#five piece headers

[kxsagi]

Hiii can I request some domestic fluff with Kaiser, Rin, Karasu, Barou, Kunigami and Shidou!! (With fem reader and preferably daughter!) Thanks!!!

“𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫”

a/n: this is so cute!!! (had a hard time choosing a header cover image it's always a struggle ugh)

(art credits go to niko2525_er on X)

ft. kaiser michael, itoshi rin, karasu tabito, barou shoei, kunigami rensuke, shidou ryusei

kaiser michael

kaiser is the type of guy that doesn't like people seeing him as "soft." but you’ve come to realize that when it’s just the two of you at home, things are different. this is his territory, and he's comfortable in it. and right now, he's sprawled on the couch, his legs stretched out, while your daughter is perched on his chest, asking him a million questions about his day. 

“daddy, did you score a goal today?” she asks with her little hands on her hips, brows furrowed in pure curiosity. 

kaiser groans playfully, his hand moving to rub her back, clearly exhausted. "liebling, i’m on break. can i not talk about soccer for like, five minutes?" but he’s already answering her, making up an exaggerated story about how he “single-handedly” saved the game for his team. she’s eating it up, of course, nodding along like he’s some kind of soccer god. 

you watch from the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. “single-handedly, huh?” you ask, crossing your arms. 

kaiser rolls his eyes but gives you a mischievous grin. “what? i’m just telling her how it is.” 

you chuckle and shake your head, picking up a snack for yourself. “right. well, i’ll believe it when i see the highlights.” 

your daughter looks between the two of you, then giggles. “mommy’s laughing at you, daddy.” 

“she always laughs at me,” kaiser says, pulling her closer and tickling her under her chin. “but guess what? i’m still the coolest.” 

she giggles, squirming, and you just stand there, watching the scene unfold. for a guy who’s always putting on a show for the public, he really lets his guard down when he’s with you two. and you’re starting to realize you wouldn’t have it any other way.

itoshi rin

you’re pretty sure rin only knows two speeds: intense or completely checked out. today is no exception as he’s sitting on the couch, eyes glued to his phone, while you and your daughter are on the floor building a lego castle. you can’t help but glance up at him every now and then, noticing the slight frown on his face as he scrolls. 

“what’s up with you?” you ask, tossing a lego piece to your daughter. 

“just dealing with some stuff for work,” rin mutters, not really looking up from his phone. “they’re asking me about new training schedules. like, i have time for that.” 

you nod, pretending to listen, but your daughter interrupts by standing up and holding a lego brick in the air. “daddy, can you make the top of the castle? it needs to be big and strong!” 

rin looks at the tower of blocks, his eyes softening for a moment. “fine, fine.” he tosses his phone aside and gets down to her level, hands moving to start building the “strongest” part of the castle. “this castle’s going to be so strong no one can break it. i’m the master builder, after all.” 

your daughter’s face lights up, impressed. “you’re the best!” 

you watch the two of them, a smirk playing on your lips. “so you’re not too busy for legos after all?” 

rin gives you a brief glance, his lips quirking up in the smallest of smiles. “family first. work can wait.” 

you’re not sure if he realizes it, but you’ve already got him wrapped around your finger. well, both of your fingers, really. 

karasu tabito

it’s early evening when you hear it: karasu’s singing. you’ve come to expect it, but it always makes you chuckle. he’s not a bad singer, but he doesn’t exactly hit every note with precision. today, he’s performing 360 by charli xcx while stirring the spaghetti sauce in the kitchen. 

your daughter is standing on the counter, pretending to hold a microphone, and trying her best to mimic him. her tiny voice, though off-key, blends with his in a ridiculous harmony. karasu doesn’t seem to mind. in fact, he seems to be encouraging it, gesturing for her to hit the notes with him. you can’t help but laugh as you walk into the kitchen. 

“what are you two doing?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe with an amused look. 

“we’re having a brat concert!” karasu says, giving you a dramatic bow. “you should join us, babe.” 

you laugh, shaking your head. “do you even know the lyrics?” 

he pauses, looking genuinely confused. “am i singing 365 instead?” 

you smile and walk over, putting a hand on his shoulder as your daughter finishes her little song. “no, it sounds great. especially that unexpected high note she hit.” 

karasu looks at her, clearly impressed. “maybe we should start a band.” 

“yes! i’m gonna be the lead singer!” your daughter announces enthusiastically. 

karasu laughs, lifting her off the counter and spinning her around. “sure thing. i’m the guitarist, and mom is... our manager. deal?” 

you roll your eyes but smile. “deal. but only if i get a cut of the profits.”

barou shoei

you’re curled up on the couch with a book when you hear it: the unmistakable sound of your daughter arguing with barou. at first, it’s quiet, but then she starts raising her voice, demanding something from him. 

“daddy, i want the blue marker!” she exclaims. 

“no way. the red one is better,” barou responds, his voice a little too firm for a “marker disagreement.” 

you decide to intervene, but when you stand up, you see barou holding the blue marker high above his head, and your daughter is jumping, trying to reach it. both of them are so focused on their little back-and-forth that neither notices you. 

“guys,” you call out, trying not to laugh. 

barou glances over at you, then at his daughter, and you can see the tiniest bit of guilt flicker in his eyes. “she’s too small to appreciate quality.” 

“the blue marker is better for drawing hearts!” your daughter retorts, her arms still flailing in an attempt to reach it. 

you walk over, taking the blue marker from barou’s hand and passing it to your daughter. “there. see? problem solved.” 

barou rolls his eyes. “fine, but i’m still saying red is superior.” 

you smirk at him. “right. that’s because red is totally your ‘thing.’” 

he leans back against the couch with a huff. “don’t start with me.” 

your daughter smiles, holding up the marker like a trophy. “blue is the best.” 

barou looks at her for a second before sighing in defeat. “whatever you say, princess.” 

you sit back down with a smile. “you’re whipped, huh?” 

“shut up,” he grumbles, but there's a warmth in his voice that makes it clear he’s totally okay with it. 

kunigami rensuke

kunigami's the type of guy who’s overly organized, so you shouldn’t be surprised when you walk into the living room to see him organizing your daughter's toys. but the sight of him, sitting on the floor, glasses on, carefully arranging stuffed animals by size, still catches you off guard. he's so serious about it too, muttering under his breath as he moves things around like he's running a tight ship. 

"you know, they're just toys," you say, leaning against the doorframe with a grin. 

he looks up, not even a little fazed. "they need structure. this place is a disaster." 

your daughter, sitting on the couch with a piece of chocolate on her face, watches him in silence before turning to you. "why’s daddy organizing the toys like that?" 

you walk over and sit next to her, trying to hold in your laughter. "he’s making sure they're all in the right place so we don’t lose any, sweetie." 

kunigami stands up, dusting off his hands like he’s just completed a major project. “there. everything is in order now.” 

your daughter stands up, takes one look at the neatly organized toys, and immediately starts dumping them back out in a chaotic pile. "i think it looks better this way!" 

kunigami stares at the mess for a moment, blinking slowly. then he sighs and sits next to her. “you’re killing me.” 

“welcome to parenthood,” you say with a grin, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “it’s never going to stay perfect.” 

he lets out a long, exaggerated breath and looks at you with a smirk. “at least i tried.”

shidou ryusei

it’s one of those days when you and shidou just decide to have a lazy morning. you’re lounging in bed, half-watching tv, while your daughter is bouncing around in the living room, singing to herself. at one point, she runs in, her tiny voice high-pitched with excitement. 

“mommy! daddy! look, i made a fort!” 

you and shidou exchange a glance, both of you trying to hold in your laughter. he’s the type to go along with her crazy ideas just to make her happy, and you know he’s secretly enjoying it. 

“a fort?” shidou says, raising an eyebrow. “you know, if i’m going in there, it better be epic.” 

she drags him into the living room, where a massive pile of cushions and blankets is now a makeshift fortress. shidou crouches down, pretending to be skeptical, but you can see the glint of amusement in his eyes. 

“this fort better have snacks,” he says, sitting down inside it. 

your daughter nods enthusiastically. “there’s a secret snack stash!” 

you lean against the doorway, watching the scene unfold. shidou looks up at you, grinning. “maybe i’ll stay in here forever. no one can get me.” 

you laugh softly. “i don’t know if it’s big enough for both of you.” 

he leans back dramatically, wrapping himself in the blankets. “it’s a fortress, babe. it’s got room for all of us.” 

your daughter plops down beside him, proud of her creation. “we’re going to live here forever!” 

and as the two of them start bickering over who gets the “best spot” in the fort, you realize that maybe they’re right – this little fort could be their own perfect world. and you wouldn’t trade it for anything. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[cacoetheswriting]

the little mess you made.

pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x singlemom!reader (modern au) word count: 3.9k

summary: five years after he returns home, eddie munson is greeted at the front door of his uncles house by a toddler with a head of dusty-brown locks. hoping for a break from the life he's built for himself, the rockstar is instead faced with another hard truth.

chapter cw: suggestive & mature themes, implied intimacy | non-explicit, one night stand gone awry, secret pregnancy aka no-one told eddie he's a dad, this chapter is kinda angsty, emotional hurt / little-to-no comfort, navigating family dynamics, adult language, some pining / yearning — pls let me know if i missed any!

psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.

story masterlist

The kitchen is a statement in itself, Eddie thinks. 

Wayne’s collection of printed mugs stands on the windowsill above the sink, on full display. Random postcards and colourful post-it notes are stuck to the fridge with plastic alphabet magnets. A calendar hangs by the doorway, a different vintage car on display for the various months and hard to read scribbles on seemingly important dates.

There’s a fancy coffee machine in one corner of the forest-painted counters and a collection of hot sauces in the other. In the centre of the space, there’s a wooden table with mismatched chairs placed around it. A stack of old newspapers lies in the middle, all open to the crossword page. The table also features a vase of tulips and a single ‘World’s Best Grandpa’ photo frame: Wayne, in hospital blues, cradling a newborn.

The kitchen is a statement in itself, Eddie thinks. The statement being: he’s a stranger in his own uncle’s home.

A stranger in the house he bought for Wayne; a brick-faced thank you for everything the rockstar's uncle did for him over the years. Expecting nothing in return, only thinking this could become the place Eddie could possibly return to when in need aka now more than ever. Instead, he doesn’t feel welcome. He feels like he’s intruding somehow.

Wayne has replaced him.

While Eddie was off touring and galavanting around the world, building himself the career of his wildest dreams, it seems Wayne has been busy too. His uncle created himself a family. Somehow got himself a grandson.

“So, whose kid is that?” Eddie asks, nudging his head in the direction of the toddler.

The little boy is kneeling on one of the chairs, the top half of his body is bent over a currently blank piece of paper. He’s gripping a red crayon in his left hand, the tip of his tongue sticking out in concentration as he doodles on the page.

Wayne places a mug of tea in front of Eddie then makes himself comfortable in the chair next to his grandson, across from his nephew. For a few minutes, as the two older Munson men stare at the toddler, it’s quiet. Only the scratching sound of crayon on paper. Wayne’s gaze is filled with adoration, while Eddie’s is laced with uncertainty. There’s something oddly familiar about the tiny head of dusty-brown curls.

Clearing his throat, Wayne gently nudges his grandson.

“Messer, what do we say when we invite someone inside?”

The boy lifts his eyes from the doodles. First, he looks at Wayne, who nods, encouraging. Turning his attention to Eddie, the toddler squeezes his mouth together and offers a timid smile.

“Hello,” he utters simply.

Eddie chokes back a scoff at the absolute insanity of this moment. He wants to ask Wayne what’s the reason for this charade. Why can’t his uncle just tell him what the fuck is going on.

“Hey,” the rockstar replies, forcing a smile.

“My name is Messer,” he introduces himself, not able to pronounce the r so instead, it sounds like he’s saying Messel.

Lifting a hand to his chest, the rockstar says, “I’m Eddie.”

Seemingly satisfied with doing a good job, Messer looks to Wayne for the same type of approval, once only reserved for Eddie and the sentiment makes the brunette rockstar shift uncomfortably in his seat. The eldest Munson ruffles the toddler’s hair and asks him to go play in the living room.

“I’ll join you in a minute, okay?”.

Once they’re left alone, Wayne faces his nephew completely and Eddie now notices the difference a five years can make. A few extra frown lines, wrinkles. His hair is a shade of grey that glistens under the light and the bags under his eyes are a little deeper than before. Overall however, Wayne looks happy. There’s no stress visible across his features and Eddie’s heart clenches inside his chest because maybe coming back to Hawkins was a bad idea.

“What are you doing here, Eddie?” Wayne asks.

“When I called for your birthday, you said the tour wasn’t supposed to be over for a few more months and then you had obligations to be back in the studio.”

Ignoring his uncle’s question, the rockstar fires back with his own. The same one from minutes ago.

“Whose kid is that, Wayne?”

Placing the mug down in front of him, after taking a sip, Wayne relents. He tells his nephew he loves him. Really. The highs, the lows. The crazy antics. Eddie’s dreams and passions, his intense drive for a better life, far away from Hawkins. 

“I know all that,” Eddie says.

Wayne sighs. “Your friend, Steve, introduced me to this girl. Twenty-something. Pretty as a sunset.”

“So, you’re playing grandpa to Harrington’s child?”

“No,” Wayne answers. “I am a grandpa to yours.”

The roll of Eddie’s eyes is almost instant. He huffs in disbelief, lips twisting into a smirk at the ridiculousness of the information his uncle is after putting forward because there’s a plethora of reasons why Messer being his kid is near impossible. Top of the list: Eddie Munson uses protection. That’s rule number one and no matter how wasted he finds himself to be, it’s a rule he never forgets.

For crying out loud, he even did a months-long ad campaign for Durex.

Seeing the disbelief spread across his nephew’s features, Wayne continues.

“Following one of your gigs, she found herself in a certain situation and with nowhere else to go, I took her in. There’s plenty of space in this big house you bought me and I won’t lie kid, since you never visit, an old man gets lonely.”

“So she says,” Eddie grumbles, reaching for his own mug of tea.

“Don’t make stupid comments like that, son. I for sure raised you better.” Wayne chastasies. “With your reputation, I had no reason to doubt her.”

That the rockstar can’t deny. 

Ever since his fast rise to fame, he's on the front page of every gossip site almost daily — usually with a different girl on his arm. He’s a constant topic of conversation on various pop culture podcasts and social media accounts, primarily Deuxmoi (a pain in Eddie’s backside). Everybody has something to say and it’s not always kind, or true.

Over the years, he’s been labelled a womaniser, an asshole, the lost cause. Satanist. He’s been called reckless, heartless, and brainless. People that have never met him pretend they know him best. The internet mafia. They write how he’s incompetent, a nightmare to work with, and worse of all, void of any real talent.

Yes, the rockstar is known by many names yet, despite his public list of conquests, Eddie never thought he’d add this one to the list: someone’s dad.

“There’s no way…” Eddie begins, but the words get tangled at the back of his throat. There’s no way I have a kid and no one told me. There’s no way I missed three years of his life. There’s no way I’m fit to be a dad.

Almost as if he can feel his nephew's mind spiral out of control, Wayne reaches across the table to grab Eddie’s shaking hand.

“When Messer was born, I knew.” Wayne states, full of emotion. “My heart expanded when I held him for the first time and in that moment, I knew. He’s half you, Eddie.”

They finish their tea in silence.

When the cups are empty, Wayne stands then asks his nephew whether he’s hungry. Eddie shakes his head no, even though he is, and tells his uncle to go be with the kid, that he’ll join them soon. He washes up the ceramics, heart still hammering inside his chest, and after wiping his ring-clad fingers on a kitchen towel, Eddie ventures deeper inside this foreign house.

The living room makes the rockstar feel even more uneasy, but he doesn’t digest every piece of decor upon entry. Instead, Eddie’s focus lands on the little boy.

Messer is playing with a collection of plastic farm animals and makes the different noises with his mouth as he moves the pieces around the carpeted floor.

“You be a cow, granpa,” he instructs, once again soft on the letter r, and passes Wayne the black-and-white animal.

Then his doe-eyes turn to Eddie. He doesn’t say anything, just lifts the hand holding a plastic horse in the rockstar's direction, patiently waiting for Eddie to take it from his grasp.

Hesitantly, Eddie steps towards the toddler and crouching down in front of him, grabs the toy. Messer averts his gaze and continues playing, just like he was seconds ago, while Eddie remains frozen because, in a single second, this kid has shown him more kindness than Eddie’s experienced in his life.

Then, a small smile breaks through Eddie’s features.

The three Munson’s sit on the carpet and knock the animals around. Using a colourful Lego Duplo set, they build what is supposed to be a farmhouse along with a red tractor (and some obscenely large fruit and vegetables). Eddie realises he can’t remember the last time he’s been this naturally relaxed. 

Afterwards, when Messer falls asleep in Wayne’s lap, Eddie watches his uncle gently scratch down the toddler’s back. Melancholy washes over him. A wish to be a child again, resting in his uncle's lap without a care in the world. No responsibilities, just afternoons full of play and laughter. Suddenly, he’s met with a new sensation. 

“Why did no one tell me?”

The question is almost a whisper, an undertone of sadness flows through it and it’s true, Eddie is holding back tears. Although, he’s not fully sure why. Perhaps it’s longing for the memories he has missed during his kids' life.

“Not you, not Steve, not his mom.” The rockstar lists, pointing to Messer. “I bet half this stupid town knows he’s mine and no one cared enough to fill me in.”

“You’ve been kinda hard to track down,” Wayne tries to reason, which only makes Eddie roll his eyes further into his skull.

“We talk nearly every damn day, Wayne. I’m not that hard to track down.”

Wayne sighs. “This is not a conversation someone wants to have over the phone, son.”

Eddie scoffs. Leg shaking, hand covering his mouth. He’s pondering the waves of different emotions circling through his veins. He’s sad, he’s angry. He’s confused. Sure, Eddie may not have been always available to Wayne over the last few years, and he may also have dodged hanging out with his high school friends on more than one occasion, but keeping this secret from him… That seems below the belt.

Especially because Wayne knows exactly what Eddie felt his entire life, growing up not being wanted by your dad. Surely his uncle wouldn’t want this kid to experience the same hardships.

“He didn’t recognise me,” Eddie says.

Slowly, Wayne nods. He can sense the question at the end of that sentence.

“Messer’s mom thought it best to not tell him yet.”

“Of course she did,” the rockstar mutters and sinks deeper into the large armchair. “So, who does he think his dad is? Fucking Santa Claus or some soldier that went off to fight in a war.”

This makes Wayne laugh. A quiet chortle, as not to disturb the sleeping toddler. He shakes his head at his nephew's dramatic sense of humour, something he has definitely missed quite dearly.

“A musician,” he answers honestly, “Off touring the world.”

Eddie blinks a couple of times, taking this information in.

“She told him the truth, son.” Wayne affirms. “She just didn’t use your name or show him what you look like. She didn’t want him pointing to your photos around the place and asking when you’re going to come home, only to be wildly disappointed.”

Guilt trickles in, another cold unwelcome visitor to the persistent emotions currently overflooding Eddie’s mind and soul. He tries to ignore it. Focus instead on the confusion from moments ago, or the anger, the sense of betrayal, but guilt’s icy current wins.

Eddie clears his throat and says, “That must’ve been hard.”

“What must’ve been hard, kid?”

“Seeing me everywhere while you lived… this life.”

Wayne presses his lips together. He nods again, once, slowly, then looks down at Messer. The curve of his earlobe, the tilt of his button nose. The brown locks and the miniscule freckles, reminiscent of Eddie’s dotted Milky Way.

“That’s not for me to answer, son.”

He wants to tell his nephew just how hard it’s been. The sleepless nights, the colic, the constant anxiety, the eventual weaning, the big emotions. And before all of that, the pregnancy and associated judgement. Wayne wants to tell his nephew he’s got years of making this right, but that’s not up to him. There’s only one person who speaks for how hard this has really been and that person — as he can see from the corner of his eye — is currently making her way up the front path.

The front door opens with a click.

Eddie snaps his head in the direction of the sound, palms of his hands now clammy against his dark denim jeans. There’s a few seconds of quiet shuffling. A bag being dropped and shoes kicked to the side, and then the rockstar hears it. A voice that could calm a storm. A voice imbued with inherent peace.

A voice he’s heard before.

One he thought he’d never hear again.

A LITTLE BEFORE

“Have a great show!” Felix, his tour manager, shouts over the drumroll and Eddie shoots him a quick thumbs-up, before jogging onto the stage with the usual bravado.

Effortlessly, the rockstar spins on his heel, facing the crowd, then throws his arms up in the air as they cheer from below. The screams get louder with each city, tickling Eddie’s second favourite spot: his ego. Tonight is no exception. Thousands of fans squeal and shout up at the stage. They jump in anticipation as Eddie looks to his band. Start.

New York, New York.

The most populous city in the United States and Eddie’s preferred choice, in terms of crowds. They know all of the words to his catalogue of songs, including all of the live chants. They move when he moves, get louder if he encourages. They boo him only when he steps off the stage because they always want more and Eddie’s fucking happy to oblige.

He lives for this. Yes, the fame and the money, but in reality, it’s the shows that keep him going. The control he has over the people that come watch him perform. Up on that stage, night after night, Eddie Munson can do no wrong.

As the third song draws to an end, the rockstar casts his eyes downwards, and for the first time in his to date relatively short career, he freezes.

The tight space between the barrier and the front of the stage is filled with photographers, most of whom Eddie recognises since, night after night, they travel with the band. There’s always the couple of strays, invited from local news outlets, but usually Felix will do quick introductions before the show so they can get a couple of quotes for the releases. 

Staring down, Eddie spots the familiar faces and in the midst, he notices a girl.

She’s looking at him through a lens, but even with the camera blocking half of her face, the rockstar sees a glint of pearly whites. Click. A flash. Then, slowly, the girl lowers the 35mm and Eddie’s throat dries — not to sound overly simplistic, she’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever fucking seen.

The next song's opening guitar riff snaps the brunette rockstar out of his sudden daze, albeit briefly. He does a hectic double take, eyes landing on the girl once more as the lights change colour and her smile grows wider. She lifts the camera back up. Click. Another flash. Now, Eddie’s smiling too, forcing himself to focus back on the crowd and the task at hand.

He can feel her eyes on him, however. During the entirety of two full tracks: Won’t Get Fooled Again and Broken Mirror. She’s chasing him around the stage spellbound, as if she was physically dancing next to him, and the feeling Eddie derives from this interaction is other-wordly. He’s floating through space and time. Through galaxies, like a comet streaking across the cosmos. Actually, he’s not just floating. He’s soaring. Powered by this girl’s absolutely insane aura and her fucking gorgeous smile.

Getting lost in the moment, Eddie doesn’t realise she’s gone until the following song wraps and his gaze searches below the stage. He tries to regain focus. A drum roll fills the silence he’s created while wondering who she is and where she went. Eventually, he snaps out of his daze, turning to the crowd once more. “How are we doing tonight, New York!”

They’re doing fucking amazing, is the answer.

“That girl,” Eddie says to Felix after the show, “One of the photographers, what’s her name?”

Felix claps him on the back of the neck, pulling him into a half-hug. “Great show, man. For a minute there I thought you were going to jump through the time-space continuum.”

“The girl?” Eddie repeats; so what if he sounds desperate.

Dropping his arm, Felix laughs. “Always about the ladies with you,” he teases, then adds, “Don’t know her name. Think she’s with the venue.”

Wiping the sweat drops off his forehead with a trusty grey towel, Eddie nods, taking this information in. He glances around his surroundings, wondering if he can spot the venue promoter he met earlier and ask them the same question, but he can’t spot any other faces, aside from the band's own crew.

Felix is still talking about the show. Going over the highs, the aspects that could be improved upon, and what to never fucking do again: which in this instant, is freeze.

“It’s that girl, man.” Eddie tells his tour manager. “I saw her in the crowd and my brain just short-circuited.”

“There’s always going to be another girl,” Felix says plainly, “Chances aren’t as high for another good fucking show.”

Fingers in a fist, he playfully bumps the rockstar on the arm and walks away to chat with the other band mates. Eddie’s in half a mind to yell after Felix, scream at the top of his lungs that somehow this girl is different, but would that be true? All she did was smile. And yeah, maybe it’s the most perfect smile the rockstar has ever seen. Doesn’t mean she’s anything special…

But God, does he wanna find out.

A LITTLE AFTER

“You’ll not believe the day I’ve had, Wayne.” The voice calls out. Close. For the first time in years, it’s within Eddie’s reach.

However, he remains fixed to his current spot.

He can feel his uncle's gaze burn into the side of his skull, waiting just as eagerly to see how this will play out, but all Eddie can think is: what an embarrassment.  Seemingly, he’s lost all control of his movements. Can’t even stand to greet the fucking girl. The mother of his child.

“And all before you texted me about the certain visitor.”

That wakes Eddie up. 

His brown-eyes lock with Wayne’s, wide. There was a time, not overly long ago, when the two Munsons would present a united front against everyone in this shitty town. A team. Nothing and no one could come between them. So, not only has Wayne gotten himself a new family that apparently doesn't include Eddie, he’s also got himself a new team. The betrayal Eddie’s sensed all afternoon deepens.

“You told her?” The rockstar whispers.

Wayne nods as if it’s the simplest answer in the world. And to the eldest Munson, it is. Because yes, Eddie has been a priority ever since he arrived into this world, screaming his little head off. Eddie’s now in his mid-twenties, with a life on his own. Far away from Hawkins, by design. The toddler sleeping in Wayne’s lap being, at times, the only remaining common thread. A new priority.

“Jesus,” Eddie exhales.

He runs a hand through his already disheveled locks, then down his face. His gaze jumps between the doorway and the window. He could run away and pretend this afternoon never fucking happened, but that would only prove the point they’re all thinking. That he’s a fuck-up, unworthy of being someone’s dad.

A mobile sounds in the hallway. The unmistakable sound of an iPhone ringtone. It’s picked up almost instantly, as if the call was expected.

Then Eddie hears her voice again and his attention settles back on the doorway. Despite his feet being fiercely planted to the carpet below, mainly out of fear, he’s unmistakably drawn to the raw sound. Like he’s a pirate and she’s a siren, calling him to sea.

“Are you on your way?”

Eddie hears and his brows string together. How many people in this godforsaken town have to bear witness to the rockstar facing this colossal mess he’s made for himself — and all because he borrowed a condom from Brick, the drummer from his band. Eddie remembers now. He’s placed the voice in his memory palace along with the night this all happened. 

New York, New York. A camera down below. Click. Flash. And the prettiest smile he’s ever fucking seen.

“Okay, ‘cause I can’t face him without you here.”

A moment of shuffling. Pacing, Eddie’s deducted. She’s nervous, he thinks.

“Ugh. Steve—”

The rockstar blocks out the remainder of that sentence because of fucking course. Harrington to the rescue. His gut twists in envy. Always the same old story: Eddie the screw-up and Steve the hero. They’ve circled this scenario since high school. The alibis provided to Hopper, the countless stacks of copied homework, the train of hearts Harrington mended. Even though — one could argue — Harrington is the bigger asshole in their unlikely friendship, his best friend always comes out on top because he has something Eddie thought he himself lacked. Charm.

Although, charm is not exactly an explanation for how Steve has landed himself in the middle of this particular situation. 

Casting his memory back, the rockstar doesn’t remember Harrington at the concert in question. In fact, now that he’s thinking about it, Eddie’s sure the two of them weren’t even speaking at the time.

Wayne made it quite clear that it was indeed Harrington who introduced the girl, but when the fuck did he meet her? More importantly, why did she reach out to Steve and not Eddie directly? The questions continue to pile in his head, nauseating.

Eventually, there’s quiet. The conversation has ended and after a beat of utterly anguished silence, light footsteps make their way down the hall. Towards the living room.

Then, for precisely thirty-three seconds, Eddie’s heart stops.

“Hi.”

There’s no smile behind the word. A blank expression greets him, but regardless the rockstar feels elated — if only for a moment.

You.

New York, New York. A camera down below. Click. Flash. And the prettiest smile he’s ever fucking seen.

You.

“Hi,” he says back, throat coarse.

Tongue pressed to the inside of your cheek. Eddie knows what it means, he’s seen it before. An anxious tick. Despite Wayne’s warning, you weren’t expecting him, the same way he wasn’t expecting you.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about, I guess.”

Eddie nods, slowly. His anger subsides with every spoken word that surrounds the living room because he may not have known there’s a kid walking around this world that is half him, but you…

Seeing you after all this time, knowing Messer is also half of you, well, the rockstar thinks to himself: what a fucking twisted little jackpot he’s just hit.

as always, thank you for reading! pls support your writers by commenting & reblogging <3

story masterlist

tagging some cool people that expressed interest (if you want to be removed, just let me know), and if anyone wants to be added- also let me know: @tvserie-s-world @probablyin-bed @the-dumpster-fire-of-life @darknesseddiem @kellsck @althaiareads @streamafterlaughter @ali-r3n @spider-starry

[runningupthatvecna]

get the peach(es)

bestfriend!eddie munson x reader

it's the day after chrissy got vecna'd and you and the gang decide to check up on eddie at rick's. he's still in so much distress that you can't help but selflessly stay with your best friend (who you've been harboring a crush on for quite some time) and keep him company. 6k words, not proofread.

cw: the good old friends to lovers trope, eddie is an anxious bean who just needs to be held (by you, ideally), mutual (and not so secret at all) pining, i wrote this with fem!reader in mind (she/her pronouns) but can also be read as gn i guess, fluff, hurt/comfort (for eddie), pet names, mentions of chrissy's death, there shall be kisses and a lot of softness. nothing too explicit but minors are still advised to LEAVE

a/n: totally not self indulgent, that scene of him being so terrified in 4x02 ripped me to shreds so this is my fix-it attempt, trying to still my need to hold him and scratch his head. disclaimer: this piece of writing is based on the ending of that episode, meaning all credits for the setting go to the respective writers. sources to the header images here, here and here. lovely divider by saradika. ok thank you so much for reading byeeee love y'all <3

–––––

The overwhelming need to befriend the satanic metalhead found you at that party at the Wheeler house. You had almost said no to Nancy when she invited you, knowing damn well how the night would end. Steve passed out with a girl on his lap, Robin silently pining after Vickie from some corner of the room while clinging onto the red plastic cup in her hand, Jonathan getting higher than a kite with his old school mates, the younger kids asking you every five minutes if you could give them a ride since you usually were the one staying sober.

Additionally this time, there would be Eddie Munson. This familiar stranger Dustin, Mike and Lucas had met and somehow befriended over the last months, due to them joining his DnD club. "He might come off as a bit intimidating ... but I promise he's super chill and easy going!", Mike had tried to convince his sister, poking the tip of her shoulder repeatedly with a bunch of pleases during lunch break in the editing room of the school's newspaper. Until she rolled her eyes theatrically and agreed to let the ambiguous stranger, which the whole town collectively perceived as not really fitting in (and who you both certainly knew under the not so chill reputation he carried around), attend the celebratory events at Casa Wheeler. Occasion: Karen, Ted and their youngest leaving the house for more than one day, off on vacation.

You'd always kinda stayed out of his ways, used to observe his antics back at school with a silent laugh and this .. intrigue poking at your guts. To you he always stood out, and if anyone asked you'd be hesitant to admit it, but his willingness to go against the flow and not conform to the acceptable standards set by society was honestly impressive. And besides, surely this whole mysterious drug dealer rockstar image must just be a fassade and deep down he's just a dork, right?

His eyes follow you through the living room, an echo of your name crossing his mind repeatedly after having pulled Dustin into a corner for a brief interrogation. He finds it endearing how quickly and almost bashfully you look away every time your curious gaze meets his. As you redirect your focus to the conversation you're becoming engaged in, there's a soft smile creeping onto your lips. Little did he know it would soon start to haunt him in his dreams at night.

"Anything specific you're looking for?"

God, his voice. The close proximity invites your nose to inhale a mix of fresh cigarette smoke, bergamot and sandalwood, allowing you to sense what can only be him standing behind you as you skim through the cabinets of the Wheeler kitchen. You turn your head for your eyes to confirm your assumption and what they find is the deepest brown of round baby cow eyes they've ever met, up so much closer now. The paring of his gaze and plush smile somehow manages to dissolve every little prejudice you've been involuntarily harboring about him. Eddie Munson, the town's freak. Prime reason for the existence of the satanic panic. Drugs. And then you realise that you should probably do the polite thing and give him an answer. "Yeah uh, I was just trying to find the peach syrup", holding his gaze with a small lopsided smile, lost in its warmth which you wouldn't have dared to expect from it, before facing away from him again. He snorts a little, "peach syrup?", pauses to bring a thumb to his upper lip, lightly scratching the skin above as if to wipe something away, before he removes it again and the dimples appear around the corners of his mouth, "that is oddly specific." His response spreads a smile over your face, and the next thing he says widens it, "looks like you have taste though."

You move one step to the side, about to investigate the insides of the next cabinet, the kitchen itself almost empty of people with only three others chatting away in the corner across the island. He follows, undoubtedly trying to stay close, and the heat from the fire he just ignited somewhere inside of you rises to your cheeks. "Thanks, I really like peaches. Especially in my drinks. It adds a little ... kick to my sobriety", you explain, Eddie now quirks an amused eyebrow paired with a lopsided smile at you, and as you get to the last cabinet it dawns on you (and also Eddie) that this household severely lacks peach syrup. An atrocity. Thanks Ted.

After he helped you rummage through the entirety of the kitchen without success but under a lot of small talk, the metalhead vanishes from the function for an hour or so. At least that's what your brain concludes when your vision fails to spot him among the people who are in attendance. Maybe he's selling out of Nancy's bedroom. Maybe he's puking up his insides in the bathroom because he had too much of that weird beer he's been downing all night. Maybe he's banging some random girl in the bathroom upstairs. Or summoning a demon. Or both. At the same time. You once again try focusing your attention back to the conversation you are involved in. Munson already feels so dear to you that the lack of his presence is starting to form an ache in your heart. It's tugging on those strings with how much you already want him near you. Yeah. You're gonna be in trouble with this one.

And then he stumbles into the room from the direction of the front door, an event you're totally unable (and unwilling) to miss. He doesn't look like he just puked, nor sold a whole lot of the stash since you notice it still bulging out the left ass pocket of his black jeans. Instead, as he pushes past the small groups of people socialising – and towards you – while you notice a red net of round fruits dangling from his right hand, and you start to think that his disheveled hair and that rosy tint on his cheeks might actually not be from shagging either. He meets your gaze again as he approaches you with a grin and your heart dares to swell at his attentive gesture (you think you might as well pass away on the spot).

"Have some, peach."

It's not syrup, but you'll take them anyway. And with your next drink, you swallow down not only that peachy sweetness on your tongue, but also whatever this tingly feeling in your chest is.

"Chchhrhch.."

Pause.

"Hey, uh– chrhchhr.."

Silence in your bedroom, the only thing illuminating the space is the moonlight softly falling through the window.

"Chrch– a-are you there?"

You stirr awake from dozing off in your bed, trying to piece together the information your senses are giving you.

Eyes gone dry, you have to blink a few times. Figure out which year it is and so on.

Confusion lies between the static crackle for a moment. That nap after your shift at the diner was necessary. God, you need to fucking quit.

"No I'm sure she'll pick right up, just– hey pleeease b-be awake, goddamn it!–"

Is it already past midnight?

You don't know and you can't tell, the clock on your nightstand still broken. What you do know though is that the familiar voice belongs to your friend Dustin and it's desperately trying to get ahold of you.

They must have found him.

"Dustin? I copy, where are you? What's going on?", you finally grab the device from the nightstand, fully awake and aware of your surroundings now.

You need to know. If he's okay.

There's that all too familiar instant tingle in your chest again, an ache that made itself familiar to you for the first time when he was introduced to you at the one and only Wheeler party several months ago. The dungeon master of Hawkins High's Hellfire club, the lead guitarist of Corroded Coffin and a super chill and easy going guy, to put it in Mike Wheeler's words.

What you didn't expect back then was your heart starting to develop that feeling, that tingle you'd always get to feel when you were in his presence, or like now, when his name is threatening to spill from your friend's lips on the other side of the connection at any moment.

"Aha! See? I told you she'd respond in no time."

You can practically feel Dustin's shit eating grin through the frequency, basking in being correct over Steve Harrington once again. It never gets old between these two.

"Oh my god", Steve's muffled voice is what you can make out vaguely from the off, he's probably palming his face.

"Dustin!", your voice disappears into the device, and your impatience grows with every passing second, hoping he gets the hint.

There's the sound of a door falling shut, leaves rustling under shoes, he must be outside now.

"Alright, okay yeah, so we found him at Rick's and he's really upset and he's been asking for you. I know it's late but can you meet us out here? And maybe, uh, stay with him?"

It's not even worth questioning. You're already wearing shoes. Your biggest hoodie in tow, you stumble into your kitchen with the intention to raid your own snack drawer. Pulling out Eddie's favourite, which you of course had stocked up on ever since hanging out with him at your place had become more of a weekly routine for the both of you.

Ten minutes, you told him. You'd be there in ten.

The drive feels like forever. The longest ten minutes of your life, you think.

You know the route like the back of your hand, having driven along the gravelly road leading from the last intersection before Hawkins' border to the outer world, to the serene woods surrounding Lover's Lake countless times. Eddie would take you here ever so often, for picnics, an occasional smoke after picking up a new delivery from Rick's, cloud or star gazing, listening to Metallica and Tears for Fears on Wayne's old walkman.

The gravel crunches underneath your white reeboks as they land on the ground. You close the door to your car as quietly as possible after you've taken out the bag and your hoodie.

Dustin and Steve are stood outside the boathouse, waving like madmen in the darkness once you come into their periphery.

The younger boy hugs you tightly.

"So glad you could make it", he gets out, the relief palpable through his voice as well as the grip he holds you in for a brief moment.

You look at them both after Steve presses you against him cordially, and breathe out through your nose, making your nostrils flare.

Dustin cracks open the case to you as he starts to ramble about the state in which they found your best friend, "well first he attacked Steve with a broken bottle, we had to put in great effort to convince him that we'd be on his side, and we came to the conclusion that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, basically."

What you want right now goes without saying. Everyone here knows how close you and Eddie are. As friends, of course. No one would think anything different.

Without wasting another second, the boys lead you inside where Max and Robin are knelt on the wooden floor. Heads turning towards the entrance of the room where you're now standing.

The sight of what's offered to your eyes, sitting opposite of them, breaks your heart.

You can see that he's slightly shivering, eyes glassy in the dim lit room. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips though once his brain grasps your presence, and he can't help anymore but let the water fall once his eyes lock with yours.

The pain that is swimming in those two deep warm brown oceans hits you like a dagger to the chest. Over the months of being friends with him you'd seen him various different states, none of them comparable to this.

"Peach", his shaky voice announces your arrival and the sound of your nickname spilling from his lips cracks through your bones. The bag that's slung around your shoulder drops onto the wood with a dull thud.

Wobbly legs carry him towards you with a gentle shove past Robin and Max. You're once again reminded of your best friend's sheer physical strength as he wraps his arms around you, instantly burying his face into the crook of your neck.

One arm of your own sneaks around his torso, pressing him against you as tightly as your own strength allows you, while your other hand comes up to bury itself underneath the mane and to end up scratching soothingly over the scalp above the nape of his neck.

