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[werecreature-addicted]

Have you ever written about an amnesiac werewolf? Like the reader finds a poor lost soul in the forest and takes them in, unknowingly dooming herself to becoming a breeding pet when the moon strikes and his instincts take over? He doesn't know what's come over him. He really doesn't. :'(

TW: car accidents. dubcon. do i know anything about hospitals? no. shhh. enjoy the werewolf porn.

You've grown quite attached to John Doe. He came in three days ago, he'd been "found" naked wandering a forest road at night and gotten cleaned out by a driver in a pickup truck. The driver said he thought he hit a dog or a deer that had wandered onto the road and was horrified to see a man there instead lying bloody on the asphalt.

Despite how bad John Doe looked when he was wheeled into your clinic, he'd been recovering quite nicely. He was even conscious now although he didn't seem to remember anything from before the accident. That coupled with the fact that he was found naked in the woods, it was proving difficult to contact any friends or family who might be able to give a concrete identity.

You weren't too worried though. It was a small community, and you were sure someone who knew him would turn up eventually. As for you, this was a slow time of year for a humble trauma center doctor, you were able to spend lots of time with your favorite amnesiac. It was a little miraculous really how well he was recovering everything but his memory. If you didn't know any better you'd say it was supernatural.

You found yourself spending more and more time with your John Doe, he was sweet and funny, Not to mention he was very attractive, even bloody and bruised. Although the budding warmth you felt for him was tainted slightly both by the fact that he was your patient and the nagging worry in the back of your head that this wasn't the real him. This could all be a false personality that he would lose once he got his memories back.

You'd already started toying with a daydream where once recovered John Doe would still come by to visit you. You shake your head and try to dispel those fantasies from your mind. You mentally chided yourself, you weren't a teenager with a crush you should be handling yourself more professionally than this. Still, your heart raced when he smiled at you.

In the end, it wasn't a friend or family member who revealed who John Doe really was, but it was the summer rain. You were just about to leave for the night when you started getting phone calls. A bad storm was coming in and soon it wouldn't be safe to drive on the largely dirt roads in this town, no one would be coming up to fill in the night shift. You could make it home safe if you left now. But that would mean abandoning your patient and you couldn't do that. So instead you just sighed and hunkered down preparing to wait out the storm inside the hospital.

John Doe was more than happy to have your company- he liked you better than any of the overnight team anyway, and over the past day he'd begun to feel strange. Not in pain just energized in a usual way. there was a tingling sensation just below his skin, he felt hungry but not for food. He couldn't really put a name to the strange pressure in his body, he only knew that it was growing and it made him want to keep you close.

You were in the break room when it happened. You were trying to figure something out for dinner which was hard with only vending machine options available when lightning strikes and the lights die. you hesitate, waiting for backup generators but only the red EXIT lights stay on, casting an eerie red glow to the room. You were just starting to pull open cabinets looking for a flashlight when you heard a loud crash and what sounded like an animal growl. Your heart stops and before you can think you're running toward the sound relying on muscle memory to navigate the darkened halls.

You freeze seeing the hulking form of a wolf over the tipped-over bed of John Doe. How the hell did a wolf get in here? And alone. Even panicked you know something isn't right. Wolves don't come this close to humans, they don't attack humans and they never ever do it alone. Then the wolf looks at you and stands on its hind legs and you realize it's not a wolf but a monster.

Your hands tremble, you should run- call the sheriff- search the lost and found for a gun and shoot the damn thing. But you can't bring yourself to run. The creature in front of you is awe-inspiring despite your fear, you're curious. Then the monster moves and the interest vanishes. Again your body moves before your brain can think you turn and run. You don't look behind as you run but you can hear the beast howl and the solid thud thud thud as it chases after you.

It's a small emergency room, you know there's nowhere to hide unless the werewolf can read and respect "staff only" signs. You feel a large clawed hand wrap around your waist your legs are still kicking trying to run as you're lifted in the air by the monster.

"You took such good care of me...now let me take care of you, sweet mate," the werewolf growls in your ear, turning you to face him, forcing you to look at his hulking monstrous form. You struggle futilely in his grasp he's strong and you can see his muscles bulge under his dark black fur. Lightning strikes again illuminating his sharp white teeth and his bright hungry eyes.

It takes you a moment to catch up to the fact that 1. The werewolf had spoken and 2. That he had promised to "take care of you". Before you can catch your breath let alone ask what that meant he's shoving you down onto the cold linoleum floor, shredding your pants with one clawed hand and the other he presses down hard on your back in between your shoulder blades keeping you pinned to the floor. You can feel his warm breath on your exposed skin as he huffs your scent. you can't see him but you know he's drooling. The attention makes you tremble, and then he pushes his thick rough tongue against your body and you moan. His tongue is thick and wet against your trembling cunt. He can't keep his hands to himself, his clawed hand wraps around your breast squeezing as he pulls you back against his hungry lapping mouth.

You can't keep your moans to yourself. The little cries of pleasure slip from your mouth only making the beast more aggressive as he eats you out. Eventually, you give up trying to even hold back the sounds or pretend that you aren't enjoying the ravishment.

It doesn't take much longer for you to cum, he doesn't pull away when you reach your peak. He pushes his tongue deep inside of you savoring the flavor of your cum and the fact that he had successfully pulled an orgasm from you just like he'd promised. His tail wags as he cleans you up, then you start getting wet again and he's not cleaning you up as much as he is eating you out again. His cock hangs heavy between his legs too big and thick for his erection to lift so it just throbs with need and drips thick beads of precum onto the clean floor.

He can't quite decide what he needs more, to jerk himself off or to keep both his hands on you. Eventually, his own ache can't be ignored and he starts to jerk himself off. it doesn't take long for him to cum the sweet flood of your cum just drives him insane. his knot swells pitifully as his semen splatters against your legs and ass dripping down to your pussy. two of his clawed fingers scoop up some of his spilled seed and push it inside of you.

"Next time I cum tonight it's going to be inside of you." It sounds like a threat, you can't wait.

[debaucheryandexcess]

a very specific recurring fantasy i have is the idea of being hired at an office for some kind of lifestyle fitness brand, and wondering how my fat ass is going to fit in with the culture when everyone else seems like fit trim outdoorsy types

and then i sit down at my desk for my first day and it turns out my position is being the office's pet pig that's used as a living food disposal. im one of the first people in the office, and as everyone files in they leave me all the drivethru breakfast treats that they got on their commute and then ""decided they didnt want""

after that im given the remainder of the breakroom donuts that someone brought for my first day- the boxes are only missing the three i took earlier. my lunch break is scheduled after everyone elses, and im given all the extra off everyones meals, which quickly escalates to including whole takeout orders that ""got made wrong"" or people just ""didnt want"" anymore. and as im working through it, people also drop off abandoned vending machine treats and afternoon snacks

any time theres an office party the excess catering gets piled on my desk, and im very much expected to eat all of it on top of my regular influx. it might also be that the company makes something like protein shakes or meal bars, and im regularly forced into participating in taste tests, or else im being constantly offered them ""for my health""

my weight obviously skyrockets, im constantly stuffed to the brim, and within a few weeks im already having wardrobe malfunctions on the clock

[b1gtimerush]

first impressions matter a collection of meet cutes and meet uglys from yours truly. (add a “swap” to swap the sender/receiver in the prompt (or just do it manually).)

ankle, sender twists their ankle and stumbles forward, coincidentally falling into receiver's arms.

bark, a dog barks loudly, making sender jump and send their phone flying into receiver's face.

chips, sender and receiver both reach for the last bag of chips in the grocery store, their fingers touching by accident.

drink, sender chokes on their drink and ends up spitting it out all over receiver as they walk past.

emergency, in the middle of an awkward blind date, sender pretends to be receiver's friend and helps them get out of the date by faking an emergency.

french, sender pretends they can only speak french to get out of giving a stranger directions. receiver is a witness.

gift, sender is about to get scammed into overpaying for something before receiver steps in to help (and haggle).

hair, sender gets something they're wearing caught in receiver's hair and ends up yanking a chunk of it out when attempting to separate.

ice, sender is ice skating for the first time and skates uncontrollably in receiver's direction.

jail, sender and receiver are both thrown into the same holding cell at a police station.

kid, sender loses a child that they're caring for, only to end up finding them in receiver's company.

lock, sender crashes their ex's wedding, and receiver, a bridesmaid / groomsman, locks them both in the bathroom to prevent sender making a scene.

match, sender and receiver both end up being sat at the same table in a full restaurant.

nauseous, sender is drunk, and while receiver is attempting to help them, ends up throwing up all over receiver's shoes.

oops, sender is carrying a bag full of groceries that ends up breaking. receiver helps them pick their groceries back up.

plug, receiver walks into the bathroom to find sender stuffing tissues up their nose in an attempt to plug up a nosebleed.

quarter, sender doesn't have enough coins for the vending machine, so they stick their hand up the flap and gets their arm stuck just as receiver approaches.

rain, sender and receiver both get stuck under the same awning when seeking shelter from sudden rain.

shh, sender and receiver are both sitting beside each other at the movies. sender keeps whispering to themself every few minutes.

tooth, sender accidentally bites down too hard on their food, resulting in a tooth falling out and skittering across the floor to land at receiver's feet.

undone, the laces on sender's shoes ends up coming undone and they trip and fall, bringing receiver down with them and into the fountain beside them.

vacation, there's a problem with the booking of sender and receiver's hotel rooms and they end up having to share one. thankfully there are two beds.

woods, sender and receiver bump into each other in the woods. one of them is holding a shovel.

x-rated, in a bookstore, sender accidentally drops a few of the erotic books they were planning on purchasing on the floor, which receiver picks up.

yawn, sender, who is dressed down and has not yet slept, bumps into receiver, who is dressed up and just woken up, in line for coffee.

zap, sender calls out to receiver to ask for directions, but as it's late receiver mistakes sender for a creep and tases them.

[pparacxosm]

blue-eyed son

(homeless era!patrick zweig x jaded businesswoman!reader; tw themes of poverty; tw strangely intimate vaguely unnerving eating scene; maybe i got carried away with characterising the motel receptionist; but it was necessary; tw corporate ennui; tw scathing outlook on new rochelle; i’ve never even been to new rochelle; there is a real prompt from the NYT mini crossword in here, and the answer was ‘aches’ but ‘zweig’ is also five letters; also maybe i got carried away with reworking the dialogue from the motel scene; but i maintained the essence of tragedy; in fact i enhanced it; tw enhanced essence of tragedy)

‘Not too shabby…’

The blue light miasma permeating from the screen of your brickheavy, moltenhot company laptop casts taunting shadows across your visage as you stare at the subject line of the email from your boss. You drag your finger across the mousepad and click.

Just got off the phone with Mr Smith from Kanonda Corp., and they had some great things to say about our chat today. Kudos to you for handling that. Just a quick reminder, though, that your numbers aren't quite up to par this month, so let's work on ramping those up. Keep it up!

Cheers!

You find three things hilarious about this email: 1) the use of the words our chat when you’re pretty sure you endured those three hours of Mr Smith’s overt attempts to incite a clunky game of footsie under the wobbly table in the shitty steakhouse in bumfuck New Rochelle completely solo, 2) the notion that adding an exclamation mark to the phrase ‘keep it up’ makes it read more like an encouraging pat on the back than a barked order, and 3) the use of the words your numbers when there’s about five other assholes on your team who aren’t in bumfuck New Rochelle, whose combined time spent sitting on their asses in the office, if harvested as energy, would be large enough to power up a small town for all four days of this wretched business trip.

Actually, the “kudos to you” is also pretty funny. Your boss, the comedian.

You shut the lid of the computer, drawing your knees to your chest and ignoring how the sharp lump of an errant spring in the old mattress is digging straight up your ass. You’re nursing a lukewarm can of Coors you’d snagged from this motel's halfway functional vending machine. You’re trying to ignore the noise from the room next door, where some douchebag is doing his best impression of a broken washing machine in bed.

New Rochelle sucks. New Rochelle sucks dick. The weather sucks dick. The food sucks dick. Your job sucks dick. Sunny Skies Motel sucks dick. And you’re considering redownloading Hinge, and setting your radius to ten miles and your standards to hellishly low, just so that maybe you can suck a dick, too, because you’d hate to feel left out.

The company you work for so graciously comps the room in the seedy motel. Real nice. The room reeks of piss and potpourri, old cigarettes and beer, and looks like a relic from the 70s. As in, peeling, avocado-green wall, visibly stained motheaten carpets that are an alarming shade of brown, and an ancient CRT TV whose only available channels are reruns of sitcoms from the 90s. Everything about this place wails ‘temporary,’ but, to you, there’s the stark, resigned misery of a lifetime sentence. The room is like your life, in a way: suffocating and stagnant, with no change in sight.

It's the kind of motel that no one would ever choose to stay at if they had a choice, or, perhaps, a modicum of selfrespect. But you, poor you, eyes going misty as you look out the window facing an alleyway, are beginning to contend with the fact that you have neither of those things.

You’re lying supine on the bed, arms spread out like a crucifix effigy, and your back is learning every lump and valley of the shitty mattress. You’ve downed your beer, and it’s sloshing about in your belly, and there’s a dampness gathering beneath the underwire of your bra.

You cast a glower to the thermostat, an old model with yellowed plastic and faded lettering. You note the temperature display.

“65, my ass.”

And who are you talking to? The roaches? They’re probably waiting for you to die of heatstroke so they can dine on your miserable, sweatstrewn flesh. The vent shudders droningly, spewing tepid air like bad breath, and you do consider just lying there. Sweating out your bitterness. But no. You need your bitterness. Your bitterness has always served you.

Like this, bitterly, you peel yourself off the bed, swinging your legs over the side.

You slip your tights-swathed toes into the firm leather of your kitten heels, tugging the hem of your skirt down your thighs, but choosing not to bother with the rolled cuffs or the top four unbound buttons of your button down, the dampness where the fabric clings to your back and armpits growing cool as you step out into the nighttime.

You’re twentyeight, which is seventyfive in corporate years.

You’re a wonder with a spreadsheet, and you work hard, and you’re reliable, but these are the sorts of things that only get you so far.

So they send you to New Rochelle. Fine. Here’s their thinly veiled, lastditch attempt to motivate you, or something.

And everyone’s probably sipping on fancy espresso in their cushy corner offices or having lunch in some upscale bistro back home. And you’re in sucksdick New Rochelle, wondering how many different ways a woman can feel disconnected and uninspired.

The Sunny Skies motel lobby is a hollow shell. It is lively as a morgue. The vending machine flickers with the weary lament of someone who is sick of dying. Not pained, or begging mercy. Just over it. Someone who wants to get the dying part of being dead over with.

There’s another roomtemp Coors can in there singing you siren songs, but you’re trying not to be tempted.

You’re stood in front of one of the twin front desks, tapping your manicured nail against the countertop.

You’re staring at a small sign behind the front desk, and trying to ignore the strange sort of aura of decay that seems to hang in the air. Sunny Skies knows her days are numbered, and it shows. Your eyes flick up to look at the clock as you hear footsteps approaching.

