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joelscruff · 1 year ago

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feelings on fire (joel miller x f!reader) 18+ PART FIVE

previous chapters | kofi | i'm honestly amazed that i actually completed this chapter today; as a lot of yall know i've been dealing with a lot of shitty life stuff lately and part of me expected this to not even get posted this month. and yet!! here we are. thank you to everyone who has been so supportive and amazing, this chapter is for you and i hope you like it 💖 chapter summary: you're starting to feel a bit insecure about your relationship with joel. perhaps a late night visit to his house is what you need 👀 rating: 18+ explicit warnings: age difference (reader is in her 20s, joel in his 50s), innocent/inexperienced reader, corruption, praise kink (joel calls reader babygirl, sweetheart, etc), dirty talk, mentions of religion (reader’s family are very catholic), fingering, handjobs, comeplay word count: 9k (woops) ao3

The rest of the week goes by gruelingly slow. Joel is busy every day and has barely any time to talk, so you mainly communicate through texts. The "conversations" are slow and broken, Joel only able to text when he has a free moment, which doesn't seem to be very often. You don't talk on the phone again, as much as you want to hear his voice, and you don't sext again either. It's a bit weird, a bit confusing, but you navigate it as best you can. It's not like he's ignoring you, he always responds, but it's just not the same as that first day.

you still wanna do this, right?

You type it around midnight on Thursday, hands trembling a bit as you hover over the send button. In one way you're afraid to ask him, afraid to seem clingy or young or inexperienced; but you're all of those things. When he's actually talking to you directly there's no fear, no question about what he wants, but going so long without hearing his voice makes you more and more insecure about what exactly he's thinking.

You erase the first message and start to type another one:

i know you're busy but

You shake your head and erase that one too. This is so stupid. Of course he still wants you, you idiot.

He'd said he was okay with the lie you'd told, had even said he would actually teach you guitar now too, but you're an overthinker, always have been. You can't help but feel dread whirling around in the pit of your stomach; he wants to end it, it's too complicated now. You've turned something sexy and fun into something ridiculous and unnecessary.

You lock your phone without sending anything and roll around in bed a bit, trying to sleep. Your thoughts make it impossible though, nagging at the front of your mind worse than your parents. You sit up and slide the tip of your thumb into your mouth, biting down in thought and staring at the blank screen of your phone.

What if you just...

are you home?

He hadn't sent you anything earlier to confirm he'd gotten back; you've discovered over the past few days that contractors really like to drink after their shift. Joel's been at the bar every night since that first day, often 'til late; you have to admit, it makes you a bit jealous to imagine Joel and his contracting crew out having a great time while you're laying in your childhood bed with a curfew. Bar hopping and partying has never appealed to you before, at least not when your college friends did it, but now the thought of it doesn't seem so bad. Not if you were doing it with him...

Your phone buzzes and you feel excitement burst through you at his reply:

Got in about 10 minutes ago, didn't think you'd be up. You okay?

You soften at his concern, cheeks warming. You don't hesitate, knowing if you think too much about it you'll end up changing your mind. You type your your response and hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

can i come over?

You stare at the screen with bated breath, watching as his typing bubble appears. It takes barely any time at all for him to reply:

Of course you can. Door's unlocked.

Sneaking out of your house is much easier than you thought it'd be. You've never done it before, had almost expected the bottom half of your house to suddenly have some kind of security system with lasers and cameras, but nope. Nothing out of the ordinary.

You're wearing one of your old nightdresses, pink and frilly; you'd opted to start wearing them again the other day, liking the way they made you feel, accentuating your legs and breasts like your old Sunday school dress. You'd changed quickly every morning before going downstairs to save your parents from the heart attacks they'd have seeing you with so little skin coverage. But there's no need to change now, not with where you're going. You yank on a jacket and sneakers and carefully open and close the front door, scurrying out into the cool night air.

Joel's house isn't far, just a street over. You try not to run, as much as you want to; you know you'll end up all sweaty and messy haired - the opposite of how you'd like to portray yourself tonight, but your skin is practically glowing with anticipation. You hold the short hem of your nightdress down as you speed walk through the dark suburban streets of your neighborhood.

Your heart starts pounding when his house comes into view; the living room window is dimly lit. You jog up the front steps and take a deep breath before turning the handle, smiling to yourself when it opens easily; he'd really left the door unlocked for you.

"Mr. Miller?" you call in a hushed tone, shutting the door behind you and turning the lock.

He emerges from the living room and you feel your eyes widen. All he's wearing is a pair of loose fitting plaid pajama pants; nothing else. No shirt, no socks, and probably no underwear. You swallow, eyes trailing up and down the naked solidness of his chest, the greying hair smattered along the skin. He's got a softness to him, a bit of a pudgy belly that makes you want to smile, but his rugged sexiness is even more apparent. His strong pecs, freckled arms, the hair trailing down his stomach and into his pajama pants... it suddenly leaves you unable to breathe or form a coherent thought.

"There's my girl," he says, voice low and husky; he must have talked a lot today, called people's names, ordered them around, "C'mere."

Your brain is still muddled and awestruck as you feel yourself rush forward, arms immediately wrapping around his bare torso. His skin is softer than you'd thought it'd be, warm under your touch as you carefully press your cheek to his chest. You feel the scratch of hair against your skin, reminding you of his age; fifty six. The thought gives you an ache between your legs.

He holds you close and rubs your back, presses a kiss to the top of your head. Your eyes flutter closed at his touch, fingers splaying across the wide span of his back. You find yourself able to breathe again, but all you inhale is his scent, fresh and masculine. It's then that you realize his skin is slightly damp, peppered here and there with little droplets of water.

"I just got out of the shower," he says quietly, answering your unspoken question, "Was about to get in bed when you texted but I figured if you were comin' over I should clean myself up a bit."

You hum against his chest, still not sure exactly what to say. The ache between your legs is growing stronger the more you stand here in his embrace; somehow you hadn't expected to feel this way just from hugging him, although you probably should have guessed.

"I wanna get in your bed," you say softly, opening your eyes again and pulling back to look at him. His expression says it all, eyes going dark as they fall to your lips.

"Then let's get in my bed," he murmurs, just as quiet.

The last time you were in Joel's bedroom there'd been more of a sense of urgency, when he'd sat with you in his lap on the edge of his bed and held you open in front of the mirror. Now things are much slower, more quiet. You slip in behind him and unzip your jacket, taking it off and hanging it carefully on the hook behind his door.

"That's pretty," he says behind you, and you feel him reach out to gently touch the pink material, hand ghosting the bare skin of your chest. Your breath hitches and he smiles, "Tiny little thing, isn't it?"

"I've had it for a long time, I thought you might like it."

"I do," he pulls you toward him, then reaches his hands up to thumb the thin straps of the nightdress. You watch with hooded eyes as he slowly pushes them off your shoulders, "I'm gonna take it off though, that okay?"

Your brow furrows; he notices your reaction and his hands freeze, "Not okay?" he asks, confused slightly.

"N-no, it's okay," you say quickly, "I just... I'm still a little self conscious."

His eyes widen slightly and he shakes his head, "You have nothin' to be self conscious about, sweetheart," he reassures you, "I wanna see you..." he pushes the straps down your shoulders and you stand there trembling slightly as he pulls the dress down, exposing your breasts to him, "There you are."

You shiver a bit under his gaze, but not out of discomfort or fear. You feel safe with him; you know he'd never do anything you didn't consent to. You're just not exactly sure what you want, what exactly you've really come here for. Before you'd left the house you'd been so afraid that he was losing interest, already getting tired of you; now he stares at you like you're some kind of rare gem, making you feel bashful and beautiful under his gaze.

"I wanna touch you," you whisper, the shakiness of your voice betraying your nervousness - or anticipation.

His hands freeze for a few seconds but he regains composure quickly, tugging the dress down further until it's cascading down your legs, putting you completely on display. He swallows audibly, taking you in. You look at his face and feel yourself pulse under his gaze, the way he's staring directly at your bare pussy.

"Let's get in bed," he murmurs, "I think there's a few things we can touch."

His words send a buzzing warmth through your body and you cross your legs unconsciously, an action that makes him smirk. You turn away from him with heat flooding your cheeks as you climb into his bed; it's large and comfortable, but you already know neither of you will be taking advantage of the big space. You sit up against his headboard and pull the duvet up over yourself, hiding your breasts from view - as if he hasn't already seen them.

"I'll keep these on" he says softly, tugging at the band of his pajama pants, "Don't worry."

Your heart leaps to your throat and you nod quickly - probably too quickly. It's not that you're scared to see him naked; you've already seen both halves now and that's taken away a lot of the fear, but the concept of being in bed together, both naked... you're not sure you're ready yet. And you're glad he understands that without you having to say it out loud.

You watch as he climbs into bed and positions himself up against the headboard like you, scooches in next to you so your sides are touching. His skin against yours is unlike anything you've felt with him up until this point; he's so warm, a firm and large presence at your side that immediately has you feeling intimidated. Your nerves are already beginning to set alight just by having him so close. You open your mouth to speak but are unable to say anything when he inches even closer, his bare waist pressing firmly against yours.

"Hey, you're okay," he breathes, reaching up to gently thumb your cheek in a calming motion, brow furrowing slightly, "You don't gotta be nervous, sweetheart, it's only me."

"I'm not nervous," you whisper back, and while you're not exactly being honest there's certainly something else you're feeling, "I'm just..." you cross your legs again under the duvet, "I'm getting really wet."

He makes an odd sound in the back of his throat that makes you smile a little, cheeks burning under his gaze. He reaches over and slowly pushes the blankets down from your loose grip, exposing you to him once again. He moves his hand down, fingertips trailing along your bare chest until carefully bringing one of your breasts into his palm and squeezing gently.

"You don't gotta hide these from me, darlin'," he murmurs, thumb dragging across your nipple, sending tingles throughout your body, "They're too pretty to stay outta sight."

You shiver when he carefully tweaks your nipple between his fingers, his gaze firmly set on his movements. You watch together as he plays with it, toys with it, rolls it between thumb and forefinger. The warm and tight feeling sends an odd tingling sensation from your breast to your pussy, like they're connected somehow.

"I'm gonna put this in my mouth," he says softly, "Suck on it a little bit, that okay?"

You can't help but feel a bit unsure, biting your lip, "Is that... does it feel good to do that?"

He nods up at you, thumbing your nipple again slowly, "Feels really good, I promise. You got a lot of nerves here, just like your pussy. Really sensitive."

Your eyes are hazy as you nod to him slowly, "Th-that sounds nice."

At your words he leans his head down and brings your nipple into his mouth, dropping his fingers and replacing his thumb with the warm suction of his lips. You gasp out in surprise, hand coming up to immediately cup the back of his head.

You've never felt anything like this; the suction of his mouth is so new and strange, that tingling sensation returning as you cross your legs tighter and whimper aloud as he sucks your nipple. His tongue is wet and warm, tracing the shape of you in little circles, while his free hand comes up to squeeze your other breast, tweak it with his fingers. Your breath begins to come out raggedly, brow furrowing and legs tightening together as he suckles.

"Oh my god," you hear yourself whimper, hand tightening in his hair, "Why does that feel so good?"

He pulls off your nipple with a quiet laugh, peering up at you, "Yeah, you like the way that feels, babygirl?"

You nod quickly, swallowing and trying to get your breath back, "Yes," you whisper, "A lot."

He smiles at that, "Then how 'bout you lay back for me?"

It's an offer that's impossible to refuse. You quickly pull yourself down from the headboard and slip beneath the covers, head coming to rest on one of his pillows. He slips under as well, then very slowly positions himself on top of you, a leg on either side of your trembling form. You look up at him with wide eyes, unsure whether you're more nervous or excited.

"You're okay," he reassures you again, inching downward a bit and pressing a few gentle kisses to your neck, "Gotta be on top to do this right, so it feels good."

You nod slowly, "I c-can feel..."

"What?" he whispers, "What do you feel?"

Your arms are loose at your sides and Joel's are pinned above you, but there's an unmistakable feeling of something prodding into your thigh, large and thick.

"Your cock," you manage to whisper, voice trembling, "I think."

"That's right," he murmurs, "It's 'cause I'm gettin' hard from suckin' you like that, touchin' you," he trails his fingers down your sides gently, making you shiver, "You like feelin' it there?"

You feel yourself slowly nodding, eyes going even more hazy and hooded, "I wanna touch it."

"I know you do," he whispers, "I want you to touch it too, sweetheart. But I'm gonna play with you a little longer," he leans his face down and licks a small stripe against your other nipple, making your hips buck, "Then I'll teach you how to touch it, that alright?"

"Yes," you breathe, "Please."

"You like when I play with you, don't you?" he murmurs against your breast, then captures your other nipple in his mouth and starts to suck.

"Y-yes," you repeat, hand coming up again to tangle in his hair, already overwhelmed by the sensation, "I missed it."

He hums, sending another cascade of tingles throughout your body. To think that less than half an hour ago you were laying in bed wondering if he still wanted you; now you're naked and he's on top of you with his mouth on your breast. How is this your life?

"What did'ya miss?" he pulls off for barely a few seconds, scruff scratching perfectly against your sensitive skin, "Tell me, babygirl, wanna know what you've been thinkin' about."

You whimper when he goes back to suckling, your fingers threading through his greying curls. It's hard to get your thoughts straight when he's making you feel like this, every tight suck and wet lick going directly to your aching core.

"J-just missed you touching me," you breathe, voice rough and wanton with pleasure, "Missed your hands on me, your fingers..."

At your words he carefully brings one of his hands downward, caressing your body gently as he goes. Your breath hitches when he swipes his middle and index finger down your wet seam, urging you to open up for him. You uncross your trembling legs, looking down to watch as he continues to suck on your breast while his fingers dip down to your wetness.

"Inside," you whisper, finishing your thought but almost giving him a command at the same time; he doesn't hesitate, immediately pushing both fingers past your entrance and slipping them inside your throbbing hole, "Fuck," you whimper, closing your eyes and throwing your head back, "Like that."

You can feel the head of his cock through his pajama pants, pulsing against your thigh, leaving a sticky spot in the fabric. The fact that he's getting hard just by doing this to you, getting wet in his own way, it just turns you on even more.

He pulls off your breast with a wet pop and tilts his head up to look at you, pressing little kisses around your nipple and then pulling himself up a bit to hover over you. You feel his clothed cock prod your lower belly and you shiver again.

"Wanted to be full again, huh?" he murmurs, eyes dark, "Missed havin' these big fingers inside you?"

You nod and tug at his curls, urging him to lean his face down toward you. He takes the hint immediately, smirking a bit before reaching down to press his lips to yours and kiss you hungrily. You sigh into his mouth, contentment and arousal flooding through you as he slowly pushes his fingers in and out of you. Your hand moves from his hair to cup his jaw, loving the feeling of his beard beneath your fingers.

"Wanna know what I missed?" he asks against your lips, voice deep and breathy, "Missed this tiny little hole, so tight, all for me," at his words he curls the tips of his fingers inside of you, making you emit a loud whimper that makes him grin, "That's right, takin' my fingers so well, angel. Bet you could take three now," you feel another one of his fingers prod you alongside his others, "You want that, babygirl? Want three of those big fingers?"

You swallow nervously but slowly nod, tugging your bottom lip into your mouth, "Yes, Mr. Miller," you whimper, "Wanna be full."

"Good girl," he murmurs, brushing his nose lightly against yours, "You're such a good girl, aren't you?"

You hear the sounds you're making but you're not quite sure where they're coming from or how you're making them; you sound pathetic and breathless as he fucks you with his fingers, teases the third at your hole and leans down to kiss you again. His tongue slips past your lips and you feel the vibration of your own moans in his mouth when his thumb gently teases your clit.

"There you go, angel," he mutters against your lips as his third finger breaches your entrance, slowly pushes past the other two, "Thaaat's it, babygirl."

You tremble underneath him, feeling your body tense up at the new intrusion. You've had three of your own fingers inside yourself, but not three of his, long and thick and so much bigger than your own. You hear your whimpers turn into cries as his fingers fill you up, your own hands coming up to grip his back, nails digging into the skin.

"Shhh," he soothes, trailing more kisses along your face in an attempt to relax you, "You're okay, sweetheart, you're okay." And you are okay, being underneath him like this, being entirely at his mercy as he pushes your limits, helps you discover something new. It burns a bit, stretches and pulls and stings, but he talks you through it, whispers reassuring words in your ear, and you know you're safe.

He stills once all three fingers are deep inside, then pulls himself up a bit to look at you, pushing a stray hair behind your ear and peering down with a soft expression despite the depraved circumstances.

"How's that feel?" he whispers, voice gentle and soothing, "Tell me."

You're still making whimpering noises, shaky and quiet, but you're able to reply with the only word you can bring to the front of your mind: "Full."

He smiles down at you, brushes his nose against yours, "You did so good, angel," he murmurs, eyes not leaving yours, "I'm prouda you."

He knows what he's doing with that phrase; immediately you feel yourself loosen beneath him, hands going slightly limp against his back. He presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth and slowly begins to move his fingers again, pumping them in and out at an even pace.

It's amazing. It's so different than just two fingers, so much bigger and fuller - you've never felt anything like it; something so dirty but somehow passionate and warm. He kisses you as he fucks you with them, hovering over you with his hot skin emanating onto yours, wisps of hair from his chest and stomach tickling you everywhere. He thumbs your clit again and you moan loudly against his lips, your orgasm swelling in your belly as your hands tangle in his hair and pull him closer.

"You gonna come, angel?" he asks you softly, sweetly, pulling back a bit to stare deeply into your wide eyes, "Yeah, you're gonna come on those big fingers, huh? Can feel your pussy gettin' all tight around me, she wants it so bad doesn't she?"

You moan even louder as you frantically nod, "Yes, gonna come, gonna come," you cry out, overwhelmed by the thickness of his fingers and the way he's looking at you, the way he's talking to you; everything is just him.

"That's right, give it to me, sweet girl," he urges you, plunging into you faster and faster as his thumb rotates mercilessly against your clit, "Make a mess for me, soak those fingers, there you go."

You keen, high and borderline ridiculous as you stiffen beneath him and begin to shake, pitiful sounds escaping your mouth as you come. He fucks you through it, watching your face every step of the way and not stopping his movements until you've come down completely. You lay beneath him, chest heaving and eyes closing involuntarily as he strokes your thigh tenderly, reassuringly. He keeps his fingers lodged deep inside of you, not moving but simply keeping you full as you come down from your orgasm; you find yourself hoping he doesn't pull them out just yet.

"Can I show you somethin'?" he asks softly, and you open your eyes to find him still peering down at your face. You can't speak, can only nod as you bite down on your lip and try to catch your breath, your entire brain focused solely on the way his fingers feel inside you. As if he can read your mind, he's suddenly pulling them out and bringing them up to hover between the two of you.

Your brow furrows in confusion, suddenly feeling beyond empty as you pout up at him. He just chuckles to himself, still holding his three fingers - wet and glistening - in front of you while his other hand reaches down to the waistband of his pajama pants. Your eyes go wide, lips parting a bit as you look from his face to where his hand is and back again.

Without words from either of you, he slowly reaches inside and pulls out his cock, thick and dripping. You make a weird sound in the back of your throat, sitting up slightly as you peer at it with wonder. He's showed it to you before, it's nothing new, and yet...

"That's about the same width, wouldn't you say?" he asks you quietly, bringing his dripping fingers down to his hard cock and aligning them side by side; he's right - the thickness of all three of his fingers is relatively similar to the thickness of his cock. There's certainly different aspects - the length being the main difference - but the overall width is pretty spot on.

"Y-yeah," you say softly, eyes glued to it, "Pretty close."

You watch as he carefully drags his fingers along the thick length of his cock, still soaked with your release. He spreads your juices along it with his thumb and fingers, fists it gently and very slowly fucks his fist once. Your eyes are hooded and dark, saliva beginning to pool inside your mouth for reasons you can't even begin to understand.

"You just took three fingers," he continues, thumb tracing the base of his wide tip, "So wouldn't you say that answers a question you've been worryin' your pretty little head about?"

Your eyebrows scrunch together, trying to figure out what he means. It's hard to focus on absolutely anything else when his dick is right there in front of you, practically begging to be touched, the fat head pulsing and drooling under your gaze.

"Oh, this is gonna be a problem, isn't it?" he says, amused as he continues to slowly stroke himself, "Can't even think when there's a cock in front of you, huh?"

The words snap you back to reality, but only slightly. You smile sheepishly as you will yourself to look up at his face and away from his dick, "Wh-what question, Mr. Miller?"

He chuckles, "You were afraid it wouldn't fit inside you, babygirl," he reminds you gently, "But it will, we just proved that."

Your brain slowly makes sense of what he's saying and you can't help but feel a wave of relief wash over you; he's right. It had burned a bit, been uncomfortable for a moment or two, but ultimately you'd been able to take all three and enjoy it. You feel a smile spread across your face, and you notice his eyes soften slightly as he looks at you.

"You're right," you say breathlessly, smile still wide, "I did it, didn't I?"

His expression softens even more and he smiles back at you, laughing quietly to himself. He opens his mouth to say something but then seems to think better of it, pulling one of his legs back and moving to sit beside you on the bed instead of over you. Your brow furrows a bit in confusion.

"What is it?"

He just shakes his head, still smiling softly to himself, "Nothin', you're just... you're adorable."

Your cheeks warm at that, unable to help feeling a little self conscious. Now that you've come down from your orgasm you're suddenly hyperaware of your nakedness, of the fact that he can see every inch of your body. You draw the covers up around yourself quickly, hoping he won't mind.

"Such a shy little thing," he murmurs softly, but makes no move to pull the blankets down again like he had before, just watches you with a smile as your gaze slowly falls back to where he's hard and aching.

"Can I...?" you can't bring yourself to say the words, feeling flustered and nervous at the very thought. He just nods and reaches over to touch your hand, strokes your trembling fingers in his grip.

You watch as he carefully maneuvers your hand toward his crotch and slowly places your hand on his cock. Your fingers curl around his girth almost instinctively, imitating what you've seen him do before. Your lips part, breath hitching as your skin touches his most intimate area, a place on a man you never thought you'd ever be able to feel, at least not until you were married.

It's soft. Not in terms of arousal but just in texture, a silky and smooth feeling you hadn't been expecting. You stare down at your own hand in slight awe as your thumb gently strokes along his shaft, brow furrowing at how different it is than what you'd imagined. It's surprisingly just a body part, just an extension of Joel that usually remains hidden and secret; it's not as scary or intimidating when you can touch it like this, play with it like he plays with you.

"Wow," you say softly, barely aware of it as your fist ever so slowly moves along his length, pumps him just once in that hypnotic way he'd showed you; he's still covered in your own release, wet and slippery, but somehow you don't feel grossed out by it.

"You're a natural," he replies just as quietly, and your skin heats again when you look up to see his face, see the desire and pleasure in his expression, "Don't think there's much I need to teach you, to be honest. My parts are a lot simpler than yours."

You smile to yourself and pump him slowly again, this time brushing against the wet and throbbing tip. He makes a faint grunting sound that makes your eyebrows go up.

"This part..." you say quietly, thumbing the head ever so slightly and feeling your heart race when it pulses beneath you, "It feels different?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, biting down on his lip for a moment, "That part's sensitive, kinda like your clit."

You nod slowly, pushing your thumb up a bit and slowly rotating it along the sensitive area. He inhales sharply, grunts again when you prod the spongey head with both your thumb and index finger, teasing it like he'd done with your nipple.

"Fuck," he mutters softly, voice heavy and breathless, "That's it, angel, you got it."

His praise is like a warm blanket, shrouding you in safety and comfort as you slowly pump his cock again, teasing the head intermittently and trying not to smile too much every time he makes another one of those breathy grunting sounds. You feel pride swelling in your chest, the knowledge that you're actually making him feel good pushing you to continue on.

"What about these?" you ask softly, stilling your hand on his cock for a moment to gesture toward his balls, round and heavy beneath the base, "Does it....do they feel good when they get touched, too?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice dark and full of arousal, "They do."

"Can I touch them?"

The sound that emits from his throat sounds almost like a growl, low and husky, "Yes," he groans, "Go ahead and touch 'em, sweetheart."

The tone of his voice is slightly desperate, bordering on depraved. Your eyes travel back up to his face and his jaw is slack, eyes hooded as he watches you touch him. You've never seen him like this, almost completely wrecked by something you did.

"Gotta be real gentle," he continues, taking a breath through his nostrils and reaching down to pull his pajama pants down a bit more for easier access, "They're sensitive too."

You resume your slow pumping of his cock with one hand while your other reaches down to lightly trail the tips of your fingers along the shape of his balls, round and tender. You cup them gently, teasing them one by one in your palm. He hisses in pleasure, eyes shutting tightly as he leans back a bit against the headboard.

"Feel good?" you whisper, trying your best to fall into the role Joel usually takes on, the role of the person giving the pleasure.

"Yes, baby," he groans, pressing the backs of his hands against his shut eyes, "Yes, feels so good, sweetheart."

Your pumping gets a bit faster, a bit wetter as precum continues to drool from the tip and down his shaft. It's unbelievable that you're really sitting here in a man's bed, a man about thirty years older than you, pumping his cock and making him come apart like this. You can feel yourself throbbing beneath the blankets, getting wet all over again at the reality of the situation, and when your movements cause the blankets to fall from your chest and expose your breasts again, you don't bother trying to cover up.

Joel groans at the sight, reaching over to tweak one of your nipples between his fingers, making you whimper, "You know what happens when a man comes?" he asks you suddenly, brow furrowing in pleasure, "You learn about that in school?"

You nod quickly, feeling sweat trickle down your face as you continue to stroke him up and down, "Yes," you whisper, "I know what happens."

He groans again, swallowing thickly and taking a deep breath as he begins to palm your breasts, "I'm about to come, darlin'. There's gonna be a lot, need to know where to aim it."

You bite down on your lip, trying to keep all your focus on making him feel good and not on the hands now squeezing your breasts, teasing your nipples. "Wh-where do you want it to go?" But you already know the answer.

"Here," he grunts, thumbing your hard nipples, "These. Wanna come all over these pretty tits, sweetheart, will you let me?"

You nod, "Y-yes, Mr. Miller."

It's everything he needs to suddenly pull himself up from the bed and pull your hands off him, gesturing for you to lie back against his pillows. Your heart races in anticipation, eyes going wide and lips parting again as he leans over you and starts to jack his cock, fast and unrelenting. This is what he'd done the other night, when you'd talked on the phone; you'd tried to imagine what he'd looked like, making his own mess... now you're about to find out.

"Stay just like that, babygirl, just like that," he grunts out, pumping himself over and over as he aims the tip toward your bare breasts, swollen from all the attention he's given them tonight. His expression is tense and so is his body, soft stomach suddenly taut with pressure, chest heaving as he works his hand. He looks almost pained, brows scrunched together as he pulls himself over the edge.

"Come," you find yourself saying quietly, a shaky whimper playing at the edge of your voice, "Come for me."

Within seconds of your words your skin is hit with long ropes of a warm, white liquid, splattering across your breasts in uneven patterns. You watch with hooded eyes as Joel slows his strokes, groans louder than he has all night as his release spurts continuously from the head of his cock, painting you all over. His tense expression eases into one of pure bliss as he tosses his head back again, moaning up at the ceiling.

Wow.

Without asking for permission, without even questioning whether it's proper sex etiquette to do so, you find your hand travelling quickly downward to your wet pussy. You frantically begin to rub your clit, still gazing up at Joel's pleasured form, feeling his come slipping down the sides of your breasts onto the sheets below. You throb and pulse beneath your fingers, whining softly to yourself as your body readies itself for your second orgasm.

Joel looks down at you then, cock still in hand, slowly beginning to soften. He sees what you're doing immediately, and the devilish smirk that crosses his face is enough to send you over the edge.

"Fuuuuck," you moan out as you come, trembling in the sheets and curling your toes in pleasure, "Mmmm," you squirm and writhe beneath his gaze until it's over, then lay still and loose on the bed with barely any thoughts floating through your mind.

The room is filled with the sounds of heavy breathing, both of you coming down from your orgasms and trying to collect yourselves. You can't help but look down at your chest, see the thick patches of come splattered all over your breasts, your nipples. How all of that could come from one person is wild to you; this certainly hadn't been taught in any of your health classes.

The memory of being so naïve, so innocent... it makes you grin. Because you couldn't be further from that person anymore, the one who did everything that was asked of her, never listened to her own heart, stayed on the sidelines and focused on math and extracurriculars and God while other people had these experiences. And now here you are - actually having them.

"I guess I'm not a good little Christian girl anymore," you find yourself saying with a shaky giggle; you suddenly feel reinvigorated, sexually liberated... free.

Joel laughs at that, breathless and genuine. He grins down at you, releases his cock and shuffles downward to lay beside you, "You're my good little Christian girl," he says softly, bringing a hand up to cradle your face, "You did so good."

"Did I?" you ask sincerely, "Be honest, I wanna know."

He just smiles and thumbs your cheek, eyes going crinkly, "You were perfect, babygirl, I swear." He leans forward and kisses you gently, sweetly, like you both didn't just do something completely filthy and depraved - but you're starting to realize that maybe it's normal to do things like this, not as taboo and sinful as you'd always thought.

When you part, you're suddenly painfully aware of the state of the bed, not to mention both of your bodies. You're both covered in a sheen of sweat, you've got come dripping down your skin, and both fluids are already beginning to stain the bedsheets. You make a face.

"Can we...can we change the sheets? And can I maybe take a shower?"

Joel chuckles at that, stroking your cheek one last time before pulling back to extricate himself from the bed, "I'll change 'em, sweetheart. You go get in the shower, it's right across the hall."

You slip out of bed on shaky legs, losing your balance a bit and having to grab on to Joel's bed side table for support. You both laugh, and you find comfort in the casual intimacy of it all - both of you standing there naked without any shame or embarrassment. It's strange and new but so refreshing, that familiar safe feeling warming your skin as you make your way to the bathroom. You pick up your discarded nightdress as you go.

You stare at yourself in Joel's bathroom mirror for a bit longer than necessary, eyes wide as they trail up and down your bare form. Splotches cover different parts of your skin, especially your breasts, nipples swollen and dark, not to mention covered in come. You feel an ache between your legs again at the sight and almost roll your eyes at yourself - when will you stop being this insatiable?

Unable to push down the urge to do so, you carefully drag one of your fingers through the layer of white splattered across your chest, fascinated by its sticky texture. He'd marked you, in more ways than one.

The shower is pleasant and relatively quick; you want to get back in Joel's arms as soon as possible. You try not to think too much about the implication of that desire, the safety you feel when you're with him versus the anxiety you feel when you're not and what exactly that means. You try to remind yourself of your roommates and their experiences, their ability to sleep around without catching feelings or getting attached. How do they do it? How do they do it when being close to another person like this is so intimate and special?

You change back into the nightdress after your shower and slip back into Joel's room, finding him laying in the freshly made bed beneath a new duvet. For a moment you think he might be sleeping, quietly shutting the door behind you and tiptoeing over to the bed. However when you get close enough he opens his eyes and looks at you, a sleepy smile spreading across his face.

"Hey there," he murmurs, reaching down to pull back the blankets on the other side - your side, "Get on in."

Your heart pounds harder than it probably should.

Climbing into bed beside Joel feels surprisingly normal, easy. You wriggle underneath the duvet and cuddle in beside him, immediately wrapping an arm around his solid form and nuzzling your head against his shoulder. He's wearing his pajama pants again but his torso is still bare, the hair on his chest tickling your skin. You feel him press a soft kiss to your hairline and you can't help but smile.

"I'm glad I came over," you whisper with a content sigh, "I was... I was starting to worry you didn't want me."

"Really?" he asks softly, brow furrowing, "Why's that?"

You shake your head and nuzzle in deeper, "Just me being self conscious and insecure, as usual."

His hand comes up to rub your back soothingly, circling it with his palm through your thin nightdress. He pulls you in a bit closer, kisses your forehead again with a bit more firmness.

"It's normal to feel that way," he murmurs against your skin, "But I do want you, babygirl. You're all I think about lately, I mean that." You shiver at his words, closing your eyes and willing yourself to believe that he really does mean them like he says. "Most beautiful little thing I've had in my bed for a long time."

You press a gentle kiss to his collarbone in response, nose trailing along the skin. He didn't shower but you're sort of glad he didn't; he still smells like sex, a deep masculine musk that you can only attribute to him now, a scent that makes you feel safe.

"I just feel bad...making us sneak around and all that," you admit, "I know it's childish and silly, but I'm so scared of disappointing my parents. I shouldn't be but I am."

"You're young," he says softly, tenderly, "That kinda stuff still matters, especially when you're livin' with them. I get it, honey. You don't have to defend yourself."

You grimace against his skin, "I just wish this could be more normal. That you could just be a guy I'm seeing instead of my guitar teacher," you shake your head, "It's not fair."

He pulls you in even closer with a soft chuckle, "Well, if it's any consolation, I'm lookin' forward to teachin' you how to play."

