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valos-venus-doom · 6 months ago

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In Our Diabolikal Rapture [a VV one-shot]

POV: You're on vacation in Lapland with Ville and a particularly heavy snowstorm has you snowed into your cabin

Requested by @reneetje ❤️

NSFW

The wind was so intense it was causing the windows of the cabin to rattle. It was day 3 of a snowstorm that kept you and Ville stuck inside your Air B&B in Rovaniemi, and Ville was pissed. He had so many plans for you both on this week-long break he was taking from work and so far most of his plans had been foiled by the unexpected snow squall. It least 2 feet of snow had fallen and Ville was occasionally popping out to smoke a cigarette and shovel it away from the walkway. But you knew he was going out there to grumble and cuss his disappointment out away from you. Ville was frustrated, but he didn’t want to rub off on you. He was still trying his best to make it a fun experience, knowing full well he’d be off to the grind in just a matter of days.

The door opened up and Ville stumbled in, quickly shutting the door behind him and taking off his outdoor gear.

You smiled at his frustration, “Babe, I honestly don’t know what you expected. It’s January in the arctic circle, of course its snowing.”

He side-eyed you as he kicked off his snow covered boots, “Shut up.” he muttered playfully. “And this isn’t snow. It’s fine if it snowed, it’s allowed to snow. In fact, I’ve *love* for it to snow. This? This is 315 tons of white bullshit. Not snow.”

“That… is an oddly specific number.” you blinked at him.

“2 feet of snow out there. 20 pounds of snow per square foot. Rovaneimi is 2,927 square meters. That’s 629,890 pounds of snow, or about 315 tons. Quick mental math.”

“Remind me why you dropped out of school again?” you giggled.

Ville had stripped down to his sleek black thermal pants and undershirt, both form fitting and framing his body just right and he sauntered over to the fireplace, throwing another two logs in to keep the fire roaring for you. “So, we’re done watching Breaking Bad. What else is on Netflix that we can binge until mother nature decides to stop being a cunt?” he plopped down on the couch beside you, lifting his arm to summon you so snuggle up against him.

You did just that, pulling the fluffy blanket you had over you over his lap too. “Ohh… I dunno. Do you want to check out–”

You were cut off by the electricity going out.

“You have GOT to be fucking kidding me.” Ville closed his eyes in utter frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“It’s fine.” you assured him. “It’s not going to last forever, I’m sure it’ll be back on soon.”

“I admire your optimism.” Ville grumbled. “I swear to fucking god I’m getting a partial refund.”

You laughed, “You’re going to ask Air B&B for a refund… because it snowed? Okay, Karen.”

Ville smirked, he knew he was being dramatic but he couldn’t help it. "I just want to make sure you’re having fun, that’s all. We only have four more days until we have to go back.”

“I can tell you a way we can have some fun.” you whisper, leaning in for a kiss. Your hand slowly dragging from his knee to the bulge in his tight thermal pants that left very little to the imagination.

“Mmm..” he moaned into the kiss as you lightly touched him, coaxing him into an erection. You pulled back from the kiss just to watch the look of bliss on his face, illuminated only by the firelight in front of you both.

His eyes flicked open for a moment so he could peel his shirt off and you followed suit. You had no bra underneath, you were left in just your panties. The cabin was getting chilly with the electricity being off, and you stood to throw the blanket you’d been using onto the floor between the couch and fireplace and quickly sat down. Ville smiled and slinked down off the couch to join you, placing himself on top of you between your legs.

Ville kissed you deeply as he wiggled out of his pants down to his boxers. He slowly and rhythmically rolled his hips, grinding his hard erection against your panties making you moan into his kiss. You loved when he dry humped you like this, it was flirty. It reminded you of messing around as a teen together and caused you to get even more wet.

“God you’re fucking beautiful.” he breathed against the skin of your neck, leaving little kisses under your ear. His hand traveled south, rubbing against your clothed mound. You rolled your hips against his hand, eager for him to touch you, and he quickly complied. You were soaking wet, making Ville chuckle. “Someone’s excited. I’ll bet you want me deep inside you, hm?” he purred in your ear, causing you to shiver. The baritone in his voice was practically orgasmic by itself.

“God yes, please.” you replied breathlessly.

Ville continued to kiss and nip at your neck as he got out of his boxers and began helping you remove your panties. “Lay back, let me take care of you.” he coaxed.

You laid down flat on your back, the blanket warmed from the fire closeby. “Spread your legs for me, there you go…” he continued, placing one of your legs over his shoulder as he kissed down your belly until he reached his destination. He kissed you gently, right over your clit causing it to throb with desire.

You felt his tongue drag delicately over your slit, still teasing and driving you mad. You moaned in agonizing anticipation, you wanted him to ravish you, but he was taking his time. Ville knew your ticks, he knew just how to keep you on the edge of climax the entire time so that when he finally pushed you over the finish line it would be explosive.

Deeper his tongue went, and your body was electrified. Your skin prickled with goosebumps as he licked and kissed every part of you. Quickly flicking his tongue repeatedly over your clit your legs began to tremble and stiffen.

“Ffffuck…” you groaned, your orgasm creeping up on you.

His mouth enveloped you, like he was taking a bite out of the juiciest fruit and he wanted every drop of its sweet nectar. It was like he was making out with your pussy and it drove you crazy.

“God please just give it to me.” you groaned.

“Well I do love when you call me God...” he muttered egotistically, biting his lip and placing his tip at the entrance of you, but not before rubbing it gently over your swollen clit, causing your hips to buck with painful wanting. “Look at me.” he instructed, and you immediately obeyed, willing to do anything to feel him inside you. “Good girl.” he praised before slowly entering you. “I just wanted to see those pretty eyes as I slid my cock in.” he smirked, groaning as he pushed as deep as he could. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it.”

“How bad?”

You didn’t answer, you just whined wanting to to be fucked hard. Ville grinned, knowing he was winning whatever competition he had with himself in his head.

Throwing both your legs over his shoulders he began rhythmically thrusting, you could both hear just how wet you were, and you could feel how rock solid he’d become from all of the foreplay. He couldn’t help but stare at your face, mouth agape as he slowly fucked you. Taking care to thrust right up against your spot, the one he had memorized that would take you just to the edge of orgasm before he’d back off, building the burning desire within you both. He edged you multiple times until it became too much, you removed your legs from over his shoulders to around his waist, locking your feet behind his back. You wanted him deep and hard and you wanted to cum all over him.

Ville grunted as confirmation that the message was received. He began thrusting harder and deeper, picking up the pace. At the point, the only sounds aside from your load moans was the crackling fire and the sound of your bodies slapping against each other and echoing off the walls.

Ville’s eyes were shut tight, breathing through clenched teeth as he methodically pushed you towards your climax while trying to keep his at bay. He was never particularly vocal, but the occasional slip of a delicate, agonized moan from him suddenly propelled you over the edge. Your legs stiffened and locked around his lower back, as your pussy vice-gripped around his dick. “God yes. Please don’t– don’t stop.” wave after wave of rapture coursed over your body. “Fuck! Oh my god, Ville, yes!” you screamed as your orgasm rippled through your entire body.

“Oh… oh fuck.” Ville grunted as his hips twitched, “I’m cumming. Fuck, I’m cumming.” his eyes shut tight, mouth agape, a single strangled moan escaped him as he filled you. His chest heaved and body shivered as he came down from the high and rolled off of you to the warm blanket. Lying flat on his back he regulated his breathing and you rolled into him, head lying on his chest. You could hear his heart pounding.

“I love you.” he breathed.

“I love you too.” you replied sleepily, your voice raspy from screaming.

“Our neighbors probably heard you.” he chuckled. “It’s just as well, they should know Ville Valo knows how to fuck properly.”

You rolled your eyes, “Of course you’d say something dumb like that.”

“Shall I grab the pillows and blankets from the bed? Make up a little nest here in front of the fire for us to sleep in?” Ville suggested. You nodded happily, staring into the fire. “And then round two?” he asked with a smile, kissing the top of your head. You nod even more enthusiastically, making him laugh. “Your wish is my command.” he kissed the top of your head once more before getting up, still naked.

Before he could pull his clothes back on, the lights flickered and turned back on.

“See? I told you it wouldn’t be long.” you teased.

#ville valo #vv #ville valo fan fic #neon noir #ville valo fan fiction #him #h.i.m #heartagram #his infernal majesty #love metal

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savebatsartedition · 15 days ago

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Whumptober 2024 Day 26:

Summary:

Davy feels guilty for not getting them a gig. Prompt: NIGHTMARES | Breakfast Table | “I'm haunted by the lies that I have loved, the actions I have hated.”

Notes:

Yeah. I not-so-suddenly had an interesting Davy headcannon for how he gets the Monkees some of their gigs. (Tbh, this doesn’t feel all that out of the realm of cannon for this show, and I dunno how to feel about that lol.) This is about the TV characters only, which is probably pretty obvious from the plot and context but still, thought I should mention that. XD Content Warnings: All but directly stated (except for here, where it is) sexual and romantic contact in exchange for favors/jobs (and hesitancy about it), struggling to make ends meet when it comes to food and jobs, difficulties with eating, misplaced guilt, lies, almost crying Words: 2,844

(Fic also under the cut.)

This whole thing was an absolute nightmare.

Davy was sitting at their pathetic excuse of a breakfast table, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat. (Not that he and the guys had much food anyway.) He hadn’t been able to woo the last girl into hiring them despite having gone much further than he should have been comfortable with for nothing in return, and he felt guilty for using food that was bought with money that he wasn’t even able to secure him and the guys more of. (The inside of her mouth hadn’t really been all that nutritious either.)

Worse, as he realized with a small start, this wasn’t even the first time he’d felt this way.

Ever since he had gotten to America (and, critically, ever since he'd been cut off from his rich family and their funds), he'd been struggling. Thankfully, Davy had always been good at making connections, especially with girls, and especially since the popularity of the Beatles had thrown the popularity of long-haired British boys like him up into the stratosphere. At first, he hadn’t really liked to use it to his advantage, but by the time he had realized that he had no money for rent, a pair of broken maracas as his sorry excuse for background music, and whatever was left in his suitcase after he’d left it out on the street for an hour too long, he’d had to throw his worries out the window.

At first, it had been pretty fun, groovy even. (Oh dear, if only the him he’d been back then had known how such thoughts would circle back around.) But, as he had realized as the days had begun to drag on and on, for some reason, no matter how many girls let him sleep the night, none of them had ever seemed to want him to really live with them. Maybe these California girls were a bit more aware of the struggles of a musician than they would have been if they had lived elsewhere, maybe they were discouraged from something serious by their rich fathers (they always seemed to see the desperation in his eyes), maybe the girls themselves could tell he was trouble. …or maybe they had just wanted to use what was offered before throwing it away again.

It really hadn’t been that big of a deal. He had hardly run into the same girl more than twice, to be honest, he hadn’t known anyone at all. Not even a little, really.

Unless you counted his numerous ”dates“ as something more than a physical connection, that way, he might have known them. Maybe even very well. (He could almost hear his grandfather now, scolding Davy with a growl on his face, for following those horrible hippy kids.) If you did that, Davy would have been assumed to be absolutely rolling in funds from gifts for the sheer amount of friendships he had.

The problem with that reading, as he had already known, being that those girls weren't exactly friends. Hell. Most of them were hardly acquaintances, and he had still agreed to woo them.

Because what other choice had he had?

Clearly, even with his uncanny ability to connect with girls (and, interestingly, the occasional guy), he'd been really struggling to make it. Really really struggling, if his actions hadn’t given all of the desperation away already. At least, he’d been struggling until he’d met them. Until he’d managed to wander his way into a practice session on the beach, and until he’d managed to weasel in way in with one of them.

From that moment on, he’d started to process what he had been missing.

He’d had lots of “dates” in his year or so in the “colony” (as his grandfather would have liked to call it), but only now, after finally managing to make three real friends, he was finally realizing how much he had missed connections. Real connections. Connections that were more than making eyes at parties and on beachfronts, connections that were more than sneaking into the movies with someone he didn’t know the last name of (but still spending the entire run of the film snogging), connections that were more than half meant promises and never seeing each other again. It was only now, that he was truly among a group of people who understood him, that it set in how seriously he had been struggling.

And, yeah, for a little while, it had been okay. The four of them, him, Peter, Mike, and Micky, had done pretty good off of their few party gigs, and besides the odd jobs they worked to make ends meet had been almost fun. (After all, Davy didn’t really mind taking care of horses, he’d quite liked his own, back in England, back when he could afford the expenses and the land.) For a while, they had met the rent payments, managed their other expenses fairly well, and even splurged a bit on new instruments from time to time. All in all, they had felt pretty well off. Hell, they’d lived in a multistory apartment near the sea, how much better could it get for a struggling band?

Though, admittedly, it had been a far cry from the life that he had known back with his wealthy family back in Manchester, he had been happy. He was happy he had a safe place to stay that wasn’t some-girl’s bed while her parents were still asleep. Happy he had food to eat that wasn’t movie theater popcorn or roller rink pizza or part of an especially kind girl’s breakfast that she managed to smuggle up the stairs after it was all over. Happy that he had friends, and happy that they could play music together.

But, as all things did, things had started to go a little bit wrong.

None of them wanted quite to blame each other, but it had become increasingly obvious that things were slipping. Though Davy was pretty sure each man blamed themselves, Davy couldn’t help but see himself as the problem the most. After all, he had joined the band the most recently, and what did he have to offer to their sound? Four maracas? A tambourine? A singing voice that worked just as well as anybody else’s?

He knew he shouldn’t think it (he should focus on fixing it), but he did. This was his fault, he just knew it.

At first, not thinking about how he’d been living before all of this had begun (he still hadn’t quite told the guys exactly how he’d made it by before he’d met them), he’d tried just ramping up the other stuff. Offering to take care of horses for lower wages than the competitors, working shifts for newspaper boys who needed a break, putting even more into his playing in the few gigs that the struggling band could manage to get…

And that’s when he realized what the band needed.

Of course, it wasn’t exactly a shock of a realization or anything like that. In fact, it should have been pretty obvious from the start. They were musicians, they felt their best when they played (even if the groups on the street liked to spit and laugh as they practiced), and they got their money best when they could use their tunes to woo an audience. They needed gigs, and what better way to get gigs than wooing people into your sound and figure?

So, as Davy had reasoned with himself when he’d taken that first deep breath and begun it all over again, in a way, playing wasn’t so much different from dating. It made sense. To do well with the ladies, one had to be charismatic. To be a musician, at least one in a little rock group like his, one had to be even more so. In a way, a gig was no different than a date. You were selling yourself as the best person you could be, paying attention to the mood of the room, and following along with something that would make it better, more intimate, more likely to get you what you wanted, and, more importantly, more likely to get your chosen onlookers what they wanted.

Or so he told himself.

Of course, it wasn’t that Davy didn’t like going on dates. He did. Honestly, who didn’t? It was a good way to get on with the girls, and one of the best ways to look around the town, not to mention a good excuse to indulge in such treats as ice cream or movie theaters. (Without dates, it was unlikely Davy or the others would have the time or money to do either without feeling bad about it afterwards.)

Even back in England, where his family had had much more control over how he lived his life (how he cut his hair, who he spent his time with, what kinds of music lessons he would take), Davy had enjoyed a little jaunt with a pretty birdie from time to time. Who could blame him? He liked the girls, and he liked the company, and life would have been much less bearable without the connection that such things allowed him to make.

To make it through it, he told himself that this was for fun, that the fact that the rich girls he pursued just picked his band for their parties out of pure coincidence. That they listened with such glee because they liked the Monkee sound, and not because they liked him, and watching him sweat and gasp as he sang.

Lord knew they liked that side of him when he wasn’t singing.

(Maybe it would have been more accurate if he told himself that such things were not exactly what he was after.)

Yeah, things got a little bit too transactional from time to time. (All the time.) Or maybe it didn’t. Davy swore he couldn’t tell the difference (he could), and if none of the other guys bugged him about it, so he wasn’t going to bring it up. They had been thankful for more gigs to play, and he had been right alongside his fellow Monkees in that sentiment. I mean, who doesn't like a little jam session from time to time? Especially if it put food on the table and kept the lights on when you needed to practice.

Until, as it always seemed to, things had gotten worse. Again. Lately, the gigs hadn't been coming. (And when gigs gained by taking girls out on the town didn’t pan out, it was an overall loss of money.)

Davy tried not to blame himself, he really did. He tried not to feel guilty for the thing that he knew was n̶o̶t̶ his fault, but it was a bit hard. After all, there was no way he wasn’t doing something wrong. When had the girls decided that an awkward night’s stay (and even worse family breakfast after the fact), was enough for all his troubles to court them? Sometimes, they wouldn’t even listen to him when he tried to bring up his band and their situation, they’d just reach over, kiss the words out of his throat, and watch as he floated away into something that wasn’t him. (Or at least, shouldn’t have been him.)

And damn if he had to admit it, but he was hungry. There were only so many nights you could go only tasting the flavor of some girl’s mouth on your tongue.

(And there was no way he was eating a piece of the band’s meager rations, not since his most recent attempt had ended in nothing more than her mouth on his, and hands reaching places that Davy tried to pretend that he had been completely alright with.)

“Hey Davy,” Peter was suddenly saying, “you look a little worried. Your plate is full.”

Davy looked up, pulled out of his trance as the images of his fellow bandmates swam into focus. Peter was midway through chewing a slice of buttered bread, Micky was taping his knife and fork on his (already cleared) plate as if they were already practicing, and Mike was choking down a cup of coffee like it was the only thing that was going to get him through the day. All of them were staring at him.

Davy brought his knees together, feeling suddenly very small.

What could he tell them?

Certainly not the truth.

“I’m fine,” he lied, aware that his fellow musicians were far too in tune with him to miss the imperfections in his perfect tone, “Just thinking about a date I want to go on,”

“You’re always thinking about those girls, aren’t you,” Micky said, almost casually. (Davy wished it was less obvious to him when his friends meant more with their words than they let on.)

“Oh you know me,” Davy joked, “Always falling in love at first sight, I’m still thinking about her…” he trailed off, putting on an expression of love that he knew was not the least bit convincing.

Mike raised one eyebrow, but he didn’t say anything (yet), simply finished off his coffee and placed the cup with a clink back onto the table. Davy looked back at him, trying to seem genuine in his puppy love for a girl that he did not know the name of (but curiously knew the way into the bedroom of). He didn’t want to talk about this, not now.

Davy looked down at his plate. There wasn’t a bite taken out of a single piece of food. His stomach rumbled and he tried to ignore it. He hadn’t done well enough. He didn’t deserve all this stuff, let someone else have it.

“I’m not really hungry,” he said, though it wasn’t true, “I think I’ll wait until tonight’s date to get myself something,” he moved to stand, but stopped when Mike reached out and grabbed his arm.

“And I think you should take a break from all those dates, shotgun,” the guitarist said, narrowing his eyes, “I think you’re tiring yourself out,”

“Me!?” Davy protested, even though he’d missed nearly all of his nights for the past two weeks, “You must be joking! When have I seemed tired in any of our gigs recently?!”

Peter looked slightly confused. “We haven’t had any gigs recently, Davy,”

“Exactly,” Davy said, giving Peter finger guns across the table, “And I really think this girl could be interested in paying us for one if I take her out one more time. She’s got really good taste, intelligent and all that,”

Micky laid his silverware back down on the table, giving Davy a look that told the shorter man that he knew exactly what was up. (Though he laughed good naturedly anyway.) “I think you’re spending too much time with all those girls, Davy,” he said, “You should take a break, even think that maybe one of us wants a chance out of the town one of these nights?”