Enter Sally. Dear Sally. Sally and her jet black pixie cut and cold shoulder blouses and perennial disinterest. You identify with Sally on a deep, primordial level, because Sally has that soul-sucking look that only comes with years of forcing enthusiasm when you don’t feel any, and you can only hope to one day wield with as much grace that distinct emanating air of exhaustion. Sally is your hero.

“Can I help you?” she asks flatly, casting you a bored, fleeting glance over her narrow pink rectangle rimmed spectacles.

God, it’s artistry.

“I think the air conditioning in my room is broken?” you say. You pull out your phone and flip open the cover, retrieving your key card, because you have one of those flip phone cases. “I need someone to come take a look at it. The last repair guy said he’d pass the message along and no one’s come by yet.”

Sally takes the card and looks up at you sceptically.

“Are you sure it’s broken? Sometimes the thermostat just needs to be reset.”

You bristle a bit at the implication that you don’t know how to work a thermostat. You respect Sally like a soldier respects a war general. Which is to say, do you particularly like the woman? Fuck no.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you say firmly. “I tried resetting it myself like the last guy told me to, but it’s still not working.”

Sally sighs and jots something down on a piece of paper.

“Alright, I’ll send someone up to take a look at it,” she says. “Is that all you need?”

You want to say no, that that’s definitely not all you need, that you need to go home to your quiet, cozy, doesn’t-smell-like-musty-carpets apartment, to lay on your comfortable bed and eat a warm meal.

You just nod curtly.

“Yes, that’s everything. Thank you.”

Sally turns away to pick up a phone receiver, but freezes for a moment, her head tilted in an odd direction. You follow her gaze, your eyes landing on a figure at the far end of the lobby.

The first thing you notice is that he is a total mess. His hair is sticking up in different directions, like a child’s hair after a windy day, and his clothes are rumpled and chaotic, as if he’s just woken up.

You’re trying to determine if he’s extremely tall, or if it just looks that way because you can see his entire two legs with how short those shorts are.

You’re trying, too, to determine why he strikes you as being somewhat out of place here.

You suppose harsh fluorescent lights can sort of warp a person. But there is something almost striking about him. His face is sharp and angular, all hollowedout cheekbones and fierce, saxe blue eyes that house the sort of selfloathing hunger you only see in Eastern European gay porn. And they are staring directly at you.

He approaches the counter, and comes to stop at an odd place, almost slightly behind you. And you can feel a splendid heat radiating from his body, and you shift uncomfortably to put some distance between you.

Sally, from behind the desk, has been watching the man with a wary sort of glare, but she looks at him now with the same flat, exhausted expression she had used with you. No bullshit Sally. Unaligned and unimpressed.

“How can I help you?” she asks, monotone all the same.

This guy looks at her for a moment, still staring directly at you out of the corner of his eye, but then shifts his gaze to Sally completely.

“I need a room for the night,” he says. His voice is slightly hoarse, as if unused for a while.

Sally is already unconvinced.

“Do you have a credit card?” she asks, her fingers hovering over the chunky computer keys.

The man digs around in the pocket of his athletic shorts and pulls out a wallet whose leather has long ago seen the best of its days. He rummages around in it for a moment before pulling out a credit card and handing it over.

Sally holds the card between two fingers and begins to type something, eyes narrowed at the monitor. She looks at a screen for a moment, then looks back at the man.

“This card is declined,” she says matter-of-factly.

The man’s forehead creases up, a look of the defeated suffusing across his face.

“What? No, that can’t be right,” he says, but he sounds like he thinks it probably can be right. “Can you try again?”

Sally sighs, but, for her part, types the number in again.

Then she waits.

And a moment later, she turns the computer monitor to show him the word DECLINED on the screen in angry crimson.

His expression swims somewhere toward frustration and he leans forward, his voice taking on a hint of desperation.

“There has to be a mistake, that’s my only card.”

Sally looks at him with an air of very mild irritation colouring her general apathy.

“Sir,” says Sally, “I can see the balance on the card. It’s declined. You don’t have any other cards?”

The man’s face shifts again—his face is really very expressive—now bordering on despair.

“No, no other cards,” he says. “Is there anything I can do? I really need a bed for tonight, I’ve been driving all day, I’m exhausted…”

And—what, is he gonna seduce Sally? The thought alone is so funny (not him seducing Sally, really, but rather Sally being seduced by him, or maybe just him trying and failing) and you pull out your phone to keep from laughing, or, at least, then you can blame Twitter, or something.

Sally holds up a hand to stop him, her bangles jingling.

“Listen, sir. We don’t give rooms out for free,” she says, tone all no-nonsense. “If you want a bed for the night, you need to have a valid form of payment. Do you have cash?”

Now this man’s head is bowed, and he is visibly deflated. He looks up to meet Sally’s gaze, sadness and helplessness doing a miserable pas de deux behind his eyes.

“No, no cash either,” he says quietly. “I don’t have anything. I just need somewhere to sleep tonight. Just one night. Please.”

And, at that—at that, if my fleeting glance serves me correct, Sally’s expression softens a little. I think Sally probably watches a lot of AGT. She clearly has a soft spot for a pathetic story, but her job is, of course, to keep the motel from going under. And Sally has no golden buzzer here.

“Sir,” she says firmly, “I have bills to pay too. If I just gave away rooms without payment, we’d be a homeless shelter, not a business.”

Fuck, that’s funny, too. In a way. You’re actually not so tempted to laugh anymore, because this is all becoming a bit painful to witness.

The man lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Can I pay in the morning, then?” he asks, and you can’t see from here, but his hands may be clasped together, because he certainly sounds like he’s pleading. “I’ll have cash by then, I swear. I’ll sign something, give you my driver’s license, anything. I just need a place to stay. Please.”

Sally leans forward on the counter, her tone growing a little terse. Whatever softness she’d started feeling now seems so far gone it may as well have never existed at all.

“Sir, I can’t do that either. If we let someone stay in a room without upfront payment, and you just disappear, then we’re out of a room and out of money. I’m really sorry, but we don’t make exceptions.”

And, to her credit, she does sound sorry, but she’s certainly not budging.

The man is definitely practically begging now.

“I won’t disappear!” he stresses, “I swear, I— Listen, I’m a tennis player. The tournament down the road. I just need a place to stay so I can rest before my match tomorrow. If I win, I get seven thousand dollars. I just need a bed for the night, that’s all. Please, you have to help me.”

Yeah, no, this is really painful. Like, uncomfortably so. You have the cruel thought of just turning around and leaving, and going back to your hot room, to go about your own—now considerably lesser seeming—wallowing, but an even crueler part of you regards this whole thing as a slow motion train wreck.

And, in your defense, you’re only halfway eavesdropping, because you’ve now struck up a passive aggressive argument with a coworker over a Microsoft Teams chat.

Sally raises a brow.

“A tennis player?” she asks dubiously, eyeing his disheveled appearance.

The man nods urgently.

“Yes, yes, I am! My name is Zweig, Patrick Zweig. You can look it up. I just need a bed, please, just one night. I’ll sign whatever you want, give you anything, just please.”

Sally now looks really unimpressed by his plea, her face betraying a hint of disdain.

“Yeah, sure,” she says, her voice laden with sarcasm. “You’re a tennis player. And I’m Beyoncé.”

And it’s funny again. Fucking Sally. You should try and ask her for a drink before you leave. She’ll say no, but you should ask.

The man’s face contorts in abject sorrow and impatience.

“Please, ma’am, if you just look me up—” he begins, but Sally cuts him off before he can continue.

“Sir, do you think I just have time to look up every person who comes in here claiming to be somebody?” she asks, her face growing increasingly pinched with annoyance.

It is then that Sally turns to face you, whose fingers are now really tapping away at your screen, because your coworker’s a bitch, but then,

“Ma’am, do you know who this man is?” Sally asks, gesturing a rednailed hand toward him as though presenting a case on Deal or No Deal.

And fuck if you hadn’t halfway tuned out of the conversation, because you’re suddenly being put on the spot.

You look over at the man, who is fidgeting and biting his chapped upper lip, and his wide blue gaze is a mural of anxious anticipation and pleading hope, and—okay.

So you hadn’t really been paying attention. But you now feel a palpable twinge of something resembling sympathy.

This guy’s face is so earnest and desperate, like an abandoned, infant monkey, or something equally as devastating, and there is something about… whatever he’s got going on that really compels you to give him the help he is so desperately seeking.

But that’s the thing. You were so busy insisting to Deirdre over Teams that saying you’re so articulate is, in fact, a microaggression, that fuck. You really don’t know who this man is.

But he’s looking at you, so desperate and pathetic, and his bottom lip may as well be jutted out and quivering, yet there is something—something—about him that intrigues you. In a stupid way. The way a kid may be intrigued by the mushrooms that have appeared between the wet grass after it’s rained.

So—okay—you give it a think. Because you do think he said it, his name, at some point. Your eyes flick over him. Your phone is still raised up to your face.

“… Peter Zeppelin?” you shrug, raising a brow.

And the guy’s eyes widen comically, and his face falls like the London Bridge, and Sally gives an amused sort of scoff. That seems to be the final nail in the coffin for her, and she holds up her hands in a resigned sort of there you go motion, going to turn back to the computer. And Peter Zeppelin—who is not Peter Zeppelin apparently—all but throws himself over the counter, and now you do see his hands clasp together, with all the desperation of Jesus in Gethsemane.

“No, no, no, come on, come on, that was close!” he says desperately, “Patrick Zweig, that was close, come on!”

But Sally seems done entertaining him, and the poor guy’s face twists with a dozen different alloys of disappointment and frustration and acceptance as he sees the conversation is over, and the gavel has been banged.

But despite his disappointment—and there are veritable oceans of disappointment he’s working with here—there is a hint of something else in his expression, something almost like amusement.

He shoots you a sidelong glance, as if trying to understand you. And you cannot help but notice the way his eyes linger, but you quickly look away, feeling a scattering prickle of guilt cascade over you, and you almost shiver. And why should you feel guilty, if you were only honest? You can’t be sure. Because you feel it all the same.

He lets out a sigh and gathers his things, wounded by the harsh blow of reality straight to his heart, it would seem. This was surely among the saddest interactions of his life.

But, as he turns to leave, he shoots another glance over his shoulder, his gaze once again finding you with magnetic haste.

It is a strange look he wears. A mixture of disappointment, curiosity, and something almost like… interest. You drop your arms, your phone hanging at your side, because that’s enough for you to feel a jolt of something. Something. Something you quite literally try to shake off as soon as he has departed, like a crestfallen cartoon character with all his belongings in a bandana on a stick over his shoulder. But his image seems to linger in your mind. His plaintive eyes and disheveled mien causing an odd sort of sensation to rise up in your stomach. You think it may be nausea.

Or the guilt is really having its way with you.

And the door swings shut behind him with a loud thunk, and you’re feeling a pang of regret, even. And fucking Sally, of all people, is giving you an odd look, as if to say you couldn’t have helped that poor man out a little more?

And you want to say hey, you mythic shrew, I don’t even know him, which is true, because you don’t.

And even if you had, would that have made Sally drop to her knees and throw him a room key? Who are you, arbiter of fame? You want to ask her. If you were less of a masochist, you probably would ask her. But the guilt makes a funny little home in your tummy, and you start to think it’s what you deserve.

You think, at some point, you were generous. In some tender, faraway time in your life, you housed a massive soft spot for anyone who needed help, you couldn’t help it. You’d grown up in a household with a Methodist and a Social Worker, and compassion and kindness were espoused with breakfast in the mornings. And now that you’re working in a cutthroat office full of bloodthirsty Type-A’s, you’ve been made hard as granite. Great.

You’re walking through the parking lot towards your room, and you spot a beat up Honda, its park job beyond redemption.

And who should you see slumped in the backseat, looking utterly dejected, but Peter fucking Zeppelin. He is staring at something on his phone, the glow illuminating his face in the darkness. And you’re holding another Coors from the vending machine like a world class capitalist shit stain.

Seeing him like that, so defeated and alone, makes the spot of guilt you’re nursing in your belly stand up and do a little jig.

And is it your fault? No. Kind of? Either way, you feel the tug of responsibility, and an unfamiliar need to make amends.

You reach your room. You unlock the door with your keycard. You do not walk in. You linger, of course, staring across the parking lot at the man sitting in his car. He hasn’t moved, still slumped down, head bowed over his phone. Your guilt seems to metamorphose into something more discomfiting, and its jig becomes a stomp.

Why refuse to help him?

It is so unlike you, that coldness.

You stand there for what tires you like an eternity, more than a little torn. But, ultimately, the image of his big blue pleading eyes, and the way they had laved you in abject despair, wins out. You’ll see them in your nightmares if you don’t do something. You can’t leave him like this, alone and dejected in his car. You certainly want to. You’d love to go back into your too warm room and drink your too warm beer and hope for Sally to have a come to Jesus moment. But you really can’t.

With a weary, longsuffering sigh, you gather your courage and make your way across the parking lot towards the car, your heels clicking against the tar.

You knock the knuckle of your index against the window, “Oi! Zeppelin!”

And the man’s head jerks up.

He looks… surprised to see you standing there. But there’s a gleam of expectation in his eyes.

The door is locked when he first goes to open it, which—good. At least he has a sense of selfpreservation. And then he unlocks it and takes off his grey track jacket and scrambles out of the car with a disoriented sort of grace, stepping out and straightening up to his full height.

So, yes, he actually is very tall. Much taller than you’d realised, actually, and you have to crane your neck to look at him. The light from the motel sign illuminates his face, accentuating his pallor and the tired lines around his eyes.

He is standing very close, this homeless stranger, and it suddenly occurs to you not to let your softness get the better of you. You look him up and down.

You wait for him to speak.

You want to see how he’ll react. And a furtive little part of you hopes that he’ll be a little angry, a little annoyed, at your still getting his name wrong. Because then you get to keep your guard up and maintain your distance, because even Mother Theresa knew the implications of standing alone with a large man in the middle of a motel parking lot in bumfuck New Rochelle.

His eyes, weary, harden just a fraction, the dim apparition of a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s Zweig,” he corrects, his voice frayed at its edges but firm. “Patrick.”

He isn’t quite angry, but there’s a glimmer of irritation there, just enough to give you the satisfaction you hadn’t realised you’d been craving, and a strange sense of triumph tingles through you.

Oh, how much easier to be cold and standoffish when you have something to work with.

“Right, right, sorry about that,” you say, your voice dancing almost imperceptibly with sarcasm.

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow at him, as though… assessing.

And then Peter—not Peter, Patrick—looks at you for a moment, his weary eyes registering your defensive stance and your rigid gaze.

He seems to recognise something. Something. A need to maintain something. To push him away and make a run for it before it’s too late. And yet, he doesn’t quite seem offended. Or even irritated, anymore. More amused, really, as he gives you a slow, crooked smile.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling in an odd, charming, almost absolute sort of way. Like he’s smiling, and that’s all he could be doing. Even as the smile itself has all sorts of nuanced implications. “I’ve heard worse,” he says.

The way he is looking at you, that easy grin, makes the guilt in your tummy flutter and still and wait. It does feel like he is seeing something, and, of course, that isn’t nice.

