma ushered you and Jude inside, the door swinging closed behind you. You noted that Gemma was still limping but she seemed to be moving much better.

“I had to throw a small party. I’ve been so cooped up and just looking at Harry’s face all day every day was driving me crazy!” Gemma spoke excitedly.

Before you turned the corner you saw him, “Yeah? Who…” he stopped in his tracks when he realized you were there.

His face brightened and then he looked at Jude, then back to you, the bright features slowly fading, “Oh… hey, Y/n. Jude. You two come together?”

“We did. And we will later on as well,” Jude said smugly turning to you with a wink.

You cringed at his dumb innuendo. It might have been funny if you weren’t standing face-to-face with Harry, who was looking like sex on legs. Harry of course didn’t even have to try. He just had it. Even with his hair in a bun and graphic t-shirt, he blew Jude out of the water. But it was the way Harry was looking at you after Jude’s remark that really had you feeling a little icky. Guilty?

Was that disappointment Harry wore on his face? You weren’t sure exactly.

Gemma limped back to the three of you with two cans of beer in hand, “For the guests…” she smiled, totally unaware of the turmoil you were suddenly faced with.

You learned the apartment was Gemma’s. She owned it. Harry lived with her. It was small but cute and the finishes were very nice. She had a balcony that overlooked a shared courtyard facing many other balconies.

There were about six other people in the apartment, all of whom you didn’t know. Jude knew a couple of them but you could hardly pay attention to polite introductions when your eyes kept searching for Harry.

When you spotted him outside on the balcony by himself, you excused yourself and walked outside with him, the cool night air hitting your skin and feeling refreshing. It was getting too stuffy inside with Jude next to you. You suddenly didn’t want anything to do with him anymore.

“It’s nice out,” you spoke. Harry turned his head to see you just as you put your elbows onto the railing, mimicking his stance looking out over the courtyard. He nodded and then turned his sight back to the courtyard below in silence.

You cleared your throat, not really knowing what to say. You didn’t know why you were so worried about what Harry thought of you arriving with Jude. It wasn’t like you and Harry were dating, or anything even remotely close to that. But somehow you wanted to feel out the situation. Maybe he liked you. Maybe he wanted more than just the occasional flirtation. But it was silly all these ideas in your head because Harry had mostly only ever been a fuckface toward you. Yet, you were soft toward him from the small handful of times he was nice or flirty. And especially after lunch at Mary’s Tap the other day. That had changed everything.

“So, Gemma seems to be feeling good. How’s it going taking care of her?” You figured you’d ask him a question that he’d need to use his voice to respond to you with.

Harry shifted and looked down further over the balcony before clasping his hands onto the railing in front of him and pushed himself so he was angled to face you, “Yeah. She’s been really good. I told her maybe a party wasn’t a great idea but she’s 30. Not much I can do. Probably be back at Reggie’s next week,” he gave a weak smile and looked through the sliding glass doors to see inside and then back to you, “So you know Jude?”

You hadn’t expected him to ask about Jude. In fact, you sort of thought that he more than likely didn’t even care. You thought it was unlikely Harry would be arsed to know about you and Jude, even if you did think you saw the smallest look of disappointment on his face.

You nodded, “Yeah. Used to date. He came into the bar tonight and invited me here…” you laughed and looked down at your hands on the railing and then turned your body to face Harry, “but, he’s just the same as he used to be. Probably shouldn’t have come back with him.”

Harry shrugged and let out a grunt of hmmph… “Well, he is attractive. Quite attractive. I can see why you’d be persuaded.”

You pulled your lips into your mouth and turned to look inside at the people, “Yeah… it’s really the only reason I did. But I’m only reminded of the past now that I’m seeing him again. He hurt me so,” you shook your head and looked back at Harry, “that’s why I think it was probably a bad idea.”

“He hurt you?” Harry’s brows scrunched together a bit causing vertical frown lines at the bridge of his nose to appear.