Davy didn’t really have anything to say to that, so he just shrugged. He felt bad shrugging, but he felt worse dragging any of them into this. This was his burden to bear, to be the one man force behind the advertising in the town, to be the one the girls thought of first when they thought of an attractive band to pull up on the stage for their birthday bash. It should have been no one else’s job, he couldn’t let it be.

“Yes,” Mike decided, waving Davy back to his seat, “We need our tamborine player to be well rested for our next big job, and-” he reached over to push Davy’s plate closer to him, “-we need him to eat up,”

Davy looked down at his plate. His stomach hurt almost as badly as his throat did. (Was he really going to cry? Now?) He wanted to eat so badly, but he told himself he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. It was all his fault that there was only so much to spare for breakfast, the others should have had his portion already. The others should have already pushed him away, blamed him already, sent him back out on the street so he could do the very thing he did now, without all the music attached.

“Come on Davy,” Micky was saying, “I need my percussion section, right?”

Davy felt the corners of his eyes sting slightly, and he hunched over his plate to hide the tears. This was all his fault, why couldn’t they see that? He deserved what he got, and if that was just the inside of some jane’s mouth, that was all he should have.

Still, he made himself eat.

Maybe they wouldn’t notice him slipping away later if he did this for them now. Maybe they wouldn’t notice this time, and he was sure of it, this time he’d even get them a job. He believed it. He had to believe it, because if he didn’t, it would have been all for nothing.

And he couldn’t have that.

#whumptober2024 #no.26 #NIGHTMARES | Breakfast Table | ''I'm haunted by the lies that I have loved the actions I have hated''#writing #fanfic #the monkees #suggestive #difficulty eating #money problems #lies #guilt #davy jones #mike nesmith #micky dolenz #peter tork #whumptober

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alex-guerin · 3 months ago

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I need to rant for a minute...

I live in a very small town, 1400 people. We live in town, on a double lot. We have lived here for 3 full years now. We moved here after living 30+ years in the middle of nowhere cornfield countryside. Our dogs had trouble adjusting to town life and not being able to bark as much as they used to, but they're better about it now and really don't bark outside much unless they spot a critter or the neighbor's dogs come outside.

Our neighbors. Who moved in a full year after us. Who knew upon viewing the house that we had big dogs that barked. Who upon signing and getting the keys for the place met our dogs and we're like, "Oh, we know dogs bark. We have two big dogs, ourselves, it's not an issue." Who two months after moving in, decided our dogs were an issue and the wife declared war upon me, my mom, and our dogs. Neighbors who now bitch and moan whenever our dogs go outside to go potty, while their dogs are out, and all the dogs just wanna chase each other and play, but can't because these neighbors scream at their dogs to get in the house and leave our dogs alone. These people throw loud af pool parties all summer long. Have bonfires that are probably by all rights too big to be having in town. They have loud af parties year round. Are constantly yelling and cussing up a storm. Including their 10 year old son, who likes to taunt our dogs and glares at us whenever he sees us.

We have worked very hard to keep the dogs from barking much. We don't have loud parties. We don't blast music or yell constantly or scream cusses every other sentence. Occasionally, my mom and I will decide to have a nice little fire to burn up some dead branches we cut from shrubs or other yard trimmings. Never any trash (unless you count the newspaper used to start the fire). We have our very rare fires on a Saturday night, when there's almost no breeze.

Tonight, for the first time in probably a year, my mom and I decided to have a fire to burn up the weeds and trimmings and keep our firepit from getting over run with weeds. Neighbors were not home when we lit the fire. There was basically no breeze, so the smoke was going straight up. With the exception of the occasional wisp that would float off towards the neighbor's house.

All of the sudden, the neighbors fly up on their side-by-side and I hear the wife going, "Well it HAD BEEN a great day! [Some indistinguishable drunken babbling]...burn their TRASH!!" I was getting ready to go pick up our pizza and I heard something from their house, glanced over just in time to see a window get slammed shut and blinds pulled down. Followed by another window slam shut. Apparently as I was leaving, the wife stood on their front porch and screamed, "Way to go, KAREN! You fucking bitch!" My mom (Karen) was on our side porch, confused as hell, and even called back, "NOW what do you think I did?" The wife stormed out onto the back deck and was yelling at my mom about us having a fire and the smoke going in their house, she started slamming shit around and slammed the door. My mom said she could hear the wife screaming inside their house from where she stood on our side porch.

To make things even better, my dad has apparently been talking to the neighbor husband. And telling him that my bro (who is staying with us and is the head mechanic at the little auto shop in town) is "no-good, lazy, useless, piece of shit"...and neighbor husband has run his mouth enough that it's starting to cost the shop business. I don't know how much, but my bro told us tonight that yeah, neighbor husband was supposed to bring wife's van in for something (tune up? Oil change? I dunno), but that neighbor husband told my bro's boss, "Oh, but you got that useless [Surname] kid working for you." Bro's boss was understandably confused and asked what he was talking about, "You mean Chief?" "Yeah! That useless fucker." "I don't know what you're talking about. He comes in every day, he does his job, he does it right, he's fast, he knows what he's doing--" "Eh, well, all I know is that he's a no-good, lazy, useless, piece of shit." And then did a no-call-no-show on his appointment, wouldn't answer the phone when they tried calling him. And a couple other people have mentioned that they heard from neighbor husband to stay away cuz his mechanic isn't any good. I don't know as though the neighbors have ever even really met my bro. For that matter, they've never even really met me or my mom, except to scream at us from across the fences because of our dogs, or fall decorations, or we decided to have a little fire and enjoy the gorgeous night.

We try to keep to ourselves. We just want to be left alone with our dogs. We live by the saying, "you leave us alone, we'll leave you alone." A few months after they moved in, I was trying to bring our dogs in cuz I saw them come home and our dogs started barking, so I was trying to be polite and bring them in. When neighbor's wife started screaming at me about our fall decorations, cussing at me, and sent my anxiety through the roof and put me into an anxiety attack and I stood shaking and crying in the kitchen because of it. After that, my mom decided to write up basically a statement to give to not only the town cops, but the county cops also, about neighbor wife and how she acts towards us etc. Just in case she ever decides to do something towards us.

But it's just like, damn woman! Leave us alone! We don't say anything about your loud ass parties that go until 3am. We don't say anything about your dogs barking at us when we get home and they're out, in fact most times we'll smile and call "Hi Teddy! Hi Toby!" When we see them. We'll give polite smiles and waves to them and their kid when we see them as we're leaving. We don't bitch and moan and cuss up aloud storm when they're having their pool parties and bonfires.

Why are THEY allowed to have dogs that bark, and loud parties year round, and massive bonfires and shit, but we have to keep our dogs quite at all times and not put up any decorations in the yard that the wind might turn to face their yard and can't have a little fire of our own on a nice night?

#i hate people #mostly our asshole neighbors #we can hear their parties while we're inside with all windows and doors shut

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rust-bearer · 9 months ago

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Ahhhhhhhh I got some childhood nostalgia and I just had to throw it onto the zombie apocalypse au. Probably could’ve just made a small post for this but I dunno, been a while since I did zombie stuff so I figured I’d let you in on it.

Was doing a little spring (?) cleaning and found my old Nintendo NES system I got a while back, cause y’know, absolute fucking nerd for most Mario games over here, and I was like… you know what. The zombie kids would probably love something like this.

I’d bet money that Swindle probably made sure their mansion farmhouse had solar panels built into it before everyone moved in. Based on where things take place, like, that might not be all that reasonable? I mean, where I live solar panels are common and highly encouraged if you can afford the original investment, and I’d bet he saw a way out of paying such high prices for utilities and just went all 🤑🤑!!!! with it because, well, of course he did.

Cue Swindle arguing with poor self-employed dude from Texas who’s explaining why they can’t just install solar panels where the house is, there’s little to no reliable sunlight and the trees would cover most of the rays and the house’s roof isn’t positioned right!! and—but Swindle is having NONE of it. He gets the solar panels, goes on to get into a whole debate with his bank to try to throw the charges off as fraud.

Anyway…. Solar panels kind of sort of mean somewhat reliable power? In the right circumstances maybe? OR. ORRRR you could do generators. Do both is what I’d do if I wasn’t broke but hey, it’s Swindle, he’s probably got more money than the fucking… whoever is the richest person or something.

SO. My overall hc is that Blast Off is the sort of resident techy person of the group, and I’d bet anything that on his occasional trips out to find good and interesting stuff to mess around with in his office/room/living quarters/etc, he brings back one of those old Nintendo consoles for the kids (and himself) to play with. The good thing is that he has one of those old-fashioned televisions as well, and it pairs really well with the NES console to give some nice sort of 80s vibes. Thank god for the solar panels, or… maybe the generators. Both?

Good news: the children love it! Blast Off gets a kick out of setting it up for them, and since it requires no internet, they’re good to go!

Bad news: once they get to a rather difficult level in one of the various Mario games Blast Off owns (projecting onto him because Mario is fucking AWESOME), nobody sleeps without hearing the cries of frustration from one of the few kids after they’ve lost the level for the umpteenth time. To everyone’s surprise, about three days’ into the struggle, Onslaught takes on the task of overcoming the problem level. Cue him sitting up at three am with all the kids snoozing around him, hunched over with glazed red eyes as he’s got a death grip on the controller and stares so hard at the tv as it depicts the whole “GAME OVER” title for the millionth time. He doesn’t get much sleep that night, and only stops trying to beat the game after Blast Off comes out and threatens to turn off the entire system because he “can hear the stupid machine from all the way across the house every single time Onslaught loses the level and it’s starting to get annoying.”

So yeah, I looovveeeee the old Nintendo games (specifically Mario games though) and I LOVE zombie headcanons, so I had to throw them both together! I think that’s it for now though.

God Swindle commits so much tax fraud. He does it, and does tons of it, but they can never make any of the charges stick if they ever even come up with a charge at all. Very mr sticky fingers, very ‘I donate a lot to the police every year…’ and whoops they just so happen to lose evidence and whoops, that ‘speeding ticket’ a new officer wrote up is all gone now. And so is the new officer. Though that’s also more inline with- everyone else in the family, too.

I think Swindle would be genuinely interested in casinos. He likes them on a financial level, of course, but he really has an interest in them on other levels too. If he cared enough he might’ve opened one himself, but that’s a lot of playing nice with people 24/7, too public facing. He’d definitely have friends who own them. ‘Friends’. Maybe visits them sometime, does some networking, the works. Vortex ironically is the one who might understand the ‘appeal’ of it the best, but he thinks it’s really boring; he’d rather ruin someone’s life and do it 1 on 1, not string hordes of people along for ever. Bleh.

I’d like to imagine it’s a combination of Blast Off AND First Aid coming up with the video games thing. Blast Off has a few, has a passing interest in them, but restoration as a hobby is the lowest on his list of interests. He initially balks, though, when the kids clamor to play too. Because they’ll get it dirty, or won’t play it right, or they’ll be too loud, really- but he eventually decides it’s not a bad idea. Lets them play Pong, of all things. Eventually he brings it up to First Aid, and First Aid mentions that he’d been trying to find some game consoles or the like, things they can play that won’t kill their power (handheld would be nice), but it’s- he never really cared a lot before, not since he was younger, and he doesn’t know what to look for anymore. So Blast Off goes with him next time they scavenge, despite Onslaught making a face about it.

First Aid hotly debates himself whether it would be psychologically harmful or helpful to bring the children games where they kill zombies.

#zombie au

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tcvsfiredemon · 1 year ago

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Narumayo Week Day 3: Video Games/Pining

“Maya, I’m stuck in a wall!”

“You’re what?” she called from the kitchen with the tone of a mother who just caught her kids emptying a bag of flour onto the dining room floor.

Phoenix twiddled desperately with the thumbsticks, but to no avail. His character just twirled back and forth, glued tragically in place on the TV screen.

“There were a bunch of bad guys surrounding me so I was backing away from them,” he yelled to her by way of explanation, “but now I can’t get out of the corner of the room!”

“How does this keep happening to you?” Maya said as she emerged, oven-mitted hands on hips and an expression of sheer bewilderment on her face. Her hair was loose and she was wearing a pair of baggy purple pajama bottoms with a white tank top, over which she’d tied a big pink apron that said ‘WORLD’S CUTEST CHEF’, a piece that Trucy had insisted was a must-buy. “I leave you alone for two minutes to make dinner and you defy the laws of physics on me.”

Phoenix snorted a little at her getup. ‘Making dinner’ in this case constituted popping open a bag of premade salad into a bowl and putting a frozen pizza in the oven. The apron was definitely overkill.

“I’m not trying to break the game, Maya, I have no idea how any of this works!”

She sighed and peeled off the mitts as she approached, stretching out her hand to ask him for the controller. “I’ll get you out of this, Nick.”

Obediently, he handed the device over. Failing embarrassingly at video games hadn’t been exactly what he’d envisioned when they planned their evening. Trucy had been invited to a friend’s house for her first ever sleepover and had convinced Pearl to come along(not that she needed much convincing), so the two adults of the Wright Talent Agency had their first opportunity in quite some time to spend the night in the office together without kids. She had immediately suggested a game night, which he assumed meant Scrabble or something, not the high-octane zombie killing quest he was now embarked upon.

He watched as Maya tried as pointlessly as he had to unstick herself from the wall. “Wow, Nick, you really screwed up. Only one way to get out of this one.” She started throwing grenade after grenade until a massive explosion ushered in the game over screen.

“You got me killed.”

“Don’t worry, old man, you’ll respawn. Outside the wall, I hope.” Maya looked back at him with a smirk, “I just don’t get it. You’re only 27, but you have the gaming skills of a retired economics teacher.”

“I haven’t played a video game since I was a kid, okay. And why an economics teacher?”

“I dunno, it just sounds like the most boring kind of teacher.”

Onscreen, their character respawned, right in the middle of a big horde of zombies. Phoenix went white, and Maya looked at him with pity.

“Do you want me to handle them for you?”

He nodded.

“All right, I’ll show you how it’s done.”

With that, Maya commenced a one woman undead massacre. As it went on, Phoenix found his vision slipping away from the game and onto the player. Maya was absolutely enchanting to watch when she was fixated on a task. She was incredibly animated, dancing around the room like she was actually in there with the zombies, her gaze never straying from the screen. She would occasionally pause to brush her bangs out of her eyes in a quick, delicate motion that sent shivers down his spine. Adorably, the harder she concentrated the more she would stick out her tongue like some cartoon character. And, sitting behind her as he was, he couldn’t help but notice that her baggy pajama pants weren’t quite as baggy around her butt.

Phoenix put an end to that thought trail as soon as he headed down it, just like he would any time his thoughts of Maya took a sexual turn, something that he found happening more and more these days. It wasn’t necessarily that he was uncomfortable seeing Maya as sexy, anyone with eyes could see that she was an attractive woman, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to compartmentalize those feelings with his feelings for her as a friend and loved one.

Like in the past he could reminisce just fine about all the cases they’d solved together, all the fun outings they’d had with just the two of them, or with Trucy, or with Pearl, or with the four of them together, and he’d feel the same kind of love he felt for his family, or for Edgeworth or Larry. But lately, when he tried to think back about something like the picnic they had at Gourd Lake last weekend, all the happy memories of sitting in the sun, munching on ice cream sandwiches, watching Trucy and Pearl play a two-person game of tag, and debating whether Gourdy came from the Jurassic or the Cretaceous period got mixed together with thoughts about the way Maya’s hair looked when the wind blew through it, or the way her eyes sparkled like sapphires in the sunlight, or the way her sundress swished around her curves as she walked, or how much of her thigh he could see when a really big gust of wind blew at her dress.

And now Phoenix had to cut his thought short again, because he didn’t want to go down that path again. He didn’t want to admit to himself that how much he loved Maya’s presence in his life was becoming so intertwined with how much he wanted her. He didn’t want to want her. He had decided long ago that Maya was the person he loved most in the world, but if he found that he loved her that way and she didn’t feel the same, he didn’t think his heart could handle it. Better to just keep things the way they’d always been, where Maya was his best friend and he did his best to ignore how well her pajama pants showed off her assets.

“You still with us, Nick?”

Phoenix snapped back into the real world. Maya had finished her work, leaving a pile of zombie bodies in her wake. She was looking at him quizzically.

“Yeah, I’m here. Good job, Maya!”

“I do my best,” she said, handing him back the controller, “You can take it from here.”

“Thanks.”

She splashed onto the couch right next to him and he once again tried not to blush at how close she was. Focus on the game, Phoenix.

“So what were you thinking about? Off in your own little world there.”

“Pajamas.”

Phoenix watched as his character turned the corner into a new room and a monster leapt at him from the ceiling, killing him in two big hits. The two of them stared blankly at the game over screen.

“You wanna just watch a movie, Nick?”

“Yes please.”

#narumayo #narumayoweek2023 #maya fey #phoenix wright #fanfic #this one's way shorter because I didn't put any of that pesky plot into it #boo plot

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maggotwithanf · 2 years ago

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[Part 1] [Part 2]

“All right, so to recap…”

Arcade whipped out a pencil, sharpened helpfully by Lloyd with a piece of rebar beforehand, and started jotting notes down in a ledger. “Made contact with Repconn, found the source of the radiation leak to the water supply for the NCR sharecroppers - we’re going to have to deal with that later - and you managed to divert water to Westside without the NCR being any the wiser.” Arcade smiled, kind of curiously, and cocked his head. “I was surprised by that one. Not unimpressed, though.”

“I’m surprised you approved,” Lloyd shrugged. He tapped the counter of the bar at Gomorrah, and the bartender nodded at him, working his way down from the end of the long counter.

“Surprised?”

“Yeah,” Lloyd went on, tapping the counter again idly. “You just seem real - I dunno. I guess you’d be more buttoned-up.”

Arcade grinned. “Buttoned up?”

“Doctors are, right?”

“I’d rather do the right thing than be buttoned-up. Even if it means, you know. Throwing things. Occasionally going completely off-script.”

Lloyd looked at him, and there was a slight glimmer in his eye. “Hey, when that guy at the Aerotech place called you an unrepentant anarchist? Was that some kind of dig at the Followers?”

Arcade’s smile took on a vaguely mischievous turn. “The NCR waged that propaganda campaign against us so hard, some people actually believe that. Some of us, though, might harbor some borderline anarchic convictions, if it means helping people survive. Most of us at least lean towards the socially democratic side. Making the world a better place. You know. Standard Follower fare.”

Lloyd looked thoughtful. “Yeah. …Yeah. I’ve been thinking a lot about all that Follower stuff, lately. About what you’ve been talking about, too. I didn’t take you for being so…”

“Ballsy?” Arcade grinned.

Lloyd laughed. “Yeah. Ballsy.”

“Like I said. It’s worth getting in trouble for the greater good.”

“I respect it. I like it.” Lloyd looked up from the counter. “...I think I believe in it.”

Arcade looked surprised. “Really? I mean - you know you don’t have to fake it on my account. I - I’m kind of happy just going on this adventure with you -”

“No, no. I do. I really do.” Lloyd swung his head over, locking eyes with him. “Did I ever tell you I’m from New Vegas? Like, really from there. I grew up just outside the Strip. Little neighborhood of a few clustered houses, kind of like Novac. Didn’t get along with my mom. Never got to know my dad. Left when I was 18 to go do my own thing. Went AWOL for a while. ….Really AWOL. Came back after a few years to see how it was doing. Fiends burned it all down. Makes sense.”

