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bopbopstyles · 4 years ago

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CROWDED PLACES

RATING: R/smut (sex, cursing, some handcuffs)

WORD COUNT: 7.8k

CATEGORIES: roommate!harry, bi!y/n

MASTERLIST | TALK TO ME | REST OF THE BIFICATHON

a/n: here is my entry for @harrysclementines and i’s bificathon (view them all here)!!!!!! i had prompts 18 and 19 (”Y/N brings home girls and guys (roommate!harry)” and “Harry asks her about the differences in sex between guys and girls”) and here’s what happened. as a bi person i had SUCH a fun time writing this, and i hope you enjoy. named for the BANKS song of the same name. xoxo, love u all my bi angels!

“Are you saying I can just have sex in your bed without you there?”

You grimaced. “Actually on second thought, please don’t do that.”

“Only with you present, I promise.” The words were out of his mouth before he had even processed them, the unabashed flirtation so sexual and clear. It made your eyes widen and you stop midway through the sip of wine you were about to take. He didn’t even know what to say after that—did he apologize? He couldn’t read your face, couldn’t see if you were okay with his words or made you uncomfortable.

“H, are you trying to get me into bed with you?”

The nickname you had for him fell differently in this moment, the sexual context sending blood straight to his pants. “What if I was?”

Y/N is bi, Harry’s her roommate and curious

pls reblog and share with your friends 💕

Harry found out you were bi by walking into your shared kitchen and finding a girl struggling to figure out your shared intricate coffee maker dressed in your clothes, her hair tangled around her shoulders.

“Need help?” He asked, walking toward the stranger in his kitchen.

The girl’s head bounced up at the sound of his voice and sighed. “Fuck, you scared me. Uh, yeah, thanks. I was trying to make coffee for Y/N but…”

He chuckled to himself and nodded for the girl to move to the side. “Nice of you.”

“I’m Emily, by the way,” the girl told him. “You’re Harry, right? Y/N mentioned she had a roommate last night.”

Harry flicked some buttons on the machine, fiddled with the coffee filter, and then the machine whirred to life. “Yeah, I’m Harry. Y/N mentioned she was going to some club last night—that where you two met?”

The girl nodded, leaning against the counter. “Yeah.”

Harry paused, not really knowing what else to say over the sound of the coffee dropping into the cup situated below the spout. He had come in for some breakfast and coffee, but he didn’t really want to make small talk with your hookup of the week, if he was being honest. So he decided to table coffee, and instead grabbed a box of cereal from the cabinet and the milk from the fridge and made himself some cereal.

“Nice meeting you,” he said to the girl before turning around and heading back to his room.

“Bye,” Emily replied and with that he left the kitchen, beelining for the safety of his own space.

Settling down into his bed, he thought about the girl in his kitchen and you, obviously still tucked into your bed. You two had never really had the conversation about your sexualities—you’d become roommates last year through an advertisement you placed on Craigslist and had spent most of the year just figuring one another out and becoming friends. The topic had never really come up and he had just assumed—wrongly, apparently—that you were straight, since he only really saw you with guys. Although, to be fair, there were nights that you didn’t come home and he didn’t know where you ended up on those nights.

He didn’t care in the slightest, just intrigued by this new piece of information he had discovered. He was curious, if he was being honest, but he didn’t really know if it was his place to ask you about it. Was that rude? He didn’t really know. He’d never just…found out about his friends’ sexuality like this, usually they told him outright at some point, so he was in uncharted territory.

Perhaps he’d just let you bring it up. Or he’d mention that he had met Emily in the kitchen, and see where the conversation went. He settled on the latter, deciding that would open the discussion up but not be too aggressive. More than anything, he wanted you to feel comfortable talking to him about these kinds of things, and also know that he didn’t mind who you brought home or dated.

So, he settled into his pillows and turned on Netflix, starting up a crime documentary he hadn’t seen yet, and ate his cereal.

When he resurfaced two hours later, you were in the kitchen with a skillet of eggs cooking, scrolling through something on your phone and sipping on a cup of coffee. You greeted him with a quiet “good morning” and he responded with the same, before going to the sink to rinse out his bowl and place it in the dishwasher next to him. Then he grabbed himself a cup of coffee, adding a dash of milk, and settled in at the breakfast bar.

“So,” he said, making you turn and look at him. “I met Emily this morning.”

Your eyes widened slightly, but then you nodded. “She told me. Said you helped her with the coffee maker.”

“I did.” He took a sip of his coffee and paused, unsure of what to say next. “She seemed nice.”

You stood up and fully turned so you were facing him, your phone forgotten on the counter. “Yeah, she is.”

“Are you going to see her again?”

You seemed a bit shocked by the question, but shook your head. “I’m not really looking to date anyone right now.”

There was the confirmation he’d been seeking—that Emily had in fact been a hook up. “So all the people you’ve brought back…?”

“Are just some fun,” you finished. “Where’s this all coming from? We don’t usually talk about this stuff.”

“I was just trying to figure out if I needed to prepare to have another roommate,” he quipped, and you snorted before turning back around to where your eggs were sizzling in the pan.

“What about you?” You asked him, using the spatula next to the stove to lift the eggs out of the pan and placed them on a light blue glazed plate, one of the ones you’d bought when you moved in and adored. Harry was banned from using them, relegated to the white porcelain ones he’d purchased.

“Sorry?”

You grabbed the salt and pepper and sprinkled a bit on your eggs, then grabbed your slices of toast from the toaster where they were waiting. “Are you looking to date right now?”

He hadn’t been expecting you to throw the question back at him, but he figured you had every right to. He’d asked you, why not share himself? “I mean, if I met the right person I would be. But I’m not like, actively seeking a relationship.”

With a set of silverware in one hand and your plate in the other, you walked towards him, setting your food on the counter on the other side of the bar so you could face him as you ate. For some reason, you loved to eat standing up and it had never made sense to him. “So you’re not on dating apps and all that? Hinge and that shit?”

He shook his head as you swiveled to grab the jam from the fridge and began to spread it on your toast. “I can never figure out how to talk to people on them. They’re just so awkward.”

You nodded in agreement before taking a bite of your toast. “Meeting people in person is way better. I tried one once and it was so unpleasant. Felt like so much work, you know? Like finding someone shouldn’t feel like a part-time job.”

He chuckled to himself at your observation. “Right? I’d rather just meet someone through friends or something and talk to them, be able to figure out in person if there’s something there.”

“One time I’d been talking to this girl on Bumble for two weeks, we met up, and I immediately was like, ‘fuck I have no sexual interest in her.’ You know? Like there was no chemistry. We would’ve been great friends, but the other stuff? Nada.” You always talked with your hands and even did in this moment, you slice of toast in one hand and a fork in the other.

“What’d you tell her?” He asked, taking another sip of his coffee as you took a bite of egg.

“The truth,” you said, covering your mouth as you spoke and chewed at the same time. He loved how comfortable you two had become with each other, the natural result of sharing an 800-square foot apartment with another person. “And then she texted me like a month later saying she thought ‘We had really good energy’ and wanted to see if I was interested. So I had to tell her again that I wasn’t interested.”

“Shit,” he said. “That’s brutal.”

“Yep,” you replied, popping the p of the word as you took another bite of your breakfast. “So, what are you up to today?”

He shrugged. “Nothing, really.”

“I was planning to go to IKEA to look at a new bed frame and look at all the room set-ups—want to come with?”

It was one of your favorite shared activities, which you had discovered when he had moved in and needed to buy a whole host of new furniture. You’d tagged along since you knew the apartment better, and you’d ended up spending practically the whole day inside. Since then, it was your rainy day activity.

“What’s wrong with your current bed frame?”