Eddie lets out a muffled sob, sniffling into the collar of the sweatshirt you threw on in a haste. He doesn't really want anyone to see him like this, certainly not Steve Harrington, so he clutches onto you so tightly that he thinks you might just feel his heavy heart beating anxiously against your chest.

And you do. How could you not with the amount of world he means to you? Like an automatism your other hand rubs slow circles over his back. Comforting him in the best way you could. Not a conscious decision you make.

"Okay so, m'not meaning to ruin the party, in fact I'd love to stay for another round of doom talk, but I really should get home soon, guys", Robin scratches the back of her head after she gets up from her huddled position next to the wooden crate Eddie had been sitting on. Max joins in and agrees, mumbling something about having to move her mom from being passed out on the couch again into her bed.

"Yeah me too, actually. My dad's gonna be fucking pissed. We'll see you tomorrow, yeah?", Steve's voice echoes through the room and you can tell he's already shoved Dustin back outside, itching to drive the kid home.

As Eddie processes having to stay in hiding, added the possibility of everyone leaving without him, his grip on you tightens even more.

"It's okay, Eds", you speak softly, head slightly tilted so your cheek rests on the dark frizzy mop you could call his hair. The skin on his neck and scalp so warm underneath your fingertips as you keep scratching it, emphasizing your presence, "I'll stay."

A soft muffled whimper is what you get as a response, and the way he lets you see him in this state melts your insides to a puddle.

You just need him to be okay.

They wave their goodbyes behind your back, accompanied by mumbles of "see you in the morning", and you can't even bring yourself to turn your head around, fully focused on making the young man in your arms less terrified of the world. A world he was sure was now going to come for him with all its force – in deep conviction of him being responsible for Chrissy's misfortunate end.

The door falls shut and Eddie muffles a quiet thank you into the fabric of your sweatshirt. The skin on your neck is damp with his tears, wet eyelashes tickling every time he blinks.

"It's okay, Eds", you softly keep repeating your words to him while continuously rubbing over the denim of his signature Dio vest in a slow motion, when he feels the urgency to claim the truth into the collar of your sweater about what has happened, "I– I didn't do it, I swear."

As if you would need any convincing.

"Oh no of course you didn't, I know that", you're looking for a way to ease the distress this entire situation is causing him, his quivering voice adding to your desire to soothe him to inner peace, "can I make a suggestion?"

Eddie nods with another sniffle against your collarbone, the round wet tip of his nose brushing against the column of your throat lightly. To his ears, your voice sounds like silk right about now.

"How about we head over to the main house and get ourselves a little more comfortable? Since we're gonna be here for a little longer? My god you probably haven't slept or eaten at all, have you?"

You can feel him nod his head again with a hum this time, and you start to think that the tears might not just be pouring because he just witnessed someone suffer a gruesome death right in front of him, but also due to physical exhaustion.

It makes your heart ache even more, that tingle still present, even more so now. It hurts to see your best friend hurt.

He just needs to be okay. And in that heart of yours there's that little spark of hope that leads you to believe you could be the one helping him with that.

You'd really want that. Be all his to find comfort in, to hold close, to kiss stupid

Stop.

A sigh escapes your lungs at the thought. That tingle, that longing, it's selfish. It familiarly pools in your belly and slowly drips downwards. You push your brain aside. This is about soothing your best friend now.

"C'mon then", you utter softly, encouraging him with your hand to lift his head from where it leans against your shoulder.

For your heart it's almost too much to look at, the hurt still swimming in the glassy big brown irises, his waterline red and puffy. The soft smile returning to his lips causes the wet apples of his cheeks to push up slightly, reflecting the dim light coming from the one torch Robin left you, placed on one of the crates.

He really hadn't been able to close an eye for a single second since he he'd gotten up for school the day prior.

You smile back at him almost bashfully as you slowly create space between your bodies.

Eddie is grateful that it's you who grabs his ringed hand next.

He squeezes yours, hoping to get the message of this meaning something to him across.

And he closely trails behind you as you lead the way.

The house feels empty, like no one's really been here in months. You'd never been inside. The few times you'd accompanied Eddie grabbing stash you'd stayed in his van, waiting. But as far as you now can make out in the darkness, there's a couch with knitted blankets, a little TV with a whole stack of VHS almost rising as high as the screen itself, spilled and spluttered empty cans and papers and wrappings littered all around. Maybe this is why he never let you come inside with him. Keeping you out of this definitely not sterile mess. Along with keeping you out of the business.

In the middle of the living room, you let go of his hand and shuffle one step away from him. He's inside now. Safe. Job done. Doesn't need physical contact. You shouldn't, he's your friend. You feel like something between you would break if you'd go there.

Eddie thinks otherwise, regarding close proximity at least. He promptly follows you into what you believe to be the kitchen where you hope you might find a tea bag or two. He comes up behind you and encases you in his arms as you rummage through the cabinets (feels familiar, hm?), not at all ready to say goodbye to the warmth of your body pressed against his own just yet.

You giggle at the silliness of him putting weight on you just to make it harder for you to reach into the cabinets. It's endearing. And very Eddie.

Twenty minutes later and there's two mugs – cleaned to your best ability – with steaming hot liquid on the sixties wooden coffee table. Next to them a plate filled with the almost equally hot insides of a ravioli in tomato sauce can. Thank Rick for a still functioning microwave.

You drape the knitted blankets over both you and Eddie as you settle into the cushions. The only light existent coming from two lit candles on said coffee table. It wouldn't be too wise setting up the torch you think.

The side of Eddie's face glows in the orange yellow, his wide brown bambi eyes dried after the first grand storm, and there's this tug on the corner of his pink plush lips again. He exchanged his leather jacket for the freshly washed hoodie for comfort and a small part of you hopes he doesn't spill his dinner onto any of it.

You lean back into the backrest of the worn out couch and watch as he eats, a domestic thing you've done a thousand times already, yet you still find comfort in knowing that he's nourishing himself.

Or well, in this case, inhaling the raviolis.

"Thank you Peach", he moves to put the empty plate back on the coffee table and it makes the spoon chink and glide along the edge, "I really needed this."

His voice is a little hoarse, probably from the emotions of the hours behind him. Maybe he has indeed calmed down a little. His hand moves down to your thigh, squeezing.

You give him the most empathetic smile you can bring yourself to display, painfully aware of the blaze that is transpiring through your leggings and seeping into your bones, "it's no big deal, really. I mean it is– uh, being there for you, is."

And he can't bring himself to look up at you. Instead, he stares at the empty plate on that coffee table in front of him.

"And to me as well. It really helps that you're here."

He doesn't bother moving the calloused warmth of his hand from the soft warmth of your thigh. It lights your entire nervous system on fire. In a good way.

And that's when you begin to wonder if everything that has just happened and is still happening right now changes anything.

"I'm so glad it does", is all you're able to get out.

Eddie decides that it's time to lean into your side and wrap his arms around your torso once again, drop his head back to its favourite place with a soft content little hum.

He just needs physical comfort. Of course. Just that. Nothing more, nothing else.

The words are redundant but your mouth articulates them anyway, "try to get some sleep, yeah?"

His back already lifts and falls evenly. You place your hand on the back of his head that rests in the crook of your neck again, scratching through the curls lightly, searching to help him shut off even deeper.

–––––

The candles have gone out by the time your eyelids slowly open. It takes you a moment to recall the location you fell asleep in, and you hope that the nightly darkness the whole room is now filled with hasn't invited any stranger to take advantage of your unconsciousness.

There's a warm hand holding your face, the pad of a thumb tracing over the apple of your cheek softly. It makes its way from the bridge of your nose to the outer corner of your eye, and back. And forth. And back. And forth.

You must have moved to lie down on your back in your sleep, with Eddie's weight still on your body, legs entangled. It's not the first time you've slept like this, there had been movie nights that had ended similarly.

His hand caressing your cheek though, yeah that is new. There's something unspoken in the air this time around. Your stomach is doing flip flops when you realise that he is propped up on his elbow, just .. looking at you. With eyes that don't require light to hint at whatever it is he is trying to say, or maybe not trying at all.

"Eds, what are you doing?", you ask almost in a whisper followed by a lopsided smile, expecting an unserious answer, because he always tends to make a joke whenever he tries to avoid conversing about emotions regarding his heart.

His thumb stops its acrobatics on your cheek, comes to a halt.

"I'm–", he takes a deep breath before he continues, "I'm just so grateful it's you that's here right now."

Your hand comes up to cup his. Brush over his rough knuckles with a thumb of your own. Enjoying the warmth that is seeping from his palm into your skin.

"Yeah, I figured you were gonna be a little opposed to spending the night with Harrington", you laugh, an attempt to turn your nerves into humour.

Eddie snorts a little, "yeah right, it's almost like you know me", he grins and pushes himself even closer to your face than he already is. It doesn't necessarily help in extinguishing the fire that's consuming you whole at this point.

"It's almost like we're best friends and I know what you think of him because every time Dustin or literally anyone else mentions his name around you, you're not necessarily secretive about it."

"Hey, my own worldview is not my fault, it's just– ... he just kinda seems like a douche of the highest order."

"He's quite alright, Eds. Try giving him a chance, I think he'd look great as Coffin's tambourinist."

He snorts again and you feel his breath on the column of your neck next when he dips his head down, nose pressing against the soft skin, his small giggle being swallowed by the collar of your sweatshirt.

Your favourite sound. Ever. Followed by the relieved moan Eddie lets out at the way your other hand is softly rubbing over his shoulder blade. The vibration against your neck makes you twitch as much as being pinned into the couch cushions by his body allows you.

It's soothing as much for you as it is for him.

When he lifts his head, the soft gaze he eyes you with is enough to let the goosebumps erupt. Even in the darkness of the room you can still make out those round buttons that could melt the entire north pole.

"Thank you, Peach, really. I'd be goin' mental right now and probably tryin' to counter that by smoking an equally mental amount of the stash I've been hiding here."

Your heart aches.

"I'm just glad I can be that kind of comfort to you, Eds. You don't have to go through whatever the fuck this is alone."

"I know I'm never gonna be alone as long as you are there."

You almost cry yourself now, his words making your hand travel from his own to his cheek, almost passing out from the way his eyes bore into your own once again.

Eddie isn't sure what it is that is making him feel lightheaded right now. The whole rollercoaster of events of the past hours. Or your words of affirmation. Or mayhaps it is your cute soft hand with that little ring on your thumb which is gently swiping over his damp skin.

That cute soft hand he'd been imagining countless times at night, silently yearning for your eyes to look at him differently, to finally see him in a different light the next time you'd hang out.

Probably a combination of just everything.

You reciprocate his soft half-lidded gaze, hand moving from his cheek to tuck some of his hair behind his left ear, revealing that delicate silver hoop earring you'd gifted to him for his birthday, after having talked your ear off about getting his ear pierced for literal months.

He'd insisted you join him for the appointment, "another metal moment for the books", as Eddie had called it, the need to have his hand held during the stab comically urgent in the way his voice sounded when he called you that day. And in the pace in which he picked you up.

"I'm here no matter what", you respond to his sentiment, that hand that brushed his hair away resting on the side of his neck while leaning the weight of your head into his palm that is still attached to your cheek.

Eddie's confidence reaches a new all time high with the admission of your unconditional support being stirred into the cocktail of hormones and emotions that's been circulating in his bloodstream for a generous amount of time now.

Because then he goes on by saying impossible things.

Impossible things with a slightly less platonic undertone.

"You're so fucking sweet, has anyone ever told you?"

You smile as you shake your head, heat rising to your cheeks once again and you're sure he won't be able to see just how flustered he's getting you (joke's on you he does).

You're also sure he's out of his mind for saying that. Now.

"A shame, honestly. You should scold your best friend for not telling you sooner. Tell him what a fucking idiot he is."

Eddie earns another giggle from you. Music to his ears. Better than Metallica. Okay maybe not but .. pretty fucking close.

"I'll let him know next time I see him", you say with a grin, playing along with pleasure, and you ask yourself why it is only now that you realise just how fucking close his face is to yours.

There is a moment of silence in which Eddie hesitates articulating whatever is seemingly bugging his mind.

"Do you, uh, still like him?"

If you lifted your head just a little your noses would be touching. A silly and utmost redundant question, and yet, Eddie dreads your answer. If the circumstances were different, less dystopian and tragic, you'd seriously wonder what would spark the doubt in your friendship in him, but considering that everyone else would be going to pour their judgement over him, you understand.

Every word exchanged between the two of you at this hour is soaked in mutual infatuation, something the idiots in both of you are slowly starting to fathom as well.

"Of course I do, he's everything to me."

As you say it, you can't help the grin which reappears reliably each time you finish verbalizing your thoughts. It's contagious, you notice.

"And do you think – just hypothetically of course", it's only then he breaks eye contact to clear his throat, "of course", you interrupt him still smiling and cocking an eyebrow at him, "d'ya think it would be okay for this best friend to, uh, maybe...", Eddie pauses, internally watching the ship containing his confidence set sail slowly and ultimately letting the irrational thoughts win for tonight, "would you let him..."

Eddie generally wasn't someone who lacked confidence. It showed in the way he boisterously wandered the halls of Hawkins High, the way his demeanor never changed, his mask never faltered no matter who was around. Except for you. You who he had always granted a look underneath the impulsive, extroverted surface.

"Eds", you try everything in your power to stay calm even though everything inside of you is screaming right now and you're certain you can feel your pulse in your earlobes.

"Would it be just insane of that best friend to kiss you right now?"

You want to squeal and kick your feet, pull him into your face, pinch your own forearm, pass away, leave the house and never return, and stay right where you are forever, buried underneath your favourite metalhead, the parts where your bodies are touching practically on fire, cosy and content.

Instead, the most fond smile spreads over your lips as you try to contain your internal overwhelm.

It's still dark, the only light source being the full moon outside. Eddie's so hopeful of your reciprocation and even more terrified of ruining his entire life at the same time, those deep doe eyes at this point pretty much resemble the shape of the space rock orbiting earth. Rejection from you, his pretty Peach and the Bonnie to his Clyde, would be unbearable.

"I think so," you almost whisper, the hand that's been rubbing over Eddie's back coming up to lightly trace one of his eyebrows with your index finger because you just can't seem to not touch him in some way, "but you should know that I love his insanity."

Your small giggle is being silenced by a soft and cautious kiss from Eddie Munson. Like he doesn't want to break you. Or he's afraid you'll snap out of a haze, slap him and leave if he starts kissing you like he really wants to.

And then it's you who goes for it, you feel at home, right where you belong, you don't think you've ever felt this good. The hand on his jaw tugs him closer softly, pressing your lips to his with a bit more urgency.

It gives him all the confirmation he could possibly need.

That tingle, it grows and fills up your chest and shoots through your entire being, goosebumps and all. Eddie moans and breathes against your lips, tongue dancing over the thin skin, asking for permission.

His ringed hand digs deeper and slowly moves to the nape of your neck, intending to hold you in place, afraid you could slip away from him if he didn't. This blossoming thing between you could slip away from him. If he didn't.

It's so soft, the way his lips touch yours, and before you know it they move to your cheek, to your jaw, down your neck before Eddie comes up again, smiling from ear to ear, to gently bump his nose against the tip of yours and his lips return home with a soft and deep hum escaping from his lungs into your mouth.

Relief floods his veins along with whatever it is you're doing to him. The ability to shut out the insanity of the past hours is what he so desperately wants to cling to for as long as you allow him, even if the dawn will remind him of the horrid reality he's involuntarily become subject to live through now.

"You're making things so much better, Peach, you're so sweet, so fucking cute, so fucking good for me, do you even know for how long I've been dreaming of this?"

Eddie greedily pulls your face into his again, not even giving you a chance to reply and not nearly getting enough of your affection it seems with how fervently his tongue searches for yours.

A gentle collision of skin.

The soft whimpers you let out only spur him on. You not backing away from him, staying with him, letting him be this close to you?

You, the only constant source of consolation Eddie's ever really had.

Life changing.

Soft touches follow soft touches, your thumb traces his jaw repeatedly.

"You don't–", kiss, "for how long–", kiss, "I've been dreaming–", kiss, "of you as well", you breathe against him and Eddie thinks he might be about to resort to sniffling into your collar again with the amount of relief he is experiencing.

You'd let him.

"Yeah?", he presses his nose into your cheek with his eyes closed, smiling from ear to ear, relaxing his entire body into yours as you let him slide inbetween your legs.

"Yeah, you know how much of a sucker I am for peaches", you grin, another peck to his cheek, his jaw, his neck, your hips slowly finding a rhythm against his own.

Eddie groans at your allusion with a wide grin on his face (and the feeling of your warmth against his dick), before pressing his lips against yours again lovingly, "me too baby, me too."

–––

taglist (thought you might be interested): @josephfakingquinn, @ghost-proofbaby, @analogkraken, @wroteclassicaly, @songforeddiemunson, @joejoequinnquinn, @somnambulic-thing, @trashmouth-richie, @eddddiemunson, @ceriseheaven, @userchai

comments, reblogs and other forms of affection towards the author are greatly appreciated thank youuuuu <3

[bucketbueckers]

I'D RATHER PRETEND

extra 5: bet

wc: 3.7k

synopsis: tess and paige predict each other's win records leading up to the first sparks-wings match up of the season. tess wins, she collects her reward, and realizes that she and paige are honestly kind of whipped.

notes: for the anon who requested something in honor of the wings' first win, for the anon who wanted tess doing paige's makeup, and for the anon who asked if the day was rainy enough (it was not raining in florida but i just seem to have a problem saying no). also yes this is an old header, no i didnt want to make a new one, no. i dont care. i wrote this instead of watching a lecture video so now i have to learn about thermodynamics at 8:30 tomorrow morning. yes this is me begging for attention. no i am not ashamed. not proofread at all. hope y'all enjoy 🫶

For as long as Tess and Paige have known each other, have loved each other, you would expect for them to come to the realization that there’s just no clear winner with each other. Yes, Paige beat Tess in the natty – frankly, they annihilated South Carolina, although that’s neither here nor there – but to see Paige so happy, so deserving of the win, Tess isn’t sure if she could ever consider that a full loss. Tess has a few victories of her own – Fortnite wins, petty arguments about pineapple on pizza, and the times they’d played one-on-one together and Tess scraped by with the win. Paige wouldn’t consider those losses, either; she never feels like a loser when Tess is beaming, the glow of adrenaline and success on her cheeks, or even the muted acceptance when she realizes she was being irrational about pizza toppings and presses a quiet kiss to Paige’s cheek in apology for getting heated about their random little arguments.

It’s not an ego thing. It’s not an unsportsmanlike refusal to concede the victory. They know when they lose as much as they win, but sometimes, losses feel like wins with the right person. And sometimes, and if Tess from five years ago heard her say this, she’d probably beat the shit out of her, some losses just don’t matter when you see the bigger picture in front of you. It’s growth, acceptance, learning to be better, and learning to realize what pieces of your life to continue to carry with you.

With that said, the both of them should know by now that there’s never a clear winner between the two of them. The both of them should know that it’s useless to make bets where the losers has to do something or the other, because most of the time, it’s hardly a punishment if they’re together. They’re stupid and in love and kind of gross about it, but neither of them particularly care.

The bet came about one night as they’re on FaceTime. It’s late on Thursday and the both of them have their WNBA debuts on Friday, but neither of them want to hang up. They’d spent the better part of the night talking about any and everything – those well-hidden fears, like Tess’s worry that her body isn’t ready for the physicality of the league and Paige questioning the kind of leader she needs to be the Wings, the kind of player she needs to be. Tess and Paige weren’t trying to fix anything about each other. There wasn’t much more Paige could have told Tess outside of “Trust yourself, you’re ready for this,” to soothe her worries, just as Tess couldn’t have said much more outside of “They drafted you to be Paige Bueckers, you’re enough.” All they needed was for the other to listen.

In between the heavier topics, Paige squeezed in a terrible joke or two, ones that Tess pretended weren’t funny even though her cheeks hurt from smiling. Paige would tell her about how nice her new neighborhood is – if you could call the apartment complex that – and, vulnerably, Tess would admit that part of her wishes the both of them were together for this part of their journey. “What’s four years compared to the rest of our lives?” Paige had said, and that was enough to make Tess tear up again.

There was a lull in conversation when Tess’s eyes started drooping. Selfishly, she hadn’t wanted to give up on the call yet, even though it was nearing midnight in Dallas and she knows that Paige gets cranky if she doesn’t sleep well. So, in an attempt to listen to her girlfriend’s voice for a little longer, Tess murmurs sleepily, “When do you think you’re winning your first game?”

Paige snorts. “Definitely not tomorrow,” she admitted, which made Tess grin. “What about you?”

“Oh, definitely tomorrow,” Tess says confidently. “I’m going to ruin the Valkyries’ entire lineage for waiving Kaitlyn. You know I’m 1-0 in revenge games, baby. I dismantled Iowa for you. Now I’m dismantling the Bay for your teammate. Don’t ever say I don’t love you.”

“Thanks,” Paige laughs. “I think.” Tess clears her throat – loudly, if not a little dramatically, and she can see Paige’s soft grin on the screen. “I love you, too.” Tess smiles, too, her eyes lighting up at Paige’s words. She doesn’t think she’ll ever get tired of hearing them. “So, are you interested in making this fun?”

Tess raises a lazy brow. “...I’m listening.”

“We predict each other’s first wins,” Paige explains. “Winner makes the loser do whatever they want.”

“I don’t think you understand how badly I’m going to destroy the Valks tomorrow, babe,” Tess says. “Like, I just handed you a free win. Your first win, my first loss?”

“You play Minnesota after the Valks,” Paige points out. “If I can’t win against Phee, you can’t, either.”

“Rude,” Tess huffs. “Okay. What about each other’s win record by the first Wings-Sparks game this season?”

Paige pauses to think about it, then nods. “How many games is that? Eight for both of us?” Tess opens the schedule on her phone, humming in affirmation. “I bet you’re going…3-5.”

Tess opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. “Okay. Sure.” She flicks through the schedule, taking note of who the Wings play, and then a guilty smile crosses her face. “You’re gonna hate me, but lowkey…I think you guys are gonna be 1-7.”

“One single win?” Paige echoes in disbelief.

“Hear me out!” Tess cries. “You play Minnesota, like, a million times. I think Atlanta will be close, but c’mon. BG, Rhyne, Allisha? Just greedy. Your team will fumble with Chicago, and I’m not saying that because Kam’s my girl or anything. Your coach reminds me of Voldemort and as a student athlete from the real USC, I don’t think whatever weird ass Trojan school he came from has taught him enough about rotations and how to coach basketball. You’re definitely gonna beat the Sun though. You’re undefeated in Mohegan.”

Paige pauses, her expression softening. “You know that?” she whispers.

Tess laughs gently, sounding more like an amused exhale. “Of course I do. Elite ball knowledge.” That makes Paige roll her eyes, but there’s a light blush that’s settled over her cheeks. Tess swipes off of the game schedule, fullscreening their FaceTime call again, and something settles into place in her chest at the sight of Paige, her face soft, sleepy, slightly determined and illuminated by the dim glow of her screen.

“You’re staring,” Paige points out, her voice impossibly smug, and Tess can’t even find it in herself to be ashamed.

“You’re beautiful,” Tess states gently. “I don’t say it enough. I’m sorry. But, God, Paige, you are.”

Paige’s smile turns a little tender. “You say it in your own way,” she murmurs. “I hear you. I’m listening when you think I’m not.”

“I know,” Tess confesses. A smile tugs at the corner of her lips, and the two of them fall into a brief silence before Tess breaks it with a yawn. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, baby,” Paige promises, her tone soft. “Just eight games, okay? Then it’s just you and me. You can stay the night after the game and I’ll drop you off at the airport. Get you a coffee and try to convince you to request a trade.”

Tess rolls her eyes a little, but her heart swells. “Haven’t even played a game yet and you’re already trying to trade me,” she mutters.

“You’d look sexy in neon green,” Paige teases.

“No the hell I wouldn’t,” Tess declares. “The fact they got your pale ass in neon green is a crime in so many ways. You’d look good in purple.”

“I look good always.”

“The lack of sleep is making you delusional,” Tess fires back, but the smile on her face betrays her. Then, quietly, she asks, “Will you stay on the phone?”

Paige’s face softens. “Yeah,” she says. “Of course.”

Tess falls asleep to the sound of Paige’s breathing, close to her despite the hundreds of miles of distance in between them, already counting down the games until she gets to have Paige in her arms once more.

To no one’s surprise, especially not Tess’s, the Wings finish 1-7 by the time the first Wings-Sparks match up rolls around. Tess doesn’t know a whole lot, but she knows that a WNBA team under Lisa Leslie’s leadership would not be 1-7. Clearly, she’s not a GM, so what does she truly know?

Paige had predicted the Sparks to go into their game with a 3-5 record. The Sparks actually underperformed, locking in with a 2-6 record, and Paige spent almost an hour on FaceTime complaining about the fact that they should have won their second game against the Valkyries. Tess, admittedly, didn’t have a great shooting night, but she tried to salvage what was left of her dignity by arguing that it wasn’t technically a revenge game. She’ll get the next one, though.

On the bright side, Tess won their bet. Which means that Paige has to do whatever Tess wants her to do. Which, the more that Tess thinks about it, probably won’t be anything too crazy considering they’re planning on maximizing their time together after the game.

The Sparks end up taking the win, pushing them to 3-6 on the season and pushing the Wings to a disappointing 1-8. Paige wasn’t angry. She just seemed kind of tired, the kind of exhaustion that lingered in your chest rather than your bones. Paige was carrying a lot for the team and doing a lot for them. She was their point guard, their coach, and everything in between. Tess would never take it for granted that she provided the kind of security that allowed Paige to just be Paige and nothing else.

Cam and Rickea both give Tess a teasing wave as they watch her leave after media, hand in hand with Paige, but Tess just rolls her eyes, enjoying the feeling of Paige’s thumb pressing against the center of her palm.

The ride to Paige’s apartment is quiet. Tess can tell there’s a lot on Paige’s mind and that she’ll talk when she’s ready, but she’s not closed off. Her palm rests gently over Tess’s thigh, fingers brushing gently against her skin, humming along to the song playing over the radio. When she pulls into the lot, she takes both of their bags from the back, pressing a sweeping kiss to Tess’s cheek when she complains because she knows Paige is tired, although she can’t help her smile.

“Can I cash in on my bet winnings tonight?” Tess asks as Paige leads her through her apartment. The lights are dim, but Tess’s eyes sweep across the walls quickly. It’s clear that Paige is still moving in, but her apartment is clearly lived in, as evidenced by the plates left in the drainer and the random pair of shoes left by the couch. The sight makes her grin soften, even when Paige groans dramatically as she flicks on the bedroom light.

Paige deposits their bags carefully on the ground, then she falls back onto her bed, limbs spread in a starfish shape. “Please nothing weird,” Paige begs, eyes blinking open blearily when Tess crawls into bed next to her, slinging a leg over her waist and straddling her. Paige’s hands come up to rest on her thighs, her touch warm and gentle, and Tess brushes her fingers through the loose hair at the top of Paige’s head. “Or freaky. I’ll fall asleep with my hand down your shorts.”

“You’re disgusting,” Tess mumbles, and Paige musters an annoying little grin. “But I saw this TikTok the other day.”

Paige sighs. “That never ends well.”

Ignoring her, Tess continues, her free hand brushing against the exposed skin of Paige’s stomach innocently. “It was of this girl doing her girlfriend’s makeup. It was called ‘turning my masc girlfriend into a fem’ or whatever.”

One of Paige’s eyes blinks open. “You just wanna do my makeup?” she asks, unconvinced. “Like no strings attached?”

“Well,” Tess murmurs, “like…on live?”

Paige pauses, confusion evident in her expression. “You just won a bet where your prize is to get me to do anything you wanted.” Tess nods. “And you want to use that to do my makeup on live?”

Tess wrinkles her nose. “Why do you say it like that?”

“‘Cause if I won I was gonna make you be the big spoon tonight,” Paige admits.

“I can do that anyways,” Tess says with a laugh. “You don’t need a bet for that.”

“And you don’t need a bet to do my makeup on live, baby.”

Tess pauses, and then she sighs forlornly. “We can never just win with each other, can’t we?”

“Nah,” Paige says with a little too much glee. “You get to do your weird makeup stuff. I get to be held tonight. Everyone wins.”

Tess rolls her eyes, but her expression is fond. She slides off of Paige’s lap, not listening to her girlfriend’s complaints about already missing her, and digs through her belongings for her makeup bag. She directs Paige to her desk chair as she takes a seat on the desk itself, and sets up her phone until the both of them are in frame. Satisfied, she clicks the button to go live, and the viewers and commenters begin rolling in. There’s flurries of various greetings and Tess’s eyes catch on one that says “mom and dad are together” with a million crying emojis. She bites back a laugh.

“Hello, TikTokers,” she says plainly, not reacting when Paige’s hand lands on her thigh absently. “Paige has lost a bet–”

“Lost is subjective,” Paige interrupts, and Tess can’t help her stupid little grin.

“Lost is, in fact, subjective,” Tess agrees, a hand reaching up to cup Paige’s jaw. She squeezes gently, her lips puckering out, and Paige rolls her eyes with a laugh. “Look at this face. She’s so excited to be here.” Tess reaches for her makeup bag and starts pulling products out. Paige eyes most of them warily. “So, I will be doing Paige’s makeup. Nothing crazy ‘cause it’s like, 10pm, and I’m gonna have to clean it off anyways, but y’all can ask us questions.”

“Keep it cordial,” Paige cuts in again, a brow raising, and Tess can’t help her giggle.

The chat explodes with questions, but Tess redirects her attention to Paige’s face, squeezing a bit of primer onto her fingers. “You can choose the questions,” Tess tells her, “since I’m about to stick my fingers all over your face.”

“How generous,” Paige mutters dryly, but lets Tess tilt her head to her liking as she carefully rubs the primer into her girlfriend’s skin. Paige hums, clearly enjoying the attention, but snorts before she reads the first question. “‘Did y’all actually think you were being slick when you first started soft launching each other?’”

“Jesus,” Tess mutters, fingers still working. “That was like, two years ago.”

“She thought she was being slick,” Paige declares, and Tess pauses to glance at the camera with a look that clearly says, she is so fucking delusional. “She was adjusting me like we were in a professional photoshoot and not her tryna cop a feel in the trainer’s office.”

“Yeah, and you wanted to kiss me at the airport,” Tess huffs.

Paige grins, all smug. “And here you are two years later, sitting on my desk in my apartment and doing my makeup. All because you love me.” She drags out the word love like she’s six years old and teasing a classmate with the kissing in a tree rhyme.

“Geno was right,” Tess says. “You are delusional.”

Paige glances at the live again, where comments are still rolling in. “Tess loves me, guys,” she says, as if it wasn’t evidently clear that Tess really did. “Trust.” Tess can’t hide her smile as she reaches for the foundation, the spare she keeps in her bag that matches Paige’s skin tone more than it matches hers. She’d started keeping an extra in her bag when they were on their joint world tour before the 2025 college season and now, even hundreds of miles apart, it was a habit that she has yet to break.

“‘How do the both of you manage the distance? My girlfriend just moved away for college and it’s been hard on us,’” Paige reads. Tess softens as she reaches for the brush, beginning to lightly apply the foundation to Paige’s skin. “You first?”

Tess hums as she contemplates her answer. “It’s simple,” she says finally, “but not easy. But it’s all about the intent, effort, patience, and understanding.” She doesn’t say anything for a beat, a wry smile crooking on her lips. “And y’all won’t ever catch me saying this again, but I really do miss Paige when we’re apart. Like, a lot. Believe me when I say that I understand how difficult it can be, but it’s only impossible if you let it be impossible. Be honest. Communicate. If you’re busy, tell them you’re gonna be busy. Make time even when it’s not convenient.”

“Aw,” Paige coos, her cheeks tinging red as a wide smile overtakes her features. “The distance really has made you soft.”

“You’re such a pain in my ass,” Tess mutters. “You wanna add anything or are you gonna be annoying?”

Paige hums, her palms resting firmly on Tess’s thighs. “Even if you think it’s small, every little moment counts,” she says softly. “Make an effort to keep them a part of your life even if they’re not really there physically. Random life updates about dogs you see on the street or how you’re feeling that day. Don’t let the distance be a reason to stop choosing them.”

“Good answer,” Tess says, brushing a light kiss to Paige’s temple, and the blonde smiles proudly.

Paige checks herself out in the camera, tilting her head and rubbing her hands together. “Serving face and good life advice,” she croons. “The ladies call me Dr. P. Like Dr. Phil.”

“Tell the ladies to stop calling you doctor,” Tess huffs. “Or your lady is gonna give them a reason to actually go to the doctor.”

Paige glances at the screen again, a satisfied little smile tugging at her lips. “You heard her,” she says, far too pleased with herself, and Tess can’t hide the smile on her face. “No more thirsting in my comments. Or my DMs. Or, matter of fact, no more thirsting in Tess’s comments or DMs either.”

“Me?” Tess cries.

“Do we need to talk about your controversially young girlfriend again?”

“Oh, my God.” Tess shakes her head as she reaches for the mascara. “Please read the next question.”

Paige huffs something smart, but doesn’t repeat it when Tess raises a brow. Obediently, she tilts her head back, keeping dangerously still as Tess runs the wand through her lashes. “‘Thoughts on the Sparks having a better record than the Wings?’”

“Go Sparks,” Tess says simply. Paige is silent, but the corner of her lips lift ever so slightly. “P? Any thoughts, baby?”

“I think I’m winning off the court,” Paige admits shamelessly.

“Alright,” Tess states. “No more basketball questions before Paige yaps us into a meeting with our PR teams.”

Paige smirks. “I dunno,” she says, “I think the first meeting with our PR teams went pretty well.”

And at that, Tess can’t help the way her smile grows, thinking about the first time they’d formally met – in a conference room in South Carolina. Tess was one day away from ruining her life completely, and then she and Paige had been pushed together as if a fake relationship could solve both of their problems. In a roundabout way, that fake relationship did solve all of their problems, so maybe their managers were onto something.

The chat explodes, confused about Paige’s casual lore drop, and Tess brushes her thumb across the hinge of Paige’s jaw, her free hand reaching for her lip gloss. Paige’s smile is softer, like she’s thinking about how much they’d been through together to get here, and that thought makes something in Tess’s chest soften.

“One more question,” Tess announces, uncapping the lip gloss. “Make it count.”

Paige leans forward slightly, hands still on Tess’s thighs, and she scans the comments for a good question to ask. Gingerly, Tess applies the gloss to Paige’s bottom lip, tapping on her jaw to get her to rub her lips together. Paige does so without a question before finally settling on her last question. “‘Who’s winning a WNBA championship first?’”

“The better question is who’s winning a regular season game first,” Tess blurts without really thinking, which makes Paige choke on her laughter. Tess regrets her statement immediately, even as the chat lights up with crying emojis and laughing emojis.

“Felt a little targeted,” Paige teases, but there’s no hurt in her expression, only amusement.

“3-6, baby,” Tess boasts proudly. “All I’m saying is that Paige and I win and lose together. Emphasis on the lose together.”

Paige’s expression is far too smug, and that’s when Tess knows it’s time to shut off the live for the night. She and Paige say goodbye to the viewers and she turns off her phone just in time for Paige to grab her gently by the front of her hoodie, pulling her down far enough to brush a kiss to her lips. Paige is a little sticky with gloss but all it does is make Tess grin against her, having missed the feeling of her lips against hers.

“Just so you know, I’m very proud of your one win,” Tess murmurs. “Defending that undefeated streak in Mohegan? Hot.”

“Undefeated in Mohegan,” Paige states. “Undefeated off the court.” Her grin is wide, and she plants another, chaste kiss to Tess’s lips. “That’s what matters.”

And Tess? Silly, enamored, far too in love for her own good Tess can’t help the way she smiles, or the way her heart grows a few sizes too big in her chest. Paige is an idiot. Unbelievably corny, but she’s hers. That means more to her than a win record does. Tess always likes to joke that Paige is lucky that she loves her, but Tess thinks that she’s pretty lucky that Paige loves her, too.

[sttm99]

You've always noticed Bakugo.

Easily.

You almost took it as a thing of pride, having been able to see the potential so easily. When you were all fifteen-year old first years, you could so easily tell he was handsome. Your teenage eyes always seemed to search for him in every class, every room.

He was brash and unpolished, loud, obnoxious, and an all-round piece of shit. But that stupid, wattpad-infested, schoolgirl mind of yours couldn't help but eat it up.

You could never muster up the courage to talk to him, though. He was mean, and you weren't like Mina or Kirishima that could hang out with him and not be bothered by it.

So you settled with admiring him from afar, keeping your attraction to yourself and never really coming into the space that is Katsuki Bakugo throughout your first year.

Second year was the year you had your first encounter with him. It was in the final months of the year, when you two had been paired together for a project.

He came over to your table at the end of the school day with his bag lazily slung over his shoulder as he stood above you by your desk.

"My room this evening. 6:30. We'll start then and see how far we can go." He tells you swiftly, in that voice that had begun to crack already, eliciting slightly more mature thoughts from you.

"Sure." You murmur as you looked up at him.

He turned around and left immediately, not once turning back to look at you, his other friends following him out the door.

You knocked on his door at 6:33, foregoing your uniform for a simple, little t-shirt and plaid trousers. He opened the door almost instantly, ushering you in and shutting it quick behind you.

"This is how it's gonna go-" He begins as he takes a seat on his desk, powering up his computer. You take the small moment where he's facing away to admire his back, his shoulders bare from the sleeveless tee he has on.

When he turns back, your face is back to a blank stare, eyes directed towards the poster he has above his bed. It's an all might one, and you think you remember it being limited edition, an expensive one that was hard to get a hold of.

"Oi, over here." He scolds you, and you turn back to him.

"Sorry," you mumble, as you step over to him, standing between his desk and his bed.

He glances at you, taking in what you're wearing. "You can sit on my bed. Those aren't outside clothes, right? So it's fine."

You slowly sit on his bed as he begins to open up a Word document. The project was for history class, and you two had gotten a time period you were disgustingly educated in.

Bakugo had already started the work, surprising you a bit. He began pointing out what he'd already done, and what you'd be doing to complete it.

"And-"

"This is wrong, by the way." You cut him off.

Bakugo looks at you slowly, a scowl taking over his pictures. "Wrong?"

You nod, your shyness melting off in the presence of your intelligence. "Yeah. This -" You point to a paragraph header. "- didn't start happening until about 50 years later - 54 specifically, actually. So, if you talk about the monarch right before this, it would look weird cause he couldn't have come into power without this practice."

Your eyes are on the laptop, pointing out mistakes and making corrections. And for the first time since you started at UA, Bakugo noticed you.

It was a subtle switch, where he went from seeing you to actually noticing you; from hearing to listening.

Were you always this smart?

Was your voice naturally that way?

Have you always smelled so good?

The evening ended with you making suggestions and adding about three paragraphs to the work.

And as he closed his eyes to sleep, all Bakugo saw was you.

This is five years past. Mina had invited a small group of them to her apartment for a mini reunion, and just like in his room years before, Bakugo noticed you.

He noticed you standing in Mina's kitchen by the sink, washing off the sauce Denki had accidentally spilt over your palms, whilst the others were in Mina's living room playing a game of charades.

"Hey." You turn to look at Bakugo by the door.