You feel a growing unease at his active refusal to react the way you expect him to, and maybe want him to. You work in white collar. There’s nothing easier to delineate than an angry guy. A guy frustrated by your callousness. But this guy seems almost entertained by your standoffishness. It is unsettling. Maybe strangely captivating. But mostly unsettling.

“You look exhausted,” you say, and you make sure any detectable concern is ostensibly feigned.

“Yeah, thanks for noticing.”

Simple. Dry. A note of humour.

He reaches up and runs a hand through his messy hair, the movement drawing your eye to his long, lean arm, the way it strains against the fabric of his helplessly rumpled T-shirt.

So you start feeling irritated again. Uneasy, unsettled, annoyed, these are easy things to start feeling, and you start feeling them. But not for this guy himself. Not necessarily. No, more by the way he is making you feel. And you think, fuck, has it been so long since I’ve had a beer that I can’t hold it down? And maybe that’s it. Or, maybe, you can’t help but find him marginally attractive. The fabric of his shirt, worn to gossamer, brushing over and revealing a glimpse of a toned, hirsute chest. His athletic shorts, which seem laughably short now, or maybe his legs seem laughably long. And strong. Maybe he should run for money, that’s a thing, right?

So anyway, you’re unsettled. And you find yourself growing even colder in response.

“No, you look really exhausted. Like medically. You look like you’re about to pass out. You look like you just crawled out from under a freeway overpass,” you say, and the words come out a tad sharper than intended, which was already quite sharp anyway. “Are you sure you’re not just some bum pretending to be a worldclass tennis player?”

This time, his smile turns into a fullblown toothy smirk.

“Oh, I’m a bum alright,” he says, leaning against the side of his car as he regards you with that flaying sort of intensity. “A real loser, actually. The kind of guy who ends up sleeping in his car in a motel parking lot because he’s too broke to even get a room for the night.”

The guilt in your tummy—remember that guilt?—yeah, well, it feels uncertain if it should even be there any more. If it shouldn’t be replaced with something more commensurate with the dense thump of your heart. But you don’t want to let him see how much his self-deprecating attitude has affected you. And you don’t want to let yourself see his reaction, if you were to give into a very strange sudden compulsion to tell him he isn’t a loser.

Instead, you roll your eyes.

“You’re really laying it on thick, aren’t you?” you say, a wry hoist of your brows. You press your face against his car window, cupping your hands around your eyes so you can see in through the tint. “Where’s your guitar? Are you gonna start singing an acoustic version of ‘Hallelujah’ and begging for change?”

He chuckles at this, eyes lingering on the little patch of fog left by your mouth on the glass. “Ah, did you miss it?” he says, feigning sympathy, but his smile is still so wide, “I was strumming like a beast over on that street corner earlier. Gave my strings to this other homeless guy, though, in the end, figured he needed it more than me. Not ‘Hallelujah’, though. Dylan’s what really gets peoples’ hands in their pockets.”

“Righ… t.” You hesitate. You hesitate, because—well—he’s singing.

Yeah, no, he’s definitely singing. He’s closing his eyes and leaning against his car and singing Bob Dylan.

“Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son? I’ve stumbled on the side of ten thousand graveyards.”

And—okay—those are the wrong lyrics, but the song choice certainly feels relevant to his current situation.

“It’s a hard—” He’s still singing. “—it’s a hard, it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna—”

“O-kay,” you say, and he opens his eyes and for all their fatigue they are glimmering with mirth.

You try to remain expressionless, but his undeniable charm and abiding levity considering his obvious predicament make it difficult for you to justify being mean.

“You seem awfully comfortable with your circumstances,” you observe, a vein of scepticism threaded through your voice. “Most people would be freaking out right now, you know.”

He shrugs, hands in his pockets now, and makes an ambivalent sort of noise. “Well, what good would that do?” he says. “Won’t magically make the cash appear in my account.”

He pulls a hand from his pocket, the nylon rustling, and runs it through his hair again. You find yourself watching the movement, watching his hands now, which you think look oddly large. You’re unsettled again. Or maybe you’ve been unsettled the whole time, and you’re just still unsettled.

“So, you’re just gonna sit there in your car all night and hope a miracle happens?” you ask, a strange tremor in your voice that even you cannot presently put a name to. “You don’t have any… I don't know, friends you can call? Or parents you can beg money off of?”

And his expression seems to go dour at that, a noticeable trickle of humour draining from his eyes. “Parents are out,” he says bluntly. Pauses. Gives a humourless laugh.

Doesn’t mention friends, you note. But then you’ve never had many either.

Your guilt seems to settle again, deciding it is needed, and it is accompanied by whatever had had your voice tremoring seconds ago. You cannot help it. This is fucking sad. The way his selfdeprecating remarks have suddenly turned into selfdeprecating revelations. It’s fucking sad. And you don’t realise you’re staring into the middle distance all sadly until he’s ducking down into your field of vision, eyes searching your face, vaguely bemused, but sort of disgruntled.

“You feel sorry for me,” he says—says, not asks.

And then he straightens, and you think he’s gotten taller.

“Well, you’ve got no friends, no family, no money, and nowhere to go,” you say, trying to keep your voice neutral, despite the fact that, yes, you find you are feeling quite sorry for him. “It sounds like you’re in a pretty shitty situation, Patrick.”

And where he could probably break down into tears—and maybe he should; you’re willing to give him your lukewarm beer and rub his shoulder a bit—a glimmer finds his eye. A fissure in his nonchalance. A look of surprise, and what almost seems like hope. He doesn’t even try to disguise it, and his smile is coming back, with the ease of something never departed.

“Hey! Look who remembered my name,” he says, and his voice has suddenly gone weird and tender, and the change sort of makes you shudder.

“Ah, shit, did I?” you say, looking down, rolling the beer can in your palm and letting it flick off your fingers and land in the other hand. You toss it back and forth like that a few times, and you’re trying to be… not too much of anything. You try to be Sally, unaligned and unimpressed.

It's hard, though, with the way he smiles like he knows something you don't. Like he's in on some kind of secret. You’ve always had a weird suspicion that everyone is keeping something from you. No one could surprise you, as a child.

Patrick—fuck, there you go—has the impish simper on his lips of a cat who’s just seized and maimed the canary.

“You did,” he confirms, voice still strange and heavy, like it’s laden with something.

You try to keep your gaze focused on the can—left, right, left, right—and the metal makes a little tck noise each time it hits your palm, the liquid inside sort of singing as it moves. But your eyes meander up to his legs, where a small patch of bright red road rash is visible on his knee. The guilt in your belly is up and dancing again, but it seems to have invited a whole bevy of other emotions alongside it. Stupid stuff, like sympathy, and shyness, and lots of other somethings of various discomfort.

And then you say, “Well, don’t get used to it,” and the can slips from your palm and onto the ground.

“Okay,” he says, stopping the can from rolling away with his foot.

And then he’s bending down to pick it up, and then he’s freezing, crouched down, like his whole body is wincing, and he makes a noise, like a guilty sort of noise, and he looks up at you, and says,

“Fuck,”

And stands up and sighs, shakes his head like he’s made a mistake, and shrugs his shoulders and says, “I’m used to it,” with a rueful sort of smile.

“Oh, are you?” You hold your hand out for the can, but he doesn’t give it to you.

He makes a tsking sort of noise, his elbow raising to rest on the top of the car, “I think I am,” he says, like it pains him, “I think you’re just gonna have to keep remembering my name.”

“Well, I won’t.”

“But you did.” He parrots your intonation.

Everything suddenly seems very loud. The sound of crickets chirping, the buzzing of the neon signs, the nylon swipe of his tiny shorts as he moves. He keeps moving.

“Because I feel sorry for you,” you say, and things seem quiet at that, as if for that, “You’re right, I feel sorry for you.”

He sort of kisses his teeth, nodding slowly and glancing off to the side in thought. And when he looks at you again, it’s with a gleam of vulnerability, like he’s conveying a silent message that you cannot quite decipher.

It is disconcerting.

His vulnerability is like a gaping black hole, something that will suck you into oblivion. You don’t really know what to do with your hands now. You wipe your palm off down the side of your pencil skirt.

“You’re not gonna spend the night in your car, are you?” you ask, like, maybe, if you ask, he’ll come up with a new plan of action.

But no. No plans. Only questions. He suspects you have a plan.

“Why?” he asks, “Are you offering me a place to crash?”

His smirk is returning, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He is clearly a seasoned scholar in deflection, but he bears the cross quite poorly, and his words send a shiver down your stilldamp spine.

Sunny Skies is the kind of place you'd expect a scene out of a thriller to take place.

You can picture the headline now: Woman found murdered in cheap motel room, career dead in the water long before.

You hesitate for a moment, torn between your better instincts and your uncanny appetite to help this man.

You know what you should do; you should tell him no, leave him with the beer, and walk away. Keep yourself safe from getting involved in his mess of a life, and potentially being found days from now with a racket jutting out your abdomen, long since festered in a pool of your own blood because the damn air conditioning still won’t be fixed. Fuck, Deirdre would love that.

But the way he’s looking at you, that deep dark supernova vulnerability you’d spied in his eyes just moments ago, it makes you hesitate.

“I…” you start to speak, then stop, sighing as you fiddle with your nails. “I'm gonna ask you something.”

Patrick's smirk falters slightly. He seems to sense that something significant is about to happen, and he tenses, as though bracing himself for an impact.

“Shoot,” he says, a thinly veiled wariness in his tone.

“Why the tennis?” you ask, your eyes on his, flickering, searching, like a bloodhound. “Why are you still doing something that’s clearly not working out for you? Why not give up and do something different? Something that pays, for one.”

And, now, you really do steel yourself for anger, but, to your surprise, anger doesn’t come. Nor do defensiveness or hostility.

Instead, he’s letting out a cynical, protracted sort of pfft noise. “You think I haven’t asked myself that a million times?” he says, his voice cloistered in irony. “There’s only tennis. Since forever. Maybe I fucked up with that, but that’s what I did, and now it’s all there is. I’m not exactly standing before you with too many marketable skills. I can run, I can hit a ball, not much else.”

And you’re frowning at that, at the resignation in his voice. You want to say something, some platitude about not giving up, about trying harder, but you know he won’t appreciate it. Instead, you ask another question.

You ask, “If you had a choice, what would you do instead?”

Again, Patrick surprises you. He doesn’t scoff or obfuscate. He actually just thinks about it for a moment, his whole face turning introspective.

“I don’t know,” he says eventually, his voice low. “I guess I never really thought about what else I might be good at.” He runs a hand through his hair again, letting out a soft sigh. “It’s hard to imagine another life when this is the only one you’ve ever known.”

And that just makes you frown harder. You really want to say something now. But you don’t. Because you can’t. Because what would it be?

He’s an almost-has-been who’s fallen from the top of the ladder and is now scraping the bottom.

He'd once had it all, and now he has nothing.

How do you comfort someone like that?

You look at him for a moment, his lingering charm swirling like a wandering bee around you, pulling on your senses. You think about Ted Bundy, and how he lured women to demise by strumming their heartstrings like Bob Dylan. But then you suppose that any man trying to victimise a woman is not first going to try their luck on Sally, so. Well. You make a decision.

You make a decision, and take a deep breath, looking him straight in the eye. “I have a deal for you.”

He chuckles at that, his eyes dragging downward, a slow descent. He looks at your dishevelled working girl get up, and you realise, with a passing breeze that wafts the acrid, musky, but vaguely not unpleasant scent of him toward you, that your shirt is still half open, and your cleavage has been on exhibition this whole time, but you’re only realising now, because he’s only looking now, and he wasn’t looking before, and he says,

“I’m sure you do,” and he says, “You got a contract for me to sign?”

“My room has a queen and a sofa pull out couch,” you say, not-so-furtively, furtively creeping your fingers up to pull your shirt closed, “You can stay tonight—“

“I can’t let you sleep on a sofa pullout couch in your own room,” he says, and he’s able to feign absolute concern for but a moment before his smile is back again.

“—you can stay tonight,” you repeat, “on the couch, on one condition.”

He crosses his arms, the beer can slipping beneath his armpit, and you don’t even want it anymore, not the least because it’s now probably undrinkably warm.

“Let’s hear it,” he says.

You pause before responding, to make sure you haven’t been briefly possessed and given the suggestion by passing poltergeist, that it’s actually what you want. Maybe you’re tired, or charitable, or maybe it’s just whatever strange, striking quality he seems to have, but you say, “I’ll let you stay in my room if you let me come to your match tomorrow.”

And now you have managed to shock him. He’d been expecting some sort of request for a favour, or payment, but certainly not that.

“You…” his eyes are searching yours for sincerity, “… want to watch me play?” he asks.

“I’ve never seen a tennis match before,” you admit, and, for a fleeting, ludicrous moment, you feel a flush of embarrassment at your confession. “It might be interesting. And…” you steel herself, not sure you’re going to go through with sharing the next bit, “I’ve had a really shitty time here. My meetings here were… horrific. I could use some entertainment.”

He lets out a soft laugh at that, though maybe it’s a scoff. “You want me to entertain you?” he says, and his cadence is jesting, but there is something else there too, something in his eyes that makes your heart start thumping densely again. “You realise tennis can be pretty boring unless you know the sport, right?”

You shrug, affecting an air of nonchalance. “Hey, I’m willing to give it a shot. I have one day left in New Rochelle, and a day at the courts is a lot better than another day stuck in a meeting from hell. At least with you I’ll be watching someone actually do something, instead of pretending to care about some idiot’s idea for a corporate wellness retreat.”

Patrick’s eyes house a genuine amusement, his smile wide. “Corporate wellness retreat,” he says slowly, raising an eyebrow. “You in finance?”

“Worse. Way worse. Marketing,” you admit, like this is the most harrowing thing you can say. “But it’s all the same, really. It’s mostly idiots with big egos in boardrooms trying to outbullshit each other.”

“So you’d rather watch idiots with big egos trying to outbullshit each other on a court,” he nods solemnly, but, in a way, he’s issuing a warning. A beat, then he asks, “You always this sour?”

And you bristle for a moment, your pride affronted at his words. But you quickly relax as the irony of your current situation occurs to you—you’re letting a practically homeless tennis player stay in your hotel room, and you’re letting him joke at your expense.

And you suppose, not for the first time, that you deserve it, to some extent.

“Oh, no, usually I’m a blast,” you say wryly, and then, smiling vaguely with an odd sense of honesty, “But it’s been a long three days, and I’m not exactly in the best mood.”

He spends a moment studying you, taking a thoughtful breath. “You work too hard,” he says, as though coming to a profound conclusion.

“And you don’t work at all,” you reply, “Maybe we should swap problems for a day.”

“You got a house? I’m in.”

“An apartment, yeah,” you say, your voice lilting as though genuinely considering the prospect, “But I don’t have a car. Maybe we should just merge and form a symbiotic, corporate drone/middling athlete hybrid life.”

And there’s a pause there, and everything sounds loud again. The vague nyoom of each passing car rattling your teeth, because, in a way, what you’re suggesting is intimacy. And it’s beginning to occur to you that, though perhaps in different ways, you and Peter Zeppelin are two unspeakably lonely people. And to suggest such a thing as beastly as to share what’s tender, well… it feels a little unkind. A gentle brush against an open wound hurts the same way a slap does. 