You shrugged, picking up your toast and taking a final bite. “It creaks too much. I think it’s just old, so I want something different.”

Harry tried not to think about why your bed creaked so much, and instead told you he’d come with.

Harry was pushing you around IKEA and frankly you were having the time of your life. Just to piss him off you’d gotten into the cart, folding up your body and leaning against the front of the cart, and he’d just rolled his eyes at you and called you a child before rolling the cart towards the entrance to the store.

You had made it through the bathroom section without much incident, but when you had reached the living rooms you had decided that you simply had to try out all of the couches, even though neither of you needed to buy one. Together you developed a rating scale—firmness of cushions, bounce level, and ability to lay down comfortably. A couple ranked high on all three scales, but none just blew you away, so you jointly decided you definitely didn’t need to invest in another couch for no reason.

In the kitchen department, you both oohed and ahhed over countertops and backsplashes, pointing out appliances you desperately wanted. You tried to convince Harry that you really needed new bar stools, but he wasn’t swayed. However, he did relent and allow you to buy some new spatulas and other kitchen utensils after you told him they were replacements for the current ones, which were two years old at least.

Finally, you reached the beds. Bed after bed laid out in front of you, just waiting for you to try them out and see which one was both sturdy and sleek. You beelined for the first one, sitting down on the mattress and looking up at Harry, who was leaning on his elbows on the handlebar of the cart and watching you.

“Come test it out with me,” you said, patting the bed next to you. “I need to see how the weight of two people feels on it.”

His eyebrows furrowed, but he left the cart and moved towards you. He was dressed in one of his favorite sweatshirt, a black one he’d gotten in Tokyo at a DJ Harvey and Keb Darge party, and a pair of blue jeans with a frayed hem, and white Vans with the pink and blue laces you’d given him for his birthday threaded through each one of the shoes, a beanie covering his curls and his black sunglasses tucked into the neck of the sweatshirt. You adored Harry’s clothes, frequently stealing them which he found aggravating and you loved doing for that very reason.

He settled on to the bed next to you, his knee knocking against yours as he settled back on his hands. “So? Thoughts?”

His eyes flickered over to you. “Seems sturdy enough, but I hate the headboard.”

You turned to look at the headboard, which was just one long piece of skinny blond wood. Upon investigation, you also hated it. “Agreed. Next one!” You scampered over to the next one, which had a wrought iron headboard in black and you quite liked the look of it. The rest of your furniture was black and your duvet was a light blue, so it would fit in perfectly. “What do you think of this one?”

Harry moved to sit next to you and shrugged. “Seems good.”

“The headboard up to par for you?”

“I like it. You?”

You nodded and then looked at him, deadpanning, “You could hook handcuffs through it.”

Harry choked on air, before bursting into laughter at your comment. “Is that a priority for you? The ability to handcuff someone to your headboard?”

“Honestly, yeah. Otherwise what good is it?”

He bit back a smile, and then turned to look at the other beds around you. “Well on that basis, we can cut out most of the beds here. Ones like these are the best, nothing that’s wood.”

“Know from personal experience, do you?” Harry blushed and you poked his side. “Didn’t know you were so kinky, Styles.”

“Right back at you,” he replied. “So what other tests are involved in the purchase of a bed?”

“Well,” you began, pushing yourself higher on the bed. “Mine creaks a ton, so I need to know how much this one does.”

He glanced between you and the bed, and then the number of people around. “What’s your plan? Jump on the bed or something?”

You shrugged. “Maybe. Got a better idea?”

“You could like, try and push it forward and back?”

“Go for it.”

Harry stood up and walked to the head of the bed, grabbing onto the frame and pulled it forward and back—or tried to. The headboard didn’t budge and you watched with a quirked smile. “It’s not moving,” he mumbled. “Maybe that’s good? Means it’s strong and all that?”

For being two 26-year-olds, you realized, the two of you still didn’t know much about furniture. “Probably. But I still think we should do the jump test.”

“I am not jumping on that bed with you.”

“Harry…”

“No, Y/N, we’re in the middle of a store!”

You huffed out a breath. “Fine.” Then, you turned over and got up on your hands and knees and pushed all of your weight into the mattress and moved backward and forth, trying to see if it would creak or sway as you moved. You could feel Harry’s eyes on your form but you paid him no mind, your focus on the task at hand.

Harry, meanwhile, swallowed thickly as he watched you, the sway of your body sending thoughts he really shouldn’t have been having through his head. Did you realize what you were doing? The position you were in and what it made him think of? Probably not.

“I think this one’s actually pretty good,” you informed him, turning over and lying down on the mattress. “Should I get the mattress too? I’ve had mine for like five years. What’s the lifespan on a mattress?”

“Dunno,” Harry answered, leaning his arm against the wrought iron headboard. “Can you afford both?”

You groaned and sat up. “Why on earth did you have to bring up money? I was having so much fun until you got all responsible on me.”

“Hey, someone’s got to have some sense in our apartment.”

“And that someone is you?”

“You’re the one who wanted to jump on beds in the middle of IKEA on a Saturday, not me.”

You huffed out a sigh and pushed yourself off the bed, coming to standing. “Come on, let’s go look at desks.”

“So you’re getting this one?”

You nodded. “It’s the best one for the handcuffs, isn’t it?” He blushed and you walked ahead of him, letting him push the cart after you.

You spent the rest of Saturday deconstructing your old bed frame and building your new one with Harry’s help. It was definitely a two person job—screwing together the support pieces to the headboard and placing the slats properly, lifting your mattress onto your new bed. By the end of the whole process you were tired, hungry, and a bit cranky, but you had a new bed that you adored. Harry ordered you both pizza, and you opened a bottle of red wine once you’d finished your food, pouring you both a glass.

Harry was sitting on the couch, his sweatshirt long gone, in just his jeans and a black t-shirt stretched across his muscular upper body. In the year he’d lived with you, he’d gained a significant amount of muscle mass, transforming from the more ropey guy who moved in, into this man who looked like a fucking Greek God after a day in the sun. You carried over the wine, handing him his glass and setting the bottle on the table for refills that would definitely occur.

You picked up the remote, anticipating a night of re-watching each of your favorite trashy teen dramas from the early 2000s (yours was What a Girl Wants or the Lizzie McGuire Movie, depending on your mood) when Harry spoke.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” you answered, taking a sip of your wine and opening the Netflix app on your TV.

“It might be a bit too personal, so if you don’t want to answer, just don’t—“

“Harry, just spit it out,” you said, cutting him off.

“What’s the difference in sex between guys and girls?” His question was rushed, but you made out every word and it made you choke on your wine a bit.

You set down your wine glass and turned to fully face him. “Like…generally?”

The blush that crept across his cheeks was endearing, obviously regretting the question once it was out of his mouth. “I don’t know. Fuck, forget I asked—“

“It’s fine,” you told him. You considered his question, mulling over the experiences you’d had with both sexes and comparing the two. To be honest, you didn’t spend much time comparing them because they were different in so many ways. “The most glaring thing,” you began, “is that sex with women can just keep on going until one of you like…can’t anymore. There’s no waiting or anything like there is with guys. So it means that it’s really intense for like a long period of time.”

He was listening intently, fingers tight around his wine glass as you spoke. To be frank, you couldn’t really believe you were having this conversation with Harry of all people. “I guess it’s also different because you don’t have penetration with girls—at least, not in the same way. I’ve never used a strap-on with anyone, just like oral and hands, so it means those things are more intense, in my opinion. Also, girls are really fucking good at oral—not that guys aren’t—but it’s just so good.”

“What makes them better?”

“Not better,” you said, “just different. Softer, in my opinion—like their fingers and hands are softer. And they also can figure out what you need faster, or maybe that’s just the people I’ve been with. There’s definitely something to be said for being a woman and knowing what other women need.”