It wasn't like you'd suddenly become friends after the project you two had done together, but you could tell he'd warmed up to you a bit. He looked at you sometimes, more often than before, and didn't look away immediately after making eye contact.

Sometimes, he'd ask your opinion on something(you liked when he did. He valued what you had to say), or he'd make some side comment about you when you'd pass him in the hall sometimes. But they weren't regular Bakugo mean. He was warming up to you, in his own Bakugo away, but warming up nonetheless.

"Hi." You say back to him, turning off the tap before going to wipe your hand with some paper towels.

"Haven't seen you in a bit," Bakugo mumbles as he steps closer, leaning his hip against the counter, some few feet away from you.

Whilst he came into the spotlight, bright and loud like his quirk, you'd decided to follow Aizawa's footsteps and become an underground hero instead- foregoing the limelight for a career in busting crime rings and fucking up drug lords.

You shrug, not really looking at him, your eyes instead focusing on your hands as you dried them.

You'd grown out of your little crush quickly after graduation. Even though you could appreciate just how blindingly handsome he was, just as you'd expected, he didn't have your heart racing anymore, didn't get your palms sweaty.

Sure, maybe the sight of his veiny forearms and large shoulders did something to your stomach, but you knew the difference between pure lust and actual romantic feelings.

"Kind of the point of my work, don't you think?" You ask rhetorically.

He shrugs back. "How's it going, anyways?"

It's not something he can do, the whole underground thing. His quirk isn't quite right for it, and neither is his personality. And with how his time in UA went, he was far too recognizable to go undercover anywhere.

But he could appreciate that you were good at what you did. He wouldn't admit it, but he did keep up with some of the people he didn't bother talking to after graduation. Just a few - Deku and Todoroki - sometimes he'd look at what Uraraka and Jiro are doing.

Admittedly, he checked up on you far more often than he was willing to expose. He knew a lot of your missions and was eerily familiar with your high success rate, too.

"It's fine." You say as you throw the towel into the bin and lean back against the counter behind you, your palms holding the edge as you looked at Bakugo. "Not so glamorous, a bit scary sometimes, I guess, but- that's hero work, isn't it?"

He hums, and at the back of his mind, he hopes the others don't bother coming to look for either of you soon.

"I guess so. But hey, you've been doing good." He admits.

You raise a brow and are unable to keep the smirk off your face. "You've been following up on me?" There's a teasing lilt to your voice which Bakugo had never encountered before. The tilt of your lips changes the entire dynamic of your face.

You're less melancholic now, more sultry and seductive, and it's pulling him in without him understanding why. It's something he'd never seen from you in UA, and he wonders... what else has he not seen from you?

He scoffs at your words, folding his arms over his chest as he stares you down. "I keep up with hero news."

You chuckle a bit. "You're doing well, too, though."

He shrugs. "Thanks, I guess. 'M just waiting for all those old geezers to fucking retire."

You laugh aloud at that.

Bakugo sees Kirishima step into the doorframe behind you. He glares quickly, purposefully as you're not focused on him, still laughing. He's signalling for Kirishima to leave - he doesn't want this moment with you to end just yet.

The redhead complies, not without shooting Bakugo a sly look.

As you turn back to him, his disposition is different. He's less put off, and he's gotten closer. "So -" He starts, drumming his fingers over the countertop"- what are you doing after this?"

And you smile at him, in that sly, sultry way you did before. "It's up to you now, isn't it?"

This most probably won't have a part 2. I just wanted to get it out of my drafts.

[bbyjackie]

𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐍' 𝐂𝐀𝐑 𝐆𝐎𝐈𝐍' 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍

do they trust your driving? one piece + driving feat: like the whole one piece cast lol

(header by gh2ting)

you think you're a passenger princess? nah, you're a passenger survivor. these delusional ones that think you suck at driving and always make fun of you when you're behind the wheel, but the moment it's THEIR turn to drive, it's like y'all are in GTA. and you can't even call them out on it cause they actually think they're like an F1 driver and will not take ANY criticism.

ace. kid. LUFFY. buggy. roger. FRANKY.

nervous smile on their face whilst they're GRIPPING the car seat so freaking tight. listen close enough and you can hear the nervous chatter of their teeth. they don't have the heart to tell you to stop the car, but the moment you swerve a little too fast you best bet they're opening that car door and walking the rest of the way there.

chopper. CORAZON. vivi. bepo. ace.

absolutely does NOT trust you. you wouldn't even be allowed near the wheel, but if you somehow manage to convince them, they would force you to stop mid way and switch because there was no way they would let you even NEAR the highway. also type to act like a parent teaching their kid how to drive. every two seconds they go 'SLOW. SLOW DOWN. YOU'RE GONNA HIT INTO THE CAR INFRONT OF US', even when you're a good five meters behind the car. you both defs start screaming at each other and end up going 90 in a 40.

usopp. IZOU. crocodile. NAMI. sabo. iceberg. lucci.

the BEST person to drive with because they are patient and don't mind if you accidentally take a wrong turn. will give advice whilst driving like 'okay make sure you turn on your indicator'. if you get stressed out, the coax you to pull over on the side of the road and will help you calm down before encouraging you to drive again. pls they are literally the only people you can trust to get on the road with.

robin. LAW. mihawk. marco. rayleigh. jinbe.

will not hesitate to tell you that you suck ass but will help you drive. it's all good with this drive if you can take a couple of insults because you eventually do get better with driving if they're with you. you might get your feelings hurt a little though.

LAW. nami. rayleigh.

you're not driving, they are. the whole time you guys will be arguing with each other cause they have NO chill and will lean over the glove box to turn the wheel or honk the horn with absolutely no warning. absolutely the worst people to have as a passenger because 90% of the time you're gonna be late to your destination cause you got into an accident.

kid. DOFLAMINGO. shanks. crocodile. BOA. perona. LUFFY. ace.

they don't tell you that you suck at driving. even when you don't slow down for a speed bump and they end up getting a concussion. they're too preoccupied with your feelings and don't want to hurt you. so cute of them but this just means that you STAY sucking at driving. everyone gets concerned when you guys show up and they have a nasty bruise protruding on their forehead.

SANJI. bartolomeo (only if ur a strawhat lol). ace. brook. yamato.

calm ride but you're never getting there if you ask them for directions. it's kinda on you for trusting them.

zoro. aokiji.

[markrosewater]

Elegance

Here’s my original article for Elegance.

 This is a topic I’ve wanted to write about for a long time.  Ironically, the words needed to explain the concept kept the column from being elegant. So I did what all artists do.  I found a way to say a lot in a little space.

 Enjoy,

 Mark Rosewater

 [NOTE: EACH OF THE ABOVE FIFTY WORDS IS HYPERLINKED.  BELOW IS THE FIFTY HYPER LINKS.  THE HEADERS SHOULDN’T BE ON THE LINKED PAGE.  I’M JUST INCLUDING THEM SO YOU KNOW WHAT EACH LINK IS.]

 ELEGANCE

 Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary has five definitions for elegance:

 • refined grace or dignified propriety

• tasteful richness of design or ornamentation

• dignified, gracefulness or restrained beauty of style

• scientific precision, neatness and simplicity

• something that is elegant

 The common elements appear to be dignity, simplicity, and taste.

 THIS

 Elegance requires thinking, but it also requires feeling.  Elegant prose is judged by how it makes the reader feel. It needs to generate a sense of calm that puts the reader at ease.  Everything in your writing should feel as if it was carefully positioned to create the proper effect.

 IS

 Pound for pound, the writer’s greatest writing tool is the verb.  Nouns add substance and adjectives add flourish, but it’s the verb that drives the sentence.  Choose a strong, descriptive verb and the sentence has flair and purpose. Choose a weak one and the sentence lacks any sense of drama.

 A

 Here’s a little game to test an elegance relevant skill (based on an old game called Inklings).  Randomly choose a noun.  Try to convey that noun to the other players using the least number of letters possible. You’ll be surprised how much you can communicate in just a few letters.

 TOPIC

 One of the greatest stumbling blocks to elegance is the inability to choose a single focus.  Elegance requires simplicity.  Simplicity requires a single purpose of thought.  This means that elegance starts before you write a single word.  A good sculptor must know his image before he picks up his chisel.

 I’VE

 One of the common misconceptions of elegance is that it requires a writer to be fancy. Elegance though is more about familiarity than formality. You shouldn’t be afraid of friendlier language such as slang or contractions, assuming that such language adds an element of ease rather than one of laziness.

 WANTED

 An important element of elegance is a sense of passion.  Brevity does not mean pulling away emotionally from words, but rather the opposite.  When you find yourself limited to fewer words, you must pack each individual word with extra emotional punch.  You are not reducing your message, simply your messenger.

 TO

 A good tool in understanding elegance is studying poetry.  Poetry is the most concise of all written art forms.  It strives to maximize impact while minimizing expression.  Each word carries the burden of evoking some essence of the poet’s message. If it cannot carry its own weight, it is excised.

WRITE

 To be an elegant writer, you have to become a student of prose.  You have to study the mechanics of language to understand how it can be shaped.  Once you have learned how to transfer the feeling in your head into meaningful words, you are on the path to elegance.

 ABOUT

 Be careful not to fall in love with ambiguity.  While intoxicating in its beauty, it is the enemy of elegance. Remember, the goal is not to make the reader struggle for comprehension.  Rather it is to lead them to the obvious conclusion. Elegance should be used to illuminate, not confuse.

 FOR

 Elegant prose requires connecting with your reader.  To do this, you have to understand who that reader is.  Nothing should come before this task.  It needs to be done before writing can begin. I like to compare this to planning a trip.  Maps are useless until you know your destination.

 A

 Another major key to elegance is the understanding of the importance of the tiniest detail.  Just as a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, a piece of prose is only as tight as its messiest detail. A good writer doesn’t stop at the nouns, verbs and adjectives.

 LONG

 Don’t confuse elegance with brevity.  Elegant things are short not because they have to be but because the difficulty to craft an elegant piece of prose combined with the limitations of time forces writers to be brief.  Elegant novels, for example, do exist, but they are few and far between.

 TIME

 To quote Roman orator (and letter writer) Marcus T. Cicero, “If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.”  

 Simplicity takes more time not less.  Anyone can get a point across with ten thousand words.  But a true artist can do it in ten (or possibly fifty).  

 IRONICALLY

 Irony is a potent tool for commentary.  Its genius lies in the fact that it comments not on what is, but rather on what isn’t.  Like all good humor, irony makes you laugh.  But like the best type of humor, it also makes you think.  It’s both funny and funny.

 THE

 Elegance in writing is about more than words. Equally important is how the words are woven together. Tempo, pacing, rhythm – these are the tools that set the mood for the piece.  Try reading aloud your text.  The natural beat of language is more suited for the ear than the eye.

 WORDS

 To realize the power of words, you must first understand how they work. Art is expressive; words are connotative.  That is, words draw their power from their ability to extract different ideas from different people.  A circle is a circle, but the concept of “scary” varies from person to person.

 NEEDED

 Elegance is not the result of any one attribute.  It is the combination of numerous factors coming together in harmony. This is why it’s such a hard skill to master.  Most people can pat their head or rub their tummy.  But put them together and it’s not quite so easy.

 TO

 An elegant piece of prose needs to hit the reader at a gut level.  Often they won’t know exactly why they like it, but they will recognize that something about the piece moves them.  There are many types of writing where subtlety is lost.  Elegant writing isn’t one of them.

 EXPLAIN

 There are many ways for you to explain an idea.  The most elegant one though is not through definition but by example. By connecting your idea to one already known by the reader, you’re leaving the work of teaching to someone in the past.  Education is hard.  Comparison is easy.

 THE

 If writing is like building a house, the structure is like the foundation. Its design will dictate how the house is built.  If it’s faulty, no amount of fancy brickwork will undo the damage.  So take the time to ensure your structure is building the kind of prose you want.

 CONCEPT

 Never underestimate the power of a concept.  An important part of elegance is condensing big ideas into little words. This is far from an easy task.  It often takes a genius an entire lifetime to create a truly innovative concept.  So take advantage of all their hard work and inspiration.  

 KEPT

 A common barrier to elegance is the belief that only one way will work. Often a writer is unable to abandon a beloved piece of prose even when evidence demonstrates otherwise.  If something doesn’t add to the larger sense of the piece, you have to learn to let it go.

 THE

 Readers notice things at a minute level far beyond their mind’s ability to interpret. This means that although they may not consciously notice many of your tiny details, they will do so unconsciously. Aesthetics teach us that it’s this unconscious structure that will determine whether or not it feels “right”.

 COLUMN

 All communicators, whether through speaking or print, need to find a voice. A voice provides familiarity and it teaches the listener or reader how to more quickly absorb the information. Elegance is all about the conservation of ideas.  Having a pre-learned voice to guide you is a very valuable tool.

 FROM

 I’ve spent some time talking about understanding your reader.  But there is one more person who is even more important to understand – yourself. Writing is about sharing your ideas with others.  If you haven’t spent the time to figure out what you think, how can you possibly communicate it?

 BEING

 “A picture is worth a thousand words.”

 Or so the saying goes.  What the cliché forgets to mention is how many words a single word is worth.  For example, take the word “being”. To capture the essence of what “being” represents is tens of thousands of words if not more.

 ELEGANT

 What is the value of being elegant? Why should you care? Elegance adds aesthetics. It evokes poetry.  It grants beauty.  Elegant prose draws the reader closer because it gives them something to not just learn but to admire.  Good prose stimulates the head, but elegant prose resonates in the heart.

 SO

 Who, what, where, when, how - all important questions.  But for a writer they pale next to why.  If you don’t understand the reasoning beneath the surface, the other details are irrelevant.  The act of elegance is cementing the why.  It’s taking the purpose and engraining it into the piece.

 I

 Elegance is a very personal thing.  If something doesn’t resonate with you, there’s no way for it to resonate with your reader.  Writing is an art, not a science.  There is no rulebook for how things must be done.  If your instincts are telling you that something isn’t working, listen.

 DID

 An important tool in your toolbox is time. Elegance cannot be rushed.  Mental ruts only get deeper the harder you focus on them.  Make sure to work time into your schedule so you are able to walk away from your writing. An hour next week is worth a day today.  

 WHAT

 Don’t let attention to detail pull you away from having a larger sense of what you’re writing.  Take this column as an example.  While I spent a lot of time fine tuning each entry I never lost sight of the effect they created when all the entries were put together.

 ALL

 Elegance requires taking a holistic view of writing.  Every word, every sentence, every paragraph is a piece in a larger puzzle. It’s not enough to understand the impact of a single element. You must understand how any two elements interact if you want to understand the potency of your text.

 ARTISTS

 Elegance and art are very intertwined.  Both seek to achieve a similar goal: to illuminate and inspire with a conservation of expression.  If you’re trying to be elegant, I think it helps to think of yourself as an artist. The instinct for the latter mirrors the needs of the former.

 DO

 An important part of any writing is understanding the feeling you’re trying to evoke.  And then realizing what mechanic tools you have available to evoke that feeling. Diction, verb tense, sentence length, alliteration, word flow, phonetic juxtaposition – each of these will control the mood and tone of your piece.

 I

 A writer’s life is the ultimate fodder.  Don’t be ashamed to plumb your own experiences.  You understand them deeper and more personally than anyone else.  No painter would refuse to use his finest paints. And, as a bonus, by using your own experiences, you will become better educated about yourself.

 FOUND

 Don’t forget that the act of revealing is also an act of exploration.  Don’t be afraid if you learn more than the reader you’re trying to educate.  Writing is not an exact science.  (Or even an exact art.)  Often you will find that the road to salvation has a fork.

 A

 Your future is paved with your past.  If you want to learn how to grow as a writer, you need to look back at what you’ve written. With time and a detached eye, your will find your mistakes become clearer.  Remember that it’s failure, not success, that bests drives education.

 WAY

 The problem with looking for a single solution is that you’ll never find more than one.  And the first one isn’t always the best.  But if you’re open to the possibility that every problem has an infinite number of answers, you’ll have the freedom of choosing the solution you want.  

 TO

 Sentences are filled with freeloaders.  Because writers seem to love overwriting. (I include myself in this camp.)  Make sure to create time for the editor side of you to prune unnecessary words.  If a word can be excised without any harm to the sentence, it has no right being there.

 SAY

 I’m spending my time today talking about elegance in prose, but most of what I’m saying is applicable in speech.  The key difference is that prose has less defining attributes like appearance or tone.  The key to elegant speech is making people focus on the words rather than everything else.

 A

 It’s ironic that something designed to be so simple can be so complex.  But that, my faithful readers, is the joy (and mystery) of elegance. Like an onion, elegance has numerous layers that reveal themselves as you slowly peel them away.  Oh yeah, and it can sometimes make you cry.

 LOT

 An interesting exercise is to look at each word you’re using and think about how much content is loaded in that word.  Then explore what other words exist that fulfill the same role but with added content.  Once you’ve found the word you can’t best, move onto the next word.

 IN

 A good way to get better at understanding elegance is to look for it in every day life. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised where and how often you find it.  Study each example carefully and try to see if you can put your finger on what makes it work.  

 A

 Writing is a shared endeavor.  No one owns the words.  If someone uses a technique that works, there’s no shame in borrowing it.  Like science, writing creates technology that’s brought back to the group to spur further advancements.  Elegance is hard enough to accomplish without refusing to use the toolbox.

 LITTLE

 How big should a piece of text be if you want it to be elegant?  The answer is as big as it needs to be – and not a word more. Just think of it as playing the game Jenga. Keep pulling words out of your prose until it collapses.  

 SPACE

 One of the most important lessons in art is learning the value of negative space, the idea that the eyes are equally drawn to what isn’t there.  Prose has a very similar quality.  When writing pay careful attention to what you aren’t saying. Often it will speak the loudest volume.

 ENJOY

 For some reason people tend to equate dignity with seriousness.  And as such they come to the false conclusion that elegance has no room for humor.  Ironic as humor is one of the most elegant of styles.  A good joke is no longer than is necessary to do its job.

 MARK

 As is always true when I head off the beaten path, I am curious to hear your feedback.  What did you think of this article?  Was it entertaining?  Was it educational? Did you actually read all fifty links?  And if not, why not?

 Tell me.  Inquiring mind wants to know.

 ROSEWATER

 I couldn’t end this week’s column without my trademark closing.  I mean, how inelegant would that be?

 Join me next week when  I go from being a letter man to a Letterman.

 Until then, may you learn to appreciate now just the “what” but the “how” and “why”.

 Mark Rosewater

[avocado-writing]

Kinktober #12

12. Sex Toys // Dirty Talk // Breath Play (Logan Howlett x Reader x Wade Wilson)

By all accounts it should be a lovely evening. That restaurant you’ve been on the waiting list for for months finally ticked around, all of you dressed up nice. It’s fancy enough that when Logan does get recognised people leave him alone (this makes Wade pout in envy and you have to remind him that he, well, wears a mask). The three of you are tucked away in a booth away from wandering eyes, lit only in the chiaroscuro of a flickering candelabra.

Comforted by candlelight and the rich smell of cooking food, It is the perfect place for Wade to test you.

“Someone’s looking pretty fuckable in those dress pants,” Wade says, his hand resting on your knee, mouth at your ear. Two gestures which could be entirely genuine… but you know better. His tongue swipes at your lobe and his fingers threaten to trace higher, up your inner thigh, to somewhere far more illicit. He wants to be a menace and it’s fucking working.

“Wade…” you warn, and though your voice is firm there’s no real sincerity behind it. Yeah, you’d let him finger fuck you at a five-star restaurant. What of it?

“What, baby? I’m just pointing out there’s all this gourmet stuff on the menu but you’re the only thing here I wanna eat.”

You swat at him with said menu, earning a raised eyebrow from the maître d’. You pretend there was a fly and shoot him an apologetic look.

“I know how hot we get you. You’re probably dripping, right? Ready for us? You wanna be fucked in public by your boys, pookie?”

That goes directly between your legs. You have to adjust yourself against the leather seating.

“I…” there’s no fight left in your voice. Instead you look over to Logan beseechingly. If he tells Wade to stop maybe it’ll work.

Logan looks up from the menu slowly, and if you didn’t know him so well, you’d miss the playful spark which glints in his eyes.

“And tell you what, honey? That he’s wrong? That I wouldn’t bend you over this table and fuck you so hard it’d break the wood?”

Wade gasps to your left and you groan. Oh, no. Not him too…

“Yes! Come on, Marvel Daddy! Make this worth the Explicit tag in the header…”

Logan doesn’t acknowledge that but does close in to your other side. His breath is warm against the shell of your ear.

“Take turns on you. Or maybe both of us, one either side, everyone watching. I bet you’d like that,” he says with a devilish smirk.

“You kidding? I can see inside this head-” Wade gently taps your temple “-and thoughts are racing, baby. Tell us who’s in your pussy and who’s using your mouth. C’mon, maybe we could make it happen for real…”

Your face is turning so hot you’re gonna explode. Logan’s hand joins Wade as a partner on your other knee. 

“Boys…” you try to sound no-nonsense but it just coming out pathetic and needy. They give you twinned smiles. A pair of predators closing in.

In an act of god a waiter comes over to take drinks orders at that moment and they’re forced to retreat. You steel yourself. There’s no way you’re getting through tonight in one piece…

[suigenerisisadiva]

My Metal Romance

Pairing: Dee Shvagenbagen x Reader

Summary: Why does Dee tolerate your presence over other people? Let's find out!

CW: Swearing, teenagers, emo teenager Dee, inappropriate jokes

A/N: I told you guys I had a crush on this mf - I genuinely think this is the fastest I've ever written a piece of work for after discovering the fandom, I watched the entire series twice in a day.

The first time you walk into Dee’s room uninvited, he stares at you like you’ve broken the laws of physics.

He doesn't say anything.

Just lifts one brow, like, "You’ve got five seconds to explain yourself or I’m launching you into the void." The same look he gives Heavy when he does something stupid.

You shrug. “You said you didn’t care what I do.”

“That doesn’t mean invade my fortress of genius,” he mutters, turning back to the screen covered in blueprints and glitching code. “Or breathe near my synthesizer.”

You don’t touch anything. You just sit on the floor, legs crossed, and say nothing.

Dee clicks away. But his eyes keep flicking to you. Like you’re a bug in his field of vision. Like he’s trying to decode your presence.

“…You’re not gonna talk?” he finally asks.

“Nope,” you say, popping the ‘p.’ You began touching up your eyeliner, Dee's eyes stay mesmerised on how smoothly your able to do it. Glam even commented on how "Dee, your little girlfriend's eyeliner is wonderful!"

“Then why are you here?”

You shrug. “Just wanted to be near you.”

His fingers freeze over the keyboard for half a second. It's quick. You wouldn't notice unless you were looking.

He makes a face. “You’re weird.”

“You’re worse.”

He almost smirks.

Days pass like that. You don’t push. You show up. You sit. You steal his socks when he’s not looking and draw on the walls of his lab with dry-erase marker.

He pretends to hate you.

You pretend to believe it.

One night, it’s late. He’s hunched over his desk, dark circles like war paint under his eyes. You’re half-asleep on the floor, hoodie pulled over your head.

“I made something,” he says suddenly.

You sit up. “Like a murder device or a romantic gesture?”

He doesn’t answer. Just hands you a small metal cube. Warm in your palm.

“What is it?”

“It glows when you’re anxious,” he mutters. “Changes colors depending on your vitals.”

You blink. “Why would you make this?”

He won’t look at you. “You’ve been… off lately. I figured this would shut you up faster than asking.”

You don’t say anything for a second.

Then: “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“I literally insulted you mid-sentence.”

“I know. I’m swooning.”

He huffs, blush barely rising to his ears. “Don’t make it weird.”

Too late.

That night, as you're leaving, Dee calls out.

“Hey.”

You turn in the doorway.

“If I built a bomb and named it after you,” he says dryly, “that’d mean I like you. Just FYI.”

You grin.

“That’s the most Dee thing you’ve ever said.”

Hope you all enjoyed this! Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!

Sources! -

Dividers - @enchanthings-a

Icon Header - @mutantfairy

Property of suigenerisisadiva, do not repost my work pls & ty

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Fire on the Mountain - Chapter Five: Hope Is A Dangerous Thing

Pairing: Otto Hightower (House of the Dragon) x OFC (Lia Costayne) Warnings: Angst, arranged marriage, canon typical sexism, allusions to smut. Word count: ~7.5k

Chapter summary: Otto returns to Oldtown and the rift between Lia, Rhaenyra and Alicent grows wider.

Author's note: Header by @foxinthegodswood who also beta read this for me - this story would be nothing without you. Thank you for the care and attention you have put in both myself and my writing. I love you.

Otto’s missive to Gwayne had been short and to the point, much like all of their interactions – “I have been relieved of my post as the King’s hand and shall return to Oldtown forthwith” – more like a steward barking orders to a page than a father talking to his son. It did not bother the young knight, he had grown used to his father’s curtness. The kind words Otto had to spare were saved for Alicent and his mother. Since his mother had passed, his father’s capacity for kindness seemed little and less. He now moved through the world strategically, not viewing people as anything more than Cyvasse pieces to be moved across a board. Gwayne had often wondered what piece he might play in Otto’s mind, and since the news of his imminent return he considered whether he would be discarded from the board entirely for his failed betrothal to Lia.

Gwayne had been surprised when he had learned that Lia was already aware of Otto’s return, but when she had revealed Rhaenyra’s unannounced arrival and abrupt departure, it had not been difficult for him to surmise that the princess had played a part in his father’s dismissal. Lia did not offer further details, so Gwayne did not ask. He had tensed as she had clutched at his jerkin, wetting the leather with her tears as her slender frame was wracked by sobs. He had seen his would-be wife in many an unpleasant state in the time that he had known her; angry, irritable, impatient, inebriated, thick headed after a night of too much wine, but he had never witnessed her experience such anguish before. He had never seen her cry. It was the heartbroken weeping of mourning. Whatever had transpired between Rhaenyra and Lia had devastated her, and Gwayne hated it. Such sorrow did not suit a woman as strong as she was, it was like lighting a brazier and watching it spout ice—unnatural. He had half a mind to take her by the shoulders and shake her, to tell her this was unbecoming of someone of her calibre. Instead, he awkwardly wrapped his arms around her and remained still until she quieted. 

The next day, she conducted herself as though nothing had happened, and so he was happy to pretend it had not. It was better that way; a world where Lia did not cry was a world with more certainty, where his Cyvasse piece may yet be moved back from the brink of being cast entirely from the board.

The time spent awaiting the return of his father placed the Hightower into a strange sort of oblivion. Gwayne attempted to continue life as normal but every task had a foreboding sense of finality to it.Even the jaunts into Oldtown were tinged with it. Lia, who would usually be well into her cups come the hour of the bat, now sat listlessly with her fingers tapping gently against the same cup of wine she had been nursing since they arrived at this particular inn. If Gwayne were a less intelligent man, he would interpret her behaviour as dread. However, perceptive as he was, he could see the gentle bounce of her knee beneath the taffeta of her skirts;she did not dread the return of Otto, she was impatient for it. He was certain that if he pondered upon it for long enough then he could uncover the reason why, but there was a part of his mind that kept that particular current of thought locked firmly away, an unsavoury thread that if pulled at hard enough would reveal truths that Gwayne did not want to know. Instead, he leaned conspiratorially across the sticky tavern table, causing Lia to startle, her eyes widening before she blinked, quickly composing herself.

“I think you will find that that wine has had time enough to ferment in barrels upon the Arbor. You do it no favours by allowing it to linger in your cup,” he quipped with a playful smile.

“You drink it then,” she sighed, sliding the cup towards him, careful not to let the contents spill over the edge, not that it would have made any difference considering the table’s surface appeared coated with at least the last hundred beverages before theirs.

Gwayne studied Lia carefully. He had not even managed to coax the ghost of a smile from her. He drew back, a feeling of resignation settling over him. “I think it best we return home.”

Lia brokered no argument to that suggestion and they returned to the Hightower in silence.

Gwayne watched, transfixed, as he worked the lemon half over the blade of his sword. There was something soothing about the simple task of rust prevention; the firm feel of the rind beneath his fingertips as he held and squeezed it ever so gently, the glitter of the residue of juice against the steel as the flesh of the fruit moved over it. It was simpler here, the earthy smell of the training yard that lingered even here in the armoury, among the dim light and silence. Here he was simply a knight tending to his weapons, not a son awaiting inevitable disapproval from his father.

“I am supposed to do that for you,” Leyton’s voice came softly from behind Gwayne, his slender fingers coming to rest atop his as they grasped the citrus fruit. 

Leyton had such pretty hands, a rarity for knights and squires who rarely escaped the disfigurement of scars and callouses. Leyton’s hands were that of a painter or musician;the skin was smooth, soft, unmarred, his fingers long and dexterous. They were one of his favourite things about his lover. They looked beautiful wrapped around a sword, a wine cup, the neck of a lute, his–

“I am happy to do it myself,” Gwayne uttered, pulling away and clearing his throat, as if the action would rid the beginnings of the illicit thoughts from his mind before they could fully take root.

As he glanced over his shoulder, he saw a look of hurt upon Leyton’s delicate features, his emerald eyes downcast at the rebuff of the knight he served so loyally.

“Forgive me,” Gwayne sighed, wiping his hands on his breeches before coming to stand before his squire and placing his hands upon his shoulders. He felt himself soften, the tension leaving his body at the familiar sensation of Leyton’s muscles beneath his palms. “My father’s return is imminent and it would be wise for us to be cautious.”

Leyton scoffed, narrowing his eyes as he shook his head, causing a sandy curl to fall loose from the leather binding that held it fastened at the back of his head. He shrunk away from Gwayne’s touch as the knight attempted to brush it back, and both of Gwayne’s hands dropped uselessly to his sides. “He is not even here yet and already you seek to sever what is between us. Do I mean so little to you?”

“You mean everything to me,” Gwayne uttered in disbelief, his words strained by the emotion that constricted his throat, “and that is why we must be careful.”

“I understand that, but he has yet to ride through the gates, so your distance is premature. Even Lia is behaving strangely. What exactly is happening?” Frustration radiated from the shorter man as he stared at Gwayne, his brow furrowed and hands balled into fists.

The Hightower knight raked a hand through his hair, moving to stand at the bench upon which he had been cleaning his sword and placed his palms flat against its surface, leaning heavily. To explain this to Leyton would be akin to flaying himself alive for his squire’s benefit, and yet he knew if he did not try then Leyton would lose all faith in him. “I have never lived alongside my father,” he began, choosing his words carefully as he held eye contact, “at least not at an age that I can remember. He has always served as Hand to King Viserys, and so I have enjoyed the freedom – relative freedom – to live as I please. It will not be the same once he returns, there will be expectations placed upon me, obligations I must fulfil. He cannot, I will not allow him to know about us, because he would put an end to it. Do you see? I am doing this for us.”

No sooner had Leyton opened his mouth to respond than Ormund barrelled into the armoury, panting with exertion, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Gwayne wrinkled his nose in disgust. He had always thought his cousin possessed the crumpled features of a root vegetable that had been pulled from the ground before it was quite ripe for harvest—an unfortunate trait he inherited from his mother, Lynesse. 

“I have been searching for you everywhere,” Ormund gasped out, swallowing down lungfuls of air as he steadied himself against the stone wall.

“Would this not have been the first place you thought to look?” Gwayne asked irritably, with a lift of his eyebrow, annoyed by the interruption.

Ignoring, or simply not perceiving his cousin’s displeasure, Ormund composed himself, straightening and moving away from the wall as his breath came back to him. “Your father has been spotted riding this way. It is expected he will arrive within the hour.”

Gwayne’s heart lurched, his stomach seizing with dread as his eyes locked with Leyton. Whatever discussion was to happen between them would now be placed upon an indefinite pause. 

Grey clouds loomed overhead, blanketing the sky. The air was thick, suffocatingly so, and the quilted doublet that Gwayne now wore felt much too heavy. He was beginning to sweat and longed to be back in his shirt and breeches, in the cool, dank sanctity of the armoury. Instead he stood at the foot of the steps of the courtyard that led up to the Hightower’s main entrance. Gulls circled above, their anguished squalling an outward representation of the turmoil he felt within. He ought to be fighting to reassure Leyton, to continue their earlier discussion and placate his worries. But here he stood awaiting the return of a man who likely reciprocated his displeasure at the prospect of their reunion.

Gwayne pulled himself to his full height, shoulder to shoulder with his uncle, Hobert. Lynesse was stationed dutifully at the other side of her husband, with Ormund lingering listlessly to her right. A small and somber welcoming party, rather fitting for the disgrace in which Otto would return. Lia’s absence seemed like a crater in the earth beside him, and impatiently he wondered where she might be, why she was not here to share in his discomfort. While the last few weeks had not been the happiest in their friendship, they had at least weathered the lingering sense of unease together in strained and stoic silence. Now that it had reached its pinnacle, she was nowhere to be found.

‘Traitorous harlot,’ he thought to himself, before realising he was scowling and fought to school his features back into an expression of neutrality.

Hoofbeats,a single set of hoofbeats,sounded Otto’s approach, heard in the distance, drawing nearer, until eventually he rode through the gates, utterly alone. The solitude in which he returned was striking in its solemnity. If Gwayne thought about it, he supposed there would be no reason for his father to have a retinue with him. However, to see the lone figure in the flesh was proof of just how far from his station he had fallen. He still cut an imposing figure, even alone on horseback, tall and regal, unchanged since he had last seen him at Alicent’s wedding. 

As attendants moved forward to help Otto dismount, Gwayne turned at the sound of hurried footsteps upon the stone staircase and saw Lia rushing toward him.

‘About time,’ he thought, pursing his lips, taking stock of her appearance. She wore an emerald green gown of brocade, long sleeved with a plunging neckline, and intricate golden thread in the seams. Gwayne had seen the gown before, when he had rifled through Lia’s armoire, helping her to choose a dress for a tedious dinner that the pair of them had attended with his uncle’s family. When asked about it, she had told him that Otto had had it made for her to wear to Rhaenyra’s proclamation. It seemed an odd choice for her to wear today, considering she had refused all other instances that Gwayne had suggested she might put it on.

As Lia scurried forward, the hair not pulled away from her face streaming around her shoulders in glossy, raven curls, Gwayne crooked his arm out expectantly for her to take. Instead, the air rushed past him with the faint scent of honeysuckle, and he watched in shocked confusion as she ignored him entirely, running instead towards his father. The moment that Otto’s boots landed upon the gravel with a heavy crunch, Lia flung herself at him, rising up on tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck as she crushed her body to his. Gwayne fully expected him to push her away, and demand to know what had come over her. Instead a leather gloved hand cradled the back of her head tenderly, while his other arm wrapped around her waist. The thread that Gwayne did not dare to pull at was beginning to come unravelled of its own accord. He stood with his mouth agape, frozen in horror, until Hobert’s muttering brought him back to the present.

“What on earth is she doing?” his uncle groused under his breath, shooting Gwayne a sideways glance.

“My betrothed is nothing if not spirited,” Gwayne replied, forcing a huff of disingenuous laughter. He felt silent once more upon hearing Lynesse click her tongue in distaste. 

Lia had not meant to disgrace herself in front of the majority of the Hightower family. She had laboured perhaps a little too long over readying herself—there were particular alterations that Marybel had to make to her dress, as her body had changed in the years since she had first worn it,but she knew how much it would please Otto to see her in the gown that he had given her. She reasoned that he would be in low spirits, having been relieved of his position at court, so it was a simple gesture to bring him happiness, however small that may be.

She had fully intended to take her place at Gwayne’s side and play the part of his dutiful wife-to-be, however, upon seeing Otto ride through the gates, something inside of her had snapped. All of the pent up longing had bubbled to the surface;he had raised her, after all, been more of a father to her than her own had ever been. She was greeting a family member that she had missed dearly, that was all. He had surprised her when he had returned her embrace, enveloping her in the smell of riding leather, briny sea air, and his distinctive scent of sandalwood. She wanted to climb inside of that moment and stay there forever, it was the most comfort she had felt in months. However, all too soon, Otto was pulling away, telling her to meet him in his study at her earliest convenience, before striding towards the rest of his family to exchange curt greetings.

Now Lia stood before Otto’s desk as he sat behind it—in the same chair that she had curled up in on the few occasions she had dared to sneak in here since arriving in Oldtown. He leafed through the various missives that Hobert had left for him to tend to and it bothered her that he allowed her to linger here while he seemingly ignored her. His affection had melted away like early morning dew, but there was no warm sun to follow it. Lia felt cold. She pretended to look occupied, allowing her eyes to scan the bookshelves, until finally he spoke.

“Do not think it has escaped my notice that you and Gwayne remain unmarried,” he said evenly.

Lia turned to face him. He now reclined in his chair, his hands loosely grasping the arms of it as he eyed her expectantly. Though what he had said was not posed as a question, the silent demand that she ought to explain herself was more than apparent. In their time apart, Lia had almost forgotten how silently demanding Otto could be. Faced with it now, she felt she may wither beneath the weight of it.

“Well, with Septon Rowan being so ill, and Gwayne and I wanting to ensure that we–”

Otto waved a hand dismissively, silencing her. “It matters not. The wedding shall take place upon your return from King’s Landing.”

Lia narrowed her eyes in confusion, lacing her fingers together in front of her. “What am I to go to King’s Landing for?”

Otto furrowed his brow, leaning forward as though explaining to a child. “Princess Rhaenyra is to wed Laenor Velaryon imminently, and I expect you shall wish to be granted leave to attend–”

“I do not!” she interrupted, the words leaving her before she had time to fully consider them.

Ordinarily, she would have leapt at the chance to return to the place she considered home, to be reunited with Alicent and Rhaenyra, and celebrate with them both. However, her and Rhaenyra had parted on unhappy terms the last time they saw each other, and she could not bear the idea of leaving Oldtown, not now. Not when Otto had only just returned to her.

He seemed surprised by her answer, his hazel eyes widening slightly before he sat back again. “Hobert and Lynesse will be in attendance, they will be taking Ormund with them. Gwayne could accompany you.”

“I think it best I stay here,” she insisted, twisting the emerald ring upon her index finger, anxious he may insist she go anyway. She did not want him to send her away. Not again.

“Very well,” he conceded, staring at her thoughtfully.

Eager for the conversation to not fall once again upon the matter of her and Gwayne’s betrothal, she turned abruptly and headed for the door. She paused as she opened it, looking back over her shoulder at him. “I am glad you are back,” she said quietly, before making her retreat.

Rhaenyra grasped the railing of the ship, the wood rough beneath her palms as she gazed out upon the rolling waves of the sea—an empty gray expanse as far as her eyes could see, of utter nothingness. She longed for such peace. Despite how rarely Rhaenyra travelled by boat, she never experienced green sickness, unlike her father, who she had watched empty his stomach over the side for most of the outward voyage. He had not left his cabin since they had departed High Tide. The journey from King’s Landing and subsequent visit to Driftmark had been too much for him, and he needed to rest. She was glad of it. She did not want to be probed with questions about what she thought of Laenor, and was content to simply focus upon the gentle rise and fall of the deck beneath her feet.

She had enjoyed seeing Laena. The two of them had walked the clifftops arm in arm, feasted upon oysters and gossiped about which men at High Tide her cousin found most comely. Laenor had been another matter entirely. Walking the beaches and hearing about the men he enjoyed the company of did not feel quite as lighthearted when it was discussed within the context of agreeing that their marriage would be for duty and nothing more. The prospect of it had excited her at first, being given leave to continue with Ser Criston as she pleased. However, much to her disappointment, her sworn protector had not shared her enthusiasm. It made her heart ache to see his brown eyes, so earnest, as he had implored for her to run away with him, to marry him instead, turn sad and then angry as she had declined his offer.