You make a face, "Hymns," you say with a roll of your eyes, "You're teaching me how to play hymns. I don't see anything exciting or sexy about that."

"We'll make it sexy," he murmurs, inching his face downward so it's more level with yours, eyes casting down to your lips, "Thought you were my good little Christian girl."

All thoughts suddenly seem arbitrary when he's looking at you like that, your gaze immediately going hazy as he leans in and kisses you deep, pushes his tongue inside your mouth softly and tastes you. You hum against his mouth as a response, thighs tightening together as if on instinct the second you feel yourself begin to throb again.

"Are you?" he asks huskily when he pulls away, eyes dark but tired, "Are you my good little Christian girl, baby?"

You nod, swallowing down your arousal, "Yes, Mr. Miller."

"You gonna let me touch you while I teach you guitar?"

You nod again, biting back a whimper, "Yes, Mr. Miller."

His eyes dart back down to your lips, hand on your back traveling downward to cup your bare ass beneath the nightdress, "You gonna let me fuck that soft little pussy while you play one of your hymns?"

"Yes, Mr. Miller," you repeat, leaning forward to bury your face in his warm skin and inhale him again, moan softly against the hair on his chest, "Yes."

He squeezes your ass for a moment and then brings his hand back up, pulls you to him and wraps his arms around you tightly, "See, babygirl?" he whispers, "Told you we'll make it sexy."

Joel's alarm wakes you around six, rousing you from one of the best sleeps of your life. You open your eyes groggily, feeling him lean over you in bed to turn it off, warm chest brushing your arm. You roll over in bed and cuddle into him again, humming sleepily to yourself when he pulls you in close.

"I gotta get ready for work," he murmurs gently into your hair, "Go back to sleep, I'll wake you when it's time to go."

You frown sleepily but don't have the energy to protest, eyes closing again as you melt back into his pillow. You feel him release you from his embrace and press a kiss to your forehead, a simple reminder that this isn't some dream you're having, it's somehow reality. You smile and fall asleep again within seconds.

He wakes you up again after about half an hour, seats himself on the edge of his bed and strokes your hair. You peer up at him with a sleepy and satisfied expression, unable to stop the words that fall immediately from your lips:

"Kiss me."

He doesn't need convincing, still thumbing your hair behind your ear as he leans down and kisses you softly, bumps your nose against his and lets your tongue lazily explore his mouth, tasting mouthwash. You sigh contentedly, pulling back to smile at him while he strokes your cheek.

"Sleep good?" he asks you softly.

You nod, remembering the closeness the two of you had shared all night, the soft hugs and tender cuddles, the quiet intimacy you've never experienced with anyone else. "Amazing," you whisper.

He kisses you again before you get out of bed, then takes your hand as he leads you downstairs. You grab your jacket on the way out of his bedroom, still hanging on the back of his door. You look down at yourself as you both reach the top of the stairs, realizing there's no way you'll be able to walk home in an outfit like this without certainly being accosted by a nosy neighbor.

You push down your worry when you reach the kitchen, unable to stop the grin from spreading across your face when you see that the kitchen table is set with breakfast; scrambled eggs and bacon.

"You made me breakfast?" you ask in awe, looking from the food to Joel and back again.

He laughs, walking over to the coffee pot and pouring himself a cup, "I did," he says with a smile, "And as much as I'd love for us to just sit and enjoy it," he looks down at his watch with a grimace as he takes a sip of coffee, "we have about ten minutes before I gotta drive you home and then get to work."

You sit down at the table, picking up your fork and immediately digging into the eggs, "You're gonna drive me home?"

He seats himself across from you, watching you enjoy what he'd cooked with a fond smile, "Can't have you walkin' home in that tiny little thing, can I?" he says teasingly, "Your parents would wring my neck."

You groan, "Oh god, please don't even joke about that. If they knew..."

He just chuckles and starts to eat, looking up every now and then to give you one of those crinkly-eyed crooked smiles that makes you weak. You smile through mouthfuls of food and feel your skin alight every time you feel his gaze on you.

"I don't usually eat this fast, I promise," you say through a mouthful of bacon, covering your mouth, "It's only 'cause we're on a time crunch."

He shakes his head, still smiling, "You're so damn cute."

You try your hardest not to reach across the table and pull him toward you for a kiss.

The drive from his house to yours is extremely short, no less than two minutes. Still, you enjoy the short time you spend in his truck, his big hand spread out on your bare thigh while he hums along to a tune on the radio and gives you soft little sideways glances that makes your heart flutter. You can't help but feel like someone else when you're with him, someone more carefree and outgoing, happier and more experienced. It's only when you slowly near your house that you realize maybe this person is who you really are.

"Stop here," you tell Joel with a grimace, still a few houses away, "My parents are still home."

"How're you gonna get in?" he asks with an edge of concern to his voice, eyeing your house, "Think you can climb the fence?"

You bite your lip, "Probably. I've never done it before but I don't have much choice," you lean your head against the backrest in irritation, "God, why did I choose now to rebel? I coulda learned how to do all this shit when I was a kid if I hadn't been so obsessed with being perfect."

He gives you a sympathetic look, thumb stroking your thigh reassuringly, "I'll stay right here 'til you're inside."

You yearn to lean over the small space between you and kiss him, but you know there's always a risk of a neighbor coming out of their house and seeing you. Instead, you place your hand atop the one on your thigh and squeeze his fingers gently, giving him a small smile.

"I had a really nice night," you say quietly, unsure how exactly this kind of thing is done, "And morning."

"So did I, sweetheart," he replies, voice tender, "We'll do it again, promise."

With one final squeeze of his hand you slip out of his truck, tying your jacket around your waist to cover up your legs a bit. It leaves your upper half more exposed than you'd like, your eyes going wide when you realize how much cleavage this nightdress really shows.

"Here," Joel says, understanding your reaction immediately, "Wear this on top." Without giving you any time to protest he's unbuckling himself to undo his plaid button down, shirking it off his shoulders and handing it to you. It leaves him in a t-shirt and jeans, your eyes trailing to his strong arms without meaning to, the arms that had held you close all night.

"Thank you," you murmur, brow furrowing a bit, "You're sure?"

He smiles crookedly and buckles up again, "I'm sure, angel. You keep that."

Your heart flutters as you wrap his shirt around you, slipping your arms into the much too long sleeves and inhaling the scent of him - your new favorite smell - surrounding you. You're never getting rid of this. Ever.

With a wave you hurry down the sidewalk, feeling slightly ridiculous in your layered and baggy outfit but relieved that you're covered up. You eye the tall white fence of your backyard, trying to formulate a plan in your head as you go. Hop the fence, get a ladder from the tool shed and climb up to your bedroom? But did you even leave your window open? You can't help but feel rage in your chest for your parents rules, the curfew, all the nonsense you've been living with for your entire life. Why the fuck don't you have a fucking key to your own fucking house?

You can feel Joel's eyes on you when you reach the fence, still sitting in his truck a few houses down.

Please, God, you think to yourself as you slip one of your sneakers in between the fence posts and yank yourself up, I know I've sinned. I know I'm a mess. And I'm not even sure I really believe in you anymore. But please, if you're there, don't let me make a fool of myself in front of Joel Miller.

Surprisingly, your prayer seems to work. Climbing up the fence is relatively easy; you keep an eye out for your neighbors as you quickly pull yourself over and flop down on the other side, extremely grateful that neither your jacket nor Joel's shirt gets caught on anything. You hurry to the tool shed, eyeing your bedroom window as you go and feeling beyond relieved when you see that it's wide open; God bless Texan summers.

You decide to wait inside the tool shed until your parents are gone, not wanting to draw any attention to yourself with the ladder. You close the door behind you and sink to the concrete floor, heart pounding in your chest as the reality of what you've just done overwhelms you.

You snuck out to see a man. You slept in his bed. He drove you home so you could sneak back in.

Quiet laughter fills the tool shed, all coming from your own mouth. You grin to yourself and shake your head in the darkness, leaning back against the door and closing your eyes. Who are you? Who is this new person you've become? You don't know, but you love her.

You find yourself pulling your phone out of your jacket pocket and typing out a new message, but this time it's not to Joel - it's to your friends from college:

i think i'm officially a bad girl.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #fic: feelings on fire #*

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glossdebut · 3 months ago

Text

Take a Bite Ch. 1

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x fem!reader

✧ SUMMARY: Your fledgling career as a music journalist is finally going in some kind of direction that must be on the path to success. Your coworkers like you enough to invite you out on Fridays, your boss is starting to think you’re competent enough to let you score a few bylines, and you're finally getting the hang of InDesign. All of your hard work, late nights, and complete lack of a social life are starting to pay off... Even if it all came at the expense of the longest relationship of your life. Fine. You've accepted the fact that romance isn't for you, under any circumstances. You won't risk your career for anybody. Not even Min Yoongi.

✧ TAGS: slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, producer yoongi, music journalist reader, neighbors to friends to lovers? you'll see, reader is bad at feelings, reader is post-break up

✧ WARNINGS: social drinking, mechanical bull-related injuries lol

✧ WORDCOUNT: 2.7k so far

✧ STATUS: complete

✧ AUTHOR'S NOTE: hi! i'm aqua and this is my first ever fic so please be nice!! i will be crossposting this work and all future works on my ao3 of the same name. i'm figuring out how this works as i go, so please be patient with me. tags are subject to change with every update. i won't have a posting schedule for this one, but i have the first few chapters pre-written, so expect an update sometime next week!

Chapter 1: Lay Your Cards Down, Down, Down, Down

Although this is the furthest thing from your scene, you can’t help but think to yourself that you should invest in some cowboy boots. You could make them work, you’re sure of it.

Even if you know you would never pull the trigger on purchasing any, too far out of the comfort zone of your normal style, the thought is the only thing keeping you sane—that, and the sound of Cowboy Carter blasting through the speakers of the bar, a welcome reprieve from the drawling, boring country anthems you’d been suffering through for the past hour or so.

You pride yourself on seeing the merit in all genres of music, you do. You were always the type of person who puffed up her chest when you told people ‘I listen to everything,’ uncaring of how pretentious it may sound. You mean it. It’s an asset in your line of work, and as far as you’re concerned, a little bit of pretentiousness is a small price to pay for the, quite frankly, baller route your fledgling career is heading in.

But a Western bar? Not the kind of place you’d spend a precious Friday night willingly. Another hazard of the job.

After months of skillfully avoiding the weekly Friday nights out with the other rookie reporters at the magazine, you’d run out of excuses not to join them. If four years studying communications taught you anything, it was that connections are everything in the journalism business. Even more so where the music industry is concerned.

So here you are, at your fourth stop of your night of bar hopping with your extroverted and extremely drunk coworkers, nursing warm beer and observing from the least populated corner you managed to scout upon entry. All things considered, you had been a good sport at the three previous stops. You just draw the line at square dancing with the people you work with. College may have beaten your fear of impromptu phone calls and talking to strangers out of you, but your social battery can only take so much.

Your phone battery, too, you think bitterly as you stare down at the low battery warning on your screen. Okay, so you’ll finish your shitty beer (because you’re not quite successful enough yet to afford wasting alcohol that you’re paying for) and then use your phone’s remaining juice to catch an Uber home. No biggie.

You’re in the middle of turning off your phone with full intent to work out the kinks of your exit strategy when you realize, with irritation, that your chosen corner is about to be invaded.

Your eyes land on a pair of black Jordans ( in a Western bar? your mind supplies, as if you have any room to judge in your Docs) and travel up, past torn black jeans and a black shirt, and just when you’re sensing a theme with this guy, your eyes reach a head of (regrettably, very nice) black hair and a pair of the darkest eyes you’ve ever seen. Anish Kapoor would wail at the sight of these eyes, you think.

As if sensing your apprehension, your corner-thief raises his free hand (the other clutching a plastic cup of his own) palm out, as if to say ‘I come in peace’ and stops in his tracks.

“I can find another spot,” corner-thief says, the low rumbling of his voice barely audible above Texas Hold ‘Em. “I’m just waiting for one of my friends to get bored or injured so I can leave.”

“Injured,” you repeat, despite your better judgment to take him up on his offer and let him be on his way. But your phone is dead and you’re a little bit drunk, bored, and even for an unwanted partner in social evasion, this guy is nicer to look at than the frat guys playing beer pong you’ve been observing for the better part of an hour.

Corner-thief grins a stupidly charming gummy smile, leaning just the slightest bit closer to be heard better but still keeping a respectful distance. As if he’s still wary that you’ll lunge at him if he encroaches on your space any further. Good man.

“There’s a mechanical bull upstairs,” he says, using his index finger on the hand holding his cup to point at the ceiling above you both.

Of course there is. With your luck, you’ll also have to peel someone off of the floor later after going head-to-head with the bull.

“Not your thing?” you guess, glancing pointedly at his Jordans, and he shakes his head, huffing through his nose in what you can only guess is a laugh.

“No, I wouldn’t say so.”

He pauses, shifting from foot to foot for a moment before speaking again. “So, will you share your wall? I can look around again but this place is more packed than I would’ve pegged it for.”

You nod and he smiles again thankfully, taking the spot on the wall next to you. That should be it. Two strangers who don’t want to be here standing in companiable silence next to each other while they wait for their friends–or coworkers, in your case–to put them out of their misery and let them go home.

But… You consider your options, your phone taking its dying breath in your pocket, and you sigh, turning to him.

“Y/N,” you say, holding out your hand for him to shake.

He takes it with his free hand, giving you an amused look. “Yoongi.”

“What’s that look for?”

He laughs again, a little bit more this time, and your heart does a stupid, funny thing. “I don’t think I’ve ever been greeted by a pretty girl in a bar with a handshake,” he says, causing you to flush and pull your hand away as if it’d been burned, your shoulders tensing as you take a sip of your beer.

A western bar certainly isn’t your scene, but admittedly, neither are bars or clubs in general. You got all of that out of your system in college where everyone was awkward as fuck or too drunk to care that you were, and ever since you got your degree you have lived and breathed your work. Your social skills were never quite up to par, but you didn’t realize you were this fucking embarrassing.

“I came out with coworkers right after we got off, so I think I’m still kind of in work mode,” you lie, and as if sensing that you feel slightly made fun of, Yoongi shakes his head.

“I didn’t mean it as a bad thing, swear,” he says, tilting his head at you. Dark eyes considering you. “Honestly, I’m thankful you’re putting up with me at all. I don’t think I’d be so kind if the roles were reversed. I know firsthand how hard it is to find a spot to breathe in places like this.”

You feel your shoulder muscles relax just the slightest bit. “I thought about sending you away, but I couldn’t help it. My heart aches when I see an introvert in need of a hiding spot,” you attempt to joke.

“At least I’m out with friends,” he says sympathetically. “I’ve done the coworker thing before. It’s a drag.”

“It’s weird ,” you correct. “I mean, I sit in meetings with these people. I avoid answering their emails all day. Why is it considered rude to not want to see them piss drunk?”

Yoongi hums in agreement, nodding his head. “What do you do, anyway?”

“I work for Look Here Magazine,” you reply, straightening up a bit in pride when Yoongi’s eyes flash with recognition, his body turning so his shoulder is against the wall now. You turn as well, facing him. “I write for the music section.”

“No shit? I’ve probably read your stuff, then,” Yoongi says, grinning.

He’s cute. Hot. You can’t help but notice, no matter how hard you’re trying not to. The way that he seems to carry himself in particular, you think, might end up driving you crazy if you’re exposed to it for too long. Maybe you’ve been living under a rock, but you’ve never met a fellow wallflower that still exuded such confidence. He wears it insanely well.

“Look Here covers a lot of big artists,” you hear him continue. “I’m a little surprised you’re hugging the wall, honestly. This place is nothing compared to music industry parties.”

“Ah, I only started a few months ago,” you admit, looking down into your cup. “Not a lot of bylines yet. I haven’t made it into a room with an artist that big yet.”

“But you want to,” Yoongi guesses, and you nod, looking up to meet his eyes. He looks impressed, impressed by you , and that… does something to you. Huh. “Shit, that’s… That’s really cool.”

“Thanks,” you say. You can feel your cheeks heating up again, and you’re suddenly very eager to turn the attention away from yourself. “What about you? What do you do?”

“Ah,” Yoongi says, fixing his eyes to his cup just as you had a moment ago. “I’m a music producer, actually.”

You perk up at that. So that’s why he reads Look Here, why he seemed so interested when you told him what you do.

“Anything I’ve heard?” you ask, leaning in like he’s about to tell you a secret. Networking never stops.

He watches as you lean, his mouth turning up at the corners in a smirk. “Probably.”

You wait for more, but it doesn’t come. Shithead. So much for that.

“You’ve gotta give me more than that,” you say, and god, you can hear the pout in your own voice. Are you that drunk? Flirting for a lead in a story?

“I don’t,” Yoongi says simply, his smirk in full force now. Mean and annoying and hot. He hasn’t leaned away from you yet. “I want to know more about you, actually. Journalism is hard work. I’m surprised you have time to go out like this.”

“Like I said, I was forced.”

“Still. Spending time with your friends or family or partner or whatever must take priority when it comes to your free time.”

Why is he so interested? You scrunch your nose, trying to figure out what he could be fishing for here. You don’t make it a habit to divulge the details of your sad excuse for a personal life to strangers, but the alcohol has loosened your lips. Maybe you need to talk about it. It’s not like you’ll ever see him again, anyway.

“My family is back home. My best friend is this insanely talented playwright. She’s constantly traveling. I see her when she can get some time to fly out.” You take a quick sip of your drink, ignoring the pang in your chest. Sometimes it sneaks up on you, how lonely you are. “Other than her, it’s just me, really. The dating thing… Nobody really seems to get how demanding my job can be, and it always ends in hurt feelings.”

There’s a long pause, and you’re worried you’ve shared too much. You’re enjoying talking to Yoongi. You know it doesn’t matter, that you’ll likely never see him again, but it would really, really suck if his permanent mental image of you ends up being ‘lonely weird drunk girl,’ even if that’s what you are. You force yourself to look up at him. The look in his eyes makes your heart flip stupidly again.

“I get that,” he says, and his voice is soft, barely audible over the music filling the space. You’re reading his lips more than anything, honestly, and you don’t let yourself look at them for too long. He may be pretty—unbearably so, you’re realizing—but he’s a stranger. A mean, annoying, hot, pretty stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. Every guy says he gets it. This needs to stay what it is, you think. Momentary companionship between introverts who would rather die than square dance.

You don’t get much time to agonize over it. Whatever is going on between you and Yoongi is intercepted quickly by his phone buzzing in his pocket and his responding grimace when he pulls it out to check it.

“Namjoon fell off of the mechanical bull,” he says, like he’s completely unsurprised by that news. He downs the rest of his drink and pockets his phone again, pushing off of the wall. “I’ve gotta deal with that.”

You nod, pulling what you hope is a sympathetic face. “Good luck.”

His bottom lip catches between his teeth, and you hold your breath. He looks like he wants to say something, torn between rushing upstairs to save his friend and staying, just for a moment.

You think you know what he wants to say, think foolishly that maybe he wants to ask for your number, and you honestly don’t know if you’d give it to him if he did. You’re so used to saying no.

He runs his fingers through his hair, opens his mouth to speak, and then he looks down like his phone is buzzing again. When he looks back up, it seems like he’s thought better of it.

“Thanks for sharing your wall,” he settles on, smiling congenially. You smile back, and then he’s heading towards the stairs.

Good, you think. You know better. If he really gets it, he does too.

★ ★ ★

You’re dragged out to one more bar before you finally make it home, your interaction with Yoongi having knocked you off-kilter enough to agree to a few more drinks.

It does wonders for your social status at work, you’re sure, but by the time you’re dropped off you’re dizzy-drunk, fighting to stay upright in the elevator of your apartment building.

You’re fumbling and failing at getting your key into the lock of your front door, tongue poking out of the corner of your mouth in concentration, when a voice calling your name a few feet to your right almost makes you jump out of your skin.

You yell, clutching your chest, and when you turn to face the owner of the voice that almost made you lose the contents of your stomach on your doormat, you’re greeted by none other than corner-thief-mean-annoying-hot-pretty Yoongi himself, leaning against the door to the apartment two doors down.

“What the fuck,” you blurt out dumbly, and he laughs. At you! How dare he stand there, lean there, all hot and annoying and in your apartment building for some fucking reason and laugh at you.

“I was going to ask if you needed help,” he says, and oh, fuck. You were safe from just how deep his voice was under the thrum of the music at the bar, but in the quiet of your apartment building this late, you can hear it just fine. Feel it, even. Feel it in places you do not want to humor right now. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say you do.”

It’s obvious that Yoongi is faring much better than you are, although his night clearly didn’t end after the mechanical bull incident. Faster than you can react, he’s right in front of you, gently taking your key from your hands and turning it in the lock, like it’s easy.

“Gonna make it in okay?” he asks, looking down at you. You force your brain to make words.

“I’ll be okay,” you assure him, your tongue heavy in your mouth. “Are you stalking me?”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “I think we’re neighbors.”

“Oh.” Oh. Okay. That’s fine. Just because he’s your neighbor doesn’t mean you have to do something stupid, like see him ever again.

“Give me your number,” he says softly. Oh.

You blink at him, and he grins. Gummy smile. You feel like you’re going to vomit all over his Jordans.

“In case you ever can’t use your keys again,” he clarifies. “I told you, those music industry parties are killer.”

And really, you’re powerless to resist. You give him your number, using all of your remaining brain power to remember the order of the digits. Seemingly satisfied, Yoongi pockets his phone and steps back, heading back to his front door.

“Goodnight, neighbor,” he says, unlocking his door with ease. “Sleep on your side.”

You swallow thickly and nod, slipping inside your own apartment as quickly as you can manage.

Once you’re in, you sink onto the floor, your back pressed against the door behind you. Your cat, perched on your coffee pot, stares at you in your drunk, flustered state, unimpressed. Offended, even, judging by the way she licks her paw.

You’re so fucked.

✧ shoot me a reply or an ask if you enjoyed this chapter! feedback is always appreciated <3 join my taglist if you want to be tagged in future chapters!

PREVIOUS CHAPTER ✧ MASTERLIST ✧ NEXT CHAPTER

#ugh i hope the formatting on this isn't trash i tried so hard #take a bite #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x oc #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #yoongi x oc #min yoongi x y/n #min yoongi fic #yoongi fic #bts fic #bts fanfiction #min yoongi fanfiction #yoongi fanfiction #minors dni #glossdebut #Spotify

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gotham-daydreams · 6 months ago

Note

For your Not [] I was wondering how would Alfred and Y/n's relationship post kidnapped will go? Down the drain? Sure, they may have some reprieve from the rest of the family with Alfred, but would they resent Alfred for causing them to come back to the manor? After gathering the clues it was Alfred that pushed them to find you.

Also would Y/n have eventually gotten back into contact with Alfred after taking their much needed break away from the family, to help figure out and find themselves?

Well, that's the thing, I suppose!

I have thought about their relationship post kidnapping, and honestly I don't even know if the reader will ever logically know the extent of what Alfred has done to ensure that they stay in the position they're in. Especially, well, considering how I plan for Chapter 4 to go.

Of course at some point they'll definitely be able to deduce that he did something- they'll be able to tell from the things some of the Batfam says and just generally how Alfred acts, even if said things they catch with Alfred aren't all as they seem. But if they'll know the full extent of it? How much he played a part in what happened? In what ends up happening? Maybe not, not everything but maybe enough to be afraid. To get a peak into the ruin and shitty mess that is their life, and the true extent of that ruin. But a glance is only a glance, y'know?

I guess that's the scary thing - for me personally, anyways - that they won't know right away. That even when it happens they'll have no idea, and for those moments where they remain ignorant, unaware, and blind- Alfred is their saving grace. The only sane person amongst the endless sea of madness and derange that is the Batfam. The only person that seems to under their side, that not only comforts them but someone they actually feel comfortable and safe with. Alfred is the only one they trust, and... well, I rather not spoil how he feels about that.

Though, for the reader- from the little they put together and the little they know, its heartbreaking all the same. They don’t want to accept it- who would? The only person after being stripping and taken from their life- is just as insane as the rest? The only person they felt like they could confide in? That they could trust? That they could allow themselves to be vulnerable with when the others were away? That person is just as insane? Just as cunning and- and tricked them too?

It ruins them, and even if I won't say much else as it will be shown when I have it written- I think what I've said here is a good enough image of how badly things get from there once the reader even gets an idea of what Alfred may have potentially done. Though even if they did reach out now, they would probably still hold the whole "everything is fine" attitude they've got going on, and just try to talk to him normally- if not then at least passively mention how the family is sort of being weird and giving you a hard time (will that cause him to stop them? Not at all, but maybe things could've turned out differently. Which may be a recurring thing?? Well- it sort of already is but yk!)

As for the reader reaching out- I think I mentioned this in an previous (albeit older) post a bit in passing, but the reader has technically been in touch with Alfred! Just... not in a way he prefers. They are technically communicating with him, but it's very one sided (which is by design) and... well, may or may not be one of the reasons Alfred kick started this mess.

If this didn't answer your question then I apologize! Feel free to send in another ask if you want, and I can clarify anything you have any questions about!

#talking daydreams #yandere batfam #platonic yandere batfam #not series

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koolades-world · 9 months ago

Note

Hello i'm the person who gave you the idea of satan being an angel and i wanted to say thank you very much!.

I really liked how you did the reactions and the ending with MC is adorable. If i'm honest it was my first time asking for a request (manly because of my english) but when i saw that you liked my idea i was excited ♡.

So here's another idea in case you need any what do you think if MC holds a grudge for all the brothers threats?. For example all those times when Mc's life was put in danger, the insults and threats make MC start to hold a grudge against the brothers. Of course when it happened with Belphie *cough Mc's death cough* Mc snap at the brothers. It would be great if the brothers have to earn Mc's forgiveness.

(By the way i realized that the editor changed two words in the previous request so if it happens again i'm going to cry)

hello again!! so glad you liked the way I wrote the previous request <3

of course i can write this! hurt/comfort is so fun to write and i feel like it's for sure not talked about enough the way Mc would feel after the events of chapter 16 especially towards Belphie

please enjoy and hope to hear from you again soon!

Mc with a grudge against the brothers

Lucifer

he knew you weren't exactly fond of him towards the beginning of your stay in the devildom and while he did feel a little bad, at first he felt like he couldn't undo the damage that was already done

he harbored a lot of guilt especially after he got to know you

he understands when you got upset because the entire situation really was all his fault

he wants to gradually rebuild the trust he broke and makes sure he doesn't rush you

Mammon

as the only brother who never threatened or harmed you, he's on your side since the way his brothers treated you was shitty

after you finally snap at them, your mutual bond only grows as you only really want to be around him

willing to be the middle man between you and his brothers

he'd do anything for you babes

Levi

he isn't sure how to feel at all

he didn't think he'd be so upset by someone who'd only known for such a short period of time

he didn't think he'd miss you so much but he's afraid to try and talk to you in case you got mad again

it might take him a while, but just know he thinks about you daily

Satan

he kind of thought you wouldn't be mad at him after that serious bonding you guys did but understands where you're coming from

it was wishful thinking

he really wants to make it up to you since you helped him become who he is and let him know he's got nothing to prove to anyone

he gives you lots of gift and cards instead of trying to talk to you in person at first, then personally talks to you

Asmo

at first he's certain you're not mad at him but comes to a shocking realization

he struggles to accept the fact that you're upset with him but eventually comes to the realization that you might hate his guts

he actually remains in denial for a while and acts like nothing is wrong

only after you yell at him does he realize what he's done and tries his best to give you the space you need

Beel

he hates to admit it but he was part of the problem

although one of his rampages is what caused you to grow closer he won't ever forget how he acted towards you

he's probably the most genuine in his apology

he really misses having you around so he's the first to admit he's in the wrong since he wants to be able to talk to you again

Belphie

at first, he didn't think what he was doing was the big of a deal since you were just a way to get what he wanted

after he goes through with it and sees the damage it caused, he changes up

he doesn't expect you to forgive him

he works hard to show you he's changed and even if you never want ever be his friend again, he at least wants you to feel comfortable living in the same house as him

#obey me!#obey me #obey me x reader #obey me satan #obey me asmo #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me beel #obey me levi #obey me belphie #obey me shall we date #obey me! shall we date #omswd

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wardenparker · 6 months ago

Text

Hummingbird Has Landed, ch 13

Marcus Pike x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

After the debacle of his failed engagement and relocating to Washington to take charge of his task force, newly minted Special Agent Marcus Pike is ready to get back out into the dating pool once more. A slew of bad dates has him feeling a little down, and he takes an old friend up on an invitation to get away and get his head on straight. Imagine his surprise when he finds not only fresh air, but his soulmate as well - hiding in plain sight but in the unlikeliest of places.

Rating: M for Mature but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 14.5k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: occasional mention of American politics, pregnant character, food/alcohol consumption, mentions of clothing/regulated dressing for occasions, mentions of therapy because we believe in self care here, reader is in a previous relationship, love triangle, reader is mentioned as turning 30 during the course of the story, dom/sub dynamics* Shitty exes being shitty, anxiety, stress of confusion, attempted sabotage. A bit of dirty flirting in there for good measure. Summary: When you and Marcus stumble upon the perfect place for your engagement party, things get complicated by Sam's plans to rent the very same venue. Notes: I'm sure I missed some errors in the proofreading, but such is life. Please enjoy, my dears! Chapter photo from Monticello's website.

Ch1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6 ~ Ch 7 ~ Ch 8 ~ Ch 9 ~ Ch 10 ~ Ch 11 ~ Ch 12

The idea happened a bit by accident, but a few days after your goddaughter was born, once Sydney and Juan and Constance were comfortably and safely at home, Marcus had convinced you to take the last of your days off and go out to Monticello with him for some fresh air and historical tourism. The numerous tours and lunch at the café on the vast grounds are exactly the break that you need, and you're bent over the map together on the sunny grounds when you tilt your head and look up at him beside you.

"Ya know..." The idea is just a hum in the back of your throat. "I bet they're booked ages in advance to do events here...but it might be worth asking if they have an opening or a cancellation sometime soon."

"What are you thinking of having here?" He's not even arguing against the idea, just trying to get a feel for what you are starting to plan. "I don't think we can build our house here." He teases, having nearly gone cross eyed from going through house plans with you over the last two days.

"No, we're definitely not doing that." You roll your eyes playfully and nudge him. The work on the house is finally underway and now you've moved on to talking about decorating so it feels like square one of an entirely new project instead of just a new phase on a continuing one. "I was thinking it would be a hell of a place for an engagement party if they have an opening before Thanksgiving. But I doubt it."

Marcus contemplates it, looking around with his hands on his hips and hums. "I think it would be good." He agrees before glancing back at you with a smirk. "There's only one way to find out if they have any dates available." He teases. "We've got to ask."

"Gee, what a shocking idea." When you poke him in the side it comes with a giggle and you motion back at the visitor's center behind you. "Let's go see if anyone is in to chat with us about it."

Marcus snickers, wrapping his hand around your waist and tugging you closer while he snatches up the map with his free hand. "Let's go. Touring can wait."

Inside the Visitor's Center, the middle–aged woman sitting at the desk is pleasantly chatting with the last guests of a long line before turning her smile on you and Marcus. "Well hello there dears," she greets, just as pleasantly as a sunshiney summer day. "How can I help you?"

“My fiancée and I were hoping to talk to an events coordinator?” He glances back at you for confirmation at the title and when you nod, he turns and beams at her. “Is there one available, or do we need to make an appointment, Miss….” He glances at her name badge. “Amber?”

“Well certainly there is, but she is just finishing up a meeting at the moment.” Amber glances at her computer screen and back again without the smile ever leaving her face. “They should be done in just a few minutes if you’d like to wait and speak to her afterward?”

Marcus turns back to you, “do you want to wait, sweetheart?” He asks, rubbing your waist gently. Still proud as a peacock at being your fiancé.

“Why not?” There’s still a chance that there are no openings anytime soon, but waiting around for a few minutes to ask won’t hurt anything.

“Wonderful.” Amber picks up the telephone on her desk and pushes a few buttons with that everlasting smile on her face. “I’ll let her know she has someone waiting. May I have your name, sir?”

Marcus smiles as he gives your name and tries not to smirk when it’s obvious she recognizes the surname. “And Marcus Pike.”

“One moment, please.” The conversation that Amber heads into the receiver is hurried and she tries not to be terribly animated but you catch her glancing up at you once during the frazzled conversation and you smile kindly in response.

Marcus leans over and nuzzles your neck. “Hopefully she’s a political support of your mom and not firmly against her.” He teases quietly.

“Fingers crossed,” you laugh back quietly.

Marcus chuckles in your ear, holding you close as you both politely wait for the phone call to be finished.

When Amber sets down the receiver, she offers you and Marcus a warm smile and motions to a set of chairs to your side in the lobby of the Visitor's Center. "Melanie will be right with you. She will only be a few minutes more."