If it wasn’t for the wine in his hand, Harry might not have had the courage to have this conversation. It had been sitting in the back of his mind for ages, before he even found out you were bi, but now that he knew you were you were one of the few people he could talk to about something like this. You were also one of the few people he trusted to have this conversation with and it to not become too awkward. He felt more comfortable around you than he did with most other people, that was for sure. He considered what you had said, mulling the words over in his head. Softer. He understood that—he loved the softness of women when they touched him, their longer fingernails and the kitten licks they spread over his body.

“Why do you ask?” You tucked your legs up, hooking your arm around your knees as you took another sip of your wine.

He chewed on his lip for a minute, rubbing his finger across the exterior of his glass. “I was just curious, I guess. I didn’t know you were bi until you brought Emily back, so I just started thinking about it a bit. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” you told him. “I guess I didn’t even realize you didn’t know, to be honest. I don’t really feel the need to constantly be coming out to people, if that makes sense. Especially if I trust that they won’t care either way.”

“It does.” He shifted forward, taking another sip of his wine and mirroring your position. “And I don’t care either way, just so you know.”

You gave him a smile. “I appreciate that.” You fiddled with the hem of your pajama shorts, the old ratty blue ones from Target you’d had since college, before asking the question floating around in your head. “Now that you’ve asked me a sexual question, it’s my turn.” His eyebrows jumped, but he nodded his okay. “What’s something you’ve always wanted to try?”

“Are you asking me about my kinks?” He asked, a playful grin on his face, and your eyes fluttered down in embarrassment. “To be honest, I haven’t really tried all that much—haven’t been in that many relationships where I feel comfortable trying stuff out, you know?”

“You’ve obviously tried handcuffs,” you quipped, and he blushed.

“I haven’t, actually. Just…thought about it, I guess.”

“Well,” you said, the wine emboldening you, “you’re always welcome to try it with my bed.”

He laughed, one of his full body ones that made you smile widely at him. “Are you saying I can just have sex in your bed without you there?”

You grimaced. “Actually on second thought, please don’t do that.”

“Only with you present, I promise.” The words were out of his mouth before he had even processed them, the unabashed flirtation so sexual and clear. It made your eyes widen and stop midway through the sip of wine you were about to take. He didn’t even know what to say after that—did he apologize? He couldn’t read your face, couldn’t see if you were okay with his words or made you uncomfortable.

But then you saved him, giving him a small and flirtatious smile, one he’d only seen you give others, never him. The one where your eyes had a fire to the edges, a slight curve to your pink lips, your tongue dart out to wet them. “H, are you trying to get me into bed with you?”

The nickname you had for him fell differently in this moment, the sexual context sending blood straight to his pants. “What if I was?”

The conversation had taken a rapid turn and it had your skin warming, your brain abuzz. What if he was? You had to admit, you’d always found Harry attractive, from that first moment you met him in a coffee shop after he responded to your Craigslist ad. You had always told yourself it was just normal attraction, the same attraction you had to that boy you’d known your entire life and knew was attractive but never actually considered anything more with. It was platonic. You lived with the guy, for Pete’s sake—you witnessed his messy room and how he struggled to cook fish properly and when he had vomited after a night out with his friends. You’d seen him at his worst and at his best, but so had he.

Living with Harry had brought you close in a way you didn’t expect—you didn’t necessarily share everything with him, but he knew you in a way few others did. He could read you well, know how your day was by the way you entered the apartment. You liked the same type of movies, you had routines, you shared about your families over pasta dinners and a bottle of wine when the power was out and you had nowhere else to be. More than anything, you felt safe with him, comfortable, valued. He had always gone out of his way to make sure you felt comfortable with living with him and you thought he was honestly the best roommate you had ever had. You were endlessly grateful he responded to the ad and you’d ended up living with him.

But sex with him? Would it change everything? Probably. Would it change it for the worst, though? You weren’t sure. “Would it change anything?” You asked hesitantly.

He paused, the tension between you thick in your small living room, the soft light from the lamp in the corner basking you both in a warm yellow glow. “Not unless we wanted it to.”

You swallowed thickly. “Then I wouldn’t say no,” you said, voice soft.

Harry’s eyes were boring a hole in yours, his breaths shallow and frequent, panting as you both stared at each other, trying to figure out if what you thought was going to happen would actually occur. “Are you sure?” He asked, leaning slightly towards you.

You lowered your legs so that your knees weren’t up to your chest, and pushed your body closer to his in answer. He reached out and hesitantly brought his hand up to your cheek, his palm warm against your skin, finding your gaze before leaning in to close the distance between you.

The second his lips brushed yours you wondered why you hadn’t done this earlier. With his hand cupping your cheek, he pulled you in closer, his free arm wrapping around your lower back and tugging you into his body. He tasted like pizza and red wine and you thought that you probably did too. Your hands reached up to grip the back of his neck, holding him closer to you and shifting towards him. It felt electric, kissing him, and you were falling into it faster than you could think, craving more and more from him, desperate for his touch and the way he prodded open your lips and touched your tongue with his own.

He was grabbing at your hips, squeezing your skin through your pajamas shorts and the oversized band t-shirt you wore, the pads of his fingers digging into you and his rings heavy against your clothes. Fuck it you decided, and pushed back on his shoulders a bit, unwinding your legs, and swinging them onto either side of his hips, settling firmly into his lap. He looked surprised at your movement, but not mad, especially whenever you adjusted and brushed over his hard-on.

“Fuck,” he mumbled against your lips when you wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him close as you kissed him. Pushing up the hem of your shirt, his fingers danced across your back, sliding up your bare skin. You never wore a bra at home, something he’d long ago gotten used to, but to have you pressed to his front, your nipples peaking out, and feeling your bare back under his hand was a completely different experience.

You tugged on the ends of his hair and he groaned into your mouth, a smile spreading across your lips that were between his. With your teeth you tugged on his bottom lip, pulling it away from his mouth and watching as his eyes fell to your mouth, his chest rising and falling as you let go of his lip and sat an inch away from him. Then, he was surging forward again, holding your head in one of his hands and pulling your mouth back to his, chasing you.

Everything about the moment felt good—from the way his hands felt on you to the smell of his cologne and the shower gel you both used, the shared laundry detergent on his clothes. His lips on yours, the prod of his tongue against yours, the way the sounds that left him rang in your ears. Your chest was crushed against his, knees tight against his hips, pushing him back into the pillow behind his head so that you were both horizontal on the couch, your body hovering over his.

The two of you lingered in that position, letting the swivel of your hips over his pelvis draw moans from you both, soft and breathy sounds that filled your living room. Harry’s hands ran under your shirt and then back down to your hips to guide you, a path he repeated over and over again and you weren’t complaining. You loved the feeling of his hands on your body. You were resting fully on his chest, your nipples hard under your shirt as you ground yourself against him, your forearms resting on the pillow behind his head for leverage.

When his hips bucked up into yours, you couldn’t help but rasp his name, a “Harry,” falling from your lips with ease. You trailed your lips down his neck in response, pushing at the neck of his shirt to find the spot at the base of his neck where you sucked harshly. His fingers pressed tighter on your hips and you smiled against his skin. “Like that?” You asked, licking over the mark you’d made.

“Yeah,” he said, rolling your hips over his. You could feel how hard he was through your pajama shorts and his jeans and you were curious. Living with him you’d seen him in just his briefs and the occasional swimsuit when he was heading to the pool with friends, but you’d never seen him fully nude. However, you had a pretty good idea of his size and you couldn’t say you weren’t eager.