Patrick takes a moment.

Then, sucking in a contrite bit of air through his teeth, he shakes his head, “I couldn’t wear a suit.”

“You could wear a suit,” you respond, shaking your head, rolling your eyes like he’s being silly, like that’s a silly thing to say. But now you’re picturing him in a suit which certainly feels like an untimely gust of air against that very same wound.

“I couldn’t,” he insists, shaking his head like he’s resigned, “I couldn’t, I’d look ridiculous in a suit.”

“You’d look great in a suit.”

“So, it’s a deal then? I get a bed to fall into tonight, and you get a ticket to the Patrick Zweig extravaganza tomorrow?”

You laugh at that, a sharp, amused ha, because that’s certainly some audacity he’s got on him.

“Slow down there, cowboy,” you say, and you’re smiling. “You get a sofa pull out couch to fall into.”

Patrick’s face swims with feigned despair at your words, a mock-offended noise leaving his mouth. “I thought this was a mutually beneficial arrangement,” he says, a picture of exaggerated disappointment. “I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

You sputter a laugh. “I’m letting you stay in my room,” you remind him. “Free of charge, might I add. I think I’m scratching your back plenty.”

His eyes widen. He gives a dramatic sigh. He says wow like he just can’t believe it. He pretends to sulk. But the twinkle in his eyes ruthlessly betrays his amusement. “Okay,” he nods, like he’s doing something very big of himself, “Okay. I’ll take the couch. I’ll be good. It’s just a shame such a beautiful woman will be sleeping all alone in a massive bed.”

Something hot definitely flares deep in your gut, burning away all the guilt and concern and embarrassment and whatever else. There is something to being called beautiful by a man who looks like… well, like him. You’re not above admitting that he is becoming increasingly more handsome with passing time, like his face is blooming and ebbing and flowing before you. And that weird, vaguely unshowered musk is making your nostrils flare with something primordial.

“You’ll survive,” you say dryly, though your heart is back to thumping like a heavy fist.

The sound of the shower running is a vague cloud of pitterpattering, an ambient thrum, and you can hear the water rushing through the pipes behind the wall like a faraway steam engine.

You’re sat against the headboard, your nuclear reactor of a work laptop balanced on your knees, the fan whirring, the bottom permeating your skin with a volcanic heat and probably giving you radiation poisoning. You’re typing like a court stenographer, a sharp, erratic clacking of your nails against the keys, accompanied by the muted rush of waterflow from the next room over. You’re traversing the minefield of your emails. The light of the computer screen casts a pale, eldritch glow on your features, your brows creasing in irritation as you quickly scan and delete all your accumulated unreads.

You’re still in your tights, skirt, and button down, but now you’ve untucked the button down as well. You’re still sweating. The room is still a tepid rat hole. And it’s washed in the warm dingy glow of the beside lamp.

The only other light in the room comes from the ensuite bathroom, the door slightly ajar, leaking out a bright white beam that illuminates the swooping, swirling streams of mist that flow out.

You think the water pressure here’s a bit aggressive, but Patrick nearly sheds a tear when the sharp stream of hot water thrashes against the aches and knots in his muscles.

His whole body is sore. He sometimes feels like an earthbound corpse. It isn’t just the hours spent in his car, but it’s also the ardour of the matches, the unheard of notion of a good meal. The stress and toil of his lifestyle has taken its due toll on his flesh and bones, and here, in the shower, haloed by the thick fog of water vapour, he allows himself a moment of vulnerability.

The water sluices through his hair, emulsifying with the soap and sweat, creating a slick, frothy, chalky-floral scented trail down his face, chest, and arms. He lathers himself everywhere with the little motel bar soap until it is the size of a coin.

He braces himself against the shower wall for a moment, jaw slack and breathing laboured, letting the water batter his shoulders, feeling the muscles there tighten and loosen simultaneously under the hot, cascading stream. The steam and the heat seem to soothe something inside of him, and, for the briefest moment, he feels something approaching peace.

So Patrick is having his spiritual awakening in the shower, and you’re at the mercy of your emails. Deleting messages from your boss about the meeting notes and potential follow ups.

And Patrick spends the first ten minutes in there making unholy sorts of noises, like his skin is being torn off, which is a little disconcerting, but you figure he’s not had a nice long shower in a while, so you leave him be. And the next five minutes are just heavy breathing. And then he starts singing.

“It’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall!”

Which would be fine, but your irritation’s mounting; each new communication in your inbox serves as a needling reminder of the tragic, tedious day you’ve just had. The tragic, tedious life you've been living.

You rub your temples, and Patrick’s singing the guitar refrain of the song, and you’re trying to ease your burgeoning headache, but it’s proving stubborn. The more you read, the more you just want to thwack something. Or scream. Or both.

And so it is bad timing when Patrick emerges from the bathroom.

You’d been expecting an awkward moment. He seems the type to wear his towels irredeemably low on his waist and you weren’t particularly keen on knowing the intimate distribution of all his body hair.

But Patrick walks out in something else.

Patrick walks out in a baby blue Hello Kitty robe.

Patrick walks out in your baby blue Hello Kitty robe.

And you’re pretty sure your blood turns molten.

Your eyes widen like saucers, and your lips part softly. It is certainly both the most absurd and, perhaps, endearing thing you’ve ever seen, and you feel almost strange and lightheaded at the sight. You’d been imagining all sorts of stilted scenarios in your head, but this… this is beyond any of those.

“What… the hell are you wearing?” you manage to sputter, your chest kindling with both embarrassment and amusement.

Patrick glances down at the robe.

You’ve had it since you were nineteen, is the thing, and it only just fits you now, so, naturally, it looks absolutely comical on him. The sleeves come up to his midforearm. The hem is immodest, to say the least, rivalling his shorts in that regard. And the plush belt only just about encircles his waist, but he had the decency to tie a tiny knot at the front.

He looks back up at you. He seems remarkably nonchalant.

“Ah, this?” he says. “I thought it was, like, a complimentary thing. Y’know, like the little shampoo bottles?”

And he has the nerve to add a little shrug for effect, though, when you look closer, you can see the corners of his mouth are twitching slightly with suppressed laughter.

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. A possessive part of you—well, the possessive part of you—wants to incinerate the robe with him in it, because he’s definitely naked under there. You can see the damp hair on his chest peeking out from the neckline, and water runs in rivulets down his legs, dripping on the carpet, and he’s getting your robe wet.

But the image of him raiding the bathroom, thinking he’d found some sort of freebie, is so strange and amusing.

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep a straight face.

“You thought the motel—this motel, Sunny Skies motel—gives out Hello Kitty robes as complimentary items?”

Patrick grins in response. He is utterly thrilled with the effect he is having on you.

“Hey, Hello Kitty is a timeless icon,” he says.

And your eye twitches. You feel a little deranged.

“Yeah,” you say, enunciating sharply, eyes still a little wide, and you slowly move the laptop from off your knees, “That’s why I bought the robe.”

“You know, you’re not a very generous hostess,” he says, like he’s been sitting on the grievance for a while.

You release a laugh that is halfway a winded breath, “Oh, really?” because he’s not exactly getting a five star guest review on AirBnB either.

Patrick he tsks and nods slowly like he’s sad to break the news. And he saunters around the poky room, hands hiked high in the pockets of the robe.

He gives an exaggerated onceover, inspecting the room, before his gaze settles on you. You are now cross legged, leaning forward, your laptop immolating in front of you as your fingers fly across the keyboard.

"Can't believe this place actually has a TV," he muses, walking over to the small, ancient box. He glances at the remote, lifts it, and turns the TV on. A bright red screen flashes No Signal.

"Nevermind." He flops down on the edge of the bed next to you. "What’re you doing?”

You suppress an eyeroll, or violent screech, or spontaneous second degree murder at his question.

He knows what you're doing, but he's clearly itching for some sort of attention, a stray pawing at the restaurant door in search of warmth. And you wonder how long it’s been since he’s spent so much time with someone. You're a little hesitant to indulge him, partly because you're still processing your callously stolen garment and all the flesh with which it’s become familiar.

"Email," you say tersely. "Work stuff."

"Oh, right, right," Patrick nods and nods, as though only now realising that you're in the middle of a task.

He peers over your laptop screen, looking at the rows of email threads.

"Looks stressful," he comments.

You spare him a glance. His proximity is a tangible, intrusive thing, and robe gapes open, exposing a damp triangle of his chest and collarbone, his bare feet crossed at the ankles.

“Yeah,” you say, not even bothering to sheathe the irritation in your voice. “It is.”

For his part, he seems unfazed by your tone, or at least not willing to acknowledge it. He continues to peer at the screen, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

And you don’t know why, but you feel a strange, singeing humiliation at his scrutiny. You and your stupid mire of spiritdecimating emails. You feel pathetic enough to belong in a museum. An abstract sculpture portraying modern melancholy.

“Can you not... stare, please?” you croak, then clear your throat, your fingers against the keys growing jerky and feverish, like the sputtering adrenaline of something soon to perish. “I need to finish this.”

“Sure, sure.”

Patrick holds up his hands in surrender.

He looks around the room for a moment, as though contemplating his next move, and when he seizes beside you, like he’s just spotted a motion-activated grenade, it is so noticeable that it actually makes you stop typing and look up. He is facing away from you, is the thing.

There's a moment of silence. You watch his back. It looks like he’s not even breathing. The hum of the laptop fan and the low drone of the TV and the thick, tepid waft of the ventilation system compete with each other.

Slowly, slowly, as though you, too, have spotted the bomb, and you’re bracing yourself for flakspray, you look over his shoulder. And oh. Oh.

You see what has arrested his attention.

On the bedside table is a little black cardboard to-go box, Meyer’s Butcher & Grill printed atop in block lettering.

You blink. You had forgotten about the box completely. A relic of a day you hope will be extracted irrevocably from the flesh of your cerebral matter via some sort of alien abduction or government experiment.

But Patrick—well—he hadn’t been tightly shutting his legs as the polished toe of a hoary businessman conspicuously crept up his shin. He didn’t have to feign interest in golf for three hours while a cracked leather seat scraped the back of his knee.

No, Patrick is looking at that box like it houses nirvana. When he leans forward a bit, you can see how his throat moves involuntarily. He swallows. You see the muscles in his jaw flex with primal intensity.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The moment is heavy with tension, like the air before a storm.

And this seems to be an apt metaphor, because there is suddenly a deep noise, like the sky churning after thunder. And it is coming from his body. And it is such a loud, visceral noise of human urgency that you almost recoil.

A strange mix of shame and pity swell in your throat. The box, as it were, had filled you with such a strange sort of repulsed nostalgia that you really had let it slip your memory. You have no interest in its contents. But this man’s raw response rekindles the abject guilt in your tummy.

Patrick turns to you. He turns to you very slowly. And you can see how his eyes are almost glazed over. He wears the look of a man staring at the Holy Grail. A tentative shock, like he’s been marooned on a deserted island for a dozen years, and has just stumbled upon civilisation.

He opens his mouth. His jaw is slack and leaden. His tongue pools with saliva. And if a string of drool slips past his lip, it’s the least you can do not to mention it.

After a while, he manages thickly, “What… uh. What is that?”

“It’s, uh… steak. From the restaurant.”

He nods. He nods very slowly. As though he’s been rendered physically incapable of saying any more, though his words come suddenly, “Steak?”

“Uh, yeah. Filet mignon, I think. The… fucking… guy ordered it, but…” you feel, in a fleeting moment, a feral sort of fear, like a fawn caught alone by a wolf in the forest. And it’s silly, obviously, but that’s how intense his gaze is right now. You clear your throat, “I mean, I’m not hungry.”

Patrick’s breathing is growing increasingly laboured. His tongue flicks out of his mouth, the wet muscle glistening in the dim light.

A moment passes.

“You can, uh…” you hesitate, a bit transfixed by his carnal hunger, your voice sounding oddly fragile, “You can have it… if you want…”

Patrick's eyes flicker almost imperceptibly at this. And you’re sitting there, and you expect him to just go ahead, and, maybe, in the background of your mind, you feel bad that the meal’s gone cold.

But he’s not eating. No, he’s suddenly become very still, as though waiting. As though trying to discern your sincerity.

"Are you sure… you don’t want it?" he asks.

And there is something about his voice, small and corporeal. It sends a strange, hurtful waft of pity through your chest. It sounds like it’s been scraped over barbed wire. It is raw and vulnerable and painful.

And you have the sense that, even if you did say no—which you wouldn’t—he has the look in his eye of someone who will definitely end up eating that steak, one way or another.

You shake your head, clearing your throat, “No, no, of course not. Take it. Please. It’ll just go to waste.” And your voice is sort of coloured by the notion that you’re on the verge of tears.

For a moment, Patrick's reaction is oddly unreadable. It's as though he can't quite believe his luck. And then, he turns, scrambling for the box as though it may spontaneously disappear now that it’s his.

He tears the lid off and, from here, his face looks cast in strange shadows, a shimmer flickering past his face as the low lamplight catches the foil in the carton.

There is something about the instant greasy, bloody aroma that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You’ve never liked steak. But he's already reaching inside.

Patrick can’t seem to chew quickly enough. He almost whines softly with each swallow.

It’s an animalic scene of consumption.

You think of hyenas mauling their prey, but he also looks very small, and vulnerable, and certainly odd, because he’s still wearing your robe.

He devours the meat voraciously, and he doesn’t even bother to wipe away the stream of red dribbling down his chin, but he has the decency to hold the box right under his chin so he doesn’t make a mess.

His fingers are covered in blood and mashed potatoes. There’s a little plastic container of chimichurri in the corner of the box, but he seems content ignoring it.

You have a strange sense that this whole ordeal is something you shouldn’t even be watching. And that, when a loud knock sounds at the door, you should be sort of embarrassed, but you don’t know why.

“Maintenance.” The man at the door seems so bored as to be disgusted. He towers over you, and is peering down, arm resting against the doorframe. He is gnashing open mouthed upon a wad of gum.

You are suddenly conscious of your dishevelled appearance, and find yourself scrambling to button your shirt up.

“Um?” you say, skewing your face a bit confusedly as you slip the buttons closed.

You let your sleeves roll down, the rumpled flare of the open cuffs falling over your wrists.

“Air conditioning maintenance,” the man repeats, as though you are a bit dense. You notice, now, he has a friend behind him.

And, “Oh!” you say, “Right, yeah, the air conditioning, the thermostats showing 60, but the air’s still hot.”

He blinks down at you, his head lolling to the side, and he tongues the inside of his cheek. His arms are big as boulders and tattoo strewn.

“You try resetting it?” he says.

Your jaw clenches.

“Yes,” you smile tightly. “It’s still not working.”

He harrumphs and then sort of coughs loudly and then sniffs, “Yeah,” he drawls, “we been getting a lot of complaints.”

“Lotta complaints,” he friend chimes boredly, tugging up the sagging waistband of his comically oversized grease stained jeans. He is idly twirling a screwdriver.