“Thank you.” Marcus thanks her sincerely and guides you to the chairs.

It's about ten minutes later than a tall, pretty blonde in a floral dress appears from around a corner, leading two people back toward the lobby of the building. If you hadn't watched them come into view you would have said it was too ridiculous. Too much of a coincidence. But there they are – Sam and Vanessa side–by–side with a notebook and pen in Vanessa's hands and Sam gesturing authoritatively all the way.

Marcus stiffens slightly, his hand squeezing yours gently and he wonders if he should stand and greet them or pretend that they aren’t known to you or him.

It only takes a split second, but the decision is taken from you almost instantly. Sam spots you from across the lobby and pauses only momentarily before aiming the group of them directly for you instead of toward the exit. “Looks like we’re doing this,” you murmur to Marcus, and stand with his hand still in yours as your exes approach.

“Congressman Chase, Vanessa.” Marcus greets both of them politely, if a little stiffly. Formal. Something that couldn’t be misinterpreted by anyone as rude. “What a surprise to see you both.”

“Well this is a surprise.” Sam doesn’t offer to shake Marcus Pike’s hand or yours, barely looking at you while the well–dresses blonde that had been walking with them senses the tension right away.

“Congressman. Miss D’Amario.” She looks nervous too, by association. Unlike Miss Amber at the desk, she knows exactly who is in front of her. “Let me just get you that last brochure, shall I?”

Marcus doesn’t say anything else, just rubbing the back of your hand gently and watching as the blonde guides them back towards the desk. “Well, I’m not sure why they are here.” He murmurs quietly.

“Who knows?” You huff quietly, holding onto him for stability. “Maybe the same reason we are.”

“No, no.” Sam’s voice is distinct in the echoing building. “We want to have the event at the house.” He is insisting loudly. “Not on an overlooking lawn.”

“I’m very sorry, sir, but as I explained to you, we have four locations across the grounds for private events.” With the patience of a saint, Melanie explains yet again. “Each location has multiple rooms available for hosting. However, the historical house is not one of them.”

“That’s is not good enough.” Sam tried charming her, but now it’s time to be serious. “Don’t you know what this is for?”

“Yes Congressman, you’ve been very clear about that.” Her painted on smile is placid and professional, even if her nerves are fraying slightly. “But with respect, even if the president wanted to have a campaign event here, the house would still not be an option.”

“There has to be a way to make this happen.” He glances over at you and Marcus, frowning slightly at why you are here. Another symbol of why he is having to fight so hard to make things happen. You’ve screwed him over.

“It is not an option we have available.” The woman’s eyes track his, glancing over at you in the lobby. She knows the ticking time bomb she has in her hands. She had been following the new first family in the news since the election. “And I assure you that our answer for anyone else will be the same.”

The shift of her eyes irritates him. Signifying that he’s not the most important person in the room. Clenching his jaw, he shakes his head. “I would hate for this to descend into a legal battle.” He speaks as if it’s not a threat but then he shifts topics. “What days are available?”

“If you are looking to hold an event next month, our lawn here is entirely booked aside from the night of Saturday the fourteenth. We had a cancellation that night. Otherwise we have smaller spaces available on several days but your maximum capacity for the event would be sixty people.”

"That will not be enough for our needs." Sam insists. "We would need the entire venue."

"We will be happy to accommodate the number of guests you quoted on the lawn on Saturday the fourteenth." The otherwise very pleasant looking blonde smothers a sigh of frustration and hands a brochure over to Vanessa, who accepts it with a snap of her hand and clips to the folder she is carrying. "Beyond that, our next available date to accommodate that many guests would be in January."

"Fine." He's not happy and he will be having a word with the proper people to get the answers he wants. "We will let you know, but pencil us in."

"The date will be held for twenty–four hours. At which time I will be happy to accept your deposit or establish an alternative plan with you for another space on the property, otherwise the availability will be released to other clients." When she smiles this time there is a measure of relief in it. "If there is anything else I can do for you, or anything other questions I can answer for you, please feel free to contact me. My office hours and direct line are listed on the card that I gave to your assistant."

Vanessa straightens slightly, tall and proud beside Sam. Her eyes flicker over to the pair of you to see if you are watching. Curious to know why you are here and desperate to not appear that way.

“Fine.” Sam bristles, disliking being told ‘no’ and placing the blame squarely on one single set of shoulders. No one had told him no while he was publicly dating the First Daughter. His effort to organize re–election events shouldn’t be nearly this hard, but here he is. Having to take meetings himself instead of making a simple phone call or just sending Vanessa on his behalf. But without knowing for certain why you and that FBI lackey of yours are here, he wants to see if he can at least eavesdrop on the beginning of your meeting before he leaves.

When Melanie shakes hands with Sam and Vanessa again, turning to walk towards you and Marcus, the two of you stand. “Thank you for taking the time to see us.” He starts, offering the slightly frazzled woman a sincere smile. “Hopefully our questions won’t be too arduous.”

“I’m sure they won’t be.” She wants to say that nothing would be as arduous as the meeting she just took, but that would be less than professional. She shakes your hand in turn and motions toward the direction she had come from with the congressman. “Why don’t we go to my office?”

Marcus does the polite thing and nods to Sam and Vanessa, a little surprised when the woman who had ended things with him amicably turns her head to snub him. He doesn’t say anything, just guides you to office, following behind Melanie at a few paces.

“Here we are.” Down a hall and up a few stairs, she stops and opens the door of an office to let you and Marcus inside. “My name is Melanie O’Neil and I’m the special event coordinator here at Monticello. I understand you’re interesting in planning an event with us?”

“Sweetheart?” Marcus looks towards you to take the lead, smiling softly.

"We were hoping you might have availability in the beginning of October, though I know that is short notice," you explain, but you did hear her rattle off some dates to Sam in the lobby. "We're interested in having our engagement party here."

“Engagement?” Her eyes widen happily as she takes in the sight of a happy couple in love. “Delightful.” She shuffles through the book and nods. “We have Saturday the fourteenth, I’m afraid that it is the only date available.” She tilts her head. “Someone else has expressed interest, but they have not paid to reserve it.” She would not feel bad about direct Sam Chase somewhere else.

"That would be fine with us, but I insist on waiting the appropriate twenty–four hours to give the other interested party their fair chance." You won't have Sam whining to some blogger about how you stole his venue space. That just won't fly. "Can you tell us a little about how you organize the space or if you have caterers on site?"

“It is the lawn area.” Motioning to the large detailed map of the event areas, she indicates a gorgeous area close to the water. “We can set up the space to accommodate practically any needs. A dance floor, a bar, string lighting.” She explains. “Tents are approved but they have to be provided by Monticello, to make sure that we don’t have someone coming in and destroying the grounds. Catering can be provided or you can invite someone in to cater for you.”

“That all sounds very reasonable.” The pricing is also reasonable for the location and what is being offered, and Melanie shows you and Marcus a brochure of price packages. “So we could select to have you provide the bar, tents, tables, chairs, lighting, and a dance floor…and we can bring in our own catering?”

“Absolutely.” She agrees with a nod and smile. “We pride ourselves on making sure that our clients have the best possible time.”

“And…” Glancing over at Marcus and then at the door where Agent Bailey is currently standing as nonchalantly as possible while keeping her eyes open. “You won’t have a problem with having the Secret Service on property?”

“Oh no.” If she’s shocked by the question, she doesn’t show it. “We will follow the lead of your security at all times. I do have to warn you that there are other events that day, but we keep the spaces separate.”

“That’s wonderful.” It’s hard to believe that anyone would have a problem doing business with this woman, but then…some people are quite picky. And you know Sam is one of them. “Honey, did you have any questions or ideas?” You ask, wanting to make sure Marcus is in on this planning.

Marcus considers the space and looks towards you. “Live band?” He asks. “Can there be speakers placed?”

“Certainly.” Melanie smiles at that and scribbles an additional note in the pad in front of her. “We have a bandstand ready to be put up when needed. As long as we’re not talking about a full scale orchestra, that can be accommodated.”

“No, nothing like that.” Marcus laughs. “I don’t think we would want to be that pretentious for an engagement party. We just want to have fun, right Birdie?”

“I don’t even want a big orchestra for the wedding, let alone the engagement party.” You agree, laughing a little at the very idea of it. It’s utterly ridiculous. You’re not orchestra people even if you do both like classical music sometimes. “No, I think we’re talking about something very reasonable. Nothing too big or too nit–picky.”

“I think that’s the best option, a live band and then we have a playlist for when they are taking breaks.” Marcus agrees looking towards Melanie. “Do you have a lot of bands that you work with? I’m not too familiar with the scene here.”

“We have a few.” She nods, turning to her computer, presumably to print out a list. “Mostly the kind you would hire for a wedding. Cover bands like that get a lot of work out here.”

“I would imagine they would.” Marcus agrees, looking towards you. “What do you think, sweetheart? Unless you have someone specific?”

“No, I think that sounds perfect.” Live music is definitely something you both feel strongly about, and it continues to incorporate local artists into the fold of every one of your events. It’s an excellent plan. “Can I leave you my number, and ask you to give me a call tomorrow to tell me whether or not Congressman Chase decides to take the date?” You ask Melanie as politely as possible. “If he doesn’t, I think we’ll be very glad to have it.”

“I will most assuredly call you.” She promises with a smile, hoping that she deals with you instead of the congressman.

“Then how about a tour?” You suggest, offering the woman a smile.

“That would be wonderful.” Marcus agrees. “If you have time, of course.”

“Of course.” Melanie stands from her desk again. “Come along with me.”

******

“What if we just stayed here?” You groan for the second time this morning, burrowing deeper into Marcus’s side in bed as the sun rises higher in the morning sky. It’s early but you have a lot to do. His parents and a few other friends and family are arriving this morning for the engagement party tonight. The planning had gone well for being such short notice, but that still doesn’t mean you want to leave the warmth of your fiancé’s side just yet. There are a thousand things to do today before the party tonight, but you’ll manage. You just want a few more minutes of quiet with Marcus before facing it all.

“Then we will have a party that will be will be talked about for ages.” Marcus hums in amusement. “An engagement party where the couple doesn’t arrive.” He rubs your back gently. “We could start a new fad.”

“It would be very mysterious of us,” you snicker, knowing you and Marcus are some of the least mysterious people on the planet.

“Yes it would. I think everyone would start a manhunt for us.” He laughs.

“Probably not the best idea,” you admit, even if it makes you laugh. “Since the Secret Service would be involved in the manhunt.”

“Millions of taxpayer dollars, wasted.” He snorts, smirking at you slightly. “All the helicopters they would bring out.”

You snort, looking up at him in the morning light and sigh dramatically to get one more laugh from him. "I guess we should get up then, huh?"

“If we have to.” This time, he’s the one pouting. “Our honeymoon needs to be someplace quiet. A cabin in the mountains. Where we just stay in bed all day.”

"You know you can go stay at the hotel where they filmed Dirty Dancing, right?" As you drag yourself out of bed on the morning of your engagement party, talking about your honeymoon sounds like the perfect conversation.

“Really?” Marcus hums, intrigued by the idea. “It’s really up in the Catskills, isn’t it?”

"It is." Unconcerned with wearing anything night for the first part of the day, you go straight to your closet for jeans and a t–shirt. You'll change into the silver cocktail dress you have picked out later tonight. "And they supposedly really lean into the Dirty Dancing thing, which is fun."

“I’m sure Agent Bailey would love an isolated cabin to have us locked away.” He teases. “If you want to look into that, I’m completely game.”

“It’s a far cry from our original idea.” Which is neither good nor bad, just worth pointing out. “Paris is very different from a cabin in the Catskills.”

“That’s true.” Marcus stops and turns to you. “I love the idea of both, each for very different reasons.” He admits with a grin. “Whatever you want, as long as I’m with you, I’ll be happy.”

“We could always make up a little list?” You offer, ultimately pulling an old college t–shirt out of your closet with a clean bra. “And then narrow it down after we settle on a wedding date?”

“That works for me.” Marcus agrees, watching you as you start to get dressed. It’s probably his favorite part of the day, unless you count undressing.

"Where else might you want to go?" He's watching carefully and you wiggle your hips a little in his direction.

Marcus grunts, feeling his body respond to the little tease and he’s honestly wondering if he can take you back to bed for another hour. “Um…you pick.” He tells you. “A beach?”

"The beach is good." If you reach for a pair of nearly non–existent panties just to keep teasing him? Well, who can blame you for that? "Sand and swimming and sunny skies. Are you thinking Mexico or Mediterranean?"

Marcus blows out a breath when you pull out the see through lace that is literally just scraps of cloth posing as panties. “Mexico would be nice. Somewhere off the beaten path?”

"Someplace with a little bungalow and a private beach?" Since Marcus likes to tease you just as much as you like to tease him, you don't feel bad for even a second about bending over dramatically in front of him so he can have the best view of your ass when you put your panties on. "Hawaii could be fun, too."

“Too many people.” He immediately grunts. “Too many cameras.”

That makes you smirk, and you throw it over your shoulder at him. “So you’re looking to have me all to yourself?”

“Absolutely.” He nods immediately, finding your eyes for a moment before he goes back to ogling you. “All mine.”

“Well that’s true even if we go someplace not isolated.” Deciding to continue messing with him just a tiny bit, you grab your tightest jeans to slip into while you’re still talking. “I’ve been yours since the day we met.”

“But I’m thinking more of being able to strip you down whenever I want.” He admits with a grin. Completely unrepentant at the idea. “Maybe not even pack clothes.”

“If that’s what we’re going to do, we can lock ourselves in the house and Door Dash every meal.” You remind him, finally going to put on your bra and shirt. “Our honeymoon is a chance to have an adventure together. A sexy adventure, but still an adventure.”

“Get your head out of the gutter, got it.” He winks and shoots finger guns at you playfully. “Like it said, just ideas.”

“Listen,” you grin in response to his silliness. “If we decide on a winter wedding, we’re absolutely going someplace tropical to get away. I’m not looking to put snowshoeing on our itinerary.”

“So an Alaskan dog sledding race is off the table?” He jokes, snickering to himself.

“You don’t like snow either, Texas.” But both of you laugh, and as you shimmy into your t–shirt you’re already feeling better about the day. “Also…I don’t think a winter wedding sounds ideal. Even DC gets snow, and we lose any chance of having part of the night outside.”

“Yeah, I’ve never understood the ‘Winter Wonderland’ theme some people go for.” He admits with a huff. “Freezing my nut— uh, toes off doesn’t sound fun.”

“No,” you snort and tug him up out of bed to get dressed with you. “Freezing your nuts off does not sound fun.”

“Caught that, huh?” He huffs, even if he’s well aware that you don’t mind that kind of humor. “I don’t think you would like it either. You seem to like that part of my body.”

“I like that part of your body very much.” Your smirk is puckish. “Just as much as you like my tits.”

“Don’t forget your ass.” He reminds you, smirking as he pulls off his sleep shirt to get dressed. “I like that too. Oh and your thighs.”

“I like all parts of you and you like all parts of me.” You bite your lip unconsciously when he starts to change, always admiring of your fiancé in as many ways as he’ll let you at any given time. Marcus isn’t vain. He doesn’t dedicate himself to cut abs and weight lifting. But he does go to the gym to be in shape for his job and that combined with his love of food has made him broad and strong with a layer of cushioning softness that you adore.

“Then it sounds like we are a perfect match.” He winks at you as you eye him. Turning around and wiggling his own hips playfully, even though he has a flat ass.

It gets a snort and a giggle from you, and you swat at him playfully. “Do you want to go downstairs for breakfast or have something up here?”

“Completely up to you, love.” He promises. “I’ve heard rumors that Syd has been haunting the kitchens with a snuggly little Constance strapped to her chest.

“I keep telling her that maternity leave exists for a reason, but she can’t stay away.” Not that you blame her. You know for damn certain that you won’t be able to stay away from the inn after you’ve had your kids, either. “Let’s go down and say hello.”

He snorts to himself, well aware that he will be fighting the same battle Juan is when you are recovering from giving birth. “I think we need to just build her a house on the property too.” He tells you. “Make sure she’s close enough to rest.”

“The house is almost done.” Just one more month, according to the contractors. “Maybe we should keep the apartment up here as a resting space for the staff for a while? Before we turn it into a guest suite.”

“Orrrrrr…” Marcus tilts his head as he looks around the apartment. It’s not large, but it’s large enough. “What if we turned it into a small area for a nanny?” He asks. “Someone to come and watch Constance and the future Pike brood for us?” He had been thinking about it and it seemed like a good idea and it would allow everyone peace of mind in knowing the kids are close.

“That…” Your eyes flick up to his, wistful smile tugging at your lips and warmth blooming in your heart. “Sounds like a wonderful idea.” Marcus has an uncanny ability to see the future so clearly that it might make you envious if you weren’t so grateful to have him as your partner. “I genuinely love that, baby.”

“You do?” He asks, wondering if you are just agreeing to it because you are so in love with him right now. “I figured it would be a good way for you to see the babies, ours and Syd’s, anytime you get a chance.”

“It’s a lot more practical than driving them to daycare in town only to come back here for work.” Instinct and affection make you want to snuggle into his side again, but you know you have things to do around the possibility that your baby goddaughter is downstairs make you reach for a cardigan instead of your fiancé. “I think it’s smart. And will probably save us some anxiety in the long run.”

“I think so.” Marcus agrees quickly. “There’s someone dedicated to watching them, so work can be uninterrupted, but you can see and snuggle them when needed.”

“Don’t pretend you won’t be working through your lunches sometimes just to get home to them sooner.” It’s an image you can see so vividly that it almost makes you glow, knowing how much Marcus is looking forward to being a father to as many kids as you can manage together.

“Have to make it home before the sun goes down.” He scoffs. “How else will we play ball? It can’t be in the house.”

“The only balls anybody’s playing with in the house are yours when I give you head,” you tell him unequivocally, nudging him toward the bedroom door once you’re both dressed to go brush your teeth together so you can go downstairs and eat.

He snorts in amusement, although he can’t deny that you do play with his balls while you are blowing him. Smacking his lips to your cheek before he loads up your toothbrush and then his, he winks in the mirror – thoroughly enjoying the everyday chores with you.

You’re on your way downstairs within about fifteen minutes. Agent Bailey is downstairs by your office when the elevator opens, having opened up to giving you more space now that you have an armed federal officer in the apartment with you every night. Around the corner and into the kitchen, you have to smother a squeal of delight when you see Syd hovering by the line with little Constance in her baby carrier strapped safely to mama’s chest.

“Told you.” Marcus bumps your arms and immediately grins when he sees the little girl. Shes not too old to stay awake for long and she’s snoozing peacefully while the chaos of the kitchen goes on around her. “This has to be her lullaby.” He jokes. “She grew in the womb to it.”

“Oh my goodness, oh my goodness, oh my goodness.” You scurry to Sydney’s side without hesitation to hug her gently and peer into little Constance’s face. “Hello angel! Oh my goodness she’s so sweet when she sleeps!”

“She’s actually one of those babies that sleeps better amidst the noise!” Sydney laughs and rubs her daughter’s back through the sling, leaning against you instantly. “You caught me, huh?”

“I’m not even cross that you’re poking around work while you’re supposed to be resting because you brought the baby,” you admit, although you restrain yourself from doing anything besides admiring Constance. Waking her up by accident would be awful. “Are you guys feeling okay about coming out tonight?” Juan’s mother had assured her son and daughter–in–law that the baby would be in expert hands if they wanted to make the engagement party their first outing since her birth. And you had also assured them that you wouldn’t be offended if they only came to the party for dinner and headed home before the dancing to be with their little girl.

“I’m looking forward to it.” She admits with a lopsided smile. “Just forgive me if I text my mother–in–law six hundred times to check on her?” She asks, knowing you would never be upset about that. “I don’t know how we are ever going to drop her into a daycare. That’s if we find one that will open up in the next six months.” They have been on a wait list for the daycare of their choice since she found out she was pregnant. There are still twelve other couples on the wait list ahead of them.

“Marcus actually had an idea about that.” A proud grin to your fiancé on the other side of the kitchen where he is getting your breakfast from Syd’s sous chef lights up your whole face. “Why don’t we bring dinner over to your place after the weekend is over and the chaos subsides, and we’ll tell you about it?”

“Of course.” She grins at the way the two of you had made deep and lasting plans. Knowing you deserve all that and so much more. “Indian?” She suggests. “I’m craving curry.”

“We’ll get take out from Rasika. Whatever you want.” While it might be one of your and Marcus’s favourite take out spots, it’s also a favorite of your friend group so that is an easy answer. “And you text home as much as you need to tonight, love.” Casting your eye from mother to daughter, your smile softens and your heart aches from wanting one of your own. “This little angel is worth it.”

“Isn’t she?” Like any new mother, her daughter is the most perfect thing to ever exist. “She’s feeding for longer. She ate four whole ounces yesterday when Juan fed her a bottle.” She’s pumping and they are bottle feeding to make sure Juan gets his own bonding time with Constance when Sydney isn’t breastfeeding. Plus there are times the still recovering mother is too tired to do it. So it helps them tag team their newborn.

You and Syd can and have cooed together over her growing girl for hours at a time, so you don’t even realize you’ve been standing there for ten solid minutes being an absolutely doting pair of sentimental idiots until Marcus comes up behind you and gently slides one hand around your waist.

“You need to eat, sweetheart.” He reminds you, whispering in your ear as he watches the baby sleep against her mother’s chest. He’s gotten to hold her for a bit, but he lets you hold her more when the opportunity presents itself. “We have a lot to do before the party.”

There are two plates with pesto–prosciutto breakfast panini on them sitting on the counter nearby along with two oversized ice coffees and you relent, leaning back against Marcus after giving Syd one more gentle squeeze. “You’re right,” you sigh. “I just want to stare at this little nugget of a baby forever.”

“I know.” Marcus chuckles. “How many times have you thought about having our first since she’s been born?” He teases, knowing he’s also been hit by baby fever as well.

“Like fifteen times a day every single day.” You can’t help but laugh, knowing he feels the same, and you let him peel you away from the baby reluctantly when Syd’s sous chef has a question for her. “Fifteen is a minimum estimate, by the way.”

“I was honestly thinking it was more like thirty.” He laughs. “I’m about that too.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t wait a whole year to get married?” The idea hums through you with excitement. Being able to have a wedding date by tonight would be a fun little plus.

“When’s the last time the roses bloom in the Rose Garden?” Marcus asks, knowing you want to have your wedding there.

“September, really.” The first week of September would be a full year from when Marcus proposed, which seems tidy to you in a way you weren’t expecting but makes you smile. “What if we did early September? Would that step on Constance’s first birthday?”

“I think we should talk about it with the parents, but I don’t see that being a problem honestly.” Marcus hums happily.

"I heard parents!" Syd calls across the kitchen, fearless in the face of a miracle baby who truly can sleep through the chaos of a kitchen. She bounces subtly as she walks across the room, making sure her daughter is comfortable against her chest, and leans against the counter where you and Marcus are having your breakfast. "What's up?"

“We were talking about wedding dates.” Marcus admits, glancing at you with a small smirk. “We don’t want to schedule something to step on the birthday girl’s toes.” He reaches out and caresses the sleeping baby with the back of index finger.

"Were you guys thinking of doing it in September?" She asks, eyes sliding over to you and when you nod through a bite of food she smiles. "What if we pick a different weekend?" Sydney suggests. "I don't want to suggest doing the baby's birthday in place of a day–after brunch or anything. So we can just do two weekends in a row?"

“Or we could.” Marcus offers with a grin. “I know my family is up for celebrating a baby’s first birthday. Especially since they are going to fall in love with her tonight.” He warns. “Constance will be gaining a lot of aunts and uncles.”

"We weren't really planning on having a day–after event anyway," you assure her. There are already so many wedding events on your plate that adding one more sounds overwhelming to you. "What if we added more of Juan's family to the wedding guest list so they'll already be in town, and the next day we can all relax with something much more casual? It sounds...kind of perfect, actually."

“I think that Juan would like that. I thinks it’s perfect.” Their friendship had grown even closer and Juan had confided he wanted more time with his family. It’s the perfect opportunity. “We can book out the inn, right?” He asks you. “And get more hotel rooms, of course.” He chuckles. “My mom has already said she wants to stay here but the Watergate Hotel is calling her name.”

"We could have Connie's birthday here?" You raise an eyebrow to Syd in question. "We'll be surrounded by family and friends and you'll barely have to roll out of bed to get here." The Badillo house is close by and you and Marcus will be more or less in the inn's backyard.

"Comfort food, family event, and very casual." Sydney laughs, but she is nodding her head. "Sean has been a great sous chef. I know he can handle that even with my nitpicky ass hovering over everything."

“It sounds like we have a plan.” Marcus agrees. “So I think our wedding day needs to be the day before little Connie’s birthday.”

"September ninth." Of course you and Sydney say it at the same time, grinning at each other. Constance was born in the wee hours of the tenth.

"That means it will be a long weekend for people. It will be good to give them the date well in advance." It will be beautiful, is what it will be. Beautiful, and fun, and an occasion well worth celebrating.

His suit and your dress in the trunk of the car, Marcus steers towards the venue happily. “So we start getting set up, the band should be there first, right?” He asks. “Get the sound check done before the other vendors?”

"Yeah, that's what we planned on." A White House photographer will also be on hand, documenting the event for any press that Annette deems appropriate. You've left it entirely to her. "Melanie will be there to direct traffic, and she has a room for us to change and keep personal affects in."

“My parents are landing in about an hour.” He reminds you. “They will be out here to help and generally support us as soon as they drop bags in the hotel.”

"Selena, Leo, and Clark are all meeting us out here around the same time. They're riding together." The contingent from Dallas that has moved to DC in the last few months have banded together well and are all excited to join the next board game night. Bringing your friends and his together has been exceptionally easy.

“Perfect.” Marcus chuckles. “It’s a good thing the bartender will be showing up next.” He jokes. “Seriously, if we need to get any last minute items, mom said she’ll send dad.”

"I'm just glad we decided not to do flowers." It had been Junie's idea. During the Friday night dinner after you had booked Monticello, the discussion at the table had turned to decor and when your mother's ideas for florals got overcomplicated it had been your sister who suggested having a few large, live plants amongst the tents and lights and candles on the tables instead. "Melanie pulled those potted plants and light plans out of nowhere and I love her for it."

“I think it will make the wedding even more special.” Marcus admits. “Flowers don’t need to be at every event.”

"The rose garden is going to be spectacular." Your genuine excitement for that is infectious enough that it makes Marcus beam brightly at you as he pulls his car into the large lot around the Monticello visitor center.

“Wow.” Marcus frowns slightly as he sees all the vendor vans. “Are they early?”

"They must be." You check the time on your phone and frown to see that it is a full forty–five minutes before the caterer is set to arrive, and two of the vans nearby are marked with a florist's logo. "Maybe it's for one of the other locations on the property? Melanie did say they had multiple events tonight."

“That has to be it.” He agrees, although he knows the other venues have their own designated parking on the other side. He sends you a smile as he parks. “Let’s go get started.”

Melanie is waiting for you inside, smiling and ready in the lobby. “It’s so good to see you!” The nice thing about her is that she seems to actually mean it. “Your caterers just got here, and the florists are starting to unload. We’re doing great for time.”

“Uh...” Marcus shakes his head and looks towards you. “We don’t have a florist.” He reminds her. “The potted plants were what we decide, right?” He asks, wanting to make sure that the plan hadn’t changed.

"And I confirmed the arrival time with the caterers this morning. They aren't supposed to be here for another hour." Your worried eyes meet Marcus's and then Melanie's. "I think there has been some kind of mix–up."

Her brow furrows for a moment and she nods. “I will go make sure they aren’t supposed to be on the other side of the mansion.” She decides, sure that it’s a simple mistake.

"I'm sure it's nothing." The words come out of your mouth but you aren't convinced. Instead, you squeeze Marcus's hand in yours and head to the small room beside Melanie's office to store your party clothes and purse until you're ready to change.

“I’m sure it will all be worked out.” Marcus promises, reassuring you even if he has his own worry. “Come on, let’s go see the space.”

Once your things are stowed away, the pair of you step outside to the lawn to check out the tents, lights, and plants as they should be finished being put up. But instead of seeing potted plants and fairy lights there are sunflower arrangements and autumn harvest centerpieces stacked out on the banquet tables. Even the tables have the wrong color tablecloths – deep navy instead of the seasonal shade of red that you had picked out.

“Well, shit.” Marcus huffs, clearly seeing the problem and he quickly steps over to the young lady that is directing the flowers. “Excuse me.” He interrupts politely. “I’m afraid there is a problem.”

"There is?" She looks spooked, almost like a deer in the headlights with the large arrangement of flowers in her hands. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure–who are you, exactly?"

“Sorry.” He’s always going to fall back to manners, so he offers her an apologetic smile. “I’m Marcus Pike and this is my fiancée.” He introduces you. “We are setting up for our engagement party tonight and we don’t have floral arrangements.” He explains kindly. “Are you sure you have the right spot here? I know there’s several events happening tonight.”

“Oh!” She laughs in obvious relief and digs in her pocket to pull out some folded paperwork to show you both. “I think you’re in the wrong place, Mr. Pike. We’re setting up for Mr. Chase.”

Fuck. Marcus feels you tense beside him, but he shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry, but I’m not in the wrong place.” He tells her kindly aware that she is a vendor caught in the middle of something. It’s not her fault. “My fiancée and I rented out this space for tonight. Mr. Chase must have gotten his dates mixed up.” Marcus is well aware that isn’t the case, but he won’t air dirty laundry in front of her. “Here.” He pulls out his own contract for the venue that he had slipped into his pocket, always one to cover his bases and he’s glad that paid off.

“That’s weird…” Looking at both contracts, the florist frowns heavily and offers you both an apologetic expression. “Let me get my boss. Hang on one second,” she says before scurrying away.

“Shit.” Marcus hisses, turning towards you. “What are the odds it’s a mix up on Melanie’s part?” He knows the answer, and so do you.

“Zero. That woman is so meticulous it makes Juan look scatterbrained.” Closing your eyes against the frustrated outburst that is pushing on your chest right now, you lean into Marcus and exhale slowly. “I honestly can’t believe he’d go this far.”

“Just plaster on that amazing customer service charm and I will dazzle them with kindness.” He murmurs, leaning in and kissing your temple. “We have the contract for the venue.”

“I love you.” Murmured words aren’t enough to keep your heart from pounding with anxiety, but his arms around you are. Marcus hugs you tight and you just find yourself wondering what the hell happened to turn Sam into this vindictive monster…or if he was always this way and you never knew him at all.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” He promises. “It’s just a small bump in the road.”

“I hope you’re right.” It’s terrifying to think that things might go so entirely wrong so early. It isn’t something that sits well with you, especially not when you have almost a hundred people coming tonight.

“It will.” He promises again, kissing your forehead again. “We have a legal contract.”

A serious looking woman with short gray hair and a clipboard comes back with the girl who had scurried away, and she introduces herself only to Marcus with forceful authority. "I understand we have some confusion on our hands?"

“Yes madam.” Marcus shows her the contract that Melanie had given him, clearly stating the space and date were his and gives her an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid your client is mistaken.”

"I'm sure that's not right." The prim woman doesn't even look at the paperwork that is being presented to her. "The Congressman was very specific in his planning and we are right on time in setting up for tonight."

“The Congressman was mistaken.” Marcus insists, a little more firmly. “The First Daughter signed this contract to rent this space tonight for her engagement party. Which the President will be in attendance for.” Titles seem to impress this woman, so he throws out a few that are sure to get her attention.

"Let's see if we can't get all of this sorted out." Melanie has appeared, looking frazzled but quickly recomposing herself with a young man in tow behind her. "It seems that our event staff did not verify paperwork for the caterer or florist when you arrived." She offers the gray–haired woman a professional smile, but you get the impression that the kid behind her with his tail tucked between his legs is going to get his ass kicked for this mistake. "May I see both sets of reservations, please? I'm sure we can get this cleared up quickly."

Marcus steps back and lets Melanie take over, sure that she will be able to clear things up quickly. He turns to you and gives you a reassuring smile.

"Well, I'm not sure what went wrong." After looking over both contracts, Melanie holds tight to both and looks between her actual clients and the florist who apparently should not be here. "But unfortunately, Congressman Chase never reserved this date or location with my office, did not make any payment on the space, and certainly is not hosting an event here tonight. So I'm going to have to ask you to leave, I'm afraid. We do have a contracted event here tonight and our security will be very tight."

“I’m sorry?” Blinking owlishly, the prim woman shakes her head, obviously not used to being told no. “Congressman Chase has a campaign event here tonight. Many important people will be here.”

"More important than the President of the United States?" Melanie challenges, not backing down. What she does, though, is turn to you and Marcus and apologize. "I will take care of this. If you would like to have a seat inside, I will absolutely come and let you know when everything is resolved."

“Thank you.” Marcus takes your arm and leads you towards the building so Melanie can deal with things. “You might want to call that White House press person.” He murmurs quietly. “I have a feeling Chase did this on purpose.”