Lloyd’s drink finally arrived, and he took a huge swig. Hateful, warm whiskey. Lloyd frowned.

“I’m so sorry, Lloyd…” Arcade began, softly.

Lloyd shook his head. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not the bad part. Fiends, I mean. Not yet. ….The people that were left, you know, they were hoping they could convince the NCR to protect them when the Fiends came back. If. When. You know.”

Arcade started to frown, too. “Don’t tell me.”

“Yeah. Well. You know the old joke where you could call a guard for help or call for a loan shark on the Strip, and the loan shark’ll bail you out three times before the guard picks up the intercom? Yeah.”

Lloyd looked down into his whiskey. “...I hate whiskey.”

Arcade frowned. “Didn’t you order that?”

“No. I asked for a Moscow Mule.”

“You’re kidding.”

Lloyd looked forlorn.

“...You’re kidding, right? Sunset Sarsaparilla, vodka, something sweet, something sour? That sound about right?”

“I think so -”

“Hey!” Arcade slammed his palm on the counter, much to Lloyd’s surprise. His glass bumped across the table a little.

The bartender turned to face him, still nonchalant. “What?”

“My friend here ordered an actual drink. Are you going to make it for him, or what?”

The bartender looked thoroughly unamused. “Why do you care? He got a drink, s’all that matters, right?”

Arcade frowned. “The service in here.”

“It’s Gomorrah,” Lloyd shrugged, taking another sip of the whiskey, and making a face. “It’s fine. I guess.”

Arcade sighed, and slid up onto the seat next to Lloyd’s at the bar. “Nothing’s fine. That’s why we’re trying to fix it.”

“Yeah.” Lloyd looked right at Arcade, like he was trying to take him all in, just in case he started to sink away. “...The fact you care so much about New Vegas? How you want people to be okay, not under the thumb of Mr. House, or the Families, or the NCR, or anything? Just… the people of New Vegas, actually doing it for themselves? Westside, Freeside, hell, even some of the places here are basically home… you really care about the soul of New Vegas. And nobody outside of here does.”

He looked like he was about to tear up, and Arcade subconsciously shuffled ever so slightly closer to him.

“...I got desert blood in me, Arcade, and you care about that. You care about this place. You care about me.”

Lloyd looked Arcade dead in the eye, and, for a second, it was like both of them tapped into each other’s pain - though they hadn’t uncovered everything, the weariness in the two men’s eyes was like being shoved under a lamplight under an anvil.

Arcade felt his breath catch in his throat.

Lloyd wrapped his fingers around the rapidly warming whiskey glass, then, one by one, peeled them away, like picking petals off a daisy.

“...You wanna get out of here?”

Arcade raised his eyebrows, gulping. “Lloyd -”

“You know how to make a Mule, right? Let’s make one. Let’s make one for real! Find some Sarsaparilla, hell, we could find some ice - some agave nectar - some - shit, we can really do this!”

Lloyd was getting more excited by the second, and Arcade could feel the electricity in the air starting to sparkle. He felt himself smirk, despite himself.

“C’mon, baby. Let’s make a drink,” Lloyd grinned.

Arcade smiled, from ear to ear. “Okay. Yeah! Yeah, let’s see… we’ve got tons of Sunset Sarsaparilla stowed away in our fridge. Er, your fridge. And in ED-E, too. Though that stuff’s probably warm.”

Lloyd nodded, thinking carefully (though the whiskey had started to give him classic Lloyd-brain, and his face began to screw up in concentration). “We can get a vodka from behind the bar,” he went on, nodding to the back of the bar, as the bartender continued to be distracted. “The sweet is gonna be harder. And the sour….” Lloyd frowned. “Babe, do lemons exist after the bombs fell? What about limes?”

Arcade snorted, laughing. “We might have to get creative.”

Lloyd’s eyes glinted in the sparkling barlight. He grasped Arcade’s hand, pulling him to his feet, grinning. “C’mon. Let’s go on an adventure.”

Arcade grinned back. “Lead the way.”

Lloyd pulled on him, by the hand, and Arcade found himself running alongside him, through the bar and out into the casino lobby, through the doors into the cold night air. He wanted, he thought, to be pulled along forever.

#fnv #fnv oc #fallout new vegas #fnv fic #teeny tiny short story intro to lloyd x arcade pt 2 #my gay little crush #arcade gannon #lloydcade #lloydfic

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walkingshcdow · 2 years ago

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Keres Whitlock did not wear a wedding ring. She did not live with a partner. She did not date, did not have a dating profile, did not seem to look at either men or women lustfully from behind her dark eyelashes or above her starched white collars. And yet as long as Percy Brightstar had employed her to look after and educate his daughter, she had been embroiled in a messy divorce. It was something she disclosed during negotiations, explaining that one of the reasons she was seeking new employment had to do with the consequences of having been served at work in her last position, and the possibility of it happening again. She had been straightforward and clear that there was no danger, but she did not feel comfortable with her estranged husband having her address. And so occasionally papers or packages would appear to be signed for, and she would do so, slip them into her bag, and continue with the day.

Sometimes it was hard to remember she wasn't just another single woman living her life as much as Percy was a single man living his.

And sometimes she was asking for time off so that she could go to court or rushing out to meet with lawyers on her afternoon off.

"I'm sorry, I know everything is a mess- I'll clean it up later, or tomorrow, but I have to go." She was already throwing her coat on, trying to gather her things on her way out the door. "I'll do better."

Percy raised an eyebrow, looking around the kids’ toys – the dolls and plastic cars and glittery hair clips – strewn about the living room. Daphne was seven now, which was plenty old enough to pick up after herself. She was sleeping upstairs already and the mess would await her when she awoke. Shaking his head, Percy ran a quick calculation on who was home and whether Daphne would be safe without her two dearest advocates. Andrew was swingin’ by to drop off an order in fifteen minutes. He could text and ask him to stay while he made sure Keres didn’t get stuck taking public transit wherever she was rushin’ off to. Never mind the security team he kept employed. The thing was, Keres looked stressed and not much even ruffled her feathers. Oh, she was irritated a lot, with everyone and everything, but she never lost her cool. Now, she was scramblin’. Percy pulled out his phone, texted Andrew, and rebuttoned his coat.

“It’d be a miracle if ya did better,” Percy said. “Dunno if you know this, but seven-year-olds exist to make messes. ‘S what they’re for.”

Andrew texted back. He’d play babysitter if Percy needed with a wink-face emoji and a few others that Percy didn’t dare dignify with a response.

“And you’re not a housekeeper. So. D’ya need a lift wherever you’re rushin’ off to? Andrew’s on his way and can keep an eye on Daph for a bit. You’re dressed too nice for the bus.”

#ch: percy brightstar #.002 | modern #thread: percy brightstar x keres whitlock | alittlefirebirdtoldme #r: percy brightstar x keres whitlock | alittlefirebirdtoldme #alittlefirebirdtoldme #x. asks

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sarah-dipitous · 2 years ago

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Hellsite Nostalgia Tour 2023 Day 22

We're at the Season 1 penultimate episode for both of these series (and I guess the next Sherlock episode I watch is ALSO the Season 1 penultimate episode, but like...that's a three episode season. We won't even SEE Jim til almost March :( )

"Salvation"

Would I Survive the First Five Minutes??: If the first five minutes are just sitting through a recap of the last 20 episodes? I can survive sitting through that (but I won't be happy about it). Nevermind, seems like we're getting a real first five minutes. Know what? I'd let Meg kill me. If she's gonna do it anyway, might as well make it my choice or something.

I relish Winchester infighting. There's been so much of it this season and it's so good even if a little pointless. And now there's three to fight with each other??

What a wonderful name for a midwest town to wrap this season up in: Salvation, Iowa. Damn.

So, I think I'd be more...invested in this whole "Pastor Jim is dead and that's hitting too close to home for the Winchesters" if, you know, the first time we met him it wasn't when Meg slashed his throat open.

It's kind of convenient that Sam has psychic visions at just the right times.

I'm. No. SIR! NO. Disrespectfully, no. You fucking DISAPPEARED, you don't get to tell Dean that if something weird starts happening with Sam, that you need to be told IMMEDIATELY. Fuck that noise. Stop it. Do not make me laugh. I'll fucking do it.

I paused before Dean got his say in, and OH MAN. YES, Dean!!! Nah, bitch, you don't get to abandon your kids and OCCASIONALLY leave cryptic messages, but then tell them you don't like the tone they're taking with you. Nu uh.

Oh. Okay. Her picking off John's friends one by one is, frankly, delicious. I should not be this attracted to her right now. I really do just love when villains

I...am truly heartbroken over what John wants for his sons. He wants Sam to be able to go back to school, which is nice and fine. He should get to follow his dreams. But then he says "I want Dean to have a home." And that's one of those moments you realize how much Dean has lacked for so much of his life. Sam had Stanford for all the time he was there, and he would have likely had a settled life, but DEAN? (I'm shifting into my "Being Broken Hearted Dean and Touya At the Same Time For Similar Reasons" mode)

I *DON'T* like the boys (*coughsamcough*) trying to say good bye "in case something happens," even if I do get it.

John IS smart though. Smart even if he's reckless. The boys, a little less so. Or the father of the family they're trying to protect is also...very protective, as he should be. Two guys in their mid-twenties just broke into their house in the middle of the night. Usually, they build a better rapport with whomever they're trying to save. Guess they didn't really have the time today.

Oh shit. Dean got that baby out not a moment too soon.

I mean, we had to know they weren't going to get the demon tonight.

Dean just doesn't want to lose the only two people he has, and those two people seem to be a-okay with just throwing their lives away, sacrificing themselves for this cause. I'm distraught.

"Been On My Mind...": No. And I didn't expect to with all plot that's happening

"Bad Wolf"

This is such a fun and weird way to enter the episode: the Doctor being sucked into some future form of the show Big Brother. And Rose is on The Weakest Link (does that even exist anymore?? Does it have actual new episodes on the Game Show Network or is it just reruns? Do they even have reruns of it anymore?)

You gotta love Jack's confidence "Ladies, your viewing figures just went up"

I think this bit would have been maybe funnier back in '06? Now it's just...I dunno. It's not hitting like it's probably supposed to. It's probably supposed to be a mix of funny and horrifying? But the whole Weakest Link part is now just horrifying....seventeen years later.

Don't tell me she gets vaporized too...wtf.

Finally. Some development.

(I feel bad because I remember liking this episode a lot more in the past.)

I shouldn't laugh because it's not actually funny (or it is in a grim way). But the actual news getting shut down and then governments collapsing because of that and the rise of all of these inane yet extremely dangerous game shows and reality tv shows...feels poignant for some reason.

Rose's disintegration doesn't hit as hard when you know she's not actually dead. Or at least she comes back.

I even SAW the daleks in the preview the other day and forgot they were coming back for this episode.

This episode was what would have been a lot of confusion in the first half (if this weren't a rewatch) and set up in the second half, so there wasn't a lot to say, sadly.

#hellsite nostalgia tour 2023 #in which i (to my surprise still) have much more to say about spn again

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paterson-blue · 3 years ago

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Summary: Sackler's working on his impulse control. No, really--he is, he swears. It's just a lot harder when it comes to you.

Word Count: 8,432

Warnings: fem!AFAB!reader, angst with a happy ending, fluff, sexual tension, friends to lovers (but moves into established relationship), domestic shit, the regularly scheduled Sackler chaos, Sackler is soft, an anxious boy; a nervous boy, excessive gatorade drinking (it's his brand), classic Sackler banter, hair braiding, teasing, handjobs, fingering (f receiving), oral sex (f receiving), slight nose action, unprotected PIV sex (no chance of pregnancy), cock warming, praise kink, breeding kink (if you squint) — let me know if I need to add anything else!

Prefer AO3? I gotcha!

You’d entered his life slowly, inch by inch, sneaking into his consciousness until suddenly you were all he thought about. When he’d decided to wave at you across the aisle of the bodega all those months ago he’d had no idea of what the future would hold. All he knew was that he’d been seeing you there every day like clockwork; same time, same aisle.

He always grabbed a red Gatorade and you always grabbed some sort of sugary drink of your own. Occasionally the two of you seemed to move in sync, opening the fridge, reaching up, grabbing your item, and slamming the door all in one motion together. Adam thought it was kinda funny, two strangers' lives lining up in such a way, being part of each other’s daily routine. So one day he waves, a goofy grin on his face as he points to his signature bottle of red goodness.

You blink at him in surprise before almost shyly smiling back, your eyes bright, and oh—Adam’s stomach does a dangerous little flip-flop.

He waves at you for two weeks straight until it’s not enough anymore. He comes into the bodega one day determined to talk to you but with no concrete plan of how to do it. He’s a little early in his excitement, and he finds himself having to aimlessly browse the little store like a fuckin’ idiot before the familiar bell dings and he sees you come through the door. He half-trips over to the drink aisle, trying not to come across like he’s following you around, even though he definitely is.

You’re studying the various beverages in the fridge, mouth scrunched up as you consider them. He only allows himself a moment to admire you, not wanting you to catch him staring. He steps closer, boots thudding on the floor, making you look up at him. Now’s your chance, Sackler, a voice echoes in his head.

“What’s today’s flavor?” he hears himself say, and he feels relief wash over him when you give him that pretty smile.

“Oh, I’m not sure.” You sigh, settling your hands on your hips. “Maybe just water.”

“What?! Bullshit! You never get water!” Oh, so he’s just gonna double down on being a creep, huh? Saying he knows exactly what you get every day? Adam wants to smack the palm of his hand against his forehead.

But then you’re letting out a laugh, shaking your head at him. “Well maybe sometimes I like to change things up. We can’t all stick to red gatorade every damn day.”

Your comeback makes Adam feel half-giddy, both from the easy banter and from the acknowledgement that you’ve been paying just as much attention to him as he has to you.

“Well, I’ll have you know that red flavored Gatorade has special health benefits that others just don’t.” He states, leaning against the cool glass of the fridge. You’ve gone back to browsing, but you keep shooting him amused little looks; his ego crows at your attention.

“Is that so?” you ask, humoring him as you indeed select a bottle of water from the bottom shelf.

He’s nodding when you straighten back up, and points accusingly at the bottle of water. “Can’t believe you’re going for the boring shit.”

“Well,” you shrug, holding the bottle to your chest, “I’m feeling pretty boring today. But I dunno, tomorrow might be different. You’ll just have to wait and see.”

She doesn’t mean anything, Adam tries to tell himself. The two of you had been there together every day for the past two months. It’s not abnormal for you to assume he’ll show up again the next day. But still, your words, the between-the-lines invitation for him to see you again, makes his heart leap.

“I guess I will,” he responds firmly before grabbing his regular gatorade from the shelf. This time the two of you walk up to the register together, and before Adam can stop himself he’s digging into his jeans pocket, tugging out a couple crumpled bills. “Hey kid, lemme pay for that.”

You hesitate, but nod, chirping out a “thank you” in that sweet voice of yours. Adam slaps down the money, throwing in a pack of sunflower seeds along with the drinks. If it’s just to make the transaction last two seconds longer—to make him standing there with you two seconds longer—then he’ll keep it to himself. Soon, you’ve got your water and you're waving a goodbye as you step out of the store and onto the busy sidewalk.

Adam follows at a distance; watches you walk away, your purse slung over your shoulder, water already open and pressed to your lips. He watches until you disappear into the crowd, and then he’s sighing, looking down at his feet. It’s not until he’s trudging back home that he realizes he never even got your fuckin’ name.

_______________________________________

It’s another day before he gets your name. A week before the two of you leave together, leaning against the wall outside and sipping your respective drinks; two before he’s asking for your number. For some reason, you actually give it to him.

He’s nervous to text you first, which is unlike him. Sure, in the past he would get a little anxious, not wanting to make a complete fool out of himself, but he still went through with it. But it takes him an entire day to shoot you a message, asking if you wanted to go sit in the nearby park after the bodega stop. Your answer is an immediate yes, and suddenly Adam is eying the hole in the collar of his green t-shirt, wondering if he should change.

It’s not a date. The bodega isn’t a date, the park isn’t a date—the walks and lunches, coffee shops and movie nights in the weeks following aren’t dates either. So what if he cleaned the absolute shit out of his apartment before you came over for dinner? So what if he wore his nice jeans and black dress shirt, sleeves all rolled up to show off his forearms? So fuckin’ what?

It’s not a date.

It’s not a date until, a month into all your not-date’s, you’re standing at the sink with him as the two of you tag-team-clean the dishes. He’s washing, you’re drying, and there’s an easy rhythm flowing until a soapy plate slips from your grasp as he hands it to you. The dish smacks into the water-filled sink, creating a splash that soaks the both of you. You inhale a loud gasp, laughter already in your voice.

He seems to get the brunt of it, the front of his green plaid shirt darkening as warm, sudsy water bathes the fabric. His shoulders hunch up in surprise, and you’re giggling, covering your mouth with your hand. “Shit, I’m so sorry, that was an accident I swear.”

“Oh I call bullshit,” he growls, a grin spreading over his face. He yanks his arms up high, wriggling his fingers over your head so that water and suds drip onto you. “Pay back!” He crows, stalking towards you. You can easily duck under his arm to sideswipe him, to escape his grasp, but you don’t.

Instead, you swat at him with the dish towel in your hands, laughing as you shuffle backwards. “You better fuckin’ not, Sackler! I’ll scream!” You make idle threats at him but he doesn’t listen. He steps forward, forward, forward, hands dripping water all over your hair and shoulders as you shriek.

“I’mmmmm gonna getcha!” he sing-songs, jumping towards you, the wood floor creaking under his big feet. He’s got you cornered now, your back against the wall—ha! His arms swoop down in an attempt to engulf you, aiming to press his wet hands and shirtfront against you, but your hands fly out to grasp his wrists to halt him.

“I just bought this shirt!”

“It’s soapy water, it’s just gonna get more clean!”

“Adam!” You laugh, your voice betraying a tone of fond exasperation. And oh, you’re all smiley and breathless, eyes shining up at him—you’re so fuckin’ pretty. Most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen, lighting up his kitchen and his heart and his whole fuckin’ life with the brightest, warmest sunshine he’s ever felt. He stares at you, admiring you freely, not able to help it. You don’t seem to mind; you’re looking straight back at him, thumbs rubbing little circles on his wrists where water was trickling down to his forearms.

Adam’s never really been one for impulse control. That shit’s just never appealed to him. What was the point? If you’re gonna do something, just fuckin’ do it—get it out there in the open and see what happens. Yeah, sometimes things don’t go well, or—okay, they go really fuckin’ bad—but sometimes things turn out for the better! And the sweet feeling of elation whenever his bet, whenever trusting his gut, pays off? It was worth the risk.

So he lunges down, capturing your face in his wet palms as he presses his lips to yours. And shit, by some strange miraculous twist of fate you’re actually kissing him back. It makes him press forward, shoulders scrunched up and back curved towards you, angling himself for you to take. He thinks he could die happy, finally having your mouth against his, finally holding you the way he’s needed since the first fuckin’ day he saw you.

You sigh into his mouth and he gobbles it up greedily, sucking at your bottom lip, full on moaning when your tongue swipes against his cupid’s bow. When you insist on pulling away to get some air he stays close to share your breath, brushing his nose against yours. You hum out a pleased little noise and he wants to melt into the floor. He thinks about doing it—about sinking to his knees and pressing his face into your stomach, holding you tight, tight, tight.