“The Iron Throne looms greater than any of us,” she had told him, but he had not understood. 

How could she accept a marriage proposal and the promise of oranges and cinnamon in exchange for her birthright, her legacy? She knew her father had defied tradition in naming her heir, that there were noblemen and commonfolk alike across the realm who had little respect for the notion of a woman ruling the seven kingdoms. She would prove all of their suspicions regarding her perceived unsuitability to right if she threw away her crown on a whim and ran off with a knight.

Perhaps it was wrong of her to tempt Criston so, to allow physical intimacy to blossom between them when it broke every oath he had sworn. However, it had never occurred to her that he would want to pursue anything more substantial than a simple enjoyment of each other. She had not meant to hurt him. Casting aside his love of her was the sacrifice she had to make to ensure she stayed the path laid out for her.

Criston’s absence at her side was a noticeable one. He remained below deck, no longer feeling the pull to dutifully shadow her. She did not love him;she could have, she supposed, but it was not that which stung. It was the fact that he had brought about an end to what was between them before she felt ready to. She was a Targaryen princess, he should have felt honoured to be her chosen paramour, to be the one who warmed her bed—not out of duty but for desire.

Rhaenyra wanted Alicent, she wanted Lia, the two people who meant most to her in the world, who could comfort her in her time of need. However, Alicent had always been mired in propriety, even more so now that she was queen and she would be horrified by anything Rhaenyra dared to confess to her. Lia would have been more understanding, but they had not spoken since she revealed to her that she had Otto removed as her father’s hand, and she was unsure if she would want to hear from her. For the first time in a long time, Rhaenyra realised how utterly alone she was. She had not had Alicent since she married her father. Lia was lost to her the moment she learned the truth of Otto’s dismissal, and now Criston was beyond her reach too. Why did they all believe that their sense of duty somehow took precedence over her own? She was to be queen one day, surely it was for her to dictate what could pass in secret. It seemed unfair that everyone she held dear used their own inflated sense of morality to push her away, to try to portray her as a bad person. Her solitude would deepen further with her marriage to Laenor—a husband in name alone, whose touch she would never know. Suddenly, Rhaenyra wished for green sickness, it would be a welcome distraction from the pit of emptiness that bored its way through her chest. No sickness came, only the gentle rise and fall of the waves that carried her home.

Otto watched as the attendants loaded trunks into the wheelhouse that made up part of the two carriage retinue that would carry Hobert and his family to King’s Landing for the royal wedding. He had been back a mere two weeks before his brother had to depart, however, he knew all too well that the journey from Oldtown to the capital was a long one, so they must leave with haste to ensure their timely arrival. It heartened Otto to know that Alicent would have a Hightower presence around her, even if it could not be him.

Ormund, eager to leave, scrambled into the frontmost wheelhouse ahead of his parents, and Hobert offered a hand out to Lynesse to help her up and inside after her son. She lost her footing on the first step, and was sent sprawling, her knees landing heavily upon the steps and her hands planted on the floor of the carriage. Otto grimaced, wishing for the entire ordeal to be over, for the carriages to pull away, so he could put King’s Landing and the wretched matter of Rhaenyra’s farce of a marriage as far from his mind as possible. He watched as an attendant clumsily attempted to aid Hobert in hauling Lynesse upright, and he closed his eyes briefly against the embarrassing display—it was unsightly. It was in moments such as these that he missed Alyrie the most. She had always conducted herself with such care, the embodiment of dignity and grace. Since arriving back in Oldtown he felt her absence more; there was less to distract him, but also reminders of her everywhere—the bellflowers that she had adored so much were in full bloom in the gardens, the dresses she had not taken with her to King’s Landing still hung in the armoire. Alicent looked so much like her. It made him wonder how Alyrie would have dealt with the threat that Rhaenyra’s succession posed if she was in the same position as her daughter.

Gwayne and Lia had joined him to see the family off, and he glanced over to see Gwayne murmuring quietly to Lia from behind his hand. He could not hear what was said but whatever it was made her raise her handkerchief to her mouth to hide her laughter. There was no denying they made a fine couple. They both possessed a wicked cruelty that shone in their eyes only in moments of mirth. It was clear for all to see that they enjoyed each other’s company, so Otto could not work out why they remained unmarried. He had not spoken to Gwayne about it. He knew his son was too cunning, too calculated, possessed such a gift with words that he would be able to cleverly dismiss it and explain it away in a manner which left no room for argument. Lia, however, was another matter. She could not lie to him, had never been able to, and he knew that if he pressed hard enough he would have his answer.

Time had not yet allowed for such an exchange to transpire, however. Since returning he had been busy with the duties required of taking over ward of the Hightower in Hobert’s absence, and had been involved in much of the planning needed for his brother’s trip to the capital. The little time he did have to himself, he spent watching Gwayne spar in the training yard. Despite the distance between them, he was proud of his son;he was an accomplished knight, his swordsmanship both graceful and fierce in equal measure. He had anticipated feeling melancholy, perhaps even irritable upon his return to Oldtown.However, the bracing sea air was a welcome respite from the cloying, polluted ichor of King’s Landing, and seeing Lia again—the shine of her curls, the impish flash of teeth when she smiled—was so familiar that he did not feel as if he had left anywhere. It was like coming home.

Gwayne kicked softly at the door of Lia’s chambers,two cups cradled in one hand and a jug of wine held in the other. There was the soft shuffle of bare feet against the stone floor on the other side before she opened it. She was ready for bed, a soft, golden coloured robe draped over the white cotton of her nightdress. Her obsidian curls were loose, falling almost to her waist. He would have said she looked beautiful were it not for the impatient scowl that was etched across her delicate features.

“Let me in then,” he demanded playfully, not waiting for a response as he shouldered past her and into the room, setting the wine jug and cups down upon the table in the sitting area.

“I was just going to bed,” Lia complained, though made no attempt to force him from the room. Instead, she came to sit upon one of the couches situated around the table by the fireplace, tucking her legs beneath her.

“I do not remember you ever being such a bore. Does my father really have such a hold on you?” Gwayne asked with a raise of an eyebrow. He sat on the couch opposite Lia’s and poured a generous serving of wine into both cups.

“Well, us continuing our jaunts into Oldtown is out of the question. What else is there to do?” she asked, leaning over to snatch up one of the cups and brought it to her lips.

“You do not seem sad about it,” he commented, spreading his arms out as he leaned back against the cushions. “I wonder why that could be.”

Lia swallowed, her blue eyes narrowing as she looked at him like an animal deciding whether to attack or flee. “Whatever it is you are here to say, just say it.”

Gwayne took a long drink of his own wine, relishing in the tartness of the ruby liquid against his tongue. He had to be careful with how he approached this, the wrong tone or choice of words and she would close herself off to him, effectively ending the conversation. “You seem happy that my father is back.”

“Why would you say that?” she asked, a little too quickly. Gwayne could see from the tensing of her shoulders she was growing uncomfortable, but he pressed on anyway.

“There is something there, I am no fool,” he insisted. “I saw how you behaved on the day of his return, and I am not here to cast judgement.However, I believe you made a mistake in refusing his offer to return to King’s Landing, even temporarily.”

Lia huffed, rolling her eyes as she placed her elbow upon the arm of the couch and rested her chin upon her upturned palm. “You know I am not speaking to Rhaenyra.”

Gwayne wanted to laugh. How petulant she was. He clenched his fingers into the plush material of a couch cushion, watching it dent and spring back beneath his touch, before shifting his eyes back to Lia. “And what of my sister? Does she not matter to you any longer?”

Lia sneered, snatched up the wine jug and hastily refilled her cup, before setting it back down heavily. “Do not pretend that that is what you care about. Speak plainly.”

“How can you be so blind? If we had gone to King’s Landing, it would have given us more time. You know that with us here, my father will continue to impress the need for a wedding upon us. Or does that not matter to you?”

Gwayne knew he was no longer being tactful, he was allowing his temper to get the better of him. He could not help it. He had so much more to lose than Lia, and she did not seem to be treating the situation with the severity it was owed.

“He is too distracted by the perceived threat of Rhaenyra to his grandchildren to care about whether we marry or not,” she sighed, shifting position to stretch her legs out upon the table.

“And what about when he is not? Lia, I–I cannot lose Leyton. Please.” Gwayne’s voice grew strained with emotion, and something in Lia softened, her blue eyes looked upon him with sympathy.

“I will not let that happen, whatever it comes to. I promise.”

Out here in the gardens, with the floral scent that was carried on the gentle sea breeze, Lia felt freer, she had more room to think with only the expanse of the sky above her instead of an oppressive stone ceiling. She twirled a delicate yellow flower between her fingers as she walked the garden path. She had plucked it absentmindedly from a bush she had passed, enjoying the soft velvety feel of its petals. She had awoken earlier that morning feeling guilty, and not just because her and Gwayne had managed to polish off an entire jug of Dornish red between the two of them the previous evening. His anguish as he had implored for her to not reveal his true nature to Otto played on a loop in her mind. She had no intention of revealing his secrets, but the more she thought about it, the more she wondered what she would say when it came to it. It seemed unfair to have the burden placed upon her. Gwayne was Otto’s son, surely he could speak to him? 

She gasped as large hands grasped her upper arms, tugging her behind a hedge, and looked up into the honey brown eyes of Alyn. She had all but forgotten his existence since Otto had returned, and felt immediately annoyed that he had deigned it appropriate to not only follow her into the gardens, but to manhandle her behind a bush too. He grinned at her before leaning in and Lia turned her head. His lips caught her cheek instead, leaving behind a moist residue that repulsed her. She immediately reached up to swipe it away.

“Stop that, not here!” she hissed, scowling up at him.

It was like attempting to scold a hound; he still looked pleased to see her, his gaze void of any intelligent thought. “We have not been together in ages. I am beginning to miss you,” he confessed with a gentle smile

A few short months ago, those words would have been enough to earn him an invitation back to her chambers. Now she felt only impatience, a desire to be away from him as quickly as possible. The flower she held fluttered to the ground as she pressed her palms flat against his chest, pushing him backwards out of her space.

“It is different now. We cannot continue with Ser Otto here,” she explained exasperatedly.

“Why not?” Alyn asked, frowning slightly as he tilted his head. “Leyton and Gwayne still see each other in secret.”

“Leyton and Gwayne love each other. I do not love you.”

She knew she was being unkind, but she could not help it. She had little patience to coddle his feelings, simply wanting Alyn to leave her alone. He had satisfied an urge, and served his purpose. That urge did not linger at present, so she had no further use of him.

“Oh…” he began, as his features twisted into confusion then sadness, “I see. So I should…”

“Leave me alone,” Lia finished for him, crossing her arms against her middle.

If Alyn had not resembled a hound before, then he was every inch the kicked puppy as he bowed his head and walked slowly away. Lia watched him retreat, expecting to feel a pang of guilt. She felt only relief, saddened more by the yellow flower that he had accidentally crushed beneath his foot. Her hand lifted briefly to her hair, stroking over the braid that fell over her shoulder. Marybel’s plaiting technique was painful on a good day, but she fully expected her handmaiden to scalp her now that she had broken her brother’s heart. She chuckled at the thought and continued to walk.

“My dearest Lia,

While I understand your absence on this day, it saddens me that I will look out across the room and not see your face among the crowd. This wedding means nothing to Rhaenyra. She holds her duty in so little regard, doing exactly as she pleases while the rest of us are left to pick up the pieces she leaves in her wake. I have heard that you have not spoken to her since her last visit to Oldtown, due to her involvement with the removal of my father as Hand of the King. You have my eternal gratitude for your loyalty, and I trust that my father is keeping well. He has not written to me since departing King’s Landing and I miss him dearly.”

Alicent’s eyes scanned over what she had written so far, and with a sigh she dropped the quill to the writing desk, crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the lit fireplace. They were not words she could send. They were treasonous, even for a queen, even if they were truthful. Betrayal had simmered hotly beneath the surface of Alicent’s skin since Larys had informed her of the fact that Rhaenyra had been given moon tea, after she had sworn to her that she remained a maiden, that Otto’s accusations were baseless lies. Her father had been cast out on the basis of Rhaenyra’s deceit, and now Alicent had no one but her two infant children;her own husband would never take her side against his eldest daughter. Betrayal had boiled to rage upon learning that the person the princess had taken into bed was not her uncle, Daemon, but Criston, her sworn protector. She had chosen not to have him executed, instead taking the knight into her own employment. It was Rhaenyra’s recklessness that had sullied his white cloak, why should he pay the price for that when she would suffer no consequences whatsoever?

She was late, and it was no accident. She could hear the gathering in the Great Hall, even in her apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast. A wedding feast that she had no desire to attend, but must do so out of duty. A pity she could not be more like her stepdaughter and shirk that responsibility altogether. Alicent rose, stepping towards the floor length looking glass and appraised her reflection in its surface. She wore one of her mother’s gowns,a Hightower green brocade, with sweeping bell sleeves and a plunging neckline that was held together by gold clasps. She would ensure that tonight Rhaenyra felt every part of the Hightower influence she had attempted to snuff out.

Rhaenyra had wondered all day about what her wedding night with Laenor would be like. She could not imagine him crawling atop her and rutting into her to consummate their union. In answer to her question, they now spent the evening apart in separate chambers. It was an arrangement that no one would question, considering how horribly their wedding feast had ended. Criston had beaten Laenor’s lover, Joffrey, to death in the middle of the feast for all to see. Rhaenyra was glad of Laenor’s absence. His grief for his lover was a private matter, one she had no desire to intrude upon. The events of the day had exhausted her, and she did not have the energy to provide the comfort he would likely need. She was better off alone, in her own bed.

Though she knew Criston’s violent act was one of jealousy, and she should feel flattered, she was instead annoyed by it. Daemon had used the distraction of the chaos that had ensued to slip away, even after she had propositioned him to marry her instead. He had abandoned her. She had little to complain of with regard to her rescue, however. A faint smile tugged at her lips as she clutched the bedsheet to her chest and thought of how Ser Harwin Strong, commander of the city watch, had thrown her so effortlessly over his shoulder and carried her to safety when the feast had descended into violence. 

It was not the first time she had encountered him. He smiled whenever she walked past him, catching her eye in a way that gave her pause. He had not given up her secrets upon the night that she had ventured into Flea Bottom with her uncle, and had even helped her home when Daemon had abandoned her. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the commander’s strong arms encircling her thighs as he had lifted her as though she weighed nothing. Thinking back to the night that she had invited Criston to her rooms, she wondered if Ser Strong would accept such an invitation. Harwin had a pretty smile. She would like to see more of it. 

The summon to Otto’s study had come so suddenly, the page impressing upon her the urgency with such insistence that Lia barely had time to finish pinning her hair into place. Her dark curls had been braided into a halo around her head by Marybel, who was mercifully gentle despite what had transpired between her and Alyn.

“He is too thick headed to be sad for long,” her handmaiden had commented as she had twisted Lia’s hair into an intricate plait.

Lia kept her gaze downcast, watching the swish of her powder blue skirts around her legs as she walked the length of the corridor. She had been anticipating another invitation from Otto, though had not expected it to arrive so soon. He would pressure her to set a wedding date, and she would have no explanation for why she and Gwayne could not.

‘I could simply turn and flee,’ she thought, and yet her treacherous feet continued to carry her forward.

To her surprise, Otto was standing in front of his desk, rather than sitting behind it when she entered. She hovered by the door, once it was closed behind her,a means to keep a safe distance from his scrutiny, but to also provide an easy escape should she need it. He loomed tall in the gloom of the study, regal in a doublet of crushed forest green velvet.

Besides calling out “enter” when she had knocked, he had yet to say anything, and it made Lia nervous. She could sense something building beneath the surface of him, an energy that was barely concealed but she could not quite place it. She cleared her throat, smoothing her hands over the satin bodice of her gown before speaking.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked. Her voice sounded reedy to her ears, betraying her nervousness, and she hated it. She clasped her fingers in front of her, to stop her hands from shaking.

“Gwayne has been spotted leaving your bedchamber on several occasions,” he stated, his stare accusatory, his spine rigid as his hands remained positioned behind his back.

‘So?’ Lia thought. ‘Gwayne is always in my bedchamber, I do not see why—’

Oh.

And then Lia realised how that must appear to Otto. She bit back the urge to laugh at the ridiculous insinuation, shaking her head. “We just drink wine and talk, that is all.”

Otto inhaled deeply, advancing upon Lia slowly, maintaining eye contact. She had not realised that she had shrunk away until she felt the solid surface of the door collide with her back.

“It is not appropriate for you to be entertaining such visits,” he explained evenly. “If he has taken your virtue before you are wed then—”

“He has not!” Lia protested, her voice raising as her eyes widened, incensed at such a thought.

“You must know how it looks, Lia!” he argued, his own volume increasing to match hers, though his boomed off of the stone walls with its depth, and she wondered how much of this anger had originally been intended for Rhaenyra and her indiscretions.

“We are friends,” she pleaded, her blue eyes imploring as she gazed up at him, now so close that she could reach out and touch him should she want to. “It is innocent, I swear to you.”

“Why entertain such visits while continuing to delay your marriage?” 

There was still anger in his voice, and yet his eyes searched hers in desperate confusion. He would not have the truth from her, he could not. She would not betray Gwayne’s secret, she owed him that much.

“We…we are simply getting to know each other, that is all.”

It was a feeble excuse, and she knew it. Otto was utterly unconvinced, his voice growing quiet and concerned.

“Lia, if he has sullied you and is now refusing to marry you then you must say something.”

Her heart ached at the suggestion. Gwayne would never do that, yet she was touched all the same by Otto’s worry for her.

“He has not, I swear. We have never touched each other.”

“Then what on earth has caused such a long delay of your wedding? Why do the two of you remain unmarried?!”

He was growing angry again, and Lia could feel desperation unfurling in her ribcage, the truth upon her tongue begging to be set free. She could not tell him, she had promised.

“Because…because…” she stammered, before lurching forward, rising up onto tiptopes as her fingers curled into the soft fabric of Otto’s doublet, tugging gently as she tilted her face upwards and pressed her lips to his.

This was as good a reason as any.

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[missredherring]

Plant Your Hope With Good Seeds: Winter - Year One

Ezra x Fat!F!Reader

A Harvest Moon 64 x Prospect Crossover

Rating: T

Word Count: 4.2k

Content Warnings: canon-typical violence. marriage of convenience.

Summary: One job ends and another begins. Ezra finds himself on a tiny farm on a small island on a remote planet in the middle of nowhere.

A/N: Harvest Moon 64 is the game that started a life-long love of farm sims and I wanted to combine that with my love of the PPCU. This is my little love letter to them both.

Beta read by the fantastic M. All mistakes are my own.

Headers by me. Dividers by @saradika-graphics.

Suggested Listening:

Masterlist - Chapter Two - AO3

He refused when Cee urged him to get a top-of-the line prosthesis, reminding him again and again that he could afford it. He said all he needed was a hand that could hold a thrower steady and fingers that could pull the trigger. 

He wonders, as he adds another drop of oil to a knuckle that refuses to bend, what he was saving the money for. 

It's a small amount after the transfers for Cee's share of the Queen's Lair haul, but it's more than he's ever held onto before someone else took it, and no matter how many times he checks the amount, it doesn't change, nor does it give him answers for what to use it for.

Another drop of oil is applied and as he works the lubricant into the tiny mechanics of the finger, he glances at the piece of aurelac sitting on top of a case filled with others of its kind, nestled safely in foam. 

That, too, has become unsatisfying. It'd been the reward of a quick job to prove to himself that he still had the skills, the ability with this mechanical limb, to work with the organic nature of the stuff and pluck the valuable stone from its protections. He can sell them for more money he doesn't need. 

Ezra flexes his hand and watches the mechanisms contract and relax in turn, the stubborn knuckle only giving a token protest at the movement.

The job posting was easy to overlook.

Help Wanted: seeking farm hand, manual labor and caring for livestock. Eight hour shifts, six days a week with one free day and a weekly stipend based on work completed. Room and board included. Employment guaranteed for five planet-standard seasons.

Maybe it was the simplicity of the posting that caught Ezra's attention. The thrill of prospecting has curdled in his belly and the clawing hands of greed have relaxed their grip on him, no longer propelling him forward with such urgency.

The farm coordinates aren't familiar but that isn't hard in a galaxy this size. His tablet pings as he wakes it and begins his research.

Flowerbud Farm in Flowerbud Village on the planet HM-64 in the Bokujo Monotgatari system. It's a tiny farm on a small island on a remote planet in the middle of nowhere.

Pulling up calendars he syncs one to his current location and another to HM-64. Quick counting shows that if his current job goes according to schedule it would line up with when the posting started.

He opens the image attached to the posting to see what appears to be the farm that needs the extra hands. It's a snapshot of neat rows of vegetation in various stages of growth in a field. A cluster of shoots breaking ground is right next to thick steams bending with the weight of heavy produce, waiting for harvest. Out of focus buildings and blurry blobs of what must be livestock make up the background.

Surely plant life like that would be easier to handle than caustic chemicals and the delicate organic matter that made aurelac. It would be something different. Something new.

A message is sent off and the usual dance of conversational pleasantries begins: an inquiry of the availability of the posting is met with a request of qualifications and job history. His potential employer tells him plainly that the lifestyle outside of work is a slow one, stopping just short of using the word "boring." Ezra meets their honesty in kind and admits that while he's no stranger to manual labor, farming isn't something he's done before. That interview session ends with reassurances that the details exchanged don't pose a problem for either party.

On a night a few cycles later, Ezra's putting his bathing supplies away when the tablet starts ringing with an incoming call. He picks it up, assuming it's a check-in from Cee eager to tell him about her latest adventure, and has to do a double-take when he sees the caller ID.

Incoming call from Flowerbud Farm.

He runs a hand through his shower-damp hair to look somewhat respectable and accepts the call.

"Hello, Ezra. I'm sorry for this unexpected call, but do you have time to talk?"

There's a lag before the figure on his screen raises a hand in greeting.

"It's nice to put a face to the name," he says this, but it's hard to make out any of your features with how pixelated the picture is. Your voice sounds like it's coming from a can. The farm's network connection must be weak.

You give him a polite smile and nod your agreement.

"I wanted to let you know that you're the sole remaining applicant and the position is yours if you want it."

"What happened to the other applicants?"

"They were weeded out during the interview process."

He sits back, stretching his arms out to keep the tablet steady where he's leaning it on the top of the wobbly table provided in his rented cabin. There's something in your body language he can make out in the poor video quality that cautions him.

"Now that we're at this final stage, there's one more requirement you need to know about before you accept," you say, but you aren't talking to him directly. He can see the dark of your eyes looking out of frame and your shoulders are around where he assumes your ears are. You take a deep breathe and continue.

"There's a marriage clause in the contract that includes sexual intercourse with the intention of conceiving a child."

You inhale to continue but Ezra holds up a hand to interrupt and takes his time choosing his words.

"What do you need a husband and eventual father for?"

Ezra isn't against the institution of marriage or fatherhood, but he's never seen it as something he would enter into in this lifetime. For Kevva's sake, he only came into guardianship of Cee because of a number of rotten dealings… but he would be the first to say that being part of Cee's life has been more rewarding than any job he's ever done.

"A spouse and child is a requirement for my own contract with the Natsume company as part of their pioneering program."

"I haven't heard of either of those," he admits. You nod.

"I'm not surprised; they don't operate outside of this system. I can tell you my contract parameters as they relate to you once the contract between us is signed."

There's silence for a moment and then another.

"My contract would be for five seasons. What about when it ends?"

"You're free to leave at the end of the fifth season with your stipend paid in full. There would be a divorce and I wouldn't hold you to any parental obligations."

"I see," he says and rubs his hand over his mouth. "Do you actually need a farm hand or was that a red herring for your true need?"

"No," your reply comes as quickly as the lag allows. "I do need help on the farm. I've been able to expand my production rate over the seasons and now it's more than I can handle alone. I didn't mention the marriage contract in the public posting because I felt the kind of person who might apply for that alone isn't someone I would like working with."

"That sounds like judgment to me. You don't want people who are interested in sex but you'll require it of the person you hire?"

"I'm giving you the choice. Just like I had the choice to continue with our interviews these past few weeks."

Ezra nods and accepts your point. He likes that you stood firm and held steady when he questioned you.

"Now that you know what the entirety of the contract will entail, please let me know of your decision before the end of the season. Good night, Ezra."

He repeats your farewell and when the call ends he checks the synced calendars. The Winter season has just began.

Ezra killed a wealthy man on Tuesday.

Unfortunately the man wasn't just wealthy, but an upstanding member of the community— if his reputation could be trusted and Ezra trusted that as far as he could throw it (which wasn't far considering it was an abstract ideal without physical form). His mistrust served him well when the man reneged on their agreement and instead of paying him his due the man filled Ezra's pockets with threats.

Words and metal flew and Ezra's payment was death instead of the credits that he preferred.

It's another misfortune that the man thought meeting with Ezra in a public setting would keep him in line. It only makes him sharpen his aim so his bolts don't go astray and hit someone who doesn't deserve them.

Judging by the weight of the eyes on him as he leaves the establishment, Ezra thinks he has until Thursday at the latest before the townspeople form themselves into a posse and come after him.

It only takes him a few hours to collect his things and by the time the cycles tip over into Wednesday he boards a transport off planet.

Fortune may have frowned on him that day, but Ezra believes in making his own way, and this is no different. He signs the contract and sends it off as the artificial gravity falls away.

One job ends and another begins.

The calendar says he arrives on HM-64 on the last day of Winter.

The shuttle leaves him on the dock at a beach. Snow covers the sand, but he can see where the ocean still tries to beat against the land.

Adjusting the pack on his back, he checks the monitor on his spacesuit and runs the air analysis. The reading shows a sustainable and non-lethal environment for humans. He peers through the visor of his helmet and only sees snow gently falling. He tells himself it'll be easier to just wear the entire suit than lugging the helmet around. The contract starts the next day and he hopes it won't take longer than what's left of the day to reach the farm. It's never good to start a new job on the wrong foot.

The dock creaks under him as he walks down it and finds a narrow path has been shoveled through the snow. It's more like a tunnel with how the snow has piled up almost waist-high. It leads to the only way off the beach he can see, and as Ezra makes his way towards it, a person appears at the top, their vibrant red top hat wobbling on their head as they slip down the sand in their hurry.

"Goodness. I got caught up with festival preparations and before I knew it, the shuttle had come in and I hadn't even left the village yet! I'm so sorry for not being here to meet you right away. I'm Thomas, mayor of Flowerbud Village."

The voice is much larger than the man it comes from, breaking the peaceful atmosphere of the beach. He's short in stature and bundled all the way up to his big nose with a hint of a moustache peaking out of his scarf.

"Ezra. Pleased to meet you," he offers his hand for a handshake and smiles when Thomas takes it with both of his, pumping up and down enthusiastically.

"Oh-ho! Yes, the village has been buzzing since the farmer let us know her betrothed would finally be joining us."

Betrothed. Yes, he supposes telling a small community you're newly integrated into that you're hiring a farmhand with some particular duties wouldn't be a smart thing to do, and from what he's learned about you in the conversations over the cycles, you're smart— clever even— and isn't that exciting?

"My previous job just finished," he says, keeping close to the truth. It's a good rule of thumb until he can get the cover story from you and decide how best to interact with the villagers.

"Wonderful, wonderful. This way. We don't want to keep her waiting even longer. And it's such a cold night!" Thomas shivers dramatically and leads the way off the beach.

Ezra offers a hand to steady him when he slips on loosened sand, but his heavy boots don't fare much better. Thomas's jovial mood is infectious and they make their way, chuckling as they slip and stumble up the hill.

"Now," Thomas pants out as they finally stand on firm, frozen ground. "I can give you a quick tour while we make our way to the farm. If you want a more in depth version just let me know, but the basics will do for tonight. Obviously we came from the beach. We hold a few celebrations there— oh it's a shame you didn't arrive earlier— well maybe not since we'd had a few days of snow in a row. Why, we only just finished digging out! But never mind, Spring can't come soon enough," he huffs and gestures to some buildings and a fenced off paddock to their left. "Here is Green Ranch. They can help you with any livestock needs you might have."

They walk on to their right to a small convergence of roads among sleeping trees. The dirt is hard packed under his feet and whatever snow melted during the day has already frozen again.

Thomas clears his throat and gestures to where each road leads. "To the north is our own Flowerbud village. The left will take you to the west side and the right will take you to the east." He pointed to two roads going in the opposite direction from the beach. "Those lead to the vineyard and further on to Moon mountain.

Ezra looks politely at each direction Thomas points out. There are signposts but no lamps. The area isn't lit by any electricity that he can see. It's dark and quiet but that changes as his eyes adjust to the natural environment. It seems like the only light is provided by the stars above, and when he tips his head back to check, his breath catches.

The night sky is alive on this planet in the middle of nowhere. Twinkling and shining on a velvet backdrop, there are more stars visible than he's seen planetside in a long time. Stars are everywhere in space, but he swears they look different when your feet are on the ground and they're beyond the atmosphere and out of reach.

"The full tour can wait until later, of course. I'm sure you're eager for bed this late at night; I know I am," Thomas sighs, his shoulders rounding for a moment, but then he springs back to cheerfulness. "Maria was disappointed that I wouldn't be able to attend tonight's festival, but mayoral work never ends! And I'd wager that our own farmer is tired of waiting too, so we'd best get a move on, Ezra, and get you to Flowerbud Farm! One more task and our nights will be finished."

Thomas turns south towards a lone road he hasn't mentioned. With one more glance above, Ezra follows.

The snow is reflecting the starlight, he realizes, as the fields of Flowerbud Farm come into view. The snow is untouched and glowing bright in the dark night even without the moon's help. The cleared path they're on leads to a farmhouse with gentle firelight in the windows and then it trails off to a couple of buildings which must be the barns he'd seen in the picture attached to the job posting. A large tree sits like an anchor in the corner, it's sprawling branches almost invisible against the stars.

Thomas knocking on the front door brings Ezra's attention back to the house and the only other sign of life he's seen on the planet so far. When the door opens he's blinded by the light that pours out around a figure. Here is his new employer and betrothed.

"Good evening! I know it's awfully late, but I've brought you good tidings to start the new year!" Thomas turns and presents Ezra as a gift. "Your betrothed, delivered safe and sound."

The first thing he notices about you is how the full skirt you're wearing fills the doorway. It drapes down from a tight cinch around your wide waist and it swishes around your legs slowly when you step back to let them in. The light shifts as you move and he can finally see your face clearly as the warmth from inside envelopes him and he's suddenly aware of how the cold had been clinging to the edges of his spacesuit. His hands don't hesitate when he reaches up to unlatch and remove his helmet.

When he looks behind him to the side of the door he finds mounted hooks with a single coat and pair of boots beneath them, tucked out of the way next to a bench in the corner. He sets the helmet on the bench for now and when he turns back around you're right at his elbow, motioning to a doorway off to the side of the main room.

Your hair is arranged away from a round face with tired eyes that watch him as he enters the space. Heavy, warm clothing covers you from chin to toes and you look like you should be bundled away in an equally cozy bed.

"The bedroom is through there, Ezra. Why don't you change out of your travel clothes and then we can…?" You falter at the end, unsure of how to end the thought in mixed company, but he knows an order when he hears one and follows your directions. "Thank you, Mayor. I appreciate you escorting him and saving me from having to brave the cold one last time this year."

Your voice, now that it's not being threaded through a weak network connection, is clear and mellow. Whatever Thomas says in response is muffled when Ezra closes the door and begins the process of shucking off his spacesuit. He tries not to examine the room too closely as he dresses, aware that the bedroom is a private space usually seen by a trusted few, but he can't help the longing look he gives the plush quilt-covered bed before he tucks his pack to the side and rejoins you and Thomas in the main room.

The scent of food reawakens his hunger as he takes in the farmhouse interior. The layout is open and the word that comes to mind is "sparse." What could generously be called a kitchen takes up the far wall and a large fireplace is positioned opposite the front door with a sitting area arranged around it. A table with chairs takes up some of the empty space in the center and he's happy to see a bowl waiting for him next to Thomas, who's already enjoying your hospitality. His red hat sits in a corner of the table and the firelight shines off the man's bald head.

"It's a stew made from the last of this year's harvest. Help yourself," you tell him over your shoulder while you're already at the sink washing dishes.

Ezra doesn't need to be invited to eat twice and takes a seat at the table. Half a loaf of crusty bread sits nestled in a basket and the smell wafting from it makes his mouth water. The first mouthfuls are hot and hearty and the taste only develops when he slows down his chewing and swallows instead of gulps. Thomas chuckles next to him and shares an understanding look.

"There's nothing like a warm meal at home after a long trip, eh?"

Ezra nods, his mouth too busy to answer. He slows even more when his spoon starts to scrape the bottom of the bowl. When the spoon is no longer needed he uses what's left of the bread to wipe the bowl clean.

"There's nothing better. Thank you," he says your name with fondness and appreciates the way the firelight gives warmth to your expression when you smile at him with a bashful nod.

As if on cue a kettle whistles on the stove and you exchange empty bowls for a big bellied tea pot and matching cups. A container of honey and a small bottle of milk is set out next to it.

"This will help keep you warm on your way home, Mayor," you say and he nods.

"A good idea," he agrees and pats his stomach with a deep sigh. "Now, we should complete our final matter of business tonight before I fall asleep."

"Ezra," your tone of voice is still that of the perfect hostess, but the look you're giving him is serious. "Are you feeling up for one more task tonight, or would you rather do this another time? We can wait a few days and let you settle in."

This is the culmination of all their conversations and negotiations. You're waiting for his answer to your final clause. He can agree and commit himself to you and this farm for the next five seasons or demur and restart the negotiation process. Then they'll see if they can come to a new agreement or if he'll be sent back out into space, wandering and directionless once again.

Stew and bread sit heavy in his belly. Wood smoke becomes the stronger scent in the room along with what he thinks are hints of herbs he can see hanging on the wall behind you to dry. There's a little furrow between your brows now at his extended silence so he looks down at his hands resting on the table instead. The wood is worn with many marks and stains and the fabric of the runner is equally worn and if he touched it he bet it would be soft. There's nothing of the slick chrome and sharp edges of modern technology that he can see and he doesn't miss it.

Thomas shifts beside him and clears his throat and Ezra stops his navel-gazing. They aren't alone and contract or not, you have a place in this community that comes with social mores and expectations you have to abide by, and he won't spoil it for you the first time you meet in-person.

He doesn't bother being polite about the grunt he lets out when he gets up from the table and stretches a little. You keep your eyes on him as he approaches and hold yourself still as he cups your elbows in his hands and leans in to place a kiss between those furrowed brows. Another kiss, for good measure, is pressed to the corner of your mouth, and he can't keep himself from grinning when he sees your frown.

"I fear I wouldn't be able to sleep peacefully tonight if we waited another day after finally being reunited."

Thomas makes a pleased noise and searches the pockets in his coat. "It seems even love birds will fly in winter." He pulls out a folded paper, only slightly wrinkled when he smooths it out on the table, and smiles at them. "Here we are, a marriage license. I had to do quite some digging in the office to find them, you know. Villagers traditionally get married in the church, but I understand how you might not feel comfortable with that just yet."

While Ezra reads over the document you go over to a bookcase by the fireplace, get a battered looking tablet, and bring it to the table. Thomas produces a pen, a stamp and ink pad with a flourish and Ezra briefly wonders what other things he has tucked away in his coat before he signs his name on the indicated line. Your hand brushes his as you take it and sign your own name next to his. Thomas completes the document by adding his own name and a practiced ink pad to paper motion with the stamp.

Shiny, wet ink dries on the paper and Ezra is a married man.

"You may now kiss the bride!" Thomas says while laughing to himself. "I've always wanted to say that."

Ezra looks at you, wanting to gauge your reaction to this new development in your life and your fond smile from Thomas' proclamation warms him just as much as your food and fire. He leans over, deliberately nudging your shoulder with his and gently presses your lips together in a chaste kiss.

"Wonderful, wonderful. If I only had some rice to throw in celebration. Oh-ho, that's right, I almost forgot," he says, getting swept up by his own enthusiasm. "We'll be sure to celebrate at the New Years festival tomorrow in the village square."

Thomas sweeps around, collecting his things and wrapping up in his knitwear again, before he puts his top hat on with another flourish.

"Now, don't get carried away forget the time, you two," he waggles his finger at them and heads for the front door. "I expect to see you tomorrow!" With a renewed vigor Thomas rushes out into the cold night, completely forgetting about the tea on the table.

You tap on the tablet to scan the signed document and then carefully file it away in a cabinet under the bookcase.

The farmhouse is quiet except for the crackling of the fire and Ezra is left alone with his wife.

[seokgyuu]

Strawberry Wine - Part 1

Pairing: Lee Jihoon (Woozi) x Fem!Reader

Genre: Romantic Comedy, Strangers to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Fake Dating, Smut (not in this part) MDNI!

Synopsis: After breaking off your engagement to your cheating fiancé, you decide to take the planned trip to Paris anyway. A vacation alone with the honeymoon suite all to yourself seems like the perfect distraction. Just that, due to an internal error at the hotel lost soul Jihoon, who still isn't over his first love's death five years ago, is staying in the same honeymoon suite as you.

Warnings (in this part): mentions of cheating, alcohol consumption, angst, probably a not so good description of paris tbh, the word "cock" is mentioned once, slight sexual tension

Word Count: 7.9k

A/N: hi everyone!! this is part one of my story for the world tour collab hostes by @svthub!! check out the masterlist here! this one is a bit of a... beginning, i guess, lol. the real drama and smut and all that will be in part two. but i still think this is a a fun part to get to know our characters! this not beta read and i might edit it later... thanks for reading i hope you enjoy <3 header & divider credit to @okiedokrie!

one; the author

The flash of the camera goes off and you’re almost sure your eyes were closed. The teenage girl next to you smiles brightly and waves at you once more before rushing off to go over to her mother. You lightly smile back and look over to your right where Minghao is giving you a thumbs up. Apparently, so you interpret his gesture, you’re holding up quite well for someone who just caught her fiancée cheating two weeks ago. 

You’re aware that you could have canceled the book signing today. No one would have been mad. But even though your heart is shattered to a million pieces and you don’t think you’ll ever heal from this hurt - you still need to earn money and make those who give you that money happy. Just sucks that the person you build this with is somewhere on the Bahamas with your biggest rival on the romance book market. Or, well, as your publisher says: your bestest friend on the romance book market. Since you’re both making money, of course. You can’t count the times you and her have been sent to events together, not saying a word to each other on the way there and playing happy family the second you are in front of the cameras. 

Her books weren’t even good! Boring and predictable if anyone asked you. Your ex had always agreed with you, even if he was her agent as well as yours. But Jaehyun was slick - he told her the same about your books. 

“Hi, oh my god, I love your books so much! I can’t wait for the next one!” It’s a boy with the brightest and whitest smile you have ever seen and for a second you can forget your sadness.

“Thank you so much. What name do you want me to sign?” 

The book signing ends about half an hour later. You’re in the car with Minghao who’s typing something on his phone as he sits in the backseat with you. 