"I don't know what the hell we did to deserve this," you huff, pulling out your phone to call Annette. She's probably on her way to the venue already but you know she was coming with her husband so hopefully he's driving and she can talk.

“I think he’s got a fucking screw loose.” Marcus mutters, shaking his head at the increasing antics the congressman is pulling.

When the call connects you have to swallow a sound of relief mixed with frustration. Getting to talk to Annette is a relief but you're so frustrated you could scream. "Annette? It's Birdie. We, uh...we have a situation. It appears that Sam Chase has attempted to double book the same venue as us for tonight."

“Oh dear.” The soft sigh is one of practiced patience, having put out many a fire in her day. “It’s not a mistake on the venue?” She clarifies.

"No." You shake your head as though she can see you, but it's just an emotional reaction. "Miss O'Neil is certain there was no mix up in the booking, but there are vendors here to set up for a campaign event that is definitely not supposed to be happening." Glancing up at Marcus beside you, you sigh softly. "Marcus and I suspect that Sam is trying some kind of indecipherable stunt. To make us look heartless or something equally outlandish. Like we stole his venue, I guess."

“Gotcha.” Her voice is slightly terse but it’s not towards you. “I will start making calls to his office right now. You just hang tight and I’ll be there in a few minutes. Don’t worry.”

"Thank you, Annette." Your eyes close against the sinking feeling in your stomach that the night is starting to unravel at an alarming rate. "We'll see you soon."

You end the call and Marcus reaches for you, pulling you into his arms. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” He soothes you, quietly.

“She’s almost here.” The urge to cry out of sheer frustration is strong, and you bury yourself in Marcus’s chest for strength. “What in the hell did we do to deserve this?”

“I don’t know.” He answers honestly, unable to fathom the malice behind the way Sam Chase is operating. “But we will show him that we are not to be messed with.”

“How?” The question is incredulous, but it’s honestly because you’re feeling so at sea with confusion in this whole situation. “By running to my mommy about it? The President can’t kick a Congressman out of power for being a dick to her daughter.”

“By showing him that he holds no power over us.” It’s a bit unsatisfying, being the bigger person and not using his own status to make like difficult for Congressman Chase, but he wants to be above reproach when shit hits the fan. And he has no doubt it will.

“Ugh, that’s so unsatisfying,” you groan, unknowingly echoing his thought exactly. It’s a small mercy to have the same thought, though, and you both laugh. “I want to nail him to the wall but there’s no crime against being an asshole.”

“I know, but he wants to get under your skin.” He reminds you softly. “That’s the entire point of this, I think.”

“Well he’s succeeded.” As much as you hate to admit it, he really has. He’s made you feel guilty and selfish for wanting to celebrate your love with your soulmate, which isn’t fair in the least.

“I know.” Marcus kisses your forehead again. “I’ve never wanted to hit someone more in my entire life.” He huffs. “Not even Patrick Jane when he convinced Teresa to choose him.”

"And that guy was an asshole," you huff, having heard the entire story from Marcus early on in your relationship.

“Yeah…he really is.” He chuckles and pulls away slightly to look into your eyes. “He did me a favor.”

"I don't know what I did to deserve you." His kindness and his support mean the world to you, and the ugly realization that if Marcus had not appeared in your life like a whirlwind that you might still be with Sam? It stings your heart in a way that isn't quite aching or envy but that smacks of bitter regret.

“Just being the most wonderful woman in the world.” He teases, nudging his nose against yours.

"Hardly." Or, at least, it doesn't feel like it right now. But you sigh, letting yourself settle against him and accepting the kiss he offers you before you stand straight again. "We should change a little early," you decide after a moment. "Present a united front of joy instead of looking like we're not quite prepared."

“Whatever you want to do, sweetheart.” He will follow your lead of course, wanting you to feel in charge. Especially with the turn of events.

"I think it might be better." Or, at least, it well help you feel less at sea. Because right now you just feel like you're floundering in uncertainty. "Especially if we have to deal with Sam directly."

“Do you think that he will actually show up?” His brows lift and he doesn’t like that prospect at all. Sam has been exhibiting dangerous behavior, even if he can’t prove it has been him behind the vicious rumors.

"At this point I'm not really sure what to expect at all." But confidence comes from all places, and if right now it comes from putting on the beautiful dress that Alex and David helped you pick out and going out there holding Marcus's hand? Then so be in. Sam does not get to ruin to night, and he does not get to ruin your joy. "But I guess I would rather be mentally prepared for the worst."

“Whatever happens…” Marcus smiles at you proudly. “I’m going to be right there beside you.”

It takes nearly a half an hour to calm down, change clothes, and do your make up, but once you’re ready you head back outside with Marcus to find Agent Bailey waiting for you in the lobby and a commotion outside. “What’s going on?” You ask, though you’re afraid for the answer and not even sure if she will know.

“Miss D’Amario is trying to get the Congressman on the phone,” Agent Bailey explains. “Your vendors are starting to arrive and Melanie had them prepping so they can set up the second the others are cleared away.”

“Vanessa is here?” Marcus looks around warily and spots her standing off to the side looking slightly frazzled as she furiously types on her phone.

“Awesome.” The obvious sarcasm in your voice comes out in a huff. Your exes always being together is more like a Nightmare Team than a Dream Team.

“I’m going to talk to her.” Marcus decides, done with them upsetting you.

“I’m going to stay nearby so that I can intercept anyone who arrives,” you decide. Going up on your toes to give him a kiss, you brush the sharp lapel off his blue suit and offer him your most encouraging smile. “Go get ‘em, Slugger.”

Marcus smiles at your reassurance, but it drops into a frown when he turns and walks towards Vanessa. He’s tired of the games and now, he’s going to face the problem head on. “What is going on, Vanessa?” He demands when he reaches her side. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“What’s going on is crossed wires.” She doesn’t look up from her phone. She doesn’t need to. She still knows Marcus Pike’s voice. “I don’t know how this woman could possibly have booked us both tonight and now she’s playing dumb and getting defensive about it.”

“She’s not playing dumb, but I’m disappointed you are.” Marcus states flatly, sighing softly. “This little game you and Chase are playing needs to stop.”

“I’m not playing dumb.” Vanessa defends, brow furrowed in frustration as she looks up at Marcus after hitting the send button on her text. “The Congressman booked the location himself. All the other vendors were booked by me personally. We’re supposed to be here.”

“Did he forward you the contract and emails?” Her reaction is more honest than he expected and the fact that Sam booked the venue makes him wonder if she was kept in the dark. He pulls out the contract he had tried to show the vendor earlier. “Where is this if Chase actually was double booked?”

“He has the contract. I’m trying to get ahold of him to get a copy right now.” She huffs, frustration and uncertainty lining the worries creases in her brow. “Why couldn’t you two have just had your little party at her hotel anyway? Isn’t that what the place is for? You don’t need the clout of a place like Monticello.”

“Why should she always have parties where she’s doing most of the work? This is our engagement party.” Marcus fires back, unable to believe the condescension in her tone. “What do you have against her, Vanessa? You ended things with me not the other way around. And I thought we ended on good terms.”

“She’s a snob. And dishonest, too boot.” Vanessa doesn’t hold back, obviously pushed to the edge of whatever manners she usually has by the situation at hand. “Almost an entire year in the campaign trail as her mother’s Golden Child preaching freedom of affection and holding Sam up to be the next Jack Kennedy and then she flips her entire platform on a dime when she claims to find her soulmate. It’s pandering, Marcus. And I honestly thought you were better than that.”

“I am her soulmate, Vanessa.” He murmurs quietly. “We didn’t know when we met. I figured it out, that night you broke up with me. Hell, she knew before I did and didn’t say anything because she was with Chase.” He sighs. “So freedom of affection means you can’t choose your soulmate?” He asks. “What about you? You chose your soulmate when you broke up with me. Should I have been spiteful?”

“I always wanted my soulmate.” Vanessa defends, standing up a little straighter and squaring her shoulders. As it that stance somehow gives her a moral high ground. “I support him, and take care of him, and do whatever he needs. That is what love is.”

It clicks, like a bolt of lightning. “It’s Sam, isn’t it?” He asks. “Your soulmate is Sam Chase. That’s why you are doing this.”

The frown on her face flattens into a thin line, unwilling to say a single thing against the man she’s been loyal to for years now. “If I can’t give him the position he wants, I can at least help him make up for what he’s lost,” she reasons, not thinking for a moment that Marcus would understand. He isn’t ambitious the way Sam is. He doesn’t want to lead. To mold an entire nation. Dating the First Daughter was supposed to get him there in leaps and bounds.

He shakes his head sadly, hating to see that Vanessa is blind to what is happening. Willingly looking the other way. “Are you happy?” He asks. “Not being enough?” He folds the contract up and puts it back in his pocket. “If losing access to the White House on a personal level is a detriment, then he’s not a very good politician.” Marcus turns around and starts to walk back towards you.

“No one gets into the White House without knowing someone.” She tells his back, tone laced with bitterness because, No of course she isn’t happy, but why does her ex boyfriend have to be the one to point that out to her? “Just like you don’t get to Hollywood or a record deal or a place in an Ivy League without it.”

He doesn’t answer her, knowing that nothing he says will get through to her. She’s blinded by her loyalty to Sam and her utter devotion to the idea that she should support her soulmate no matter what. It’s a twisted logic and he feels bad for her. When they were together, she was a sweet and earnest woman, looking forward to having a family and building a life with her soulmate.

When Marcus comes back to your side he looks sad rather than angry, and you frown all the more deeply for it. “What’s going on?” You ask gently, letting him lean into your side for comfort. “What did she say?”

“Well….I figured out why Vanessa is so blindly helping Chase with his revenge.” He sighs and glances back at the other woman. “She’s his soulmate.”

“Ah shit.” It was somehow in the back of your mind the whole time, you realize, and now that he’s said it there are puzzle pieces that click into place all too easily. “So this…all of this really is just about the fact that I dumped him?” It makes your skin crawl to think about, a grotesque and unsettling feeling that you know is going to haunt you far longer than you want to admit.

“He wants the White House one day.” He reminds you. “I’m almost positive that he either made promises to people because of having access to the President, or was using that relationship to bolster his career.”

“Well that doesn’t make me feel used and disgusting at all.” You cringe, eyes set down on the sturdy flooring beneath your feet. It’s worse than disgusting, actually. It’s downright humiliating. You’d fallen in love with his act. Bought it hook, line, and sinker. Meeting Marcus may have snapped you out of it, but you had still be entirely fooled for a year.

“Hey.” Marcus reaches for you, rubbing your arms and pulling you closer. “Don’t blame yourself, sweetheart.” He hums. “Chase is a man who put on an act to get what he wants. He has fooled plenty of people.”

“Please know that none of this is because I missed him or still had feelings for him.” Careful not to get makeup on his shirt, you tuck into Marcus’s embrace and breathe in the strength of him. “I’m embarrassed at being taken in so completely. And love you impossibly more for being such a good, honest man.”

“I don’t think you feel anything but heartbroken that he could feign affection for his own personal career gain.” He promises. He would have thought it was because of his feelings for you that he was reacting so badly to this, except for what Vanessa had told him. “Even if you still had feelings for him, I would never expect you to turn off a year of emotions like a switch.” He’s secure enough in your love that there is not any reason to doubt you or be jealous.

“Whatever I felt for him started dimming the second I met you,” you assure him. Even though you and Marcus are strong in the love you have for each other, a bit of reassurance never goes amiss. “More than anything I’m upset with myself for being so blind to his true intentions.”

“Honey, you can’t always see the darkness in someone’s heart.” He reminds you, not wanting you to feel guilty. You have nothing to be upset about. Your intentions have always been good.

“So what do we do now?” He seems to have the answers tonight and there is comfort in that — on top of which, he is the one who talked to Vanessa. “Is she backing down? I don’t want to have to have an altercation.”

“I don’t think she knows what is going on, to be honest.” He admits, looking back at the very flustered woman. “I told her that if it was a venue mix up, the congressman would have a contract.”

“Vanessa does all his bookings.” You look up at him in confusion. “Shouldn’t she have the contract?”

“She said he booked the venue and she booked everything else.” He explains, shaking his head. “It’s pure fucking malice.”

“He never booked it.” The realization kicks you in the gut with the force of a wild stallion. “He’s going to go to the press with a story about us stealing his event venue to make us look bad.”

“What better way to do that, with all the press already here for his ‘event’?” His smile is brittle and humorless.

“I heard the press.” Annette comes swinging around the corner and into view like she’s late for a cue on stage. “Tell me what’s going on, kids. I’ll handle it from here.”

Marcus looks at you for the go–ahead and when you nod slightly, he turns to the White House press agent. “We think Sam Chase did this deliberately.” He explains quietly, not wanting the conversation to go beyond the three of you. “Vanessa D’Amario is his personal assistant and apparently his soulmate.” The older woman’s eyes widen in surprise. “She says that Chase personally booked this venue and she booked the vendors. I think he set this up, knowing we were considering this place to force some kind of public ‘they are pushing their weight around’ accusation.” When it’s voice out loud, it sounds like some kind of conspiracy theory, but he knows it’s true.

“Interesting…” Annette looks between the two of you and offers you both what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “If all of that is true, which sounds alarmingly plausible, by the way…well, it means doing a little politicking of our own. Are you two going to be okay if a little press leak happens ahead of your party?”

“Whatever we need to do.” Marcus agrees easily and then looks at you. “What do you think, sweetheart? I think we’ve been on the defensive long enough. Time to play a little offense.”

“There was going to be press coverage for this party anyway, so why not?” You shrug slightly “Do whatever you think will help, Annette.”

“I’m on it,” she promises, disappearing again in a flash with a wink and a thumbs up.

“Well, if anything, we can prove when we sent out the party invites.” He reminds you with a shrug.

“Annette seems to have it in hand.” The best you can do right now is shrug and check your watch. “Your parents, my siblings, and the first carload of our friends should be here soon.”

“We are a little bit behind, but nothing we can’t deal with.” He promises.

“At least I can hear the band doing sound check.” That in and of itself is a huge relief. It means things won’t be too behind schedule. “Let’s go see who’s here.”

“Of course.” Marcus grins at you. “Maybe we stop by the bar and grab a drink to calm our nerves.”

“Slow sipping,” you agree with a nod of your head. “It makes me extra relieved that we have those charcuterie tables as part of our appetizers. Even if the caterers get held up with the other things, people can graze.”

“You loved that idea and I have to admit that it’s a good one.” He steers you towards the lovely little alcove that the beer, wine and cocktails will be handed out from. The bartender is already set, since the venue provides ice and he is handing you drinks in no time.

The first to arrive are Marcus’s parents. Matthew and Donna practically smother the two of you in hugs immediately, so glad to be here to celebrate that they’re buzzing. How handsome Marcus looks in his suit, how lovely your dress is, the perfect warm autumn night for the party, they’re just delighted to be there and a balm of positivity over your soul.

Marcus points his father to the bar while his mother coos over you with a proud smile. Donna Pike absolutely adored you, it was evident from the way she always asked about you and reached out to you without him as an intermediate, wanting to forge a relationship with you separate from her son.

“We’re so glad you were able to come up on short notice.” It’s a relief (one of many tonight) to have such a good relationship with your fiancé’s mother, and you walk with Donna toward the bar with Marcus walks ahead with his father. “We both would rather have waited on the party than do it without you here.”

“The good thing about what I do is that I can teleconference when needed.” It’s not something she employs all the time, but her only child’s engagement party warranted the change of pace.

“We’re grateful.” Especially now that their presence is a calming balm over both you and Marcus. “And I thought…while you’re here…I was hoping to ask a small favor of you?”

“Anything.” The answer is immediate and doesn’t need any consideration. “What do you need, sweetheart?”

“I was hoping you would be willing to come to lunch with me tomorrow,” you glance up at her with a small smile. “At the White House. For a little wedding planning.” It’s both to include your future mother–in–law in planning that she will not be close by enough to really take part in, but also to have your family around you for an afternoon. “My grandmother’s wedding dress has been passed down and I’d like for you to be able to see it. You know, before any decisions or shopping or anything happens.”

“Oh…” she exhales softly, tears immediately making her eyes water and she nods. “Absolutely. It would be— of course.” She insists. “I would be delighted to come to such an important event.”

“I know it will be hard to have you included in most aspects of the planning,” you explain, wanting to make sure she understands how much you’ve thought about this. “So I wanted to have to you included in the most important ones.”

“And I would have understood if you hadn’t included me at all.” She folds you into another warm hug. “Thank you. And I have something for you.”

“Oh?” In all the commotion you can’t think what it would be — after all, you and Marcus had specified that gifts were not necessary in your invitations for tonight.

She pulls back and reaches into her purse for a card. "I know that we aren't supposed to bring gifts, but..." She looks fondly to where her husband and son are at the bar talking and smiling. "It's the groom's family's responsibility to take care of the rehearsal day and I want you to plan exactly what you want."

“Donna.” She knows very well that you and Marcus are doing well in your careers. Well enough to be able to build a house and plan for a family and all sorts of other things. “You really didn’t have to.”

"Yes we did." She tells you with a small smirk. "You have made Marcus completely happy and that is worth more to me than the national debt your mother inherited."

There is the barest moment of pause before you snort, and you and Donna both bust out giggling. “Well, thank you.” You’ll open the envelope later with Marcus, but for now you give her a very tight hug. “I’m sure everything will go smoothly. It’s just the nerves of everything.”

“Anything else we can help you with?” There’s the briefest flash of unhappiness on your face before you hug her and she knows it’s nothing between you and Marcus that caused it.

"Not at all." Their being here is wonderful, and they're helping financially when they're not obligated to. That is more than enough. "Why don't we grab you a drink and we can take a look around. The view from here is beautiful."

“You have chosen a gorgeous venue.” She marvels, even as the people working continue to bustle around to put the event together.

After procuring a glass of the same spiked hot apple cider that you're drinking for Donna, you turn to look around the lawn with her and actually let yourself smile. "We were here for a day out after our goddaughter was born and we fell in love with it," you tell her. "It was perfect, so we dove in and talked to their event coordinator that day."

“It’s a mixture of homey and sophisticated.” She admires. “I think it’s very fitting for the two of you.”

"I think that's sort of the vibe we're going for with everything," you admit, sipping your drink beside her. "Comforting and fun Americana, but a little sophisticated."

“I think that you’ve nailed it, love.” She agrees, taking a sip of her drink and humming in approval.

"I'm really glad you're here." And while you know that isn't something a lot of people say to their in–laws, you count yourself as lucky. "And I'm just as excited for tomorrow as I have been for tonight."

“I am too.” She admits with a grin. “I am just happy to be included.”

On the edge of the lawn, nearest the parking lot, Annette has intercepted the first batch of friends and family to arrive with a plan and a spark in her eyes. "Alex! June!" She knows the First Children well, and Sydney Badillo as well, flagging down the new mother and her husband when they get out of their car. "I'm very glad to see you all."

“I wonder what this is about.” Juan murmurs to his wife, taking her hand after he rounds the front of the car. “I don’t know.” Sydney frowns slightly, knowing that you hadn’t said much about Annette doing the publicity for the party, but it’s unusual to have her meet them out in the parking lot. “But we will find out.” She murmurs before sending the older woman a warm smile. “Annette! Lovely to see you.”

Alex’s soulmate David, his brother Noah, and Junie’s soulmate all pile out of the cars as well, followed closely by the arrival of Marcus’s cousin Selena and his friends that had moved to DC. This is Annette’s army assembled, and she smiles at the large group. “I wonder if I could ask a favor of all of you?” She poses, knowing there will be a few skeptics in any group. “We’ve had a little mix up here tonight but everything will go smoothly will your help.”

“What happened?” Alex demands, aware more than Junie about all the negative press surrounding you and Marcus lately. He and David both agree it’s a smear campaign.

“It’s not necessary to go into deep detail,” Annette insists. She doesn’t want anyone being pointed or cruel tonight. “But there is someone trying to claim that Birdie and Marcus stole this venue from them for an event tonight. They don’t have any proof that they booked it, of course, but I suspect they’ll try to go to the media with a story for the morning. So I was hoping I could get all of you onto your social media accounts tonight with positive posts from the party and a few mentions about how excited you’ve been for this?”

“Done.” Junie immediately agrees. “I’ve got photos of the invitations to the party when I opened them. I’ll post those with the ‘it’s finally the day!’ theme.”

“We’re on it. A hundred percent.” Alex agrees, glancing up at David and getting a nod from his partner. They don’t have to be told to know who is behind this, and they’re going to do their part to stop the stupidity.

“Do we have an official Insta for Birdie’s wedding?” Junnie asks. “Or should we tag mom’s White House account?”

“Definitely tag the White House.” Annette nods, but she chewed over the question. “But we should do a tag for the event, and maybe a tag for the First Kids? What do you think?”

“It is our sister.” Alex muses. “We should also do a tag for the engagement. Something like fairytale2017 or something as equally disgustingly cute.”

“Maybe we could think of something unique and a little catchy?” Sydney suggests, pulling out her phone. “Something we can use through all the events?”

“Birdie&Marcus’TilEternity?” Junie offers, a slightly dreamy smile as she thinks about soulmates. Since discovering her own, she’s become more of a romantic.

“It’s a little long…” Alex chews on the thought. “FirstWife2018? Like a reference to being the First Daughter?”

Sydney laughs softly, shaking her head. “It would work,” she admits with another laugh. “Except he’s been married before. So technically she’s the second wife.”

“We will come up with something.” Annette agrees. “May I text you all when it’s decided.”

“Of course.” Selena nods her head along with several of the others. “We already have a group chat for planning their combined bachelor/bachelorette party. We can do a version of that group that has you in it, too? In case you need us again.”

“That would be perfect.” Annette agrees. “I will not text without a good reason, I promise.”

There is a little bit of back and forth conversation, but Alex adds Annette’s number to a new group chat with everyone involved and renames the new group Mythbusters with a giggle.

“Oh that’s good.” Sydney snorts when the welcome text pings through and quickly responds with who she is so Annette can associate numbers with names.

“It’s the Congressman, isn’t it?” Selena asks, saving Annette’s number to her phone like the others.

Her brow wings up, nothing getting by the friends and family you have, but she doesn’t answer in the affirmative. “We would just like to get ahead of any potential issues a quickly as possible.”

“That’s yes, in White House Staffer,” June translates for anyone who isn’t familiar. “And I can finally say with glee that something about that guy always felt off to me.”

“I tolerated him.” Sydney admits. “I know Birdie would huff, but he just always was so smug. I wanted to slap him.”

Alex offers here a high five for that and Juan nods in agreement while Annette bites her lip from saying anything unprofessional. “How about something cheeky?” She suggests after a moment, when the murmurs about disliking Congressman Chase have subsided. “The press called her the First Princess after she and Agent Pike were photographed dancing together. Maybe we can do something with that?”

“#PrincessPike2018.” Sydney supplies immediately and Juan chuckles. “They will love it and she will be a tiny bit embarrassed when it trends.”

“Which is perfect.” Selena agrees. She’s taken to this new group of friends like a duck to water, sense of humor included. “We can also do a plain and simple #PikeWedding2018 for all the event photos we’ll end up posting.”

Juan nods. “Well, the official day should have the hashtag #WhiteHouseWedding2018.” He offers.

“Perfect.” Annette agrees with that right away. It’s good social media coverage in every way. Let’s use #PrincessPike for anything relating to Birdie as a bride, #PikeWedding for planning and events, and then #WhiteHouseWedding for the day.”

“That sounds like a plan.” Everyone nods as Sydney answers. “We will start posting things now. Tagging them and Monticello for the engagement party.”

“I appreciate all your help.” Annette steps away, as if she is releasing the group into the wild. “We’ll nip this in the bud and have fun doing it.”

“Is there anything else we can do?” Junie asks seriously, her hand in her soulmates and looking determined.

“Help your sister have a great time.” Annette tells her seriously. “Right now she’s a bit stressed, and nervous. Just go celebrate with your family and she’ll feel better being surrounded by it all.”

“That’s easy to do.” Alex grins. “Come on, Junie.” He chuckles. “Let’s go lovingly bully our older sister.”

"Baby, come here. You have to try one of these." The catering company had agreed to tweak their stuffed mushroom recipe to meet the one created by the Kennedy family's personal chef as written down in his cookbook, and the result is absolutely stellar. "Tell me this isn't the best stuffed mushroom you've ever had in your life."

He hasn't strayed from your side for more than a few steps, so it's easy to come closer. Grinning as he opens up for you to feed him one of the stuffed mushrooms, closing his eyes in utter delight as the flavors burst on his tongue. "Oh god, we are keeping the leftovers, right?" He moans.

"Absolutely." You grin and giggle a little that his face matches yours perfectly. They're little bites of heaven. "I have half a mind to have these at the wedding, too."

"We should." He agrees quickly, picking up another bite off the table and offering it to you since you sacraficed one of your mushrooms for him.

Without looking, he has grabbed one of the little cornbread cups filled with pulled pork with has been your other favorite bite at the beginning of the party. You hum around the delicious choice and sigh happily. "Everyone seems to be having fun. And the band is great, thankfully."

"They are good." Marcus has been impressed with the range of songs they can play, but it's to be expected for a good wedding band. "I'm so glad that tonight has gone off with little more than a slight hitch." He leans in and kisses your cheek. "Everything worked out."

"Fingers crossed that the rest of the night runs as smoothly." It's almost time to start dinner, which will surely come with a couple of speeches but should be a beautiful meal. This catering company is fantastic and the two sisters that run it deserves as much recognition as you can possibly heap on them. They, along with the band, will hopefully get lots of coverage from the White House.

"It will." Marcus doesn't mention that there is the best security that could possibly be provided by the Secret Service at this event. He pecks your lips. "Tonight is amazing and it will continue to be so."

"Are you sure about that?" Having not seen her in a while, it is a surprise when you glance past his shoulder and see Vanessa approaching from the corner of the lawn.

Marcus hisses a quiet sigh and squeezes your hand. "I'll ask her to leave and then I'll have someone escort her out." He tells you quietly, waiting for you to agree with a quick nod before he moves to intercept her.

"I come in peace." Vanessa insists, holding up a hand briefly as though it were a white flag.

"I'm not sure that I believe that." He admits, not calling security over simply to avoid a scene. If he can get her to leaving willingly, it would look better.

"I just came to tell you that my vendors are packed up and we're leaving the premises." She's feeling deflated and frankly embarrassed by being stuck in the middle without any kind of life preserver. The shouting match she had with Sam over the phone inside the Visitor Center did not help. At this point she just wants to go home and open a bottle of wine.

His brow lifts in surprise, sure that she would once again insist that this was their venue. "I have to say....I'm surprised that no guests of the Congressman have shown up." He comments quietly. "It's…almost as if they weren't invited."

"Please don't prod at me." Vanessa huffs, shaking her head slightly. At this point being kicked while she's down would be deserved but humiliating. "I just spent forty minutes making phone calls and having arguments. I have no idea what happened, but it's–it is what it is."

"I'm sorry." Marcus apologizes and bites his lip for a moment. "Why don't you join us for a drink?" He offers, motioning towards the bar. "I'm sure you could use one?" He wants to know what has transpired but he also wants to prove that, despite everything, you and Marcus are not her enemy.

"That...doesn't feel appropriate." It's kind of him, but Marcus is kind. That is part of him. "You guys enjoy your party. It...it looks nice. And the hashtags are a cute touch. Very media friendly." Vanessa sighs again and her deflation happens all over again. "I should...I should go. There are campaign events to plan. Even if this one sort of...imploded."

"Listen...." Marcus frowns slightly and looks over at where you are watching him with avid interest. "I know that we are kind of on opposite sides of the sand, but Birdie and I— we aren't— we don't wish you and the congressman anything more than happiness." He offers softly.

"It's all a little complicated," she admits, though she doesn't relish it. "Sam feels so strongly about this whole situation having two sides but I have to admit that I feel like that attitude is starting to do more harm than good."

"I think it is too." He agrees, nodding and offering her a small smile. "If you need anything..." The offer dies, unspoken, but it's there in case she needs it. Vanessa bites her lip and looks conflicted so Marcus takes that as his cue. "Have a good night, Vanessa." He offers before he turns back to return to your side.

"Is everything okay?" There wasn't any shouting or any real fighting that you could see, but Marcus looks upset when he comes back to you.

“Yeah, it’s good.” Marcus reassures you, rubbing your shoulder and bringing you closer for a kiss. “I think – I hope – that she’s starting to see the light in this entire situation.”

“Some cracks in the shiny veneer of it all?” You feel bad honestly. Vanessa might be blindly loyal but she never seemed outright cruel to you.

“I think so.” He hums. “She desperately wanted her soulmate, so I think she justified a lot in her mind.”

“I feel so bad.” There are a lot of people in the world who suffer in different ways for want of their soulmate, and Vanessa might not be your favorite person but she still doesn’t deserve to have that kind of pain.

“I do too.” Marcus admits, but he shrugs. “No one ever said every soulmate match was good.”

“I’m just glad I have you.” Your arm around his waist and your head momentarily on his chest are so grounding and so incredible calming. Just because you could weather the storm of the old without him by your side doesn’t mean you ever, ever want to. Not anymore. Not now that you know how much better it can be. “I love you, Marcus. More than words.”

“You are part of me.” He promises. “My soul, my heart, my thoughts.” He smiles softly, unaware that the moment is being photographed and posted online with the captions declaring true love was real.

“I’m stealing that for my wedding vows,” you chuckle softly, admittedly because you’re so choked up in the moment.

“Steal away, sweetheart.” He kisses your forehead and sighs, letting the problems of the day fade and just reminding himself that everything is perfect now. He has you.

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

HHL: @haileymorelikestupid @anoverwhelmingdin @storiesofthefandomlovers @missladym1981 @babeincolor @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

My Masterlist!

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike x you #Marcus Pike x reader #Marcus Pike x female reader #Marcus Pike x f!reader #The Mentalist #soulmate au #First Daughter reader #Juan Badillo #Graceland #Juan Badillo x f!OC #Juan Badillo x OC #PrincessPike2018 #PikeWedding2018 #WhiteHouseWedding2018

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hyuuukais · 10 months ago

Text

-`♡´ - APARTMENT 143

pairing -> lee minho x fem reader

synopsis -> after a bad breakup, y/n needs to find a new place to live. although she's grateful for her best friend, up-and-coming model hwang hyunjin, for letting her stay at his, she can't keep living with him and his model roommates. so when an opening for somewhere nearby with cheap rent opens up, she jumps on it, despite knowing next to nothing about the 3 other tenants, only that one owns 3 cats. the three quickly learn of her breakup, determined to help get her back on her feet. but what happens when one of them begins to develop feelings?

warnings -> general, y/n gets told she talks too much kind of, discussion abt cheating

MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS | NEXT

CHAPTER THREE -> AM I IN? (partially written! wc:546)

"...and then, after telling him how much I love him, he comes out of our shared- yes, shared- bedroom with another woman! Can you believe that? I pour my heart and soul to this man, and he just steps all over it! Them? My heart and my soul, so, yeah, I guess them. Sorry, what was the question again?"

"...what do you do for work?" The guy on the right side of the couch says, arms crossed.

You blink. "Right! I'm a graphic designer for a website."

"What website?" Beomgyu leans back, arms behind his head.

"This Just In!" You say excitedly, passionate about your work. "I'm trying to move into the journalism area as well. I'd love to be able to interview some of the people we do, but my boss didn't seem very keen to the idea yet."

"How come?" The one in the middle asks.

"He says I talk too much." A sudden wave of emotion hits you. "My boyfriend says the same."

"Ex-boyfriend."

"What?"

"Your ex-boyfriend." It's the one on the right again, eyes piercing into you; you can't hold his gaze.

"Right." You clasp your hands in your lap. "Maybe I've overshared a bit to you guys. I don't even know your names-" You point at the two.

"Han," the middle one offers. "Well, Jisung, but most people call me Han."

"Minho." You still can't look at him.

"Okay. Um, so, unless you have any other questions...?"

"Yeah, actually," Minho speaks. "What's your current living situation?"

"Oh! I'm living with my best friend, Hyunjin, and his roommates. But they're all models and it can be a bit... dramatic." You laugh nervously.

"Models?" Han sits up straight, looking at his two roommates. "What are the others like?"

"There's Felix, a literal sunshine, and Yeonjun and Wooyoung. They're usually the ones causing drama." You laugh again, this time more naturally. "Wooyoung just came back from a business trip, so I'm gonna be staying in my other best friend's, NingNing, she's amazing and I love her, apartment until she comes back. She's also a model... I'm friends with a lot of models."

"Do you mind stepping out for a second?" Han says with a smile. Your stomach drops. "I just need to discuss something with my roomies here."

"Y-yeah, okay." Quickly, you pick up your bag and head to the door, only stumbling a little bit.

Of course, you press an ear to the door once outside. If they don't want you, at least you'll know before they tell you to your face. Then maybe you won't cry at the news. The thick wooden door makes it hard to hear, only picking out bits and pieces.