Slowly, you inched your hand down his chest, digging your nails into his skin through his shirt, loving the noises that spilled from his mouth at the feeling. When your hand reached his jeans, though, he pulled at your wrist, ripping you away. “What?”

“I wanna do you,” he said. “You were talking earlier about oral and now I’m curious where I fall on the scale.”

He was going to kill you, wasn’t he? “Okay,” you told him, pressing your palm into his torso. “Where do you want to be?”

“Bed,” he replied, nudging at your nose. “Let’s see how much that new bed creaks.”

You pushed up off of him, and he followed you to your bed with his hands on your hips, tugging you back into his chest mid-way through the way to kiss you again, pulling a gasp from your throat when he surprised you. When you pushed open your door, for the first time there was no point in closing it behind you because the only other person who could have seen what was happening was already in the room with you. Harry’s body mirrored yours as you stepped backwards towards your bed, following you as you fell onto the duvet that you had placed there only a matter of hours earlier.

You wanted his skin, to see him and feel him in this way, and so you pushed at the hem of his shirt, the word, “Off,” sticking in your throat when he pulled it up and off of his body, tossing it to the side without consequence. Bare skin stretched in front of you, covered in swirlings of black ink that you had seen before, but never like this. Never when it was yours to see, to touch, to feel. So you took full advantage, sliding your palms up his chest as he leaned back down.

“Your turn,” he mumbled, sucking on your nipple through your shirt, your back arching towards his mouth in a silent beg for more. Fingers pressed into the sliver of your stomach that was exposed, and you raised your arms as if to tell he could push it off, which he did, creeping the fabric up your body and leaving kisses in the wake of the hem. Once it was over your head, he licked over your bare nipple and your a wet mewl left your lips.

“H,” you rasped, tugging on the locks of his hair, the strands threading between your fingers.

His head bounced up, the forest green of his irises barely visible, his pupils blown out with desire. “What?”

You opened your legs wider, and Harry smiled devilishly at you, giving your cleavage on final pull with his lips before creeping down your body. You didn’t stop him when he went to tug off your shorts, nor did you stop him when he laid between your legs, or when he licked and sucked and pulled at your inner thighs, making your chest shudder with desperation.

Nor did you stop him when his tongue touched your clit, licking a straight line up from your slit to your bud. Instead, you gasped his name, a curse mixed in falling from your lips, and tugged his head closer to you. He’d collected saliva on his tongue without you realizing it and the wetness of it was running all over your hot skin, a distinct slurping noise filling the air that only made it hotter. You picked up your head and watched in rapture as he licked into you, his curls falling into his face as he moved between your legs.

He alternated between sucking on your clit and swiping at your slit, nudging his tongue into you just to drive you crazy. Which he succeeded in doing, based on how your hips picked up when he did it, chasing the pressure he left in his wake. He was turning you into a mess, a mess only for him, desire and your orgasm falling through you faster than usual. For some reason he had been concerned about how good he was, but now he was between your legs and you didn’t know how you had gone twenty-six years without him. How you had lived with him for a year and never felt him like this, seen him like this—his head tilting up and the sight of your juices on coating his lips and chin, his tongue darting out to taste them.

“So?” He asked, pressing into your plush thighs, his rings leaving an indentation in their wake. “Where do I fit on the scale?”

“You haven’t made me come,” you responded, voice rough, breath catching in your lungs as you tried to inhale properly.

A wicked smile flashed onto his face, and then he brushed his tongue in a circle around your clit, your fingers tightening in his hair. “I’m not done yet.” Then he was back between your legs, drawing mewls and moans from you like it was his job, and there was nothing you could do to stop them. Your eyes fluttered shut and your head fell back against the mattress, back arching as you tried to grind down on his face. You could feel your walls tightening around nothing and you needed something there, a little bit more.

“Your fingers,” you said, picking up your head to look at him. “I need your fingers.”

Harry glanced up at you, before he answered your plea with his touch, not his words. Not being a man for warning, the tips of his forefinger and middle finger brushed at your entrance just once before pushing inside of you, a deep and unrelenting moan flowing from you with ease. “Yeah? That feel good?”

You could tell he liked praise and so you tightened your hold on his hair and muttered a Yes, bringing his lips back to your center as he drove his fingers inside of you at a brutal pace. The sound of his fingers and your wetness echoed in your ears, but the louder sound was Harry’s grunts and moans and curses below you whenever he brought his head up for air. Somehow, he seemed to be enjoying this as much as you, which definitely gave him some bonus points in your book.

“Gonna come for me, Y/N?” His words were rough and deep, a lower octave to his voice you hadn’t heard before, and it made you desperate for him. Your hips pushed down against his hand, craving more inside of you, and that was when the cold metal of his rings brushed your entrance. The coldness against the warmth of your skin felt heavenly and you mewled at the touch, Harry chuckling lightly from where he laid.

You could feel your belly tightening, the tell tale sign of an orgasm quickly approaching, but you needed just barely more from him. You didn’t know what it was, but you needed more. So you asked, a “More, please,” leaving your mouth in a chant.

He was unfazed, doubling his pace inside of you and suckling on your clit repeatedly before letting his lips fall to your entrance, slipping around the taught skin with his tongue to add to the sensation. It had your back arching and you knew you were mere seconds away. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop,” you called into the room, your grip on his hair lethal as he licked you into your orgasm.

It crashed into you and he fucked you through it with his fingers, sucking and pulling on your bud as you rode his fingers, back arched and a series of curses circling around you. “Beautiful,” you barely heard him mumble into your skin, the low rumble of his voice sending vibrations through you.

Once you’d regained your breath he was crawling up the length of your body, kisses littered across your bare skin. “Fuck,” you said, a chuckle leaving you as you were reacquainted with the sight of his face hovering above you.

“So?” He asked, hands coming to rest on either side of your head. “What’s my rating?”

You tugged at his neck and dropped his body to yours, his lips meeting yours in a cruel fire. You rolled your hips up and wrapped your legs around his waist, shoving him to the side that he rotated, falling to his back and you above him. “You know exactly how good you are,” you told him, licking and pulling at his neck. “You arrogant asshole.”

A laugh rumbled in his chest, his hands coming to sit on your waist as you brushed back and forth on his jeans. “I distinctly remember you asking me not to stop, so I’m going to go with a high rating? Perhaps the best of all the men who have come before me?”

You knew his ego was big enough that you didn’t need to inflate it, but for some reason you did anyways. “You’d be right about that,” you told him, shoving his legs apart so you could sit between them and popping the button on his jeans. “Now, can I fuck you?”

Harry laughed one of his full body laughs, his head raising off the bed at your words. “Yeah, go ahead, sweetheart,” he said once he’d calmed, a smile stretched across his face at the sight of you between his knees.

With a roll of your eyes, you tugged on the denim, pulling it down his legs. “Do you ever wear underwear?” You asked him, pushing the material off the bed and gazing at his erect pink cock resting on his belly.

“Why?”

“Just trying to figure out how you manage to walk around with that thing and no underwear.”

“Oi!” He said, a frown fixing onto his lips at your laughter. “It’s not a thing, it’s my dick and it’s about to be fucking you, so no mean words, hmm?”

When your fingers wrapped around him all of his laughter and complaints were gone with a string of curse words, his hips bucking up at your touch. You pumped him a few times, nosing at his thigh just to rile him up a bit more. He was warm and heavy in your grip. For the most part, you found dicks the same as all body parts, but Harry’s was beautiful in a way few were. It made you even wetter than he had left you and gathered saliva on your tongue, and when you pushed on the tip delicately with your thumbpad and heard him groan, you knew you couldn’t wait any longer.

You pushed up off of the bed and he whined at your absence, but you ignored him. You had a mission. Rifling through your bedside table, you finally landed on the item you were searching for—the handcuffs you’d purchased a few months ago and had been waiting to try out.