You smiled, “It was months ago. I started having feelings and then he wanted to see someone else. No big deal.”

Harry frowned, “He dated you and then decided to let you go for someone else? That was his bad.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. You looked at Harry for a moment longer and then turned to look back down at the courtyard, Harry following suit. It was moments like that that made your heart pitter-patter. His intense gaze. His eyes. It wasn’t much. But it was a shared glance that was a beat longer than normal. It felt like something.

A few moments of silence enveloped you both until Harry turned his head to look at you and speak, “So, you’re not like, with him then? You’re not going back to his place after this?”

You blinked your eyes and his questions felt like an opening. He was opening up some kind of dialogue that could possibly lead somewhere. You would take the bait. Why not? What did you have to lose? You liked Harry.

“Uh… no. Definitely not with him. I’m glad I came, though. Glad it happened to be at your apartment too…” you spoke as you watched Harry closely for any sign to abandon ship but all you got was a green light when he cocked his head slightly, quirking up a corner of his pink mouth, and his eyes searched your face.

Just then, the sliding glass door was being opened and you heard Jude’s voice, “There you are. Couldn’t find where you wandered off to. So you two know each other?”

Harry stood up straight and smiled at you with a wink before patting Jude on the back and walking inside, leaving you and Jude standing on the balcony together.

You sighed as you watched Harry leave and then turned back to Jude and nodded, “Yeah. We work together.”

Jude turned to look back inside before looking back at you, “Is he the one that’s rude? Heard you talking about some guy you worked with who was an asshole.”

You rolled your eyes. You didn’t realize Jude overheard you and Phillip talking about Harry. Phillip had similar feelings about Harry’s lack of tact. But what Jude obviously didn’t hear was that you didn’t agree with Phillip anymore. You didn’t tell Phillip about Harry’s sister because you didn’t think it was your place, but you did tell him that you felt Harry should be cut some slack and that you felt like he might be going through something.

“Yeah. But Harry’s not that bad. He was kind of a dick at first but, I don’t know…” your words were cut off when Jude put his hands on the railing, caging you in and getting a little closer than you would’ve liked, “What do you say we get out of here soon? I want to get down to business with you. You are looking so good, Y/n.”

You leaned away from him as he moved his face closer to yours in an effort to kiss you. Putting your hands up to his chest to create more space you shook your head, “Actually, Jude. I don’t know. It’s probably not good to do anything. I don’t think it ended well between us last time. Ya know?”

Jude scoffed and pressed his hips to yours, “I had no hard feelings about how we left things. But I can tell you I have some hard feelings right now,” he prodded himself toward you and that’s when you felt him under his trousers.

You laughed in disbelief, pushing harder at his chest to make him move off of you, “Stop, Jude. You were fine when you broke up with me. I was not fine, though. I think I should probably just go home.”

You peered inside and saw Harry watching. He could see the spectacle you two were making, but from his view, it looked like two men enjoying one another’s company. He couldn’t tell you were uncomfortable or that you were pushing at Jude to move him off of you. When he made eye contact with you he turned and disappeared down the hallway.

“Oh come on, Y/n. You used to beg for it. Hell, I used to beg for it. I miss that dick of yours. Haven’t had such a pretty one in a long time…”

You cut his words off as you opened the sliding door and looked at Jude, “You don’t get to have my dick anymore, Jude. I have suddenly become aware of what I’m doing and I’m telling you, I don’t want it. I don’t want you.”

“Is it Harry? He’s who you want to fuck tonight instead?” Jude spoke in disbelief.

You shook your head and let out a sigh of aggravation before walking back inside.

Gemma was taking a puff of a joint when you sat down next to the coffee table on the floor with your tepid can of beer. You’d barely drunk any of it. Beer wasn’t really your thing, but you were nothing if not polite. You’d drink the beer with a smile on your face. Especially because Gemma was the one who’d given it to you. You really liked her.