“You did great, you know.” He says, not looking up. His words make your stomach turn uncomfortably even though you know he means well. 

“Thanks,” is your mumbled response, your head slowly turning to look out of the window. Minghao sets down his phone, realizing his words didn’t come out the way he wanted them to. He sighs.

“Best friend dearest,” he starts, “you know what I meant. Considering you have been in your room with no lights on and Adele on repeat for the last few months - you did exceptionally well socializing with people you don’t know.”

“It’s my job after all, isn’t it?” 

“No, your job is writing brilliant books, Y/N. This is just a bonus. Your books would sell wonderfully even without you doing this.”

Three months ago this would have made your chest fill with pride. You’d be beaming and agreeing with Minghao, content with your life and what you had made it to be. But now, it’s different. 

Now, all you feel is ache in your chest. No sense of pride, no smile in sight. No contentment with how your life is going. Joy has been missing in your palette of feelings for a long time. 

The city lights are what keep you awake. Exhaustion and the feeling of sadness that you have become so used to are close to make you falter, to make you want to go home and put those Adele songs right back on repeat. It’s not fair, you think. Not fair that your life was ruined this way and you can’t get back up. That all you’re able to do is live because you have to, not because you want to. And the closer July 17th comes - the more you feel yourself falling deeper into a hole. 

It’s hard to believe that three months ago you were a completely different person. A person who loved to laugh, who had fun game nights with her friends, cooked every day, went for runs in the morning, planned a wedding. You were a person who loved to love. All of this was accompanied by the person you had been sure you’d spend the rest of your life with: Jaehyun. He was tall, handsome, kind. You had met him through work - he had been assigned your agent when you switched publishers. He was your muse. Helped you with your books, made the sales sky rocket with the way he marketed you. 

For five years he was your everything. In some ways (ways you loathed) he still is. Your whole life revolved around him. Wherever you went - he did too. Whenever you fell - he was there to catch you. Nothing in the world could have ever prepared you for what was going to happen. But then again, when is someone ever prepared to be cheated on by the person they trusted the most in their life? 

To say it was a shock would be an understatement. Accidentally finding the messages he sent to her on his iPad. Confronting him and seeing his face fall, his expressions change into something you had never thought possible. He looked caught. Mainly because he was. Also because he never thought the truth would come to light. You had been the only one left in the dark. Everyone at the publishing house knew what he was doing. He and her. 

It wasn’t fair, you knew that, but in the beginning you couldn’t handle being mad at Jaehyun. Instead you focused all your anger on her, all the hurt you felt. It wasn’t like you had particularly liked her before - she was your rival, the person everyone always compared you to. She was younger than you, didn’t have as much experience - but she was more successful. At least to an extent. Her books regularly went viral on ‘booktok’, mainly because she wrote them like she worked in a factory. Every couple of months there’d be a new one - and people ate it up. You, on the other hand, liked to take your time, liked to write stories with captivating characters, with characters people could relate to - fall in love with. 

Suddenly your biggest rival became the person you hated and wanted to be like the most in the world. To be her would mean to have him. Him, who you still love so much, who still means everything. 

It is a little different now. 100 days later and you feel like you don’t love him as much anymore. Yes, it still hurts like hell and, yes, you want to stay home most of the days. But you don’t miss him as much as you used to. 

“Do you want to grab a drink?” Minghao asks now even though he already knows the answer. Gosh, you wish you could give him a yes. A smile and a yes. Instead, you only present him with the first, stretching out your hand and reaching for his.

“I need to get home, Hao. Today has been a lot.”

Minghao nods slowly, a sad smile on his pretty lips. He understands, he really does. But he also misses his happy best friend. Misses the way your eyes crinkle when you smile wholeheartedly , misses the sound of you honest laugh. No matter how many time will pass, he doesn’t think he could ever forgive Jaehyun for what he’s done to you.

Fighting with a french man on the phone at the crack of dawn surely had not been on your agenda for today. 

“I’m sorry, miss, but the cancellation period ended two weeks ago, there is nothing we can do.” 

It’s too early and you are too tired. He is probably too by now, considering he has been saying this sentence at least five times in the past seven minutes. You pull a hand through your hair and let it drop back onto the mattress after.

“My wedding isn’t happening anymore, and you really won’t let me cancel the honeymoon suite?” Usually, you’d never snap at anyone over the phone - especially custom service personnel, but this is different. What he’s implying means you won’t get any money back from one of the most expensive purchases you’ve made. Worst thing about this: you paid for this yourself. Jaehyun had paid the location - which of course could still be canceled. But the freaking hotel stay in Paris of course was set in stone! 

“I am very sorry, miss. I wish there was more that I could do. Perhaps you can take the trip yourself and enjoy our beautiful honeymoon sui-“

You hang up on him. It’s not polite, you’re aware. But just the thought of being alone in the suite you were supposed to enjoy with your freshly baked husband… no, absolutely not. Then, fine, you’d have to live with having spent thousands of dollars on a hotel suite you wouldn’t be able to use. 

As if life isn’t horrible enough already.

When you sit at brunch later that day with Minghao and your mutual friend Mingyu, they both stare at you like you’ve just told them you decided to get Jaehyun’s face tattooed on your thigh. 

“Are you kidding me? You basically get to have a Paris vacation for free for yourself!” Mingyu says, the glass of mimosa he is holding in his hand is almost spilling with the way he moves his arm. You scoff.

“What do you mean “free”? I literally paid for it months ago!” 

“Okay, and did you already make that money back?” Mingyu continues and raises his brow. You stay silent for a moment. 

The restaurant Minghao chose is filled with people enjoying the vegan food made from scratch. Your own very delicious avocado toast with a side of fresh fruit and soy-yogurt is laying in front of you, waiting to be eaten. The mimosa Minghao had ordered for you remains untouched. 

“She has.” Hao decides to answer for you as he sips from his mug of matcha. You shoot him a glare.

“So what! I’m not going to go to Paris by myself when this was supposed to be my honeymoon!” You try to stay quiet, looking from Minghao to Mingyu and back. Judging by their faces, they don’t seem to understand the big deal. 

You envy them. God, how much you wish you could just do it. Go on that already paid for vacation by yourself, not give a single damn about Jaehyun and his new girlfriend. Your heart sinks. Just thinking these words is making you feel like crawling back into bed. 

Minghao groans and puts his mug back on the table. 

“Y/N,” he starts and his voice sounds more serious than you’ve ever heard him talk before - even Mingyu seems startled, “I get it, okay? I get that he hurt you, that he made you believe in something that was never going to work. He is an asshole, if not the biggest asshole walking freely on this earth. But you’re young! You’re young and you deserve better than this! Keeping to yourself, barely leaving your apartment - your bed, honey, it’s not good for you. I understand that you want to stay away, that the world is a fucking scary place without the person you thought was your person right there next to you,” he grabs your hand over the table, “but do you know what all of this means? That your person is still out there! That you can still find them! And what better place to start than Paris, the literal city of love!”

He means well. Just like the other night after the book signing. He means well and he wants just what’s best for you. No one wants you to feel better as much as he does. Then why does it make you so mad that he is asking this of you? That he is calling you out this way? 

You pull your hand away from his and grab your purse from the free chair next to yours. Both men gawk at you, startled.

“Y/N-,” Mingyu tries, but you raise your hand to interrupt him.

“You get it, Hao? Really? Has your significant other of five years also cheated on you with your biggest rival? Did you also have to cancel a wedding you put hours and hours of work and money into? Because I don’t remember this happening to you! So, I would really appreciate it if you gave me the time I need to grieve this relationship and decide for myself when I am ready to get out again!”

Without giving them another look, you storm out of the restaurant. Everything around you is a blurr and you only notice that you’re crying when you reach your car. Cursing to yourself, you move to open your car, tears dripping from your cheeks down onto your shirt. God, what a pathetic little woman. Crying in your car after yelling at your best friends for what? For caring? For only meaning to help? 

It takes a while before you manage to start the engine and get on the road to drive home. The radio is silent and for a second you wished you could turn off your brain the same way. Just one switch and all thoughts gone. All the self doubts and the hurt, all the thoughts of what-if and the wish to travel back in time and never have you take his iPad. 

You stop at a red light and wipe away some more tears. You don’t dare to look into the mirror and check your make-up. 

Never finding the iPad, you circle back, if you had never found it, you wouldn’t be in this situation. No, you’d most likely still be in a relationship with a man that cheated on you. That didn’t love you half as much as he claimed, that didn’t deserve the time and care you’d given him. 

When the light turns green, you continue your way, your thoughts still roaming around the what if. And while your heart yearns for him back, for what you believed you had - your head knows it’s better this way. Jaehyun isn’t the one for you, as much as you would have loved him to be, Minghao is right. It’s just that the thought of starting over with someone new makes you cringe, makes fear rise within you. Someone new to give your heart to and hope they don’t break it the way Jae had. 

Once you’re on the highway you think back about the time you had decided to travel to Paris for your honeymoon. It had been your idea, your wish. Your first ever book, even if it never made it onto a bestseller list or into the mouths of the best romance critics - it was set in Paris. The city of live, the city you decided would become your favorite even though you had never been. Spending two weeks there with the love of your life after becoming his forever, seriously, nothing had ever sounded as wonderful as that. 

Minghao’s words ring in your ear. Your person is still out there, he said. And that Paris, as the city of love, would be the perfect place to go look for them. Your knuckles turn white around the steering wheel. You never wanted to spend time in Paris with anyone but Jaehyun. 

Or maybe, you think as you take the exit leading to your neighborhood, the only Person you need to spend time with in Paris is yourself. 

two; the lost soul

He never should have listened to Jeonghan. No one should ever listen to Jeonghan. The cab driver is speaking in quick french that Jihoon knows he wouldn’t understand even if he spelled out every word for him. Then again, he isn’t even sure the driver is talking to him or just about him. Jihoon can’t really blame him. After all, he is the stupid American with the stupid big guitar case and a backpack almost bigger than himself. 

The backseat is hot and Jihoon’s sunglasses do little to keep the sun from blinding him. 

Paris in the summer sounded better on paper than it does actually experiencing it. It’s nothing compared to the summer in Arizona, where Jihoon grew up, but having lived in Vermont for a while now, he wasn’t used to the burning hot, scorching sun that threatened to give him the sunburn of his life if he didn’t re-apply his sunscreen every few hours. 

Tara had always laughed at him and his easily burned skin. She never burned, no, she got a tan right away, looking beautiful in the rays of sunshine dazzling on her skin like they belonged there. 

Right now, he misses her more than he has in a while. When he passes the beautiful architecture of his first love’s favorite city, he smiles even with the sun shining directly into his eyes. 

In all seriousness, Jihoon doesn’t know why he is here. It feels wrong to be here without her, but it also felt like he had to take the invitation from his friend. She would have never forgiven him, if he let this opportunity fly. Visit the city of love, the city she had always dreamt about, he knows as wrong as it feels, it’s the right thing to do. 

A few minutes later, the cab stops in front of an old looking building. Without saying anything, the driver takes Jihoon’s Euros and drives off after heaving Jihoon’s suitcase out of his trunk. 

Jihoon looks after the car, his dark hair falling into his forehead. Once the cab takes the next corner, he looks at the building, something stirring in his stomach. This… doesn’t look like the pictures on AirBnb at all. Quickly, he fishes his phone out of his pocket, happy he booked the data package at the airport back home. Opening his app, he feels like he’s about to throw up his airplane food.

It’s not there. The apartment is gone from the app, not newly put in under a different name, not just gone because of a glitch. It’s like it never existed. Jihoon curses, moving his fingers over his screen, calling the customer service only to be met with a french speaking automatic voice that doesn’t help him in the slightest. 

Hanging up again, he stares at his phone for a few seconds. He shouldn’t have come. It feels too much like a sign. Maybe he should try changing his flight to this evening, maybe he should try to run after that cab and-

The phone in his hands rings and he quickly picks up.

“Hello?”

“Jihoonie!” It’s Jeonghan, the only reason he is in Paris in the first place, “did you make it to the city of love?”

“Yeah, and I wish I didn’t,” Jihoon mumbles in response, brushing his hair out of his face.

“Why? What happened?” Jeonghan does sound concerned, which might be a first.

“My Airbnb doesn’t exist.”

Silence. Jihoon just knows his friend is trying his hardest not to laugh. Oh, to be Yoon Jeonghann and always get entertained by his friends’ miseries. 

“Jeonghan, this isn’t funny, okay? I’m about to call another cab and get my ass back home.”

“No! No, you can’t go home! You’re here and I’m going to make sure these will be two of the most amazing weeks of your life, alright? Look, instead of home, get your ass to my hotel. I think I might have a solution for your problem.”

When Jeonghan texts him the address and Jihoon hails another cab, he doesn’t dare to hope that his friend has an actual solution. 

Perhaps Jihoon should have asked Jeonghan more thoroughly what kind of Hotel he works at. Because this looks very different to the building Jihoon just left. This is art, this is a fancy hotel in the middle of Paris’ most elegant streets, people in expensive clothes walking around Jihoon who has only a backpack and a guitar on his back. Jihoon gapes at the building, words he has read a million times suddenly filling his head, suddenly coming to life.

The façade of the hotel stands proudly on the bustling Parisian street, an exquisite testament to classical elegance and modern charm. The building’s cream-colored stonework is adorned with intricate carvings and ornate embellishments, each detail meticulously crafted to perfection. Above the entrance, a grand arch frames a large window, its glass shimmering in the soft light of the early evening.

Striped blue-and-white awnings shade the windows, their cheerful colors contrasting beautifully with the building’s stately architecture. Delicate wrought-iron balconies extend from the upper floors, offering glimpses of lush potted plants and inviting chairs, perfect for an intimate evening under the stars.

The entrance is framed by deep blue columns, and a passageway, warm light spills out from within, hinting at the luxurious interior that awaits guests. A pair of elegant lanterns flank the doorway, casting a gentle glow on the stone steps below.

Above the entrance, a crest adorned with elaborate scrollwork and a regal shield stands as a proud emblem of the hotel’s storied history. The name of the hotel is etched in graceful letters, a promise of the enchanting experience that lies within. 

He doesn’t dare to move from where he is standing. Doesn’t dare to step foot into the hotel that looks exactly the way he had envisioned the one Tara would always read to him. Goosebumps erupt all over his skin and he swears there are tears threatening to spill out of his eyes. This must be a dream, a different reality, because there is no way Jeonghan works here. 

But when Jihoon lets his eyes wander over the façade and into one of the magnificent windows - he spots his friend. Spots him on the phone behind the wooden counter, writing something down. He is here and this is real. 

So, Jihoon slowly moves. One foot before the other, eyes glued to the entrance, nis heart beating in his chest. He feels silly, but he wonders if Tara had seen this as clear as he had back when she had read the book to him over and over again. 

A welcome warmth meets Jihoon inside. It’s just as beautiful as the outside, he finds, his stomach turning over once more. 

The lobby exudes a warm, inviting glow, courtesy of the golden chandeliers that hang from the high ceilings, casting a soft light over the polished marble floors. Rich hues of deep blue and soft gold dominate the color palette, creating a sense of opulence and sophistication. Jeonghan stands behind the mahogany desk, still talking on the phone, still not spotting Jihoon. 

Jihoon, who feels so insanely out of place in his worn out jeans and the old leather jacket, with his hair unkempt and his eyebrow pierced. He moves over to the front desk, trying his hardest not to care about the stares he is getting from the people who clearly know he doesn’t actually belong here.

Jeonghan’s eyes light up when he sees him, a wide smile now on his lips as he holds up a finger as if to tell Jihoon to just be a little more patient. Jihoon carefully puts his hands on the top of the counter, his eyes roaming the lobby again. 

“Of course, we can’t wait to have you back here again so soon, Miss Jones. Have a great day, bye bye!” 

Jihoon’s eyes fly over to Jeonghan again when he hears the phone click. 

“You’re actually here!” Jeonghan’s smile grows and he moves forward to give Jihoon probably the most awkward hug of his life over the counter. Jihoon laughs at that, patting his friend on the back. 

“Well, it’s either this or the streets,” he smiles, “you never told me how… grant all of this is.” He gestures with his hands, as if to make sure Jeonghan knows he means the hotel. His blonde haired friend chuckles.

“Yeah, I thought it would come off like bragging if I did say so. I never would have heard the end of it from the boys.”

Jihoon nods. He knows exactly what Jeonghan means. Still. He can’t shake the feeling that if he had known about this… his stomach drops again.

“It’s beautiful.” Is all he eventually says, ignoring the worried look of his friend. Jihoon doesn’t know (and Jeonghan will never tell him) but there was a reason he had never mentioned this to him. 

“That, it is,” Jeonghan finally responds, wiping the worry off his face and replacing it with a broad smile, “and you will get to live here for the next two weeks!”

“I will what?!” Jihoon’s eyes widen in surprise, “Jeonghan, I can barely pay rent at home, what do you-,”

“Obviously for free, dummy,” Jeonghan chuckles, “we have a free suite that has already been paid for, full price.”

Jihoon raises his brows, his hands feeling damp on top of the fancy counter.

“How come it’s free when it’s fully paid?” He asks.

“Well, there was supposed to be a wedding and…. now there isn’t one. They didn’t meet the requirements for the full or the partial refund. So, it’s free for the next two weeks since we can’t legally double book. You want it?”

It feels a little bit too good to be true, but Jihoon is in no place to turn down Jeonghan’s offer. The little voice in his head is trying to get to him, trying to make him speak the words to himself. It tries to get him to admit that this feels a lot like fate. Like a sign from above, from Tara. He doesn’t let it get to him. He’s not ready for that, and he’s certainly not melancholic enough for thoughts like this - even as a songwriter. 

“I do, thank you, Han, I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you right now.”

“Oh, most certainly sleep on the streets. Find a rat for a friend, or maybe a pigeon. They are crazy over here,” Jeonghan sings as he types something in the computer, scanning one of the key cards he takes from the drawer beneath him. Jihoon watches him with his heartbeat in his ears. 

“Yeah, never been a big fan of rats. Or pigeons.” Jihoon dares to look around the lobby again, seeing all those people living their life, probably never worried about any of the things he worries about. He wasn’t lying when he said he has trouble paying his rent. Work hasn’t been easy these days. 

“Aaaaand, here we go!” Jeonghan grins brightly, “your key, Mr. Lee.” He holds it mid air, pulling it back slightly as Jihoon is trying to grab it. The latter gives him a funny look. Jeonghan pouts as he thinks.

“That rhymes. “Your key, Mr. Lee”.” Jihoon closes his eyes for a second. Jeonghan chuckles happily.

“Watch out, I’m coming for your job.”

“Well, stop it and do yours instead,” Jihoon replies, allowing himself to grin back at his friend and take the card from his hands, “where is this suite you promised me?”

-

Jeonghan hadn’t mentioned what kind of suite this is. There is nothing Jihoon can do but stare at his surroundings with his mouth and backpack dropped, his guitar slowly sliding down his arm. 

He is in the honeymoon suite. In retrospect, it makes sense. Jeonghan did say a wedding had been canceled. 

There are three rooms. Right now, Jihoon is standing in the enormous entrance way. Golden and blue like downstairs, with wood accents, a big round table in the center of the room that connected all the different rooms, a centerpiece of flowers as beautiful as a summer day adjoining it. The walls are high and plastered with fine drawing, ornating through all of the hallway and over to the other rooms. Flowers and patterns so elegant Jihoon doesn’t know how to even describe them. 

He feels out of place as much as he feels content. Letting his luggage rest on the floor, he moves into the first room. It’s a large sitting room, probably as big as his whole apartment back at home. Two couches of rich dark blue; cushions in different colors, some of them reminding Jihoon of the ocean, some of the sky, rich blues and light blues, and then there is the color of dawn, orange and yellow. 

A majestic cremé colored carpet lays beneath the sofas, a glass table standing between them. On top of it magazine stacks and a glass tray holding what looks like whiskey and two glasses. High windows let the sun shine through and Jihoon spots a balcony leading around the living- and bedroom, holding his breath as he imagines himself out there softly strumming his guitar with a glass of whiskey or wine. His heart warms at the thought of finally having peace. Peace in the city his former lover had loved so much. 

Next up he walks into the bedroom, a king sized bed greets him with white linen covers and pillows almost as big as his torso. It looks incredibly comfortable and he couldn’t wait to lay down and relax after the day he’s had. Golden curtains sway in the wind let in by an opened window, and the view is so poetic he almost feels himself tear up. Quickly, he looks away and instead finds his way into the master bathroom. It’s all held in gold as well, gold and white for a change, an enormous tub next to a high rain shower behind a glass wall. He sighs.

This is perfect. And he most definitely needs a shower right now. 

So, he retraces his steps and grabs his luggage, setting everything down next to the bed and letting his guitar rest in the corner of the room. He decides to actually unpack his backpack that probably doesn’t even hold as much clothes as he probably needs for this trip (he did think he had a washer, though) and places everything in the large closet opposite the bed. 

Finding himself humming, Jihoon allows a little bit more of that earlier peace to find place in his head and heart. Perhaps there is no reason for him to be worried - to look for something to go terribly wrong on this trip. Jeonghan is off work by now, and they’ll go catch dinner together, then he’ll come back here and maybe watch a movie, fall asleep to the sound of Paris outside his window. He doesn’t know what it sounds like just yet, but he’s already excited to find out. 

Ridding himself of his clothes and feeling another threat of tears when he touches the towels hanging in the bathroom, Jihoon finally lets himself step into the shower and wash all of his worries away. 

three; the mix-up

You don’t think your heart has ever beaten as fast as it does when you walk out the Charles de Gaulle airport and right into the arms of the driver Minghao has arranged for you. It’s not about the driver or the airport - but where you are. 

Paris, the city of love, the city you feared to visit after what had happened with Jae. Yet, here you stand. Handing the driver your luggage and fishing for your phone in your purse, texting Minghao you already found your driver and are now on the way to the hotel. It all feels surreal and like you’re going to wake up any second.

Minghao forgave you without hesitation. Hugged you close to his chest and cried with you as you told him you were sorry and that he was right. You needed to do this - needed to face your demons. Together, the two of you had finalized the plans, popping open a bottle of expensive champagne and gossiping about Jaehyun and who he left you for. Little by little, you knew, you would find yourself again. And perhaps Paris was the perfect way to start. 

The drive from the airport to the hotel was spent staring out the window. First you saw the highway leading from the airport to the city - greenery with trees on each side, all passing by you in a blurr. And then the beautiful streets of Paris. The fine architecture, the elegant bridges over the Seine. Heart warming at the sight of the city you dreamt about so much. Your first ever book had taken place right here, you had let your main characters kiss for the first time right there on that bridge leading from one side of Paris to the other, so close to the Louvre, to the glass pyramid you made them fight and make up all the same, just months apart. The sun is dazzling onto the dark water of the river, light dancing on the surface. 

The driver comes to a stop in front of the hotel about 45 minutes after your departure from Charles de Gaulle. He holds open the door for you and helps you out of the car, smiling at you warmly and finally getting your bags out of the trunk. You thank him in some broken French and he nods at you before finding his way back to the driver’s seat. 

One of the bell-boys spot you right when you walk in, their English sounding a bit like your French just now. You thank them and hand over your luggage, letting them help you carry it to the mahogany reception.

It is exactly like you remember it. You had never seen it in person, no. But you’ve found this hotel during your research, falling in love with it right away. It was a no-brainer that your honeymoon was to be held here. 

You felt overwhelmed at the sight of the colors you had tried so hard to bring to paper, at the sound of soft music in the background, at the knowledge this was real and you were gonna stay here for two whole weeks. 

Finally, you reach the counter where a small man stands and smiles up at you, his hair styled back.

“Welcome, how can I help you?” He says in perfect English and you place your hands on top of the counter.

“Hi,” you tell him your name, “I have a reservation.”

The man nods, looking up the reservation and finding it right away. Not marked as checked in, he notes and gives you another big smile.

“It is wonderful to have you, Miss. Will your husband be joining you?” 

You expected as much. While it does hurt a little, having to say these next words, you know it’s a step in the right direction.

“I will be staying here alone, thank you.”

It is more beautiful than you could have imagined and it takes you a whole lot not to start crying. Your luggage gets brought up by the nice bell-boys and you thank them by tipping them each 50 Euros. Their smiles make the loss of the money worthwhile. 

Once the door closes behind them, you dare to look around. See the beautiful entrance way in all its glory. See the living room in all it’s elegance, the high ceiling and windows, the smaller bedroom with a queen sized bed and a little reading nook, two ceiling high bookshelves standing around a comfortable looking loveseat. This must be what heaven looks like. 

There is nothing that can wipe that smile off your face. Everything inside you tingles with happy excitement, moving to go look at the master bedroom with the on-suite bathroom you remembered staring at for at least five minutes when you booked the room. Imagining yourself in the enormous bathtub with a glass of champagne and classical music playing, letting all the stress and hurt from the past months fade away with the notes. 

You don’t notice the closet and how there are clothes hanging inside it. Neither do you see the guitar case in the corner of the room. It fascinates you - how your mind tricks you into thinking you already hear the sound of water running, accompanied by humming along to a tune. Magnificent, what the mind can do. 

When you finally reach for the doorknob to push it down, yanking the door open in one swift move, you realize perhaps your mind isn’t as magnificent as you thought.

Jihoon doesn’t notice you until you scream. He swirls around, which is inherently a foolish thing to do inside a wet, slippery shower, his eyes widening whe spots you, reacting to your scream by screaming himself. He realizes he’s naked and tries to find something to cover him, taking a step forward to reach for the towel and forgetting there is literally a glass wall separating you two. 

Watching the man walk face-first into the glass and stumbling back, slipping on the wet floors and falling onto his ass would have made you laugh if it wasn’t inside your shower. 

“What the hell!” You yell, turning around so you don’t look at the naked man any longer.

“Who are you?!” He yells back and you almost gasp.

“I should ask you that!”

The two of you need to yell because Jihoon has not yet managed to turn the shower off. Only now does he (while rubbing his hurting back) get up, struggling in the process, his hand finding the lever to turn off the water. His nose hurts and his ass and his back. 

He moves out of the shower without running into glass this time, and wraps one of the soft towels around his waist. 

“I’m Jihoon,” he finally says. You think you’re suddenly stuck in a really bad movie.

“That- you’re telling me your name?!” You turn around again, staring at the stranger with disbelief in your eyes. 

“You did ask who I was, didn’t you?”

For a few moments the two of you continue to stare at each other. With every passing second you notice just how naked he is. Yes, there is a towel around him now, but you certainly did not… miss what was under there when you first walked in. As much as you don’t want to, your eyes scan the stranger, or well, Jihoon as he told you, stopping at his wet torso, the defined abs and the broad chest. He might be small in height but the rest of him seems… big. 

You swallow.

“If you’re done checking me out, would you mind telling me why you’re in my room?”

Heat spreads through your body and right into your face, your eyes jumping from his torso to his face.

“Your room? I’m sorry, this is my room!”

While Jihoon did hit his head, he isn’t hurt enough not to understand that you’re most likely telling the truth. But Jeonghan had said the wedding was off… that you wouldn’t come here. So, why on earth, where you here?

“I- I can explain,” he begins, taking a step forward only for you to take a step backward. He holds out his hand as if to signal he wasn’t going to do anything.

“Go right ahead,” you hate that your voice is shaking, but it’s not like it is an everyday occurrence you find a beautiful stranger in your hotel room. If this wasn’t your actual life but a book this might have been sexy, might have led to the bed behind you finding the two strangers entangled, giving in to the sexual tension between them. Not that there was any of that in this situation.

“My friend, Jeonghan, he- he works here. He told me this suite wouldn’t be used and so I- well he asked me if I wanted to stay here for my trip after I told him my airbnb didn’t actually exist and I needed a, uh, a place to stay.”

You blink at him.

“He just- he gave you my honeymoon suite for free?

Jihoon swallows.

“Well…,” he thinks a little longer on his answer, “yes. Yes, he did.”

Telling the truth is probably his best bet. 

You take a deep breath, turning away from him, clenching and unclenching your hands.

“As you can see, I am here. So, please, find somewhere else to stay.”

Jihoon saw it coming, obviously. It was all too good to be true. Without saying anything else, he walks over to the closet, ready to dress himself. Just that he didn’t quite calculate the new luggage now laying in front of the bed. 

It all seems to happen in slow motion.

Jihoon tripping over your suitcase, his hands desperate trying to find something to hold on to before he falls. As if on reflex, you grab his arm, yanking him up so he doesn’t fall flatly on his face, just that you somehow manage to yank him so hard, you fall off balance. With a high pitched squeak, you fall onto the bed, Jihoon landing on top of you, his towel falling off in the process of the fall and save. 

A naked man is on top of you, brown eyes wide with shock staring into yours. His hands somehow moved right to the sides of your head as if to catch himself from falling even further on top of you. 

You can feel him. Feel his breath on your face, his skin on yours, his friend against your thigh. More heat rises, your face, your neck, your chest, your core. It’s bad. This shouldn’t be happening right now. 

The two of you are so engulfed in the moment, you don’t even realize when the door opens yet again. When voices you would normally recognize without trouble seem to fail your ears this time. Jihoon’s face so close to yours - way too distracting.

“What the fuck?!” 

Realization hits you at the same time as recognition and you gasp, your knee coming up, right into Jihoon’s lower parts, a yelp escaping him as he slides off the bed, hands now covering his private area and his face in a grimace of sheer pain. 

You don’t even notice it. Not really, at least. Now it’s not his face that’s distracting you but the one you used to love for so many years.

“Jaehyun?” You whisper. And for a second you think he came here to make amends, to win you back, to get on his knees and apologize - then you spot her walking in, her eyes scanning the room with distaste. 

“Who is that?” Jaehyun asks and you feel your blood boil. 

“What are you doing here?” You ignore his question. He isn’t looking at you, but at Jihoon still on the floor. 

“Oh, well, you know. We thought that it would be such a waste to let this suite go to waste,” it is her who answers you now, her deep red manicured hands now curling around Jaehyun’s biceps. 

This bitch. Your blood starts boiling. Anger makes you see red. 

“You brought her here?” You hiss at Jaehyun who has the decency to look guilty at least. You snort. Then, your eyes find Jihoon who’s still on the ground, Jihoon who is still naked. Jihoon, who desperately needs a place to stay. 

God knows what makes you do what you do next. Desperation? Foolery? Who knows. But you move to help Jihoon up, grabbing the towel and holding it in front of his lower half. 

“Y/N,” Jaehyun starts but you interrupt him.

“I see that we both had the idea to bring our new partners, or in your case old partner, to the suite we booked together, Jae. But since I was the one who paid for it, I would kindly ask you to leave.”

New partner. Jihoon needs a few seconds before he grasps what you just said. 

“New- new what?” He mumbles, but you clear your throat to drown out his voice. Jaehyun’s face is priceless and you don’t want the bluff to be uncovered so quickly.

“That is your new boyfriend?” She asks, her brows raised. You can see that she’s checking him out - his abs, his cest, his pretty face. It makes your insides turn with hatred and disgust. 

“Got a problem, Sierra?” You reply, your jaw tense. Her eyes only briefly meet yours.

“Oh, absolutely not. I’m glad to see you finally got out of that moping phase, honey. It really didn’t suit you.” 

Your grip around the towel tightens. 

Slowly, Jihoon begins to understand what is going on. Who these people are. There was supposed to be a wedding and a honeymoon, but neither of these happened. You are the bride, or well, were supposed to be the bride. And he, the man you called Jaehyun and who had caused all the color to fade from your face, surely seems to be the groom who… never got to be the groom. And judging by the way you reacted to him and her, he guesses the reason the wedding didn’t happen was… the woman you’d called Sierra. 

Blinking a few times, Jihoon realized that you were trying to convince him that he was your new boyfriend. That you had brought him here, to this hotel. It was ridiculous and straight out of a bad movie, but somehow… even if he didn’t know you, he felt like he should help you. And so, he let his arm wrap around your waist, catching you by surprise. 

“I would kindly ask you to leave us be. You have done enough.”

Your head swirled to look at the man next to you. His stern face and his wet hair. Drops of water sliding down the side of his neck. 

“How long has this been going on?” Jaehyun asks, ignoring Jihoon’s request. You turn to look at him again.

“That’s none of your business. You heard him, Jae. Leave. This isn’t your room anymore.”

Another beat of silence falls between the four of you. You try your best to ignore Sierra and cling onto Jihoon’s hand like it was the only saving grace. Perhaps that was true. Holding Jae’s gaze and trying to calm down your hurting heart, your wishes to throw something at him. 

“Fine. I heard the honeymoon suite in the Hilton is much nicer than this one, baby.”

It is then that you see it. The rings on her finger. Your stomach drops. He married her. Oh, you’re about to throw up. Jihoon seems to notice your change of emotions, quickly clearing his throat.

“Great. Have fun in Paris then.” 

He carefully takes the towel from your hand, wrapping it around him fully again. Then, he looks at you. The overwhelming urge to give you a hug is almost unbearable.

“Maybe,” Jaehyun said, “since we are both seeing other people and have moved on - we could grab dinner sometime this week. All of us.”

Jihoon sees the way your eyes shake at the suggestion. And he is just about to say no, that that’s not a good idea, when you push your shoulder back and hold your head high.

“What a lovely idea. We’d love to, isn’t that right, baby?” You interlock your fingers with Jihoon’s and he stares at you for just a second, before nodding.

“Sure,” he breathes out, looking at Jaehyun and Sierra. 

It most certainly isn’t a lovely idea, he is well aware of that. This whole thing isn’t a good idea. But here he is. Holding the hand of a woman he barely met twenty minutes ago. A woman who has seen him naked, a woman who had his half hard cock against the inside of her thigh. A woman he had been closer to than any other in the last five years. 

No, this wasn’t a good idea. This was an awful, horrible idea that could only go so, so wrong. 

[rotg-halloween]

October 19, 2024 through October 31, 2024 - Let's Get Spooky, ROTG Version.

Header art by @purblzart

RISE OF THE GUARDIANS HALLOWEEN 2024: Event Guidelines

13 days, 13 prompts.

Visual, aural, textile, and literary works are allowed - fanart, fanfiction, gifs, edits/manips, cosplay, fanmixes, crafts, or ask-and-answer.  

Unlike other fandom events, reblogs of previously created material are welcome IF THEY FIT THE PROMPT, but creation of original material is preferred.

Inspiration can be drawn from the GUARDIANS OF CHILDHOOD bookverse, the RISE OF THE GUARDIANS movieverse, and any and all associated AUs.

OCs are welcome and encouraged to interact with RotG/GoC characters.

Crossovers are welcome, but please make sure that the focus POV is a character from RotG/GoC.

Works in progress are welcome and encouraged, as long as they fit the prompt. No reason not to celebrate Halloween all year ‘round! No need to worry about having to have something complete before posting.

Don’t feel like you ***must*** post a piece Every… Single… DAY, and/or fill every single prompt.  Burnout is not fun.  But do try to post at least ONE piece during the 13 days of the challenge.

Be sure to tag your works with @rotg-halloween, and list #rotghalloween in one of your first 5 tags.

Please tag works accordingly, and be sure to use any warnings for sensitive and potentially triggering subjects.  

HAVE FUN, and support your fellow creators.

RISE OF THE GUARDIANS HALLOWEEN 2024: Prompts

19 October 2024 / Day One: Creak

20 October 2024 / Day Two: Darkness

21 October 2024/ Day Three: Cabin

22 October 2024 / Day Four: Castle

23 October 2024 / Day Five: Apparition

24 October 2024 / Day Six:  Dystopia

25 October 2024 / Day Seven: Howl

26 October 2024 / Day Eight: Talisman

27 October 2024/ Day Nine: Changeling

28 October 2024 / Day Ten: Slasher

29 October 2024 / Day Eleven: Transmogrify

30 October 2024 / Day Twelve: Orbit

31 October 2024 / Day Thirteen: Slither

[ineylesian]

— INHERITENLY UNJUST DESTINY

AVENTURINE X READER

AO3 | NAVIGATION

WORD COUNT — 900

WARNINGS — slight 2.1 spoilers, lowk angst, word vomit about aventurine’s lack of self esteem, sappy unconditional positive regard, handsy aven bc he’s touch starved, preesetablished relationship

SUMMARY — aventurine does not understand the twist of fate that allows him to stand beside you.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — the lack of official aventurine art is making me gnaw at the bars of my enclosure, sloppy headers for now!!

Aventurine isn’t sure how to feel. 

The low hues of noon cast a gentle light upon his gloves, giving light to the sea of shattered stones that lie in his grasp. A sea of dazzling green, torn and fragmented beyond repair.

He’s sure he sees it now, a reflection of the wildly wretched life he’s lived sitting in the palms of his hands. The remnants of the only control he’s managed to retain in his life frail as dust in the winds. SIlent he remains, still as a pound dog that has had its bone ripped away from it. 

It isn’t until he feels the ghost of your hands along his own that Aventurine realizes his heart is racing. You spin him to face you, and his heart lurches at the worry that etches itself upon your features. He fights with narratives in his head that play games of fallacies, yet the scorch of his devotion to you leaves his tongue tied.

Facades are a game that come like second nature to Aventurine, but he swears he will not do to you what he deems business in his schemes. Instead, he pulls at what little honesty remains in the depths of his heart and his breath shutters. 

“Guess I’m back to where I was five years ago.”

The words come out quiet, too soft for his nature and simply small. It’s a confession that makes him wonder how many other pieces of his life will break apart until the whole is severed. There’s a fear that lingers within, bubbling to the surface as he attempts to withdraw from your hold.

Aventurine does not believe that his life holds any meaning with or without the cornerstone. Yet, that title made him seem as if he truly meant something, and without it, what little reign he held over his life disappeared. 

He believes you deserve fire, yet he is no more than an ember flickering on a stoked match. He cannot burn in flames bright enough to keep you.

Silently, he awaits your scold, the reprimand that deems him as worthless as he believes himself to be. A reminder that it was all but a stroke of luck that brought you to him, a trial that has run out as you see him for who he truly is, barren and scared.

His hands shake as you guide them to pour his shattered stone into the box at his feet. Shock etches itself upon his features, and he looks to you with nothing but raw, unparalleled fear as you speak. 

“You will always be the same to me.”

Aventurine does not understand the twist of fate that allows him to stand beside you. Single handedly, you vowed to peer into the wasteland that was his soul, and devoted yourself to his inherently unjust destiny. And, even as his life’s worth is ripped away from him, you love him unchanged.

An insatiable want carves at his soul like a day yearns for night, and Aventurine knows no other place to put his hands but around you in embrace. His hold is tight, as if he imagines that you will fade away if he abandons it. Yet, the weave of your fingers through his hair is enough to tell him that you’re no illusion, a sensation that will cease to disappear as long as he lives.

“Let me see you, Aven.”

Your words flow as lost prayers on the horizon do, and Aventurine retracts his grasp on you, allowing his knees to bring him to the ground. Your hands, gentle as streambeds in the spring, cup his face, running over spilt tears from keeled eyelashes. Instinctively, his hands latch onto your wrists, desperately chasing after your warmth and attempting to sear it into his skin.

Aventurine outwardly sighs as you run your fingers along his jaw, stopping to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind his ear. Although your gaze rocks with the deepest seas of adoration, the child deep within his heart beckons him to gamble with his luck once again. A risk that trails the faint quiver of his lips, as he would utter no such words to any other being in the entire cosmos.