And then the one in front, the larger one, flicks his gaze over you. And then over your shoulder. He seems vaguely disinterested, for his part, in the story behind your blowsy, tousled appearance, and the half naked man tearing into a steak takeout in a Hello Kitty robe behind you. You figure working in a motel begets much stranger sightings, but you cringe to think of the conclusions he may be drawing. A disillusioned businesswoman and her famished prostitute? Does he think the robe gets you going? You shake your head of the embarrassment.

"Ah... ma'am," he utters, shoving his hands into the pockets of his faded overalls. "You and... your friend need to vacate the room for about twenty minutes while we work on the unit."

Outside, Patrick strikes his chest two times and manages a distasteful burp.

A draught sweeps past and the hem of the robe he’s still wearing sways dangerously. You aren’t even wearing your shoes. The soft soles of your feet lay flat against the warm tar through the thin gauze of your tights.

You’re holding the Coors can, still unopened, warm to the touch between your fingers, and Patrick’s got a cigarette he bummed off one of the workers between his lips.

“Nice outfit,” the guy had said—the shorter one, with the baggy jeans and crew cut and scar on his temple.

“Thanks,” Patrick had grinned, unashamed.

“Are you supposed to be smoking?” you ask.

The night is sticky in the mouth, sultry and thin, like a yawn.

The candescent red pearl of the cigarette’s end bobs with Patrick’s each inhale. The smoke curls past his lips like wisps of grey fog, the humid wind carrying them off like fragments of a weary conscience.

Patrick shrugs. Inhales deeply, his eyes trained lazily on the sky above.

You’re far enough from him, now, that when you look at him, he’s a strange tableau all on his own. This boy not yet a man, scantily wrapped in vivid blue, his too long legs and too large feet and too farfetchedness. He stands against the hellscape of Sunny Skies. Sickly yelloworange streetlights casting looming shadows that writhe like living things on the ground.

His lips and fingers still glean with the greased detritus of his cold steak dinner.

“Night before a match?” you ask then, and you find yourself following his gaze heavenward. The sky is effectively starless, but you appreciate the deep shade of indigo. “Doesn’t seem smart.”

“Smart,” he echoes.

He reaches up to pinch the cigarette, takes another drag before tugging it off his lips and flicking some ash off. You watch how the smouldering grey specks float down to the ground before dissolving into nothing.

When you look up at him he is looking at you.

“It’s not Wimbledon,” he says, like he’s breaking the news to you, a meandering coil of smoke swirling from his now halfway smirking mouth, the plume veiling the dim streetlight glow in an almost tender way. His voice is kind of loud, when he’s speaking to you now, because there’s a few feet of parking lot between you, but it’s quiet enough that he could just talk normally, if he wanted. But he doesn’t. He says, loudly, pointing at you with the brilliant orange end of the cigarette, “Helps me relax.”

He shrugs again, brings it to his lips again, and slowly turns around. And you think he’s hiding, but he’s made a full rotation by the time he exhales, the smoke streaming out his lazy smile and billowing all around his face, so you suppose not.

“It’s mostly a mental game,” he says, gesturing with the cig again, bringing it close to his temple in a way that makes your brows knot in slight concern, “Tennis. I could be the most disciplined guy ever��“

The concern in your furrowed brows turns to dubiousness. “Could you?”

“—could cut out drinking, cut out smoking, eat all the green shit, sleep at nine. But if I’m fuckin’ pulling my hair out about stepping onto a court, I’m fucked.”

You think he has a point. You think you remember a therapist, at some point, saying something about compartmentalising. But you don’t really know what that means. You stopped seeing her after three sessions, anyway, so who are you to cast judgement on discipline.

Still, “Where did you say you’re ranked again?”

Patrick chuckles at that, a slight nod as if to say touché. He takes another deep drag, the ember smoldering bright for a moment before the smoke spills past his lips again.

“Two hundred and one,” he says, and he’s ostensibly unwounded by this sentiment.

“Not exactly Federer or Djokovic,” you say, and it seems like he’s strolling towards you now.

“You want a good show tomorrow?” he says, hiking a hand into the waisthigh pocket of the robe.

“Oh, I expect one.”

He pauses, closer now. Cocks his head at the can in your hands.

“You want that?”

You snort, hide it behind your back as though he’s got object impermanence.

“You can have it if I see you win tomorrow.”

Patrick scrunches his nose up at this, like a kid who’s smelled something nasty and doesn’t know how to keep it off his face, but he’s really just considering, and maybe disgruntled at the dissipation of your giving mood. But he tilts his head to the side, raising his brows like he’s conceding.

Then, looking down at the robe.

“You want this?”

You laugh, “Yes?” you say, like it’s obvious.

But he seems surprised, “Still?”

“Yes!”

“I’m naked!”

“I’ll run it through wash twelve times. It’s mine.”

He throws his head back, making a real show at being putout by this. A protracted groan of longsuffering leaves his lips.

And now you’re really laughing. “You can buy your own with your prize money. Warm beer and a new robe, that’s the height of luxury.”

He takes his hand out of the pocket, claps it hard against his chest as if wounded, and his lips shape around the cigarette in a way that’s almost artful. He takes a long, terminal inbreathe. Drops the cig. Crushes it beneath the sole of his foot. Faces away, and all you see is a large, cascading cloud, swishing away from him and out into the night.

“First my beer,” he turns around, “Then my robe. What next? My car keys? You’re gonna take my car keys and hold them hostage until I win.”

You make a face of sort of abject disbelief, though you’re still smiling.

“My beer,” you say, slowly, like you’re speaking a different language, eyes still sort of manic with the shock of his gall, “And my robe.”

The robe in question is now halfway open, but then he seems unconcerned with modesty. The dark hair on his chest looks almost silver beneath the street lights, the faint glimmers of water still clinging to his skin catching aglow.

“That’s a real shame,” he says, and he’s walking towards you, the hand he had slapped in his chest to show you how you’d spurned him now stroking the soft material of the robe with a carelessness that borders on intimacy, “I feel like it brings out my eyes. Don’t you think it brings out my eyes?”

Your gaze flicks from the robe, to his eyes, and back again. He’s standing in front of you now, and he’s sort of towering over you. He has an ease when he moves, like a stray cat or a rogue cowboy. Or something else. You suppose you can’t think of it.

“You can get another blue robe, Patrick.”

He shuts his eyes. He’s savouring your saying his name, or mourning the robe, or both. But probably the latter with how his fingers caress the lapel.

“One that fits, maybe. Definitely one with a higher thread cou… nt.” You hesitate. Because he’s singing again.

“Oh, what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?” he’s doing something with his face; something like he’s trying to feign a compelling hurt, but he’s smiling too hard. “What’ll you do now, my darling young one?”

You laugh, and he’s close enough to you that when your head falls forward it hits his shoulder, and your nose brushes against a plush outline of Hello Kitty, and he smells like cigarettes and motel soap and—well—you because of the robe.

“I’m going back out before the rain starts a falling! And it’s a hard—”

“Okay,” you say, because he’s getting louder, but you’re still laughing and grinning wildly.

“It’s a hard—sing it with me—it’s a…”

He holds the note. His eyes are still closed. You roll your eyes and you don’t step away from him, and you’re still holding the beer behind your back.

Your voice is low, but, “A hard rain’s gonna fall,” you supply grudgingly—well, you’re still smiling—and he throws his arm around your shoulder and pulls you against him and sings, loudly,

“It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall!”

“Okay,” you say again, pushing away from him, and having to sort of extricate yourself from his hold by slipping beneath his arm. “Very nice, you want some cash?”

“Whatever you can spare,” he says.

And you’re so intrigued by the way he looks at you. He has the sort of face that demands to be catalogued in intimate detail. His eyes crinkle at the corners now, in a way that makes them look almost wolfish.

“I love tennis,” he says, and he says it loudly, because you’re seven feet apart in an empty parking lot, and it makes it seem like he’s declaring something.

An empty Funyuns packet drifts by like a tumbleweed.

“What?”

“I love tennis. That’s why I do it.” He seems resentful, but resigned.

You hesitate, but when you open your mouth to speak again, he beats you to it,

“Doesn’t love me back though,” he’s shaking his head, sporting a huge rueful smile that seems to coruscate in the night, “Doesn’t love me back.” He huffs a sigh. “Story of my life.”

Across the lot, the two maintenance men emerge from your room.

Inside, the air conditioner blows frigid.

You're starting to think everything isn't half bad. You're a good person, letting a homeless man crash on the pull out couch in your dingy motel room, and you leave New Rochelle tomorrow. At this rate, you should extend an olive branch to Deirdre.

You brush your teeth. You change into your pyjamas, the satin of which Patrick is a little disappointed to see a lack of Hello Kitty printed on, but he doesn’t mention it.

He himself is now wearing a T-shirt, and a pair of boxers, and if he quite literally kissed the robe goodbye when he gave it back to you, then you don’t mention it.

And now he’s sprawled on the pull out couch, a thin sheet draped across his lower half. And you’re cross legged on the bed, the duvet gathered around you, and you’re doing your NYT word games because that’s part of your nighttime routine, even though you tell people it’s tea or reading or yoga. This is kind of like reading. You have to think about stuff.

What’s a five letter word that means ‘has a lingering soreness’?

Anyway, so, Patrick is sitting—kind of halfway laying—on the pull out couch. One arm behind his head and the other across his chest. And he’s wearing an expression that’s both intense and a little vacant, like he’s trying to read your mind.

Or like he’s having a silent argument with himself.

Or he’s just tired.

Yes, definitely tired, you think. His eyelids flutter, like they’re desperately trying to stay half open, and he’s sort of drifting in and out of awareness.

He’s quiet for a while, staring wearily into the ceiling like it houses the solutions to all the world’s problems.

And then he closes his eyes fully, and rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

Your own gaze follows that hand, his right hand—the hand not behind his head—the one that falls from his face back onto his chest, the one that’s rubbing his sternum like he hasn’t had a good sleep in years.

And he can tell that you’re staring. So he clears his throat and opens his eyes, catching yours. And you look away instantly. Maybe a little too quickly. Certainly a little too guiltily.

He smirks. He knows he’s caught you. And you keep your eyes averted, because you know that he knows. But you can feel his stare still on you. And you can sense a kind of curiosity in it.

Earlier when he’d said it—just a shame such a beautiful woman will be sleeping all alone in a massive bed—you’d laughed. You’d laughed it off. And you’d taken a bit of pride in being the sort of strong, independent woman who cannot be charmed into sharing a bed with a stranger.

But that had been then, and now it is—well—now, and the pull out couch, in retrospect, looks firm as stone. And here you are, sitting in this (comparatively, which must be emphasised) comfy bed, and, not for the first time, you feel like a heartless cow.

There are rings around his eyes, dark shadows like bruised flesh. And there’s just this look to him—something weary, but not just in that way that says he hasn’t been taking care of himself. It’s more an aching kind of weariness that’s sunk into the very marrow of his bones.

Patrick is watching you as your eyes flit from the bed, to him, and back to the bed. His eyes follow yours. The way he looks at you is vivid and penetrating. It makes you feel like he’s seeing all of you. But he still looks like he’s struggling to figure something out.

He lets his gaze linger for a moment longer, and then he sits up and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and hands hanging limply between his legs.

Looking at the way his shoulders are hunched over and the way his neck kind of juts out when he cranes his head forward is kind of reminding you of a pigeon. Or maybe a falcon. No, probably a pigeon. But a handsome, scruffy, feral little pigeon, maybe. And you’re staring at him, trying not to focus too closely on any one part of him.

He rubs the back of his neck, lets his shoulders sag, and looks back at you, and now he has this kind of pleading look on his face.

And you can’t tell if it’s genuine or if he’s faking it to get what he wants, but there’s that veritable exhaustion in his eyes that’s making him look so vulnerable.

And so you say, “Get in the bed, Patrick,” and you say it like he’s been sitting there begging you relentlessly, even though this is the quietest he’s been all night.

He’s surprised. Surprised that you’ve suggested it, but that it was more a statement than a question. And he’s studying you intently again, and he’s trying to figure you out, and you’re trying to figure him out, and there’s a tension in the air that was there before but feels heavier now.

And he looks like he’s about to protest, like he’s going to put up some sort of token fight, but then he nods and says, “Uh, yeah, that’d be great, yeah,” and the relief in his voice is clear.

He scoots off the couch and walks towards you in these slow, silent strides, and when he’s standing in front of you, you look up at him—you forget, whenever he recedes, that he’s quite so tall—and he looks down at you, and there’s something expectant in his gaze, like he’s waiting for you to tell him that you were kidding, and he’s bracing himself for it.

His eyes flickering all over your face, you can see his individual lashes, and the freckle on his lip, the faint lines around his eyes, the way his nose is a little crooked, and you have to really look up at him, and that makes you feel a little small, a little vulnerable, and then he says,

“You’re serious,” like he just doesn’t believe you, like what he really wants to say is you’re shitting me, but he’s too tired not to be polite.

And you shrug. And you nod. Just once. A little nod, but it’s sincere. He can tell it’s sincere.

You do the stupid, twenty-year-old, wall-of-pillows thing. Because you refuse to go top-to-toe when he’s just been outside barefoot.

You peek your head over the pillows, like a child looking over the wall between two neighbouring gardens, and you look down at him. And he looks up at you.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly through his nose, but he doesn’t break eye contact.

You’re a little unnerved by how unblinking he is, but you don’t look away either, and you both just sort of linger there silently for a few moments more.

“What time do you need to be there tomorrow?”

And he looks away a second and furrows his brow in thought.

“Eight,” he says, and he looks back up at you, and you can tell that he’s trying to stay awake.

“I’ll wake you up at six,” you tell him, playing with a loose thread on the pillow, and you’re whispering very quietly like you and he are the last two kids up at a sleepover, “Maybe six thirty. I wanna shower first. Then we can go get breakfast, we can get, like—McMuffins or something. Then we’ll go to the country club.”

And he does something like a nod, though it’s a hardly discernible motion, and his blinks are getting longer with every beat. You don’t know if you should say more, so you just wait a moment, and he’s still staring at you. He’s still looking at you like that. His jaw a little bit slack. He looks a little less present each time he blinks, his eyes closing a little longer each time, and his eyelids are drooping.

But he’s got that look like he’s trying to read your mind. And then his brows sort of twitch.

And you give him a suspicious look and whisper, “What?”

But he just lets out a heavy breath of a laugh and gives a little shake of his head. And he’s got a small, amused smile on his face as his eyes fall shut, like he’s thinking, if you only knew.

[blckbrrybasket]

ᯓ★ 𝐉𝐉 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

SFW

- 0.1% of top Sublime listeners on spotify

- does not have spotify premium and tries every trick to get around the ads, half the time he ends up groaning loudly over them to drown them out.

- one of the kids who went on youtube 24/7 to look up codes to get free things from vending machines.

- spaces out constantly

- has never had a hangover. nobody knows how he does it and he says he has a trick to it. he doesn’t. he just doesn’t get them 😭

- says harry potter, maze runner, hunger games, etc. are for nerds yet has been caught trying to read them over pope’s shoulder.

- games > movies > books

- when he fished as a kid JJ used to put his hands in the bait bucket to hold the worms + he fully believed that worms could multiply if they’re cut up.