"Dude, her best friend is a model-"

"Han, I swear to God-"

"She does talk a lot-"

"Like you're one to talk-"

"Okay, but with the breakup? Won't she be, like, crying all the time-"

"Hey, Min just went through a breakup too, so maybe she can help him with it-"

"Shut up-"

"Back to her best friend being a fucking model-"

A loud sigh signals you should back up, taking your phone out and pretending to be busy. The door opens, Minho in front of the other two looking more tired than before you left.

"You're in."

notes -> what is with me making idols i love into shitty exs like what is with that genuinely

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#-`♡´ - APARTMENT 143 #lee minho x reader #lee minho x fem reader #lee know x reader #lee know x fem reader #skz #stray kids #skz fic #stray kids fanfic #skz smau #lee know smau #lee minho smau #smau #stray kids smau #social media au

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itsmarsss · 4 months ago

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Scandalous [Blitzø x Fem!Succubus!Reader x Stolas] (Helluva Boss) pt. 9 - If I Had a Nickel

pt 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3 | pt. 4 | pt. 5 | 1st bonus | pt. 6 | pt. 7 | pt. 8 | pt. 9 | 2nd bonus

Getting into a weird three-way situation with an imp and a succubus isn’t exactly considered classy, Stolas.

If Blitzø had a nickel for every ex of one his friends’ he’d fucked he’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice, right?

Word count: 6,117

Warnings: since it’s something concubi need to survive, having sex with humans for that need is not considered cheating between them in of itself. doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel shitty. you’ll get this when you get to it. this takes place during spring broken but I’ve already said do not take the shows timeline as entirely the same as my own lol. Spring broken will have happened after Exes and Ohhs but Exes and Ohhs will have happened before Ozzie’s in this fic. Kind of sexual/physical assault of Moxxie (same that happens in the episode, nothing graphic or anything), pretty tense chapter, Verosika is very much a bitch here but don’t worry abt it.

If you were to say so yourself, things have been pretty okay the past few weeks, which is a great freaking accomplishment, especially with Spring Break coming up.

Apart from being emotionally hard, considering the... well, the memories tied to it, Spring Break just makes you anxious, more than ever now that you actually had access to the human world during it with Stolas’ Grimoire.

… Which is the exact concern Ozzie expressed during the last sleepover you had at his place the previous week.

But you got this under control.

Of course, you'd still be careful, planning on staying in the office more often until you could find yourself less nervous about going up, and you made sure to tell him that.

Besides, there's plenty things more fun and more important for you to think of. You've been hanging out with Blitzø a lot these days, and you were actually having fun with the ‘trade’ with Stolas that you were now an official part of. You and Milllie managed to keep the weekly sleepover nights pretty consistent, Loona hasn't been in such a terrible mood lately and, therefore, Moxxie has been significantly calmer, too. You'd even managed to be sooo brave and keep yourself calm enough to make small talk with Fizz when Ozzie left the two of you alone for a few minutes in one your nights over at their place. Hey, maybe next week you can ask him a question, even!

Not much, admittedly, but progress nonetheless. Befriending your best friend's boyfriend is a little nerve-wrecking, especially when he’s so wary of the fact that you’re the only demon in hell with the power to confirm the rumors about them are real and have shit hit the fan for them.

You even- wait.

You recognize the song the very second it starts playing, taking you out of your thoughts and glancing at Blitzø as he turns the volume all the way up.

“You were the spicy little demon with the bleach blonde hair-“ you sing along with the car radio, holding an imaginary microphone to yourself before holding it to Blitzø.

“F-fiending for some- uhh- yeah, when I caught your stare!” Blitzø tries to sing along into it as he drives and you laugh at his attempt to sing the lyrics, already knowing he'd get most of them somewhat wrong, before leaning towards him so you can both sing into the imaginary mic together.

“Thought it might be love- but what?”

“But you went too far! Fucked all my friends and-“ Blitzø’s eyes widen so much they might as well fall off their sockets. “Holy shit-“ He steers the wheel so violently everyone thrashes around in the car, everyone in the backseat falling over each other and pushes the brakes forcefully, making the car come to a stop abruptly and he immediately proceeds to shove his head through the open window to yell at whoever it was that, as you could see now, had parked in his designated parking space. “Oh, you suck for life, do ya?”

He even goes through the trouble of fumbling to grab a megaphone he apparently kept in the glove compartment for... situations like this? Well, something like that. He continues yelling out insults until the sight of who comes out of the car makes him stop speaking completely.

It’s a hard task making Blitzø shut his mouth, you gotta give her that.

“Oh, shit. Verosika.” You state out loud, but it's more to yourself than anything. What's weird is that Blitzø says the exact same thing, the exact same time.

"Oh, shit. Verosika?” He asks, and you figure it's more to himself than anything as well. He turns to face you for a moment, blinking a few times before speaking. “You know her?”

“Uhhh…. “ So much for things being good lately. You want to stall as much as you can, you want to vanish from where you were, you want the floor to swallow you whole never to be seen again. The most you can do about all of that is trying to sink down on your seat so she doesn't see you, but it’s no use, really. She pops her bubblegum and grins at you. She already has.

“Blitzo.”

“I should have known you’d be here. I could smell fish from miles, which is odd, because I believe the nearest ocean is-” he pushes himself so far out the window he ends up falling face-first to the floor, but gets up as quick as he can just so he can finish his insult. “Three rings down!”

“And I should’ve known you’d be here when I heard the amber alerts.”

“Oh, yeah? I’m surprised they let your fat ass out of rehab.” She was in rehab? Again? “I can see you're still a drunken whore, clutching onto that beelzejuice bottle like its the last cock in hell!”

“They let me out because I’m still famous. And rehab is for sad, loser washups. So… your sister says hi. You wanna come out now, y/n? I'm sure you're familiar with the subject."

You sigh, deciding it’s better to confront her right now than to let her say too much, and so you get out of the car, walking towards where her and Blitzø stood. “Hi.”

“Hi? That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“For starters, what the fuck is going on, maybe?”

“What do you mean?”

“Getting with my fucking ex? Now that’s low even for you.”

“Your ex? Who's your ex?”

“Oh so you didn't know I dated him, that’s totally not why you’re here with him right now. Right.”

“You dated her?”

“Yeah, we dated for a while,” Blitzø shrugs. Oh, no.

“Yeah, until he ran off leaving me to pay for the hotel room, stole my car and-” Blitzø joins in, finishing word for word what she had to say, like he'd heard the speech a million times before. You don't doubt he has. “-ran three rings to wrath and max my credit cards on shitty horse-riding lessons!”

“Goddamit, whore, you will not let that go!”

“You… did that?”

“What, you gonna crucify me for it? How the fuck do you even know each other? Were you friends or something?"

“I- uh-”

“We dated too. Unfortunately.” Verosika spits out.

Blitzø turns to face you. “Wait what? You dated my ex?”

“Well I definitely dated her first. That tattoo was not there,” you point at the tattooed heart with Blitzø’s name crossed out inside of it, and Verosika instantly covers it with her coat.

“That’s true. Until… well, I’ll let the slut tell you what she did,” she tells Blitzø before smiling at you. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I'm doing a bit of freelance for one of the infinitely more successful companies in the building, and they wanted to have me come in this week to lead their team during Spring Break. Hey, maybe you wanna come too? Oh, wait, I forgot you’re on the big guy’s watchlist. Maybe he can give you a pemission slip?"

You avoid her gaze, feeling smaller than ever at the dig. She laughs at your reaction.

Blitzø interferes. “Well I don't know what that fucking means. But you said a week? No, no, you are not parking here for a fucking week.”

“Aw, you mad, Blitzø? Choke on a sandpaper cock.” She walks away flipping him off, and he chases after her.

You stay right where you are.

Blitzø follows suit behind her and threatens to call HR lest she parks somewhere else, which understandably sends all three of them into a laughing fit at the ridiculousness of the thought. Verosika snaps her fingers signaling to whoever her guard hound she’s parading around is to go, both exiting the parking lot.

As soon as they're gone, Loona barges out of the van. “You guys know Verosika Mayday?”

“Oh, yeah, her, yeah, we dated.”

“Yeah. Same.”

“Wait. You both dated Verosika Mayday?”

"Apparently."

“Ha! Now that’s karma.”

“Shut up, Moxxie,” Blitzø tells him.

“Was it before or after she became a popstar?” Millie asks.

“Sir. You dated a popstar?”

“Okay, why are you all acting like thats such a shock? Where's all that negative energy for y/n?”

“Hello? It’s Verosika Mayday.” Loona says, in a tone that's meant to shove it in his face that what they're trying to say is obvious.

“It’s… you.” Millie adds.

“I just- I mean, y/n is understandable. But you? Was she suffering some form of brain damage?”

“Okay, look, you are all making this into a way bigger deal than it needs to be. I don't pry into your stupid personal lives.”

A chorus of different ways to tell him he does, all the time, erupts from the three, you even joining in with a “dude, yeah you do.”

“What was sex with her like?” Millie asks you, and you feel like you’re going to short-circuit. This is not something you want to get into right now.

“Millie!” Moxxie exclaims before you can even say anything in return.

“What? She’s a popstar! You'd wanna know what sex with Michael Crawford was like.”

Moxxie opens his mouth to dispute her but stops himself. “Touché.”

“So, tell me later?” Millie asks you.

“Just drop it!" Blitzø exclaims. "Millie, find a temporary spot for that truck, okay?” He throws the keys to her. “Looney, Moxxie, Y/n, let’s go handle this shit.”

You take the elevator, and Loona begins to nervously pull on her hair. “Do you think they saw me? Fuck, I did my makeup shitty today.”

“Oh, you look perfect, Looney! Like alwaysss” Blitzø tells her, and she rolls her eyes.

“Shut up da- Blitz.” She shoves him away.

“You look great, Loons. Not coming from your dad.”

“Ugh, don’t say ‘dad’,” Loona complains, storming off, presumably to the office, but bumps into the hellhound Verosika had been with in the parking lot, who you assume is her bodyguard.

Loona stutters as she tries to apologize for bumping into him, clearly flustered, and hey, you get why.

Blitzø notices it too, though, and immediately goes into protective dad mode, throwing himself between the two. “Aww, big man, where’s yout bitch bag of an employer?”

The bodyguard doesn’t seem amused by Blitzø’s try at being intimidating, a bored-as-ever look on his face. “She’s in her office. There wasn’t room on the second floor, so they rented one here on this one,” he explained, pointing at the door….

The door right across from the I.M.P. office.

Great. Awesome. Fucking fantastic.

“Oh, come on!” Blitzø exclaims, frustrated as well.

The guy laughs and shrugs before walking out. “Sorry, man.”

“Oh, no, you don’t, bitch,” Blitzø mumbles under his breath, eyes trained on Verosika’s door.

Moxxie chimes in. “Sir! How about you let me go in and try to reason with her? You two clearly have a history with her, but I’ll be immune to her insults! I don’t really listen to what’s classified as ‘pop genre’ music, so her status to me is-”

“Moxxie, shut the fuck up and go,” Blitzø interrups, and Moxxie goes on his way, entering the office. Through the blurred glass wall, you could make out the silhouette of Verosika and two other concubi.

From outside, it’s still possible to hear what he says to her, and it is pitiful. “Hello Ms…. Verosika, was it? I work for IMP and it is actually rather important for us to retain the singular parking space we were assigned, because-”

One of the concubi interrupts him, and you swear you find the voice familiar. “Aw, look at the little one! He’s got a little bowtie!”

“Please don’t condescend me, ma’am. I’m-”

An incubus pops out of nowhere, offering to do something you can’t quite make out to him.

“A… kind offer, but… I’m married.”

Verosika leans down to Moxxie’s level. “Hey, why don’t you send a little message from me back to your limp-dick boss and his new girlfriend?”

Oh fuck, oh fuck-

They’re on him in a second, the true forms showing through the blurred glass as silhouettes..

“Shit, Moxxie!”

“Moxxie, don’t let her access any of your holes!” Blitzø yells at him.

“We should go inside!” You tell him, but it’s a mere second before Moxxie’s thrown out the door. You help him get up, and you can’t help but worry if he’s okay. “Mox?”

“I- I gotta go lie down, now,” he tells you, walking into the I.M.P. office.

For a second, Blitzø looks worried about him too. And then that’s replaced with anger. “Oh, this won’t stand!” He screams, kicking open the door to Verosika’s new office and promptly yelling at her. “Alright, cunt, that’s it! If you’re gonna be shitty to my employees, then I challenge you to a fucking…challenge! Fuck, I said that twice.”

“Is this imp boy starting a demon duel?” Fuck. It’s Izabeth. That’s why the voice was familiar. You remember being her friend too. Now she glanced at you as you stood by the door like you were nothing.

All of them did.

“I think he is!” Verosika replies, seemingly excited. “What’s the game, then, Blitzo?” Of course she insisted in calling him that, too.

“Every year you STD spreaders go up topside for easy picking while Spring Break is a prime time for crime of all kind.” You know he says it to hurt her, but his words hurt you too. Does he think that about you, too? Is that how he sees you? Is that how they all see you? There’s not much time to dwell on that just then. He keeps on. “So I bet you succu-bitches can’t fuck as many people as we can off by the end of the day.”

They all laugh at him, and, yeah, you would too if you were in their place, probably.

When Blitzø doesnt back down, she leans down to be at face-level with him. “Oh, you’re serious? Well, then we’re gonna talk rules.”

“Rules? You fuck and we kill why would we need rules?”

“Her.” She points at you with a gloved claw, and your eyes widen. “She can’t seduce anyone to lure them to be killed.”

“What? That’s bullshit!”

“Hey, I’m only making things fair! Seducing the humans is our thing. And you wouldn’t believe how good she is at that. There would be none left for us, would there?” she grins.

“Oh fuck you, Verosika,” you say, tired of the witty remarks about the past you so desperately wanted to bury.

“Bet you still would if I let you.” She leans down to face Blitzø once again. “Fair?”

“Okay. We don’t need that anyway.”

“Alright then. Game on, bitch.”

[. . .]

Blitzø manages a whole two seconds of silence as you walk to the office before he just has to say something. “So. Ya wanna tell me what that whole thing was about?”

“What do you mean?”

“The way she was acting super shady and talking shit about you? She said she’d let you explain what you did to her and that’s saying something cause when it comes to me? Oh she looooves talking about what I did to her.”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Huh. I’ll get it out of you somehow. But. Apparently you were like some sort of human seducing machine is what I hear? Why do we take so little advantage of that?”

“Cause we don’t need to. I’m an assassin now. I kill. I don’t need to seduce anyone to do that.”

“Okay! Okay, geez. Whatever. But don’t think I forgot whatever that was about you being on some “big guy’s watchlist”.”

You wish he would.

The two of you are the last ones to enter the meeting room, and you take a seat next to Loona as Blitzø stands in front of the big white board with stupid shit drawn all over it.

“Alright, shut your assholes! Here’s how we’re gonna do this shit.” He pulls out a drawing of yourselves, seemingly out of nowhere, and points to it as if it explained everything, when in reality it was pretty much indecipherable. “First, we find a fuck ton of clients. We portal up. We have our fun murder time as per usual. We pile all the bodies into a big fucking canoe. We push said canoe into some water. We light it on fire to attract the sharks and eagles and maybe a goose too, fuck it. They come and eat the bodies, we win the bet, we rub it in that sloppy bitch’s drunken whore-ass face, do you have any questions?”

“A canoe?” You ask.

“Why do we have to light them on fire?” Millie follows.

“Uh, yeah, why was that nonsense?”

“That one wasn’t a question.”

“That wasn’t a plan.”

“I’m sorry, that was a flawless presentation of what we should do, Mox, it’s not my fault you got a smooth little brain upstairs.”

“A what, now?”

“I’m calling you slow, Moxxie. God, why don’t you learn to take criticism, you talentless baby fucked troll?”

Moxxie climbs up to stand on the table, fuming. “Why don’t you take an art class?”

“Why don’t you see how expensive they are?” Blitzø yells back, pulling on the collar of Moxxie’s dress shirt.

“Hey, is there a way I can come with you guys this time?” Loona questions, nonchalant, interrupting whatever it was that was happening between the two and making everyone turn to look at her.

“Absolutely not, I forbid it. Not gonna happen. Sorry, sweetie, Spring Break is no place for young, vulnerable goth girls. You know the kind of freaks up there who drool all over you!”

“Just let the girl go, Blitzø,” you tell him, and he gives you a dirty look.

“Yeah, Blitz! I can blend in with humans easy enough. Just let me tag along!”

“Wait. Say that again.”

“I can… blend in with humans?”

“Do you have a human disguise?” Millie asks her, and you stop to think of it too. Since when has that been going on? Everyone’s seen yours plenty enough, even though you didn’t use it every single time you went up. How did you somehow miss the fact that Loona had a disguise of her own?

“Yeah, don’t all of you? I’ve seen y/n’s.”

The three share looks between each other, similar looks of deer caught in headlights.

“Wait. Are you the only one who has one?” Loona asks you.

“Well, yeah.”

“The three dickheads have been screwing around on Earth this whole fucking time without human disguises? And you’ve been letting them?”

“Hey how’s that my fault? Not like I can conjure disguises for them.”

“Hey now, we have to focus here! New plan. Y/n’s not allowed to use her human disguise cause apparently she’s this huge human awe-ing machine or something. But they didn’t say we couldn’t use Looney’s. Looney, you can help lure the humans to us and we’ll take care of the rest. Real simple, yeah?”

“Wait what’s that about a human aweing machine?” Moxxie questions.

“Unimportant,” you reply.

“How about the new plan, then?” Blitzø asks.

“Flawless logic,” Millie says.

“I think you’re missing the biggest issue, sir. Isn’t it crucial to have a client who demands enough kills to win this bet? We aren’t just going up to massacre!”

Moxxie has a point. But, surprisingly, it seems Blitzø has thought of that already.

“I got that covered.”

Blitzø takes out a blank piece of paper, scribbling away on it with the markers you bought him for his birthday a few months prior. After finishing whatever it was he was doing with it, he takes you all outside, revealing the handmade flyer as he glued it to a lamppost just outside the building.

Spring break

Victim

50% off!!

It even had a drawing of his very happy doodle-self beside a decapitated person and, naturally, various horse drawings scattered around the page that had nothing to do with anything. As charming as it was, there was really no way this single tiny flyer could attract anyone, let alone enough clients to have you win the bet with Verosika.

“Now, we wait.”

Moxxie voices thoughts similar to yours. “Sir, there is no way we are going to get enough clients by the end of the day with one poorly spelled, bad-grammar flyer!”

It takes less than a single minute for the street to be packed with people waiting in line in front of it.

Blitzø opens a cocky grin, laughing at Moxxie and elbowing his side before walking up to the first few people in line. “Now, who’s first?”

Okay, maybe he had this under control, after all. Huh.

[. . .]

Satan, Spring Break was… the exact same.

It was the absolute same as it ever had been, down to the thick, thick scent of hormones, sweat and bodily fluids mixed with sunscreen and a hint of weed, up to the obnoxiously loud music and even more obnoxiously loud people.

As annoying as it was to think of it now,, Spring Break did serve you a great deal in the past. Easiest, quickest way to human sex you’d ever encountered. The weeks of Spring Break could be enough to saciate a concubus’ need to go up for a long time if you were smart about it.

They were supposed to be enough, at least.

It’s been quite a few years since you’ve been up on Earth during this time of the year. Ozzie would not be pleased to hear about it, and he’d probably still go on and on about how irresponsible and careless you were being, but if you could get through this, and you truly felt you could, then maybe you could make him proud, too. Happy for you, even.

Well. Nothing like a little murder to get your mind off of things these past couple years. What’s some more?

“Now, remember, we can’t be seen, alright? And loose shots will likely cause a panic, so Loona can help with leading targets to a better spot to off ‘em. You got thhe, Looney?”

Loona takes a sniff at the piece of paper before nodding, standing up to change into her human disguise. Blitzø beams at her appearance.

“Oh, Looney, look at you, you look downright awful! I am so proud. Now fetch!” He points to the packed beach, and she does as said.

Luring the humans was going rather easily with Loona’s help. Blitzø wasn’t wrong, they were all over her. All it took was a look and a ‘come here’ motion, and she could take them wherever she needed: dark alleys where Blitzø could blow their heads off with a gun as she leaned back and watched, by the bridge where Millie could push them to their death and Moxxie could take care of the body, by some hidden corner where you could behead them… yeah, things were going pretty okay, and you had nine kills in no time.

Blitzø was just bragging about it to no one in particular when her voice came on.

“Alright, Spring Breakers! Y’all ready to get fucked up and make som ebitching bad choices?” Verosika announces from up on the stage, where she stood in her human disguise while huge pink-colored screens read ‘fuck you blitzo’ on them in block letters all around her.

“Fuck, she’s gonna sing. We’re not gona stand a chance,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else.

And that’s exactly what she does. “This is your final boarding call. All aboard.”

Pack your bags

Sun’s out

Take a vacay, babe

Take it straight to bonetown

V-time, free time, baby, relax

Self-care, no hair, brazilian wax

Hornt-up, succu-bus to the beach

Catch some rays while catching some D

It takes less than a whole minute for all the concubi she’d come up to earth with to find themselves busy with one, two or more humans each. Which makes up more than the total kills up until now.

“Goddamnit, that bitch started her goadish mating call! Now she’s gonna win all these sex maniacs, we gotta pick things up, guys.”

You nod in agreement, motioning to a guy throwing up beside you. “How about him?”

“Is he on the list, Looney?” Blitzø asks, but she’s… distracted. Of course, it’s pretty clear what’s going on.

“Yeah. Yeah I think so,” she replies, and it doesn’t reassure you at all, not when her whole undivided attention is trained on the Vortex guy who you have to admit looks pretty hot in his human disguise. And hey, he looked human but he wasn’t human, so you wonder if it would- no. Fuck, no. You’re not here for anything other than killing the targets in the list.

Loona’s reply seems enough for Blitzø, who grabs an axe from who-the-fuck-knows-where and quite literally slices the man in half after getting asked if he’s a leprechaun. “Alright, Looney, c’mon, who’s next? Looney? Loon- Looney? Where’s my baby?”

Blitzø immediately panics as he can’t find her where she just was a second ago, and you grab him by the shoulders to turn him in her direction as she walks up to talk to Vortex, making to take care of disposing of the leprechaun guy’s corpse with Millie’s help as Blitzø just stares for a moment before following her.

Pack your bags

Sun’s out

Take a vacay, babe

Take it straight to bonetown

Verosika takes a swig out of a flask before yelling out “now, who wants a piece of this?” and throwing it to the audience. The liquid ends up spilled into many people’s drinks as it flies through the air before landing on the ocean water, and it takes about three seconds for your suspicions about what was in the flask to be proven right as you notice the way people are acting now- that sure as shit wasn’t just alcohol..

You and Millie find Moxxie after you’re done, and he’s watching Blitzø pathetically try to cockblock Loona. He sighs. “Aaaan, we’ve lost him. It’s looking like it’s up to us to handle this list. You wanna make sure he doesn’t blow our cover?” He asks you, and you sigh in annoyance.

“Not like I get to want anything.” You stand up regardless, making your way to where the three stood while Millie and Moxxie began their speed-run (speed-kill?) of the target list.

“What, I can’t have a break?” Is the first thing you hear from the conversation, coming from Loona.

You immediately interrupt, scolding Blitzø. “Blitz you need to get the fuck out of here you’re gonna get us into shit!”

“That’s exactly what I just said!” Loona tells you.

“That is exactly what she just said, actually,” Vortex comments and you ignore it.

“A break? We have a parking spot on the line!” Blitzø yells back, and you know he’s actually being protective of her but pretending it’s about something else.

Vortex decides to tell him off too. “Hey, dude, why dont you chill out?”

“Why don’t you stay out of it? ‘Kay? This is our business.” He holds up another one of his doodles with his tail for a second. “Literally.”

Loona growls in frustration at him. “Fuck, Blitz! Why can’t you stay out of my face for, like, five minutes?”

“Because I adopted you! And that should mean something!” He turns his back to her, crossing his arms over his chest stubbornly.

“Oh, what does it matter? You’re not my real dad. I was almost eighteen!”

“It still counts!”

“Well, it shouldn’t!”

“Loon-” you try to stop her. You know her well enough to know she’ll feel bad for saying whatever she’s saying right now, but it’s no use.

“No! I didn’t need him then and I don’t need him now. You hear that, Blitz? I. Don’t. Need. You!” She’s the one to turn her back to him this time, and he looks back at her with tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

“Okay, look, I know that hurt, but you can’t be out here, Blitz.”

“But- but Looney-”

“She just wants to talk to a cute guy without getting embarrassed. Let her be normal. She doesn’t mean it.”

“Oh how are you so fucking sure, huh? You keep secrets.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You ask him as you shove him away from the large group of people.

“Yeah I said it. You’re a- you’re a secret keeper! Who are you to know if people mean what they say?”

“Blitz, if this is about what Verosika said-”

“Oh but it is! It is about what Verosika said! Or what she didn’t say actually. Do we even know you?”

“My life before you is none of your fucking business- fuck.” you lose track of what you were going to yell at him when you see Moxxie get thrown in the air, getting exposed to a few people around where he lands on the sand. Blitzø’s eyes follow yours.

“Ah! Oh, my god, it’s a fucking possum!” A woman exclaims, pointing at Moxxie, to which he curses under his breath before some guy grabs him from the ground and shoves him into a beer cooler, immediately throwing it around in the air with Moxxie inside.

“Come on, we gotta go help Mox out,” you tell Blitzø.

“Ya hear that, Looney? I’m gonna go kill something. You enjoy your break!” He childishly yells to her.

You find Moxxie at the same time as Millie does. Pulls the cooler’s lid open and he falls out of it, clearly drunk off his mind from the beer. She stands over him and he calls out her name excitedly from where he lies on the sand. “Millie! Hi. Hey. Hey, where did you get four heads? I wanna kiss ‘em!” He makes grabby hands and a kissy face at her, to which she just smiles in return at the drunken state he’s in. It’s sweet, actually.

“Come on, Mox,” she mumbles before helping him stand up. He’s so wasted he needs to lean on her to keep himself standing.

“You guys okay?” Blitzø asks her.

“Yeah, we-” Millie starts, but is interrupted by… well…

“Ooh! Fish!” Moxxie exclaims, giggling, as he points to the huge, monstrous creature that rose out of the ocean, killing everything in it’s way out of the water and causing panic to overcome everyone in the beach, resulting in a screaming, bloody mess all over.

Personally, that’s not the word you’s use for it, but sure. A fish.

The fish captures Moxxie with its gross, gigantic tongue, pulling him towards itself before attempting to swallow the imp. Fuck.

Millie shares a look with you before promptly killing a man, stealing the glass bottle he held and improvising a molotov cocktail, throwing it at the creature and stunning it enough to fall back in the shallow part of the water. “Kill the rest of ‘em! Go!” She yells out to you and Blitzø, which is enough for you to trust her to solve the situation on her own.

You and Blitzø resume to killing whoever more you could identify as targets, a harder task now that they were panicking and running around in a frenzy, but you manage to get about six before Millie’s done, cutting the creature’s tongue off as it held Moxxie and sending him flying over towards Blitzø, where Blitzø, who manages to catch him in his arms, making one of the targets shocked enough for you to put a bullet though their head.

Millie finally begins to walk up to where you are after killing the monster, chest heaving with heavy breaths and spitting a little blood on the sand, but otherwise okay.

“Is Mox alright?” Is the very first thing she asks.

“Oh, yeah, he’s fine! Way to show off, Mills!” Blitzø yells, and she smiles. You give her a fist bump as she approaches you before she grabs a giggling Moxxie off of Blitzø’s arms, and she can’t help but laugh herself.

“This is funny. I’m soooooo drinky.”

She squeezes him tight and you smile at the interaction.

You only get so much smiling time when Verosika’s around.

“Blitzø.” She calls, and you all turn to see her standing with her arms crossed over her chest.

“Oh, perfect! That must be the whores!” He quips.

“I only see two whores around here and they’re right in front of me.”

“Hey you watch your filthy fucking mouth.”

“That was handled rather… obviously, don’t you think?”

Millie picks up Verosika’s flask form the sand, holding it up before throwing it to her. “I don’t think this belongs to any of us. Would be a shame if anyone found out you guys were behind a giant monster fish in the human world.”

“Yeah y/n here could tell the big Oz himself. He wouldn’t be very thrilled, don’t ya think?” Blitzø is quick to threaten.

“Ha! She should be more worried about him finding out she’s up here right now.”

“Go fuck yourself. He’s not the boss of me. He’s the boss of you, though, isn’t he?”

Moxxie laughs obnoxiously. “Oh, Satan! You got yourself fucked!”

“Yeah, well, you three nasty-ass gremlins will be in shit for not being in disguises." She turns to face you, a bitter, hostile grin taking over her features. "And you! Your little friend already took your crystal privileges away. You wanna be a bigger disappointment?"

“Don't act like you fucking know him."

Moxxie falls over face-first onto the sand between you. “A human called me a possum. I am not a possum!” He slurs out.

“Hold on, crystal privileges?" Blitzø questions you.

It's Verosika who answers, though. “She not tell you about it?" She lets out a laugh. "Doesn’t shock me.”

Fuck. “Verosika-”

“You little fucks never wondered why she doesn't have one?”

“What do you mean? She gets one from Ozzie when she needs it like all of you freaks-" Blitzø immediately defends.

“Oh, Blitzo, you really are fucking stupid, aren't you?" She interrupts him. "She used to have one."

No. “Ver, come on-”

“Don't! Call me that. No. You're gonna hear me say what you did." She turns back to Blitzø, the same rage in her eyes as when she recalled all the ways he'd wronged her in the past, earlier that day. "Your little girlfriend here was forbidden from coming up to Earth without Ozzie’s permission for years.”

“What?” Millie asks, and it seems accidental that she says it out loud.

“Yeah. Sorry-ass had to be babysat every time she had to come up. On a watchlist like a freakin' criminal, cause, well- she kind of is." She eyes you up and down before she spits out "I'm surprised you can even be here right now. Congratulations.”

“Well duh? Of course she's a criminal. That's kind of what we do.”

“Oh, Blitzo, the killing thing you guys do is adorable. But no one bats an eye at a little murder, it's Hell. No, she broke demon law." And, then, the final threat of a carefully blocked out, written-over past, coming to haunt you in the form of her. "You wanna tell them your record time or should I?”

“You have no fucking right-”

“I have every right! I have every right. It was five months, two weeks and two days. You know how pathetic that is?"

“That supposed to mean something, bitch?” Millie growls, protective.

“Other than her being a whore, no,” Verosika shrugs.

“What does that even mean?” Moxxie asks her.

“She stayed up here for five months, two weeks and two days straight once when we were dating. I was worried sick, we fucking lived together too. And then I find out she’s been up here fucking whatever human that came into her line of sight instead of coming back home.”

“I’m- it’s not-”

“‘It’s not what you think, Ver, I swear!’” She mocks. “Boo-fucking-hoo! Now she’s on a watchlist cause Asmodeus for some fucking reason liked her enough to just be worried instead of actually punishing her.”

“I wasn’t in my right mind, you have no fucking-” fuck, you’re voice is trembling now.

“Save it, bitch.”

Blitzø notices your discomfort, deciding it’s better to go home and solve whatever this mess was there. He walks up to Verosika. “Look. We keep this pathetic little b-movie scene on the down low and you let us use the parking space. She doesn’t tell her lusty bff about what you did and everyone lives happily ever after. Deal?”

“Fine,” Verosika says through gritted teeth. “But I hate you.”

“Don’t care. We fucking won!”

[. . .]

“So… you don’t have to talk about it, but… please talk about it. What was that?” Millie asks you, careful.

You sigh. Maybe this time there’s no running from it.

A/N: genuinely don’t even know of this is good vut alas! we’re so back! sorry for the long wait lol love y’all

#mars writes #helluva boss #scandalous #blitzø #stolas #blitzo x reader #stolas x reader #blitzø x stolas x reader #helluva boss imagine #helluva boss x reader #loona #loona helluva boss #Moxxie #Moxxie helluva boss #Millie #Millie helluva boss #verosika mayday

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fayes-fics · 1 year ago

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It Had To Be You: Chapter 9 - Nobody Else Gave Me A Thrill

Masterpost PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU

Summary: You two finally figure it all out on New Year's Eve...

artwork credit @colettebronte

Warnings: none, really… just some swearing and love confessions.

Word Count: 3.8k

Authors Note: A multi-chapter modern rom-com retelling of When Harry Met Sally. Here we are; this is the final chapter! Both reader and Benedict finally see the truth. There will be a short, hopefully humourous epilogue to this story as well, which I will post tomorrow. Thanks to @colettebronte for betaing. I hope you have all enjoyed this fic <3

For the next few weeks, the dreary weather, the clocks changing, and the chilly nights drawing in match your sullen mood. Your argument with Benedict at the wedding made you so sad but resolute to try and put it behind you.