Harry’s eyes widened at the clink of the metal and watched as you swung them on your finger, a coy smile on your face. “Remember these?” You asked, moving to the headboard where you threaded through the wrought iron. “Didn’t think I’d forgotten, did you?”

“No,” he said, gulping and raising his wrists to you, pliant as ever.

“Good,” you answered, a kiss to each of his wrists before securing them in the handcuffs, tugging on the chain to make sure it would hold. “Now then.” You re-positioned yourself over his hips, one knee on either side, and trailed your fingers down his chest. “You look so pretty laid out for me like this.”

Harry’s mind was spinning as he gazed up at you. He’d never felt quite like this—so powerless, but so desperate for someone. You’d turned him to mush with just a few touches and he wanted you in a way he had needed few. The handcuffs weren’t what did it, either, it was the way you touched him, the quirk of your smile and your laughter, how you had bucked into his face, how your fingers touched his skin. He didn’t realize until he was underneath you how long he had been waiting to be there at your mercy, willing to take any shred you’d give him.

“You okay?” You asked, voice soft as you touched his cheek.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, “I’m okay.”

You leaned down and kissed his chest, before snatching the condom you’d laid out on the duvet. Rolling it down his length he hissed at the touch, but you tried to be gentle, knowing that the handcuffs were probably a lot. Then, you rose up onto your knees, positioning yourself over him, and raised his cock, brushing the tip against your entrance. Your eyes found his as you lowered onto him, a groan leaving both of your chests as you took him.

“Holy shit,” he said as your hips met him, his length fully inside of you. “Shit, Y/N.”

You rocked back and forth on him, your fingernails digging into his chest at the feeling of him fitting so snugly inside of you. “Feels so good,” you mumbled, your words long gone from making sense. It always happened—you lost the ability to think about what you were saying, words becoming a string of consciousness. “So deep, H.”

“Yeah?” You could hear the handcuffs rattling against your headboard as you moved over him, but the bed wasn’t creaking yet, just shifting back and forth. His hips raised up to yours, pushing him deeper inside of you somehow and it made you both moan, deep and unrestrained.

Not having to censor your sounds was a completely different experience and you loved it. Your eyes flickered up to where his wrists were clasped in the handcuffs, his nails digging into his palms, the cross tattoo on his thumb shining in the light of your bedroom. “How do they feel?” You asked, bouncing up and down on him.

He couldn’t answer at first, mind swimming from the tight metal on his wrists and the way you held him inside of you so snugly. His whole body was warm, from his sweat and your touch and just the overwhelming desire rolling through him. “Like them,” he finally got out, because he did. Something about the restraints made it more intense, the fact that he couldn’t touch you, the fact that you were just fucking him like you wanted to. It was making his orgasm rush towards him, a twitching throughout his body he was barely staving off.

“They’re hot,” you said, using your knees you speed up your tempo, needing him faster inside of you. “Like seeing you all tied up.”

Usually you didn’t feel this comfortable this quickly with someone you were hooking up with, but with Harry you knew he would never judge him. You trusted him fully and here, in this room, was no different. “I’m close,” he rasped when you swiveled your hips, brushing him against your g-spot and whining out his name.

“Yeah?” Your fingernails crept down his torso leaving long red marks in their wake. “Wanna see you come, H,” you mumbled, splaying your palms out on his abdomen, which was taut from the pleasure he was trying to hold off.

“Fuck,” he yelled when you clenched down on him, his hips bouncing up immediately, slamming against yours. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” then he was coming, the combination of the cold metal on his wrists leaving him at your mercy and the tightness you held around him combining to send him toppling over the edge.

You bent over, your torso resting on his and fucked yourself on him as best you could, not wanting to overwhelm him but also chasing your own release. The sound of your name on his tongue, a raw and unhinged moan ripping through him from his own sensitivity. “Close,” you said, kissing across his collarbone and blowing softly on the mark you’d left earlier.

The sight of his eyes screwed shut and the panting of his breath, the way his chest heaved as he tried to calm down, mixed with him begging for you to find your release left you squirming above him, body rattling with your orgasm. You clenched down on him as you came and he grunted at the feeling, but you couldn’t stop it, a call of his name leaving your mouth.

It left you worn-out and desperate for cuddles, so you reached up, unfastening the handcuffs and releasing his wrists. His hands found your skin immediately, hooking them around your back and pulling you flush. You lifted up off of him so that he could pull the condom off and you whimpered at the loss. “Tired,” you mumbled into his chest.

“S’okay,” he replied, kissing the top of your forehead. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you answered, shutting your eyes against his skin. “How was that?”

He let out a breath, taut and tight in the room. “Fucking insane,” he answered, and you giggled next to him as he pinched your ass lightly. “You’ve been hiding that from me for all this time, huh?”

“Guess so.”

He chuckled, nudging your forehead with his chin. “Think you might want to do that again sometime?”

You picked up your head, opening your eyes to look at him. “Sure I didn’t scare you off with the handcuffs?”

“Fuck no,” he replied in a rush. “Blew my mind.”

“Then yeah,” you told him. “As long as it’s my turn next.”

One of his eyebrows quirked up, and then a grin spread across his face. “Your turn, eh?”

His red-tinged wrists wrapped around you and smothered you in kisses, your hands batting at his body in a fit of laughter, but he didn’t quit. Instead, he pulled you close, a final press of his lips to your cheek, and you settled in against his body, knowing he’d be there in the morning.

He was your roommate, after all—where else did he have to be?

thank you for reading!!!! please go check out the other writers in the bificathon here, reblog this fic, and come chat with me in my inbox about this fic if you liked it. xoxo love you all!

#harry styles fan fiction #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles drabble #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry styles x mc #harry styles smut #harry styles bi fic #bi reader #bi fic #bisexual fic #harry styles bisexual reader #harry styles roommate #harry styles x roommate #roommate!harry styles

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passivenovember · 4 years ago

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Boys on the Radio.

Harringrove April, Day Seven : Daisy Chain.

Steve has very high standards when it comes to men. Unbelievably rigid, according to Nancy; hilariously unattainable, according to Robin, and understandable, according to the one man that actually matters.

Billy tells him that the privilege of not simply “taking what you can get,” comes from equal opportunity.

The fact that Steve can sign up for Tinder, Bumble, Hinge, and HER without having to set his dating pool to only men, only brown eyes, 5′11″ or taller, himbo, must like dogs, must want nachos when drunk--means he shouldn’t have such a hard time finding someone to get coffee with, and yet.

Steve finds himself on the couch with Robin on Wednesday night, anyway. Swiping through a caste of 25+ gym rats and an inbox full of u spit or swalll-o, baby girl.

Wishing and praying for a sign, like. Something to prove he’s not deflective.

Steve clicks his tongue. Clicks out of Tinder. Clicks into Bumble. Swipes left on four guys with fifteen pack abs, Jesus Christ, searching for someone he knows will never materialize.

Steve hates his life.

He throws his phone down on the couch before picking it back up again, and. Opening Tinder once more.

“Billy gets so much dick on these stupid apps, it’s not even real.” Steve complains, after swiping through, like. Ten guys within walking distance alone. “How does he do that?”

“Easy. Billy knows his type.”

Steve considers Marcus. His chorded arms and tattooed thighs. His Incan Temple chest piece, before.

Swiping left.

“How the hell does he actually get what he’s looking for? I see these guys and, like. They seem perfect. Funny, smart, successful. Completely my type on paper, and then--”

“Just say you’re holding out for Billy and move on, Stever.” Robin’s phone dings. She dives for it, grinning and typing out a response, and like.

Steve hates her.

He scowls. “I’m not holding out for Billy.”