The joint was passed around like in one of those 80s movies. You took a puff and passed it along to the girl who sat closest to you. Jude came back inside and tossed his can of beer into the garbage, making a bit of a commotion as he did so.

He plopped himself down close to you and sat back, palms behind himself, “Y/n and I used to date you know,” Jude suddenly spoke loudly over the guy who was talking about his job.

At that moment Harry sat on the couch next to Gemma and took the joint from her to take a hit.

“Really?!” Gemma responded. Harry perked a brow up toward Gemma and then looked at you.

“Yeah. For a few months. Didn’t work out but I saw him at the bar tonight. Didn’t even know he worked there! Didn’t know you worked there either, Harry,” Jude spoke loudly, obnoxiously and then he looked at Harry.

Harry narrowed his gaze at Jude but didn’t speak.

“That’s enough, Jude,” you spoke, quietly leaning toward him.

“I don’t think it’s enough,” Jude sat up straight and all eyes were on him, “I think I want to talk about what tonight is about. For you Y/n,” he turned to look at you and now all eyes were on you.

“What?” You scrunched your face and laughed in half embarrassment and half confusion.

“Tonight. You know what I’m talking about. You had your tongue down my throat, your hand on my crotch,” you heard a few small snickers and gasps as people listened to Jude expose everything you’d done just before you got to Gemma’s apartment, “and now suddenly you’ve changed your mind? So what was this?”

You had your mouth open to respond but you didn’t know what to say. Was he serious? Jude could be forward, pushy even, and you knew he had no shame, but this? You looked at Harry who gave away no emotion on his face. He was looking from you to Jude.

“Well? What is it? I thought maybe you were into Harry and that’s why you suddenly lost interest,” silence from everyone listening to the drama unfold before them, “but then you were just talking shit about him with your co-worker, Phillip was it? So, couldn’t be Harry,” Jude gestured toward Harry.

Now everyone looked at Harry and then back to you and then Jude. It would have been comical if you weren’t the spectacle thrown into the middle of the show.

You shook your head, “No. I wasn’t talking shit about Harry. That’s not true…”

“Oh but it is. I heard you at the bar, and then again just now I asked you and you said that he was a dick. So what is it Y/n?” Jude stared you down and you were dumbfounded. You pushed yourself up to standing and one of the guys got up and helped Jude up, saying how he thought it was time to wrap up the party and best if we left.

You ran your hands through your hair and then reached for your beer to at least take it into the kitchen and dump the contents before leaving. This had just gotten so out of hand and you didn’t know how to dig your way out of it. You could deny all you wanted, but it was your word against Jude’s and Harry had seen him close to you on that balcony and you did arrive with him. Most of what Jude said was true. Just not the important details he exaggerated.

You poured your beer out and could hear Gemma telling Jude it was a good time for him to go and you could feel how hot you were in the face. Your ears were burning, your heart was pounding. You were embarrassed and angry. You placed your palms down on the kitchen counter and lowered your head to breathe. It was so fucked. You definitely didn’t want Harry to think you were some flaky liar who was talking shit about him behind his back.

“You’re still here?” Harry spoke from behind you.

You stood upright and turned to see Harry, still no emotion on his face, “I’m leaving. I just wanted to give Jude a chance to get out of here first. Kind of don’t want to look at him. And… look, I wasn’t talking shit about you. I…”

Harry shook his head and spoke over you, “Stop. I don’t want to hear it. I know I’ve not been nice to you but I guess it turns out you’re not so nice either.”

You shook your head, “I’m… I didn’t…” you didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to hear it. Maybe it was a lost cause. “I’m sorry,” was all you could manage.

Gemma walked in behind Harry and smiled at you, “Uh, he’s gone. I think everyone’s leaving now.”

You nodded and looked from Harry to Gemma, “Hey, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”

Gemma nodded, “It was mostly just Jude. But I think it was a good time to wrap this up anyway. Getting tired,” she yawned into her palm.

You looked back at Harry hoping you could read something from him at all. Any opening. Any green light to plead your case. But all you got were his words, “Time to leave now.”