It's the last weekend in November when you are buying a Christmas tree that you feel the worst. Making a mess of dragging the tree back to your place alone, leaving a trail of needles behind you, you stop halfway and slump onto a doorstep. Recalling with perfect clarity how you and Benedict had bought one together from the same man the previous year, laughing carefree as you easily carried it between you. Then you drank mulled wine as you haphazardly threw on lights and ornaments, dancing to cheesy Christmas songs. It's what you miss the most—his companionship, the ease of time spent with one of your favourite people.

Just as you are wrestling the tree through your front door, exhausted, sweaty and prickled by a thousand tiny shitty needles that seem to have it out for you, your phone pings with a message.

BB: I'm sorry for how things ended at the wedding. I've been thinking about it for weeks now. Please call me. I want to talk.

Pride (and your current disastrous had-a-fight-with-a-tree-and-lost appearance) stops you from doing what you genuinely want to—picking up your phone and Facetiming him to sort it all out.

Not ready yet.

Two weeks later, it's mid-December, and you are sitting cross-legged on your living room floor with a big glass of wine, wrapping presents for friends, when your phone pings again. For a while now, almost every day, he has been sending links to Insta posts with adorable and hilarious content. Each of which you have enjoyed but couldn't bring yourself to reply to. This time, it’s a message.

BB: If you are available at the moment, please call me.

You stare at the little pop-up notification and take a gulp, a weird weight in your chest at the idea you might cave this time. Perhaps. Once you are done wrapping this gift. A few minutes later, your phone pings again.

BB: Okay, I assume no call means:

BB: (A) you can't take a call right now

BB: (B) you can, but you don't want to talk to me or

BB: (C) you desperately do want to talk to me but are trapped under something heavy

BB: If it's A or C, please call me back later, doesn't matter what time

BB: Also, if it’s C, please call 999 if you are in danger, then call me after. I don't have any heavy-lifting equipment…

You can't help but giggle at his gentle, silly humour, attempting to diffuse the tension. A large part of you wants to call; you even have the phone in your hand, but at the last minute, you rest it against your forehead with a sigh, something stopping you. Your stupid rebound fling being the biggest one, Benedict’s cutting remark about how quickly you let someone else into your bed, making your stomach roil.

Still not ready yet.

—

“Obviously, she doesn't want to speak to me,” Benedict laments, his words muffled into a scatter cushion on Kate and Anthony’s sofa.

It's the morning after they've returned from honeymoon, three days before Christmas. While they are thankful Benedict popped over with some basics to make breakfast, they could do without his melancholy—they’re much more about a ‘let’s have newlywed sex on the kitchen table’ vibe.

“What do I have to do? Get hit over the head? Be in some calamitous accident?” Benedict whines, twisting his head in aggravation as if trying to burrow himself head-first into the furniture.

‘What do we do?’ Anthony mouths to Kate, who throws her hands up defeatedly.

‘How should I know?’ she mouths back, frowning. ‘He's your brother.’

‘Your friend's fault,’ Anthony shoots back.

Kate crosses her arms and gets a look like a sour lemon, and he instantly regrets that line.

Benedict lifts his head to look up at them, and she has to stifle a giggle behind her hand at the deep red imprint of the cushion zipper on his forehead.

“If she wants to talk to me. She will call me back, right? I'm done with making an idiot of myself….” Benedict claims boldly.

You are sitting on the sofa at your childhood home early evening on Christmas Day, almost disgustingly full of Baileys (your mum's tipple of choice on this day) and Christmas pud, watching The Wrong Trousers - a family tradition - when your phone pings with a message.

It's from Benedict and your stomach vaults. You honestly thought after more than a week of silence, he had given up trying. And part of you was so sad. There is no text this time, just a video attachment. You excuse yourself to the downstairs cloakroom, taking a seat on the closed lid of the toilet, intrigued as to what it is.

The video starts with him looking directly into the camera, his handsome face filling the frame and making your stomach swoop again. Fuck, you have missed seeing it.

“Merry Christmas y/n. I hope you are having a nice time. I miss you, and I hate how we left things,” he opens honestly, “and when Bridgertons don't know what to do, we always act stupidly. It's our ‘thing’. So here, You can blame this on my genetics...”

The video cuts to black briefly and then fades into him, a huge 6ft lump, crowded behind a plastic toy piano on the floor, probably one of Daphne’s kids' toys. You instantly giggle at the ridiculous visual as he apes a maestro, closes his eyes as if about to play Chopin, and flexes his hands. Then, the tinny, electric sound of some familiar notes being played hesitantly begins. He isn't exactly a natural pianist.

“Hey, I didn't just meet you, And this is crazy,

You know my number, So call me maybe,

It's hard to feel right without you, lady

You know my number, so call me, maybe…”

You are instantly laughing. He's such an adorable, charming idiot. Sitting behind a miniature plastic piano and playing, half in earnest, half in jest. At least his voice can hold a semi-decent tune. It brings an affectionate mist to your eyes even as it continues…

“Before you came into my life, I missed you so bad

I missed you so bad; I missed you so, so bad

Before you came into my life, I missed you so bad

And you should know that, I miss you now… so, so bad….”

For the last few words, he slows down the song and looks directly down the lens pointedly.

Something in his pleading look is the straw that breaks the camel's back proverbially, and with a slight tremor in your hand, you scroll to his name and hit the FaceTime button before you can think twice about it. The sound of the tone, as it rings, feels so loud, and each crisp ‘bringggg’ makes your nerves jangle. Just as you are about to hang up, the call connects.

“I'm sorry it took me so long to answer. I had to find a private spot.” he sounds a little winded.

“Where are you?” you frown, an unfamiliar background behind him.

“My childhood bedroom. Aubrey Hall.”

“Oh my god! Show me!” You enthuse, your initial equivocation derailed by nosiness, which you decide to frame instead in your mind as mere curiosity. You never got to see it the wedding weekend for, well, reasons you don't want to dwell on right now.

He quickly flips the camera around, giving you an audio-guided tour of the room he grew up in. Dark blue walls with framed posters for his beloved Blur alongside Travis, Radiohead and Shaun of the Dead. Silly stick-on glow-in-the-dark stars on the high ceiling that are likely too high for anyone to bother getting out a ladder and peeling off. Shelves with little wooden car models he made with his dad before he died, mixed in with certificates of achievement from school, shiny brass archery trophies, and his early sketches in those cheap snap-in frames. And lastly, a collection of jagged small rocks and colourful pebbles. It makes you feel so very affectionate for little teenage Benedict.

“You are bloody adorable!” you blurt out, almost forgetting all the awkwardness from the past few weeks.

The camera flips around, and his lopsided grin fills the screen. “Thank you. I try to make a habit of it…”

You smile back and then sigh. “I’ve missed this,” you confess quietly, wistfully.

“I’ve missed this too. You. Us. Can we please be friends again? Please? I know we both have a lot of things to talk about. With that night and all… but… can we reset? I need you, Bluey. I am miserable without my best friend,” he pouts, his raw honesty making your chest ache.

It’s exactly how you feel, too. Except with a massive pang of regret that he seems to want to forget your magical night together. Sex is never like that, at least not for you—electric and addictive. Doing a reset to save your friendship feels like the most logical step. Still, it doesn’t stop the “what if” fantasies running in your head with increasing frequency, especially on a day like today—nostalgia, sentiment and overindulgence swirling in your being.

“I would like us to be friends again,” you exhale, a lie by slight omission, drumming your fingertips on your cheek nervously to stop you from saying more.

“Wonderful! Then it is so! I can’t wait to see you again! Are you going to the New Year's party? The one Simon & Daph are hosting at the Sky Terrace? Cos if you are, I was wondering, if you don’t have a date if we could go together? We always said we would be each other's plus one if neither of us is with anyone…”

That he wants to completely reset to that world makes your heart crack. You want to scream at him, ‘No! I want to be your real date! Pick me, for real, this time!’

“I… can’t do that,” you waver, and it comes off sounding tired.

“You have a date?” It’s soft, hesitant, trepidatious.

“No…” you admit, “I just don’t think it’s a good idea to go together like that. I… I can’t be your consolation prize anymore, Benedict,” you blurt out, the hurt taking over your tongue.

The look of stunned surprise on his face makes it worse. As if he had never even seen it from that perspective.

“That’s not what I….” he begins but is interrupted by a loud door bang as it slams into the wall and a yelling voice.

“Stop fucking hiding and get your bloody arse back downstairs. You can’t miss family dinner on Christmas Day!” Colin scolds loudly offscreen.

“I’ve got to go…,” he sighs reluctantly as an arm manhandles him up and off the bed. “Merry Christmas,” he adds, belatedly realising you both forgot to say it earlier on the call.

“Whoever it is, hang up. No one is more important than family on Christmas,” Colin gripes. “That’s it, I’m taking your phone…”.

The screen is filled with random shapes and loud noises as they seem to wrestle like children. And then the call suddenly disconnects.

You sigh and tip sideways against the cold tile of your parents' cloakroom wall.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

Benedict takes stock of his surroundings. December 31st, 11:00pm, lying on his stomach on his sectional chaise, staring up at the big flatscreen on his wall.

This isn't so bad… he tries to convince himself. I've got Jools Holland’s Hootenanny - the only decent New Year's programme, some Glenfiddich and Mini Cheddars - the best snack there is…

He sighs and realises how pathetic he sounds, even in his own mind, alone in an empty flat.

The man whirls you around, and you are almost thrown straight into Kate and Anthony.

“I should never have let you drag me to this,” you grouse so only they can hear.

They both shoot you an apologetic look until you are whipped away again. This man’s dancing style is more akin to a waltzer amusement ride than anything sensual or fun. Your shoulder is already aching. It's a far cry from the surprising salsa Benedict pulled out of the bag last New Year’s Eve. And the idle thought of him has you spiralling…

“Mind if we stop?” you puff as the band finishes the song with a flourish. He’s some slick European investment banking type, and really, you couldn't give two shits about offending him, merely your ingrained politeness kicking in.

He nods and goes off to grab drinks as you stand, hands on hips, trying to gather your breath as you watch all the people moving like a mass of limbs on the crowded dancefloor as the following number begins.

Why the fuck am I here?

This is much better… Benedict rationalises to himself as he wanders down the rainy, empty East London streets not far from his Hoxton pad. Who needs to be at a big, crowded party pretending to have a good time?

He pauses outside a trendy shop on Old St, selling overpriced crap that he's not even sure what it is.

See? I can do some window shopping. He tells himself silently—clutching at anything to distract himself from the creeping sense of dread in his gut. A slow twisting knife as he thinks about you dancing the night away, ringing in the New Year with some fancy, handsome man who definitely doesn't deserve you.

What does it matter to me? We are just friends. Best friends… the only friend I ever want to see every day… the only one who truly matters….

He has thought about how to repair the damage between you so much over the last few weeks that he's exhausted himself. Really, he just wants you back. All of you, ideally, but being realistic, any part of yourself you will let back into his life. The suggestion of a reset he made on Christmas Day being his cowardly way out.

—

You are fake laughing at the banker’s story as you lean around the pillar you are backing yourself against in an attempt to secure more personal space. Glad of the heated lamps and the glass overhang to shelter from the drizzle.

“I'm going home,” you growl.

“You’ll never find an Uber,” Kate points out deadpan as you turn back around and keep faking amusement.

Just as his thoughts spiral, Benedict hears a chuckle on the other side of the road. There, a couple are laughing together, wrapped in each other's arms, kissing, looking like no one else in the world matters… and it’s like a lightning rod hits him square in the chest.

Suddenly, all he can see are images of you, fluttering like motioned-filled playing cards from above, swirling into his eyeline, then floating onto the glistening pavement around him. Vignettes of his life and where you intersect at so many pivotal moments. The day he left uni - the car ride where you bickered like an old married couple, the day he moved to Paris - your dilated pupils and hitched breath on the Eurostar when he whispered in your ear, the unerring sympathy when you heard about his divorce, the way you held his hand when you wandered after dinner somewhere (he doesn't even recall where… only that it was with you), watching movies together on FaceTime, your incredulity when he confessed to his uneventful recurring sex dream, your surprise and, yes, arousal as he led you in the salsa dance, the way you tucked so neatly into his arms haunting him. And finally, how it felt to be buried inside your gorgeous body as you clung to him, calling his name like a siren song, intimacy like he has never known, the profundity of the connection petrifying the very life out of him.

But as he stares down at his tatty old Converse, the same ones he wore the day you met, in fact, all he sees in the puddle beneath him is the simple truth he has been in denial about, possibly for a decade or more. Rippling refractions of your face - your knowing smile, bright eyes, your wonderful, happy expression…

And before his brain acknowledges it, his feet are moving….

Walking fast…

Then it’s a jog…

Then it’s a run….

.. his feet carrying him to the one place he knows with every fibre of his being he wants to be.

—

You wander as if in a daze, seemingly surrounded by nothing but couples, kissing, dancing, whispering, and it's the final straw. You spy Kate and Anthony sipping champagne together and slope over.

“I'm going,” you sigh.

“But it's almost midnight,” Anthony protests.

“Being surrounded by people kissing is just…” you shrug, melancholy creeping in like a clingy fog around your heart.

“I’ll kiss you,” Kate placates, and Anthony perks up to no end at that suggestion, nodding enthusiastically as you both roll your eyes, bemused. “Stay? Please?” she pleads, pouting and grabbing your hands.

“Thanks, Kate. But no. I have to go. Have a wonderful night,” you bid them, kissing her gently on the cheek. “Happy New Year,” you whisper as she returns the greeting.

Benedict's lungs are burning as he races down Old St towards Shoreditch, not far from where you celebrated last year. He ignores the ache in his muscles and keeps going, checking his watch to see 11:56pm and racing harder.

I need to be there at midnight!

As you walk to pick up your coat, a sight makes your heart leap into your mouth and stops you dead in your tracks.

There, rounding the top stair, casual in old faded jeans, those ancient Converse and a chunky knit jumper… is Benedict. Hair fluffy and dishevelled from the rain, out of breath and scanning the crowd desperately. As if he is seeking someone.

Then his eyes finally land on you, and your world tilts.

Oh god, is he here… for… me?!?

Then he is striding purposefully towards you, and it seems like the crowds part. His eyes blisteringly intense, like they were on that fateful night. You try to school your face, aiming for casual indignance; you probably fail spectacularly— your heart thumping wildly.

“I've been doing a lot of thinking…” he begins as he pulls up before you. “And the thing is… I love you..”

Everything grinds to a halt, and your head feels dizzy.

This must be a prank, surely?

“What?” you stutter, disbelief rocking your core.

“I love you,” he says with a simple shrug as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“Ben.. I… what do you expect me to say?” you blurt out, floored.

“How about you love me too,” he smiles a tiny fraction, and you hate it.

You hate how RIGHT he is. Your body is a total jumble of live wires, but your mind is suddenly calm. It's like the clouds of your thoughts part, and it all seems crystal clear. And yet, something in your stubborn heart won't let you admit it. Terrified what it could mean to voice it.

“Look, Ben, I know it's New Year, and I know you may be lonely tonight. But please don't do this,” you implore haltingly, tears prickling hot in the corners of your eyes, “...not like this,” you whisper, defeated.

“Okay, how about like this….” he throws his hands up. “I love that you won't admit you love me. I love that you are looking at me like you want to kill me right now. I love that my body is screaming at me cos I ran here as fast as I could.” he gestures down at his slightly shaky legs.

“Ten seconds to New Year's!!” a loud voice blares out over the speakers.

“TEN!!” the crowd chants.

“I love that we are idiots who would never admit to how in love we are.”

“NINE!”

“I love that you are my blue lobster, rare and beautiful as a diamond but a delicious soft treat under that hard as nails shell….”

“EIGHT!”

He tilts your chin to look up at him, a thumb swiping a tear you didn't even know had escaped.

“SEVEN!”

“Don't leave me out here in the wind, y/n…,” he murmurs softly.

“SIX!”

“I… I love that you never give up,” you whisper so quietly even you can barely hear it.

The smile that lights up Benedict’s face makes your whole being feel like the stars live inside your chest.

“FIVE!”

“I love that you take homemade salads on a road trip,” he smirks playfully, referring to the first day you spent together all those years ago.

“FOUR!”

“I love that you kept your amazing dance prowess under wraps,” you laugh over a stilted snuffle, everything in you fizzling.

“THREE!”

“I love that I can still smell you on my clothes after we spend the day together,” he sighs, moving in closer, your eyes hypnotised by the movement of his cupid’s bow.

“TWO!”

“I love that you came here tonight,” you admit, your hands circling his forearms as you sway slightly in unison.

“ONE!”

“I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night,” he confesses, his lips ghosting over yours now, smiling crookedly even as he speaks.

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!” the crowd chants.

All around you, party poppers go off, colourful ribbons of streamers, and the sound of glasses clinking fills the air. But it’s background noise, your whole focus on each other.

Finally, your lips meet, the fireworks under your ribs matching those in the skies above, the same as it was that first time weeks ago. You melt into each other's embrace, your kiss a seal of a pact and the promise of something new and infinite.

“For the record,” he rumbles, his minty breath hot on your lips, the strains of Auld Lang Syne ringing around the rooftop. “I'm not saying this because I’m lonely and not because it’s the New Year. I came here tonight because when you finally realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start…”

“...as soon as possible,” you exhale, completing his sentence with him as he nods, grinning from ear to ear.

The drunken chorus around you gets louder; he chuckles and shakes his head. “I’ve never understood this stupid song.”

“I think it’s about remembering not to forget. Or not forgetting to remember. Or something,” you peal a laugh, knowing you are talking gibberish and not giving a damn. “Anyway, it’s about old friends,” you add pointedly, moving in for another spine-tingling, heart-melting kiss.

As you part, he cradles your jaw in his hands. “It was only ever you, y/n,” he sighs, hazy eyes burning into yours, his whisper fervent but contented into your skin. “It had to be you.”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n #it had to be you fic

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nyeddleblog · 3 months ago

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A little piece of heaven [Part 5]

Pairing: Wade Wilson x Original Female Character x Logan Howlett. Summary: In Wade's timeline, Iris is his supernice upstairs neighbor. In Wolverine's, she's his beloved dead wife. A/N: This is a Wattpad Fic with an original character of mine that you can find here. Warnings: Deadpool & Wolverine spoilers, kinda.

PREVIOUS PART.

Chapter 5: Tension.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. It didn't matter if it was a memory or dream. He saw her. He was haunted by her memory and this aggravating, irresponsable version of her felt like a punishment sent by god. Not only did he have to deal with her last words engraved in the back of his mind, always whispered in his ear, but he also had to manage not to cry whenever Iris did something so particularly Iris. He couldn't ask her no to be her.

Wade insisted on getting to know her better, but Logan didn't know what would be worse, if she was just like her, or if she was nothing like her. So the conflict in his mind was constant.

But, not only was she incredibly unpredictable; her relationship with Wade was puzzling. They were constantly flirting, touching each other, cuddling each other, hanging out, and his advances seemed genuine, yet she had no clue. Logan didn't understand if she was playing dumb, or if she was actually that fucking dumb.

And he didn't understand Wade's goal either. He would jolt awake at times, and he'd be there, surprisingly gentle with his soothing touch and his annoying, yet comforting jokes, like some anchor he rarely found in his past life.

Logan felt like an outsider then, sitting next to Wade in the couch. He saw Iris rest her head on Wade's knee, her hands tracing the test she was grading. It was the last one, then she'd take a shower and the three of them would go out to the shitty bar he'd been going to every night for the past week. He didn't truly know if he was okay with that.

"...And, another kid who's actually listening to me" she muttered triumphantly, leaving the tests with the rest of the pile. She stood up and offered them both a cute smile, "I don't know how I'm gonna be able to keep my job if they smell what I've been smoking, so can you guys keep the windows open while I get ready?"

Iris didn't wait for an answer, she left straight for a shower. An eerie silence invaded the room, tension building between them. He could feel Wade's eyes fixed on his hands, then on his tense shoulders and slowly rising up to his eyes.

"All good in that sick mind of yours, big guy?"

Logan let out something akin to a 'yes', avoiding his friend's eyes. He knew Wade knew it was a lie, but then again, they didn't become friends because he was one to open up. His gaze lowered, fixed on the red stain on one of the kid's tests, "Does she always drink and smoke when she works?"

He was judging her, that much was clear. Wade knew that Logan hadn't stopped comparing Iris to his dead wife since the very moment they met, so he just shrugged, "Wouldn't you if you had to bring work home every weekend?"

In Wade's defense, he wasn't told that the Iris he knew and Logan's late wife were the same person, he followed the clues himself. It wasn't like Wolvie would tell him his whole love story, or be very detailed about her character. He more or less told him her name and that she died in his arms. Wade figured it had to be his neighbor because she was obsessed with Logan before she even met him, and therefore he felt he owed no explanation.

"Relax, peanut. It's just a little weed and wine..." he shrugged, holding his hand out to point at the table "It's not like she doesn't give a fuck about them! She's been on this all day for a reason!"

Logan didn't respond, his gaze still fixed on the red stain. He was still trying to keep his mouth out of snapping at him, or worse, out of agreeing. But Wade cared, he clearly did. He cared about her and he cared so much about him. Too much.

"You know, Luna Lovegood over there is actually really good at what she does..." he continued to defend her, "I mean, she's a bit of a space cadet, and I barely understand what she's talking about or why she uses the worst colors in existence, but she loves those kids, you know?" he then looked at the door and back at the grade, "In a totally admirable, non-creepy way..."

Logan finally didn't avoid his gaze, but stared right back. Wade opened his mouth to say something else, but he stopped himself when he realized that under all that annoyance, Logan didn't seem as opposed to his words as he usually was.

His eyes rebelled with a defiant glint and slowly traveled towards his mouth. The silence became suffocating then, specially for Wade who didn't know if this was actually happening and was fighting the urges to joke about it with all his might.

Finally, Logan spoke, his voice low and rough, "Maybe she's not so bad."

Wade's heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing. He could feel the tension in the air, thick and palpable. This was new territory for both of them, "I think... I think there's precum running down my leg..."

TAGLIST: @l3xi3luv @sagemastah @leobabbyyy if you want in or out of the taglist, let me know<3

#deadpool & wolverine #deadpool #wolverine #logan howlett #wade wilson #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine fanfiction #deadpool fanfiction #marvel #logan howlett angst #logan howlett fluff #kind of a soulmates au #soulmates au #logan howlett smut #wade wilson x logan howlett #deadpool x wolverine

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powderblueblood · 7 months ago

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HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER TEN — THE NEW FACE OF FAILURE

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: a surprise visitor shows up at nancy wheeler's house during your sleepover. eddie has a run-in with steve harrington and gets some hard-to-choke down news from a teacher. things with your newly released convict father seem to be going... eerily well. content warnings: does excessive yappin count. cussin! shitty dads! allusion to past physical abuse! drugs and smoking! heavy pettin! lovesick and scared about it edlacy! word count: 11.6k

Dear reader,

For the first time in forever, I have nothing smart to say. I mean, really. For the first time in forever, when things have reached a previously unprecedented crescendo of shit-hitting-fannery, when my life has truly shown every possible sign of being headed toward complete ruin, when it’s not just opposite day but bizarro world incarnate, I feel…

Good.

Because I’m looking at him.

And he’s looking back at me.

And Nancy Wheeler is yelling for him to get in the goddamned window.

Eddie Munson has no business standing outside the Wheeler’s garage with a fistful of pebbles, cautiously flicking them at a second story window, yet he is. The soft pelting noise had made your neck jerk up from where it craned over Nancy’s nails, painting them a springy green and go, “Do you hear that or is it my paranoia talking?”

See, when you woke up that morning, you knew you had two phone calls to make. Instead of using the traceable line of your house phone, you’d snatched a handful of quarters and booked it to the payphone at the edge of the lot. You’d almost stopped at the Munson trailer, tossing your own rocks at Eddie’s window, but thought better of it– there was always a chance that the newly exonerated (sort of) Ray Doevski would be peering through the blinds, taking a Rear Window affect to his newly instated house arrest.

Yeah. House arrest, and you were sure that the same crack had run concurrently through the minds of you and both your parents– we’d hardly call this a house. But Ray was ordered to stay put, and even had this nutty gadget tagged to his ankle, this new fangled monitor that they were just rolling out.

“Always on the cutting edge, aren’t you, Daddy?”

With shaking fingers, you thunked in Eddie’s number, which he’d scrawled inside the cover of a Flannery O’Connor short story collection you’d been carting around a couple of months ago. It was one of those days that came up every now and again, where you couldn’t quite keep the lid on feeling blue. The weight of everything came down on you in an avalanche, leaving you unable to throw your pithy remarks into conversation with him or with Ronnie like you usually would’ve. Pretty much silent, pretty much staring a hole through the middle distance. He grabbed the book from you in the library during free period, your free period which he wasn’t even in, and whispered, “Just in case that curse gets lifted and you get your voice back. I’m sure you’ve got, like, a laundry list of barbs you’ve been dying to unload on me all day.”

You remembered the way his eyes softened as he slid the book back to you, pressing his ringed hand against the cover for a couple seconds longer than he needed to.

“Or just… for anything, y’know. We can just talk. About nothing. If it helps.”

At the time, you fought the instinct to put your hand over his.

“Won’t Wayne care that I’m calling?” you’d crackled, voice weary from underuse.

Eddie shrugged. “Not if you pretend you’re Gareth.”

And that was exactly what you were hoping you wouldn’t have to do, shivering in your thin sweater as the dial tone to the Munson’s droned out. What if Wayne answered? What if you couldn’t rightfully approximate the voice of a balls-half-dropped freshman? What if he knew it was you, what would he do?

Well, you needn’t have worried, because you apparently had a future in impressions. You squeaked out something about being the aforementioned Emerson looking for Eddie (at this ungodly hour of the morning?), something about Hellfire.

“Gareth the Great! What’s the problem, the Arcane Brotherhood finally scoop your ass? Need me to come bust you from their tower? I told you, goin’ all Fear and Loathing in Luskan is gonna cost y–”

“Jesus Christ, Eddie, it’s me,” you chattered, but even through the worry, a tiny smile pulled at your lips.

“Uh. Disregard everything I just said.” His voice had an early-morning static to it that you wanted to stay tuned into. “Hi!”

“Hi.”

“Hi… are you… shivering right now? Need me to come warm you up, because I’d be more than happy to cr–”

“Eddie, I’m at the payphone–”

“--what the hell are you doin’ out there?”

“--will you shut up so I can tell you? I don’t have a lot of time, so I need to cut right to the chase.”

“Sorry,” and this breathy little laugh runs through his voice that nearly knocks you clean out. God. What you wouldn’t give to hear that breathed into your ear instead of through some handset flaking rust. “Please, cut away.”

But, uh, yeah. That other thing.

“My father got out of prison some-fucking-how–”

“Wait, what? Like he esc–,” you listen as Eddie drops his voice to a hiss, “Like he escaped?!”

“Oh my god, let me finish! –but, psh, no. Ray Doevski is a man of manicured hand, alright, he’s not tunneling out of anywhere. It’s all apparently legally above board, but… he’s– he’s at home. He’s in the trailer… He’s there right now.”

The fear in your chest was beginning to make your breathing feel white hot, hard to get out. Walls closing in. Your dad is at home. He is in your trailer. He is there right now. Five minutes alone in your room, a flick of his eyes over your belongings, he’ll know everything– everything that you’ve done–

You didn’t even notice that your breaths were turning into low, panicked gasps until Eddie’s voice broke through the receiver again.

“Lace, stay put. I’m comin’ out there.”

“Eddie, no!” you barked down the phone, and a couple of birds scattered from the powerline overhead. Despite the fact that you were pretty sure collapsing into Eddie’s arms would have put a temporary stopper on the panic, you weren’t awarded such luxuries in this life. Figures. “I’ve got to get back to have some phony-ass breakfast with them in, like, now and you cannot be seen near me. Not here, okay?”

What Eddie crackled back with was like a shot of adrenaline to the heart chamber. It wasn’t a plea, or a demand. He simply said, brimming with a bright resolve, “Say the word and I’m there. Right next to you. Hear me?”

You had never heard anyone sound so sure about you before.

Well, Eddie’s valiance was rivaled only by Nancy Wheeler, who you phoned up next. Karen Wheeler answered in a chirpy voice that even sounded blonde, her voice pitching higher when you announced who was calling.

“Oh, Lacy! Of course. I’ll grab her for you, sweetie.” A little too goddamn knowing-sounding for your liking.

But Nancy was all firm edges, picking up on the tremble in your voice just like Eddie had. “Well, you’re coming over. Obviously. Pack a bag– we need to put in serious work for that Streak article you’re finishing, right? Might even be an all-nighter. I’ll order pizza.”

With your dad shackled to the trailer and your mom reluctant to leave his side, there wasn’t a whole lot they could do to prevent you from swanning off to the Wheeler residence. Had to stay true to your commitments, after all, something your dad constantly impressed upon you. But when you reminded him of this as you hitched your overnight bag over your shoulder, heading out to Nancy’s waiting car, he met you with a serene smile.

“Of course, honey. Do what you need to do.” No argument. No pushback. Not even a snide remark. That chilled you to the bone.

You attempted to distract yourself from… well, the whole meal of it, by allowing the Precious Moments-themed decor of the Wheeler household to wash over you. The house is warm and chintzy inside, with shoes piled up by the door and laundry overflowing in baskets. Nancy’s bedroom is just as achingly normal in tones of pink and cream, a sanctuary and a strangle between girlhood and growing up. She’d shyly batted a couple of stuffed animals away from the bed that had seen the throes of her and Steve Harrington. Her Tom Cruise poster hangs opposite a pinboard of college brochures. Barbara Holland’s memorial card on her mirror.

Guilt and innocence and upward mobility.

As you looked around, you thought about the photo strips from the mall of you and Tina and Cass and Carol, how they were stuffed away in a box somewhere. You made a mental note to tug Nancy into the next photobooth you both came across. And Ronnie, for that matter.

Nancy was kind about everything, of course, like she always is; she didn’t push for information about your dad’s surprise return, but you gave it pretty willingly as you cracked into her Cosmo and nail polish collection. Everything but the you and Eddie of it all… that juicy morsel you were saving until the witching hour struck, the customary time for girls to tell secrets at sleepovers.

But somebody always has to try and get the jump on you.

Which is how you and Nancy end up hanging out of her window, a beaming Eddie staring up at you from the pavement.

“What the hell is he doing down there?” Nancy hisses, her eyes panicked and flaring.

“I’m not entirely sure,” but even through the initial flash of panic, your voice has taken on this dreamy quality that makes Nancy roll her eyes–and rightfully so! “Munson, what say you? What the hell are you doing down there?”

“I–”

Nancy doesn’t even let him finish, just lets out an exasperated sigh and tells him, “Just– come up here, alright? I do not want to answer for what’s gonna happen if my dad catches you in the driveway!”

Without a second thought, Eddie makes to hoist himself into Nancy’s dinky bedroom window. He falls over the little seat in a jangle of silver and leather and hair and gleaming teeth– “Ow! Jesus!” “Eddie, shut. Up!” Nancy winces, you wince, but as Eddie rolls onto his back and clears the hair out of his eyes, you realize that fluttering in your stomach is not a fight or flight response.

He smiles up at you, all teeth and mischief. “Hi. Whatcha doin’?”

Oh, no.

You nudge him in the ribs with your foot, way too light for him to yelp like that. Nancy looks like she’s going to kick the shit out of him for real–and you too, maybe.

“You’re telling me you didn’t know about this?” she demands, turning on you. You notice that she’s still holding her fingers aloft, which you appreciate! No one seems to care about manicures as much as you do. It’s nice to finally be seen, for Chrissake.

“Like I’d bring the heat around your place, Nancy! Come on, currently in a precarious situation much?”

Hilarious to describe Eddie Munson as heat when he is, at best, a bull in Wheeler’s overstuffed china shop. Adorably so, you have to concede, watching him pick up a little porcelain figurine from her dresser.

Nancy’s not buying it.

“I plead the eternal fifth!” you exclaim, eyes wide and willing the laugh to stay out of your voice as Eddie peers around Nancy’s stuff. “He operates on his own logic.”

Nancy eyes you warily before her gaze darts to Eddie. “Can you not touch anything? ”

“You have a cat just like this!” Eddie barks.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” the both of you chorus.

Delicately, Eddie replaces the little ceramic cat with a severely offended look. “Sheesh, ladies, I thought we were friends.” He drops the pretense pretty fast, jerking his chin in your direction with a smile that has I ain’t goin’ nowhere written all over it. “I need a word with the duchess here.”

“So leave a message!”

“He can’t–” “--you think we got answering machines in Forest Hills?” “--my dad–” “--life might be different for all you up here on Maple–” “--will have him taken out by sniper rifle.” “--you know this woman used a payphone for the first time in her life today?”