- surprisingly good at english

- hates how wetsuits fit and would rather freeze than feel the material drag on his skin.

- his favorite food is spaghetti and steak (separately or together he’s not picky)

- doesn’t have good table manners but gets so excited over a home cooked meal.

- extremely loyal, he would rather die than rat out his friends. also hates snitches!

- instead of buying muscle tanks he cuts them himself from old t-shirts his dad has owned for decades.

- couldn’t buy a punching bag so he used one of those inflatable punching bags until it popped.

- hopping off the last one JJ pretends to punch everything in the vicinity of him.

- has sunk his old canoe at least five times and had to pull it out of the lake every time.

- doesn’t hug that often but when he does he makes it worth while he’s a massive bear hugger.

- uses an ungodly amount of abbreviations when texting. says ‘omg’ out loud unironically

- says he won’t do something for you or complains about doing it but if you threaten to go do it he jumps up and runs to do it.

- started working on cars when he was a kid watching his dad work under the hood.

- cannot keep plants alive to save his life

- certified yapper!!

- stopped using a juul after a few years, saying that weed is natural so it’s better for you. “mother nature grows it so it has to be good for you…like potatoes.”

SFW (serious)

- undiagnosed adhd not because he has a lot of energy but because he fidgets a lot, has self restraint issues (may say things not socially acceptable in a situation or blurt things out), difficulty controlling emotions, etc.

- he has anxiety (pretty sure rudy said this was canon!)

- very awkward with emotions (canon) shit at comforting people he loves but he still tries. he doesn’t know how to deal with emotions after how his dad raised him.

- unfortunately wouldn’t want therapy for a very long time. he wouldn’t accept the offer until long after the events of hunting treasures.

- has very mixed feelings about his dad

- wanted siblings as a kid to keep him company but after his mom left JJ hated the idea of his family growing. he only saw it as an opportunity for more people to love him. John B is his brother though, through and through. JJ is a firm believer that blood doesn’t equal family.

- it takes a lot for JJ to open up but when he does he will forever trust you.

- that being said do not betray him because he WILL be looking for revenge even if it’s petty

- sometimes he lets himself dream about what life would have been like if he was born a kook. thinks it would have been better because at least he could have bought things to make himself happy.

- as much as he wants money he wouldn’t trade his life with his friends for anything.

- doesn’t like letting his trauma define him and brushes it off anytime someone brings it up.

[hyewka]

warnings; (sort of bratty) sub!beomgyu, idol!au, grinding, handjob, uncommitted reader, angsty fwb, use of pet names, non proofread + drabble length

…fucking with trainee!beomgyu in a practice room as an established idol because you’re bored, just a little bit of teasing, a bit of touching over his pants, a squeeze to his thighs and he’s all of a sudden following you everywhere. attached to your hips, on your heels like a lovesick puppy…making everyone in the company misunderstand your relationship with the boy. you even get a talk with your manager about being careful with dabbling in the trainee circle, and you have to continuously explain that no, you are not dating beomgyu! hell, you didn’t even know his name before that one conversation in the practice room. whispers about you goes around the artists and staff like its the gossip of town—you know it’d pass but it was such a headache.

yet as you much as you denied anything further than a friendship with beomgyu, and tried to keep it that way, you can’t help but creak open the smaller practice room reserved mainly for trainees. coming in late as you informed him prior that it’d be too difficult and all too risky to do anything in daylight, finding him laying on his back on the cold wooden floor, staring up the ceiling blowing his lips, he’s too cute for you to pass up due to dumb rumors. coming in and he immedietley sits up at the bang of the shut door that echoes the empty room—puppy eyes glimmering despite the pout that rests his lips. “you didn’t get food?”

you snort, “no, are you hungry? there’s a vending machine down the hall.”

“yeah but i want real food. plus all the good snacks are hogged by eric.” he grumbles the last part, yet still leans to the affectionate, yet sudden hand on his cheek, your thumb soothing over his skin. god, he was such a cute guy.

“mm, really? i’ll get some takeout for you tomorrow then, promise.”

maybe it was because he was hungry now, and the promise of tomorrow dissatisfied him, but you still note that you catch a glimpse of a displeased look on his face. and as you lean down to catch him into a frenzied kiss, you wipe it away as fast as it appeared—he’s already losing control pulling you down by your wrist to sit, having you situated on top of his lap. when you pull away to see a swell of his pretty lips, glistening, you smirk. he looks down to avoid eye contact, “geez, take a guy out on a date first.”

you immediately find his lips again, lightly biting down on his bottom lip, to which sends out a jolt to his body, make him whimper into your mouth and god you love it so much, the slightest of things you do and he reacts. his hands once hovering over your ass pushed down, to say that yes, he can touch you, and he squeezes, kneeds your cheeks. you almost let yourself smile into the kiss at just how dumb and adorable he is, but then you remember why you pounced on him like that.

take a guy out on a date first? it’s a common joke, and you know that, but it still sets off an uneasy feeling, alarm bells if you will. because beomgyu has said those exact words two times now in the past week, and hes hinted at going out (which sounded way too identical to a date) more than a dozen times. you’re beginning to think he might feel more than surface level attraction…something that has ties with commitment and oh lord, you feel like you might just ruin the mood for yourself.

and so your hips find themselves rolling into him, you breaking the kiss and him chasing blindly, completely breathless, chest heaving, groaning as you press down your weight directly on his crotch, which is by now a full tent, poking between your ass. “don’t cum too fast gyu.” you put on a demanding voice. he had a tendency to do it anyway, but you found that when you told him not to, he held out for a little longer.

eyes squeezed shut, he quickly nods, feeling out the grind of your pussy folds through the skimpy excuse of your grey shorts, thin fabric he could feel your wetness dripping into his pants as you move yourself forward and back. “you must’ve been practicing a lot, you look so tired baby.” you coo, not exactly feigning the concern slipping through your tone.

he lets out a sigh of pleasure, and you know it’s because of your choice of using a petname on him. “don’t overwork yourself,”

“or i wouldn’t have anyone else to fuck around with.”

you’re startled at the way his eyes fly open, and his brows change to a deep furrow, but he stays silent, despite looking like he had something to say. you shrug it off subconsciously, still rolling your hips. you lean to capture his lips again, but he backs away a bit, and you blink confused. “can we get food after this?”

okay, so the mention of food while you’re quite literally grinding sort of pisses you off but you respond anyway. “you’re hungry, i get it baby.” you try to kiss him again and this time he lets you for a bit…before he whines again, signaling you to stop.

what now?

“no, like seriously.” your hands drop from cupping his cheeks, shooting a puzzled look.

“beomgyu, do you want me to pull out my phone and order right now or something?”

he groans rolling his eyes, “i don’t want you to order takeout and i don’t want to eat in this small stupid practice room. i want to go out with you, like, outside of these walls. at a restaurant and eat. is that so bad?”

okay, now the alarm bells are going off in your head. your breathing feels like it just cut itself off and you’re dizzy. immedietely you reach for your bag, and try to get off his lap but his eyes widen, and his hands fly from the floor to your arms, “no wait, no i didn’t mean to freak you out i’m sorry, forget i said that.”

you hesitate, looking into his eyes, the way it panics, his iris moving back and forth like he’s afraid, afraid you’d pull out your arm from his hold and never talk to him again. but you’re not that strong. “don’t say stuff like that, i told you i don’t like it. we agreed on keeping it in here.”

he sulks, his bottom lip sticking up, “yeah, i know, i’m sorry. please stay.”

you hum, tilting your head to leave wet kisses down his neck and beomgyu’s breath hitches, then it picks up as he gets lost in the pleasure, fanning against your exposed skin. “i just want you so much.”

you pond on that and almost freeze again but he immeditely backtracks, “like in a getting my dick wet way. not in the—f-fuck.”

“you talk too much. we’re usually way past foreplay by now.”

he doesn’t respond, starting to hump and chase your heat as if you’re not already basically bouncing on him. you don’t mind it, it’s endearing actually. you just wish he could shut up like he usually does. “i thought you didn’t want me to overwork myself because you cared.”

you grip the base of his cock through his pants and he lets out a hiss, turning into a puddle when you rub it out. beomgyu was so easy to please. “look in the mirror puppy. i do care.”

beomgyu’s eyes are glossy with tears, clouded as he shifts them to look at himself in the mirror where both of you are sprawled on the floor, the exact same floor that could either break or make his dream, the exact one that granted you your dream. the reason you can’t even bare to be seen with him anymore.

“no, you care about me being your little bitch toy.”

you tut at him, pulling out his dick, you admire the way it’s leaking so much already, he’s basically about to cum and you haven’t messed with him enough just yet.

“does that matter? i still care regardless.” he whips his head to look at you, but his body fails him when you drag your hand down, then back up to rub your thumb over his slit, spreading dribbles of the liquid over the head. his eyes flutter and his defensive walls put up almost immediately begin to crumble, “look at the mirror, not me.”

“it does matter.” he retorts sharply, though it comes out rather wobbly, ignoring you completely.

you roll your eyes, taking it upon yourself to move his head forcefully to the mirror like he was a misbehaving child, “you’re such a brat, you know that? look at the way you spread your legs for me puppy, you are my little bitch toy.”

though his lips are pressed into a tight thin line, your ears could still pick up little whimpers. you stop your speed, holding your hand in one spot and he immediately panics. “i was close!” he whines, trying to fuck into your fist.

“too bad, i’m not gonna move my hand until you admit it.” you tease, beomgyu in fact not successful in getting any friction from your tight hand.

“admit what?” he finally asks, exasperated.

“that you’re my bitch toy.”

he shoots you a dirty look, clearly not up for it. which you’re okay with, edging him was always a favorite.

“i-i’m your bitch toy.” your brows raise, surprised that he was so quick to obey with how bratty hes been so far. “i’m your bitch toy, please touch me— m’ close…”

you watch the way he had the tendency to squeeze his eyes shut but he resists it and looks directly in the mirror again, keeping them firm on himself. you’re satisfied, humming.

“gooood boy.” you coo, noticing the shudder that sends him, half the mind to not giggle. he was way too adorable for your own good.

as you promised, you move your hand, dragging it up and down in long strokes before switching your pace, pumping his length at a faster speed.

“shit, i’m g-gonna—“ he mewls, brows furrowed, tensing up before his own spurts of semen cuts him off—white ropes to his embarrassment making a mess on the floor. you watch with amusement as he spills a bit more, before concluding you were done here.

when you stand up, you immedietely feel a hand grab your ankle. you look down with a brow raised.

he still looks dazed, the post nut clarity not hitting yet you assume. “where’re you going? we haven’t fucked yet.”

“i’m ending it, beomgyu. whatever ‘it’ is. i don’t think i’d be able to let you go if we fucked again.”

the boy huffs out an incredulous laugh, not thinking you were actually serious with this. but when your facial expression leaves no room for the assumption you were teasing him, the panic from earlier settles in. “what, are you like, breaking up with me?”

this was the exact issue; beomgyu was too deluded and attached, everything you’re not risking to deal with as someone with an actual career. if you let it continue he’d ask for more, and you can’t grant him more. “we were never together.”

[pinkthrone445]

~A night to remember?~ Part 1 of 2

Pairing:Melissa Schemmenti x Reader

Gender: fluff, funny, love.

Warnlings : (+18) strong words, mention of sex, vulgar language.

Summary: After Melissa is dumped, you help her go back out and have fun.

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

From the first day you entered school, you and Melissa had been friends, in her own way she always took care of you, thanks to her years of experience she was able to advise you many times and whenever you needed something, she did everything to get it. With so much time together, it was easy to quickly become good friends. Although Barbara was still her best friend, you were also very close to her and knew many things. The fact that you were younger than them helped to spice up the friendship, you always had the craziest ideas and knew the most exotic places, you were what they lacked and they didn't know they needed, when you weren't there, they missed you a lot.

Many times when you arrived at school, they were waiting for you at the entrance, and that day was no exception.

-"Ladies, good morning"-you smiled when you got to where they were, Melissa smiled at you seeing in the car that you had arrived and how it drove away

-"New car or new one-night stand?" - she asked jokingly

-"Or a new car that drives itself?" - Barbara also joked by making you laugh. The two women knew that as long as you weren't in a serious relationship, you liked to go out a lot and have a good time, it didn't matter the gender as long as there was a connection. They always joked, saying that they could never have done that, plus since they were both in a relationship, they didn't need it. Barbara was happily married and Melissa was in a relationship with the vending machine guy, so they didn't see the need to go out like you.-"Even though you're wearing the same clothes as yesterday, so I think Mel's right" - The brunette continued and you laughed, shaking your head and taking off the scarf she was wearing to put it around your neck

-"I'll give it back to you at the end of the day, my chest is full of marks and I need to cover them up well."-You joked around and walked into the building hearing their laughs.

At recess time, you went to the teachers' room and you were happy to see that Melissa had brought a tupperware of food for you, that woman always saved you when you forgot your lunch, but you had to admit that there were times when you didn't bring food on purpose because you liked how she cooked, it was much tastier than what you could do.

-"Thanks Mel-Mel"-You told the redhead kissing her forehead affectionately and sat down next to her-"My lovely ladies! What are we going to do tonight? Tomorrow there's no school and we could go out to eat something together, maybe go to a pub to drink a good wine and dance a little? What do you think?" - You commented excitedly and put a bite of food in your mouth, moaning and closing your eyes because of how delicious it was-"Hell, if your boyfriend doesn't take good care of you, I'll steal you from him and marry you" - you muttered with your mouth full

-"Good to know that I have a contingency plan if things don't work out with him" - The redhead laughed seeing how you enjoyed the food

-"Going back to your invitation, this weekend we will go with my husband to visit my daughter, so I will have to pass on the offer" - Barbara commented and you nodded and then looked at Melissa

-"Mel-Mel? Are you coming with me?" - You smiled and she sighed

-"I'm sorry honey, Gary said he wanted to go to the house to eat and talk tonight, so I'm not going to be able to. I'm sorry for leaving you alone" - the redhead murmured sadly, you smiled and shrugged your shoulders

-"Don't worry, I don't mind going out alone, I know how to find company very quickly, I won't be alone for long" - you muttered jokingly and the two older ones laughed.

After school, you went home to get ready and went out to a bar you liked to go to. In the middle of the night you were already dancing with a dude when your cell phone rang with an incoming message. You quickly opened it, the only two people with whom you had the notifications with sound, were Mel and Barbara. When you opened it, you realized it was a message from the last

"Hello sweetie, I hope I don't interrupt your night, but I called Melissa to ask her something and I noticed her a little weird, after insisting a little, she told me that Gary broke up with her tonight and that she didn't want to tell us because didn't want to disturb us on our night off. I won't be back until Monday, do you think you can go and see how she is tomorrow? Please. Take care"-You sighed reading the message and quickly excused yourself from the man you were with and got out to get in your car, but not before telling Barbara not to worry that you were already going to see Melissa.