You walked passed Harry to leave and when you made it to the front door in the hallway Harry stopped you, “I saw you both on the balcony you know. That’s why I don’t believe you,” he had his arms crossed in front of his chest.

This. This was it. The opening for you to plead your case, “No. He was coming onto me. I was trying to push him off,”

“You’re kind of a liar aren’t you?” Harry smiled unamusedly as he spoke with a laugh of disbelief.

“Harry, I swear. I’m not lying here. He was too close and I was pushing him away,”

“Took you a good few minutes to push him away then did it? He’s not bigger than you, Y/n. If you wanted him off of you he wouldn’t have been practically dry-humping you like that,” Harry scoffed and took a step toward you. Now you could see some emotion on his face but it had you confused. He was mad but there was something else there. His eyes moved down your frame and then Gemma stepped into the hallway.

“Hey, do you guys think you could take it in your room or outside? Please?” Gemma looked at Harry and then at you.

“I’m leaving. Sorry…” you said as you reached for the door handle but Harry put his palm on the door to stop you and looked at his sister, “We’ll keep it down. Sorry Gems.”

You watched Harry as he turned back to you, his face set with the smallest bit of anger still, “We’re not done here. Follow me.”

Harry turned and began to walk down the hall and you stood for a moment with a bit of confusion but then you followed behind Harry and into what you assumed was his bedroom. Harry closed the door behind you and stood with his back to his door, arms crossed over his chest.

“Get it all out. Right here. Tell me how much you hate me. How much of a dick I am. How shitty I was to you. Let’s get it all out in the open,” Harry said as he gestured between himself and you.

You stitched your brows together and shook your head, “Harry… come on. I… at one point yeah, you were shitty, but let’s move on from that. You apologized already.”

Harry shook his head and pushed himself off the door, making one long-legged stride toward you, “Tell me how much you hate me. To my face.”

You blew out a breath of frustration and blinked, “I don’t. I don’t hate you, Harry.”

And then Harry did it again. He glanced downward over your body and then back up to your eyes, “Tell me now. I’m a dick aren’t I?” He brought his hands up to your shoulders and pushed at you, causing you to move back a little. He didn’t push hard but it was more like a bid for attention. Like how you’d try to nudge someone who wasn’t listening.

“No. You’re not. I don’t think that. You already…” but your words were cut off when Harry shoved at you. A little harder this time. But now you were ready for the nudge and you stood your ground, “Stop, Harry.”

“Oh, you want me to stop?” Harry stepped in closer until he was only inches from you. But you felt the heat of excitement trickle down your torso and to your knees. You kept your eyes on Harry’s bright green ones and didn’t make a move to back away. Like a dare almost. A game of chicken. Who would dodge out of the way quicker? You certainly wouldn’t. The impact would be welcome.

“No actually. I don’t want you to stop,” you spoke with as much confidence as you could muster.

“No? You want me to do this?” He tilted his head to the side in question as he shoved you again, a little harder than the last time, causing you to stumble back just a bit but this time you brought your hands up and shoved at his shoulders equally as hard.

“Yeah. I do,” your words were clear and you didn’t break eye contact.

Harry shook his head and stepped in again until the heat you felt wasn’t just from the excitement of the moment, it was coming from his body. You felt goosebumps rise on your arms when Harry spoke in a whisper, “Push me again. Show me how much you hate me.”

So you did. You shoved at him hard. You weren’t a wimp. You figured you could give him a show if that’s what he wanted.

Harry was knocked back a foot and he laughed, “Is that it? Doesn’t feel like hate to me, Y/n.”

You scoffed and pushed him again, stepping in toward him this time, “No? What’s it feel like, Harry?”

Harry’s chest began to rise and fall, and his breathing deepened. He smirked and spoke, “Feels like foreplay.”

You quirked up the edge of your mouth and pushed at his chest, but followed as he moved back from the force, “Is that what this is, Harry?”