He thinks he might have, if you hadn’t reached up to card your fingers through his hair, fingertips massaging deliciously at his scalp. He presses a needy little kiss to the corner of your mouth; your lips quirk upwards at his touch. When you break the silence it’s in a hushed tone, your hands sliding over his biceps. “That was nice.”

Adam grins, rubbing the tip of his nose over your cheekbone just because he can. “I can do better,” he promises cheekily, “Just gotta let me show you.”

You laugh, saying oh really? in a way that has him preening.

“Hell yeah. I’m a very well rounded individual.” He finally straightens back up, watching you with hopeful eyes, painfully shoving back the urge to ask you if you wanted to kiss him again.

“… I’ve got work tomorrow,” you finally say, and Adam nods, because he knows you do. You took your shit seriously. But oh, you’re reaching for his hand, and the relief he feels when you touch him is immediate. “But I'm free tomorrow night,” you tell him, your own eyes bright, waiting for him to take your offering—and there’s no way in hell he’s going to pass it up.

“Well good, because we’re having dinner. That back alley Thai place. And then I’ll take you out to that gross ice cream shop down the street you like so fuckin’ much.”

You nod, bouncing on your toes a little, and it’s so goddamn cute that Adam almost dips down to kiss you again. The most he lets himself do is rub the back of your hand with his thumb, watching you intently. “And I’m fuckin’ paying, don’t even think about bringing any money.”

You offer him a grin. “Alright. It’s a date.”

Adam nods, so fast he thinks he probably looks unhinged, but hey—that’s nothing new. “You bet your ass it’s a date, kid.”

An actual date. With you. It only took three months.

_______________________________________

So yeah. Impulse control.

Never been Adam’s thing.

It’s not that he doesn’t think about his actions. Okay, well, sure, sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he just goes with his gut and throws caution to the wind, like when he’d kissed you. He’d just known it was what he should do, and so he did it. He likes to think most of his impulsive decisions are perfectly logical and sound, even the ones that don’t work out. It’s not his fault if other people don’t always agree with what he does. This is how he’s lived his life all these years, and it’s worked out more often than not. Why change something that isn’t broken, or whatever the saying is.

Except. He meets you. And fuck, suddenly he’s overthinking every little urge, every little snap judgement—tight-rope walking the thread of fate. He’s on edge for the best of reasons; you’re the most wonderful thing he thinks has ever fuckin’ happened to him and there’s no goddamn way he’s going to jeopardize what the two of you have. He has to do this right, has to do things properly. He’s going to date the absolute shit outta you and there’s nothing you can do about it.

He likes it, really—hopping each little stepping stone that leads to more of you. Taking things slower than he has in ages, maybe ever. He knows, in the back of his mind, that if he flew into you at his usual gale force chaos, you’d accept him all the same. Because you’re good. You’re soft and sweet, and have turned his life into something golden and warm.

But you deserve more than his chaos. You were so gentle and vulnerable with him, and Adam—he wants to be the same way with you. For you. So he grapples with his impulses, shoving them down when they rear their ugly heads. He’s not gonna fuck this up, no matter how much his brain tries. And oh, does it try.

_______________________________________

For example, he almost tells you he loves you not two weeks into the course of dating you.

It’s not his fault, honest—or that’s what he tells himself. His feelings just like to…. overwhelm him. Endlessly.

See, he’d had a show—a play; one he’d been working on since before he’d waved at you in the bodega those months ago. You knew about it, sure. He’d talked about it (ranted about it) plenty of times. You always listened even if you had no clue what he was going on about, always gave him whatever he needed—whether that was being alone, or extra rehearsal time, or allowing him to flop into your couch and scream into the pillows.

Still, he hadn’t invited you to the opening night. Or any nights, actually. He was too nervous, as much as he hated to admit it—mostly about fucking things up if you were there. Honestly, the thought of you sitting, watching him, made his insides all… wriggly. And even if it was the good kind of wriggly, he’d be too hyper-aware of it, too distracted by it.

He feels guilty even if you don’t seem upset. You have brunch with him—yeah, he was doing fuckin’ brunch now. That shit was good—and then give him a goodbye kiss, telling him to “break a leg.” It makes him smile, and he insists on a couple more kisses, just for luck. And then he’s off to the final rehearsal before opening.

It goes off without a hitch, and Adam’s beyond elated—and relieved, and proud. As he scrubs off his sweat and makeup backstage, he can’t help but wish he had someone there to share his pride with. But he doesn’t have time to get into his head; there’s stupid fuckin’ rich people to schmooze outside, and the director had told him under no uncertain terms would he be in attendance.

Adam yanks on his tie as he makes his way through the theater’s halls towards the ballroom, not looking forward to the boring conversation and unnecessarily tiny food he had ahead of him. He tries to sneak his way through the crowded lobby area but it’s kind of difficult to be discreet with his sheer size—something that shouldn’t surprise him by now and yet does every single time. He forces out gentle smiles and humble “thank you’s” at the praise his performance receives, attempting to make his long legs work double time.

But then he spots something in his periphery. He’s not even sure what it is at first, really--just that it means something to him. It’s important. A flash of fabric as someone exits the large revolving doors, and there it is, that nagging in his head, that impulse. He veers off course without even thinking about it; fuck the schmoozing. Following that flutter of fabric, he shoves his way through the door and people, stumbling out onto the sidewalk. His dark eyes scan the busy street before landing on what his subconscious had been so attracted to.

You.

It stuns him at first, shocks him to silence--and not much can do that, if he’s being honest. You were here. Had you been here the whole time? Did you watch the whole thing? Were you just gonna leave? Adam thinks all these things at once, his mind a cacophony of noise, and suddenly he’s bellowing your name over the bustle of the crowd. He watches you jump, acknowledges the head turns he’s getting--he doesn’t give a fuck. You’re turning to look at him and he’s all but bounding over, zeroed in on you. You looked so goddamn gorgeous, the lights of the city casting multicolored glows over your skin.

“You’re here.” He says when he gets close enough, gaze bouncing all over you, not able to keep to one spot.

You give him a sheepish look, extending him just half a smile. “I… Yeah, I’m sorry. I wanted to come. I know you didn’t ask me to, but this show is so important to you and I--” You let out a small laugh, “--I wanted to support you, even if it was a secret?”

Adam’s chest fills with warmth, and his voice is noticeably quieter when he speaks again. “And you were just gonna leave without saying goodbye? What the fuck, kid?”

You shrug, but in a bashful way, not in a way where you’re blowing off his question. “Well, it wasn’t about me, you know? I wanted to be here for you, but until you were ready for me to be here, be here… I wasn’t wanting to, I don’t know--force your hand, or anything.”

And shit, if that doesn’t give Adam pause. He doesn’t think he’s ever had someone do something like this for him--support him without wanting something in return, without wanting recognition for their ‘good deed.’ You were giving him yourself even when he wasn’t around to acknowledge it or thank you for it. The words almost slip out of his mouth right then and there. I love you. It would be so simple.

They’re on the tip of his tongue, ready to tumble out in the open area between the two of you at a moment’s notice; he does the only thing he can think of to stop it from happening. He lunges forward, half yanking you to him as he slams his mouth down onto yours. It's… not as gentle as he intends, but he’s desperate, because the words are already leaving his lips in a muffled jumble. He’s kissing you on the crowded sidewalk like he’s fuckin’ starving for it, like he can’t breathe without it. Maybe he can’t. He sure isn’t stopping to find out.

“Adam--” you murmur into his mouth, and he grunts at you in response, which earns him a laugh. Your hands slip over his dress shirt, underneath his suit jacket, and he leans into your touch. You pull away from his lips, but press lingering kisses to his jaw, and Adam thinks maybe it’s an okay compromise. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close; says the only (other) thing he can think of--that he knows he has to get off his chest.

“I don’t wanna fuckin’ date anyone else. Don’t wanna kiss anyone else. Just you.” He makes sure to look at you when he says it, not caring how intense he comes across. If he can’t say that he loves you outright, he’ll do it in every other little way he can. “I wanna do boyfriend shit for you. Like—like make you canned soup when you’re sick and—and text you whenever I see a fuckin’ tree that reminds me of you.”

You smile up at him in that way that makes him feel ridiculously small and a million feet tall all at once. “Boyfriend shit, huh? Does that mean I need to start thinking of girlfriend shit to do?”

Adam nods briskly, but then pauses, his hands sliding up and down your back. “Only if you want to.” He tries to school his tone into something soft and neutral, trying to protect himself in case you say no.

But then you’re relaxing into his chest, resting your head over his thrumming heart. “I want to.”

He’s glad you can’t see his grin, and he holds you tighter to him, hoping you wont notice the way he’s literally fuckin’ vibrating with happiness. He wants to shout, wants to yell out at everyone passing by on the street. Hear that, everyone?! She’s my fuckin’ girlfriend now! Mine!! Ha!

“Do you wanna come back inside with me?” He asks instead, trailing his fingertips up and down your arm. “I have to go suck up to a bunch’a idiots so they’ll give the director some money. They might be willing to give more if I bring along some hot eye candy.”

You snort, pulling away from him; his gaze flits over your face, taking in your pleased smile and sparkling eyes. You were happy. He made you happy. It’s all he ever wants, really. You agree to coming with him, and he gives you his arm to hold onto as he escorts you back into the building, head held high with pride.

_______________________________________

Of course, it just makes things harder.

He’s swallowing down “I love you’s” left and fuckin’ right: when you pick him up from an audition and hand him a red gatorade. When you remember his lunch order from the café down the street. When you laugh at something dumb he’s said—a joke he knows isn’t that funny.

When, alternatively, you say Sackler in that exasperated-yet-fond tone whenever he’s said something annoying. When the two of you sit quietly in the living room together, each doing work, comfortable in the silence. When you pass behind him while he’s cooking and brush a gentle hand against his back, casual as can be.

He swallows the words down the first time he stays over at your place. It’d been an accident; he’d fallen asleep on the couch after getting back from an out-of-state visit to see his niece. He’d woken up in the morning to the smell of coffee, finding himself tucked under blankets. You’d come over when you saw that he was awake; brushed his hair out of his bleary eyes, said- “Good morning, sleepy head.”

He starts staying over a lot more after that, in your bed instead of the couch. Each time he wakes up next to you, wrapped around you, one of you half on top of the other—his chest fuckin’ aches. And still, his brain tells him to keep his thoughts to himself, to hold his feelings in his chest until the right moment. What’s the right moment? He asks himself. He never receives an answer.

It’s a torture he’s never experienced before and he doesn’t know what to fuckin’ do with himself. The first time you climb into his lap, tugging his jeans open, wrapping your perfect hands around his cock--all he can do is stare up at you, plush mouth hanging open, barely daring to breathe much less let the usual filth fall from his lips.

Because holy fuck, you’re so fuckin’ gorgeous, so perfect for him, and he’s pretty sure if he tries to say a single thing he’s going to let it slip. So he just yanks you close, biting at your lips, letting you swallow down his grunts and groans. He touches you everywhere--tries to let his hands do the talking for him.

He thinks he should probably tone down just how fervently he’s staring at you as he presses his thick fingers deep inside your pussy, but he has to see, has to know he’s making you feel good. “Tell me.” He manages to say, voice hoarse as he glances down to see your sticky wetness on his fingers before he pushes them back in, thumbing at your clit as he does so. “Tell me how it feels.”

You’re quiet but from your whimpers and whines, and Adam almost adds on a desperate please before you’re suddenly speaking, your words more of a babble as he works you. “F-Feels good, Adam, baby, feels so full. Can--can you--a little faster?”

A little faster? He can do that. He speeds up the motion on your clit, curling his fingers against that special spongy area inside as he pounds them in and out of you, brown eyes nearing black as he stares you down. “Like this?” he growls out, and instead of answering with words you let out a squeal, your hips jerking against him as your eyes roll back in your head.

Adam grins, breathless and feral. “Yeah. Like that, huh? Pretty girl.” The feeling of you cumming on three of his big fingers is enough to drag a long moan out of his chest; you’re so fuckin’ beautiful. “That’s it, doll, ride my fingers—good girl, so fuckin’ needy for me.”

You’re all clingy afterwards, clutching at him; he clutches right back, pressing his face into your shoulder, listening to you breathe. I love you, he thinks. I fuckin’ love you.

When you finally let him press his face between your legs one night, the words echo endlessly in his head. He’s lost in you, in the pressure of your thighs against his ears, your hands clutching at his shaggy hair, the way you clench so sweetly against his tongue. He rubs his face back and forth, smearing your slick all over himself greedily, sliding his nose up and down your clit. You let out an uninhibited, shuddering noise and he smirks, eagerly sucking at your folds.

He lets his eyes flick up to look at you, taking in the softness of your stomach, your heaving tits, the arch of your neck as you toss your head back against the pillows. He can’t see your face like this but he doesn’t fuckin’ care, not when he has the vision of you before him, your soft skin under his palms, the tangy sweetness of you in his mouth.

You cry out his name when you orgasm, your hips bucking against his face and Adam just goes along for the ride, using his hands to ease your frenetic movements. He spells it out with his tongue against your clit as you slowly come back down, blood rushing in his ears.

I - L - O - V - E - Y - O - U.

It’s a warm, early fall night when he fucks you for the first time, slow and deep, the bedroom windows cracked and letting in the nightly noise of the city. He doesn’t hear any of it--hears nothing but you and the sounds your bodies make together. There’s no rushing, no dirty words falling from his lips--there’ll be more than enough time for that later. Right now was about the slick slide of his cock in you, his eyes trained on yours, all wide like he’s surprised by this--shocked that any of its happening. In a way, he is.

Adam reaches out to settle a giant palm on your cheek, holding you, rubbing his nose against yours as he rolls his hips, muscles flexing under his skin as his back arches. He wants closer to you--closer, closer, and closer still--so he shuffles up the bed. It's a little awkward, but he doesn’t care, just as long as he can get deeper. You’ve got your knees hugging his hips, hands grabbing at his shoulder blades, making the prettiest noises in his ear. Adam, you say, and somehow his name has a thousand meanings in this moment. Adam, Adam, Adam.

Hearing it makes his toes curl up, makes him choke out a moan into your neck. “Fuck, I’m--I--” He fumbles for your face, breathing hot and heavy as he mouths over your skin to find your lips, kissing you sloppy to shut himself up. You’re clenching tight around his cock, a hand snuck down to rub quick little circles on your clit as you get close.

He doesn’t watch you as you cum this time, not when you’re pulling his own orgasm out of him, milking him for all he’s worth. He’s drenched in sweat, trembling as he sucks in shaky breaths. No thoughts fill his mind, head completely fuckin’ empty but for the pleasure humming through his veins.

You laugh afterwards, the two of you curled up together, Adam having collapsed to the side in an attempt not to crush you. He gives you a crooked grin of his own, sliding one big palm over your tummy, rubbing it as he slings a massive thigh over your legs. “Good?” He asks, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as he starts to finger your belly button. You bat his hands away, calling him a fucking weirdo even as you lean in to capture his lips with yours. He nips at your bottom lip happily, smoothing his hand over your side, grabbing whatever part of you he can.

“Yeah,” he concedes, “-but I’m the fuckin’ weirdo you have custody of.” You smirk, and then you’re tugging on his shoulders, trying to haul him closer to you. You both need to shower--to clean up, probably drink some water, more than likely change the sheets. But maybe, he thinks to himself as he curls up half on top of you, nuzzling into your cheek--maybe it can wait for just a little longer.

____________________________________

“Fuckin’—ow!”

“Adam, stop moving around—“

“Well stop pulling my fuckin’ hair!”

You sigh at him, crossing your arms over your chest and giving him a hard look in the mirror. Adam pouts, slumping on the stool he was sitting on; he knew he was being whiny but his scalp was fuckin’ sensitive!

“You’re the one who asked me to braid your hair, remember?” You point out, grabbing another elastic from the countertop. “You practically begged me.”

“I didn’t beg.” He huffs, making a face at you. You don’t move, and he chances a look at his watch—fuck, he was gonna be late if this took too much longer. “… Fine, I’m sorry, I’ll sit still. Promise.” He chews on his bottom lip, giving you his best puppy dog eyes; he’s heard they were pretty effective. He’s pleased when you finally step forward, reaching up to comb through his hair again, pulling it out of his face and plaiting it across the top of his head.

He’s landed an actual honest-to-fuck movie role. A little indie film, sure, but it was still another stepping stone in his career. He was beyond excited, was putting his all into it—and, apparently, since his character was a boxer, that meant doing early morning training followed by choreography.

It was fine, really. He was enjoying it, and he liked learning a new sport, liked feeling the burn in different muscles of his body. It wasn’t that he was out of shape, it was just fuckin’ intense. Some days absolutely kicked his ass but he was always eager to come back for more. His trainer, Beth, said she liked that about him. It gave Adam a sense of pride about what he was doing.

It’s just that his damn hair kept getting in the way. It would get all sweaty, sticking all over his skin, flying into his eyes at the most inopportune moments. He’d tried to put it up into a ponytail but that hadn’t lasted long at all. Finally last night, after days of his complaining, you’d told him he just needed to braid it. I don’t know how to do that shit, he’d said, and you’d snorted, and here the two of you were.

“M’gonna be late.” He warns, leg bouncing up and down, jittery. He’d been on time—early, even—to every single session so far, and he didn’t want to break that streak.

“You won’t be late,” you murmur, twisting the tiny elastic around the end of the braid, making him wince just a little—he shuts his eyes against the sting. They have to be tight or they won’t hold, you’d said. Your hands sweep his remaining loose hair behind his ears, combing your fingers through it as you give your work a once over.

“I think they’re okay. They shouldn’t fall apart, at least. No more hair getting in your eyes.” You scratch your nails lightly at the back of his neck, a silent apology for the strain on his scalp, before moving to rub the shells of his ears between your thumbs and forefingers. Adam makes a small, pleased noise at the sensations, leaning back into your chest. He wants to stay here like this, with you, but he knows he can’t.

“How do I look?” He questions, eyes still closed. Your hands slide down the sides of his neck to rest on his shoulders, squeezing gently. He feels when you press a soft kiss to the crown of his head.

“Cute.” You tell him, and he can hear the smile in your voice. “Very pretty.”

He opens his eyes to meet your gaze in the mirror, wrinkling up his nose. “Cute?” You nod, and he shakes his head. “I can’t look fuckin’ cute while I’m boxing!” You just shrug, as if to say ‘well, what am I supposed to do about it?’, and then start putting up your supplies. Adam wants to keep on teasing you, but instead he hauls himself to standing, heading into the living room to grab his boots.

You trail in after him as he’s shoving them on his feet and perch on the edge of the couch to watch him. He speaks as he ties the laces, hyper-aware of the time even though the subway was only a couple minute walk from your apartment. “I shouldn’t be home late. Probably be back before you, even.”

Home. It only half registers that he says it, that he refers to your place as his. He doesn’t have time to worry about it now; besides, you only nod at him, like he hadn’t said anything out of the ordinary. He hops up, heavy feet stomping across the floor as goes to grab his trusty backpack. When he passes you on the way to the front door he drops a gentle kiss to your mouth.

“Thanks for my hair.” He says as he slips his arms through the straps of the bag and proceeds to pat his pockets, making sure he had everything he needed.

“Wait!” You’re crying out suddenly, making him freeze in place, looking at you with wide eyes. He watches you rush over to the fridge, digging in it for a moment or two; he gives his watch another nervous glance.

“Kid, what the hell…?” Adam scratches at the back of his neck, bouncing on his toes, ready to get out the door. When you shut the fridge, you’ve got two tupperware containers and a red gatorade in your hands; you hurry over to him, a small smile on your face.