It doesn’t sound right, even to his own ears. Robin peeks at him over the top of her messaging app, smile going lopsided in the middle. “’S fine. He’s holding out for you, anyway.”

Steve really, really hates her.

He opens Facebook and scrolls through his feed, stopping to comment a series of heart emojis on a picture of Billy and Max hiking somewhere in White Water State Park.

Billy looks.

Like Billy.

Golden curls cropped close to his head, eyes squinting as the photographer catches him mid laugh, nose bunching up so.

Adorably.

That Steve’s heart skips a beat. That the heavens fuckin’, like. Open, and shit, to shine on a delicate daisy chain around his forehead.

Steve can’t believe he almost missed it. He spends five minutes picking the right color of heart emoji. Yellow and orange, with a sprinkle of stardust, and then. Another three deciding how many to include before closing out of Facebook entirely.

Reluctant to prove Robin right.

Steve opens Tinder and promises that when the next face pops up on his screen, he’ll lower his standards. Be more chill about the whole thing.

Actually read the bio twice and message back before deciding that no one could ever compare to--

Steve swipes left on Tyler.

Almost immediately, because. Look.

This guy is cute. Curly blonde hair and green eyes, but. Unfortunately for dude, his name is Tyler, for fucks sake.

And unfortunately for Steve he looks too much like.

Yeah.

Robin makes a noise, all, “What’s wrong with that one?” Her eyes sparkle mischievously and Steve wishes she were off getting laid or something. “Besides the fact that he’s not Billy.”

“His name’s Tyler,” Steve says. Like it should be obvious. He scrambles for something else, something tangible, before landing on; “And his teeth are too square.”

Robin stares at him. Sets her phone aside before pinching the bridge of her nose, like, “His teeth are too square.”

“Yep.”

“You’re impossible.”

Steve clicks his tongue. Clicks out of Tinder. Clicks into Bumble. Running into the same problem again.

Too pretty guys with too straight teeth and too many abs, just.

Terrible.

“Maybe I should lower my standards.” Steve says, after another you got real pretty DSLs bby, from some fuckface claiming that Sundays are for Jesus and tan lines.

Men are hopeless.

Men are terrible, Steve wishes Billy was here and not on vacation.

“Maybe.” Robin smiles down at her phone, again, cheeks going bright pink when Barb says something so fucking witty, Steve, I’m in love.

Steve frowns. “You can talk about her, dude.”

“Talk about who?” Robin sits on her hands. Swallows a smile. “Barb and I only just met. I’ve been stuck with you for years.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Robins phone dings again. She ignores it. “I don’t think your standards are the problem.”

“If you fucking--”

“Just admit that it’s only been ten years and you’re finally spreading your legs for the guy who includes a description of you in his dating profile.”

He really wishes she were out getting laid.

“Allegedly,” Steve says. Because; “I’ve never actually seen any of his dating profiles.”

Robin opens the message from Barb, grinning to herself, or. To the gods of chaos she seems to be in council with fucking always. “That’s because if you ran across one you’d swipe right.”

“Would not.”

“Would to.” Robin counters, not even bothering to look up from her phone. “Billy is exactly your type. Funny, smart, adventurous. Daddy issues. Has a thing for leather.”

“Dude--”

“Wearing leather, putting his partners in leather. Kinky but knows how to cook and clean, and how to take care of a bratty sub.” Robin puts her phone away, shrugging when Steve tosses a pillow at her. “Face it, man, he’s exactly your type. On and off paper.”

Steve wants to crawl under the couch and bury himself under the floor boards.

“I thought the whole point of online dating was to get out of your head about types and shit.”

Robin snorts, like, “No one actually believes that. We’re all just dating the same person over and over again. Making the same mistakes so we have something to complain about when our friends invite us over for wine.”

And.

She’s not wrong. She’s never wrong. Steve, just. Knows what he wants. Who he wants. Steve aches and pines and yearns for Billy Hargrove. To cuddle up next to the fifteen-pack of abs he’s been obsessing over for years, and.

Swear of this God awful dating sites for good.

But. “Barbara isn’t your type.” Steve says, like. AHA! Pointing an accusatory finger that Robin nods away.

“She’s exactly the type of girl I should be with, and exactly what I’ve wanted all along.” Robin says politely, but her eyes say fuck you I’m right.

Just like now. Like always.

Steve takes a deep, steadying breath. “Okay.”

Robin blinks at him. “Okay?”

“Yes.” Steve mutters, because he’s a team player. He can admit defeat, especially for a battle that was lost to blue eyes long, long ago.

But. He opens Bumble, shrugging sheepishly.

“One more swipe for old times sake?”

“Steve--”

“One more swipe to prove that I should be focusing my dick elsewhere.” Steve says. He feels tears burning, sharp and mean, behind the lining of his throat. “I just need a sign, like. Something to give me the courage.”

Robin watches him for a minute, and.

Must see the way he’s barely holding it together, finger tapping incessantly at the loading screen. Her phone goes off once again, breaking the tension.

Steve takes that as a yes.

He closes the app and opens it again. Bumble plays through an ad for Candy Crush and Steve finds it hilarious that happy endings come with a price tag. A thirty second video telling him what he needs, and then.

The guy on screen is perfect.

Golden skin, bright blue eyes. His bio describes a perfect boy, a perfect date, profile stocked full of personality.

Skateboarding and surfing on the coast. Tattoos and leather jackets. Metallica concerts and.

A boy in a flower crown.

Billy describes his perfect boy as brown eyed beauty, 5′11″ or taller, preschool teacher. Must like dogs. Must want nachos when drunk--

And when Steve finally, finally swipes right: It’s a match.

#harringrove #harringrove april #day seven #daisy chain #this is a conversation inspired by the evening I had hanging with my roommate #we both have incredibly high standards #anyway #hope you enjoy!

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yeojaa · 4 years ago

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looking for love.

[ read devil in a new suit ]

pairing. jjk x f!reader. rating. general. tags. none. kook’s just real cute, as per usual. wc. 1.5k. author note. @lcksndkys requested this and also, i just reaaaally wanted to make an edit showing kook’s tinder. lmao.

“Isn’t Tinder for, y’know, hookups?”

The question comes casual, innocent, with that round stare that always catches you off guard. If it were anyone else, you’d probably tear into him - berate him for his dated ideas of love.

Instead, you quirk a brow and roll your eyes, tossing a wayward crumb at him. Your companion huffs, indignant and yet still soft, mouth curling into the pout he always does when he’s embarrassed or put-off. Tattooed hands sweep across the front of his shirt, plucking the lint away to return the fabric to immaculate neatness.

“Is there something wrong with hookups, Jungkookie?” You’re daring him to voice his opinion, surprise you with whatever antiquated reasoning he has.

But of course, because he’s Jungkook, he’s too tender, too nice. His brow furrows, fingers knotting together as he finds his words. “I just— I just don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea.” Broad shoulders roll, dislodge the lime cotton of his plaid from the mountainous frame of his body. When he speaks, he won’t quite meet your stare - of course - opting instead to focus on the lacquered wood grain of his coffee table. “Don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

It’s not what you’d expected - the farthest thing from the usual slut-shaming you tend to hear - but you’re not surprised. Can’t be, honestly.

“Baby.”

Jungkook’s head snaps up, big doe eyes bouncing to yours with a mixture of aghast and confusion. You’ve never used a pet name with him. You’ve barely been friends for a month. He’s about to rebuff you - or ask or dp something - when you cut him off.

“As in, you’re being a baby.”

You do take a little pride in how his expression breaks apart, crashes into a barricade of your words. He’s just so easy to tease, makes you laugh full-belly and unabashed when his ears tip red and the same colour ascends up the column of his throat.