Harry shook his head with a laugh of disbelief, keeping the smirk on his face he lifted a hand and wrapped his fingers around your neck. You swallowed hard. The simmering in his eyes told you all you needed to know. Your own breathing deepened and you stepped in so close to him that your noses were almost touching.

“Doesn’t feel like you hate me. Feels like you wanna fuck me,” Harry’s deep voice was almost vibrating on your skin as he spoke.

You swallowed again and let out a puff of air from your mouth when you felt Harry’s fingers tighten slightly, “You gonna choke me?”

Harry breathed out from his nose and smiled, “Do you want me to?”

You licked your lips and Harry dropped his mouth open slightly. You could feel his breath on your lips, warm, humid. This was foreplay. That’s what he was doing. His little act that started in the kitchen and was eventually brought to his room… you’d end it here. No more acting.

“Do it,” you spoke as you grazed your lips over his. Harry pushed his nose into the side of yours and you heard him mutter fuck before his lips were slotting between yours and he was squeezing your neck a little harder.

You sucked in air through your nose and brought your arms up over his shoulders and hands into his hair.

He tasted good. His lips were soft and his kiss was encompassing like he’d been starved. Like he needed to get his point across at how turned on he was. You got the hint. Especially when Harry walked you backward to his bed and then shoved you down onto his mattress. You fell down, your bottom hitting the comforter and you looked up at him from your position.

Harry’s cocky smirk reappeared but this time you liked it. You grabbed his arm and pulled him down next to you and pinned his arms down to his sides as you pressed your lips into his neck. You’d always wanted to kiss his neck and you could feel his pulse under the sensitive flesh of your mouth.

Harry gasped and tried moving from your hold but you only tightened it and then licked along his jaw which drew the prettiest moan from Harry’s throat.

“Want me to show you how bad I used to hate you, Harry?” You spoke against his neck and then nipped at the skin.

Harry whimpered and you felt him nod, “Yes.”

You pulled the skin on his neck into your mouth and sucked so you could mark him first and then you straddled his hips and let go of his arms as you tugged at his t-shirt to pull it up. You wanted to take a look.

You knew he had tattoos on his arms and on his chest but you’d never seen his chest bare before. There was nothing in you that was disappointed in what you saw at all. More tattoos than you realized. You lowered yourself down and sucked his right nipple into your mouth, licking around the hair and then you slid a hand up to his neck and kept him held down before you sat back to look down at him.

Harry’s pupils were blown out and he was smiling, “Again. Doesn’t feel like hate at all.”

You laughed and squeezed at his neck, “Oh you’re gonna feel it soon enough. But first I need to know what I’m not allowed to do. As much as I hated you, Harry, I’m still respectful.”

Harry laughed and brought a hand up to lift your t-shirt upward and put his palm on your stomach and moved it upward, “I usually top but I’ll bottom for a good cause. I like everything, Y/n. I’ve got condoms so you can fuck me if you want. Or I can fuck you? Or suck you… I’m open,” he put a hand over your fingers that were squeezing his neck lightly and he tightened it a bit, “you can punish me if you want.”

God did you want. You were into everything. You liked it all too. You liked a cock inside your mouth or your tight hole. You even liked just frotting. Spanking was fun to give and receive, biting, choking… If Harry was really open to anything like he said, this could be a good match.

You lowered your mouth to his to taste his lips again and adjusted your position over him so your hips were aligned. His tight jeans were leaving little to the imagination and his cock was already hard. Good. Because so was yours.

You rocked your hips gently over him and Harry put his hands on your back under your shirt, lifting his hips toward yours.

“Let’s take off these clothes,” you parted from his mouth with a gasp and got off the bed, ripping your shirt over your head and Harry did the same.

He watched you pull your jeans down and you took note of the surprise on his face when you weren’t wearing any underwear.

Harry stood up and slowly undid his pants, his eyes on yours, a cheeky grin on his face. He brought his pants down and Harry was also not wearing underwear.