A squinting Nancy lets this settle in the air for a second, like a stink bomb that’s just been deployed. I mean, you don’t know if she can see it exactly, but the charge between you and Eddie isn’t exactly subtle. Changed, maybe, from will-they-won’t-they to they-did-and-it’s-hazardous. Realization soon dawns on her.

“Oh, you–ohhh,” Nancy nods, and chirps another, “Oh!”

Then, a thunderous hammering that just about brings down Nancy’s bedroom door. The three of you lurch and freeze. Your hand instinctively goes to grab Eddie’s arm, fingers finding the soft leather. Your lashes flutter.

“Nan-cyyyyy!”

That high-pitched, middle-schooled, reedy little tone? “Oh, shit. It’s just Mike.”

“Mom said you were getting pizza so you have to get a pie for me and the guys! Wait,” some juvenile sounding muttering, “Two pies!”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Nancy snarls, in the way only an older sister can, “I… am going to go out there and run interference and you– five minutes, okay?! I’m–” She goes so far as to set a timer on her watch. “I mean it.”

Both you and Eddie make noises in the affirmative, him sidling closer and closer to you as Nancy moves out of the room. But she pivots, nailing you both with pointed index fingers. “And don’t– don’t you even think about it. You two are not subtle, I will know!”

“Wheeler, I resent that perverted implication!” Eddie hisses, but his fingers are already walking themselves over the curve of your ass. You’d say something if you weren’t desperately trying to keep yourself under control.

“Mike, quit yelling the house down like an asshole!” “Who is that? Have you and Lacy got a guy in there? Gross, are you sharing a boyfriend or something?” “Shut up, don’t be disgusting, I’ll kill you, get downstairs!”

Soon as Nancy’s door clicks behind her, you wrestle an easily malleable Eddie down to sit on the bed and climb right into his lap, thighs planting either side of him. Your body is completely abuzz now that you’re alone with him again, physical form melding instantly to the heat of his body. Eddie’s gaze darkens just a touch, like he’s dimmed the switch inside his head from mischievous to slightly dastardly. “Oh, shut up!” you say, and catch your mouth on his.

“I didn’t say shit!” Eddie breathes in return, falling right into your rhythm.

“You heard the chief,” you struggle through desperate lip smacking; that lived in taste of him, cigarettes and sweet soda, makes your head feel all baubly on the stem of your neck, “Five minutes,” Eddie’s hands web into your hair, your knees sag into the comforter, “Explain yourself.”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Eddie’s mouth clicks sweetly against yours, words a bullshit mumble against your tongue. A heady mix of relief and desire flood you as you brace your hands around his shoulders.

“Don’t lie,” you say, tinge of a whimper creeping in as Eddie’s grip starts to harden, indenting the flesh of your thigh. “I’ll kill you.”

Looking at his grin is one thing, but feeling it against your neck as his mouth embarks on its own journey is something completely different. “Prom–”

“Eddie, how did you even know I was here?” A light, mindless slap comes down on his shoulder. Your breathing is becoming troublingly labored, head becoming troublingly spinny as Eddie’s teeth graze your collarbone.

“Rudimentary guesswork!” he gasps, coming up for air that’s soon stolen by the ready plushness of your mouth. “Okay. Okay. Fine, I saw Wheeler pick you up in her goddamn station wagon and–” Eddie’s voice cracks a touch as your hips press harder into him, “--put two and two together?”

“And you came here because…? Expound, already!” Your furious, air-starved hiss is a stark contrast to the way your lips keep chasing his.

“I wanted to c– I needed to come–” he swallows your stupid blooming smirk with another kiss, “Shut up. I wanted to make sure you were okay. And I couldn’t sleep. Could you sleep? I couldn’t sleep, just kept thinkin’... Kept… hnm, thinkin’ about you… About you like this… ‘n last night…”

As he babbles, your heart jackrabbits. Christ, you want him so bad. You’d listen to him like this for hours–talking like this alone, open and wanting, is enough to get you off. Eddie’s easing your skirt up your ass, rucking that fabric up slow like he did last night–but you want more than last night, if that’s possible, you want all of him, and for longer and for good–

You want him so badly that you forget where you are. Eyes snap open to catch direct iris-on-iris contact with Nancy’s Tom Cruise poster, hung strategically in view from her bed.

Nancy’s bed. Nancy’s room. Nancy’s fucking Tom Cruise poster.

“Shit,” you say in a strangle, right against his cheek. “Shit, what are we doing?” You rear right back, getting a good look at Eddie’s ruffled demeanor, his blush-high complexion. That intoxicated look he’s wearing just from feeling you up.

Someone looking at you the way Eddie is right now feels completely, totally brand new. Ardent and urgent, untouched by influence.

You’re almost positive that your gulp is audible.

With a couple of rapid blinks, Eddie seems to come back down to earth.

“No. No, you’re right, um– listen, at the risk of completely humiliating myself–”

“More than you did crawling in that window? This is crazed.”

Eddie pauses a beat, a genuine look of offense constricting his features. His hands have moved from your ass to your waist, and don’t shift.

“Hold on–Doevski, are you marking my dismount?”

You assholes just can’t help yourselves, can you? Mouth twitching at the corners, you harden up your gaze.

“I’m just saying, if you weren’t wearing ten tonnes of regalia, you might be able to make a more subtle entrance–”

“--who died and made you a hellenodikas?”

“Oh! Pulling out the Ancient Greek mythology on me now, huh?”

“I would never… pull out on you,” Eddie says and manages to hold his stone faced expression for a grand total of half a second before both your faces split in two. See, you hate him for this; that he can keep perfectly in time with you, and has since the jump.

You’re the first to move. You edge yourself off Eddie’s lap, his hands mournfully side along your legs as you move.

“C’mon. Montague moment’s over. Kick rocks.”

He gives you one good, solid nod and mockingly straightens himself out before attempting to worm his way back out the window. Crouching half in-half out, he pauses. Some remnant of a smile he smiled at you about a million years ago flickers across his face.

“You know, Lace,” Eddie says, “you keep throwin’ me out of windows like this, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you don’t like me.”

The door of the record store. The hot blast of stoned realization. Your fingers around his wrist.

Knees working faster than your brain, you bend to Eddie and meet his mouth again. The kiss is soft and gentle, devolving into several little pecks around his smiling cheeks, his eyes, his forehead. To tide you over. To be continued.

“Eh, I don’t like you,” you mumble, tips of your noses brushing. “That much.”

“Yeah? Well, you got a funny way of showing it.”

You watch Eddie’s dismount (an easy six) and nervous jog all the way ‘til he’s disappeared through the shrubbery of the Wheeler’s. Soon as he’s out of sight, you’re almost positive that you catch a flash of burgundy paintwork zipping past the driveway, but it’s too fast to tell. Weird.

Nancy near slices your fingers clean off as she noiselessly returns to the room, slamming the window shut. For as enraged as she’s trying to look, this girl with her half-painted nails also bears the familiar expression of someone baying for gossip.

“Spill everything. Right now.”

—

Eddie is a living, breathing, stink bomb of a cliche. He’s walking on air, he’s signed a lease on cloud nine, he’s all Gene Kelly’d out and still tap dancing down the locker lined steel trap of Hawkins High. Push back his curling bangs and he’s sure that PROPERTY OF LACY DOEVSKI is etched on his forehead, by the delicate hand that wields your fountain pen.

Dude’s a goner. Lights out, KO’d, hit the bricks gone. And he only has himself to blame.

If it were anyone else, he’s pretty sure it’d be different. Easier to stamp out the flame of hotheaded lust beneath his sneakers like a bag of dogshit on fire if it was some other right-side-of-town type girl. If it was just about being his diametric opposite. But it’s not. It’s you, sharp and silly and sexy, a total turn on even when you’re doing your best O’Donnell impression to sic him into studying. The you that he’s been slyly slipping into the NPCs of Hellfire, in ways that make Ronnie’s eyes roll (but she still tries to flirt with them, and that weirdly makes him a little… jealous? That dwarf is slick when she wants to be). The you that sometimes make a cameo appearance at his lunch table when you’re not holed up in the newspaper room, sat with poise and pith that the rest of the gaggle of nerds just don’t know what to do with.

Eddie can’t count the amount of times he’s wanted to crawl across that table and kiss you. And he’s been close to doing it. Couple times. Remnants of sloppy joes on his hands and knees.

But now he can kiss you, at least in private anyway, because there’s still a roadblock or two you have to navigate. And so what! What’s a little challenge when you’re this blissfully, head fuckerly, heartburningly in l—

“Watch where you’re going, asshole.”

This particular dagger comes straight out of the maw of Hawkins High’s crown jackass, Steve Harrington, whose shoulder Eddie’s just accidentally checked. Now, Eddie’s never cared much for Harrington, but never thought much about him either—the feeling, outside of scoring a baggie or two, is apparently mutual. But the glower Steve is sporting says anything but nonchalance.

“Jeez, Harrington,” the grin Eddie’s sporting makes a full meal out of a plate of shit, “If you like me so much, you can just say so. No need for the whole pullin’ pigtails routine.”

Steve stares at him for a good, hard second or two— so rigidly, in fact, that it nearly makes Eddie’s face falter. Who pissed in this guy’s Cheerios? Because, even if he double counts on his fingers, Eddie’s sure it wasn’t him.

“I,” Steve starts, pretty dumbly, “I’m havin’ a party on Friday. You should come.”

Eddie knows an order when he hears one, but it’s usually couched in something like, You got any good stuff, man? Y’know, phrased in the strained way popular kids do when they pretend not to hate his guts for half a second.

He knocks a mocking two fingered salute off his forehead and Steve’s grimace deepens. “Be there with bells on, sire.”

Up the hallway, one of the classroom doors creaks open.

“I don’t have all afternoon, Mr Munson.”

Steve looks past him to the imposing, near-six foot figure of Ms O’Donnell, impatiently tapping her shoes against the linoleum. Eddie’s smirk flattens into a tight line.

“Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m in high demand! As you can see.”

Steve doesn’t dignify that with a response and takes off toward the exit.

“Quit gazing after the quarterback and get in here,” O’Donnell demands. And who is Eddie to deny her, Amazonian Baba Yaga that she is?

“Ms O’Deeeee, you call yourself a Hawkins Tiger?” he says, turning on heel, “You oughta know that Harrington is one of our finest ball players. Loves to play with balls, that one.”

“You can attest to that first hand, can you?” O’Donnell snarks, settling down behind her desk and gesturing Eddie to get comfortable at the top of the class.

Oh, Iris. She’s right on his level, when she’s not tearing him a new asshole, scholastically speaking.

Her name may not be Iris either, but tomato potato. Eddie slumps down into the desk like a graceless, clinking cat.

“I know you didn’t bring me here to talk about my extracurriculars. That would be a breach of propriety on your part.”

“Sure as hell I did not.” O’Donnell removes her eyeglasses and pinches the bridge of her nose, as she often does not even thirty seconds into an interaction with Eddie. “I’m missing my granddaughter’s recital for this, I want you to know that.”

He’s pulled out the there’s no way you’re old enough to be a grandmother line half a dozen too many times for it to fly again. Not that it ever did— look at this woman, with her tented fingers! She has a clear sight line right through his bullshit.

“I appreciate that you value my education more than some pipsqueak with a cello.”

“The problem is that you don’t,” O’Donnell sighs. There’s a note of defeat in her voice. “Eddie, we need to talk.”

In all the years O’Donnell has been on his case (four consecutive), she’s never addressed him by his first name. Eddie shifts in his seat a little, good mood not quite punctured yet. But askew, slightly.

“They finally found out about our clandestine little tryst, huh? Well, you can tell Higgins and the school board that I’m—“

“Shut up.”

He does. Right up.

“You understand why I push you so hard, don’t you?” O’Donnell asks him, and instead of some smartass response, Eddie clams. Ask him honestly and he’d say she’s a past-prime faculty lifer in desperate need of a power trip. That’s the narrative he’d always gone with anyway, the reason she’d always single him out and make an example of him and insist on the repeat exams he’d rarely end up passing anyways. Like, just flunk him, okay? Get the humiliation over with.

“It’s because I know your situation,” she tells him, “And I know you’re better than it. By a goddamn country mile.”

That knocks him. He blinks. Huh?

“You’re bright, you know. If you only allowed yourself to be,” O’Donnell nods, leafing through a manila folder in front of her, “If you could only find some way to focus, you’d be a halfway to decent student. Might even make it to college.”

“Don’t be too generous,” Eddie scoffs, arms folding over his chest. He can feel the defense rising.

O’Donnell stares at him over the rim of her glasses. “Oh, I’m not. Because the reality is, you’re too far gone. I’ve done all I can to try and drag you out of the sandpit of shit you’ve managed to fall into, but our time is coming to a swift and brutal end.”

A beat.

“Christ, who died and made you my guidance counselor—“

“You’re not graduating, Eddie.”

A cold sear runs down Eddie’s spine. “Um.”

Alright. Alright, look. It’s not like he hadn’t expected this, in some way or another, but again, if he is really honest… Eddie had expected some eleventh hour miracle that ended up with him with that diploma in his hand. Walking the stage in that godawful green gown, scooting down the line to take his place beside Ronnie and… and you.

First Munson to ever do it, at least in the proud township Hawkins. Something solid to his name, finally. A GED that wasn’t necessarily a ticket to college, but proof that he could break the family curse of not following through. He didn’t need to be valedictorian or anything, he just needed…

“But—but,” begins the scramble, “I’ve been doing… better, right? Like, I’ve gotten my grades up… not massively but a little!”

And he had. Fact is, these last handful of months, he hadnt just been dicking around with you and Ronnie after school— you’d actually gone out of your way to slice off some of those legendary brain smarts and slide them his way, bumping him up a letter grade in at least three subjects.

You’d said something similar to O’Donnell.

You’ve got something, y’know, beyond all the hair and regalia. This system is rigged to fail anyone who surrenders to being, like, a bad test taker— so you just have to game the system and make it work for Eddie Munson. Right?

Then you’d poked him in the cheek with your number two pencil and he’d forgotten everything he’d ever learned, brain lingering on that little touch for days.

That was before. Before your bedroom. Before Wheeler’s bedroom. Shit, before Granny Ecker’s closet.

“Now, Eddie. Jesus. You’d need a miracle to get you anywhere close where you need to be to get out of here. Look, I am telling you this because I—“

“Why? Why do you even care? You’re the one that’s been failing me half the time.”

“Yes, because you’ve been failing, smartass! Think I’ve got a choice in the matter?” O’Donnell and her high Midwestern fury shuts him up again. “I’m telling you this because… well, it’s time to weigh up your options.”

“Which are none.”

“Which could be none. The question on almost the entire faculty’s mind is, why haven’t you dropped out by now? And I’ve got a pretty good stab, I think.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

“Because, contrary to popular belief, you’re not your father.”

Eddie has to look away. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. I knew Al Munson. My first year here, I taught him. And I was green then, sure, in the goddamn dark ages but even then I knew he was just looking for any easy way out.”

“And I’m not, huh?”

“No. Because you would’ve dropped out by now.” O’Donnell closes the folder like she’s seen enough. “Eddie, you have something to prove. And it’s worth proving.”

Far be it from Eddie to believe that any teacher in this school actually gives a shit about him, but the glance he steals to O’Donnell makes a damn strong argument otherwise.

“So w… what do I do?”

“God knows half the staff doesn’t want you around for another year. Sorry, but it’s true,” O’Donnell rolls her eyes and Eddie feels the sting of his last name, the skid mark of his father’s legacy following him wherever he goes, “I’ll work on it. Starting with Higgins, which should earn me canonization of some kind.”

“Castle in the sky and all that shit.”

Eddie doesn’t exactly nod; defiance is as strong as his white blood cells. He kind of wants O’Donnell to prove that she’s serious about helping him. About caring at all.

She goes on, tone strict and pushing.

“But you– keep your nose to the grindstone. Just because you’re not gonna pull through this year completely doesn’t mean that the improvement in the last couple of months meant nothing. I have noticed, by the way. And, uh, keep up the peer tutoring.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows. “Huh?”

“Peer tutoring,” there’s amusement dancing in O’Donnell’s words that makes them a little uneven, “Lacy Doevski’s been so kind as to take you under her wing, hasn’t she?”

A shock of heat takes seat on his cheeks. Right. He’d forgotten about that scam you ran like a ride on lawnmower through Kaminsky’s class.

“Y—yeah, somethin’ like that.”

“Well, keep that something going. It’s good. For the both of you,” O’Donnell clips with a knowing look. “I knew her father too.”

She dismisses him with a wave and Eddie, feeling like she’d just made him tie up a pair of leaden boots, follows the tug of his deflated heart like a compass. A tread through the eerily empty after-hours halls brings back a memory here and there. Getting caught smoking under the stairwell on the first day of freshman year; a girl named Phoebe lending him a pencil in Biology, which he ended up using to pretend-stab Tommy Hagan who made fun of her stammer (Tommy cried like a bitch, as if Eddie would ever actually do that); fighting against his better judgment and jimmying the lock of a classroom open so he could help Gareth make a new character sheet for Hellfire and getting detention when they were found out, while the freshman hid under the desk so he wouldn’t be caught too. Plenty of little battles lost. But this is the big one–the one that tells him he’s doomed to repeat this adolescent torture for at least another year.

However, as soon as he shoulders the swinging door open and sees you, bathed in a pool of lamplight with reams of typewriter paper surrounding you, and you pull your fountain pen from your mouth with a tired smile, stitched together just for him…

KO. The big gold belt. Eddie Munson, heavyweight champion of the world.

“Hey, Hildy,” he says, sliding down the short handrail into the typing pool, just because he knows it’ll make you roll your eyes and laugh. And it totally does, a croaky little giggle rasping out of your lips. “What’s the scoop?”

“Don’t you dare come any closer.” Your voice, your outstretched hand, makes Eddie freeze in a rigged marionette’s pose. It’s like your words have actual alchemic pull, how powerless he is to obey you and shit. “Let me just…”

“Seriously?” Eddie lets his arms drop, playing with a ball of elastic bands from the desk he sits on as you painstakingly reorganize your papers. “Y’know, I really should have an early preview of this, given I’m the star of the goddamn article and all. What if I object? What if you paint me in, like, an unflattering light? I could sue. Character defamation.”

“You’re taking care of that defamation all on your own, darling,” you yawn, the punch of your words not quite hitting like they usually would as you stagger across the newsroom to him. You’re exhausted–Eddie can see it. The deep shadows under your pretty eyes, new ink stains appearing on your fingers every day. You’re jerky and shaky, overcaffeinated to the point that the drug ain’t even working anymore. You’re working yourself to the bone. It’s been like this for ages; every spare moment that Eddie doesn’t see you, you’re playing catch up for college applications. “But no. Not ‘til it’s cooked and printed. My portfolio needs this article for a lead-in and it has to be bulletproof. Watertight. Unassailable. Other words for–”

“--perfect?” Eddie steps in, tossing the elastics over his shoulder and tugging you closer so that you’re just about sitting in his lap. “In that case, you chose a real winner of a subject.”

“Eddie.”

“No, seriously! Trailer park nobody with a fantasy game club. Wah-wah. I don’t envy the amount of fluffing you probably have to do to make it remotely appealing to… whoever’s in charge of reading that shit.”

“Admissions board,” you supply. You’re close enough that Eddie can taste your perfume and honestly, he’s doing a great job of not just licking it clean off your neck. “And I know this is one of your self-pity rally cries, and I won’t entertain it. Besides, it’s not just about you. It’s about Hellfire. The whole… well, I’m not saying any more. You’re just gonna have to read it and find out.”

“But I want my ego massaged,” Eddie pitifully whines, right out his nose. He clutches onto you harder, the pressure of your body against his alleviating the pressure of his total failure. His breath snags as you, so tired that you’re nearly trembling, kiss him softly.

“Mm, let’s compromise. I can massage something else,” you hum against his chasing lips, but something saintly touches him before you get the chance to move your inky hand. He uh-uhs you.

“Much as I appreciate the offer and will immediately curse myself for turning you down the second I get back to the trailer… you’re worn out, Lace. Seriously.” Eddie flicks a lock of your hair out of your face. Were you always like this, even when you were queen bitch? Did anyone ever think to check in on you before? “You been sleepin’? At all?”

“I have a countdown to my future and a convict father taking up residence on my couch. Of course I’m not sleeping. I’m optimizing,” you snit in the sleepiest voice he’s ever heard, your head is lolling against his shoulder. The pout you’re wearing makes Eddie want to bundle you right back to Forest Hills, tuck you up in his grody sheets and not let the rest of the world in ‘til you’ve got your strength back. Just you, him, some records. He’d read to you from The Silmarillion, because that was a surefire way to send you unconscious in seconds.

“I just need to get this article done and then I’m… I’m good. It’s out of my hands,” you croak.

“Then it’s… NYU’s problem, right?” says Eddie.

“Columbia,” you murmur, “with Emerson as a safety.”

“Lofty safety.”

“I’m a lofty girl. But you know what? I’m gonna get in.”

A pang in the key of dread hits Eddie in the throat. “I believe that.”

“But you know why?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Because of a silly little story I wrote about you.” You curl Eddie’s hair around your finger and he wonders if you can feel the physical sensation of him melting. Dripping all over you like a pathetic soft serve. “It’s so beyond comprehension but… You’re gonna make my dreams come true, Eddie Munson. I can feel it.”

About time I returned the favor, huh? is what he wants to say, but it’s not the time and it’s not the place and he thinks you might be drifting off in his arms. So he just breathes you in, and takes the win.

—

One thing Ray Doevski was always known to do was move. Not so much in a without exercise, the body devours itself kind of fashion, but in a without constantly one-upping oneself, the self devours itself kind of fashion. With Ray, moving was always some new business venture, some new property acquisition. Some other new reason for a cocktail party, so your mom would have an excuse to pretty herself up and you’d make your on-cue cameo, sweeping through the room and waving at all the important people your father had charmed and collected like stamps. And like stamps, the people he tended to collect all got more valuable with age. Ray liked old money, even if your family was on the newer end of the see-saw.

You saw all that for what it was now. Running the big scamola, charming these people out of pocket with that ugly Hawkins High class ring on his finger. Gold, garish, glaring, a glimmering green stone set right in the center. You hated that thing.

So, to see someone so diligently dedicated to movement and momentum sit docile on the sofa is pretty fucking disturbing. With that ankle monitor permanently welded to his leg, Ray can’t do so much as stand outside for a smoke without the heat coming down on him. Such are the conditions of his parole. It’s a humiliating fate, watching someone so previously well-kempt rot before you.

And more disturbing still, your father seems… not unhappy about his situation. As far as a man on house arrest goes, he’s not angry. He’s not irritable, he doesn’t even seem that frustrated. It’s strange. He’d even asked you to borrow a couple of your books to keep him occupied. That threw you. He’d never taken an interest in your voracious love for literature before… but boredom does absolute downright Invasion of the Body Snatchers type shit to a man.

He smiles at you from the corner of the sofa as you come in from an evening shift at the bookstore, your worn copy of Answered Prayers by Truman Capote in hand. It sends a cold dart through your tummy.

“You!” comes a snarl and your elbow is being snatched before you can even regain your bearings.

“What the f–”

Your mother slams her bedroom door so hard it seems to shake the trailer. It occurs to you that you haven’t stood inside her bedroom in weeks–months, maybe–or even seen inside of it save for the odd glance. Even then, it was always the sad staging of dresses and hose strewn across the bed, glasses with scarlet staining sitting on the nightstand and the smell of cigarette smoke and perfume growing old and flat and stale. But she’d straightened the place up– now the bedsheets sat tight around the corners of the mattress, and Gloriana’s jewelry was tidied away somewhere. No used wine glasses to behold. Like housekeeping had breezed through.

She told you she worked as a maid once, ‘For about a minute. Before your father rescued me.’

“What’s your problem?” you snipe, rubbing your pinched elbow through your sweater sleeve.

Your mother exhales a furious stream of smoke through her grit teeth, Dunhill poised, lit and ready. “You have to do something with him!”

“Me?!” you hiss back. Alarm sets off a roil in your stomach. You’d made incredibly delicate work of avoiding your father since he landed on the other side of the trailer’s formica table, notching it all down to I’m eighteen, I’m about to graduate, I’ve got work to do! All of which is definitely true, but you’d padded it out a little.

Padded it out with the time you spent with your lips on Eddie Munson’s lips, sure, but…

“Yes, you!” Gloriana spits, “Don’t think I’ve noticed how you’ve been skirting around him since he came back. Shouldn’t you be over the moon with yourself?”

“I am. I am over the moon.” Greatest lie you’d ever told. “He’s back! Hurray! We’re all happy families again. Do we get the house back? Do I get my car?”

Your mother’s lip lifts into a little smirk. “Oh, Lacy. Has someone gone and turned your head about Daddy? Knocked him off his pedestal?”

See, your mother’s always had this thing– this seething jealousy about the way you looked up to your father. Not necessarily because you never looked up to her the same way (you’d written plenty in your journal about the vapidity of being a ‘society wife’, as she definitely was– a kind of cornfed Midwestern Slim Keith, an ex-pageant girl from the unremarkable middle point of Hawkins who benefitted entirely from her once-poor husband’s grafting), but because you were there at all. Yearning for his approval and robbing his attention.

Not like you ever got much of either.

“You want I should call the cops and tell them he’s been running phone scams from the trailer?”

Your mom lets out a little huff that could be mistaken for a laugh. “He just sits there, all day long. And when he’s not sitting, he’s curtain twitching.”

Just like you’d thought. Rear Window. Danger zone.

“This place could use a neighborhood watch,” comes the pith through your nerves, “Has he seen anything good, at least?”

Gloriana rolls her eyes at you, hooded with the pretense of as if I’d tell you. “That’s the other thing. He doesn’t talk. But he does ask questions.”

“Like?” you ask, after a rough swallow that alerts you to how dry your throat has suddenly gotten.

Finely penciled eyebrows quirk. It reminds you of how much your mother can resemble Ava Gardner, when she puts some chutzpah into it. “Better get out there if you want to keep him from his suspicions, is all I’m saying.”

As if she knows more than she’s letting slip.

“Shouldn’t you be over the moon? Aren’t you happy that he’s out?” You turn the mirror on her. Gloriana’s eyelids flicker, as if she’s exhausted by the mere question.

“Of course I am. Don’t be ridiculous,” she sighs. “But some things… were easier. Before. You and I didn’t need to pretend–”

That we liked each other.

“Yeah.” You snip right into her sentence because although you’re well aware of the scope of your mother’s feelings toward you, it still stings to hear it said out. She’s still your mom, after all. Or, she should be.

Standing in this room is making you nauseous.

“I’ll keep him occupied for a while.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

Moments later, you’re tossing a pack of cards on the little formica breakfast table. It used to be a universal language in your household, when your father was still feigning interest in you. He taught you to play cards, and taught you how to cheat at them. You only retained one of those things. Little miracles.

“Want to deal?”

Ray slowly closes the cover on Answered Prayers and rises to the table.

“Why don’t you give it a try?” he says, a smile playing around his mouth. You resist the pull to roll your eyes, as if he’s bestowing such an honor on you—and wonder when exactly you did stop worshiping him.

Sometime between the last time you’d seen the back of his hand and the guilty verdict, you’re guessing.

You lay out his hand, and yours. He archly remarks, “Gin?”

“I’ve gotten better.”

“You’ve gotten a lot of things, haven’t you?” Ray says, focusing on his cards. “Lot of things have changed.”

“What does that mean?”

“Look, I admit, I came on a little… strong that first night I came home.” Strong was one word for it; you’d call it more of a three-hour cross examination delivered while you were trapped inside an iron maiden. You’d shed as little light on the whole Munson situation as you could. He gave me a ride once or twice. We go to school together, what do you expect? “But can you blame me? With you and your mother living in… this place? I had to know. To be sure that you were safe.”

You want to think, he doesn’t give a shit about safety. He gives a shit about treason. About me fraternizing with his enemy’s offspring, or whatever. But the way he says it gives you pause.

“It’s not so bad,” you shrug, swapping out a card. “It’s cozy.”

We’re not cozy people.

Ray takes a dig into the stock pile himself, regarding you with a curious look. “See what I mean? You seem… more willing to accept your circumstances. It’s interesting.”

The line between Ray Doevski praising and insulting you is like fishing line; depends on what he’s baiting you with. Accepting one’s circumstances was usually Doevskian for accepting failure.

“What, did you expect me to be kicking up tantrums about not having a clawfoot bathtub anymore? Because I’m not,” you smirk, “I’ve even adjusted to the notion of not always having hot water.”

Your mind flashes back to the small, square shower in the Munson trailer and you make a mental note to ask Eddie how his water heated to boiling within seconds.

“That, I could personally never get used to.”

“Plumbing wasn’t so great in IDOC, I take it?”

“No. But that didn’t register so high on my scale of problems inside.”

“Was it scary?”

“Yes.”

“And were you… in danger?”

A long beat settles between you. Ray shifts in the vinyl-backed seat, a tiny squeak the only sound between him and his apparent discomfort. Chills, again. You get a chill.

“... yes,” he says, and meets your eyes. They’ve sunk a fraction more than the last time you’d looked into them. Some of the gray shocks in his hair have turned white. Scary, to witness real evidence of your parents growing old. And frightened. “Lacy, I’d done badly by a lot of people. Some of them were even inside with me, and they wanted retribution, and that was fair. I could live with that,” depending on what end of a shiv he was on, you guessed, “But I also did badly by you. Very badly.”

Ah, acknowledgement that their father has lied about their criminal enterprises for the better part of her life–just what every little girl wants. It wasn’t as if you had still staunchly believed the not guilty campaign that your parents had spearheaded throughout Ray’s trial, even in the face of stony evidence. He was guilty; you had to figure out if you cared about the crimes, or the fact that he’d led you to believe he was so much better than he was.

But this is the first time he’s really copped to it.

You’re not quite sure what his admission is supposed to do, so you stare at your spades.

“It makes sense that you don’t trust me anymore,” Ray goes on, “But I love you, and I always will. All I’ve ever wanted is to provide the best for you, the very best I could. Better than that, even– because that’s what you deserve. The whole world, Lacy.”

Stomach churning, you wish he’d stop calling you that. Your nickname sounds wrong in his mouth. A world apart from the girl he thinks you are.

“I just feel like you could’ve done that without skimming money off children’s charities,” you hear yourself saying before you register that your mouth is drawling off the words, “And laundering money through those rentals. And… what was it, drug trafficking? I lost count.”

Knowingly, you brace for explosion. Ray flipping the table, scattering his hand and laying an open palm across your face, the dull thunk of his Hawkins High class ring making contact with your cheekbone. That’d be something. Something solid. Something you could point to, that said I know who he is, I tried to stand up to him, I’m not him, please don’t think that I am.

But he doesn’t, so the line of your shoulders tense for no reason. He digs a cigarette out of the soft pack laying on the table and flicks it towards you with a fingertip. His right hand, ring finger bare. He’s not wearing it.

He is wearing a sad grin of humility, shrugging like, well, kid, you got me there. Dead to rights.

He looks like somebody else.

“So, how’s your life been, Lacy Doevski?” A charm dances around his tone, the way a flame dances around the edge of a photograph that doesn’t want to burn.

And despite your best fucking instincts, despite the way that nickname falls out of his mouth like upchuck, despite the fact that you should hate him, there’s a change in the lighting around him that you just cannot help but want to engage with.

“You really wanna know?”

“I really wanna know. Tell me everything. The road to Columbia, how’s that going? The newspaper. This job at the bookstore in town. Your friend, uh, Nancy, right? She seems like a nice kid. I know Ted Wheeler, a little bit. Went to school with him and her mom, Karen. And everybody knew Karen, but, uh, don’t mention that to Nancy!” He steals another card from the stock pile, but doesn’t discard one from his hand. You decide not to mention it. “I want to know everything, Lacy. I’ve been way too distracted with things that don’t matter as much as you. Call this… makin’ up for lost time.”

Your shoulders shrug into themselves, like when you were a little kid and he’d let you sit on the big leather chair in his office after you’d sat outside the door for a solid hour, begging to come in. The corners of your lips pick up.

“Just about to finish my applications. I’m submitting this writing portfolio–”

“--I thought we talked about business school?”

You seize. You had. An effort in setting you up for a future of undebatable prestige started to sound more like sending you off to the meet market, the more your father talked about it. Business school is where you’ll meet young men of excellent character, Lorelei. Excellent family stock. It won’t hurt if they see that you’re smart, too.

… why the everloving fu-huuuck would you go to business school when you spend every spare second of the day giving yourself carpal tunnel and preaching about that Woolfe chick, Lace? Nope, you need someplace with climbing ivy and people whose dissenting opinions on cliterature you can cat fight with. Eddie Munson, leaning over the counter at the Bookstore and shedding light on your secret desire to bury yourself in novels and pretention with his ever-burning flare of perception.

Cliterature? you’d asked, brow an arch.

Classic literature. As written by the fairer sex. Bronte and broads.

Well, Jesus Christ. Who died and let you lead the third wave of feminism, Munson?