“Will you kiss me?”

Wordlessly, you nod, and Aventurine closes his eyes. The soft touch of your lips quells the troubles that brew within, igniting fire against endless water. His hands fall to his lap, melting in the passion of your touch, and his heart craves to continue beating as if you are the oxygen that fills his lungs. 

He refuses to leave you until there is no air left for him to breathe. Gasping for the vitality of you that runs rampant through his veins, Aventurine tilts his head upward, and your heart flutters at the gentle smile that greets your gaze. Brilliant hues of purple and blue shimmer amidst the night, and his hold on you returns, hands moving to interlock themselves with your own. It’s the same gesture that holds you in the deep of dusk, never waning as lost prayers to the universe whisper behind closed doors. 

The words that follow are never far from you, spinning like soft woven silk that rests in your dreams when he’s away. Your eyes shut as he presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, spreading warmth to your cheeks that subdue the chills of frosted wind. In yearn, you wait, reveling in the soft fan of his breath over your skin.

“I love you.”

[punkypiscesell-writes]

when it comes without a warning - ch. 2

previous chapter

Javier Peña x plus size f! reader

summary: first dates and revelations.

tags (updated after each chapter): fake dating AU, strangers to lovers, romcom, 90’s vibes, angst, small town dynamics, casual sexism, slow burn, pining, insecurities, drinking, smoking, food related descriptions, mentions of family, innocent touching, flirting. The picture in the header is just for the visual and isn't an indication of the reader's skin color. Not beta read.

word count: 22k

notes: Hello and happy spring!! Firstly, thank you if you’re keeping up with this fic even after my inactivity here. It means the world to me. If you’re following this fic and have followed me bc of it, have reblogged the previous chapters, or have commented, please know I’ve seen your lovely messages and reactions. My ADHD has been ADHD'ing pretty hard these past couple of months and I've been dealing with a lot of overwhelming feelings. Even though I haven't answered you personally yet, just know that I’ve seen your feedback and I appreciate every single one you who has been reading this story so far. I will eventually answer you all. Thank you for the patience and I hope you'll enjoy this extra long chapter <3

dividers by cafekitsune

The knot under your shoulder blade throbs as you listen to Abigail speak. She has a thick folder open against her thighs, the front cover reading ‘wedding inspiration’ written in swoopy cursive. There’s everything from pictures to pieces of fabrics and laces, writing here and there, post-it notes in different neon colors, and paint sample cards glued on the pages to indicate the theme for each section.

The different tabs on the edges of different pages are already worn out, telling you that this folder isn’t new but well-loved and thoughtfully collected. She flips through each spread effortlessly, going back to the tabs to find a specific flower and table setting style that should inspire you to create a cake fitting for whatever she wants.

Your pen presses against the notebook in your own lap, ‘Abigail and Noah’s wedding’ written neatly on the top of the page. You already drew a couple of drawings for possible cake designs and decorations after Abigail showed you pictures of buttercream roses and tall and wide five-tier wedding cakes.

“They’re just for inspiration, focus on the details here,” she traced her finger against the glossy, thick paper and you looked at the white frosting and the style the ribbons had been piped on the cake.

Under the pictures in your notebook, you’ve written down questions about the flavors and wishes they have for the cake. After all, it’s an important part of the reception. So far, you’ve managed to figure out the general style and some color options yet haven’t found answers to any of the other questions you have asked Abigail. She’s so excited about the possibilities that it’s almost overwhelming to go through them all.

“There was this lemon and raspberry tart,” she starts, her wistful eyes looking towards the patio doors.  “We had it when we were in Laredo. Noah had some business meetings there and I wanted to join him.” She smiles at you, her thoughts in that moment between her and her future husband. “It was like biting into a cloud. It was so light, but creamy and just melted in my mouth. The lemon was so tart in the custard, it was almost like a spritz of fresh lemon juice that just burst with flavors when I took a bite. And the raspberries were as fresh as they come. They were sweet and gentle, almost soft in how they tasted.” She opens a new page from her binder and shows you pictures of different types of lemon and raspberry tarts. She pushes it towards you for you to see all kinds of desserts with the same concept. Your mouth waters even thinking about the tart she’s describing.

“You know, when I sat with him and we shared that tart, I think it was just a normal workday too, nothing special, and suddenly I knew that I could marry him. We had been together for a couple of years by then, but I had never really seen him as husband material.” Abigail looks almost incredulous as she tells you how she felt in that moment. “I had always imagined marrying someone who isn’t like Noah and suddenly I just kinda knew I could marry him too. That he is someone who I could imagine the rest of my life with.” There’s a bittersweet undertone in her words, unbelieving how she came to understand her feelings and wants for her future. Just a random day like any other and there Abigail was having dessert with her boyfriend and everything changed. You would probably reminisce at that time the same way she does.

 You write down a short description for the flavors and why they’re important.

Abigail’s mom comes back into the wood toned living room that is now tinted gray. It’s one of those cooler, humid days when rain falls steadily from the sky. She’s carrying a hefty pile of bridal magazines in her arms and her footsteps write a rhythm for the constant downpour that hums against the roof.

“Okay, so,” Abigail begins with her excited voice that reminds you of blowing bubblegum bubbles and popping them against your lips.  Your focus shifts back to her immediately. “You know how much I love peppermint, Noah loves oranges and we’re both obsessed with that chocolate cake you sell every Christmas time?” Abigail demands you answer her rhetorical question with a nod that mirrors hers. “We want an orange peppermint chocolate cake!” Abigail’s sweet smile is a little too sweet considering what you just heard.

The flavor combinations draw all the moisture from your mouth and sour in the back of your tongue. Her eyes get that Abigail-like innocence in them again, bordering on forcing you to accept her suggestion without questions. The knot in your upper back burns and your knowledge is screaming at you to speak up.

“I haven’t heard anyone using peppermint and orange together with chocolate before.” Abigail’s face drops immediately. “Maybe I could find a way to combine them in the decorations? Fresh mint leaves and candied orange would look beautiful together. The cake could still be chocolate. The color options are great too, we can use something natural, white chocolate, or even dark chocolate. It’s also easy to use colorings to make it exactly as you wish.” Your voice is soft as you try to gently let her down and urge her to find a more palatable cake.

“We’d appreciate if something would also taste like orange and peppermint, we don’t want a cake that is like cardboard after all,” she giggles and you smile with her, unsure about why you’re smiling after hearing her backhanded remark. Does she think your cakes taste like cardboard? You can’t fixate on that right now.

How on earth are you going to make it all work if she insists on this one specific cake? Abigail’s mom flips through the pages of one of the bridal magazines with carton thick covers. She’s looking for something, trying to decipher the writing on post-it notes riddling the edges of the pages.

You turn your focus on the notebook in your lap. You don’t want to write the words down under each other, but you do; peppermint, orange, chocolate. Maybe you just have to follow her wishes and make a cake like any other. Let her taste what it’s all like together. Or maybe, just maybe, you’ll make the flavors work like never before.

“I could make orange chocolate and peppermint chocolate cakes. They’d look identical of course, but that way the flavor profiles will be a bit more agreeable, and they might also work better together that way.” You turn your notebook to Abigail and quickly draw a two-tier cake, separated by arrows that point to the words you’ve scribbled down.

“The problem is that we want a three-tier cake and all of them have to be similar by looks and how they taste.” There’s an edge in Abigail’s tone.

“Sweetheart,” her mom sounds calm. Her presence is like a balm not only for the bride’s stress but also for the static in the air between you and your longtime friend. You didn’t think she was really listening to your conversation, only preoccupied by the magazines, as she opens a new one on a spread with aesthetically pleasing pictures of table settings.

“She has been baking cakes for years now, you have to trust her when she says something doesn’t work. You want the day to be perfect, don’t you, pumpkin?” She brushes her daughter’s hair behind her ear. Abigail sighs, and it draws all tension out from her shoulders.

“Then let her come up with the cake. You’ve given her a lot of inspiration already.” Abigail’s mom nods at you in a way that reminds you of your own mom. When she’d know something everyone else also knew, but she still managed to make it seem like a secret that only you had the privilege of realizing.

“Yeah, okay, you’re right. Professionally, what do you think could work then?” Abigail softens. Her mom smiles and gets back to the magazine in her hands.  

“You said something about cream being one of the main colors?” She hums in agreement. “What if the cakes had white chocolate butter cream? I could look into making a Swiss meringue buttercream as well if you’re not into the idea of white chocolate, and the decorations could include orange slices in some form and mint leaves?” The ideas come to you fast, a steady stream of possibilities.

“It could also be a dark chocolate cake with a bourbon and orange syrup that could highlight the orange flavor?” You have to write it down. Abigail reaches for something on the table, a post-it note and a pen, to write your suggestions down into her folder.

“If you really want the cakes to taste like oranges and peppermint and chocolate, I will try to make it work but I can’t make any promises of it working out well. For the tasting I’ll make a few different versions that you can choose from.” Saying it all out loud starts a checklist in your head that you try to write down as fast as possible, in an effort to not forget anything.

The few things you wrote about the memory Abigail shared earlier peeks out under your thumb when you’re about to turn the page. “You didn’t ask for it, but can I make something with lemon and raspberries?” You suggest. Abigail’s mom perks up immediately.

“You caught onto the story too, huh?” She winks at you. Another secret between the two of you, just like you used to have with your own mom.

“The dessert story?” Abigail almost rolls her eyes. “It’s so boring, there’s no sparks or excitement, just a boring realization!”

“Isn’t that what’s the exciting part? That you found out your true feelings for Noah in such a mundane moment?” You ask her, smile on your lips, surprised to hear her dismiss the special moment.

“I guess?” She surrenders with a shrug and matches your smile. She fills her words with emptiness. “What would you make from lemons and raspberries?”

You draw Abigail in by giving her the details of gentle vanilla and tart, but sweet lemon, with fresh raspberries that would round out the flavors and bring everything together. You try to keep her earlier wish in mind, but the more you talk about the second option and the emotional connection the ingredients have, the more excited you get about baking a tester cake with the ingredients. Maybe you imagine it all, but Abigail doesn’t seem to hate your ideas. On the contrary.

Her mom brings you homemade lemon and orange lemonade after a few hours of throwing ideas around, with chocolate chip cookies that you brought from the bakery. Abigail grimaces when the sweet citrus and buttery chocolate crumble together in her mouth.

“If chocolate is like this with lemon and orange, I’m not sure if I want it after all.” You all laugh. The joke wrote itself. You try not to smile too wide to hide the satisfaction her reaction gives you. You’ll follow Abigail’s wishes, but maybe your job as a professional baker isn’t going to be as difficult when you try to convince your customer which flavors work together and which don’t.

After hours of planning, the knot under your shoulder blade is spreading its flames to the back of your neck and base of your skull. Your notebook is thick with inspirational pictures and notes, better indicating what you’re asked to do than what you could’ve illustrated with your blue ballpoint pen. Your calendar has all the important dates and deadlines marked down, now you just have to write them down into the order schedule too.

Standing up from the too soft couch makes you roll your shoulders back when you say goodbye to Abigail’s mom. The tightly wound muscles complain harder and burn with blood flowing through them. 

“I heard a crazy rumor the other day,” Abigail laughs out of nowhere as she walks you to the door. You hand her your shoulder bag while you put on your jean jacket. It’s dry, at least, after the rain colored the light blue denim dark on the shoulders.

The rain hasn’t eased up. It was drizzling lightly early in the morning when you got to the bakery, and got heavier when you left Lili by herself, and you made the drive to come meet Abigail. It has turned into white noise in your ears over the hours. You’re really not looking forward to driving in rain when the roads have a layer of water on them.

“Hmmm?” You swap the slippers Abigail’s mom borrowed for you to the flat-bottomed sneakers you had on when you got here.

“That…” Abigail laughs again, harder like she just told you a hilarious story you should already know about. “That there’s something between you and Javier Peña.” Her laugh is still friendly, a little giggly, but there’s a layer of forcefulness and hardness that she wouldn’t normally have if she actually thought something was funny.

You can’t help the smile that also spreads on your face. Nerves start to sizzle in your belly, bubbling deep and rising steadily towards your chest where it spreads and makes you forget about the pain in your shoulder. You fix your necklace, run the small links between your fingers to make sure it’s not snatched on anything.

“Where did you hear that?”

“Lili saw you two getting cozy, at your bakery no less!” Now you’re both laughing. The tickles of butterflies lift the sound easily through your vocal cords, effortlessly twining with Abigail’s high-strung snickering.

It worked. You reach for your bag which she happily gives you while you avoid her searching eyes. The floor is much more comforting of a companion. You’re not sure what Lili has told people. How Abigail worded it though, the interaction might’ve caught some extra legs along the way. 

“Well?” Abigail pushes. Her mouth is tight and her brows high up. She has always been bad at hiding her impatience.

When you’ve been with her, the demanding tone directed at someone else, she has always come off as powerful and straightforward, someone who gets answers and things done. But now that you’re at the receiving end of her insistence, she is more intimidating than anything else, even with a smile on her face.

“Well, we’re going out this weekend, it’s not a big deal.” You remember every word from your unwritten script you prepared in case Abigail asks you about Javier. Even with your friend waiting for you to tell her more, the smile on your face isn’t hard to keep intact. Your cheeks start to ache from it.

“What do you mean you’re going out? Like on a date?” You didn’t prepare for this. You had only planned to tell her about how Javier had asked you out and Lili had seen something private. Abigail isn’t privy to anything you had planned with Javier.

How you told him when people would be most likely to get baked goods from you. Or how he made sure to walk in at the peak of morning rush hour and stand in line. You had prepared a small order for him to pick up, some breadcrumbs Chucho had asked for a while ago and a couple of cream puffs, with salted caramel pastry cream. You were interested to hear what Chucho thought of the new version of his favorite pastry.

“Trust me, it’ll get people talking,” Javier assured you on the phone the night before, when you finessed the scheme. It was silly, like you were part of a play, and you were the only two actors who knew about it.

He came in the bakery at the right time, just as you had planned. What you didn’t expect was the shit eating grin on his face and the head nods at people looking at him, greeting each with a soft “mornin’”.

He stood in line with his freshly groomed mustache, in a red plaid button-up shirt that was a little heavier than his usual t-shirts. He stood tall, shoulders squared, chin proudly high and his aviators on his eyes. You waited impatiently in the bakery, the little bag of breadcrumbs in your hand and the small box of cream puffs in the other.

Lili called for your name, and you were in the shop before she could say anything else. You met him at the register. Javier took his sunglasses and looped them on his shirt. There was easiness in his eyes and a rumbling coffee tinted good morning on his lips.

The secret between you two made you smile. He answered it by taking a piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans, a pen from a little cup on the counter, and wrote something on it. Lili followed the interaction like she was looking at zoo animals, her neck stretched to catch a glimpse of his note and a bug-eyed stare when he paid, left a generous tip, and held the piece of paper between his index and middle fingers like a cigarette, taking the order from you with the rest of his hand.

Your fingertips brushed against his when you took the note. His brows jerked up when you held your hand still against his for a second longer than he had anticipated. The seed was already planted. Lili was intrigued. There was no harm in showing her, and the people behind Javier, that it wasn’t just any note. It held meaning.

“See you Friday,” slipped from his mouth. The bakery stood still for a breath and a second after that and then he was out the door. The sun was on his hair, sticking to the brown that curled on his temples and the back of his neck, right above the neckline of his shirt.

“I told you,” the note read. It’s still in your jeans’ back pocket even though he gave it to you a few days ago. You just haven’t had the chance or reason to change your jeans. You’ll throw it away when you put them in the laundry anyway.

“Yeah, like on a date,” you answer Abigail a little taken aback. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but you expected even a hint of excitement, maybe some thrilled questions since you going out on a date is such a foreign thing to happen.

“How?” is the only thing she asks. You stare at each other, disbelief on her face while your smile shrinks and gets replaced with confusion that pulls your brows together.

“He asked me out?” You shoulder your bag. This conversation with Abigail is like you’re freefalling, the floor suddenly gone under your feet.

“Out of nowhere? You don’t know him. Have you even met him?”

“We got to talking on New Years, at your engagement party.” Every word sounds like a defense, like you’re building a case for yourself against a ruthless prosecutor.

“But you were supposed to be hanging out with John. You’ve gone out with him too?”

“Oh god no!” You laugh, but Abigail’s question was genuine. “Why would I? He’s an asshole.” You have no remorse saying it out loud.

“Hey, that’s not fair. I know he can come off as a little harsh at first, but you just have to get to know him more.”

“I don’t think so…” you roll your eyes at her, the words huff out with a snort. You try to push past her towards the door, but she grabs your arm. Her fingers press into your bicep.

“Clearly there are things you don’t know about Javier.” There’s urgency in her voice. She looks almost… scared?

“What don’t I know?”

“Javier is… He’s not a good man. I know many women whose hearts he has broken, and I don’t want to see you on that list.” Abigail’s forcefulness dissipates and is replaced with empathy that sweeps across her features.

The arch of her brows is a little too downward, her eyes a little too soft, her mouth a little too sad. Like you’re a child who must be told what to do, who doesn’t understand what’s good for her. Why you get a sense of being pitied by her, you can’t be sure, but it’s burning the nerves away and the bubbles in the pit of your stomach aren’t fun anymore. They’re popping one by one into teeth grinding annoyance.

“Can I make that decision on my own?” Your voice stays even, even with the irritation tightening the back of your jaw and locking it defiantly. Her hand softens against your arm. She swallows, a new type of determination settling in her eyes.

“Javier is a player,” she rushes to reveal, puffing air from her lungs that still has the tart sweetness of lemonade laced through it. “He has a very particular type and none of his relationships have lasted longer than a few months, if that. I’ve also heard that when he was in Colombia, he was sleeping around a lot.” Her words hold weight that she probably doesn’t even understand.

“Okay, so he was in Colombia and he got around… don’t you think it’s a bit weird you’re accusing your fiancé’s good friend of being promiscuous? Why do you even care about that?”

“Oh god no! No, that’s not what I mean! I don’t care who he sleeps with in the future or how many women he has slept with in the past, but I don’t want you to become just a conquest for him.” She shakes her head almost shocked that you’re turning the question on her rather than swallowing what she’s saying without any questions.  

“What did you mean then?”

“I’m saying this because…” Abigail takes another breath, preparing herself for whatever she is about to drop on you. Her cheeks blush and she looks at you straight in the eyes, wide like she’s once again asking you for something and making it sound like it’s your idea.

“I’ve known him for a long time. You know how I and Noah met? Because Noah was his best man at his wedding!” She pauses and waits for you to react. You can only stare at her, speechless by her reveal. “Javier left his bride at the altar, in front of all our families and friends, humiliating her. He didn’t even show up!”

Each word that Abigail shushes from her mouth is full of venom, her anger and unresolved disappointment so clear that they throw you into a church, in the audience as one of those family members who had to bear witness to whatever happened at that wedding.

Abigail urges you to believe her, standing close, her hand still gripping your jean jacket against her palm, hanging onto hope that you understand what she’s saying. That the warning isn’t meaningless and she’s not saying any of this out of nowhere.

“The next thing I know, he’s on his way to Colombia trying to save the world or whatever. You have to know this because you can’t trust him. You’re too nice! You’re not protecting yourself from him so I’m doing it for you. He’s not good news and I think he’s using you.” She breathes deep, a heavy weight visibly drops off her shoulders as she straightens her back, calmness settling over her features.

What the hell are you supposed to do with this information? How on earth can you defend someone who has betrayed someone’s trust by not coming to their own wedding? The burden Abigail sheds from her shoulders now lays harshly on yours, the reality of not knowing Javier at all sinking in. You can’t let that show through, not now when your plan with Javier has barely even taken off. Not when the other option is someone you don’t want to see ever in your life. You have to suck it up and then bring it up with Javier. You’ll either figure this out and ask him to explain himself. Or you’ll tell him you don’t want to be in any more contact with him than what is necessary.

This is exactly the reason why you don’t date. You don’t want to end up in the middle of people’s messes. You don’t want to deal with people’s dirty laundry. You don’t want to deal with hurt feelings or broken promises. Worst of all, you don’t want to be dealing with broken families.

You have enough experience of that of your own, you don’t have to have that from someone on the outside as well. Your body is trying to admit defeat by making yourself small in front of Abigail, who is chipping away at your confidence by standing taller every second that passes.

“What’s he using me for?” You try to gain back some standing in this conversation. Abigail huffs out a breath and throws her hand in the air from your arm.

“Are you serious?” The frustration is so thick in her hushed voice, and in the air, that you could cut it with a knife. Every time she breathes the heavier it is for you to be standing in front of her.

You never expected to be opposite from your friend, stubbornly asking a question that makes you a teenager who is begging to make her own mistakes even when someone is warning her that she’ll only get hurt if she doesn’t open her eyes and take the warning seriously.

“I don’t know,” she speaks too loud. Abigail looks over your shoulder immediately, expecting to hear her mom say something in the living room. “I’m trying to protect you here. If I were you, I wouldn’t trust him. I don’t want to see you wasting your time on someone who doesn’t care about you, at least not in the way you deserve.”

Your jaw twitches and you swallow but your mouth is so dry that it’s almost like your body is rejecting your wishes to get the uncomfortable tightness away from your throat. What a nightmare. You should’ve considered asking Javier if he has any skeletons in the deepest corners of an empty, dark closet.

Being cornered by none other than Abigail of all people isn’t something you want to experience ever again. You never wanted to be on the receiving end of her frustrations but here you are and you’re going to be making a fool of yourself for a man you don’t even know. 

“I don’t need your protection, Abigail.” You clear your throat. “We’re just going out on a date. I’m not marrying the guy. I can handle myself.”

“I’m just worried he’s –“

“I don’t need you to be worried. I’m an adult, I can take care of myself.” Maybe it’s your inexperience of never really having dated anyone or never experienced being in a relationship with anyone. Maybe Abigail is genuinely being protective. You just have a gut feeling that something isn’t adding up here.

No matter how many times she says she’s trying to protect you, you’ve never seen her like this. Abigail is fiercely loyal, you know that. You’ve known that this whole time you’ve been friends. She will defend the closest to her until there’s no one else standing. It’s part of her nature. To care in a way that reassures you’re one of a kind in her life and she won’t leave you on your own.

She has proven that time and time again. Like when you were in college and someone stepped on your feet at a house party. Abigail pushed the guy away, her finger against his chest, making sure everyone in hearing distance heard how the guy didn’t even have the decency to apologize.

Or how she always made sure to tell you how pretty something looked on you when you were insecure about it. A new shirt or a dress that was shorter than your usual dresses. She built your confidence up word by word, like a sister, always standing by you and ready to psych you up until you believed it yourself. Until you were able to psych yourself up as well.

Being against her, against her warning, and trying to stand here on top of the building blocks of confidence that she helped you find, suddenly they’re wobblier than you’d want them to be. You try to keep your shoulders open, your back tall, eye to eye with her.

The more you watch her, see the flustered twist of her mouth, her skin pale and an unexplainable hardness flaming in her eyes, the more you’re convinced she’s not necessarily protecting you. She’s warning you, but not because she’s afraid of you getting hurt. She’s trying to say something. She’s trying to make you see it. But no matter how hard you try to see through the troubled look on her face, no matter how you listen to her, you can’t catch it between her words.

“Where are you going at least?” She finally breaks the tension. It deflates, so do your shoulders while she gathers determination to not make this into a disagreement.

Abigail is still standing in the doorway when you get to your car and shut the door behind you. The rain-streaked windshield distorts her figure, with more drumming against the roof and hood at a steady rhythm. You take a deep breath, and then another before you start your car. As soon as the engine roars to life, Abigail is out of the doorway.

The rain falls heavier when you turn to the road leading back to town, and even harsher when you’re in the middle of nowhere. It forces you to lighten your foot against the gas pedal when your wipers are working overtime, and you still can’t see a thing outside the window.

The car jerks forward and keeps on going until you’re not the one slowing your pace to a crawl. It’s the engine too. A red light blinks on the otherwise dark dashboard warning you of what’s to come. Your hands immediately sweat against the black leather on the wheel when the car tangibly slows down.

You try your best to get it on the side of the road safely before it shuts off. The tires bump down from the asphalt onto the gravel, before driving over the thick grass that only leads into a ditch. You breathe through your mouth as you steer your car to stay on the flat edge even when you’re blinded by the downpour.

You shake your head. This can’t be happening. You listen to the rain beat against the metal cage around you, head empty of any thought that might help you find a solution. The red light on the dashboard… The battery. Of course it would do this on a day when you’re stranded on a lonely road.

It’s an older car, the seller even told you that you might have to check on the battery at some point after driving a specific amount. There are still miles left until that point, yet here you are. Your shoulder complains when you lean your head backwards and close your eyes against the headrest.

Something approaches. The rain gives way to a heavy rumble that suddenly gets closer and closer. You hit the emergency light button on your dashboard and not even five seconds later a massive semi-trailer barrels past you, shaking the car and leaving it in a cloud of water that pillows behind the freight.

You rub your fingers against your eyes, and up towards your hairline. No matter how long you sit here, nothing will change until you do something. Your phone. You rummage through your bag, take out your notebook and your calendar, then your wallet and CD-case for car ride tunes. Your bag is empty, your phone nowhere in sight.

“Fucking shit,” you mutter, seeing your phone on the bakery table. You called the wholesale earlier when you ordered a few different jams. Strawberry, apricot and raspberry. “Fuck!” You hit your head against the steering wheel, bumping your hand against it and setting the horn off. It startles you, like you’re not allowed to wallow in frustration even for a few minutes.

Your options are limited. You can walk to town and get drenched while doing that. You can wait until the rain calms and then start walking. Or you can cross one of the fields to call for a tow truck, risking getting bitten by a snake or something. None of those choices appeal to you.

You close your eyes and lay your head against the steering wheel again. You can only think of the look on Abigail’s face. The worry that honestly looked like she was more annoyed than really worried. If you didn’t have to think about this dating thing at all, there’d be nothing to stress about. If she hadn’t sprung this all up in the first place, you could be burying yourself in work and everyone would be happy.

The rain seems to only get stronger. It’s pouring from a bucket, alienating you on the road, making you an island with no bridges to anyone. You can’t shake Abigail’s story from your mind. How foolish of you to think this wouldn’t kick you in the back at some point.

You haven’t even had a proper conversation with the man yet and here you are, sitting miserable in your car, forced to mull over someone’s life choices based on what you heard from an outsider. There’s only Abigail’s word to believe and you’re still trying to think of possible reasons why Javier ended up leaving his bride at the altar.

The rain waves over you. It quiets and makes you believe it will finally give up when another, heavier wave rolls in and envelopes you in its arms. Through the white noise of your car’s roof being beaten, you hear a motor.

Your side window is streaked with water, the side mirror is covered in a damp haze. The headlights of a car blink through it, approaching in a crawl. At least it won’t splash you like the truck did or swing you off the road and into the ditch that is most likely already full of water.

The car, a pickup truck, drives past. The taillights flash red when the car slows even more and parks in front of you, backing up until it’s only a couple of feet from your bumper. Great. Either they’re going to help you, or it’ll be someone who will only creep you out. The truck though. It looks familiar. The rusty maroon and the blocky white stripe on the side. You’ve seen it in town so at least you’ll most likely know the driver.

The driver’s door opens. You can’t make out who it is through the rain, only a tall, wide frame that jogs towards your door. You recognize Javier’s face only when he’s about to knock on the window. His hair is already dripping. His eyes are squinted even though it doesn’t help much in this downpour. You roll the window down, your head suddenly empty.

“Need a ride?” It’s a quick question. Water pours over his face, sticks to his moustache and trickles into his open mouth. You don’t have to think long. “Take your stuff,” he orders, and you happily comply.

He’s already by his truck when you lock your car doors and rush to the passenger’s side with your bag in your arms. The warning lights blink against the wet ground as your shoes get soaked and through your socks in an instant.

Javier opens the door for you from the inside and you pull it open the rest of the way, falling in with your things in your arms. You pant, from the adrenaline of getting saved from your four wheeled island and rushing to his car as fast as you can. It doesn’t help that suddenly Javier makes your head spin and uncertainty stir your gut when you look at him. The damp of your clothes turns into wetness as the water from the rain seeps through the layers of your jean jacket, your t-shirt, through your jeans, right to your skin and under it.

“Hi,” he sighs, looking at you with a smirk on his lips, even his eyes glinting in the grey of the weather that tries to suck the warmth from the brown.

“Hi,” you breathe out and it relieves some of the tension that stirred in your head.

“You like to hang out here just for fun or…?” He starts the car and gets it going on a crawl. His hands squeeze the steering wheel loosely, almost relaxed, unlike you.

“Yeah, sure. I was having a party with the blinking lights, didn’t you see?” The breathed-out chuckle makes you bite your lip, to keep your smile under control.

“Trust me, I saw. And it looks like that party has ended.” How ironic of him to tell you to trust him. You still smile but tension builds up in your jaw immediately.

“Thanks for stopping, I was kinda losing hope out here.” You try to put on your seat belt, but the clutch doesn’t want to stay in place.

“Happy to help.” He shakes his head slowly, from one side to the next, his eyes flashing on your hands as you battle with the belt. “Let me get that.”

He keeps his focus on the wet road, while pushing your other hand away by just covering yours with his. His thumb presses the loop down. His palm covers your hand easily as you keep the latch in place. His skin is so warm, sucking the cold right out of your bloodstream. The buckle finally clicks into place. He draws his hand back, a quick glance your way as his fingertips accidentally slide against the outside of your hip.

“Thanks.” You don’t want to make it weird. You focus looking out the window and the rain-streaked windshield.

 “Where are you going, the bakery?”

“Well, no, not anymore. I need someone to come and tow my car. The battery is fucked.” 

“Gary’s it is.” You’ve never been there. You got your car checked over in the next town over, where the seller had it. Since then, you’ve always gone there to get your car cleared, twice every year since you got it. The mechanics there are older, who know cars inside and out, understanding every sound and every hiccup. There hasn’t been a time when they’ve failed to give you a good deal if something has to be fixed. This time it doesn’t matter. You need your car.

“What were you doing out here anyway?” Javier sounds conversational, casual with his question.

“I met up with Abigail, to talk about their wedding cake.”

“They ordered one from you?” He switches the wipers to go back and forth a little slower, as the rain finds a lazier rhythm.

“I’m giving them one.” Javier nods and you think he hums in understanding. You remember the story about the tart. Raspberry and lemon fill your senses. Even the thought of them wets your mouth and the idea of a sweet, gentle lemon-flavored cake with fresh raspberries and vanilla frosting puts your brain to work. Maybe you’re hungry.

As fast as you remember the tart, your thoughts shift from cakes to Abigail’s reveal.

You glance at Javier from the corner of your eye. It’s hard for you to imagine him walking down an aisle to wait for his fiancée to join him. Let alone standing at an altar in a black suit next to someone in a white dress and bouquet of flowers in her hands while a bunch of people stare at them and wait for them to vow to be together forever. That idyllic life and Javier Peña in the same sentence are like water and oil in your mind.

Maybe you can’t say anything about him in his drying hair that is curling at the ends. The mustache that he hasn’t trimmed in a couple of days and the five o’clock shadow on his jawline that is now at least a couple of days old. The neck that could be carved by someone with a chisel, long and strong, richly tan even in the cold lighting.

How many button-up shirts does this man own, as you’re seeing him once again in a new one, this time in dark blue with long sleeves. His fingers tap against the steering wheel, a rhythm only in his head, the radio silent.

You can’t judge a man you don’t know. You can only see the surface, not what he’s really like. He could want that idyllic family life and a big wedding, but he keeps a low profile about them.

He tilts his head towards you, a minor movement, like he wants to hear you better. His dark lashes frame his focused eyes, looking even thicker in the gloom of the rain. His head leans more towards you. Maybe you need to just ask him about it, the wedding, his failed marriage that wasn’t even a marriage. It’s on your mind. It’s better to get rid of it now than let it simmer and keep you wondering.

“What?” His chin leads the turn of his head, suddenly catching you red-handed in taking him in. For the first time you’ve really gotten a chance to look at him. If you would’ve known better, you would’ve made sure to not get caught because you don’t stand a chance against the deep brown of his eyes that read you in a heartbeat.

The question is on the tip of your tongue. You’re about to ask if he can explain himself, tell you more about his past.

You sigh, “Nothing, was just thinking about this arrangement of ours.” You let the questions slip from your grasp.

Technically you’re not lying. Abigail’s words are under your skin and your candor about something else on your mind is only a way for you to avoid turning a stone you’re not ready to. The road turns and buildings are finally appearing through the downpour.

“I’ve been thinking about it too.” His unexpected confession spikes your heartrate instantly. His voice goes a bit lower, a little shakier. Javier is still as confident as ever, but there’s a light tinge of ‘what if’ coloring it.

“What about it?” You sound a bit more worried than you’d like to.

“Look, when you said yes to this whole circus, I’m grateful for that.” You already hear the but in his voice.

Immediately you’re on a carousel, going over the few instances you’ve been in contact with Javier. If you’ve told him something that would make him second guess you and your intentions. You have no secret intentions. You just want to get through this wedding without any extra attention.

Though, how Abigail reacted, that might’ve been a useless wish.

“I just can’t stop thinking how we have to fake something just because someone is being a little… eager.” The shake of Javier’s head is the cherry on top of the irritated thought that makes it sound like he has been thinking about this for a while.

“You think we should still do it?” Him saying no would release you from any stress you’re already predicting to experience the closer the wedding is getting. You wouldn’t have to think about keeping your stories straight or how you literally have to seem like you like this guy any more than just as a friend.

Are you even friends, you can’t put a finger on that.

But him saying no would also end this new connection you’re having. Even though you don’t have time for dating, Javier’s presence and knowing he’s in this situation with you does give you a sense of comfort. If he became your friend in this town that sometimes manages to shove your face in loneliness, you wouldn’t say no to it.

“Yeah, I’m in. Won’t mean I’ll be happy about people pushing their noses into our business.”

“I’m with you on that.”

“What have you been thinking?” He asks. His other hand drops from the steering wheel, and he glances at you, trying to dig into how you’re dealing with all this.  

“I…” The words get stuck in your throat. This is a perfect chance. Ask why he left his bride at the altar, a little voice in your head urges. Your mouth goes cinnamon dry and your jaw clenches, not letting any words out.

You can’t help the uncomfortable laugh that makes the mood shift from open honesty to awkwardness immediately. “I’m gl—” Your voice catches and you have to swallow before trying again, “I’m glad I can do this with someone who understands what we’re pretending, that’s all.”

“Yeah.” Javier isn’t dumb. You can hear how he knows you’re hiding something. He knows you’re not telling him what’s really on your mind. He doesn’t have time to get into it as you reach Gary’s Garage. As soon as he turns the car off, you open your seatbelt and jump out, briskly walking in through the front door.

The smell of gasoline and oil hits you immediately, the second smell being air freshener, closely followed by tire rubber. You’re taken back to childhood, and your grandpa’s garage where every spring you checked your bike over.

He helped you paint it more than once, always allowing you to use whatever colors were your favorite. There you stood, with the bike’s skeleton turned upside down with some parts covered in tape and plastic to protect the colors you already liked and the parts that had to stay bare.

Your grandpa stood beside you with paint respirators on both of your faces, spray paint cans in hand. When you were younger, the can was so big that you had to hold it with two hands, and it still kept slipping from your grasp. When you got older, you could hold it easily.

Being around Javier is like being around a magnet. You hear him get in through the door. You take a step back, like he’s able to pull you towards him. He doesn’t say anything, you don’t even hear his footsteps. He hovers, like two same poles rejecting each other. You look at him and immediately he comes closer, to stand right behind your back.

“Ah, Peña! What can I do for you?” A younger looking guy wearing a dark grey overall stained with black oil appears from behind a hood of a car. He rubs his hands on a rag tied to his belt loop, before scrubbing his hand through his dirty blond hair that’s in need of washing.

“Follow my lead,” Javier whispers in your ear before placing his arm loosely over your shoulders. You meet the guy at a small service desk. It’s covered with a plastic desk cover that has yellowed at spots and has different car brand logo stickers glued to it. People have tested a pen at the corners, random loops and something that looks like boobs cartooned on the mechanics’ side.

“I’m cashing in that favor your dad owed us.” You immediately turn to Javier, but he shuts you up by squeezing your shoulder. His thumb is right at the edge of the knot under your shoulder blade, pressing against it in a way that makes you pull your shoulders back and wince in discomfort.

“My girlfriend is having some car trouble.” He says at the same time, notices your pain and backs off from the squeeze, only having his hand lay gently against the tight muscle. It’s warm and it seeps through the layer of damp denim and cotton on your skin.

The mechanic looks at you with wide eyes, then at Javier, then back at you with his brows lifting and an unbelieving smile forming on his lips. You know him. He’s a flirt. You’ve had to deal with him before, when he has come to the bakery with his wife.

“Javier, I believe my dad can only do favors for you or your dad, no one said anything about a girlfriend.” He says the word like it’s a joke. You breathe against Javier’s hand, which in this moment manages to keep you calm.

“No worries, I can—”

“Rick,” Javier cuts you off. Another gentler squeeze forces you to listen to him, just like he commands Rick. “I believe your dad said that he owes me one after I helped him fix that fence you had promised to help him with. He didn’t say anything about there being conditions.” Rick looks between you two once more, until he focuses back on Javier.

“So, what’s the problem, what happened?”

“Ask her, it’s her car.” Javier’s hand slides off your shoulder, leaving you to stand on your own two feet. The wide shadow of him behind you moves away and as he does so, you gain confidence. The heels of his boots hit the concrete floor, and with each step your confidence bursts to life, like he’s pulling it out of you to deal with a nuisance just like any other day. You hear the door, you’re alone.

“I was driving, and the battery light came on and then the car stopped, J—” You catch yourself, his words fresh in your ears, “My boyfriend picked me up, but the car is still on the side of the road.”  You can tell Rick doesn’t believe you when you use that word for Javier.

No wonder. Only a couple of weeks back you had to deal with him, and you didn’t use Javier’s status as your boyfriend in one of your jabs back at him.

“Your boyfriend,” Rick starts and leans forward with a sly smile on his face, against the small counter that separates you from him. You can smell it on him, the low blow that he’s going to serve. “Are you two really together? Because I know a sweet thing like you could do so much better.” He raises his brows at the same time, thinking he got you.

You stare at him. Your mind drains of every possible comeback that you’ve perfected over the years when thinking of different scenarios where you’d need to have a snarky comment at the ready. Rick is one of those men who will look at you once, insult you, and think you’ve fallen head over heels in love with him based on that one interaction. Even when he’s married.

Your head blows up with all the ideas what you could say to him, mixing into a ball of nothingness that makes you mute. The longer you stand still, the more he’s convinced he has won you over, finally.

You take a step forward, even shaking yourself up with the bold move. You lean your hip against the counter, curving your back in the process, and smile at him, just like a sweet thing would. The door opens and lets in fresh air. Javier. He stops a bit further away; his presence isn’t enveloping you. But there’s still that pull.

It’s just you, and Rick, you tell yourself.

“Is that so?” You place your hand right next to his and tilt your head.

“Mmhmm,” he hums, ecstatic about the attention you’re giving him.

Javier’s slow steps echo from your left to your right side, until he’s standing where you can see him from the corner of your eye. It shouldn’t be hard for you to keep up with the act with him there, but suddenly your focus wavers and the fearless imaginary conversations, where you know every single word, you want to say, are pointless.