After half an hour and a lot of insistence knocking on her door, Melissa opened the door. Her hair was a little messy and her clothes were disheveled, she had a tired face and swollen eyes from crying. You smiled sympathetically at her and raised your hands showing the bags you were carrying

-"I bought ice cream, wine and lasagna, your favorites... Do you think I can come in? I still have my clothes from the bar and my legs are freezing"- You whispered pointing to your short dress and she let you in, closing the door behind you and seeing how dressed up you were

-"What are you doing here at this hour? I thought you'd gone out dancing"-asked the redhead and you smiled, leaving the things on the counter and taking off your heels sighing in relief

-"I was dancing, but Barbara told me what happened and I immediately came here, but not before buying some supplies" -You smiled as you uncorked the wine and filled two glasses to the brim, passing one to the redhead

-"Snitch... You didn't need to come, I'm fine, it's a relief to be honest, I felt like things weren't working anymore. It was just the shock of the moment that made me feel bad" - the redhead spoke and you put the lasagna on plates

-"Okay, I change this mission from lifting your spirits to celebrating that you no longer have a dead weight on your shoulders"-you spoke smiling at her, you knew she was sad, you knew her too well, but you had to go along with Melissa so that she would open up and tell you how she was, if you pressed her you would only make her close and not say anything to you.

After eating and drinking the entire bottle of wine, you started playing cards while you asked subtle questions

-"The truth is I'm happy about this, that means that now you will be able to go out more to dance and flirt with people like I do"-you joked with the redhead, raising the bet of the play. You two were sitting on the carpet, facing each other as you played at the coffee table.

-"Don't distract me from the play..."-she replied paying close attention to the round, but after playing, she looked at you-"I'm happy too... I think... What bothers me isn't that he broke up with me, it's that I don't know if at my age I'll find something truly stable... And I'd like to have something nice, real and strong. Someone who is there when I need it, someone to share good times and bad times too, someone who works with me when there are difficulties, not who leaves me alone in the face of problems. Someone who makes me laugh and is there when I need a shoulder to cry on... And I don't know if I'll ever find that..."-She whispered putting her cards on the table, you had managed to get her to open up and now she was crying again, something she needed to vent. Carefully you got up from your place and sat next to her hugging her and leaning your back against the armchair, caressing her back delicately and she sighed crying into your chest

-"If you're looking for someone who's there to make you laugh and who's with you when you cry, you've got me, you don't need anyone else"- you joked and she laughed through tears slapping your arm-"First of all, ouch... Second, you are a beautiful woman, very intelligent and very strong, you will find what you are looking for in no time. Anyone would be lucky to have you and you're going to find someone better than him, who didn't know how to value the diamond he had in their hands. Really, you don't have to worry about that Mel-Mel. You're never going to be alone because I'll always be here and I'll help you find someone worthwhile"-You whispered and kissed her forehead as she hugged you tighter, whispering a barely audible "thank you".

You didn't know how long you were like that until you wanted to move and noticed that the redhead was asleep on your chest. You carefully grabbed the blanket from the couch and covered her body while still hugging her. If the next day your body ached from sleeping in a crooked way, it was worth it if she managed to rest.

When the light came in through the window, you started to wake up when you felt the redhead get up from you and stretch, carefully you did the same, trying to reboot your body from the strange, awkward position you slept in

-"Good morning Mel-Mel, how are you feeling?"-You asked

-"Surprisingly much better"-The redhead replied hoarsely and blushed when she looked at your chest, noticing that she had drooled over you-"I'm sorry about that, I'll bring you some clothes so you can change your dress" - she said and you nodded still very drowsy. After changing, you stayed with her all day so she wouldn't feel alone.

Throughout that month, you and Barbara were taking turns visiting her even though you saw her at school; went for walks, dinner, or watched movies with her.

After that month, you were trying to convince the redhead to go out dancing with you to find someone for a one night stand or maybe something more lasting.

-"Come on red, you don't need a man to be fine, to go out, take control over your own happiness and let's have a good time!" - you said while you were having breakfast

-"I've been taking care of my own happiness for so long that I already have carpal tunnel, if my shower head had a dental plan, I would have gotten married by now" - Your friend answered you and almost made you choke with your coffee from the laughter it caused you.

After a little more insistence, the eldest finally agreed when Barbara also joined you on the plan.

That night you put on your most provocative dress; you were going to help Melissa meet someone, but if in the process you got someone too, even better. You adjusted your hair, put on heels and makeup, and went to the bar. As you planned to drink, neither you nor Mel took your vehicles, you were going to return in Uber if you couldn't find a place to spend the night.

By the middle of the night, Melissa, with a few too many drinks on her body, had found a boy to talk to and dance with. So you too looked for a partner to spend the night dancing too. Barbara just sat at a table laughing at the sight of the two of you.

After a couple of hours and more drinks, you could hardly tell who you were dancing with, your words were shuffled and your feet weren't going very straight, but you were having a lot of fun. Someone touched your shoulder, as you turned you saw Barbara

-"Barb!! HiIIii, hooww are you?!"- you yelled at your friend smiling a little crooked and she laughed

-"I'm fine sweetheart, but my husband came for me, so I'll be going. Can you let Melissa now that please? And be safe here"-The eldest spoke to you and you nodded. Once she left, you searched for Melissa to tell her that Barbara went home.

You took her hand and drag her to a quieter corner to tell her about Bárbara, then you went to dance again. That was the last thing you remembered clearly from the night.

The next morning you woke up because your cell phone rang softly, you carefully opened your eyes, you were in a beautiful room that had an intoxicating perfume that almost made you fall asleep again. You barely moved your body and a satisfying pain ran through your extremities, it's been a long time since you were with someone who would leave you like this, love drunk and aching in all the right places. You moved your legs a little more, smiling at the softness of the sheets against your skin. You looked at your chest and found many scratches, bites and hickeys, you laughed at them, they were delicately placed making a path from your torso to your abdomen and thighs. It had been a pleasant night, whoever you were with had listened very well to what you liked and what you didn't, not only because of the pleasure you still had in your body, but because the marks were in places you could cover up. You liked hickeys a lot, but because of school, you always tried to leave them from your breasts down.

Carefully you stretched a little and grabbed your cell phone looking at the messages with only one eye open, your body was too relaxed.

-"Good morning sweetheart, did you arrive home safely? Do you know anything from Melissa?"-Barbara had texted you a few minutes ago, that had woken you up. Shit! You had to find out where Mel was. Now a little more awake you noticed how someone breathed on your neck making you shiver, a hand was on your waist, a body stuck to your back and your feet intertwined with the other person's. By the pressure of her breasts, you knew it was a woman, you carefully tried to get out of her grip but it was impossible, earning a complaint from the other person

-"Mhhh no..."-She murmured in her sleep. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw her hair color, a powerful redhead. You frowned and tried to get away again, you had to call Mel and see where she was. You didn't manage to get away but you did turn around. Now everything made sense, the perfume of the room, how calm you felt there, the beautiful room, her red hair and the softness of her skin. All of that belonged to the woman who was hugging you with her naked body against yours. All of that belonged to the woman you were longing to know where she was. All of that belonged to Melissa, your co-worker with whom you'd had sex the night before. A night you didn't remember anything about.

-"Fuck..."-It was all that managed to come out of your lips, waking up and making your bed partner open her eyes, looking at you with the same surprise that you looked at her. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

[vendekin11]

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[telomeraseee]

Hellu, welcome back!! Can I request a fluffy Suna bestfriends to lovers one shot? Thank you so much <3 hope you've a wonderful day/night ✨🥰

a/n: ok my first piece since im back! i apologise in advance if i got carried away, also wasnt sure which suna you wanted, bfo timeskip or after but i went with the safe bet : before 🙏

also i realised how ass my writing as gotten so please i beg for feedback! thank you to anyone whos reading this, love all of u and hope everyone is doing genki <3

ps. send more requests, my hands are itching to write ehehe

You became friends with Suna on the first day of high school, he was one of the only students who didn’t come from inarizaki junior high so he was assigned a buddy, you. The first meeting was kinda awkward since you could tell he didn’t really care about anything that was going on around him but you were determined to at least show him the basics of what it meant to be a student here. So on you went, showing him around the school, telling him which days would have the best food and which vending machines were broken (free drinks never hurt anyone). 

Even though you were a pretty social person, you were always too busy studying or too busy dealing with things at home to truly be part of a friend group. It never really bothered you, but now that you were in high school you wanted friends, friends who wanted to spend time with you, so when the buddy programme ended, you were sad since for the last three days Suna was like that friend for you. But he surprised you the next day by dragging his chair to your desk during lunch and said “there better be space for one more here”. So then it began, your friendship with Suna, you would have lunch with him, he would walk home with you, get ice cream and coffee with you. you thought he hung out with you because he couldn’t be bothered to talk to anyone else, which you weren’t complaining about. Most of the time he just listened to you talk (more like yap in his opinion) and poke fun at you when he felt like it. For example, when you asked him, “why do you hang out with me? It’s suspicious. Or is because our suna-chan is scared make friends” his deadpan face was response enough and had you snickering because how could such a facial expression say that much. then he got up and started walking away. “okay, okay I’m sorry, you know I love hanging out with you,” you quickly say as you grab his arm to stop him. He resists a little but when he eventually turns around you see a little smirk on his face. what a sneaky bastard. 

All throughout first year you keep each other company and he even started you teaching you how to play volleyball and that when you think it started. His hands on you started warming you up more than you liked. You found yourself becoming slightly more shy around him and thinking about what it would feel like to hug him or the feel his hands on you. “Y/n-chan did you do something different with your hair?” He says as he lifts a strand of your hair and plays with it. You pretend like you don’t feel your stomach twist in anticipation. “I just cut it a little and layered it Suna-chan. You think the boys will finally notice me now?” You tease, there’s a beat of silence which makes things a little awkward and then you feel a little tug on the strand, “why are you thinking about other guys, when you have me right here y/n-chan,” Suna says with a small smile on his face. You feel your cheeks heat up and your heart starts beating faster, you quickly look away from him to hide it but you feel the tug again and this time its quite a bit harder, “you look beautiful, y/n,” he says, looking straight at you. You groan, thump your head on the wall next you and whisper your extremely smart retort, “Shut up Suna-chan.” You hear his laughter in response and guess what? He’s still playing with you hair. 

Moments like that keep building up, like the time he tied your shoelace for you or the time he saved your face from being smashed in by a ball or the time he glared at a few boys who were staring at you a bit too long (he doesn’t know you saw him glare, what he doesnt know wont hurt him). In small ways, he showed you he cared, but you were always afraid because he would give you enough to convince you he likes you but what if he just appreciated you as a friend and this was his way of showing it? 

The school year ended, but the two of you saw each other often, getting ice cream and sitting in the park for hours talking. He would tell you all about the volleyball team and explain the different techniques he uses to block his opponents. It always made you smile since in the beginning it was always you who did the talking. He would push you on the swing as you told him about your childhood. You guys would sit on the see-saw and argue about which onigiri stuffing is superior (team tuna always wins). And soon summer is over and a whole year had gone by, your feelings for him have grown to the point you need to tell him soon or you’re afraid you might explode. But when? He has so much going on for him you felt like you would never find the perfect time to tell him. Time slips by and before you know it there you are watching Suna play in the Interhigh tournament. You had been to a few of his games before and they were amazing to watch, not to mention how good he looked when he played. His toned arms and thick thighs had you in a chokehold, to feel those arms around you, to feel that body pressed against yours, to feel his heartbeat and his hands holding yours. You were down bad. 

During the Interhigh finals, you watched as victory slipped through their fingers, they were so close. But the team didn’t seem to be too bothered by this loss, they were still smiling and laughing with each as they walked off the court. You’re not exactly sure why but that was when you decided you had to tell him today. You head downstairs and you see the team walk out, you offer them some ‘good games’ and see that Suna is at the back. He surprises you by coming up to you and wrapping him arms around you. “Hey, y/n-chan, thanks for coming today,” he says. You freeze for a second but then return the hug, “anything for my suna-chan” you reply with a smile on your face. “By the way, I need to tell you something so meet me in the park when you’re done?” You say, you tried your best to sound normal, but you were pretty sure he could hear the nervousness in your voice. Internally you begged him not to laugh at you or make any snide comments and thank god he didn’t. He just replied with a “Yes sir!” plus a salute and said he would text when he was on his way.

In the park you go through every scenario you could possibly think of, what if he rejected you? Would you still be friends? If he said yes, he liked you back, what would happen then? Would he kiss you? Would he hug you? Does that mean you guys would be dating? Would he want to cuddle? Okay you were getting lost in your thoughts, just focus on the present y/n. As if to remind you of that fact, your phone chimes with a message from him saying he’ll be there in 10 minutes. Shit, this was actually happening. You get up do a few jumping jacks and jog around a little in hopes to calm down. 

“Y/n, what did you want to talk about?” You hear from behind you, you jump in surprise and let out a little squeal. “Suna-chan, you scared me! Don’t sneak up on me like that,” you chide. He looks good as ever, his face as expressionless as ever even though you know that’s just how he looks and that he actually has quite a bit going up in the brain of his. Here goes nothing…. you move your gaze to over his shoulder and start, “Suna-chan, I’m not sure if you noticed but I sort of….kind of…. Have a tiny, miniscule crus-“ That’s all he lets you get out before you hear his giggles, you focus on him and you feel like you’re gonna faint. when he sees you meet his eyes he takes a step closer to you and in your peripheral you see his hand come up. He cups your cheeks and the smirk drops from his face, “y/n-chan, you almost beat me to it. I feel the same way you do so you can tell your heart to calm down, I’m afraid you’re gonna have a heart attack at this rate,” he says. You stand there, your mouth drops a little to form an O. “Lost for words? That’s ok, we don’t need words for this,” Suna says as he lowers his head to place a light kiss on your lips. You feel his other hand come around your waist to pull you closer and his hand on your face goes into your hair and cradles your head as he guides your lips back to his. It feels so soft and so intimate. you raise your hands and snake them around his neck and deepen the kiss. It feels so good, you feel like you’re floating. This is better than anything you thought of, it feels like tiny fireworks are going off in your brain, it feels like so many things are being said with no words (in true suna fashion imo). After god knows how long, your mouths separate, both of you panting, foreheads resting against each others. “Y/n-chan….. “ I know sun-chan, that was….”amazing,” he finishes. He re-adjusts himself so that youre wrapped in his arms now. You could stay here forever. 

[eldritch-spouse]

Okay hear me out-

Obie's first meeting with his future obsession who works as a dishwasher at his favorite place to eat on the surface.

He makes his way to the restaurant after a long day, just looking to order a bunch of food and chow down only to be told they're already closed for the evening.

Obie's upset, hungry, kind of embarrassed, and decides to just go back to his hotel and raid a vending machine. He takes a shortcut through the alley behind the restaurant... Only to run into you. Covered in sweat and grime, sitting on an old crate and taking a much needed break after being on your feet all day, mustering up the strength to get back in there and finish cleaning the dishpit.

You're reading through some ratty old paperback with some music playing softly from your phone; a bag of leftovers that you saved before it was dumped sits next to you.

You notice him, lock eyes, and already know why he's here. "You're a regular, right? I've seen you around before while I was bussing tables. You didn't make it in time, huh?" You hesitate for a moment, contemplating your next action. "You want these?" You say as you hold up your leftovers. "I know how much it sucks to be hungry and have nothing to show for it."