“Here.” You tug him around with surprising strength, maneuvering him until you can unzip his backpack and put the plastic boxes and drink into the large pocket. “I made you lunch and some snacks. Don’t worry, it’s all protein. I know you always pack water but I wanted you to have more than that.”

Adam whips back around the second he’s allowed, his chest feeling warm and fluttery. He steals another kiss, one large hand on your jaw, nudging his nose against your cheek. Knowing he has to keep it short he pulls away, brushing his thumb over your chin as he does so. He opens his mouth to say something, but doesn’t really know how to express what your actions mean to him. When had you even packed that? Last night, while he was asleep?

You give him a gentle smile, nuzzling your face into his palm. “You better get going. You’ll be late.”

Adam exhales. You always gave him an escape route, and he always fuckin’ took it. “Right, yeah. Okay.” He steps back, grabbing his jacket from the coat rack. “Have a good day.” He yanks open the front door; when you speak again, your words are rushed, clearly not wanting to keep him.

“You too! Oh, can you pick up some bread on your way home?

“What? Oh, bread—yeah, sure—“ He’s stepping through the door, mind already focused on the day ahead. His hand finds the doorknob by muscle memory— “Sounds good, I can do that, love you!”—and the door slams shut behind him. He takes the stairs two at a time, his long strides getting him to the subway station sooner than he thought.

It’s not until he’s two stops down, staring blankly out the window as he stands in the crowded subway car, that he realizes what he’s done. Dread settles in his gut, heavy like lead, and his stomach twists. Fuck. Fuck! How could he have done something so stupid?

He wipes his palms on his gym shorts, feeling like they’re all clammy. He’d said ‘I love you’, tossed it to you like it was nothing. It wasn’t nothing! Fuck, what if you didn’t feel the same way? What if he’d ruined everything—pressured you somehow? Jesus Christ, well, guess it was time for him to leave the country. Or at least, move across town. New York was big enough to hide in, right?

He makes his way to the gym in a daze, his chest feeling all tight with anxiety. Getting into his routine is a struggle, and it frustrates him even more. Beth finally tells him to just have at one of the punching bags for a little bit, which does help loosen him up. Adam thinks it’s a tad ironic that imagining punching himself makes him feel better.

It’s not until he’s lumbering to the bodega to grab the bread you asked for, body aching and sticky with sweat, that he remembers you aren’t supposed to be home yet. He could sneak in undetected, plan an escape, or at least formulate some sort of explanation for his morning mistake. Though, he’s pretty sure saying “it was an accident, like when you were a kid and called your teacher ‘mom’” to his girlfriend wouldn’t bode well.

He knows he’s probably overreacting, but he’s never fuckin’ felt like this about someone before! He thought he’d known what love was; he thought he’d been in love in his past relationships. But he’s always said the words too fast, threw himself head first into the deep end. And yeah, he had loved them, in a way—cared about them, wanted them to care for him, too. But this? The all-encompassing affection and support you gave him? Your acceptance of him? He’s never had this before.

He’s never had someone want him fully as he is. And he wanted you the same way, loved every fuckin’ inch of you. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of you; wants you by his side, forever. He feels so much that it scares him. And the thought of you not feeling the same, of you not wanting what he did—of his confession of love being something one-sided.

Adam was fucking terrified.

But he can’t run away. He knows he can’t. He always did, and always came back when it was far too late—when people were done with him. He won’t do that with you.

So he takes the steps up to your apartment one by one, trudging slowly, the loaf of bread held to his chest as if it would protect him somehow. He fumbles with the key in the lock, finally pushing through the door and kicking it closed behind him. Looking up, he freezes, heart leaping into his throat. There you were, sat on the couch.

“… I thought you’d be at work,” he says after a moment, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He forces his body into movement, numbly going to put the bread on the countertop before setting down his backpack and removing the empty containers from his lunch. He can feel your eyes on him even if he isn’t looking at you; it makes him hunch his shoulders up to his ears.

“I had a meeting get canceled,” you inform him, voice holding on to a certain edge even while your tone is light. There’s silence, Adam trying to pretend like he’s busy in the kitchen even though it’s pretty obvious he isn’t. “Sackler.” There’s that stern-yet-fond tone he loves hearing so much, and it’s impossible for him to ignore you. He chances turning around, giving you what he hopes is a blank look.

“Will you please come here?” You’re practically batting your eyelashes at him at this point, and his brain is telling him that you’re definitely up to something. But then, you’re standing up, and he registers you’re wearing his favorite tiny tank top—and nothing else—and he finds his feet tripping over to you before he can help it.

“Fuck, kid, look at you.” He breathes, hands reaching out greedily to grab at your tits, the softness of your hips, your bare ass. You laugh, pushing him down onto the couch, pressing your hand between his legs as you lean in to kiss him. He groans, bucking his hips up, already impatient. Shit, it would be so easy to just slip down the waistband of his shorts, yank you down onto his cock—

“Thank you for getting the bread,” you murmur against his lips, leaning over him, one knee on the couch. Adam lets out a strangled sort of laugh.

“This is because I got bread?” he asks, incredulous. You nod, and he still doesn’t believe you, but fuck, fuck, fuck, you’re pulling his hand between your thighs and his fingers are delving on instinct. You’re wet. Wetter than you normally are starting out like this. He swallows hard as he finds your entrance, as three of his thick fingers slip in easily.

“Fuuuuuhhck,” he groans, dark eyes flicking up to meet your gaze, “-you dirty fuckin’ girl. Did you get yourself all ready for me? Too eager for my big cock to wait?” He can’t help the grin that spreads across his face as you whine, your hands tugging insistently at his shorts. He’s quick to help you pull them down along with his briefs, the both of you scrambling to be connected.

The second you slide down onto his cock he’s throwing his head back, thighs straining as he tries not to thrust into you with abandon. “Always so fuckin’ good,” he bites out, jaw clenched and voice all gravelly. His hands find your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he prepares to guide you at a punishing pace.

But then one of your hands is finding his face, angling him to look at you while your other hand balls itself in his shirt—and fuck, he hadn’t even had time to get his shirt off yet.

“Adam,” you say, all breathless, clenching around his cock in a way that has him grunting in response, almost fuckin’ shaking with need. You say his name again as you tug on his shirt, pulling the fabric up his chest. He reluctantly lets go of your hips in order to help get the offending garment off his torso, but then he’s right back to you, hands squeezing your ass.

“C’mon, baby, need you to move. Need to feel this tight fuckin’ pussy riding me.” His voice is little more than a growl, and he pulls you in to crash his lips to yours before you can respond. He’s overwhelmed, needy, previous anxiety forgotten—he forgot most things when you were so tight and warm and wet around him.

He plants his boot covered feet on the ground and thrusts upwards, a broken moan leaving his chest as you gasp into his mouth. You plant your hands on his shoulders and he thinks finally, you’re going to give him what he so badly needs. But then you’re pulling away from him, settling into his lap like you had all the time in the world, a little smirk on your face.

“We need to talk, Adam.”

He stares at you, gobsmacked; his cock does a little twitch inside of you, like it’s as confused as he is. “Talk? Now?” You nod, resolute, and Adam let’s out a long, hot breath through his nose. “What,” he bites out, palms kneading your ass; he thinks maybe his eye twitches, “—do we need to talk about?”

“Did you mean it this morning?” Your voice is all quiet as you run your fingertips over his french braids, then down to curl his loose hair behind his ears. “When you said you loved me?”

Adam’s mind—so singularly focused on fucking you—grinds to a complete halt. He gapes at you, unable to come up with any sort of excuse, any sort of witty counter to your question. It’s then that he realizes what you’ve done, you little fuckin’ minx—you’ve weaponized sex against him!

You fuckin’ knew he wouldn’t be able to think like this. Maybe he should be mad, but he knows--he knows this is exactly what he needs. So he closes his mouth, swallowing hard and sliding his hands from your ass to the small of your back, holding you close.

“Yes.” It’s shaky, falling from his lips. He tries to make his voice more firm. “I love you.” And then, just to double down on it: “I’m so in love with you it scares the shit outta me. I love fuckin’—everything about you. I never wanna love anyone else ever again, not if it's not you.”

His heart is beating wild in his chest, and the pervy little part of his brain wonders if you can feel it through his dick. You lean in and kiss him all slow, squeezing your perfect fuckin’ pussy around him, and his hands move further up your back to pull you into him. He feels unsteady, like he’s jumped off a precipice into the unknown. He’s dizzy with the relief of his confession, with the worry of your reaction even as you kiss him, with the feeling of such a tight, slick, heat around his cock.

“I love you, too.”

He almost misses it with the way you murmur it into the corner of his mouth and with his head spinning from overstimulation. He blinks at you, giving you those big brown eyes and his jaw works as his mind catches up to speed. You smile, dropping more kisses over his strong features, then laugh when he finally yanks his head back to stare at you, his breath catching in his chest.

“You love me.” It’s not a question, but more of a confirmation; him reassuring himself that what he’d heard was real. You nod, hands smoothing over his broad shoulders, down his biceps. His eyes search yours as his hips shift underneath you, making you sigh happily. Something in him snaps.

He re-positions his feet on the floor, one of his hands gripping your hip and the other wrapped around the back of your neck. Your eyes widen, and you have a split second to balance yourself against his chest before he’s snapping his hips up, fucking into you at a frantic pace. The gasp you make is music to his fuckin’ ears.

“Say it again.” He growls at you, gaze drifting over your body, watching the way your tits bounce with his thrusts. “Say it.”

“I love you.”

Your words make him moan, and he doesn’t care how ridiculous he sounds. “Again,” he demands, voice ragged, and you obey—you say it over and over again until his mind is filled with it, the words a soothing balm for all his insecurities. You cry out, trembling in his lap, his cock deep inside you, and Adam is overcome.

He holds you there, the hand on your neck moving between your legs to rub quick circles on your clit. “I fuckin’ love you too, goddamn, this tight little pussy. You gonna cum for me? Cum all over my big fuckin’ cock?” He’s panting, staring you down, not letting you look away. “Fuckin’—say it when you cum. Please—please.”

You nod quickly, mouth hanging open, squirming so deliciously on his cock as your cunt gets tighter and tighter around him. He isn’t sure he’s even breathing, fingers moving desperately as you sob out his name, hips jerking in his lap. Your hands clutch at him, fingers raking at his chest as you chant I love you, I love you, the words all broken by your cries and whines. It’s fuckin’ beautiful.

“Fuuuuhhhhck.” Adam groans between gritted teeth, eyes rolling back in his head as your pussy squeezes his cock like it’s trying to milk him, like it’s begging for all his fuckin’ cum. He lets out loud, feral, shuddering breaths, trying to hold back—he isn’t done with you yet. “Oh, you feel so fuckin’ good, jeeeezus.” His words sound all strangled, and he has just the smallest bit of sense to wrap his arms around you when you slump into his chest.

Your breaths are short little pants against his neck, and he closes his eyes, savoring the feeling of them—of you in general, the weight of you on top of him, your sticky skin against his, your body heat. “I love you.” He croaks out, saying it again just because he can. You hum in response, nuzzling your face closer; it makes him smile.

He trails the pads of his fingers down your spine and then back up, feeling the texture of your skin. You were his. His to touch, to kiss, to hold, to love.

He was yours.

It’s a heady, hopeful thought that tastes like the future.

______________________________________________________________

taglist friends!

@leatherboundbirate @fathersonandhouseofgucci @direnightshade @paper-n-ashes @glassbxttless @barbers-glimmerin-darlin @peachyproserpina @jynzandtonic @hopeamarsu @mariesackler @millenialcatlady @sacklerscumrag @cornmousequeen @eagerforhoney @icarusinthesea @heartofjakku

#adam sackler x female reader #adam sackler x afab!reader #adam sackler x fem!reader #adam sackler x reader #adam sackler #adam sackler fic #adam sacklet smut #adcu fic #adcu fic exchange #tori writes #feedback always welcome & appreciated!

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nataliedanovelist · 3 years ago

Text

GF - Timestuck AU: The Power of Mabel ch.7 (finale)

While fighting over a time machine so one twin can win a pig or the other can win the heart of a girl, Mabel is left stranded in a snowy forest with no time machine and no brother. Oops.

ch.6

AO3 link

~~~~~~~~~~

Ford sat on the kitchen floor with his back against the cupboards, clinging to his knees, his glasses still in hand. His throat was sore and his eyes hurt and his nose was runny and his heart was raw and broken, and yet he wasn’t done crying. Though he was done sobbing and occasionally crying so hard he thought he would throw up, free-flowing tears still streamed down his face as he hid the bottom-half of his head in his beefy arms.

“What do we do now?” He moaned.

Stan looked at the know-it-all who didn’t have a clue. He sighed and moved to sit next to him, his back against the cupboard and his knees up by his chest as he combed his mullet. “I dunno… Sit here and die?”

Ford hiccuped a cruel laugh and buried his face in his arms fully. “I wish I could.”

Stan snorted. “What’s that saying? The good die young?”

Ford groaned and started to sob again.

Stan rubbed his back, his head against the cupboard and he looked up at the ceiling. “O-Okay, okay… Let’s think about this. So we never made up, or something else really bad happened between us, and that’s the timeline Mabel was from, right?”

“Right.” Ford gruffed, lifting his head up and rubbing his eyes dry.

“So, since that didn’t happen, or it happened differently… B-But that doesn’t mean she’s… She’ll still exist in our timeline, won’t she? She’s gonna be okay?” He asked the scientist, digging for some kind of hope.

Ford sighed and rested his cleft chin on his arms. “As long as what happened didn’t interfere with Alex’s life too much… Which I don’t know how it could… Mabel and Dipper should still be born in 1999. There’s a small possibility they’ll be different than what they once were, or because of some unseen butterfly effect, their birth might be different or might not happen at all… But…”

The eldest by fifteen minutes slipped his glasses back on, stood, and said stubbornly, “I’m going to do what I can to ensure it is a better future than what the kids had. Our entire family was broken because of what we did and didn’t do. Clearly either one of us went insane or died or something horrible, and I won’t allow that to happen.”

“I don’t think we gotta worry too much about that happening.” Stan said from down on the floor. “I mean, if Mabel changed things so much that an entire reality changed, then we don’t really gotta do much except not screw this up.”

Ford laughed and held out a hand to his twin, who gladly clasped it and stood. “You’re right.”

But the men were disheartened to finally notice the mess in the kitchen. Mabel’s cake batter sat on the flour-dusted counter, the oven was hot and ready for baking, and the muffin tray was on the floor from where Mabel dropped it. Ford looked down at the sweater he was wearing - the sweater she had knitted for him - and without a word he walked to the living room and saw Mabel’s knitting sitting on the couch where she had left it, a completed red sweater with a golden heart on it.

Ford smiled mournfully and held the sweater as Stan joined him and gasped at the sweater. The big brother held it out to the little brother and croaked, “We’ll see her again.”

Stan smiled, cleared his throat, and took off his hoodie and snagged the new sweater to slip it over his old white t-shirt. “Yeah.”

~~~~~~~~~~

July 22nd, 1980

Ford held the lantern up to better read the writing in the cave. He peered at it and was intrigued by a description of a being with answers. It would be summoned if he read out-loud, and though there were many clear warnings against this, the desperate scientist was extremely tempted.

“Sixer! Let’s move before we get caved in or some shit.” Stan called as he walked up to Ford. “What are you reading, cavemen graffiti?”

“Look, Stanley, there are tales of an all-knowing being with answers. It could help me with my theory��”

“Nope.” Stan grabbed Ford by the collar of his trenchcoat and dragged him away like dragging a child out of a toy store.

“Stanley! Let me go!”

“That shit’s got bad voodoo written all over it! You’ve gotta be inhaling toxic cave gas or something to think summoning a demon is a good idea!”

“We don’t know it’s a demon.”

“Really? Then why does that wall read in old blood ‘Do not summon demon!’?”

“Huh. Well, um…”

“That’s what I thought, now don’t make me pick you up and carry you. Let’s move.” And he lightly shoved Ford forward to lead the walk away from the cave and through the tunnels for sunlight.

~~~~~~~~~~

Alex’s wedding was wonderful and a joyous day, but it also made Ford and Stan nervous. They both agreed not to say a word to anyone (as far as Fiddleford knew, Ford had found the girl’s parents and all was over and ended well), and white they were happy to be one step closer to meeting the kids, they were slightly worried that something might be different than Mabel’s timeline.

She never told them her mother’s name. Did Alex marry someone else? Did they marry at the correct time? There was no way of telling, and they both agreed to allow themselves to enjoy the day and maybe drink a little. Or a lot.

~~~~~~~~~~

When Shermie called and told them that Alex and Dana were going to have a baby, Ford choked on his coffee and Stan dropped the phone. They silently exchanged looks and were terrified that there was only one baby. But it was seven months before the end of August, so maybe the new parents were choosing to keep everything a surprise. Knowing Alex, that is something he would do, especially if there were twins. A beautiful surprise for his twin uncles.

So they congratulated Shermie and made him swear to call them if anything happened so they could be there. And despite their fear, they were very joyous of becoming grunkles again.

~~~~~~~~~~

August 31st, 1999

The entire week leading up to the day, the men were incredibly anxious. The birthday was on 31st, which meant Dipper and Mabel could be born at 1am on the 31st, or 11pm on the 31st. They had no way of knowing, but as long as that damn telephone stayed silent, they weren't leaving the house all weekend. Neither of them slept the night of the 30th, just in case.

Finally, a little after coffee on the 31st, the phone rang. Both Ford and Stan tackled each other and fought for it, but Stan sat on Ford and grabbed it first.

“Stanley, get off me!”

“Stanley, what are you doing to your brother?” Shermie chuckled on the other end.

“Nevermind that, Sherm!” Stan laughed. “What’s going on with you?” He asked casually, though he smiled down at Ford, who smiled back, despite still being sat on in the kitchen.

“Well, you guys know I’m gonna be a grandpa soon…”

“Really? Had no idea.” Stan said sarcastically as he stood up to get off Ford. “So? Is it happening now?!” Ford ran down the hall.

Shermie laughed. “Yup. I just got here myself and Alex and Dana got here about twenty minutes ago.”

“Piedmont Hospital, right?”

“Right.”

“We’ll be there in six hours.”

“It’s an eight hour drive!”

“I said six hours!”

“STANL-” But Stan hung up the phone.

Stan hurried up to his attic bedroom and dressed in his baby-blue Hawaiian shirt and slacks, while also grabbing a suitcase he’s had ready all week, prepared to stay as long as Alex and Dana needed him.

He ran back downstairs with suitcase in hand, with Ford by the door, and they sprinted into the Stanmobile and drove down the road.

~~~~~~~~~~

Shermie was waiting for them in the hall, beaming with joy, and his little brothers ran to him for a tackle-hug.

“Good to see you, Grandpa!”

“Congratulations, Shermie!”

“Thank you, thank you!”

“Did we miss it?!” Stan asked. “Has it happened yet?!”

Shermie grinned and nodded. “Yes, everyone is safe and fine.” And he opened the door.

The aged explorers beamed (and no, they weren’t crying) to find Alex holding one baby and Dana holding another baby. The eldest pair of twins high-sixed and cheered and then gently approached the little ones, beaming down at them.

It was like they had been holding their breath for twenty years, and now they could finally breathe.

“What are their names?” Ford asked quietly, seeing how each newborn was sleeping soundly.

“This is Mabel,” Alex introduced, giving the bundle to Stan.