“I really like when little ladies like yourself know their customers. I still remember when you recommended that creamy thing to me, just because you knew I’d like it.” Rick blabbers on. Javier’s eyes narrow, but you keep your cool like it’s an armor.

“I think I recommended the cream doughnuts to your wife, when your in-laws were coming to visit?” You ask innocently. Javier hides his mouth behind his hand immediately, turning from you.

Maybe with this guy you don’t even have to try coming up with something snappy. Rick chuckles. He almost manages to trace his fingertip against your wrist, but he’s not close enough. You make yourself stand still. What you’d really want to do is slap him.

“I know it was meant for me. You don’t have to hide it. Listen…” Rick stands back up, a cocky look in his eyes. “I bet I know why you recommended them to me.” Your face must tell him to continue.

“I bet you’d love to try my doughnut, and my cream.” The way he says it, sleazy and so full of himself, with his tongue licking his lips to emphasize the very obvious double meaning, is supposed to be the thing to make you fall on your knees in front of him.

Instead, it takes everything in you not to burst out laughing right at his face, or to keep yourself from slamming your fist in his eye. The smile Javier was trying to hide earlier isn’t there anymore. He’s far from it. His eyes are hard and venomous under his brows, dark in a way you haven’t seen yet even from the corner of your vision.

“You know what I’d love?” Rick perks up at your question, thinking you’re finally catching the bait with a smile. He wishes.

“I think I’d give you exactly what you’re looking for, sugar.” You can’t help the laugh that finally makes you break. Rick chuckles with you and he reaches his hand towards your face. You step back right before his dirty fingers make contact with your cheek, and you drop the smile, the cute voice and look him straight in the eyes.

“I want you to get my damn car and change the battery. Then you’ll call me when it’s done because I need my car. Please.” You emphasize the word with a smirk that only appears for a second, until you’re giving him stone and ice again. Rick’s face turns to disappointment and annoyance. Javier takes a step forward, pulling out a folded map from his back pocket and smoothing it against the table.

“It’s here,” he says, his voice low, his finger pointing at the road where he picked you up in a demanding manner.  

“You can call the bakery when it’s done.” You tell Rick with finality in your voice while Javier folds the map back up. You don’t want to stay in the garage any longer than necessary. As soon as Javier is done, you grab his hand and pull him along with you.

“Bitch,” you hear Rick mutter under his breath when you’re almost at the door.

“Thank you!” You singsong to him, rolling your eyes just as you step outside into the humidity. At least the rain has calmed, but it seems like it has gathered in the air, like a weighted blanket on top of everything. Your heart is pounding in your chest, barely staying in place rather than jumping through your throat. You breathe in the watery air and blow it out slowly.

“I think you deserve a drink after that,” Javier bumps his arm against yours. You look up at him, your hands still linked together and see the impressed smirk on his face.

“What?”

“You don’t come across as someone who’d have that in you.” He speaks nonchalantly, like it’s just a normal day at the office to witness you talking back to a slimy guy like Rick.

“You have no idea.”

“Come,” he says, pulling you along with him across the street. You match your steps with his.

Javier opens the door for you. A red-themed, all-day breakfast diner welcomes you in with the smell of pancakes and bacon, the complete opposite of what’s on the other side of the street. It doesn’t smell poisonous, or like you’ll lose brain cells after inhaling the smell for long enough.

Javier finally lets go of your hand and you walk in front of him towards the line. The diner is full. Booths with red tables and worn-down red leather couches are occupied with families and workers from all over the town.

The waiters and waitresses are wearing the same uniforms, red pants and white t-shirts, with little aprons on. Orders are getting yelled out from the kitchen, the mood an exciting mix of delight and stress. People are getting welcomed in by name, asked how they’re doing, and their usual orders are placed without them having to say a word.

“Did it really happen?” Javier asks against your ear, his presence like a backpack. “With the cream doughnuts?”

“Oh yeah, the guy comes in with his…” You look around yourself, see a couple of little kids nearby, and turn more towards Javier, “Fucking wife and she asks what pastries would be good for the in-laws. I remember her saying that it can’t be anything too fancy, but something more interesting than cookies. And he takes the suggestion as a double entendre,” you huff and shake your head. Either she doesn’t know her husband is like that or then she’s just turning a blind eye. Or maybe she likes it.

More people walk in as a new wave of rain rolls over the town and forces the line to squeeze together. Javier steps a little closer. His warmth and broadness hover right behind you, brushing against your back every few seconds.

Someone tries to walk past you and forces you to squeeze yourself right against Javier. A puff of warm air hits your neck, right above the collar of your jean jacket. You almost apologize to Javier for stepping so close, but his proximity drives you to forget about it. The darkness in his eyes isn’t like in the garage, but it burns in a different way. It’s not scary, but open, bordering on vulnerable, and it punches against your chest in a way that manages to draw all air from you.

“Thanks for coming with me and using your favor on me.” You say instead, heavy debt sitting on your shoulders as the line stands still. There’s something happening in the kitchen, after you hear a great splash.

“It’s nothing, we rarely go to Gary’s anyway. Had to get that favor out of the way somehow. But I don’t think you needed me.”

“If I was alone, I don’t think I could’ve been like that to Rick, and I also would have to pay full price for the battery.” Javier chuckles. It’s a small sound, light and airy, like he’s hiding a real laugh behind it but not ready to reveal it yet.

“You’re welcome then.” A waitress announces they’ve dropped a gravy canister in the kitchen and will need a few more minutes before they can resume serving all the customers.

“He deserved it,” Javier says after a moment of people rumbling their disappointment and understanding. Someone pushes past you again. Javier’s hand instinctively lands on your shoulder to guide you.

“I should’ve asked you earlier, if it was okay for me to touch you?” He almost takes his hand off you but someone else makes their way through the crowded diner as well, and once again he’s guiding you to squeeze closer to him, away from their fast feet and body that would otherwise bump into you.

“Yeah, I mean, I guess we can’t be afraid of some hand holding and casual touches, right?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. He doesn’t pull his hand off you, which you expect. He’s tentative with his touch, unlike in the garage. It lingers lightly, but then presses steadily against you, his thumb on that damn knot, and once again your shoulder complains. You flinch and turn your head away from the pain, gasping out a breath in discomfort.

As on cue he lifts his hand even though you can still feel the heat of it. “You okay?” You roll your stiff shoulders even though it doesn’t seem to help at all.

“I’m fine. Just a tight musc—” your words cut out with a sharp inhale as he finds the spot instantly.

“Here?” His thumb rubs against it in a tight circle, presses gently but enough to cause the knot to burn.

“Uh-huh,” you squeak, and tilt your head away from his hand.

“I had the same problem, always when I was stressed it would lock back up, right here.” He presses on the muscle and makes you gasp for air. He almost sounds like he’s talking to himself rather than you in the full diner. You wouldn’t hear his voice if he wasn’t as close as he is.

Javier massages the spot over and over, slowly bringing blood flow back into it. You could get used to it, his touch, the large hand on your shoulder, the thumb that manages to circle the pain exactly at the right point, coaxing the tension onto the surface. 

“Why don’t you go to Gary’s often?” You could close your eyes. You’re already leaning against Javier’s palm, almost against him, but the question stuck with you.

“Because of his son.” You giggle as the knot starts to open and his answer hits you at the same time.

“You?”

“No, I never go there.”

“Wonder why,” his voice sounds like it’s right next to your ear.

“Yeah, the tip jar won’t be full after my car is fixed.” The soft vibrations of Javier’s chuckles run in through your ear and spikes your skin with goosebumps. You tip your chin against your chest, unable to hold in your own gentle laugh.

Your shoulder is still a bit sore a few days later, but it doesn’t complain anymore when you need to turn your head. You can pull out the hanger with the little black dress you haven’t worn too often and when you get your head through the neckline and zip up the back, the muscle doesn’t burn like you would’ve just spent hours in the same position decorating a cake or sitting by a desk typing out orders and invoices.

You smooth out the dress and look at yourself in the mirror. Is it too short? The hem falls on your mid-thigh, covered in see-through black pantyhose.

You turn and run your hands over your backside. It’s okay, not too short.

Your phone rings once before it stops completely. Javier. You told him to call and let the phone ring once to let you know when he’s downstairs at six. You look at the clock. He’s five minutes early.

Your heart starts to slam against your ribs. You blot lipstick on your lips and rub your finger against them to spread the red more evenly. You check your purse for the umpteenth time since you packed it right after work.

You step into your black pumps, giving your posture a boost. You check your necklace in the mirror last, the chain empty against your chest. You really should find a fitting pendant for it. To replace the one your mom had but lost right after your grandpa died.

You turn your keys in the lock and as soon as your door clicks, nerves spike.

“It’s an agreement, nothing more,” you repeat to the irrational side of your brain that keeps telling you that you’re going out on a date.

A pungent, odd smell drifts to your nose as you pass your neighbor’s door. That same irrational voice says you forgot to wear deodorant. No, you didn’t, as you smell your pits. And it also doesn’t smell like sweat, more like some heavy duty cleaning product. It must be your neighbor. There’s some pumping, 70’s disco music playing in his apartment and the vacuum cleaner is on, clanking against the wall closest to the corridor.

A buzzing wall scone illuminates the corridor in dim yellow, leaving the stairs dark until another, flickering wall scone welcomes you into its sepia toned embrace at the bottom of the stairs. You take steps carefully down, holding onto the handrailing with your dear life, your feet getting used to the high heels after wearing sneakers for months.

You can’t even remember the last time you wore heels. This time it’s appropriate. The restaurant Javier has reserved your table at is a fancier one, right outside of town. You’ve never dined there, but you once delivered a cake there for the 60th birthday party of the richest family in town. You’re not sure whose birthday it was, but the place looked dressy.

The steps descend into darkness and your legs turn into cement. You have to stop and hold your hand against the wall for a moment. The light at the bottom of the stairs doesn’t illuminate this far and the narrow window on top of the door is a joke at letting in light. Though there’s no natural light left anyway. Evening and twilight have already fallen.

It’s not the dark that holds you in place. It’s the voice in your head. The irrational one, the one that likes to live in a fantasy from time to time. The one that made up all the images of a soulmate who you’d buy a traditional home with and where you’d have a mantelpiece filled with family photos.

The one that made you wake up with a smile on your lips when it was barely morning because you dreamt about Javier. In the dream you were sitting next to him, and you were happy. You knew he was the one. When reality finally caught up with you, you were horrified of what your mind had concocted in your sleep.

This time the voice likes to remind you that you’re going out on a date. When you get down the stairs and open the door, Javier is going to be standing next to his car and there’ll be no turning back. You’re pretending something that will hold meaning to some people and others won’t bat an eye.

You shut that voice down immediately. You’re only helping each other out, taking care of a joined problem and that’s it. No matter what people think or don’t think, you’ll be done with this act immediately after Abigail and Noah’s wedding.

You can go back to normal. You can forget it ever happened even when people would ask why you two parted ways. It will probably give you some good, shared laughs with Javier every once in a while, when you bump into each other around town or if he happens to come and pick up something for his dad from the bakery.

You take a deep breath and take the steps down. Under the flickering wall scone you tell the voice that it’s not a date. You’re just seeing each other to get the ball rolling. People have to see you two in public so your scam will be more believable. That’s all it is, and that’s all it’s going to be.

You open the door. Javier isn’t next to his car like you thought he would. He’s standing behind the door, a palette of emotions running over his face at once. Surprise, calm, nervousness? Until his eyes take you in by looking you up and down from your eyes to your dress to your pantyhose glad legs to your shoes and back up again to your eyes, settling on a soft smirk.

“I was going to ring the doorbell,” he points at the buzzer with his thumb, your name written with bulky letters on a sticker.

“Sorry, I had to make sure I had everything.”

“That’s fine!” He stands still, in front of you, a sudden silence filling you with awkwardness.

“Well…” And you laugh a short laugh, one that could be mistaken for a confused ‘huh’.

“Ready?” Javier melts into action, letting you walk out of the doorway.

“Yeah, let me just lock this.” He waits patiently for you to lock the door behind you. He’s hovering again. You see him from the corner of your eye, his black boots that shine dimly under the streetlights.

He’s not wearing jeans, as you somehow thought he would. He’s in dark slacks, his white shirt a crisp contrast to the shirts he usually wears. He opens the truck door for you, and waits patiently for you to get in.

He offers you his hand when you’re about to take support of the car door to sit on the worn leather of the front seat. You smile and take it, his skin burning hot against your warmth, gentle yet firm as he holds it until you’re in.

You try to smooth the hem of your dress under you, but it’s already in place. The leather imprints against the backs of your thighs, the only saving factor is your pantyhose, keeping your skin from sticking to the seat that gets toasty from body heat in no time.

Javier waits for a car to pass until he hops in on the driver’s seat.

“You got your car back,” he says, the lights on his truck flashing on the rear of your car.

“I got it the day after we went to the garage. Apparently, Gary had to send his son to pick up the battery from Laredo.” You still made sure to personally tip only Gary. Rick wasn’t getting any of it. No matter how it was a favor for Javier and Gary was adamant in following through, you couldn’t leave without paying something.

“Good.” Another silence falls between you two.

Javier drives in a way that is secure, even on the darkest roads, where the only sweeping light illuminated against the asphalt is from the headlights. He’s relaxed. His other elbow rests on the open window where warm wind blows in at the comfortable speed he’s driving. His other arm lays against his thigh, yet both his hands are on the steering wheel. He knows these roads. He has driven them countless times over the years.

The restaurant is like a mirage in the distance. It appears through the dark with a golden haze. Javier fixes his back against the leather seat the closer you get. Your heart rate spikes when he parks the truck in the far end of the small parking lot, full of cars.

Cicadas chirp as the engine shuts off, your door towards the solitude of night. He’s out the door before you’ve opened your seatbelt buckle, and he opens the door for you just as you lay your hand to open it yourself. His white shirt illuminates against the restaurant lighting, working as a safety barrier between you and the vast emptiness where there’s nothing else than miles of farming land.

He's still not saying anything, neither do you. Your mind is blank, and the only sound that echoes in your ears are your matched footsteps. Your heels click and his boots scuff every few steps against the ground. The sound of the cicadas drifts off the further away you get from the tall grass and bushes.

The hem of your dress caresses against the back of your thighs until there’s another feeling. It’s very soft, barely there, but it’s still there, on the small of your back. Javier’s hand. It’s not intrusive or forced, but careful and measured. His fingers drag lightly against you when he pulls his hand back to open the door for you and let you walk into the restaurant first.

“Welcome to the Velvet Fig, how can I help you tonight?” A chipper, blonde woman asks, her hair in perfect curls and her teeth as white as the pressed tablecloths.

“I have a reservation, under Peña.” You stand next to him clutching your purse in your hands. You scratch the fabric with the nail of your thumb, standing with your back straight and a tingling in your lower back.

Javier’s arm is almost against yours, still far enough that you’d need to lean towards him if you wanted to truly press against him, but still close enough that the hair on your arm is standing still and reaching for the feel of him. The hostess runs her finger along the page of her reservation book, taps it twice and then lifts her face to smile at the two of you.

“This way Mr. Peña.” She takes two menus with her and leads you through the restaurant. Javier lets you go first, following behind you. You get the same sense of him as you did when you met him for the first time.

His warmth radiates towards you, like you’re attracting it, and he’s happy to make you feel it. It makes you aware of him, almost hyper aware of how close he is and how he follows each of your steps with his own, matching them so he won’t step on your heels.

You catch someone’s eye as you walk past them. An older lady with graying hair. She’s possibly with her husband, who is sawing through a well-cooked steak. She observes you from your head to the hem of your dress. If she was wearing pearls, she’d clutch them.

The judgmental look in her eyes is enough to give you a few extra inches of confidence and you smile sweetly at her with a little head tilt, passing her by without giving her a second thought. The whole restaurant is full of people like her. Older couples. People with money. People who will look at you down the bridges of their noses, giving you a mental score to decide how deserving you’re to be in here.

“Here you go,” the hostess presents a round booth table for you and Javier at the far end of the restaurant. It’s quiet here, even with the other booths full. A small bouquet of red roses sit in a small vase in the middle of the table, a candle in a frosty glass candle holder next to it. Javier waits for you to get seated before he slides in from the other side.

The velvet of the seat catches against your pantyhose, and you try to fix your dress the best you can in the narrow space. The hostess places the menus in front of you on the table and claps her hands together gently, to not draw attention to herself with a loud noise.

“A waiter is going to come take your drink orders in a few minutes.” Her pleasant attitude is so well crafted that you could almost believe that’s what she’s like when she takes off her black pencil skirt, high heels, and white little collared blouse.

You’ve seen her before though.

She has come to the bakery a couple of times. You never forget the faces of those who complain. She didn’t see you at first, but you sure heard her laughing about how she would’ve added more butter to the brioche and made the brownies cakier than fudgier if the bakery was hers.

She also found some big words to critique your choice of opening hours, thinking the bakery would do better if it stayed open until late in the evening since no one can come in during the day like she did, right before closing, while looking at the empty shelves and discounted brown paper bags with the last bread rolls in them. Luckily she’s not in charge of your business.

“Thank you,” both you and Javier say at the same time, immediately locking eyes right after. The hostess leaves, and so does your confidence. Once again, you’re in a game against Javier, the game of who breaks under pressure first. He looks at you with unblinking eyes. They’re honey dipped in the warm mood lighting, almost melting in the way he’s keeping you nailed to your seat.

“I don’t know why, but I’m nervous,” you throw the towel in immediately. You can’t win against this guy, you don’t even have a chance. A smile appears slowly at first, from the corners of his eyes, until it breaks through and spreads onto his lips.

“Me too, this isn’t something I do often.” He smooths his hand against the tablecloth and brings the folded thick cotton napkin closer to you.

“Fake date women to keep people from asking too many questions about your personal life?” You crack the joke and immediately regret it when he turns his attention back to you with a smile on his face, but seriousness in his eyes.

“No, take women out on dates.” A vague sound that resembles an “ah” comes out of your mouth as his answer strips you of any other words. What can you even say when his answer sounds like a lie. Or at least if you look at Javier, it seems impossible that he wouldn’t be going out on dates. A thought crosses your mind. Maybe, just maybe him ditching his bride at the altar had another reason entirely.

“You mean… You’ve…” Your slow words make his brows get a quizzical arch in them. You have to clear your throat and make sure no one else will hear you.

There was a guy once who you had a crush on. You had just started college and he sat next to you in one of your classes. You once asked to borrow a pen from him, he once asked to see your notes from the previous class that he had missed.

Since then you became friendly, your thoughts racing ahead of you a million miles an hour. Once, when you were having lunch in the cafeteria, there was another guy who came to sit with you. Andrew and Christopher, Andy and Chris for short. They tried to be subtle, but the sentences they finished for each other and them sitting like they were glued together only told you that Chris was off the market. The last you heard they live in San Francisco now.

“I totally get it if you’re trying to hide and I would never let anyone know…” you whisper to Javier, almost apologetic he has to be in a position like this with you.

“What?” He leans closer to you, clearly not catching onto what you’re trying to imply with your unsaid words.

“If you’re… you know…” A waiter walks past your table with a big, expensive looking wine bottle in hand. You lower your voice even more. “Gay?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, protective of his privacy and secret already. He leans back, stares at you, and then breaks into a rich baritone laugh. He finally looks away with his cheeks tinting pink in the low lighting.

“No,” Javier breathes out the word between chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m not gay, I just haven’t been out on dates. With anyone.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Oh, fu—” you break the curse word with a light exhale as the waiter briskly appears from the shadows.

“Good evening, I’m Jonathan and I’m going to be your waiter this evening.” He smiles at you both and whips out a little notepad and a pen. You reach for the glass in front of you, ready to take a sip of anything to make the sandpaper feel of your tongue go away. It’s empty.

Javier eyes at the motion from the corner of his eye. “If you haven’t had time to look at the menus yet, you can find the drinks on the last page, and I can tell you about some cocktail options as well if you’re interested?”

“We’ll start with a bottle of water, thank you. Would you like some wine?” Javier asks, the pink on his skin settling down.

“Rosé?” Your voice is begging for some moisture.

“And a glass of your best rosé for my date,” Javier orders effortlessly. Jonathan writes it down swiftly, already a seasoned veteran in his job even though his skin is still smooth and there’s a boyish twinkle in his eyes.

“Water for the table and a rosé for the lady, I’ll be back in a moment.” He leaves just as smoothly as he appeared.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make assumptions, I just thought I had put two and two together and… I’m sorry, it also wouldn’t be my place to even know if you were,” you ramble while your palms start to sweat.

The gentle smile on Javier switches to his eyes narrowing while getting stuck on words that start the game up again. The way he listens to you, intense and all his focus on you, makes you shut up. He doesn’t care that Jonathan comes back with a thick glass bottle of water in one hand, which he places on the table next to the flowers, and a tall wine glass in his other hand, which he places in front of you.

You smile at him while Javier’s acknowledgement is mostly just a quick side look and a quiet “thank you”, that he says to you rather than the server. It doesn’t take too much investigating to know what exactly he heard between your words.

“You had put two and two together, huh?” There’s no backing out now.

“There’s something I heard…” He’s somehow even closer now, leaning his forearm against the table, crowding you with his broad shoulders, his smell that’s somewhere between leather, soap and cigarette smoke and his voice that’s still ringing in your ears.

To some his presence could be intimidating. It could make them cower, make them lose their own voice and submit to him. Yet when you sit next to him, you don’t get the urge to back down. You see the softness in his jaw, the curiosity that twinkles somewhere in the smooth crow’s feet next to his eyes, in how he patiently waits for you to keep on going no matter what it is.

“Abigail said something about you almost getting married?” Javier’s sudden, but subtle inhale is an answer in itself. He turns from you and busies himself pouring water for you and for himself.

“So that’s what was bothering you in the car the other day.” He doesn’t even look at you. It’s only an observation.

He most likely saw how relieved it made you to say it out loud after holding onto questions you know you’re not going to get answers to anytime soon. He’s a brick wall and he’s not going to say another word.

“Should I know something, so I won’t be blindsided with whatever people tell me?” If you’re still playing the game you two have been unconsciously playing, you’re winning by heaps. This game just seems awfully unfair and not something you’ll celebrate winning.

“You already have something on your mind?” The cold look on his face could shut up anyone.

“What happened between you and her, your ex-fiancée?” Javier lifts his chin almost in defiance. He breathes through his mouth, his lower lip puffing out under the now well-groomed mustache. Then he looks at you, crowds your personal bubble again.

He holds his arm over the back of the velvet couch you’re both sitting on. His eyes are unfocused just past you, his thoughts taking him back to another time in his life. To another version of him.

“We had a rough patch for a few months because of a job I applied for, and we were talking about splitting up. She told me she was pregnant and that changed everything.” His voice is monotonous, like he’s reading a script.

Then his eyes focus on you and a mirthless little smile invades his face with pain. You’re instinctively ready to plant your palm against his cheek, to let him lean on you for a moment. You press your hands together tighter to keep yourself from exploring that action.

“We were going to get married, until the night before the wedding when she told me she made it up. She was holding out hope I would still marry her but we both knew that wasn’t going to happen. I left, she stayed, life moved on.”

“Where did you go then?”

“I took a job in Colombia.”

“Tell me about it,” you urge him without a pause.

His shoulders stiffen instantly. He takes you in, watches you with unblinking eyes, and like he gets zapped by an electric shock, he notices how close he is to you.

As he pulls himself slowly away from you, the first thing you notice is how the heat from his body leaves you as well.

Then it’s his breath from his parted lips that doesn’t blow gently against your face anymore.

Then it’s his smell.

His arm slides against the back of the dark velvet of your seating, his hand against the thick tablecloth.

Then, it’s his knee. When he pulls the last few inches of his body away from you, his knee leaves yours under the table. It was a steady pressure, a connection of clothed skin against clothed skin, yet it was branding you hot.

You hadn’t even noticed it until now when it’s gone. Almost like his knee had always pressed against yours under tables, in secret but still in plain sight if you knew what you were supposed to look for.

Your knee cools fast, even in the comfortable warmth of the restaurant.

Last, he turns his face from you. You’re sensitive to the loneliness next to him when he shuts himself off from you. Milliseconds tick away and each gives your brain a jolt of restlessness.

You’d want to reach your hand out, not necessarily to even touch him, but to get closer to him. Not for your sake, but his.

The hurt he doesn’t want to talk about hangs heavily over him and the longer he’s quiet, shut away from you, the likelier it is that the topic is off limits. Never something for you to know about, or something for you to even ask about. It’s a hard line and he’s drawing it in the sand.

Jonathan strolls in, breaking the tension in the air.  “Have you had time to decide on the menu options or would you like me to tell you about our specials?” You scramble to open your menu and straighten your back, fixing a smile on your face to tell him that he’s not disrupting anything. The worry in his eyes calms instantly.

“What are the specials?” You ask him just as Javier takes the menu in his hands, opens it slowly and drifts back to the present moment.

Jonathan starts to repeat a list of dishes from his little note pad, pointing at each with his pen. The ingredients and options fly right through your ears, and nothing sticks to the Teflon of your understanding.

You nod your head while reading the menu at the same time, hyper aware of Javier’s tight jaw and presence next to you, heavily pressing against your right side. He wants to say something, but Jonathan is still reading the list he has written down.

“I’ll have the pasta, please,” you tell him before he can start with the desserts.

“The lemon and shrimp pasta?” Jonathan raises his brows, his pen immediately ready to write.

“Sure!” You smile, only remembering hearing the word pasta, but not any of the other ingredients.

”Steak for me, medium rare, please,” Javier shuts the menu and hands it to the server.

“Anything else you’d like?”

“We’re waiting for that rosé we ordered?” Jonathan’s face flashes bright red, immediately going back to his notepad and finding the right ticket.

“I’m so extremely sorry, I’ll be back with it right away.” He ducks his head low and speedwalks away.

“You don’t have to know more about Colombia than what you’ve probably already heard from people and their big mouths,” Javier’s low voice mumbles as he turns back to you.

It’s deep enough to vibrate into your ears and send shivers down from the back of your neck to the small of your back. There’s an intensity in his eyes that melts immediately when he sees you run your necklace between your fingers and the wide-eyed shock as he’s suddenly talking to you again.

The assumption hits you like a slap across your face. “I haven’t heard anything, just that Chucho’s son is back in town. How would I have known the guy I met at a party would be him? Or that he’d ask me to fake date him so people wouldn’t ask questions? And you really think I go around seeking gossip and making decisions about others based on those?” The words flow fast and sting in the back of your throat as you try to calm the odd tension between you two.

Jonathan flies in with a fancy full bottle of wine in his hand and another tall glass between his fingers.

“As compensation we’d like to offer you a free glass of wine, if that’s okay. I’m incredibly sorry I forgot to bring this earlier.” His boyish features carry shame in a self-deprecating way that manages to zap even more energy into your annoyance.

“Yes, thank you.” The smile on your face is tight, but you can’t let the irritation spill into your voice. Javier is still sitting turned towards you. His figure relaxes. His arms visibly lose their hard stiffness even in the corner of your eye.

You don’t have enough patience for tantrums from a man who you’re on a pretended first date with. Instead, you watch Jonathan pour the rosé into the tall, high-rimmed glasses. The drink flows in like the time has slowed down, your questions to Javier hanging between you two. Yet Jonathan doesn’t seem to notice or care that now his presence isn’t welcomed. You want to hear what Javier has to say.

“I’m sorry,” Javier says immediately when Jonathan is out of earshot. He takes a deep breath and taps the fingers of his right hand against the table. “I’ve been…”

“Your dinner will be served shortly.” Jonathan comes back once more with utensils and places them onto your napkins.

“Thank you,” you repeat in unison with Javier, relieved Jonathan leaves. The whole restaurant is booming with chatter, your conversation with Javier staying under the volume. You take a deep breath and take a sip of your wine.

“Good?” The sweeter notes hide the first signs of dryness in the warm pink wine, until they spread around your tongue like a blanket.

“Good,” you answer and set the glass down. You turn towards Javier as well, finding him once again closer than you expected. “What were you about to say?” He bows his head down and shakes his head lightly.

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask me something that I don’t want to talk about since I took you to town earlier and you still managed to surprise me.” He calculates each word, his voice slow and soft, each word following each other in a careful manner.

Slowly they bring out his confidence again. His knee taps against yours and then settles there. This time you’re sensitive to the feel of him, unexpected and still completely expected from him to use his body to ground you.

“You’re welcome?” The bite in your tone has shifted into sarcasm. The wine spreads warmth through you. Your second sip gently relaxes you in the moment.

“People like to talk here, that’s how they’ve always been and will always be. I’m sorry that I was too much in my own head to give you the benefit of the doubt.” He’s sincere. It’s obvious from his unwavering eye contact and the determination that has settled between his brows.

He leans slowly against the back of the couch. His other arm rises naturally behind you, to rest on the velvet. He’s taking up his space while still making your little booth a bubble just for the two of you. He’s not demanding you to be in it, he’s also not forcing you to even stay still with your knees knocked together, yet here you are, with no intention to move.

“Now I know you haven’t dated anyone in a while.”

Him sitting like that, relaxed and his attention on you and your words, in the nervous tick of you touching the minimal links of your necklace, gives you enough confidence to bring the conversation back to something that surprised you as well. He chuckles. It’s an action he might not do too often as he hides his smile by looking away from you.

“How did you know about this place then, if you’ve never been here before?” He brings himself back to you and leans forward. You don’t know how he does it, but once again he’s closer. So much closer. He drops his left hand behind you onto the seat, and the length of his arm presses across your back, like an extra support.

“See that man over there?” He pointedly looks at a table in the middle of the room, the same one where the judgmental woman was sitting earlier. She has left and has been replaced by a much younger woman in a tight top and her hair in a perfect updo with strategic flyways curled on her temples and the back of her neck.

Across from her sits a man with salt and pepper hair and a body that is wide and round. He smiles at the woman who is holding the menu in her hands, an uncomfortable server standing next to them with her notepad open. You don’t hear them, but you can imagine the man urging his date to order anything she wants from the list, while she’s struggling to make a decision between a salad or fries to go along with her rib eye. You nod your head and lean your ear a little closer to Javier. He inhales right next to it and breathes out so slowly that the air gets trapped between you two. He does it without tickling your ear.

“He caught his ex-wife cheating while he was away on some cruise with his girlfriend. Guess who won the court case because the judge knew him in school and is now flaunting his alimony to make the ex-wife jealous.”

“You serious?” Javier hasn’t fallen far from the tree of this town.

“Yeah. Little does he know the ex is going to sue him for the alimony and will most likely win because he has been hiding his assets. Or that’s at least what people have been saying, because he comes here every week with the girlfriend.”

“You know what?” The younger woman gives her menu back to the server, and she folds her hands under her chin. The innocent move with the smile she has on her face is so rehearsed that the performance could be from a low budget movie that gets people talking for about a week because of the age difference between the actors and then everyone will forget about it.

You turn to look at Javier, your noses only inches away from each other. You can count every pore on his face, the deep brown of his eyes like burnt candy, aware of your proximity before you even focused on him, his attention on you like it had never even left.

“You’re a great gossip,” you say jokingly, but not really joking.

“Ugh,” he gasps out a chuckle and turns back to the other guests with a shake of his head. “You can thank my dad for that, he always tells me what’s going on around town. I don’t really care what people are doing unless someone I know is involved.”

“Have you heard any juicy rumors about someone you know lately?” Curiosity takes over.

“You,” he says, almost proud when you whip back to him with your eyes wide.

“Me?”

“Yeah, a little bird tells me you’re seeing Javier Peña.”

“Oh great, haha, very funny.”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“Wait, are you serious? People are actually talking about us?”

“Yes,” Javier laughs. “And now they’ll be talking even more.”

“How would you know?” You bring your wine glass to your lips. A couple of tables over is a woman, probably in her forties, who stares at you two intently.  She looks like someone who you’ve seen at the bakery before too, but you can’t remember her name.

With a jolt she notices you’ve caught her, and she immediately looks away. A few tables from hers a couple of older people are both looking at you from the corners of their eyes, shamelessly whispering to each other every once in a while, while still watching you. Have these people been watching this the whole time you’ve been sitting here, or did they just start?

“This place has a reputation. If you want others to know about your status or you just want to be seen, you come here, and everyone will be talking about it in a few days if the gossip’s juicy enough.” Javier explains into your ear.

“And the note trick, at the bakery? You knew that as well”

“Outsiders will always want to know what a note says if it’s given to someone visibly enough to make it seem like a botched attempt at trying to be sneaky.”

“You know awful lot about things like that,” you wonder out loud while you scan the whole restaurant. Your eyes sweep past someone very familiar.

“Abigail and Noah are here,” you whisper to Javier, and smile at him. He catches on immediately.

Even though you’re not looking at her anymore, you can still sense her eyes drilling into you. She’s making your date with Javier something that’s forbidden. You can already hear her voice in your head tell you off for not cancelling the date even after her warnings about him being untrustworthy.

“Like I said, this place has a reputation. Some people come here just to see what they could talk about for the next week.” he says into your ear. His breath tickles against your skin. So, she’s here to check if you’re really going out with Javier. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe she’ll let her obsession of you finding a date for the wedding go and she won’t bat an eye when you show up there with a date who she hasn’t chosen for you.

“Relax. They might be watching us, but we don’t have to care about any of them.” As soon as he says it, any of them, you notice that it’s not just a couple of people who have noticed you. It’s everyone.

Some are more discreet, hide their prying eyes into checking the time on their wrist watches or hiding behind their hands as they fix their hair. The booth you’re sitting in might be by the back wall, in the dim lighting, but it doesn’t mean that you would be invisible to others. On the contrary, it seems like you’re sitting at the perfect spot for others to see you two sitting almost skin to skin, his arm behind you, still pressing against your back and giving you something to lean on when the dread hits.

This isn’t about a date for a wedding anymore. This is something that will follow you to the bakery, to grocery shopping trips, to the post office. The only ones who will stay in the dark are people who don’t live in your town, and even those who might hear rumors but won’t understand who are the two who have now apparently found each other. This was supposed to be simple, an arrangement so the people who won’t get off your backs about a date would stop talking. Now, everyone else will be doing the talking instead.

“Why are they all so nosey?” You try not to show distaste on your face with the question. You still have to school your nose and upper lip to stop wrinkling.

“Maybe they’re bored,” Javier questions out loud, sounding like he has thought about this before too. “Or then it’s because it’s you and it’s me. They know me well enough, they know my history. Do they know yours?” It’s a genuine question which you don’t know the answer to.

“I’ve lived here for years now, I shouldn’t be a stranger.”

“Maybe not, but you’re not from here either.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“No,” Javier laughs, almost too obvious for him to even answer you. He shakes his head and a smirk settles onto his lips that makes the other side of his smile crook up bringing out a playfulness that tells you this isn’t the first time he has used his knowledge to create such scenarios where you’re at. He knows the patterns and details, he knows how to get under people’s skin. Most importantly, he knows how to use those details to his benefit.

“You’re enjoying this aren’t you?” You ask him genuinely curious to know what’s going on inside his head. He doesn’t hide it either, the mischievous glint in the burnt amber of his eyes that are searching for your reactions every second as you take in the situation you’re in.

“It beats the sweaty farm work.” You can’t help but laugh and he joins you.

“Can I ask you something?” the laughter ripples into gentle smiles where you try to hide your fear he’ll lock himself away from you again. He waits, still relaxed, not showing any signs of pulling away from you this time.

“In Colombia,” you pause to see how he responds. He swallows and breathes out a long breath, all the air from his lungs, but still refuses to leave you stranded. “What did you do there? What were you working on?”

“You really haven’t heard?” He asks instantly. His brows dip lower and his eyes narrow. His knee is locked against yours.

“No, I haven’t.”

“What are you thinking I did there then?” Flipping the question to you.

“Hmmm,” you sigh out and lean back a little. His arm presses against your back almost like he’s making sure that you won’t fall off the couch even though there’s no risk of that happening. Or then he’s keeping you from moving away too much.

You look at him, truly look at him. You’ve seen him before too, but those have been times when it has almost been like watching him through a curtain. You’ve been too afraid to show him that you’re truly seeing him for who he is.

The face is a given. All the freckles from staying out in the sun for long, the gold flecked eyes, the well-trimmed mustache, the plushy lips that are about to crack into a wider smile as he watches you watch him. The thick arches of his brows and the lines between them from frowning tell you he has spent a long time stressed, even worried. His tanned skin is another.

But then there’s the strong neck, the chest that wants to peek through the neckline of his button-down, his wide shoulders that protect and support, the strength of his biceps bulging through the cotton of his shirt. He turns his head a little and his nose reminds you of those roman historical figures you read about in school. He’s fit, but in the way that he does a lot of physical activities, rather than hitting the gym seven times a week.

“I honestly don’t know. You could work in IT based on your extensive shirt collection, maybe an engineer of some sort, or then you were, I don’t know, in military? You seem disciplined enough.” He actually laughs at that, and it pulls you back in. He sighs, mutters “disciplined enough, hmmm,” to himself and watches you, in similar manner as you did him.

It’s impossible for you to decipher what he sees when he looks at you like that, with his eyes a little squinted, slowly moving from one part of your face to the next, looking at your hair, then down your neck, to the necklace, and down still, moving quickly past your chest to stop at your middle and the hem of your dress that rests high up your pillowy thighs.

He’s kind with his observations. You could easily fall into insecurity and unease, but he makes sure he’s soft with his expression and how he handles you while you’re sitting so close to him.

“I think I’ve heard a joke somewhere, about a baker and an ex-DEA agent walking into a restaurant…” You immediately tut at him and almost roll your eyes too, shaking your head, when he takes your wrist into his hand and presses gently, forcing you to focus.

“That’s why they care, because of the life I’ve lived somewhere else, the people I’ve come to contact with.” His answer makes the sarcasm drift off from your answer to him. He’s not joking. The hand on your wrist stays, but it forces you to take in the information he has given you.

“So you were…” How do you even ask someone about a life that included, maybe still does, so much danger. He finally looks away, to his hand locked around your skin. “You were in Colombia working as a DEA agent?”

“Yes.”

Of course you’ve seen the news over the years, about cartels and drugs. Of drug lords and the complicated power play people have had to play either as outsiders or as participants.

No wonder people were talking about Javier coming back home after everything that went down there. The whole town must be proud of him. He looks up, through his lashes, somehow the light in his eyes darker.

The people in town, even in this restaurant, might feel proud of him, but the look in his eyes tells a different story. The others might put him on a pedestal, see him as a hero of some sort. He disagrees.

“You want to ask me about it?”

“Do you want me to?” it’s not your choice or decision. He has to be the one to tell you about it, in his own time, if he ever feels comfortable enough.

“Not now,” Javier straightens his back and lifts his chin, his eyes following something.

“Okay!” Jonathan strolls back in just as you turn to look at what Javier was already following. “The pasta for the lady,” he places the plate with steaming fettuccine pasta topped with parsley, thin lemon slices and fat shrimps in front of you.

“And here’s the steak, medium rare,” Jonathan turns the plate in front of Javier, the piece of meat glistening in the low lighting, green beans and a creamy dollop of mashed potatoes next to it, a quenelle of what looks like seasoned butter melting over it.