“Um…” You hadn’t prepared a good defense for this. You felt a stab of nausea.

“It’s okay!” your dad chuckles, tapping you on the wrist in reassurance, “You changed your mind. That’s fine. But it’s still Columbia, right?”

“God, of course. Couldn’t imagine anywhere else.”

“Good.” The smile reaches his eyes. “Sorry, your portfolio.”

“Right, uh– I’m just about polishing it off and I’ve got a great lead in, my last article for the Streak…” you trail off. A warning signal travels down your brain stem. Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him about Hellfire. You’ve got to keep him as far away as–

“About what?” Ray asks brightly. Picks up a card. Discards another. You see a twitch in his mouth.

“An after school club,” you blurt. “My, um. My friend Ronnie’s in it. We were… lab partners. Junior year. Dissected frogs together.”

“Yeah, that really bonds people for life, huh?” Ray says. Not a trace of irony. “Well, I look forward to reading it. If you want me to. I know writers can be very precious about their work.”

And their subjects.

“Uh, well. We’ll see. I might not want to jinx it after I send off my applications.”

“Superstitious,” he smiles, “Just like your old man.”

“And I have a boyfriend.” The blurting just doesn’t let up from you, eh? Like you have to cover all your bases while Ray is swept up in this gregarious mood. “And he goes to… Ithaca. I think.”

Your father makes a face that stands up to some interpretation of, la-di-da, lookit you! and Christ, you’re nearly sure he’s bought it. College guy… he’d kind of fallen by the wayside since you took that trip to Saturday morning detention. He’d better fucking pick up if you call now, if he hadn’t gone back to Vermont or wherever.

“Well, look, I’m glad you’ve kept that momentum even given… everything. And I’m glad you seem to be surrounding yourself with good, level-headed people.” People he would have called nobodies eight months ago. People you would have called nobodies eight months ago. “Like Nancy. And this Ronnie. And that you’ve stayed out of trouble, as much as you can.”

You swear you see his eyes flick to the window beside you. In the direction of the trailer across the way, where a warm yellow light glows from the bedroom. There’s a shake in your breath, but Ray isn’t quite done.

“I’m incredibly proud of the woman you’re becoming, Lacy. And look at that–” His hand slaps down on the table, revealing his melds. “--gin! I thought you said you got better at this, kid!”

“You took me by surprise, Daddy. What can I say.”

—

“Quit that. That’s explosive cargo you’re flickin’.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Tap, tap, tap. One of the hinges of this rusty, crusty, dusty old domed metal lunchbox is loose, and you can’t stop toying with it. “This is what you’ve been carrying your motherlode around in?”

“What about your mother’s load?” Eddie says, scraping the lunchbox a couple of inches away from you on the bench. Still, you reach for it, and he smacks your hand away. “Respect the receptacle, please. It’s a thing of legend.”

“Seems like a dangerously obvious hiding place for a bunch of illegal substances,” you say, brow creased. Had Eddie put any thought into his operation thus far? Because this seems extremely haphazard. He’s always swinging that goddamn thing around school, and one look inside the false bottom could put him away for a long time, if the Reagan administration had anything to do with it.

“Exactly! Making it the last place anyone would think to look!” Eddie beams, flicking the lid open. “Class A drugs? Why, no, officer, these are my party pretzels. From home.” A deeply tragic baggie of crushed pretzel pieces lands between the two of you. Your frown deepens a degree or two. Eddie shrugs, shaking his curls out a little and starts picking through the detritus in the lunch box. Other than a couple of dime bags, a box of Camels, a lighter and some loose Twizzlers, his load’s light.

“How exactly does one get into the business of selling hydroponics et cetera out of a lunchbox, Eddie?”

“Why, you lookin’ to diversify your criminal skillset?” That sly poke. You roll your eyes, jiggling your mary jane’d foot and pick up a bag of Mary Jane herself.

“I’m just curious about the trajectory! The more I learn about you, the more it occurs to me that you’re possibly the uncoolest drug dealer in history. You know, stereotypically speaking.”

“The answer I think you’re looking for is that I’m a big, big boy,” Eddie rasps, taking an exaggerated chomp out of one of the liquorice ropes, “and I contain multitudes. Shit happens. Sometimes it leads to you selling pot. Et cetera.”

“What kind of shit?”

He considers you for a second, but you’re bright-eyed and curious about him. He jumps back from you when you’re like this sometimes, like he just touched a hot stove. You’d give him shit for it, but you did the same thing. The Twizzler waves in your face. “If I didn’t have such a brain-damage inducing crush on you, I’d think you were a narc.”

“Eddie.” Though your heart does jump like a needle on a scratched record when he says crush. Particularly when he says crush like that. But he could elaborate on that for you later.

“Fine, fine, fine– I’m not gonna get into the finer points of it now, but… basically, some shit went down with my dad that meant I had to move in with Wayne and working at the plant isn’t actually the cash cow that you’d think it is, and neither is me picking up barback shifts at the Hideout so… I hit up my dad’s friend Rick who said he’d help me out if I ever needed it and here we are. Lunchbox and all. Half ounces for halfwits at horrible parties.” Eddie toughens into this tense line as he speaks, like he’s halfway embarrassed about having to do this. “Means to an end, y’know?”

You nod, though you want to prod further so bad. “Do what they expect of you until you don’t have to anymore.”

Exactly, Eddie mouths with narrowed eyes, another bite into the Twizzler. “You know what tune I’m singin’.”

Better than the both of you realize, it seems.

“This whole,” you gesture around the circular clearing, the place everyone knows you come to meet Munson to score product, “place does kind of look like the kind of hotspot where one might catch Goody Proctor dancing with the Devil.”

It’s your first time out here–you’d elegantly skirted the responsibility of ever having to pick up for your group of friends but it’s… delightfully creepy. Whispers cragging through the tree branches. Eddie’s presence knocking you off guard at every turn–well, not you. Not anymore.

“Rumors are kind of starting to add up. Satanic worship, human sacrifice… girls panties going missing. That’s all I’m saying.”

A maddened grin peeling over his features, Eddie scooches closer to where you sit, perched on top of the rotting picnic table. “Why do you think I lured you out here, Lace?” His fingertips race up your calf and you spill a giggle, squirming away. “The Dark Lord requires another infernal bride!” He leaps up, ticklish touch attacking your sides ‘til you’re shrieking, not working quite as hard as you could to beat him away.

“Ed–Eddie, st-aaahap!”

“It’s all cool! It’s no big deal! Just take your clothes off and sign my yearbook! Then, hey presto, the big guy’ll give you whatever you want.”

Eddie’s hands slow to a still on your hips, your uncrossed legs caging his sides. His lids fall, mouth prepping a pout for yours, but you press your thumb into his lips.

“Whatever I want?” you whisper, eyes narrowing.

A smirk flickers across Eddie’s mouth, a puff of breath pressing his mouth into your thumb until the tip is wedged between the edge of his teeth. Your breathing stills for a second and you resist pushing it further into his mouth.

“Shit,” he murmurs, moving your hand across his cheek so he can kiss you full on the mouth. His tongue is needy and searching, making you curve into him just a touch. You can feel the prickle of his stubble coming up. Eddie with a five o’clock shadow… “I’d give you whatever you want, Lace. John Hancock in the Book of the Beast or no.”

The wettened peaks of his lips go straight for your jugular. You two have shared enough mouth-to-mouth episodes for him to know that feeling his tongue against your pulse is liable to make you do nutty things.

“Tell me what you want, dahling one,” Eddie’s mouth crawls up your jaw in an approximation of Bela Lugosi, up to your ear, where he knows you’re ticklish too. You feel him smile at your breathy laugh. “Anything you desire, anything beneath the blazing sun and under the heaving mud, anything under the banner of… the Hawkins township, because I don’t have a lot of gas money right now…”

“I want you,” you struggle through a sigh–his stupid mouthy beautiful mouth, “to get rid of that goddamn lunchbox. At least, for illegal purposes. Keep it for pretzels.”

Eddie honks out a nasally groan far too close to your ear and you jerk back. “No! You’re supposed to be all, ‘I absolutely indubitably want you, Eddie,’ and then we’re supposed to, ee-ee,” he thrusts his clothed hips into yours animatedly, “on this very table top. Until you realize it’s covered in woodlice.”

“Well, I can’t fuck you if you’re in prison. I’m telling you, that old tin thing falls apart in the hallway and you’re being tried as a full adult!” Wait, did he say woodlice?

“You worry too much. S’gonna make you warty. Plus,” he says, unlatching himself from you and tossing his effects back in the tin box, “this is a family heirloom. Al Munson made good on his last straight job at the plant for a grand total of six hours, and all he got was this lousy lunchbox.”

Speaking of Al…

“Y’know, I was thinking… If it wasn’t for your dad…” Your hands knit in your lap as you pretend to look around for woodlice.

“‘If it wasn’t for Al’ what?” Eddie’s tone is flat, “Grand theft auto would decrease tenfold from here to Bloomington? Less diner waitresses would have complexes about men who abuse the free refill system? Starcourt Mall wouldn’t have burned down?”

Your eyebrows knit. Okay, pause. “What has he got to do with Starcourt Mall?”

“I’m not a hundred percent, but I have a theory,” Eddie says, arms bound across his chest. “It involves horseshit bombs and the Russian mafia.”

“And you told me my Larry Kline theory was crazy!”

“Well, funny you mention because my idea actually runs kind of concurrent to that–”

“No, let’s put a pin in that for a second,” you cut him off, “It’s… my dad. I think he might actually be somewhat rehabilitated. Knocked down a peg, maybe? He actually displayed a hint of diffidence, Eddie. I think I … kind of have Al to thank for that.”

Sure, there was an air of initial disconcert to you and your dad’s little game of gin rummy, but the more you ruminated on it, the more it felt… threatless. Your mom had even joined you for a grim dinner of mac and cheese, where the three of you had nearly fondly reminisced on the pasta alla vodka from a restaurant they always went to on New Years Eve in Indianapolis. Maybe that’s what it took; a stint in prison to crack his ego like the Liberty Bell, and now Ray Doevski had to bear the humility like everyone else. Maybe he’d make good on his promise, making up for lost time.

But the disbelief, and, in fact, concern that Eddie is eyeballing your way says something different.

“Don’t thank Al for anything.”

“I’m just saying. Dad and I actually talked last night, for the first time in… ever, really, and it didn’t feel like he was sizing me up. It was.. He was… nice.”

“Lacy.” Eddie’s shoulder’s sag. He hops up on the table next to you, bringing you knee to knee. The tear in his jeans rubs against the webbed nylon of your tights. When he looks at you, it’s with rounded eyes that could very well have been checking you for brain damage. “I don’t mean to blow out your candle or anything, but coming from someone as well versed in the tales of a crooked father who never really changes as I… I don’t buy this Ray of sunshine bit.”

Your hackles start to raise. Hey. Just because Al Munson was a famed and patterned piece of shit didn’t necessarily mean–

Eddie clocks you immediately, your crunched brow and pursed mouth. His hands go up, requesting pause. “Look. This is your first time at the convict parent rodeo, so I know how it is. Whirlwind. They always roar in in some Cadillac full of promises, right, swearing to make everything they fucked up right by you. But it never sticks, Lace. They’re hardwired to not follow through, okay? At least not on anything that doesn’t serve their own vain little agenda. With Al, it’s always some big dick scheme, something that’s gonna set us, and by us I mean him, up for life. No matter how good it feels to have them back, it– it always feels better when they’re gone.”

His searching eyes dart to his hands, as if he’d said a touch too much. On the one hand, a couple of painful pop rocks explode in your chest. You always feel this way whenever he mentions Al– Eddie’s let you in on glimpses here and there, revealing that he hasn’t quite shucked off the essence of being a hurt kid. It presents you with the super challenging desire to soothe the memory, but you dance around it at a distance. The dad stuff, it’s still sticky for the both of you. But now that Ray is back, and Al is back, you kind of have to talk about it. It figures pretty keenly into… whatever the fuck you two think you’re doing.

Then, on the other hand, a quick flash of resentment burns in you. Yeah, your dad is hardwired–why can’t mine be different?

“Better?” you ask.

“Maybe–not better,” Eddie rectifies, his rings knocking against his palm. “But easier. It’s always easier when he’s gone, even if I want him to be there. At least I know what to expect when he doesn’t call or write or whatever, which is nothing.”

“So I should do the same? Expect nothing?” You can’t hide the bite in your voice, and you can’t meet his eyes when he looks at you.

“Lacy,” he says, searching hard for you in there, “You know what kind of guy your dad is. All the pomp and circumstance in the world won’t change what you’ve already seen. What you’ve already been through. This nice guy shit is a tactic– you…”

A heavy-ringed hand pulls your face to his, forcing you to look him in his earnest, gleaming eyes.

“You deserve more than that.”

Confusion with a sadness chaser churns in you. The metallic chill of Eddie’s rings against your cheek. A cooling comfort. Not a harsh sting. Not an open palm. A cradle.

“I know you don’t believe me, for whatever reason, but you do deserve more than that.”

I still want you to be wrong, a voice hisses in the back of your head. Fucking Medusa rising.

“Yeah,” you nod in his hands, surrendering because it’s the right thing to say. “Yeah, of course I do. I’ll be careful. It’s fine.”

“And speaking of careful,” Eddie’s timbre hits a more suggestive spot, his hand falling from your jaw to your shoulder, “Harrington’s having a party on Friday, s’why I need fresh supplies.”

“Oh, really?” you mumble, mood not immediately perking up.

“Yes, really,” Eddie mocks, grip slipping to your waist. “I was thinking… y’know. Harrington’s house is big. Lotta rooms. Lotta beds…”

“Lot of intimacy at big parties,” you paraphrase Gatsby. “But the last time I was at Harrington’s… Is that such a good idea? Risking a repeat of teenage gladiator?”

“You were hardly gladiating, you were performing The Crab Monologues. Now, Carol, she wa–”

A scowl starts growing on your face. “Not helping your case.”

“Okay. Okay, I’m sorry,” Eddie grins that bitten, private grin he deploys when he’s just about to lay one on you. “Will you show if I promise to protect you from wild redheaded assailants?”

“I’ll consider it. But that better include that little neighbor girl of yours, too,” you warn, suddenly reminded of the viscous stink-eye that Billy Hargrove’s stepsister had been throwing your way the last couple of times that you passed her in the trailer park. “Orphan Annie has it out for me for some reason.”

“You’re so cute when you’re paranoid.”

“You have a woodlouse in your bangs.”“Wuagh! Where! Kill it!”

author's notes: christ it is GOOD TO BE BACK!!! if this feels like a part one to something, that is because it very much is, my friends. this was on its way to becoming a 20k+ chapter, which would freak me out actually so i decided to have some boundaries for once and split it in two. get you warmed up for what's to come. it's drama. btw. anyway on with the show - ohhh, you guys i have been listening to so much early-mid 00s emo in order to write this story. i realized that that's my secret weapon, because it's just as melodramatic as these two fucking dumbshits are. points to anyone who knows what the title of the chapter is a reference to (bonus points if they can find it a second time in a past chapter of this story) - flannery o'connor is of course a standard doevski pick for an author, but also a nod to maya hawke playing her in the biopic, which looks exquisite btw - back at it with the extremely rudimentary dnd references! i thought fear and loathing in luskan was fun - eddie WOULD know a ton about ancient greek mythology, specifically the goings on at the olympics, but not because he has any real vested interest in it but moreso because when he researches for a campaign he goes absolutely hard, like me with my 26 tabs open googling 'nail polish shades popular 80s teen girl bonne bell' - kick rocks! montague moment's over! but real quick-- what's munson? it is not hand, nor foot nor arm nor face, nor any other part... belonging to a man :) - yet another hellfire & ice fancast moment, i must present my personal pick for o'donnell-- it's gotta be allison janney, baby. less in the 10 things i hate about you guidance counselor vein, rather in the stepmom from juno vein. - 'hey hildy, what's the scoop?' had to get a his girl friday reference in somewhere, didn't i - answered prayers by truman capote is not only the cuntiest book ever written (capote essentially sold the secrets of his wealthy socialite friends in order to write it) but is also the latest ryan murphy adaptation - we stan jordan baker from the great gatsby in this house alright! that's all for this one! hope you enjoyed it, i know it's heavy on set up but next chapter will see us right back at casa de harrington for another blowout party, so... brace yourselves. please comment and reblog to support the work, thank you hellcats i love you forever

#published by powder #hellfire & ice #in progress #e. munson by powder #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x oc #stranger things fic #eddie munson fic

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kkanabel · 3 months ago

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caffeine addiction ❃ "what." ❃ chapter 5 bakugou katsuki x reader / coffee shop!au + fashion?au

directory/m.list

⇦ previous chapter - next chapter ⇨

words: ~3.6k

t/w: implied sexual content but no actual yuckies

Bakugou sat in the men’s dressing room with his legs crossed at the ankles, examining the models before the show. The models, makeup artists, and hairstylists felt scrutinized under his wary gaze. Bakugou Masaru’s son is no joke.

This morning, he woke up and cut his daily workout short to go to his café. He was filling up two five-gallon insulated beverage dispensers with his famous drip coffee. To help out with the show, he was supplying the entire staff with caffeination. He knew that the coffee was going to lose its aroma throughout the day, but he was going to be much too busy to maintain a coffee machine today. While he was waiting for the coffee to brew, he kept his café open just in case any customers came in.

To his surprise, you walked in only a couple minutes after he opened. Outside the door, he had a sign telling his customers that he’d be closed for most of the day. Secretly, he was glad that you came in today, but he was disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to see you sit in his café for extended periods of time.

You looked amazing. He had to check if he was drooling each time he glanced at you, and then cursed himself for being such a creep. The fact that you didn’t show any signs of mutual interest in him made him disappointed. He didn’t even know why his ego was getting assaulted in response to this, especially because he got daily doses of female attention.

You were so reserved and mysterious to him, and it made him desperate to get to know you better. You always sat at that same window-seat table while doing your work. And that was the thing-- you were always doing work. He couldn’t ever have a real, meaningful conversation with you because you were always doing things. Even if you took a quick break, Bakugou was too much of a scared little shit to make an actual move.

Bakugou found his eyes trailing to you even when your hair was messy, your eyes crusty, and your dark circles pronounced. What is going on with him? What are you doing to him? And how?

Maybe it was the way you were so dedicated to your work. Maybe it’s the way you were able to look like a drug addict one day and an Instagram influencer the next day. Maybe it’s the way you smiled at him after you got your coffee. Maybe it’s the way your contagious laughter spreads to him each time you crack a joke. Maybe it’s the way you always answered with something so interesting after he asked a question about you, and then left him to keep doing your work again.

“Yeah, I’m just taking a quick break.”

“Whatcha doin’ over there?”

“Oh, I’m designing an advert for a shitty dating app! Well, I’ve gotta get back to it.”

You always walked away before he was able to make more conversation with you. Did you find him annoying? You returned the favor, though. It’s not like you were obviously avoiding him. You seemed to enjoy the short conversations that the two of you had! It just seemed like you backed out of the conversation because you were so focused on doing your job. That only made you more attractive to him. He wonders-- if he was against dating because it encroached on his work, was it the same for you?

If he was a recurring factor in your work, would you feel like you’re more allowed to pursue him? At this point, he was falling for you more and more. He might ask you out on a date and ignore his rules altogether. How did it even get to this point? You’d only started becoming a regular at his café a month ago.

Bakugou watched as you disappeared from his café with your two red-eyes. He’s going insane over a girl that he hardly even knows.

He tapped his foot backstage, standing up when he saw a makeup artist looking at the reference pictures that he gave to them. “Oi. The eyes need to be sharp and bold, like the themes of this line,” he said, voice gruff as he pointed out the sharp edges of the eye makeup in the picture. The makeup artist seemed to tremble a little under his gaze, so he left the area to continue supervising the models.

Bakugou made the reference pictures for the makeup himself, knowing that he would be best at translating his dad’s vision into makeup. His dad was only ever good for translating his thoughts onto textiles. Although Bakugou wasn’t great at makeup, he was great at knowing what this line meant to his parents.

He walked over to the racks of clothing lines up against the walls, running his hands through the fabric. This line heavily depended on the geometric patterns that his dad was inspired by this time around. Thus, everything surrounding the fashion show had to reflect that. Bakugou was always a creative director for Masaki’s fashion lines for a reason. This time around, though, he was the main creative director alongside his father. He took a sip of his coffee as he sat back down on his bench, lost in thought.

Masaki, his mother and father’s passion, became a brand that embodied creativity in an explorative and bold way. Each line always had a small sub-line of clothes that were saturated in color, even if the rest of the pieces in the line weren’t. It was always these three– orange, green, and silver. Always in bright hues. Over time, these three colors had become the face of Masaki as a brand.

In every interview his parents had, they would always describe the brand in one word. Explosive.

Bakugou never really understood the meaning and symbolism behind the pieces that his father made up until he’d grown older. Most people don’t understand haute couture, period. Many look at the pieces that these lines produce and simply look at the price tag and go, “Who would pay that much for an ugly sweater?” While Bakugou agreed to an extent (especially the t-shirts with a simple logo on them that sell for way too much) he also understood the other side of it.

High fashion, to him, is not just about the elitism of the brand—not just showing off your financial prowess. To Bakugou, the works of designers around the world are meant to be entirely works of art. Whether or not you believe that ugly sweater from Gucci is worth a kidney, there was still thought, time, and training put into it. (Hopefully.) Just like a painting, high fashion is an expression of the thoughts of the designer into a piece that takes hours to create. He saw his father hunched over a sewing table for hours for a reason, and he truly believed that the pieces from Masaki deserved their price tag, if not more.

Even then, it took Bakugou years to truly understand what it was that differentiated his parents’ work to others. When he compared the work of other brands to his father’s, he understood. Whereas brands like Kindeki valued the portion of creativity that was more subdued and focused on innovation and symbolism, Masaki was always sharp and in-your-face. It could be seen in the silhouettes of the blazers and the crisp edges of the patterns that his father preferred.

This manifested in Bakugou as he grew up, of course. As a child, he was the exact definition of explosive. His parents would have to calm down his anger-filled tantrums on the daily, and he was the middle-school bully that everybody was afraid of.

But as he grew up, he mellowed out like the flavor of espresso after being watered down. His anger went into going to the gym, and his mind became more relaxed as he worked each day at his café.

After you finished your red eye, you’d pranced over to the table with refreshments and poured yourself another cup of coffee. It tasted just like the drip coffee from your favorite café, so you were absolutely elated. There was nothing as good as the coffee that you’ve had from that place. You’d have to ask someone where the coffee comes from later.

You were watching models get ready at your aunt’s favorite luxury fashion brand. Other than her own, of course. You walked back over to your table, where she was sitting with her red eye still in her hand.

“Honey, when Mitsuki gets back, I’ve got a surprise for you~”

This woman was like a second mother to you. On your fifth birthday, you clearly remember walking into her office and touching all of the pretty fabrics and beaming at the sketches taped onto the walls. As the days continued, you spent more and more time with her when your dad was busy working, and the two of you went on road trips to spark her inspiration.

She was the one to hold you when you had your heart broken, and she was the one who took you on a trip to Milan just to take photos and show your ex what they’d be missing. Strangely enough, your dad wasn’t surprised when his late wife’s "baby" sister told him, “Hey, the 'lil cutie and I are headin’ to Milan tomorrow morning,” over the phone. He must have been used to her strange antics already.

Either way, the trip to Milan worked, because the day after you posted photos of you relaxing by the poolside with a bikini that your aunt recently designed herself, your disgusting ex texted you a long paragraph explaining why you should forgive them for making out with their best friend’s cousin or whatever. After receiving that paragraph, you’d simply texted back a “lol”, before showing it to your aunt and talking shit about him.

Your eccentric aunt was a massive part of your childhood. And now, she’s going to be a huge part of your adulthood, as well. She was still gorgeous after all these years. Although she’d be fifty this year, she looked like she barely aged past her early thirties. Even though your aunt always preached about the stupidity of having to look young as an aging woman, her skincare routine clearly did a lot for her.

Her bangs were clipped to her head with a glamorous brooch, and her matching tweed set matched with her shiny six-inch heels. This woman is the absolute manifestation of glam.

She’d demanded that the two of you match, so you had to change out of your previous outfit and into a tweed set as well. Instead of the tweed pants that your aunt wore, however, you wore a skirt. To keep warm, she’d given you a pair of pearled stockings, but you knew you’d still shiver in the cold later.

You had to pull down your miniskirt before sitting down, but an eyebrow of yours arched at your aunt’s cryptic words. No, her words are less cryptic and more… suspicious.

You continued your work with your aunt, showing her the details of the designs you drew at the café the other day. The two of you were waiting for the show to start, but you were invited backstage by the owners of Masaki because of a long friendship between your aunt and Bakugou Mitsuki. Apparently, they’d been college roommates or something. You weren’t sure. Your aunt was going to explain more about her relationship with Mitsuki, but then one of her Tinder dates gave her a uh… call…

Anyway, you always enjoyed going backstage with your aunt. Having a sneak peek of all of the pieces before the public got to see them was your favorite. Especially because you love Masaki as a brand, today was especially exciting. You noted the makeup was different from the usual haute couture makeup. While it wasn’t overpowering the clothing, the shape of the classic eyeshadow point was rounded in the corner of the eyes and amplified with a ring of white eyeliner, creating a look that was reminiscent of a ringed planet.

Then, your aunt swiftly stood up. “Mitsuki, honey! Meet my precious baby niece.”

A woman that looked oddly familiar walked up to you. She’s beautiful– her hair juts up in blonde spikes, just like on someone else you’ve seen before. You can’t quite place your finger on it, so you just brush it off as maybe seeing her in a photo your aunt has shown you before. Her skin is so smooth, she’s super tall, and her face is perfectly proportionate. Whoever her husband is… he’s one lucky dude.

You arrived at the show a little later than your aunt did so that you could grab her a coffee from your favorite café. Apparently, she’d been meaning to introduce you to this woman– Bakugou Mitsuki. She was wearing some of the pieces from the new line, and it fit her perfectly. Thinking back on your aunt’s words, wasn’t she a former model or something? It’d make sense.

“Oh, you look even more beautiful in person! Takumi has shown me some photos of you, but none of them really do you justice.” Mitsuki immediately complimented you, so you felt your face getting hot.

You turned your face away in embarrassment before turning it back to her, reminding yourself to be polite. This lady, who’s borderline perfect, is complimenting you. “No, you compliment me too much. I think you’re super pretty, onee-san.”

Mitsuki gasped in response. “Onee-san? Oh my!” She placed a well-manicured hand over her mouth. “I’m much too old for that title! I turned 51 recently.”

You gaped at her admission, cheeks burning from embarrassment. Of course she is! Why would you call her onee-san when your aunt just told you that they went to college together? She’s 51. You looked at both her and your aunt, eyes wide. “Please tell me your skincare routine, ma’am.”

She laughed and gave you all of the steps in her routine, and you nodded with a focused fire in your eyes. You took notes on your phone. After telling you her routine, her perfectly groomed eyebrows raised. It seemed like she’d remembered something.

“Oh! I almost forgot. I wanted to invite you to take photos with my son after the show. We’ve got our photographer on site, and since my husband’s just finished this line, we’d love for you guys to try them on!” Mitsuki clapped her hands together and a wide smile pulled at her face. You saw next to no wrinkles. Is she a vampire?

But either way, her offer made you excited. A chance to wear one of your favorite brands and take photos? Yes please. You wanted to commemorate this occasion as much as possible.

Next to you, your aunt placed a hand on your shoulder and looked around the dressing area. “Speaking of your son, where is he? I don’t think I’ve seen him in-person since he was five.”

Mitsuki smiled at your aunt. “Ah, he’s in the men’s dressing room, looking over the makeup artists and hairstylists.”

Your aunt turned to you. “I forgot to tell you! Her son’s like you! He helps his father with the brand and was a huge part in creating this line.” You were amazed. This line is mildly genius, so you were excited to meet this guy! Since you were going to be taking photos with him, you were sure you’d have tons of time to ask him about his creative process and the like.

“I’m super excited! This has been one of my favorite lines from Masaki as of late, so I’d love to meet the minds behind it!” You voiced your thoughts.

When Bakugou Masaru introduced himself to you, you still couldn’t shake the idea that the Bakugous look extremely familiar. You still couldn’t place your finger on it, though. You felt like you’d seen them somewhere outside of just through your aunt’s phone, but where?

As you spoke with them, you tried to dig deeper and deeper into your mind to figure it out.

Bakugou Katsuki groaned as he stood up from his watchpost to trudge over to the women’s dressing room, where his parents were. His mother had sent him a text, summoning him to meet these Kindeki people.

Much to his displeasure, of course. Although he was curious to meet the mind behind the Kindeki brand, he felt like if he left his watchpost, everything in the men’s dressing room would burn down without his supervision. Of course, this would not happen, but Katsuki thought otherwise.

He entered the dressing room filled with models, and saw his parents in the corner, speaking to two people that had the back of their heads turned to him, both with (H/C) hair and both in tweed sets.

“Oh, Katsuki! Over here!” His mom waved him over as soon as she saw him, and he walked over to face the two mystery people. “This is Katsuki." She turned to you. "You’ll be taking your photos with him today! And also, since Masaki will be having a joint line with Kindeki next season, you two will likely be working very closely.”

Both the words coming into his ears and the sight blinding his vision were making Bakugou Katsuki feel like he was going to faint. His entire body froze, muscles clenched and seized together. He thinks his heart may have skipped a beat. Or two. Or three. Wait, is he even breathing anymore?

You, in front of him, gasped. “Oh my gosh! It’s the guy from the café!” You exclaimed, dumbly, while pointing at him in an accusatory way.

“You know each other?”

“You guys have met?”

“What.”

All three of these phrases were jumbled together as you saw the guy in front of you freeze and slowly start to turn red. Wait, is he breathing? “Hey, are you okay?” You placed a hand onto his shoulder to try and ground him back into reality. You felt his muscles clench under your touch, so you pulled your hand away in fear that you’d overstepped your bounds.

Katsuki took in a deep breath, turning his face back to its regular shade. “Y-Yeah. Wait, a joint line?”

When he came back to reality, all of the words that his mother said had finally been processed.

“Yes,” his father began, “Kindeki and Masaki will be having a joint line. This has been on our minds since our college days, and since the two of you are now well-versed in the fashion industry, we thought it might be good to start it now.”

You clasped your hands behind your back as you listened to Bakugou Masaru speak. You were finally putting together the pieces. No wonder why the Bakugous looked so familiar! “Wait, but you two know each other? How?” Mitsuki asked as soon as her husband finished his explanation.

Both you and Katsuki looked at each other awkwardly. He wasn’t saying anything. “Yeah, he’s the guy that works at my favorite café. Are you the reason why the coffee here tastes so good?” Katsuki took off his quarter-zip from the line to cool himself down from the heat of the room, though the room wasn’t actually hot. It was just you.

“Y-Yeah. I- uh, I made the coffee this morning for the show.” Katsuki scratched the back of his neck as he tried his hardest to look anywhere but you. He's never stuttered this much. He cleared his throat awkwardly. You changed your clothes, he noticed. While he really enjoyed your outfit this morning, now it’s almost a complete 180 from what you were wearing.

Your hair was put into a style that perfectly framed your face, and you wore those dangly earrings that looked great on you. The tweed jacket was laid atop your shoulders, and you wore a silk camisole underneath it, which was tucked into a tweed miniskirt that outlined your waist and showed off your legs, which were donned with a pair of white stockings with tiny pearls scattered across them.

You were taller than usual with your heels that matched the color in your tweed set of clothing. Katsuki tried his hardest not to stare, but you were making it difficult for him. Next to him, his parents eyed him suspiciously.

You put out one of your hands in greeting. “Nice to formally meet you, Bakugou Katsuki-kun! I’m excited to work with you.”

It took him a moment to reach his hands out to yours after checking whether or not his hands were clammy. His hands were big and rough, and they practically ate up your hands in comparison. You shook hands.

“Pleasure to meet you as well. Lookin’ forward to it.” He steeled himself as much as he could, trying not to make himself look like a fool in front of you, but the way you smiled up at him made him retract his hand from yours a little too early, making it awkward.

“Well, it’s time to start the show. We’ll meet you after, Takumi.” Masaru said, a kind smile reaching his eyes as he patted his son on the back and walked off with him.

You watched as Katsuki’s broad shoulders got smaller in the distance, and you turned back to his mom. “Wow, you guys have great genetics.”

She laughed again and pulled you underneath her arm. “You guys do, too.”

Your aunt giggled as the three of you walked to the front of the stage to view the fashion show that Masaru and Katsuki worked on for months.

a/n: seee, no yuckies :> yet :>

taglist for this series is open! let me know! <3 stay hydrated, cuties!

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#bakugou katsuki #bakugo x reader #reader insert #bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #coffee shop au #bakugo katsuki #bakugou x reader #fluff #bnha x reader #bnha fluff #katsuki bakugo x reader

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