“And this is Mason.” Dana said tiredly, giving her son to Ford to hold.

Stan and Ford were a bit concerned with the name change, but one look at the baby boy relaxed them. Of course a name like Dipper was a nickname.

“Matching names, huh?” Stan asked cheekily, cradling Mabel and looking down at her with shining brown eyes.

“We couldn’t help ourselves.” Alex chuckled.

Ford’s eyes were glued to Mason. While of course he had been dying to see Mabel again, he had also been excited to meet his science-loving nephew. He was so cute and small in his polydactyl hands and Ford knew it would take a lot more strength than what he had to let him go.

The author tore his eyes away to see his twin looking down at Mabel with tears in his eyes, holding her close to his heart and trying really hard to hold it together, but his joy and peace was far stronger than any bad habits that stopped him from showing his emotions. Stan lightly kissed Mabel’s cheek and Ford saw his lips barely move, though he didn’t hear what he said. Which was fine by him. Ford smiled back down at Mason, finally content.

No one heard him say it, thank Moses, but Stan couldn’t help himself. He had whispered to his niece as quiet as a mouse, “I’ve missed you, pumpkin.”

And finally, after all these years, the small hole in the boys’ hearts could be filled.

THE END!

#GF #gravity falls #gravity falls au #timestuck au #fanfiction #stangst #thank you guys SO much for reading!#im sorry i hurt you last chapter #hopefully this makes up for it ^^;#august 31st

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barzzal · 4 years ago

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between halls and thin walls → part four

summary: friends who fool around almost never works. almost.

↳ pairing: mathew barzal x you

↳ warnings: idiots, that’s all <3

↳ genre: fluff, angst, smut, roommates au, best friend’s best friend, friends with benefits, 18+

↳ length: series; part one, part two, part three, part four (6.7k), part five, part six

↳ masterlist: the barn

↳ track: my favorite part by mac miller, addicted by jorja smith, someone to spend time with by los retros

note: finally got myself to update this fic oml zzz quick psa tho, this will now be a six-part series! hope that’s okay and yenno as always, would love to hear what you think about this (validate me in the tags pls im lonely) happy reading babes! <3

“Yo, grandma. Haven’t you had too much tea to drink?” his voice echoes in the room as soon as he walks into it. You carefully set the cup down on the dining table and looked at him exasperatedly.

“Haven’t you had too much care to give?” you snark back, earning yourself a disappointed look from him.

“Really, y/n? That’s the best you’ve got?” he shakes his head at your appalling retort. What a shame.

You were good at pissing him off to be fair. You just weren’t in the mood to throw teases back and forth especially now that you’re feeling particularly vulnerable.

The week has been far too dreadful for you and you know that you’re willing to grovel your way into the weekend to finally have the time to slack off, not worry about taking a bath, and just go crazy with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

However, just like always, Mathew seems to never run out of ways to get on your nerves.

He carelessly puts his stuff on the table, causing a fairly loud thud on the surface.

You let out a deep breath, massaging your temple.

“Somebody’s cranky.” he grins. Not necessarily the kind you’d want to see from him.

You try to ignore him for a few minutes but you can’t help noticing how his build easily took over much of the space you’ve already been occupying. You irkingly look up at him, closing the book you were reading. You meet Mat’s eyes who just innocently looked back into yours. Waiting. Possibly plotting on yet another sophisticated way to toy with you.

“You’re a child.” you roll your eyes and return to your reading. He says nothing and instead rests his chin atop his enclasped hands, continuing to bother you with his ridiculously beguiling eyes. He presses his lips together before sighing dramatically.

“What?” you snap, finally shutting your book down as you look at him.

“I wanna go out.” he looks up at you in an effort to make his huge physique smaller than it really was.

“Then go out. You’re a big boy.” you breathe.

“You just said that I’m a child.” he coos, mimicking a five-year-old’s voice.

“Stop that.” you glare at him. Mat props himself back and laughs, “Come on. I’m bored.”

You open your book again just as you reply in a tone that Mat’s getting used to hearing. “Boredom doesn’t give you the right to pester me, Barzal.”

And as an exchange, he speaks in the same tone rather mockingly, “And so is that attitude, Y/L/N.”

“Come on, y/n. Let’s go out.” he now pleads, looking up at you with what seems to be his worst impression of a ‘puppy eye’.

“Fine.” you finally concede and you see Mat’s beaming smile instantly.

“Where’d you want to go?” you ask as you take your reading glasses off.

“Dunno.” He shrugs, obviously teasing.

On the edge of being irritated, you say, “Are you kidding me?”

“Grandma.” he mumbles before saying, “Do you have anything you want to do? And please don’t say book hunt.”

You suppress a smile and maintain your composure. “I’m craving for pancakes right now but I also wanna drink. Go to a bar or something.”

He nods in agreement. Already stitching his game plan.

“We can do both.” he bobs his all too fine brows.

He didn’t have a hard time getting you on board with his spontaneity. You actually haven’t gone out in a while and the thought of a possible night out doesn’t seem to be so bad of an idea.

You’ve been with Mat to parties and while the two of you don’t mingle as much as the other guys did, he does know his way around the club. The dance floor, however, he tries. He really does.

For about an hour Mathew waited patiently in the living room as he scrolled endlessly on instagram liking a few photos and laughing at posts the fans tag him occasionally. His eyes were peeled away from the screen when he heard the door to your room click. His irises trail onto your body even if he didn’t plan to originally.

Mathew, albeit dressed simply in his black turtleneck sweater and a beige overcoat exudes just about the right ‘swag’ (as per how he puts it) to stop you in your stupor. Although what you didn’t know was how you weren’t any different in his eyes. You were dressed quite nicely in a black lace bodysuit with a pair of blackpants accentuated by the black boots you usually wear on a night out. Your coat was slung on your forearm whilst you held your clutch purse in your hand so you could close the door with the other.

“What?” you blink just as you look down to eye yourself. Feeling a tad self-conscious under his gaze.

Mat immediately breaks it off. He clears his throat, pretending to wipe off the non-existent dust on the accent table.

“What?” he mirrors with an arched brow.

You shrug off his demeanor, snatching your keys from the accent table before putting it in your purse.

“Have you called a lyft already?” he nods, absentmindedly scratching his temple.

“You ready? You look— decent.” He says, trying to act casual and distant when he gives you the compliment.

Not noticing the unfamiliar look his eyes had, you return the compliment and say, “And so do you. Good job for not looking like you came straight out of an H&M catalogue.” you wink at him with a grin. A thing which was then reciprocated by a deadpan look on his end.

Before he could even come up with yet another clever way to come at you, you start walking towards the door, looking at him once as you motion the way by curling your finger.

“Haul ass, buddy.”

𖥸

10:15 PM

Mat decided to bring you to the usual place he goes to when he wants to be alone and just enjoy a couple of beers while he chats with River, the bartender he eventually befriends after years spent drinking in solitude.

The bar had a rustic feel filled with wine barrels in the corner of the room. The seats were leather (mind you, it wasn’t the kind that gets easily worn out through time) and everything looked new to you regardless of all the vintage stuff displayed articulately on the brick wall. A turntable was set on the table stacked with vinyl records, most of which were from the 70s to 80s underneath.

It was obvious that it wasn’t the kind people would know about. Aside from it being located at such a secluded street leading to the suburbs, it wasn’t the type of bar kids would want to hang out in. It only had a few customers and most of them wore suits and came with company. No one really gave a hoot when you walked in with Mathew, aka, the face of the New York Islanders. Which is basically the reason why Mat kept coming back to the place. He felt comfortable and at peace. Almost in retrospect to being at home hanging with his father.

“I can’t believe this place exists.” you say, mouthing your thanks to River as he hands you both of your drinks. The man that’s definitely aged like fine wine smiles, nodding his head over to Mat who was doing the same before he headed back to mix another set of drinks.

“Me neither.” he grins, reminiscing about the time he’s found the small pub by accident.

“This place looks expensive though.” you whisper, making Mathew laugh.

“Well, it kinda is.” he sheepishly chuckles. “River’s filthy rich.”

“Is he really?” your mouth falls and you look back over the build of the old man. The way his salt and pepper hair was neatly slicked back makes quite a compelling case for what Mat had just said.

Mat eventually explains who he was. Apparently, he was just another bored fancy man who happened to love making people drop dead and drunk with his over the top mixes. His dark deep set brown eyes are quite of a crowd favourite too. Case in point, the group of ladies seated from across you and Mathew.

“Hey.” you absentmindedly call on Mat who had just sipped on his drink. “I know what we should do.”

“All right.” he puts the glass down, “Lay it on me.”

“Let’s fix you up with one of the girls over there.” you suggest, leaning towards his body so you could get a better view upfront. Mat does not move and instead follows your finger subtly pointing at the other end of the room.

“What’s with the sudden fixation of getting me bagged tonight, huh?” he smirks, shaking his head at the idea of having to go home with some random girl. You give him a side eye as you move away from him.

“Fixation is an overstatement. We’ll be here long enough for us to get sick of each other.” you explicitly told him.

Mat eyes you intently. Searching if there was even the slightest doubt in your eyes.

Long enough to get sick of each other.

He clears his throat instead and looks across the room. “Which one?”

A gleeful cheer erupts from you just before you look over the girls in question. “What’s your type?” you ask him, not sparing a glance.

Mat looks down on you underneath the bar lights accentuating your features. Your eyes had a certain glint in them that Mat still can’t get a grasp on. Something that was just enough to spark something inside him. He didn’t want to overthink it nonetheless. It must have been just the lights.

Once Mat sensed that you were about to look at him he immediately turned his gaze forward, squinting his eyes a little pretending to check out the women you’ve been eyeing for the last minute.

“I don’t really have a type.” he shrugs, casually taking the fragile glass to his mouth.

You dismiss what he said at once, “Do I look like a child to you? Just answer it.”

Mat shakes his head, “I told you. I don’t have one. If we vibe then we vibe. Simple as that.”

You did not believe him but you decide to drop it off. Instead, you look back and return to your new found mission. Across the bar, seated were three girls busy talking to each other.

“Got it.” you tell Mat, nodding your head towards the clueless girl sitting right across from where Mathew was. “The one in the center.” you add. “The one wearing a white bodycon.”

“She’s pretty.” he nods, validating your taste as his potential wingman. “Nice smile.”

Your hand met a firm slap on the table as you went on cheering for him. “Well? Go then!” you give him a nudge, taking it back quickly when you feel a slight hesitation on his part, “Don’t tell me you need me to introduce you?”

He takes the remainder of his glass and shaked off the kick it had in his throat. “You just sit and watch, babe.”

You do as you’re told and lean towards the bar, your elbow carrying all your weight whilst you sip on your half-full martini.

Mathew’s stance and the way he carries himself immediately caused the girls to notice him coming. Of course, you weren’t really surprised. You watch him approach her,– reading along the words leaving his mouth. There was an exchange of proper ‘hello’s’ as Mat introduced himself to the girls. He reaches out his hand and the curly noirette in the center gives him a firm shake.

Mat’s eyes momentarily locked with yours just as you see their hands linger in the air— tangled long enough for him to make a quick segway. He winks your way as he sees you grin from your seat, shaking your head just after you felt the need to take a deep breath. A thing you assumed to be because of the drink. So, while Mat leads the girl to one of the empty booths and sits across from her, you call on River and ask for another drink.

Mathew must have lost track of time by the second drink he shared with Zoe. He learns that she’s from upstate and was just on the island to visit her friends. She’s still working on her major at NYU; coincidentally in the same field as Lianna so that was one of the things they’ve talked about first hand. She wasn’t really into sports so Mat steered clear of his job because he didn’t want to bore her.

“So…” Zoe smiles and tucks her hair behind her ear. “What’s the deal with you and the girl you’re with?”

By the time she asked about you, only then did Mat remember who he was originally with.

“Oh! She’s—” he looks over to where you’re seated only to find you laughing— no giggling with a man that was obviously a few years older than you. He’s wearing a neat black suit and a button down shirt with a couple of its first buttons opened. Zoe sees him frown, evidently losing his train of thought.

She calls him with her sweet voice, “Mat?”

“Yeah?” he absentmindedly answers, not wanting to take his eyes off of your hand that was now gently pushing the man’s arm whilst the two of you continue to burst into laughter.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

What’s so funny?

Finally, Mat hears Zoe’s distant voice that eventually took him back to his seat.

“Oh. Y-Yeah.” he apologetically smiles. “Sorry. What were you saying again?”

She hesitates to ask about you after taking a quick glance your way upon seeing the way Mathew looked at you. Nevertheless, she decides to go for it.

“Aren’t you two together? I don’t want to come off strong here or anything. It’s just that I don’t want to get in between something if there ever is.”

Mat looks at you one more time and as if you’ve felt his eyes all along you turn your way and meet his gaze. You shoot him a quiet smile, eyeing the guy sitting beside you, mouthing what he assumes to be an exaggerated “So hot!” on your end. He reciprocates your smile and gives you an approving nod.

Once you looked away, that’s the only time Mat finally answered the woman waiting patiently for his attention.

“What?” Mat shakes his head wildly, blowing out air off his lips defensively. “No no no. We’re just friends. She’s my roommate actually.” he shrugs you off his mind and instead tries to put his entire focus on her.

The remaining hours were spent with you and Mat getting along with your respective potential hook-ups. Not that it wasn’t the endgame either of you were hoping for at the back of your minds.

He’s got to admit that Zoe was the kind of girl he’d be interested in. Another fact he’s kept a mental tab not to mention to you because he knows you’ll just get cocky.

She was sweet and obviously eloquent. He knows she’s way smarter than he’ll ever be. But out of all those qualities, she was just as passionate at her craft as someone he likes to think he knows well enough. And that alone made a small smile creep on his lips.

Nonetheless, despite all the aforementioned, Mathew found himself a bit more reserved than he usually is whenever he gets to meet and talk to his potential ‘lady friends’ as how you’ve put it countless times. He just wasn’t his exact self. And he was beginning to question it.

There were no fancy hockey plays thrown subtly into the conversation. Neither mentions of golfing nor over the top league events. No butchered french pet names swiftly tucked in his sentences. And no endless questions that would eventually lead to something along the lines of ‘Do you want to get out of here?’

Well, not until Zoe’s friends got up their seats and she told him herself.

“Hey. The girls and I are meeting up with some friends in Brooklyn. D’ya wanna come?”

Mat’s eyes trail down to her hand now gently caressing his. He raises both his brows thinking of a possible ‘out’ because he wasn’t sure if it was a smart thing to leave you alone with a stranger.

He hums, “Sure.”

Zoe shows him a delighted smile before eventually sliding out of the booth to walk towards the bar she and her friends were formally seated.

“I gotta use the restroom first. Please excuse me.” she gives him a nod before going back to chatting with her friends.

You, on the other hand, see Mat leave the table aiming for an archway you presume to be where the loo was.

“Hey,” you call the man whose name you’ve already forgotten. Your pause was long enough for him to acknowledge the chances that you actually did forget who he was. Obviously.

“Chris.” The man in his early 30s answers with a submitting grin.

You shyly laugh, squeezing his forearm as you try to apologize for forgetting.

“Would you mind if I use the restroom?” you politely ask.

“No, not at all.” he replies and immediately stands to help you get on your feet. Gentleman.

Once you are in front of the men’s room, you anxiously wait for your wingman. You hug your purse close to your chest. Not a whole minute after, the door finally opens and you meet Mat’s irises with quite a gleeful look.

A look he wasn’t a fan of for he knew what’s about to come next.

“Are you taking off?” you eagerly ask, almost hopping on your feet.

Mat eyes you from head to toe, looking for signs that would stink from a drunk y/n. When he sees none, that’s when he decides to say that he was.

“Mkay good. I’ll be on my way too. Chris is taking me to New Jersey.” you tell him, briefly looking through the archway to see if there were people listening.

Once you know you’re clear, you lean towards Mat, your lips dangerously close to the sensitive skin of his ear. Mat feels your heated breath sending a familiar tingle up his spine. “I’ll get to ride a yacht tonight.” you bite your lower lip and giddily smile as if you were a cheeky 16 year-old usually depicted in a coming of age movie.

“Who’s Chris?” Mat, in spite of taking rounds observing you all night, finds the need to ask. “And why are you coming with him to NJ?” he further questions.

“Uh– okay, dad.” you step back for a second. You let out a scoff, checking if he was being serious about it. “I thought we’re supposed to go get laid tonight? Weren’t you about to take off with that girl yourself?”

Mat averts your gaze and starts to scratch the corner of his brow. “Well yeah. It’s just that— he looks sketchy.” he pauses, “plus… isn’t he a little too old for you?”

You roll your eyes as you’ve already expected to hear the words from him.

“He’s 31. He’s not that old.” you say rather defensively so you turn the ball back on his court. “And what if he was? Didn’t you ask one of the moms out??”

Mat’s eyes widens and you try to bite back a laugh. He whispers with a biting tone, trying to save himself. “She didn’t look like one! I’m gonna kill Beau I swear to god.”

“Come on Barz. Don’t be such a killjoy. Text me if you need anything, okay? Wrap things up while you’re at it.” you say at once. Mat doesn’t get the chance to talk you out of such a stupid idea because before he even could, you’ve already planted a kiss on his cheek and started walking away.

Mat waited for the sound of the heavy doors of the bar, signaling that you and your friend have gone, before stepping back to where Zoe was. She waves him near the coat closet.

“Hi.” Mat greets her friends before eventually turning his attention on the unsuspecting lass. She meets her with a smile (just like what she’s been doing all night). The same smile, however, drops the second Mat opens his mouth. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Zoe nods and willfully abides, letting Mat take her gently by the arm.

“What’s up?” she innocently asks.

“Something came up.” he says a little too fast than what he’d originally intended. He was going to let her down either way might as well get it over with and rip up the asshole band-aid.

“Oh.” she says in a tone Mat knew that she completely understood.

“No worries.” she looks at him with a knowing look in her eyes. “I’ll see you around then.”

He gives her a kind smile and nods. “Take care.”

Mathew walks towards the bar, catching River’s teasing grin whilst he cleans up after the bottles left on the center of the counter.

“What?” Mat reacts defensively, taking a seat in front of the lone bartender. River faintly shakes his head to leave just enough curiosity in Mathew’s mind.

“You’re such a tool, old man.” the kid says aiming for the cold beer River has put away for himself. River did not mind because he’s grown fond of the star player for the past years he’s spent going on late night drinks at his bar. Years that even justifies a proper amount of time for him to know the in’s and out’s of one Mathew Barzal.

“I haven’t said a thing.” he shrugs amidst the already wide grin on his face.

There’s wisdom in his eyes that Mathew has always admired. He wasn’t the guy who’d want to talk about what’s going on inside his head but with how River’s pub seems to be just the right place, he eventually concedes and takes a shot to pick on the old man’s brain.

“Come on, spill it out. I know you’re going to anyway.” Mat gives in, running his thumb on the moist label of the bottle.

River wipes his hands before resting it atop the counter. “Well, it’s just that– I ain’t used to seeing you turn down ladies like that too often. And you’re definitely not one to stick around watching me clean up.”

Mat stays silent for a moment, as if to gather the exact reason as to why he chose to stay. He still has a long way to go before figuring that one out. He wasn’t exactly as sharp as he was on the ice.

“I don’t know, man.” he chuckles tirelessly, “I guess I wasn’t in the mood. That’s all.”

“You?” River shots a brow and dismisses him, shaking his head. When Mat doesn’t answer, he carefully picks on his choice of words and lays it down carefully for him. After all, Mathew should have known that River was old enough to not know what’s going on.