Obie's in shock: you're nice to him, you're listening to good music, AND you've given him food? He can practically hear the wedding bells lol

(I have a lot of experience as a dishwasher in a busy restaurant, and pin let me tell you those alley way hype ups before cleaning the dishpit alone always hit lol)

[Music in general is pretty good for hyping and getting through long hours. Though if you're anything like me, you're really anal about what you pick and end up wasting some time.]

This is such an adorable idea, I'm in love with it.

Obie might actually start showing up late more, sacrificing his chance to eat some of his favorite meals just so he can spend time with you instead, keep you company in those special minutes before you head in, show you new music even.

After the second or third time, he brings you food back, loads of it. You don't really grasp the meaning of it, of this reciprocation. Hell, you didn't even understand the first gesture of courtship you made towards him to begin with. But Obie can pretend, Obie can have this little happiness for himself.

He smiles softly as he watches you eat his offering rapidly, crooked tail wagging slowly as you talk with your mouth full about the dipshit clients you had to face today.

He doesn't even realize what he's doing before the words are out of his mouth.

" You're amazing... Do you wanna come over for dinner tomorrow? "

[arctic-hands]

More than 400 food products sold under dozens of brand names were recalled due to possible Listeria contamination, the US Food and Drug Administration announced Friday.

The recall by Fresh Ideation Food Group LLC includes ready-to-eat sandwiches, salads, yogurts, wraps and other products sold in nine states and Washington, DC, from January 24 through January 30.

...

The recalled foods were distributed in Connecticut, the District of Columbia,Maryland, Massachusetts, New Jersey, New York, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, South Carolina and Virginia, according to the FDA.

The products -- which included items like bacon, egg and cheddar muffins, breakfastcroissants, tuna and chicken sandwiches, and fruit cups -- were sold in stores, vending machines and by transportation providers, according to the company.

"All recalled products have a Fresh Creative Cuisine label and/or identifier on the bottom of the label with the Fresh Creative Cuisine name and a fresh through or sell through date ranging from January 31, 2023 through February 6, 2023," the company said.

[chrisbitchtree]

A Reward

For @harringrovelovefest day 4

Prompt: Chocolate lava cake

T - 1k

***

It had started not long after Billy woke up from his coma in late August. The days spent in his hospital bed were long, and the nights were even longer, only broken up by the rotating cast of nurses and doctors visiting his bedside to poke him and prod him, make sure he had enough medication, and write down their findings on their charts before scurrying away to wherever they hid out when they weren’t trying to study the effects of getting possessed by an interdimensional monster on a teenage boy’s body.

His only saving grace in the early days was his visitors. Even if he wouldn’t admit it, preferring to stare at anyone that dared enter his room with an angry scowl on his face, the hours that Max and El, Hop and Joyce, little Byers, and Harrington spent sitting with him, talking, watching the small TV mounted on the wall, and in Harrington’s case, eating the Jell-o off his food tray, meant more than Billy could ever put into words. Looking back, he’s sure that he would have lost his mind without their company.

One night, just as visiting hours were winding down, Harrington slipped in the door of Billy’s room. Billy was starting to think that Steve must have an in with the hospital staff, as this was a regular occurrence, and no one ever told him to leave before he was good and ready.

They were talking about the fancy dinner Steve’s parents had made him go to the night before, and he mentioned that they’d had something called chocolate lava cake for dessert. Now, one of Billy’s guiltiest pleasures was his love of chocolate. He would consume it in pretty much any form, but this was something he’d never heard of before, let alone had, and told Steve as much.

“Oh man, it’s so fucking delicious, so sweet and gooey, you have to try it, man,” Harrington practically moaned, and ok, yeah, if Billy didn’t want to try it before, he certainly did now, if only to hear Steve moan like that again, because his only pleasure guiltier than his love of chocolate was his secret fantasising about getting Steve into bed.

“As soon as I get out of here, we’re getting me one.” Billy said, his voice full of conviction.

“I could just like, bring you one, you know, right?”

Billy shook his head. “Nope. I want to wait. It’ll be something to work towards.” Forget about walking again, or driving a car, or graduating high school. Nope, he was going to work towards having a chocolate lava cake with Steve Harrington.

“Alright then, it’s a plan.” Steve nodded.

***

From then on, it was a thing. Every time physical therapy felt like too much, his legs weak and shaky as he struggled to walk the length of the room, or he’d have a particularly upsetting therapy session, forced to talk about his dad and the Mindflayer, and all the other upsetting things swirling around in his mind, Billy would just think of sharing that hot, gooey chocolate with Harrington.

The fantasy would change, sometimes they’d be in a fancy restaurant like Steve had described going to with his parents, sitting across from each other, their feet tangled under the table, hidden from view by a long tablecloth, and sometimes they were at a small dinner party with friends, and other times, it was just them, alone in bed, naked after a good, long fuck, feeding each other the dessert by the spoonful. The one thing that never changed was the sense of hope and purpose that it gave Billy.

As the months wore on, Billy and Steve grew closer and closer, until one night, when the tension got so thick you could cut it with a knife, Steve bravely sliced right through it, sliding a hand behind Billy’s head and kissing him softly and sweetly, whispering sweet words of affection, and telling Billy how long he’d wanted to do that.

Billy could barely wait until Steve was out of the room, tasked with getting them chocolate from the vending machine down the hall before he buried his face in a pillow and screamed with joy.

***

Eventually, he confessed the silly fantasy to Steve, and it became a thing, Steve reminding him of it when Billy was tired and angry at the world, feeling like he was never going to get out of the hospital and back to a normal life. He would stand next to Billy at physical therapy and lean over, whispering to him that he just needed to remember the chocolate lava cake, and he’d feel completely ready to tackle anything again.

Then finally, there came the day that Dr. Owens came to his room with good news. He had a discharge date, February 14th. Valentine’s Day. Billy couldn’t imagine better timing. He woke up that morning with visions of chocolate in his head, but the day was so hectic what with leaving the hospital after one more conversation with Owens and the physical therapist, both of them gifting him with large sheathes of paperwork, and then getting settled into the spare room at Joyce and Hops place, that he almost forgot all about his plan by the end of the day, as darkness started to settle around their home.

But then, just as he was getting ready for bed, there was a knock on his bedroom door. He figured it was Joyce, trying to hand him yet another blanket, but when he turned the knob, there was Steve, holding the promised chocolate lava cake, accompanied by an already melting scoop of vanilla ice cream and two spoons.

Grins spread over both of their faces as Steve took a seat beside Billy on the bed, holding out the dish to him and handing over a spoon. Billy took it, scooping up a big bite. Holy fucking shit that was good. It was everything Billy had dreamed of and more, not just the dessert, but sitting there with Steve by his side. He was so happy in that moment that he’d never given up.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, babe” Steve said, capturing Billy’s lips in a kiss. Oh yeah, definitely worth never giving up.

[erythromanc3r]

AU where Eddie and Chrissy are first-responders (firefighters, EMTs, etc.)

Thank you for the ask! This is such a creative one!

1. Chrissy is an EMT, Eddie is an electrical line technician (ie; THE FIRST RESPONDER’S FIRST RESPONDER — guess who the cops call when there’s a downed wire in the road after a storm? Linemen, that’s who, but I’ll get off my soapbox now)

2. They keep making eyes at each other when they’re both at crash sites…it’s really quite unprofessional, actually

3. They get to talking during a blizzard when they’re riding it out out at the hospital, sitting cross-legged across from each other on a cot and eating lots of junk food they grabbed from the vending machines, sharing all their crazy stories from the job and what they both love about it.

4. Eddie plays in a band, Chrissy is studying for the MCAT in her off-time.

5. They soft launch their relationship at Eddie’s company picnic and all his coworkers are like “oh, you two finally got together!”

Send me AU asks!

[mehidktbh]

One Call Away

Pairing: Mafia!Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem!Reader

Summary: Simon gets a call one day from you, you're panicking and crying on the other side when you tell him your co-worker did something terrible to you. But you don’t realise he’s about to be right outside your building.

Warning: Established relationship, gore/blood, torture, swearing, inappropriate behaviour, Soap is like Ghosts’ right-hand man, unwanted/un-consensual touching, crying, angry!Ghost, angst and fluff

A/N: Thank you to @fatedeniedhope for the help and inspiration with this and many more fics. Hopefully, everyone loves this because I'll definitely make more.

(No one knows how hard coming up with an idea was, I mean fuck I was stumed but this isn't my best work and hopefully, they'll be other (better) work soon.)

You sniff again, wiping the tears that continue to seep from your eyes, your nose is a bit runny and you feel hopeless. You pull your phone from your pocket, you're hands tremble and quake as you try to swipe through it before you tap on the contact you most dearly trust. The screen displays the brightly labelled name of your dear husband, someone you hate to call some days due to him always being busy but at this time you need him more than ever.

♡ ♡ ♡

The loud sound of talking echoes through the work building, you sit down at one of the many chairs at the conference table. Cups full of tea or coffee surround the number of papers and files, pens and pencils sit beside them un-neatly and un-used. A big projector hangs from the ceiling as it brightly displays the recent sales and downfalls. What's hitting hot and not, people's preferences and what changes can be made to the company.

"We'll revise after your thirty-minute break." Your boss said roughly, his voice is tired and demanding as his eyes skim over everyone sitting at the table. His head nods allowing everyone to stand and go off, and you're dying to get something to eat and maybe drink. After all, drinking tea and coffee every day for the same time for almost a week.

The sound of your shoes click against the flooring, you make your way past several people, some sit in their office cubicles while others stand mindlessly in a line waiting to use the printer. Your eyes wander over to the vending machine that sits there on its own, the hallway is mostly empty expect a few people walking up and down. The sounds of the vending machine pull you closer, you were originally thinking of going down the street to get something but now you scrapped that idea.

You stare in awe at the many foods displayed behind the clear display case, ranging from cholate to chips to anything unhealthy wise. But at the moment you are on a running thirty-minute timer and the last thing on your mind is eating healthy. Revenging through your pocket you pull out your wallet ticket away in your blazer. The black leather wallet is full of different credit cards and stamp cards that come from your favourite places.

You pull out a $20 dollar note and push it through the vending machine, typing in the numbers on the little keypad before watching the machine slowly get your items. "Good morning, Y/N." A masculine voice came from behind you, nearly scaring you as you turned around to face your co-worker. "Hey, John" You smile, nodding your head to greet him as he stands calmly against the vending machine, eyeing you up and down. "How's the meeting going?" He tries to make small talk and despite you wanting not to you engage in a small conversation.

"Actually I'm just about to head back," He sucks his teeth in, pouting his lips together, "That's a shame." His voice is low and sad, a smile appearing when you awkwardly laugh back, the sound of your food and drink smack against the machine. You bend down to grab them from under the flap before you hear John shuffle behind you.

"See you around, Y/N..." He mutters, his eyes trained on you as you bend down so you can better grasp the water bottle that rolls further away from your hand. You hum uninterested in what he just said before you feel his hand grab your ass, his hand low enough to feel his fingers graze your inner thigh, A short snickering came out from him before he walked off, you can basically see the asshole smirk from where you stand now in shock and anger.

♡ ♡ ♡

"Simon..." You sniffle, hearing your husband's mood change instantly when he hears your heartbreaking tone. "Fuck- what happened?" He asks, a demanding tone lacing his sympathetic tongue as he leans into the phone more. Trying to hear you better through your sniffling and hiccuping. Simon could hear your throat closing up, the way your soft kind voice was fast and sloppy.

"I- Can you come get me, please..." Your pleading falls hard against his ears as he shoots up from his leather chair, the sound of his heavy footsteps echoing through his hollow office. "Of course, dear." You sigh in relief as your back is met with the bathroom wall, you feel like the walls are closing in around you even though you have enough space to stretch out. "Now tell me what happened" You try to ignore the amount of background noise going on behind your husbands' phone, from him demanding someone to bring the car around to him getting in the car.

"My co-worker he... he touched me..." You were quieter, you couldn't shove the feelings of embarrassment and shame from coming up to stop you from saying those words properly. Simon angrily groans on the other side, you can just imagine him in the back of the car squirming with anger. Feeling the tightness that he has as he holds the phone to his ear, "Wait there, sweetheart. I'll be there in a second and I'll deal with that fucker', okay?" He reassures you of your safety and now all you want is to be in his arms, to feel his warmth and loving voice.

"Mhm" You hum softly, your tears low clearing up but the back of your throat still burns from your silent sobbing earlier. Simon receives the sound of the phone being hung up as he tosses it aside, barking at the driver to hurry up before he turns to Soap. A simple nod is all Soap needs before he turns to look out the window, a gory image set in his mind.

♡ ♡ ♡

You sit alone in your office room, the blinds closed and fending off any wondering eyes as you sit down in your chair looking straight at your computer. Your mind isn't set on work and instead, the time tickling from the clock that sits on your office desk, slowly ticking down till your squirm in your seat.

You nervously wait anxiously for what's about to happen, you haven't heard since you stupidly hung up on your husband. And now all you want to do is hear his soothing voice, his calloused hands and his beefy figure but all you can do is wait. Feeling as if the moment you had just a second ago wasn't real.

"Y/N." The door opens up, closing behind itself as a well-known voice soothes you, you jump up from your chair before falling into your husband's embrace. You feel stupid for letting yourself cry again after telling yourself you wouldn't once Simon would be here but now crying is all you can do. Burrowing yourself further into Simon's chest you clutch onto his suit, not one of you caring if a dark spot appears wet.

"Don't worry about that idiot, Soap took care of him." He whispered into your ear, his hand came out to wipe the stream of tears away. "You didn't... kill him, right?" You questioned. Still, that guy deserved all the hell he could get but the day he disappeared everyone would of pointed fingers at you. The thought of him dying was terrible but wasn't pleasant either.

"Don't worry about him, love. He won't bother you again" You nod, feeling the smooth silk fabric of Simon's (suit) handkerchief up against your cheek. The floral design was pretty to look at, the design is something you remember when you got it for him for his birthday. The thing is now something you see every day on each of his suits, the square handkerchief is different from his lifeless-coloured clothes and stands out. Reminding everyone he has a special someone.

You spot bits of blood smudges on it, the same ones you guess he cleans off his knuckles or hands when he's done with "business". "Come on, let's go home." He waits near the door, standing tall and neat as he watches you pack up quickly, throwing your laptop into your bag before your grab his hand tightly.

♡ ♡ ♡

Blood spills out upon the concreated floor, the red liquid is something Ghost has seen thousand times, he's covered in it and reeks of it too. "Toss him out." He stares at the hopeless men in front, the ropes thicker than shit as his skin burns redder than his blood. Soap nods in agreement, the sound of the wooden chair screeching harshly against the concert floor dies out the further he's taken away.

He mindlessly wipes away the blood from his hands, the floral handkerchief swallows the liquid whole. Ghost stands there, continuing to wipe the blood away, remembering your face as he does so. How frightened you sounded when you called him, he swore he nearly had a heart attack at that moment, hearing you huff for air. But now he neatly packs the handkerchief into his pocket, his mind set on getting back into bed with you.

He tries to gather up excuses to sugarcoat you into staying in bed in the morning but there's no need to work when he's already done it for you.