(It’s always very cute, reminiscent of schoolyard teasing between friends. You’re careful never to dig too deeply, though. You don’t want any scars left behind, no gravel when he slips and falls.)

“I’m just being—”

“A baby.”

He huffs, scoffs, makes a bunch of noise that doesn’t amount to very much. Then he slips his phone out of his pocket and sets it between you, laid on the glass top of his coffee table. An offering - or a reluctant acceptance, if his expression is anything to go by.

“Fine. Go ahead.” Even as he speaks, it takes a moment for his hand to retract, fist itself back between his crossed legs.

“Passcode,” you prompt, tapping the screen with a neatly manicured nail.

He enters it. 0127. (A date?) As if he can read your mind: “It’s my mom’s birthday.” Of course it is.

You only shake your head, laughing sweetly. “Very on brand.” You don’t mean it harshly. Family’s important to you, and if his standing Sunday meals with his own are any indication, they are to him too.

“We’ll start with Tinder and see how that goes. I think you might have better luck on Bumble but…” It’s a sideways glance, peeked out from beneath the cascading curtain of hair that falls over your shoulder. You’re so shy is what you don’t say. You don’t want to discourage him when it’s taken you an entire month to get him to accept your help in the first place.

“But I’m a baby?” Luckily, Jungkook’s a good sport. (You’ve learnt that over the weeks. Sandwiched in between his bashfulness and his bunny smile, there’s a warmth he never seems to tamper down. That he has no interest in changing. You envy him that, at least a little bit.)

Rather than answer, you shrug, apologetic smile forming tiny and private across your lips.

He, for all his differences from you, gets what you mean. He doesn’t hold it against you.

“Okay, so—” You scoot closer - the edge of your baby toe brushes the soft soft soft material of his trousers - and you extend the phone between you. “You need to choose some photos you like. I’m not going to do it for you but I’ll help you narrow them down.”

You have a feeling he’ll need the help but you don’t necessarily want to force your own preferences on him. Compromise seems important when navigating the whole signing-your-friend-up-for-a-dating-app thing.

“Just any photos?” The iPhone looks so much smaller in his hands, thumb swiping through his photo library. (You can already tell you’re going to disagree on which pictures go up. Can feel it in your bones, tingling the tips of your fingers.)

“Yep. Just any.” You do your best not to backseat pick, leaning away from him as he continues with his selections. He’s already picked six of them. (Six? Six?! Who does he think he is— Brad Pitt?)

“Here.”

All at once, the device is back in your hands or rather, tossed in your lap. Less ceremonious than usual, decidedly more nervous. You want to tease him for this, too, but don’t. Bite back the mockery and swallow it down, focusing instead on the profile that glares back up at you.

Okay, so, not awful choices. There are at least two you insist upon: one with his tattoos on display and another in a pool. Both thirst traps in their own regard.

“I really like this—” You’re moving the photo to the first spot. “You look really good and it’s a clear photo, so no one’s going to think you’re catfishing.”

Jungkook blinks - channels Bambi the baby deer - and cocks his head. “Do people actually do that?”

You don’t mean to sound so exasperated. Really, you don’t. He’s just so… him. “All the time. Or they use really edited photos. Ones you can’t really see their faces in.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, exactly.” You almost pat him on the head. “Let’s use this one too.”

His response is immediate, as is the colour that presents itself across his neck, up over the apples of his cheeks. “I’d rather not.”

“Why’d you pick it then?”

“W-well—” You don't know how honest he’s being, whether he really doesn’t want to use it or if he’s afraid of being that guy. You’d bet good money it’s the latter. “Just—” You’re staring at him and he can’t look away. You can see how badly he wants to by how hard he’s biting his cheek, hollow formed by the motion. “Can we please pick something else?”

You relent with a huff, removing the pool photo from the running. “Fine.”

He’s trying to fix you with that awkward smile of his but you steadfastly ignore him. (He does it often, any time you have any sort of disagreement. It’s utterly unfair how well it works on you when you’d much rather just continue to give him a hard time.)

“Okay, what’s with all the group photos?” You count at least three and while he, admittedly, looks really good, it seems like overkill. “We’re trying to find you a girlfriend, not your friends.”

The poor boy’s perplexed, brow furrowing. “But they’re my friends.”

“And?”

“They’re a part of my life?”

“Okay and?”

“Can you stop doing that?”

“No.”

You’re both glaring at each other. It’s like siblings bickering (or an old married couple).

“You can keep one.” You’re being lenient, you think. “You don’t want to detract from you just so you can include your friends.” (And also, like, who cares. As a former Tinder user, one of your biggest pet peeves had been people who messaged you about your friends.)

“Fine.” Of course, he’s pouting. You don’t care.

“Let’s go with these three.” The screen is tilted toward him - not offered enough that he can snatch it away - but so he can see. You’re running this show, after all.

“Deal.”

“Wait, are these from the same day? That’s kind of—”

Jungkook wails a noise you’ve never heard before, equal parts faux frustration and amused desperation. It screws up his nose and makes little crow’s feet appear at the corners of his eyes. “Stoooop, please.”

Now it’s your turn to huff.

“What else do I need?”

“A bio.”

The last thing you expect is for him to pull his phone from your grasp, as if he’s been waiting for this moment all afternoon. (Maybe he really had wanted to join Tinder? Had you been hoodwinked? Bamboozled? Had Jeon Jungkook played you like a fiddle?)

Something like disbelief colours your expression when he presents his cool new bio to you, the absolute dumbest smile on his face. Reading it flips your features and rearranges them into a mask of shock. (That and disdain. It’s not a bad bio, per se, but it’s—

Well, it does fit Jungkook. You can’t deny that.)

“Nice guy with nice dreams it is.”

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle

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peaches-writes · 4 years ago

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how to appease your asian aunties ch. 3 - spring break

* icym: this was prev. a guide to social gatherings but i changed the title bc i still think i’m funny that way

description: in the immortal words of blood-related aunts and aunts you’re not even related to but forced to call your aunt at reunion parties, “do you have a boyfriend?” member: jisung / han genre: fluff, fake dating au, implied rich kids au, eventual childhood / best friends to lovers au, college au, implied fem reader (but i still used they/them pronouns) word count: 5.4k chapter warning: food, a conversation calling out toxic asian family culture oops note: i’m not confident with this one bc i had to re-write this two times (?) with diff. plot directions + srsly idk what happened here what was the point am i ok + i didn’t post this accidentally this time !!!!

ch. 1 // ch. 2 // series masterlist

After seeing you and Jisung interact during your trip to the mall, your mom has started loving this new idea of you dating one of her close friends’ sons so much that she has not-so-discreetly started conspiring with Mrs. Han in order to see the two of you together as much as possible. From invitations for snacks and drinks at one’s house every day after school to whole-day activities on the weekends (usually to the mall or the cinema), it didn’t take long before you and your own best friend put two and two together and conclude that your respective moms have somewhat developed an auntie type of obsession over your fake relationship.

This idea that your moms would love you and Jisung together so much to this extent initially flew past your head when you started this fake relationship last Christmas. You were only thinking of casually fake dating your best friend, after all; such arrangement ideally confined only in social gatherings where invasive relatives and family friends ask about your love life endlessly. You genuinely did not expect that that Jisung would start tagging along to you and your parents’ Sunday movie dates and side with your dad every time you disagree on your selected movie’s ending; or that you would not be parting ways with Jisung after school anymore when you reach your house and he has to drive another block to get to his.