“Though I gotta be honest with you, hijo. Never imagined you’d bring someone here.” he starts.

What must have been a shot in the dark for the old man was just enough to tear Mathew’s eyes away from staring at the water beads on the bottle.

“What?”

“The girl, Barz.” he says, banging on the head of the bottle to knock the cap off. “She a friend?”

“What? Y/N?” Mat quirks his brows trailing off where River was exactly headed, “What about her?— Oh, her? Yeah, no. She’s just a friend.”

“She pretty.” he speaks in a sound accent, not wanting to let Mat know he’s growing to like catching the young lad off guard. Mathew nods casually despite the continuous blabbering. “She’s y/n. But yeah— I guess, she is pretty.”

“Then what are you doing being just friends with a pretty girl?” River inquires, taking a sip of his beer. When he sees him trying to register what he’d just said he then adds, “Why not be with her? Date her?”

“Psh. What? Date y/n? That’s crazy.” Mat shakes his head furiously, “You’re crazy.”

“What’s so crazy about that?” River takes offense, laughing at the child’s naivete.

“I can’t date her. I mean— I won’t date her.” he takes the bottle to his mouth, taking a large gulp before continuing, “We’re in this weird relationship thing. A setup, actually, and it’s— it’s crazier than dating her. I swear, you of all people won’t get it.”

“What makes you think I can’t?” he smirks, “I’ve had my fair share of crazy.” River points out despite the hesitation in Mat’s eyes. “I got all night, kid.” he adds, letting him have the floor to himself.

“You really want in on this?” he second guesses, not wanting to bore the man with his personal life.

River leans against the brass counter just below the lit rack of vintage scotch displayed on the bar. He then gestures him to give a piece of his mind and Mat finally submits to his offer.

“We’ve been in a few… prior engagements,” he starts trying to find the appropriate word. “Well, sort of.”

River hums, not necessarily getting on the same page as him so he decides to be upfront about it.

“We’ve… slept together.” he confesses.

“So you used to date her?” the old man asks.

“No.” he answers, “I told you we’re just friends.”

With furrowed brows, River takes a minute. And once Mat hears an all too familiar “Oh.” he sees him break a chuckle, shaking his head at the thought of what Mat had just told him. “You kids have way too much fun these days.”

Mathew shrugs, “Hey, I warned you. Told you you wouldn’t get it.”

“Okay, make me understand something here. You two sleep together, fool around, do all that shit.” he says, “and you swear you’re not in a relationship?”

“Nope.” Mat answers with pride, popping out the word with a hard ‘p’.

“Huh.” River clicks his tongue, “How long have you two been… engaged?”

He rolls his eyes when River uses his word, “About two months.” he answers shortly.

“Is she seeing anyone since you two started this thing? You know, casual dates, the ones I presume she’s been getting before you got her into this mess?” he asks him in a tone that only fathers would ever dare to use.

Mat thinks for a moment, trying to recall the last time he’s seen a guy pick you up for dinner besides the old man you’ve successfully bagged for the night. He firmly shakes his head no and simply says, “At least not in my recollection.”

River willfully nods, walking Mat right into the trap. “Well have you been seeing anyone lately?” he asks again, this time slipping a hint of assertion. He hears a crystal clear ‘no’ from the forward and that’s when he broke a goading grin.

“And you’re telling me you two aren’t together?” he asks yet again, getting on Mat's nerves as he continues to flood him with biting queries, building up the final point he was about to break on Mathew.

“Rivs, for the hundredth time, no. We are not.” he clarifies.

Mat watches River pour himself a glass of scotch, still wearing a smug grin. “Imma give you a piece of advice, yeah?” he smiles rather teasingly and doesn’t wait for Mat to rebut, “I’m a happily married man so I don’t know a single squat about dating nowadays, but if you’re telling me that you kids aren’t sleeping with anyone else but yourselves? Looks like a damn relationship to me.”

With his brows all quirked in confusion (and denial in the very least), Mathew gathers all his might just so he could refute whatever madness River was trying to inflict on him and screw him up in the head. But before he could even open his mouth, the sound of the heavy doors was all it took to tear up both River’s and Mat’s attention.

“Hi.” you say the moment you were welcomed by unsuspecting men talking by the bar. River acknowledges you by raising his drink, his gaze landing on Mat the moment yours did.

“Hi.” Mathew mirrors you in an attempt to drown his already racing heart. A smile impending to break loose at any moment but he manages to suppress it. Instead of dealing with his adrenaline, he gestures for you to take a seat beside him.

“Where’s the sugar daddy?” he laughs the moment you drag yourself from across the room, mocking every word he said.

“His wife called when I got into his car.” you cringe.

“Oof. Lovely.” Mat makes the distinct expression on his face just before the two of you share a laugh.

“He’s not very smooth with adultery. He needs more practice.” you casually state sarcastically, clicking your tongue.

As you find the narrative funny, you take a sip on Mathew’s beer. “How are you not drunk? You’ve been drinking way too much the entire night.”

“Well. I’ve got some things to think about—” he cuts himself off upon seeing your mouth ajar, “And no, you’re not allowed to ask because none of it concerns you.”

“I wasn’t going to.” you dismiss him, excusing yourself to River which he gladly took as his cue to leave.

When he disappeared into the kitchen, you turned your gaze on your friend wearing another one of your mischievous grins, “Hey, wanna get pancakes?”

“Y/N, it’s almost 3 AM.” Mat sighs, the tiring night starting to creep up to him.

“So?” you question, swatting his hand away when you catch him checking on his watch.

“Come on. Stop drinking that.” you insist and take the bottle from his hand before putting it over to the side.

The two of you said your goodbyes to the lone bartender who was just starting to clean up again. River gives the two of you a nod of acknowledgement before landing a knowing look on Mathew. One that he’s thankful enough not to be discerned by you.

As you walk alongside Mathew, he unconsciously places a hand on the small of your back— feeling it graze on the fabric of your coat as if to guide you towards the door in an almost romantic type of way. Perhaps, a way someone would behave if they were actually in a relationship.

Mat notices your body tense but he doesn’t move an inch. Instead, his hand travels to the curve of your waist just as he leads you through the brass doors.

Once you’re out on the streets, he lets go.

𖥸

After almost half an hour of fighting over which diner is better to eat and get sober at, you and Mat decide to just try the new diner three blocks from your apartment. Being that it was an ungodly hour, the diner was good as closed when you got in. There were a few people inside and besides the student studying alone in the corner booth, the people lounging in the vacant seats were mostly just staff. Too bad they had to work the grave shift.

Mathew, who was rather preoccupied digging in his breakfast platter, gets interrupted when you call his attention.

“So tell me,” you ask as you take a forkful of syrupy pancake into your mouth. Finally satisfying your cravings. You put the food modestly in the insides of your cheeks when you ask him a question, “What are you like on dates?”

Mat disgustingly looks at you. You easily get what such a look meant and you immediately roll your eyes. You let your hand fall in mid-air amidst still holding a fork in it to prove a point. “I’m not trying to ask you out, dumbass. Don’t be so delusional.”

He puts his silverware down and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Why the sudden interest?”

“Just curious.” you simply say.

He hums, thinking about how he pulls off a first date. He then clears his throat as he takes you down that road. “First, I’m not bringing her to a 24/7 Diner.” you nearly gag. “She deserves a formal one just in case there won’t be a second date.” he explains.

You sit there, nodding your head every now and then as he further goes on the details of how he’s like on a date. “Of course, I’d put my best foot forward all the time. Talk about her stuff more than mine and make sure she has a good time.”

“Have you ever had a bad first date?” you curiously ask. To which he only answers with a stubborn look on his face, the one only Mat Barzal could pull off. “What? me? I don’t do bad first dates.”

“Oh, fuck off.” you flick his forehead as you laugh. The sound of his laughter echoing in your ears, drowning all the existing noise inside the lone diner.

But as the laughter dies down, Mat catches your eyes as soon as it falls on his. And just like that, there it was again, the exact same glint it had back in the bar. This time, illuminated by the pink shaded light lining up the wall accents of the diner.

When he realizes that he’s been staring for too long, he settles on turning the tables on you.

“How about you?” he props in his seat, “What are you like on dates?”

“You know, apart from the fact that you’re obviously into old men.” he snickers and you throw a curly fry on his forehead.

“Excuse me, I don’t.” you say sticking up for yourself.

Mat takes the curly fry that has fallen on his plate and proceeds to eat it. “Sure you do.”

You roll your eyes, finding it hard to suppress the fact that you might actually do. “There’s a reason why women like old men, chico.”

He leans back and answers with a level headed and quite teasing reply, “And why’s that?”

“Because they’re men.” you look at him with a jerky grin as you continue, “And men, especially of River’s kind, definitely knows how to eat his french fry.”

Mat’s mouth falls wide in disbelief, appalled that you’ve actually found a way to pick up a stone and throw it straight to his face just to rub more salt on the fact that you had to teach a 23-year-old grown man how to eat cunt.

“You’re an ass.” he says, rolling his eyes. You let out a laugh and shake your head. You were proud of yourself, sure; but showing just that is far too much for a boy’s already hurting ego. Who would have known humbling this man was such a task.

“I’m playing! You know how to now.” you tell him, “Thanks to me, of course.”

He scoffs and takes a bite off his pancakes, “Cocky.”

“But you still haven’t answered my question.” he reminds you whilst he wipes off his lips with a napkin.

“There’s not much to tell. You know I’m not high maintenance.” you tell him, ignoring the fact that you haven’t been on an actual date for so long you’re almost sure you’ve forgotten how to be in one.

“I know it’s cheesy and corny but I do think it’s still in the littlest things, you know?” you sigh. Trying to remember the last relationship (date even) you had wherein those little things, the ones that are merely the bare minimum, were actually given to you.

“You know, it’s not much, really. Maybe just a good talk without having to watch him watch me talk all night when he’s really thinking about how I’d look naked, you know what I mean?” you laugh it off, “I know, it’s stupid.”

The arrogant man sitting before you was silent for once, profusely wanting to wash the pool of melancholy he sees in your eyes. There must have been a shit ton of guys who overlooked how great of a woman you actually are just because they couldn’t stop thinking with the head in between their legs even just for a second.

Mathew knows. And he hates that he’s been ‘that’ guy at some point. Probably until now considering him thinking with his balls on was the very thing that got the two of you here in the first place.

You take a deep breath, smiling. “Anyway, that’s better than almost getting with a married man. Right?”

“Right.” Mat laughs, his gray eyes bright under all the lights as he plays with his silverware,— devoid of how much he looked like as if he was utterly and undeniably in awe of not just the energy of the woman sitting in front of him alone nor the fact that she was by far the most unbelievable woman he’s known, but most importantly, he’s yet to realize how much in deep he’s beginning to be for the woman she actually were.

Just as she is.

𖥸

You left the diner a good hour before the sunrise and what must have been a quick five minute drive if you had only taken a cab, became a twenty minute foot race between you and Mathew.

You knew that walking was a bad idea but somehow, Mat’s charm and persuasive antics had a better hold than you thought you had on your very capable cognition.

As you drag your feet into the confines of the elevator in your complex, you hear Mathew chuckling behind you with a firm hand securely placed on your waist supporting your balance.

“You know— and not just ‘cause I’m an athlete, can I just say that you’re in a very bad shape?” he says almost a whisper in your ear, his voice low and deep.

You roll your eyes, leaning on the steel cold mirror once he pulls away, “You do it in heels then tell me who’s in a bad shape.”

“Fair point.” he chuckles yet again, shying away. He presses the number for your floor before resting across from you. As Mat watches you catch your breath, he jokes in the hopes of breaking the ice between the two of you.

“So…” he clicks his tongue, playful eyes looking at you, “Wanna tap?”

Disgusted to your very core, you let out a scoff just as you shake your head. “You’re fucking sick.” you laugh upon meeting his dumb grinning face. Seconds into laughter, Mat’s silence kills off the humor. The two of you exchange glances, the smiles on your faces receding into quietude.

Mathew didn’t want to end the night letting you in the apartment not knowing what he’s been feeling the moment you’ve let him drag you out for an impromptu night out. And stupid as it was, the only thing he could think of was to slide his foot across the enclosed space embracing the two of you, nudging on your boot. You on the one hand were rather puzzled as to what caused such language. You send him a mental query by arching a brow. He lets his head fall back on the cold metal surrounding the elevator finally deciding to speak his truth.

“I’m glad we get to hang out now. You know, just like friends do.” he genuinely says.

“Me too.” you say, smiling. “I really had fun tonight. Thank you.”

As you meet his eyes, you see a glimmer of softness in his gaze.

“Good thing I got bored, eh?” he says with a smirk.

“Good thing I came back for you.” you reply.

A quiet smile parts from his lips.

“Yeah. I’m glad you did.”

It was a few seconds when you and Barzy parted from your respective walls to meet the sliding doors as it opened on your designated floor. You were pulling him closer by the tie of his coat whilst his hand was instinctively placed on your hips letting him press his body on you. Your faces were inches from each other’s, evident of not wanting to prolong the totally unplanned foreplay that’s about to go down in a communal lift.

But just like every film you’ve watched your whole life, the inevitable cliché befalls the two of you when the next words that filled the enclosed walls you’re currently caged in came from the man who has yet to miss a morning jog.

“What the hell is going on here?”

#mat barzal #mat barzal imagine #mat barzal fanfiction #mat barzal fic #mat barzal x reader #mat barzal smut #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #hockey fic #nhl fic #hockey smut #letters to barzy #barzzal imagines

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nancywheelxr · 2 years ago

Note

HAHAHHA okokokok I know that was kinda a bad starting lol. I don’t know if u need a scenario or anything but if u DO need one, could you do one where Max is just being annoying towards Steve and he just gets fed up? Haha sorry I’m asking for so much

ahdsgjs i do appreciate some sort of prompt, yes! it's totally fine, anon, it's def not much! I hope you like how it turned out!

***

Steve startles nearly half a foot in the air when the car door is wrenched open.

“Jesus Christ, what the– what are you doing?” He pulls his jacket out of the way just in time before Max throws herself into the passenger seat, bag quickly discarded to the floor, and slams the door shut hard enough to shake the whole vehicle. “Hey, hey, careful! What’s this, anyway? You can’t just go walking into people’s cars– what happened to stranger danger?”

It’s the last minutes of sunset, orange light fading into a quiet blueish dusk, and Spring is in full swing, April showers and all that. It beats down softly against the car roof now, pit-pattering drowned by the occasional traffic outside, and Steve frowns at the sky briefly before looking back at the little intruder, “seriously, what the hell?”

“Oh my god, Steve,” Max rolls her eyes, slouching in the seat, arms crossed, and glares up at him like he’s the one being weird here, “Dustin said you’d be here, I’m not waiting in the rain. You’re late, by the way.”

“Yeah, ‘cause they’re always late,” he answers almost out of reflex. Then, “wait, what did Dustin say?”

Apparently having deemed Steve not worthy of her full attention, Max turns to the glove compartment, opening it unceremoniously to rifle through his things. “That you’re giving us a ride to the diner. Don’t you have better tapes? I mean, Tears for Fears? Really?”

“Hey! There’s nothing wrong with– whatever, gimme that, stop going messing with my stuff–” he scowls, reaching to snap it shut. “Where’s your boyfriend, anyway? Isn’t it basketball day?”

“Where’s yours?” She fires back, then huffs, redirecting her glare to the high school outside. “Practice got canceled, he’s playing with the nerds instead.”

“I– what– you can’t just– ugh.”

The look she gives him is full of pity. “You sound like Mike.”

Steve clears his throat, running a hand through his hair. “Jeez, you’re really coming for the kneecaps today.”

“Are they always this late? I’ve been waiting for like, forever.”

Personally, Steve doesn’t know why she’s so surprised considering the everything about their friends. Of course they’re late, Dustin probably got distracted by something unimportant that probably made Eddie go off on a tangent and now Mike is probably frowning at nothing because that’s like, Will’s personal idea of heaven or something. “Dunno, man, it’s not like this is routine for me either.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

“No, it isn’t,” he insists, “I’m just helping out ‘cause Nancy’s helping Robin with some school thing.”

“Are you, though?”

“Well, yeah! This is just a favor! This is not gonna be a thing, okay? Actually, this is probably the last time.”

“Is it, though?”

“I do have other stuff to do, alright? I’m not available 24/7 for you twerps to– to just– I don’t know, call for a ride or whatever.”

“Do you, tho–”

“Do not finish that sentence!”

Max can’t quite hide her giggles, laughter spilling out from between her fingers, and god fucking damn it, these kids will drive Steve into an early grave and they’ll probably give him a shitty funeral on top. Ugh, and it’s not like Steve can stay mad either, not when Max is finally opening up to them again, looking more like herself, like she’s fully there, not just a vacant shell floating in a current.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” he grumbles, but a smile is pulling valiantly at the corner of his lips, “see if I don’t kick you out.”

She doesn’t even have the decency to look a little bit cowed at least. “In this weather? Please, no, you wouldn’t.”

Yeah, no, he would never, but he’s saved by the bell from doubling down on his bluff. Movement outside catches his attention, and Steve cranes his neck to watch their so-very-late friends pause at the front doors, squinting at the rain still falling stubbornly before splitting in a mad dash for the cars. “Oh, thank god, finally.”

Will, Mike, and El skip after Eddie, loading into his van in an orderly manner, one after the other and probably like, buckling up their seatbelts out of their own volition.

Steve, on the other hand, gets Dustin opening the passenger door and immediately arguing loudly with Max about shotgun rights while Lucas clambers into the backseat and then leans between car seats to also argue loudly that Max is right about everything, actually.

As he pulls out of the parking lot, Eddie waves cheerfully. After a beat, so does Will from the passenger seat. In their car, no one is screaming about shotgun for infinity.

Steve fights the urge to just walk out of the car and into the woods.

“OKAY,” he yells above the cacophony, smugly pleased when they fall blessedly silent, “Max, stop goading him. Dustin, she’s right, she was here first, if you wanted to choose, then don’t be late next time, now get in the damn car and out of the rain– if you get a cold, I swear to god– Lucas, sit back down and put on your seatbelt. You two little shitheads, too.”

It’s like herding cats, Jesus. “Great, thank you. Now, Max. You can choose the music.”

“Hey, that’s not fair, I never got to choose when I was shotgun–”

Kate Bush starts wailing about Wuthering Heights as Steve turns the key, tuning out the shouting with a sadly practiced ease. Always the goddamn babysitter.

#stranger things #st #steve harrington #max mayfield #stranger things fanfic #st tag #steve and max tag #my writing #anon

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starlightblueninja · 3 years ago

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Ciao! can I please request headcanons for the bayverse turtles with a gender neutral S/O where they’re hanging out one day and they have music playing on shuffle, but then the reader suddenly starts crying because they used to listen to that song all the time when they were little and it just hit them right in the childhood? Comfort ensues 👉🏽👈🏽 please. and thank you.

Hey!

Thanks for the request! This took a little while because it’s my first one and I wanted it to be nice UwU and I enjoyed playing around with the bois being comforting since I’ve never really done that before. Hope you enjoy 💙♥️🧡💜💚 @sleeplessdreamer14

Leonardo

You’re laying on the couch reading while Leo’s doing katas about ten feet away. Every now and again you’ll look up at him, smiling as his practiced movements resemble a dance. Mikey left some playlist running in the background on his boombox before disappearing to make food, and normally music with lyrics makes it difficult for you to read but you were only really half paying attention to the book. You almost enjoy watching Leo practice more anyway.