You both laughed but the laughter only lasted a moment before you two were on each other.

“S’really pretty cock, Y/n. Can I suck on it?” Harry mumbled into your neck as he pressed his body into yours.

You moaned and nodded, “Yeah. On the bed.”

Harry’s cock was pretty too. And long. Longer than yours. And Harry was uncut. You loved the feel of an uncircumcised cock. The extra skin was amazing for frotting but also felt so nice inside your bum.

You got on the bed and leaned back while Harry crawled between your legs on the bed and lowered his hands to your thighs and looked up at you as he licked his pink lips, “You can fuck my mouth if you want. I know I deserve it.” His smile was devious.

He lowered his mouth to the inside of your thigh and kissed downward until he met the apex of your leg and your groin. You watched him as she took his time dragging his lips over the thatch of hair at the base of your cock and then used a hand to cradle your balls. He lowered himself down and started off with a gentle kiss to each side before licking them and wetting them as he watched you.

“Fuck…” you moaned quietly. You were well aware that Gemma was just down the hall. You didn’t want to be loud.

Harry opened his mouth and tongued at your scrotum and then he looked up at you again, “Can I pull?”

You nodded. You liked having your scrotum pulled at just a little and then the thin skin licked. Harry got to it right away. He knew what he was doing. You panted as you dropped your mouth open.

Harry’s free hand traveled down to your perineum. He pressed it gently with his thumb and moved up and down which got your heart racing. You moaned.

Harry released your scrotum and smiled up at you, “Can I lick your taint?”

You nodded again and Harry switched out the thumb he was using for his tongue and you shivered.

His nose was nudging into your balls as used his tongue to lick up the small patch of skin next to your anus. You keened and sucked in a sharp breath, then a husky pant fell from your mouth.

Harry slowly brought his hand up to your dick, wrapped his big hand around your shaft, and began yanking upward. He moved himself up and sat back before bending over to spit a gob of saliva over your tip. He smoothed it down, leaving a shiny path under his palm and then he opened his mouth as he lowered himself, licking the tip with his wet tongue and kissing your slit.

“Oh god…” you whispered in anticipation of what he was about to do.

Harry looked at you as he stroked you upward with one palm, “I’ve been wanting to do this to you for so long now, Y/n. I hope you like it.”

Harry’s lips wrapped around your tip and that was it for you. You threw your head back and whimpered as he sucked you off. He didn’t go too deep. He kept one hand at your base and pumped while he sucked, licked, and moaned over your tip and a few inches of your dick underneath.

You bent your knees and lifted your hips a bit as you looked down at him, “Holy… oh god…” you kept your volume low but it was hard with your cock in Harry’s mouth.

Harry’s pupils had dilated and his mouth was wet and pink as he slowly pulled his mouth from you, “Come on. Give me my punishment. Fuck my mouth,” his voice was raspy and deep and you could feel his breath on your tip.

You laughed. He really wanted it. So you’d give it to him.

Moving Harry back, you pushed his chest and sat up to your knees, and pointed at the bed, “Lie down on your back.”

Harry moved to lay down flat on his back and watched as you straddled his chest and angled your cock downward to his lips, “Open wide.”

He wasted no time in obeying and you wasted no time in pushing your cock back into his mouth. You went slow at first. The angle was good. You liked getting your cock sucked like this but you knew how it could be a bit rough so you let him get used to it as you began to slowly get yourself deeper inside of him.

When he swallowed around your tip and you heard the first gurgle you smiled down at him but continued your thrusts, “Pinch me if you need me to stop.”

Harry shook his head and sucked around you which made you gasp with delight.

You began pushing down into him harder, hearing his gags and watching his spit drizzle down his face made you feel like you were in control. You loved how it looked having your cock fuck his pretty face.

“I used to hate you,” you groaned as you held onto the headboard, the wet sounds of his mouth being pumped into, “Always wanted to put you in your place.”