“Thank you,” you repeat at the same time with Javier again, like little kids trained to say the right words at the right times. Jonathan nods and sweeps past your table, head held high like an ostrich looking around with its tall neck. He observes his surroundings and immediately moves faster when an older man’s hand raises up a couple of tables over.

You follow Javier’s lead in taking your cutlery in your hands and twirl pasta around the fork. It’s salty, tangy, a little sweet, and the shrimp comes through with a fishy meatiness that you wouldn’t have missed until at the last moment.

Javier eats slowly, enjoying each bite, forcing you to pace yourself as well. If you were alone, and at home, you would probably listen to the rumble in your stomach and be done with the plate in a record amount of time.

While you eat, you forget about the others around you. There’s only you and Javier. The silence between you two is comfortable, almost soothing you to forget about your friend sitting on the other side of the restaurant with her fiancé, still keeping an eye on you and your every move.

Javier is cutting a piece off his steak when the knife slows down in thought. You help more pasta in your mouth when he sets his cutlery down completely and reaches for his wine glass. Now Abigail’s observing eyes aren’t the only ones you can feel on you.

“You asked me questions, I think it’s fair if I ask you something as well.” He’s calm and collected, while you nod with your mouth full. You wipe some of the sauce from the corner of your mouth hastily and try to chew so he doesn’t have to wait for an answer for long. You’re an open book, whatever he asks, it can’t be worse than what you asked him.

“You wanted to know if there’s something you could be blindsided with. Is there anything like that I should know about you?” There’s a last little bit of pasta waiting between your teeth and you stop chewing immediately when you hear his question.

Maybe you were being a little naïve, thinking he’d ask something specific about where you grew up or how you ended up in this town, how you met Abigail or how your bakery came to be. An open-ended question like his, it makes your thoughts spiral out of control. Your fingers reach for your necklace, and you can’t look at him.

“Uhh,” you mumble when your mouth is finally empty. “I’ve never dated anyone before.” It seems like the safest answer. His eyes are fixed on your necklace, until they’re not. Disbelief settles on the lines between his brows.

“You’re joking.” He’s not even asking, only stating his disbelief.

“There just hasn’t been anyone who was special enough. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve gone out on dates but those have never evolved into anything more serious.” Javier huffs out a breath at your answer.

“What?”

“Seems hard to believe you would’ve never dated anyone.”

“Well, you better start believing.” The song with the similar lyrics starts playing in your head. He shakes his head, and then focuses back on your hand that’s still playing with the golden chain against your chest.

“That’s a beautiful necklace.”

“Oh, thanks!” You press it against your skin with your palm.

“Has someone given it to you?” You blink at him, head emptying immediately. You try to smile but have tears pricking at your eyes instead.

“From my mom.” Your voice is eerily steady, so much steadier than you usually would have it.

“It must be special then?” Javier’s voice drops. His observing nature doesn’t miss the change in your mood or the way you look away from him. Your hand drops to your lap, but your throat is filling with heaviness.

“Yeah,” you manage to choke out before you clear it. There hasn’t been a moment when Javier’s presence would’ve been too intense, too observant or too close. Yet now he’s too close.

The knee against yours is still pulling you in like a magnet and the pressure is too deep. His watchful eyes see too much, and you have nowhere to hide. Your discomfort is too palpable that even you’d want to get away from it.

You force yourself to pick up the fork and collect the last pieces of pasta onto it. You put it in your mouth and chew slowly in hopes of getting your throat to understand there’s no reason to be afraid. Javier won’t push it. If he would, he already would’ve done it.

He sits silently next to you, his hand resting on his thigh. You focus on it and the way his fingers curl against the dark fabric of his slacks. His knuckles are only a fraction of an inch away from your thigh. Luckily he doesn’t reach you.

“Are the toilets where?” You turn to him suddenly, catching him off guard. The gentle sadness on his face could break your heart if you weren’t so determined to leave for a moment. He’s sensitive to you, how you want to physically get away from his questions.

“It’s fine, she is living a good life. Sometimes I miss her. I… I’m sorry if I’m being weird about it but I don’t think about her that often really. We are doing our own thing.” You’re sensitive to him as well. You can’t leave him hanging or give him the impression that something is completely wrong with you or your mom.

“Okay,” he nods, accepting anything from you at this point.

“The toilets?” You ask again and he looks past you.

“I think they’re behind the corner there,” he points a finger towards the host’s table. You smile at him, a reassurance that you’re okay, before you make your way to the ladies room.

There’s no one else in the small toilet. Two stalls with open doors and a sink with a round mirror on the wall make you sigh out long. Your eyes sting with salty tears, so does your nose. You lock yourself in one of the stalls and take a wad of toilet paper from the dispenser, dapping at your under eyes frantically to not make the tears smudge your mascara. You take deep breaths in and blow them out slowly through your mouth.

The door to the toilet opens and closes. Heels click against the tiled floor. The woman on the other side of the stall opens the faucet and water starts splashing against the ceramic bowl. The normalcy of the action, even when you can’t see the other person, calms your racing memories. You dry the last remnants of wetness from your cheeks and flush the toilet paper.

Abigail is turned towards you when you open the stall door.

“What did he do?” She asks immediately when she sees you. You stand in the doorway, unable to move. This is the first time you’re talking since you last saw her at her house. What she said still stings, how she thinks Javier is using you and you’ll only be a conquest for him. Little does she know you’re both using each other and not for what she thinks.

“Nothing, I’ve just been a bit stressed.” You walk past her to the sink and start washing your hands in the running water. When you turn the faucet off, Abigail’s attempted calm breaths sound too loud in your ears.

“Please be honest with me. He clearly hurt you someway already, proving my point.” She places her hand on your shoulder and the too sweet look in her eyes, too much empathy, wipes away any sincerity she might’ve otherwise had on her face.

You shake your head and wipe your fingertips along your lower lash line. Your reflection in the mirror looks decent still, the tears haven’t turned your eyes red, and your makeup is still intact.

“Abigail,” you turn to her and look at her in the eyes. “He didn’t hurt me. We are having a good time together. I’ve been stressed lately, and it has nothing to do with him.” Your lies seem pretty believable to your ears. If confronting her wasn’t as serious as it now is, you’d be laughing how the last sentence couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“Are you sure? Because it looked like he said something that upset you and I don’t want to see him do that to you.” She rubs her hand against your shoulder, exactly where you’ve had the tight muscle. It’s not comforting for you, instead it makes you tighten your shoulder, and it complains immediately.

“Yes, I’m sure! You don’t have to be worried about me. I love you, but let me handle this on my own, okay?” Abigail sighs and drops her hand. She looks disappointed, almost like she was looking for the juiciest gossip just like Javier said.

“Okay then. But there’ll come a day when you will be hurt by him, and I’ll be there for you when that happens.” She tilts her head, and the empathetic downturn of her eyes almost makes yours roll a complete 360.

“Will you be there for me even when nothing happens?” You ask Abigail. Her empathy resolves into a smile that you’ve come to recognize as insincere. She still looks warm, just like a friend would. But there’s a tightness in her cheeks and the corners of her mouth that makes your alarm bells go off in your gut. You realize why that is. The smile doesn’t reach her eyes, they’re hard and keeping an eye on you. Just like out in the restaurant, when she was watching you and Javier eat.

“Come here,” she coaxes and pulls you in for a hug. You wrap your arms around her and feel her stiff body against yours. “Of course I’ll be here for you, no matter what goes down! You can always count on me.” She squeezes you against her one last time before she lets go but keeps her hands on your shoulders.

“I’ve missed you!” She gushes and shakes you gently. It has always made you laugh when she has done that. Almost like it’s a tradition for her to tell you she has missed you, driving every word home by shaking you by the shoulders. The tension between you to reminds you of the sweet times you’ve had together but you don’t get that sense of relief of someone missing you now.

“I’ve missed you too,” you tell her. For the first time ever it’s only a half truth. There have been times when you’ve missed Abigail a lot, and there have been times now that you’re not as close friends anymore, where you’ve found yourself to be missing her. Saying those words makes unease fall to the pit of your stomach and it stays there. Almost like this is the last time things will be somewhat normal between the two of you.

“Will you be ready soon?” She asks.

“No, I don’t think so.” You try to find smooth mellowness as you walk back into the restaurant hand in hand. “We might order some dessert still.” You tell her. You shouldn’t look at her, but you do and there’s no smile or empathy on her face. Only cold doubt that she tries to hide with a laughed out “aha!”.

“I hope you enjoy the rest of your date night,” you tell her and move to let go of her hand.

“Remember what I told you,” she holds on tight, forcing you to turn to him.

“I’m okay, there’s nothing to worry about.” She nods and lets go.

Javier is watching you when you turn to come back to your table. His eyes follow Abigail as she walks behind you to the opposite direction. When you’re only a few steps away from sitting down, he looks up at you and smirks.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing, she’s worried you’re going to use me.” You scoff and scoot back next to him. Were you really sitting this close to him? Your knees knock together again and stay there. The pressure that radiated against you earlier has disappeared and you easily welcome his physical touch again.

“Is that so?” His eyes linger on your thighs when you fix the hem of your dress after you’ve settled back in your seat.  

“I think you were right. She just wants gossip.” He quickly glances at her, then shakes his head.

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Where are the plates?” You were almost ready to fix yours up for taking.

“The server got them and offered me this,” Javier gives you the dessert menu bound in dark leather.

“I was just thinking we could get something!” Your enthusiasm about a possible dessert is contagious. He leans closer to see the pages of the little booklet in your lap. You turn it towards him. Javier leans his other hand behind you again. It would be so easy to bend towards him, to make space for yourself against his shoulder. It doesn’t seem right, you don’t know how he’d react. How even you would react.

“Find anything interesting?” He mumbles against your ear. The sound makes you swallow instantly.

“The triple layer chocolate cake sounds interesting.” Heat rises up with chills on the spot where his breath gently tickles your skin.

“I agree.” He signs for Jonathan to come by your table, and he takes the lead naturally. Javier takes the menu from you when you hold it out for him and his back straightens when he speaks with the server, ordering two pieces of cake.

“Actually, let’s share a piece, if that’s okay with you?” You ask Javier. His lips part as he looks at you and his lower lip naturally puffs out.

“I’m fine with that.” He turns back to Jonathan and changes the order. His eyes glint as he looks at you two, a little mischievous edge to them. You’re not sure if Jonathan is from town or from somewhere else, but the knowing look he gives you two is a good indication of your plan working. Maybe you just need to lean into the flirty gestures and weirdness of going out with someone only for show.

Javier turns back to you as Jonathan makes his way to the kitchen. There’s disbelief in the low smirk of his, intrigue in the few smile lines next to his eyes.

“I was looking forward to eating a slice by myself,” he accuses, clearly more offended he didn’t come up with the order on his own, but you outshone him in his own game once again.

“I was thinking, let’s give them all what they want. I can give you more chocolate cake from the bakery any day anyway.”

“I chose wisely. Not everyone has a bakery and access to chocolate cake at all times.” He makes you laugh, genuinely bursting a bubble of restriction and bringing out a sound that starts with gentle giggles and ends with your teeth showing and your eyes scrunching shut for a second.

When you open them, Javier’s smirk has evolved into a gentle smile, almost proud of his success in finding what kind of humor works on you.

“Look,” he begins and brushes his fingers against the lines between his brows, smoothing them. “I didn’t want to overstep with my questions, I’m sorry.” The words hold meaning. How many times have you been apologized to, sincerely? You can’t remember. There are no expectations, only honesty.

“I forgive you.” You let go of the rest of the heaviness. Javier smiles and nods. He moves his hand behind you, so his arm is gently pressed along your back again.  

Jonathan comes back with the chocolate cake. It looks decadent, moist, the layers thick and the filling creamy. There’s a generous dollop of Chantilly cream next to it on the plate. The taste isn’t bad either, even though you would’ve added a little espresso in the cake to bring out the flavors of the chocolate more. It doesn’t matter in the end.

You notice Javier taking a piece and close his eyes for a second after tasting the cake. His spoon hangs from his fingers and he eats slowly, even more so than his dinner.

“You like it?”

“Your chocolate cake has to be a hundred times better than this or I’ll be disappointed we didn’t order that second slice.” Maybe it’s the wine, it most likely is the wine, but you laugh again. He’s milking them from you now, and it’s almost unfair you haven’t managed to make him laugh yet.

The thought freaks you out. You can’t be thinking about making him laugh. This arrangement needs some structure. That way there’s no danger of emotions getting in the way. You can’t get attached.

“What do you say about coming up with some ground rules for our little deal?” You drop your voice. He automatically leans closer and looks around you to make sure no one else hears you two from your little bubble of privacy.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Hand holding is fine, so is cheek kisses. Public touching in general.”

“What about what we’re doing now?” Javier looks between you two, the little proximity you have to each other.

“I think this is fine. Are you okay with it?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“I also want us to have fun. This is a silly thing anyway, no need to make it complicated and weird.” He nods at your words and takes one more bite of the cake. He has left the best part, the middle, for you with plenty of cream still on the plate. “And dancing! We have to dance at the wedding at least.”

“I don’t dance.”

“What! Sure, you do! And even if you didn’t, you can’t be much more helpless than I am.” He blinks slowly and nods, not being able to argue back.

“I have a request…” Javier almost reaches for the water but then decides to go for the wine. He washes the cake down with it while his glass still has plenty left. “I want you to talk to me. Don’t keep things to yourself if something bothers you. We have to be on the same page about things and if we’re not honest, this won’t work.” What a way to bring the silly mood down.

“You’re right,” you can’t deny it. “Okay, so honesty, dancing and physical touch, I think we’ve covered our bases.”

“I agree.” He holds the wine glass in his hand and brings it towards you. Automatically you take yours into your hand as well and go to clink it against his. Javier pulls it back, a little naughty spark lighting his smirk and spiking your nerves.

“Just try not to fall in love with me,” he says under his breath, then clinks his glass against yours. “I could corrupt you.” He drops his chin but never drops his gaze. It stays on you from the shadows of his lashes that line those wickedly dripping, burnt honey eyes.

You clink your glass against his for the second time, surprising him. “You might corrupt me,” you try to match his mood, dropping your chin while mirroring his moves and keep your voice low. “But I won’t be the one falling in love.”

The grin on his face falters, the corner on one side shaking slightly before it falls, revealing something else in the confident exterior. A crack, a hairline fracture in the well-constructed personality of one Javier Peña. The chuckle that you laugh out loud surprises even you, but he immediately joins you, and takes a sip of his drink, now mirroring you.

There’s two bites of the cake left. Carefully you take a spoonful and smother it in cream. You bring it to your mouth and even from that angle you can see some of the whipped Chantilly fall from the edge. Immediately you drop your spoon and lean back against Javier’s arm and check your dress. Of course it landed on the hem. You sigh out a disappointed grunt and push the plate towards him.

“You can have the rest,” you nod towards the cake and take the napkin off the table to clean your dress.

“Wait,” Javier’s voice makes you look up. He stares at the corner of your mouth, almost fixated on it.  With his thumb and forefinger, he brings your cheek against his palm.

It’s the cream, a light and airy dollop of it stuck on your face. Javier reaches his thumb towards your mouth and takes the rest of the cream onto his finger, running the tip of it gently against your lip, more than is necessary.

His eyes are focused on your lips, how you swallow. His mouth opens instinctively with yours. You feel an exhale on your face, a little shaky, sweet from the dessert. Your face burns and your skin prickles with his touch, with him being so close that you can count his lashes.

Like a sudden realization his eyes lock with yours. “Is this okay?” You’re frozen in place, held by him, by his hand and by the dark in his eyes. By his breath and by his smell. By his body and his voice that rings in your ears. You nod, shutting up the voice in your head that is screaming at you that this isn’t just a fake date. It’s a real date.

No, it’s not.

Javier pulls his hand back, leaving you shaken and your skin tingling. You take a sip of your wine, much larger than it needs to be, and the dryness burns in your throat for a moment. You expect him to wipe his thumb on the thick, fancy napkin, but instead, and without a second thought, he brings the tip of his thumb against his lips and licks it clean.

“You can have the rest,” he tells you, pointing at the last piece of the cake. He lifts his hand when Jonathan walks past your table. “Can we have the check, please.” He writes with an invisible pen in the air and the server nods. You eat the last piece and make sure there’s no cream left on your face this time around. It would only be embarrassing if it happened again.

He digs out his wallet from his back pocket, picking out cash while looking at the piece of paper.

“I can pay my half of the bill.” Your purse pops open with a satisfying softness of the magnets separating.

“It’s my treat,” he waves his hand towards you, still focused on reading the bill. With neat handwriting he scribbles the tip amount on the receipt. “You can pay next time.” He looks back up at you when he has attached the money under a small paperweight on the little metallic platter.

“Ready?” He asks and you nod. He lets you scoot out of the booth first and then follows close behind. His hand lands, gently, on the small of your back and guides you to take a detour. You go where he leads you to. It doesn’t surprise you, but it does make you nervous. His hand snakes to take yours in his. His palm heats your skin up instantly, pressing an imprint in your hold.

“What’s little brother doing here, out on a date?” Javier jokes when you slow down and stop right in front of the engaged couple. Noah laughs and grabs Abigail’s hand. She smiles but her eyes are tightly on you and Javier.

“We heard someone might be coming here for a date as well, had to make sure I wasn’t hearing a bunch of hogwash. And here you are,” Noah swoons at you two.

They have dessert plates in front of them, a devoured crème brûlée for him, half a cheesecake still left for Abigail. Her hard eyes travel between you and Javier, up and down, until they focus on your linked hands.

Maybe it’s out of spite, maybe you’re looking for support, maybe it’s the wine giving you a little extra confidence, but you twine your fingers through Javier’s. You look up at him. His hand tightens around yours at the same time as his jaw flexes. He smiles, his shoulders a little more pulled back. He catches you in the corner of his eye. He squeezes his hand once.

“A special girl deserves a special date.” Fire flames against your cheeks immediately and you all laugh. Abigail’s voice is shriller than you’ve ever heard before. Javier squeezes your hand once more, then a second time, like a quiet “this okay?”. You reassure him by squeezing his hand back and lifting your other hand to cradle his bicep in your palm. Abigail notices it immediately.

“You’re coming to Laredo with us, right? All the ones in the wedding party and their partners are coming there for a weekend.” Noah asks. Javier tenses next to you.

“You have a lot of work and stress though, maybe it’s not the best idea.” Abigail opens her mouth immediately, talking for you.

“I think I can spare a weekend.” You smile at her and try not to let the sting of her putting words in your mouth cloud your genuineness. Abigail smiles back, but in that too sweet way to hide whatever she is thinking.

“Good!” Noah looks as excited as ever, his cheeks a little pink and his eyes sparkle in the golden mood lighting.

“We have to get going now, enjoy your desserts.” Javier takes a side step, letting you find your place next to him without having to detach from his arm and hand. With a final “bye!” you let him lead you out of the restaurant. His bicep tightens against your palm.

“Are you flexing your arm?” Javier laughs at the question, slipping away from your reach. Maybe that’s enough of an answer. His hand finally lets go of yours as you get closer to the doors. It effortlessly lands on the small of your back again. A gentle pressure, not invading or forceful, only spreading heat to your back.

“You’re perfect at that, so good.” He murmurs into your ear before he opens the door for you. You smirk up at him as you move past him. The words tickle in your ear, as does the look in his eyes and the smug smile on his face.

[daisynik7]

congrats on hitting 2k! if song repeats are allowed i’d like to request Promiscuous with stripper!nanami inspired by that one fan art smutty ofc tysm ❤️

Promiscuous

Pairing: stripper!Nanami x f!reader

Rating: Explicit – MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: ~4.0k

cw: modern day setting, no curses au, Americanized customs in regard to bachelorette parties, explicit language, explicit sexual content, smut – PIV sex (reverse cowgirl), cunnilingus, cream pie, slight breeding kink

Summary: You’re the maid-of-honor for your best friend Sara, the bride-to-be. This weekend, you’re celebrating her bachelorette party and what better way to end the night than at the strip club? Little do you expect that the breadsticks from dinner would come in handy much more than you think. 

Author’s Notes: Thank you for the request anon for the y2k karaoke party! In case anyone wants to see the fan art being referenced, here’s the link on twitter. I didn’t want to use it as the header in case the artist doesn’t allow it. Anyways, this was such a fun one for me to write and I hope it’s a fun one for you all to read! Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are ALWAYS appreciated! Thanks for reading! MDNI divider credit to @/cafekistune.

“Bruno! Another Aperol Spritz, please!” Sara slurs happily at the waiter. 

He flashes her a thumbs up, disappearing into the other room towards the bar. Five of Sara’s bridesmaids, including you, the maid-of-honor, gather around the table, blitzed on either cocktails or Prosecco. You’re tipsy at best, purposefully holding back to take on the responsibility of making sure everything goes as planned tonight. As long as the bride has the time of her life and returns to the hotel in one piece, you’ll be happy. 

Sara is the only one tonight wearing white, while the rest of you stun in little black dresses, sporting hot pink cowboy hats atop your heads and cowboy boots on your feet, celebrating the bride’s “last rodeo.” By the end of your meal, everyone in your party is giddy and ready for the next destination in your itinerary: the strip club, which is a few blocks away. You manage to pack the leftover breadsticks from dinner into your purse, anticipating that it will come in handy, especially when the drunken munchies start to hit. Together, the six of you parade the sidewalk, giggling and stumbling into the venue, beaming at the bouncer with goofy smiles as you display your IDs to him. 

You’re sat at a table near the front of the stage, next to the runway. Next to you is Sara, who is swaying in her seat, resting her head on your shoulder, mumbling something about more alcohol. You pet her hair, knowing she needs water more than anything, so you ask one of the other less intoxicated girls to sit beside her, telling the rest of the group that you’ll grab drinks for everyone. With your bag, you go to the bar, taking the empty spot between another bachelorette party taking shots and a bespectacled blonde man in a tan suit, sipping on a glass of whiskey on the rocks. 

The bartender, a beautiful brunette with soft brown eyes, nods at you before she helps the other patrons who were there first, so you wait patiently for her to return. The bridesmaid next to you, a feather boa around her neck, bumps into you by accident. She apologizes profusely, the potent smell of tequila wafting from her breath. You laugh, assuring her it’s alright and congratulating the bride. They offer you a shot, refusing, so instead they drape one of their fluffy scarves on your shoulders. 

When they leave, the man to your other side chuckles, taking a swig of his liquor, smirking. “I’m surprised you didn’t take the free shot.”

You glance at him, taken aback by his handsome appearance. Slightly flustered, you focus your eyes on his uniquely spotted tie. “I’m taking care of another bride tonight, so I can’t get too wasted.”

He turns to face you completely now, and you can’t help scanning his physique, impressed by his stature, and of course, extremely good looks. “How responsible of you. Let me guess, you’re the maid-of-honor?”

This time, you meet his gaze, grinning with a shrug. “Guilty as charged.”

He reaches towards you, tipping the brim of your cowboy hat, getting a better view of your face. “And what’s the story behind this get-up?”

You laugh nervously, reluctant to explain. “It’s her last rodeo. You know, the last ride for the bride.” Heat rushes into your cheeks, already frazzled by his presence, now embarrassed about the clichés. 

Amused, he hums. “Ah, I see. Clever.” He holds his hand out. “I’m Kento Nanami. Nice to meet you.”

You take it, introducing yourself. It’s obvious he’s here alone, and you wonder what someone like him is doing here at a male dance venue dressed like this, as if he came straight from the office. However, you’re not here to make assumptions about strangers, so you don’t question it. 

The bartender finally approaches you, apologizing. “Sorry for the wait. It’s been really busy tonight.”

You wave it off, telling her it’s fine, ordering a few cocktails and a water. Before she starts on your order, she looks at Nanami. “Need anything else, Kento?” You’re curious about their relationship, which seems close given the first-name basis. 

He twirls his drink, ice clinking in the glass. “If you have any food in there, that would be great.”

She pushes a container of maraschino cherries towards him. “You know we don’t. Here’s some healthy fruit to hold you over for the show.” 

He snorts, “Thanks, Shoko.”

She makes the drinks in silence, leaving you alone with him once more. You set your purse on the counter, unzipping it to retrieve the pack of warm breadsticks from the Italian restaurant, sliding it to him. He looks at it, then at you, surprised. 

“It’s your lucky day.”

Still in disbelief, he opens it slowly, inhaling the fragrant aroma of garlic and butter. He pulls one out, staring at it like he’s just discovered hidden treasure. “Am I dreaming right now?”

You beam at him. “This is totally real.”

He takes a bite, eyes fluttering. “This is heavenly. Are you sure I’m not dreaming?”

You giggle, watching him savor it. “I told you: it’s your lucky day.”

He takes another one, smiling. “It really is.” Wiping one side of his mouth with a napkin, he adds, “Not that it matters, but I’m curious. Why does a beautiful cowgirl like yourself have my favorite food in her purse?”

You try not to the let the subtle compliment faze you, though you’re not sure how good of a job you’re doing considering how hot your body is, especially your face. “I took it from the restaurant we had dinner at in case any of my friends need it for later.”

Halfway into the second breadstick, he comments, “You really are a good girl, aren’t you?”

Another comment that flusters you. Quickly, you pull yourself together. “I’m just trying to make sure everyone’s having a good time and won’t feel sick later.” 

He finishes it off, licking the residual butter off his fingers. “Well, I won’t take all of it, then. You never know how the night will go, right?” He passes it to you, chugging the rest of his booze until there’s only ice left. 

Shoko returns with your drinks, including a water for Sara. You hand her your card, expecting to pay, but Nanami interjects. “Shoko, put it on my tab.”

You gape at him. “You don’t have to – ”

“I want to. For the breadsticks,” he winks. He stands, grabbing two of your cocktails. “Can I help you bring these to your party?”

Stunned, and completely infatuated now, you nod without speaking, leading him to your table. Your friends ogle him when he serves them, probably smitten like you. You make one more trip for the remaining drinks, giving Sara the water, who reluctantly sips on it. “Thank you. I don’t know what I can do to make it up to you.”

“Just have a good time tonight, then we’ll call it even. I’ll see you later.” He waves goodbye to you and your friends, walking towards the rear of the club, for employees only.

Your curiosity peaks, though you don’t have time to ponder it because dance music begins blaring through the speakers, resulting in cheers from the audience. Sara hollers from her seat, drinking her water with a stack of bills in her hands, ready to toss at the dancers. 

The emcee, a muscular older gentleman who calls himself “the Principal”, stands to the side of the stage, wearing an all-black suit and sports sunglasses. “Are you ladies ready for a special show tonight?”

Everyone applauds, excited for the performers to come out. “Let’s bring them out! Our first dancer is mysterious, sexy, and maybe just a little bit scary. A voice that can put any woman in a trance, and an even better body that will make anyone loyal to him, please give a big round of applause for…the Master!” A man with long, black hair draped on his back in a traditional Buddhist robe walks across the stage, smirking at the crowd with an alluring expression on his face. Many of the women scream for him, clearly already a favorite. He winks, resulting in louder shrieks. 

“Next, class is in session! He’s got bright blue eyes that can peer into your soul and undress you in seconds. And when he’s not too busy doing that, he’s disciplining his very, very naughty students. Please welcome…the Professor!” This results in an overwhelming standing ovation, a couple of woman already tossing their bills towards him as an impressively tall and fit man with snow-white hair struts next to the Master, beaming towards the audience.

Two more dancers are introduced, leaving one left. “Last, and certainly not least. He’s wise, he’s good with money. Most of all, he hates work. But if it’s with a pretty coworker like you, he’ll work overtime to give you that good lovin’. Please give it up for…the Salary Man!” 

To your shock, Nanami walks across, in the same exact outfit you saw him in earlier. When he takes his place at the end of the line, he glances at you, giving you a small wave. Sara whips around, shaking your shoulders. “He just waved at you!”

The entire show, you’re focused on Nanami, who graces the stage with smooth and fluid movements, hips thrusting into the air, booty popping in those tight slacks. At some point, each dancer starts to shed their clothing. He strips out of his jacket, tossing it towards your party where your friends catch it. Eventually, they reach the point of the show where each dancer performs a solo act. They step up and choose a woman in the audience who volunteers to be selected, usually a bride. You turn to Sara, asking her who her choice would be. She points to Nanami, whispering, “Definitely him.” A pang of jealously surrounds your chest, wishing you were posing as a bride tonight. It passes quickly, happy to live vicariously through your best friend.

After the first four strippers perform, Nanami’s turn comes. He steps forward in his half-buttoned dress shirt and unzipped slacks, teasing the black briefs he’s wearing beneath. Many women raise their hands, begging to be picked. Sara hoists both her arms, waving at him. He looks at her, then at you, back to her, holding his palm out to beckon her on stage. Suddenly, Sara shoves you, yelling, “She’s going up for me!”

The rest of the crowd cheers, coaxing you to get on. Nanami has a pleased grin on his face, waiting for you, almost like he expected this. You make your way slowly, stunned that this is really happening. As you stand before him, he pulls the feather boa off you slowly, letting it fall beside him on the floor, tipping your hat to see your face, like he did earlier at the bar. You can barely make out the Principal saying, “It seems our cowgirl has finally found her cowboy! Better take the proper position!” 

Nanami’s voice is hot on your ear, low and soothing amidst the chaos surrounding you. “Can you lay down for me? I promise, I won’t touch you.”

You swallow hard, bending to lay flat on the stage, head towards the crowd. Nanami stands above you with you between his legs. You notice the outline of his cock in his pants and before you know it, you’re salivating profusely, pussy throbbing with arousal. The music starts, and soon, the familiar chorus plays: Promiscuous girl, wherever you are I’m all alone and it’s you that I want. Nanami trails down his chest, popping the rest of his buttons on his dress shirt, revealing his chiseled abs for everyone to gawk at.

The intense bass of the song and the shrieks of those watching pound your eardrums, and even with that as a distraction, all you can do is fixate on Nanami grinding his hips into the air, eyes never leaving yours. Soon, he’s kneeling over you, straddling your chest, still not touching. He rocks himself above you, moving with the beat of the music, bills raining you from the other women. Arms caging you in, he leans in, soothing voice in your ear again, whispering, “You can touch me, if you’d like.” He sits up, straddling you, running his fingers through his hair. 

Without thinking, you act on instinct, hooking at the elastic of his briefs, tugging to snap it against his waist. The other dancers behind him whoop, encouraging you to keep going; you drift up to fondle his abs. Sara cheers the loudest from her seat, chucking the rest of her money at you and Nanami. 

Unfortunately, the song fades out, ending the performance. There’s a standing ovation, more cash being thrown on stage. Nanami doesn’t seem to care as he removes himself from you, helping you on your feet. “Are you alright?”

Too mortified to meet his gaze, you look at the floor at all the bills scattered, nodding sheepishly. You’re not sure how you make it to your seat, Sara hugging you tightly, the other girls hollering for you. Your mind is still completely focused on Nanami, desperate for more. 

The show ends and the emcee announces that the dancers will come out to greet the crowd. You have your face buried in your hands, embarrassed about the whole situation, despite your friends being thrilled about. Wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible, you gather everyone, ready to return to the hotel just a four blocks away. On your way towards the exit, someone grabs your wrist gently. You turn, surprised to be face Nanami, in his office attire. He murmurs your name, a blush in his cheeks, hair ruffled from his rousing performance. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Snapping out of it, you reply, “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for such a fun night.” 

You expect him to let you go, but he doesn’t, holding your hand in his. “I don’t live far from here. Just down the street.” He reaches into his pocket, passing a business card to you. “Call me if you want. I’d really like to see you again, get to know you better.”

You take it, smiling at him. “We have to get to our hotel now. But thank you.”

He nods politely, dropping his grip, watching you leave out the door with the rest of your cowgirls. 

~~~

It takes nearly two hours to get everyone settled for the night. Stomped on cowboy hats litter the floor of your hotel room. Whatever is left of the breadsticks gets consumed within minutes while the remaining snacks you’ve purchased throughout the trip are eaten without so much as a crumb left. You make sure everyone is hydrated with their own water bottles and help them unzip their little black dresses so that they can slip into their pajamas. Sara keeps babbling about how much fun she had, how hot all of the strippers were. She ends up leaving her soon-to-be husband a hilariously drunk voicemail reiterating her love for him. 

It's a little past three in the morning, the rest of the girls sleeping soundly in the bed, your best friend snoring noisily. Nobody budges when you sneak out of the room in your black dress, rocking the cowboy hat and boots, following the directions to the address Nanami texted you after you messaged him first, asking if he’s still up. You don’t expect him to respond seconds later, convinced he’s asleep by now, so you’re more than excited to know that he’s awake, possibly waiting for you. 

He meets you in the lobby of his apartment complex, dressed in grey sweatpants and a white undershirt. Even in his casual wear, you’re drawn to him. He looks you up and down, smirking when he sees you. “Howdy, cowgirl.”

You laugh, following him to the elevator heading up the fifth floor. His hands are stuffed in his pockets during the ride, keeping a safe distance from you. You tap your foot, the boots making a clicking noise on the tiled floor. You turn to him, inching a bit closer. “I hope I didn’t keep you up. It took a while to get everyone to bed.”

He faces you, eyes twinkling with kindness. “You’re a really good friend, taking care of them like that.” He pauses, stepping to the side, closing the distance, arms brushing now. “But who’s taking care of you?”

Deciding to be bold, you reply, “I was hoping you could take care of me tonight. If you’re okay with that.”

The doors split open, finally on the right floor. He reaches for you, lacing his fingers with yours, leading you into the hallway, rushing to his room. Once inside, he traps you against the door, caging you between his arms, looking at you with an intense expression. “You’re sure you want me to take care of you?”

You tug on his collar, pulling him in. “I’m positive.” He leans in kissing you softly on the lips, palm cupping your cheek. He breaks apart briefly to remove your hat, tossing it behind him, going in for more. You slip out of your shoes, following him into the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind you. 

“Can you lay down for me, sweetheart?” He’s hot on your ear, exactly the way he said it on the stage just hours ago. You bite back a moan, so incredibly turned on while you get on the bed, lying flat on your back, anticipating. He rolls the hem of your dress up your thighs, enough so that you can spread them apart, exposing your panties to him, already damp with arousal.

“Wow,” he says, kissing the plush of your thighs. “You’re incredible.” He hooks the crotch of your panties to the side, pussy throbbing. He swears under his breath, readjusting himself so that he can stroke his cock through his pants, pressing a soft kiss to your clit. You squirm from the contact, moaning his name, his tongue licking circles around you. He doesn’t hold back, pushing himself deeper, lapping at your clit. 

You clench the sheets beneath you, grinding on his face. He responds by eating you out sloppier, spitting thick wads of saliva to smear on your clit. “Fuck, you taste so good,” he groans, licking your cunt, collecting your slick on his tongue. “I want you to come on my face, sweetheart. Can you do that for me?”

Head thrown into the pillows, you whimper, “Yes,” reaching for his hair, feeling him thrash around, slobbering all over you until you climax, gushing into his mouth. He continues to flick your swollen bud with his tongue while you ride out your high, stopping only when you recoil from him, overstimulated. He surfaces, meeting your lips with his, messy with your arousal. You exchange a few more kisses before he strips his shirt off, followed by his pants. You almost gasp out loud at the impressive bulge in his briefs, palming it. 

He nibbles on your ear lobe, rutting his erection against you, whispering, “Ride it, cowgirl. Ride me.”

Sliding out of your panties, you get into position, facing away while you straddle him, his grip on your ankles, adjusting you so you’re sat on his lap. You lift your ass, letting him guide his hard cock inside you, stretching you out gradually, inch-by-inch. “Fuck,” you hear him curse behind you, bottoming out. He slaps one of your cheeks, squeezing the flesh between his fingers. You bounce on him, ass jiggling with each pump of his cock, slutty moans pouring out of your mouth. 

“Look at you go, fuck. You’re perfect. So perfect for me,” he purrs, guiding you up and down his dick. 

He’s so deep, hitting that sweet spot with every thrust, your core tight with pleasure. Your tongue hangs out, drool leaking from the sides of your lips, eyes glazed over in bliss. You’re getting your brains fucked out of you and you find yourself blurting out every carnal desire crossing your mind. “Film me, Nanami. Want to see it.”

He gets even stiffer. “Yeah? You want to see how this fat ass swallows my cock up, huh? Better ride it harder, cowgirl.” Reaching for his phone, he holds it up, camera towards you. Before he records, he confirms one more time, “Are you sure you want this, sweetheart?”

You nod, whimpering, “Yes,” leaning down to grip the end of the bed, giving you more leverage to get fucked deeper. 

“There you go. Keep fucking me,” he grunts, filming you now. “Use this cock to get yourself off. Let me take care of you, make you feel good.” His voice encouraging you pushes you closer to the edge, on the verge of another orgasm. You whine his name, moving faster. 

“What is it, baby?” he coos, sweat beading on his forehead. “Are you going to come for me again?”

“Fuck yeah. Going to come on this cock,” you moan, rubbing your clit. 

“Then do it. Give me all that fucking cum, sweetheart. Don’t hold back. Squirt on it. Cream all over it, oh fuck,” he growls, thrusting into you. “Can I come with you? Please, pretty girl? Can I breed you and make you mine?”

That does it. You orgasm, clutching him tight, pussy squeezing around him. Seconds later, he comes, filling you with his hot load, pumping his cock until he’s milked dry. He stays inside you for a bit, admiring the view before lifting your ass to pull out, watching his creamy mess leak out of you slowly, wet cock flopped against his abdomen. He stops the recording, running his fingers along his hair, damp with perspiration. “Come here,” he says, caressing one of your ankles tenderly, setting his phone on the nightstand.

You crawl to him, nuzzling your nose to his chest as he wraps you in his arms. It’s silent for a moment, neither of you sure of what to say next. He clears his throat, speaking first. “I hope you don’t think I do this often.”

You look at him, confused. “Do what?”

“Take women home from work. To do this.”

Smiling, you respond, “Even if you did, it wouldn’t matter to me.”

He hugs you tighter, kissing you on the forehead. “Still, I just wanted to make that clear.”

You trace the outline of his abs idly. “Well, in that case, I don’t do this often either.”

He chuckles, mimicking you now. “Do what?”

“Hook up with sexy dancers from the strip club.”

Another smooth, this time on the cheek. “It wouldn’t matter to me even if you did.”

You cuddle with each other for a while longer, reluctant to let go. Begrudgingly, you break away from him to check the time. “I should probably head back now.”

He nods. “Can I walk you there?”

“Sure.”

It’s a short trip back to the hotel, so you take your time, walking slowly, fingers laced together. “Is it a long flight home for you tomorrow?” he asks.

“We all actually live close-by, so we drove here together.”

He stops, pausing to look at you carefully. “You live around here?”

“Yes. And I work here in the city.”

His lips parts, sputtering nonsense before he responds, “I thought I’d have to say goodbye to you tonight.”

“Do you not want to?”

“No, I don’t. I’d like to see you again if that’s okay with you.”

You lean into him. “I’d like that too. I don’t go around giving my breadsticks to anyone, you know. Only the special ones.” 

He chuckles, wrapping his arm around your shoulder, pulling you in close. “And I don’t go around giving my breadstick to just about anyone either.”

“Oh no,” you laugh, hiding your face. “Don’t tell me these are the kind of jokes you make.”

“Unfortunately, it is. And now, you’re stuck with them.”

You hug him around the waist, gazing at him lovingly. “Lucky me.”

He smiles at you. “Me too.”