The music barely distracts you, at least until you hear that… familiar intro. The rest of the world kind of fades away as the song takes you back years.

Nostalgia clogs your senses, eyes watering before you know it and a lump forming in the back of your throat as you try to hold back from crying. You close the book in your lap and let the music fill your senses. It’s been a while since you’ve heard this one. Memories resurface and you try to simply blink away the tears, but it’s inevitable, they fill your eyes until your vision is watery.

“Hey,” you look up to see Leo sitting down next to you, his eyes filled with concern but voice gentle and comforting as he asks, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s dumb, but… this song just… takes me back,” you respond quietly. “I used to listen to it a lot when I was younger.”

You wipe your eyes with your free hand just as Leo takes your other hand in his. His warm, strong, big hand in yours makes the tears easier to swallow. You squeeze his palm reassuringly and he moves a little closer to you before you continue talking.

“It reminds me of the places I used to go and the friends I used to have, feels like a lifetime ago, when things were less… complicated.”

Leo perfectly understands the wish for things to be easy, and he understands how it feels to not want to carry responsibilities. He knows what it’s like to have a weight on your shoulders. And so, instead of telling you it’s dumb or offering simple platitudes, he presses a kiss to your knuckles and nods in understanding.

“I miss it,” you say simply.

“If it’s any consolation,” he starts. “I’m glad that you’re here now.”

You look up at him with watery eyes but you’re wearing a crooked smile at his remark. The song still plays on in the background but right now you’re more focused on the way the terrapin kisses your forehead and buries his face in your hair. You feel his inhale taking in your scent and you smile against his collarbone, relaxing against him.

Yeah, you still miss your old friends and family, when things were easy and you bore less of the world on your shoulders. But for now you have him, and really, what else do you need?

Raphael

Raph’s got his workout playlist on while you sit next to him, bantering back and forth with him as he does his routine. The music is a surprisingly varied mix, you didn’t expect to hear the couple of 80s pop and early 2000’s girl band songs that you did. You teased him a little about it at first but it was all well meaning.

You don’t really notice what song is playing until about halfway through the first verse. You know this song too well. It’s been a long time since you last heard it, though, and maybe that’s why it affects you the way it does now. Raph had been saying something, but his voice kind of fades away as your focus shifts to the music and the memories it brings back.

Flashes of your childhood flit past your mind’s eye. The good, the bad, the in between, and all the other things you thought you had forgotten about. You don’t even realize there’s tears in your eyes until they’re falling, running hot trails down your cheeks and it’s too late to try and hold them back.

“Hey, hey baby, what’s wrong?” Raph must have noticed you go quiet since now he’s kneeling in front of you with so much concern on his face. “You okay? ‘S it somethin’ I said?”

“No! No no no,” you’re quick to reassure him and he relaxes, but only minutely since it’s clear you’re still upset. “I-It’s stupid, don’t worry about it.”

“‘Ey, don’t say that, whatever it is, it ain’t stupid,” his hand sets itself gently on your knee.

“I just used to listen to this song as a kid a lot, takes me back.”

He’s sat down in front of you now, cross-legged just as you are so your knees are touching his, “That ain’t stupid.”

His hand brushes away the tears from one side of your face, your own hand coming up to dry the other side before you lean into his warm touch. The way his hand cups your cheek comforts you immensely.

“Feels stupid to cry over it.”

But he knows what it’s like to miss the innocence lost with age, so he pinches your cheek lightly and playfully in disagreement, bringing a smile to your face even as you push his hand away.

“I can turn it off if ya want,” he offers gently, and you hesitate before shaking your head no.

“It’s fine, I’ll be fine,” you respond.

“Whatever ya say, shorty.”

And with that you two are right back to your usual lighthearted teasing. He leaves a chaste kiss on your forehead before he goes back to working out, the memories fading away to make room for the new ones you make with him. He makes sure to remember exactly what song it is, though, and you don’t consciously pick up on this fact but you never actually hear it from any of his playlists again after that moment.

Donatello

You two often sit in peaceful quiet. Donnie will work on his projects, you sitting there on your phone or working on your own stuff, occasionally handing him various tools when he needs them. He’s often got something going on in the background, usually podcasts or heavy music when he’s alone, but always soft music when you’re around so he doesn’t miss if you say something to him. Like now, with him under the truck fixing something and you sitting cross-legged a few feet away playing a puzzle game on your phone. You’re waiting patiently for him to be done. Bed time for you two was about an hour ago now but you know how important this fix is for him and that it should really be done tonight. So you don’t press the issue but you are ready to sleep.

You don’t often notice the music he’s got playing unless it’s a song you really like or dislike, it’s just some shuffled Spotify playlist that he thinks fits the vibe of today. But you notice immediately when that song starts playing. It’s so familiar to you, after listening to it so much in the past, that it would be shameful not to recognize it now.

Your vision goes blurry as your focus shifts away from your current self. You’re reminded of the past, the radio in your old house, your parents, the way they always had the same station playing in the house and in the car and at cookouts. You’ve heard this song so much now that it immediately throws you back into the past. It happens so fast you might as well have whiplash, but you just get misty eyed instead.

Your bottom lip trembles, warm lines running down your cheeks soon after and Donnie notices quickly that something is up when you don’t respond to his request for the torx screwdriver. He slides out from under the truck but you don’t even notice at first. The music has all but consumed you now.

“Y/N? Darling, what’s wrong?” He’s immediately at your side, a large hand gently on your bicep pulling you back to reality.

You look up at him but realize that it’s a little hard to see him with the way the tears have pooled. He can’t help but think that, even though he hates hates hates seeing you upset, that those tears make your eyes glisten so beautifully under the lights.

His other hand not on your arm comes up to brush the tears away as he repeats the question now that he’s got your focus.

“I used to listen to this song a lot as a kid,” you supply an answer softly, gaze falling from his. “Just makes me sad… I dunno why, I guess it just kinda hit me. Sorry.”

“No, no, dove, don’t apologize,” he says. “I understand and you’re alright, I’ve got you here, now.”

His sugar sweet words and oh so gentle hands comfort you. You offer a watery smile before moving into his arms, letting him wrap his arms around you. You return the hug the best you can with his shell in the way, face tucked into the crook of his shoulder, and he can feel the way more tears fall from your eyes and onto his skin. He doesn’t mind though, he simply holds you. He enjoys just holding you even if he’s never admitted it out loud before. He likes knowing he can be there for you.

And he may not fully understand how your memories attached to this song make you upset, but he understands the pain and will do anything to make you feel better.

His hands run over your back, soothing trails on your shoulder blades over your shirt. Then he’s reaching for a remote he set nearby to turn the radio off. He doesn’t even need to ask you anything to know when you want his hands back on you.

“You’re the best,” you say when your gaze has fully refocused and the tears have calmed.

“No, actually, I think that’s you,” he responds, before pressing a kiss to your hair and deciding to bring you to bed, putting off the truck repairs for grumpy morning-Donnie in favor of treating you like a queen now.

Michelangelo

You and Mikey will play a video game together quietly with music on in the background. Sometimes you’ll lay on his chest and watch him play, but in times like this, when the week has been rough and you both need some quiet down time, you lay on opposite ends of the couch with your legs tangled together playing a multi-player game that relaxes both of you. Tonight it’s Minecraft, and though you both like the music of the game, you’d both agreed on having a playlist on too.

You’re mining out a coal deposit in the game when you hear that song come on the background. Mikey notices faster than any of his other brothers would that something is off. He can practically smell how the air around you sours.

Childhood memories flood back to you as you recognize every line of the song as it plays, pulling you back and away from the now. Good memories give you life vests in the flood, bad memories tie weights to your ankles. You’ve paused in the game, your character just staring at the block wall. People, places, events, all of it suddenly overwhelms you as the music plays.

Mikey is on you in seconds though, throwing himself into your arms as soon as he notices that there’s an issue. You’ve got a lap-full of buff turtle man pulling you back into the present.

“Babycakes, you smell grump, what’s wrong?” He says while littering chaste kisses across your face.

He doesn’t even give you the time to get truly upset, let alone start crying, as he’s so in-tune to your emotions that he’s always right there to comfort you.

“I’m okay, baby,” you responds, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “Just… thinking about childhood stuff. This song reminded me of it.”

“This song?” He says, suddenly jumping up.

You don’t know where he’s going but can see the humor practically dripping off of him. He storms up to the boombox, blatantly glaring at it. While watching him poke the speaker a few times like he’s threatening one of the many criminals he often fights, you can’t help but smile. He’s so lovely, and always knows how to make you laugh.

“You!” He snaps at the machine like it’s sentient, the same song still playing. “What’d you say to my girl, huh? Punk? Wanna act like a tough guy now? Too late, fella.”

You laugh as he jabs his finger at the skip song button and it changes to something different. You like this song, Hopeless by Khalid, Mikey likes it too. His attention is recaptured when you laugh at his antics. He smiles at you before making his way back over to the couch, crawling easily back into your arms as you continue giggling.

He kisses you before booping your nose, “Don’t be sad about the past, cherry tomato, we got the whole future ahead of us.”

“Cherry tomato?”

“Yeah,” he says, offering no further explanation as he relaxes on top of you with his controller, easily shifting back into the game.

He’s quick to go from one thing to another, but you can tell he’s truly there for you when he continues to lay his head on you, announcing that he’s coming to find you in-game. Every now and again he presses a little kiss to your stomach or chest, wherever his lips meet in that moment. Your confusing and bittersweet past is left buried under your love for your beautiful, caring, protective terrapin.

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joontier · 3 years ago

Text

Subliminal in Scrubs | V2; report xiii

pairings: dr. jeon jungkook x female reader

chapter rating: NC-17 | genre: humor, workplace relationships

warnings: swearing

word count: 1.8k

g/n: decided on a bit of a filler for this one as a sort of prelude to future scenes 👀👀 ((likewise manifesting my plan to post another chapter this week))

[taglist]: @nottodayjjk @ditttiii @zeharilisharaban @btsbunny07 @turquoiseandplaidinautumn @aamxxrii @codeinebelle @btsmakesmehappy @stargukkie @moonchild1

Subliminal in Scrubs (the records) | navi. | m.list

Jungkook locks his apartment door behind him, jiggling the doorknob afterwards for ‘double security’ as one would usually call it. He grabs his backpack from the floor and places one of the straps on his shoulders and heads on his way. As he passes by two of his neighbors who live in the same floor, he nods at them, adding a brief hum in greeting.

“Hey man!” One of the men, Jikwang (as what Jungkook believes this man’s name was), calls out just before Jungkook reaches the elevator. “There was this hot girl asking about you last night.”

Jungkook raises a brow. He hadn’t really met anyone recently, besides that one cute law student who was looking for a new tenant - and eventually turned out to be your neighbor this whole time. She was cute and all, but she didn’t seem like the type that was ‘hot’ to these types of people.

Jungkook racks his brain for anything, trying to remember the very few number of his one night stands.Surely,none of them would have gotten pregnant with protection on….surely? On top of that, he hadn’t really disclosed his address to a lot of people too, so there was no way someone would be looking for him, all the more a “hot” woman,as these two would claim.

“Did she say what her name was?”

The one beside Jikwang shakes his head, adjusting his beanie. He’d seen this dude a couple of times hanging around, but he never actually got his name. “Nah bro, I don’t think you’re the commitment type of dude…” he comments, dark eyes looking at Jungkook from his head down to his toe. Who was this guy anyways and who was he to judge whether Jungkook was the type to enter a committed relationship or not?

“She just...looked rich, rich. She had a driver... who helped her come down from a nice Benz.”

Jungkook feels his heart drop to the ground. No way in hell.

“I think her name was Hee something...Junghwa? I dunno man, I’m not good with names. But it sounds similar to that…”

“Was it Junghee?”

“Yeah I think that’s it…” bonnet-dude replies, tapping a finger against his chin as he approaches Jungkook. “You think maybe you can set me up? With you know…”

Jikwang knocks the back of bonnet-man’s head. “I got dibs first, shithead. “If she’s not already yours though,” he adds, delivering a wink aimed at Jungkook. “Her friends will do.”

Jungkook squints his eyes at the duo. “No. She’s my sister. And she doesn’t have any friends.” A chill courses through his spine as he replies, wondering how she managed to find out where he lived, and why would she even reach out? Why now, when she had so many years to do so?

Beanie guy simply laughs at him - if it was even considered laughing, when he was practically splitting his sides with laughter - like the thought of having a sister was hilarious to him. “You’re real funny, man. There is no...way...in hell… that that lady was your sister.”

Ah yes, this man is a health vice personified. Jungkook notes the discoloration of his teeth, the god-awful odor coming from his mouth, and they both reek of alcohol and drugs combined. From a safe distance, Jungkook watches their amusement over the subject that is his sister, thinking about why he even indulged these two in the first place. For all he knows, they might have been shitting on him the whole time.

“Sorry man. I mean...she’s rich and hot… and you?” Jikwang shrugs his shoulders.

‘And he?’ What about him?

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Jungkook clicks his tongue silently, clearly taking full offense with Jikwang’s statement. Did they just imply he didn’t look rich and hot too? Well, compared to them though, they’ll obviously have way longer to go.

Jungkook blinks before equally returning their level of disbelief. “For real, bro?” These men diss him, won’t believe he has a sister whose aura dwarfs his by a million percent, and now they want him to set up a date with her? He shakes his head. Only crooks like these would say insane shit like this.

If only this wasn’t the cheapest and most convenient apartment he could find to accommodate his daily hustle, Jungkook would have moved out of this crap excuse of an apartment building a long time ago.

“Keep dreaming man.”

“Hey, this is what I get for selling you my bike for a good price?” Jikwang eyes Jungkook, taunting him.

“I owe you nothing. I paid for it ages ago.” Jungkook turns on his heel, leaving the two in the crusty ass corridor of their apartment building. He needs to get a new place. Quickly.

With a sigh, he pulls on his down jacket, keeping himself warm as he walks to the garage.

‘King Auto’

There’s a certain warmth that envelops Jungkook whenever he sees the garage, a place he’d rather call home than his terrible apartment building. It sits right at the corner of two busy streets, just six blocks away from his apartment.

Funnily enough, it wasn’t him who first found out about the garage but the other way around. Well, technically, the owner did. Lee Dongmin, owner and manager of ‘King Auto’ repairs and restores almost all types of cars and bikes alike, occasionally servicing high-end cars on lucky days.

Dongmin would usually see Jungkook pass by the garage in the morning on his way to the university or his part-time job.Well, being located at a busy street in the city of Seoul, there would normally be a lot of passersby but Dongmin knew these people either worked or lived around the area; Jungkook, however, always lingered when he walks past the garage.

It had come to Dongmin’s knowledge a few months later that Jungkook purposefully used a longer route on his way, walking two extra blocks just so that he could pass by the garage. Dongmin hadn’t initially done anything about it, as he thought Jungkook simply took interest in cars - especially when the shop had its fair share of servicing cars from the western market.

There was this particular day though one summer, that their paths would finally cross. Jungkook’s bike, the same bike he bought from sketchy Jikwang, broke down. Coincidentally just in front of King Auto too. Funnily enough, no one in the garage was familiar with fixing up bikes, but Jungkook simply asked if he could borrow a few tools and he’d fix his bike himself.

Ultimately, Jungkook became part of the King Auto family. He’d spend his spare time in the garage when he’s not busy with his part-time jobs and on occasion, Jungkook gets to keep a tiny commission whenever he helps out with the repairs.

Jungkook goes through the front door greeting the new receptionist, Clark, a good morning before heading straight to the garage. Jungkook spots a familiar shade of blue peeking through the scissor lifts, just by the end row. He practically dashes to the car in excitement, too thrilled to greet his favorite car he had worked on previously.

“My baby!” The boy exclaims as he rests his chin on the Porsche Panamera’s roof. “Kook! Get your hands off that! I just had it cleaned!” gruffs Mansik from the other side of the car, flinging his towel at Jungkook who mumbles a sorry but continues to cradle the car, a little more gently this time.

“If you continue doing that, you know a towel isn’t the only thing Mansik is going to throw at you.” Lee Dongmin’s voice is low, careful that the man he’s referring to won’t hear his words. “I’m glad he hasn’t resorted to tools yet...just a couple of smelly socks and a t-shirt that smells like it hasn’t been washed for months... “

“Fuckers.” True to Jungkook’s foreboding, Mansik does throw a sock ball from out of nowhere, one which barely misses Jungkook’s face. Dongmin simply shakes his head at his workers, who he has considered family at this point, Jungkook included. “I’m just glad none of that fell into my first coffee of the day.” Dongmin observes, drawing himself father from the Porsche and any flying objects later on.

“By the way, the owner is actually here to pick up the car. I may or may not have mentioned your infatuation with it.”

Jungkook almost instantly jumps to his feet, searching for the owner inside the garage, but disappointingly ending up with all the familiar faces at the garage. “Chill, kid. He just grabbed some coffee down the street,” Dongmin mentions as he takes a sip of his own. “Ah, speaking of the devil,” the latter states, nodding his head towards someone behind Jungkook.

“Seokjin-sunbaenim?”

“Oh hey! Wasn’t expecting to see you here...Jungkook, right?”

“Yes sir!” Jungkook’s pupils shake, animatedly looking back and forth between the garage owner and his upper-level resident. “So...you’re the one who owns this Porsche?” Seokjin raises his cup, adding a small nod in Jungkook’s direction. He internalizes his excitement, before confessing his love for Seokjin’s Panamera.

“And so, Dongmin here mentioned. Also said you were the one who fixed her up. Thanks man!”

Dongmin looks at the two of them, eyebrows creased in the middle. “You two know each other?”

“Seokjin-sunbaenim is a senior of mine at Woocheon.” Seemingly shellshocked at the new piece of information, Dongmin turns to Seokjin, “You’re a doctor?” The owner of the Porsche rolls his eyes fondly, “Yes, Dongmin. We can have lives outside the hospital too, you know.”

“Anyways, ‘Mera’s ready to go yeah?”

“Of course. Kook fixed it up just fine.”

“Alright. Got a shift today man? Need a ride to the hospital?”

Jungkook is tempted to give in, but merely fixing Seokjin’s car is enough honor for him and he can’t take advantage of his generosity. “No thank you, sunbae. I’ve already got a ride to work today.” Jungkook points to his bike on the other side of the garage.

Seokjin tuts his disbelief. “You’re kidding me right? In this weather?” The older doctor points outside, then rubs his palm against his down coat. “No way in hell, kid. Get in the car.”

“Really?” Jungkook mumbles, dimple on display as his lips form a thin line. Seokjin makes a hum of approval as he takes off his jacket while Jungkook dashes back to where he’d left his backpack. “He’s a good kid, Jungkook. Can be a bit of a delinquent sometimes, but he’s good. Take care of him, yeah?”

“Huh,” Seokjin smirks, “this handsome face got nothing he can’t handle.” Dongmin rolls his eyes this time, “Seriously doubt we’re the same age honestly.”

Jungkook returns to where the Porsche is parked, and Seokjin gets a spur-of-the-moment idea. The surgical resident throws his keys to Jungkook before settling inside the passenger seat. Jungkook, surprised as ever, simply stands there in surprise. “Well?” Seokjin asks, ducking towards the dashboard so he could take a look at Jungkook, “We’re gonna be late!”

#jungkook x reader #btswritingcafe #bangtanarmynet #btsghostie #jeon jungkook #bts aus #bts fic #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #doctors au

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