Harry squeezed his eyes closed as he listened to you tell him how angry he made you, “Wanted to fucking punch you in your handsome face,” you panted continuing your plunges.

“Wanted to choke you and now I can with my cock down your throat.”

Harry moaned around your cock and you grunted with your pace. You began to vibrate, feeling your orgasm start to build fast. You watched the scene below you and Harry seemed to be enjoying it as much as you were. With one hand on the headboard and your other in his hair you pulled at his roots, “This is what you deserve for everything you put me through.”

You warned him you were coming but he was almost even more eager to take you deeper. He swallowed around your crown just as you released into his mouth. You groaned and shivered as Harry continued sucking and swallowing until you were spent and sensitive.

Harry chuckled when you finally pulled yourself out of his mouth and you looked down at him with a grin, “Fuck, Harry.”

You hadn’t expected him to take it like that. He seemed to enjoy having his throat fucked. And it was hot. You always imagined Harry would be strictly a top with his attitude but he most definitely wasn’t a top when he was gagging and drooling as you were grinding your dick into his mouth.

You collapsed onto the bed next to him with your chest rising and falling heavily. You turned your head to look at the man next to you and he had his hand around his own cock, slowly pulling at it as he watched you with droopy eyes. He hadn’t come yet but he already looked totally fucked out. Harry was gorgeous.

You rolled over to kiss him. His mouth was warm and salty. But you could tell right away how much he was dying to have you touch him so you lowered your hand and pressed your palm over him with your fingers grazing his balls and the hair that surrounded his thick cock.

“What do you want, Harry? I think I got all my anger out,” you laughed as you spoke against his lips.

Harry chuckled and you felt him nod, “I’d say you did,” Harry’s voice came out scratchy and raspy. Harry backed away from the kiss and his face was angelic with a soft smile and parted lips, “You said you like everything. Can I fuck you?”

You had come already but you wouldn’t mind feeling him inside. Perhaps you could even come again with some time. You nodded and grinned, “Whatever you want.”

Harry let out a pant and nudged the tip of his hard cock to yours and he keened with a pained look on his face. He looked down between your bodies and put his palm over his cock and the tips of his fingers around yours so they were pressed together, “Want to fuck you, stretch you open. M’gonna come so hard. You’re so fucking hot, Y/n. God…” he pressed his mouth to yours as he rutted his dick against yours slowly.

His words were sexy and his scratchy deep voice was making your insides turn. You never imagined yourself doing this with him. Well, you’d imagined what he might be like in bed, but never thought it’d actually happen.

Harry rolled over and pulled out a bottle of lube and a condom. He put the condom over himself and he seemed bigger and thicker than he had been when you first saw him hard. He was so ready to get his dick wet that he was a little shaky as he slid the rubber downward.

Harry looked down at you as you were still lying on your back waiting for his next move.

“I really like when it’s missionary. You can bring your legs up and I can enter you like this,” Harry kneed up to you and grabbed your ankles, pushing them up so your ass was exposed. He poured a healthy dollop of lube over your anus and you felt his fingers slipping around down there.

You liked this position too. You liked being fucked regardless but being able to see Harry’s pretty face was a bonus. Plus, you could have him stroke you while he was fucking you if you wanted.

You moaned when Harry plunged two fingers into your hole. Harry kept his eyes on yours and bit his lip as he fucked your hole a bit harder and then looked down to where his fingers were disappearing inside of you. You closed your eyes and your breathing picked up once again, heavy breaths falling from your mouth when his fingers were grazing your insides and adding that delicious pressure you loved.

“You’re so ready for me, Y/n. So pretty. Can I fuck it now?” Harry was looking at you with his cock in his hand when you opened your eyes and nodded, “Fuck me, Harry.”

Harry’s crown dipped in slowly before he pulled back and grunted a curse before going back in again and sucking in a sharp breath, “Oh fuck…” his deep voice was a bit loud and you hoped Gemma couldn’t hear. You were not into having friends hear you having sex.

Harry’s gentle pushes and pulls into and out of you were nice. You felt the burn with how wide he was but once he was thrusting into you and reaching deep it was good. Really good. Your prostate was being pressed into and sent zips of electricity through your veins.

Harry kept hold of your knees as he plunged deep into you, his breathing was ragged and he was quivering above you, “Y/n… oh my god… you feel so good… looks so good” he whispered as he kept his eyes on the spot his cock was connected with your ass.

You pulled at your thighs and held your legs open as you lifted your neck to watch him fucking you. His abs were flexing and his thighs were holding him steady in a healthy rhythm.

You could only moan quietly and gasp when he dipped in deep. Words weren’t finding you. The bed started to gently rock as Harry bucked into you. He reached down and wrapped his hand around your dick and you whimpered loudly, unable to control it. It felt so good to have your ass fucked and your dick stroked at the same time.

Your mouth dropped open wide at the feeling of letting Harry control everything. You didn’t think you could come again but if he kept up his strokes and thrusts like he was you would definitely be spurting all over your tummy.

“Fuck, Y/n. I’m gonna need more of this with you. Shit, you’re so tight. So hot…” Harry gasped his words as his strong thighs held himself up and over you. He hastened his pace and his pink lips were parted with small grunts and bursts of groans.

Harry placed his palms down on the mattress and continued fucking into you as you reached down to put your hand around your cock. You knew you could come again. Harry was doing everything right and when he’d given a little attention to your dick while he was fucking you it brought your prick back to life. You were hard and ready again.

“Yes…” you moaned as your body was being rocked with Harry’s plunges. Harry’s chest got more flushed the closer he got to the finish line and he dropped down to bring his lips over yours.

You whined into his mouth and the bit of electricity that you’d felt coursing through your body turned into a light and butterflies. Harry’s lips were wet and soft on yours and you were feeling something more than just being fucked. It was making your heart flutter with something new.

You both whined in breaths as you continued kissing and your hand stayed wrapped around your dick as Harry pushed into you. You could feel him shaking and you began to tremble when your own orgasm was coming so close.

“Can you come, Y/n? Come for me?” Harry grunted his words and kept his lips on yours and you nodded, “Yes, fuck I’m gonna come again Harry…” your voice was involuntarily raised up an octave as you were so out of it with lust and warmth.

Harry’s lips paused over yours as his long strokes into you were setting your groin on fire and he suddenly gasped and whimpered, “I’m coming…” he stopped his thrusts and groaned as you spurted into your hand and a little on your chest.

The bed was still finally as you both basked in your orgasms, pumping come out from your dick and Harry’s into his condom. Heavy breaths and small grunts were all that could be heard.

Harry lowered himself again, his lips finding yours and your feet hit the mattress as you wrapped your arms around Harry’s back. He stayed inside of you for just a bit longer before he finally began to move back and slip out. You both sucked in a sharp breath at the feel and laughed at the state you were both in.

After wiping up in the bathroom and getting water Harry suggested something you hadn’t expected, “Stay the night. It’s late.”

You smiled and looked at the clock. 3 am. That was pretty late. You raised your eyebrows and shrugged, “Guess I could stay.”

Harry locked his bedroom door and turned back to you, “Oh you’re definitely staying. We have a lot to make up for. Don’t you think?” He spoke as he stepped right in front of you, and smoothed a hand up your chest.

You laughed, “I’m kind of done for the night. I came twice.”

Harry raised his brows, “I’m good. I know. We can sleep a little. But I’m not done with you,” he kissed you, his hand finding the back of your head.

This had your heart pattering and dancing in your chest again. You knew Harry was different. Something in him changed just a little bit with Gemma’s accident and even though he was still a bit cocky and mouthy, he was nicer. He wasn’t just an asshole anymore.

You parted from the kiss, “What did you have in mind?”

Harry pulled you to the bed and motioned for you to lie down, “Let’s get some rest and then see where the day takes us when we wake up.”

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