But for the most part, you’ve decided as the weeks fly by with this new added twist in your everyday, it’s fun and, even at times, cute. Though Mrs. Han dotes on you more now, like you’re her own child, and your mom is starting to be more talkative around Jisung since they now have you to talk about, you still get to eat snacks either your mom or Mrs. Han made, hog the extraordinarily fast wifi at Jisung’s house, and get free movie tickets and shopping bags from when you’re going out with the other’s family on the weekends. Plus, it’s made your workaholic mom come home earlier just to see you and Jisung lounging in your living room and Mrs. Han’s worries lessen now that Jisung’s busy with something else that isn’t academics or whatever it is he does with his Bumble and Tinder apps.

At times, it’s tiring having to hang out with your best friend under the guise of a couple, especially when you didn’t really plan for it to be this way, but you can’t deny that there are perks to it.

So, you wait more patiently for Jisung every day after your classes now even when he usually takes a lot of detours to see his friends before driving over to you on the other side of campus. You still hang out with your friends, Ryujin and Chaeryeong, after classes, of course, but you part ways with them just a little bit earlier now to anticipate Jisung’s Convertible pulling up in front of your building and unnecessarily yelling at you to get in even when he’s the one awfully late.

Because if you were to choose between your other best friends and a free expensive snacks, you’d always choose the latter without fail.

“You know,” Chaeryeong comments next to you on this particular Friday, stretching her legs down to the steps below you three while you scroll through your phone and Ryujin naps on your shoulder with her earphones still plugged in. “if I didn’t know that you’re ditching us earlier for free fake dating food, I would’ve thought that you and squirrel boy were seriously dating.”

“You always think we’re dating either way.” You roll your eyes, not even sparing a glance at the smug grin on her features. “Anyway, aren’t you happy we’re ‘dating’ now? It’s what you’ve always hoped for but, you know, fake.”

Only then do you turn to Chaeryeong over your shoulder, also scrolling through her social media on her phone. She meets your gaze after with a scrunched up nose and furrowed eyebrows. “Hm,” She pretends to contemplate, placing her index finger up to her chin. “I don’t know. I think I’ll have to wait until someone caves and you actually develop feelings for each other—like in books!”

“Seriously?” You deadpan with pursed lips, only making her laugh. “Of all things you could bring up.”

Chaeryeong shrugs in response with a knowing smile, chuckling when your expression doesn’t change. “You never know!” She replies in her defense, laughing all the way. “You did say after break that you’re just going to fake date if there’s an event but it’s Spring Break tomorrow already and you’ve been fake dating every day since classes started again.”

“Sounds like a romantic trope to me.” She comments last teasingly before you can even interject, swiftly dodging your hand when you reach up to try and smack her. Literature majors, really.

“For one, I don’t want to date Jisung, I’ve seen enough of him my whole life for that and I don’t think I’m in the mood to date in general. And besides, we’re only a ‘couple’ at home when someone’s mom is watching.” You counter as you retract your free hand back to your side, alternating your gaze between her and your other hand with your phone. Jisung’s last message is that of him informing you that he’s making a quick stop at the International Relations department today to hand Hyunjin his books ten minutes ago. Knowing him, if he didn’t get lost or got distracted by a kiosk selling coffee, he’s probably on his way now. “And you know I love free stuff, it just happens to come only if I hang out with Jisung these days.”

“So what happens when you ‘break up’? And I don’t mean the cute perks from the aunties.” Chaeryeong asks next, leaning back on her propped elbows now that the stairs going up to your college building have started to cool down from being exposed to the sun the entire day. “I mean, it’s back to normal for us as your friends—I do miss not having to remind my parents that you’re a couple now—but your moms are going to think it’s weird that you suddenly broke up and went back to being friends like nothing happened.”

“I already told you and everyone else, we’ll think about that when it happens.” You shrug both at her and the nagging thought in your mind that she has a point.

“And when exactly will that happen?” She prods on, smiling smugly at knowing that you and Jisung never talked about this certain part of your current predicament clearly. “‘Dating until everyone doesn’t think of Jisung as a fuckboy or when aunties stop offering blind dates’ sounds vague to me.”

You see Chaeryeong’s smile grow bigger when you don’t answer immediately, accidentally letting time pass until Jisung’s gray Convertible pulls up steps below you with an obnoxious honk.

“Y/N, my mom bought gelato today!” Jisung yells at you from his roofless car, his radio blasting Bermuda Triangle at an embarrassingly loud volume. “Let’s go!”

You then quickly shake Ryujin awake in response, gently moving her to Chaeryeong’s legs when her eyes open, before standing up and waving goodbye at your two friends. “Like I said, I’ll let you know when it happens.” You hurriedly conclude your conversation with Chaeryeong with a triumphant smile, making her roll her eyes. “See you after the break!”

Chaeryeong only shakes her head in disbelief, easily letting you go from her interrogation with a wave goodbye. “You be careful now, hm? Have fun with your ice cream, then!”

You chuckle as you run down the stairs, waving your hand up for her as you move away without sparing a last glance. “Don’t worry, I’ll take pictures!” At this, you open the front passenger seat to Jisung’s car and smoothly slide in, haphazardly discarding your backpack next to his at the back before closing the door next to you. “Hey, ugly. Glad you didn’t get lost on campus.”

“Speak for yourself, ugly.” Jisung teases back, shifting the car’s gear back to ‘Drive.’ “How was your day? You three look so bored out of your mind there.”

"Better now that we’re going to eat ice cream at home.” You put your seatbelt on as Jisung now drives the car home, reaching over to the radio in between the two of you after and lowering the volume. “Classes were tiring as usual. What flavors did auntie get, by the way?”

Jisung almost makes the wrong turn with your choice of words, quickly gathering his thoughts and shaking his head. “Fu—u-um, Ferrero, strawberry, and mint choco, that’s what she texted me.” He shrugs, making the correct turn to the nearest campus gate this time.

From the corner of his eyes, you nod with a hum as you sink back in your seat, completely missing the way you unconsciously caught him off-guard even with the screech of the car tires. “Oh, cool—no pun intended there.” You chuckle to yourself, leaning to the opposite side now to watch the college buildings pass by. “We’re watching The Conjuring 2, right?”

“Yeah.” Jisung scoffs, brushing off what remains of his sudden nervous feeling with the comment. “Tch, cool.”

Like every Wednesday and Friday that Mrs. Han prepares you after school snacks and drinks, you and Jisung go through tubs of ice cream and tumblers of water while a horror film is projected on the television of the Han’s ground floor living room. Mrs. Han, who has her office day off on Fridays, would occasionally drop by and either ask if the two of you need anything or comment on her distaste for horror under her breath.

“Oh, oh, dear.” She clutches her pearls dramatically, much like her son would, as she passes by for the sixth time to go to the kitchen and catches another glimpse of The Conjuring in the process. She then turns to you and Jisung after to calm her nerves, catching you still sprawled across the sofa with your legs lazily piled on top of Jisung’s.

Of course she’s seen you in the same position before in the few times you came over as one of Jisung’s friends but the sight now seems different under the guise that you and her son are a couple. Typical mom.

“Hi, auntie!” You greet her when you catch her from the corner of your eye also for the sixth time, waving your empty spoon in greeting with one hand while the other blindly reaches for Jisung’s laptop on the coffee table to pause the movie. Jisung hides his face under a throw pillow at this, already having enough of his mom snooping around for today and you giving her the time of day. Since when did you get comfy with his mom, anyway? “Do you need anything?”

Mrs. Han immediately shakes her head with a dismissive wave and smile. “Ah, nothing, I was just checking up on you two!” She clarifies again. “Do you need anything? Extra pillows? More water?”

You shake your head politely, holding up the water tumblers on your other side reassuringly. “We’re good but thank you!”

At this, Mrs. Han clasps her hands together in satisfaction. “Alright, if you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen, then!” She concludes, taking a step back from the door frame. “You’re staying for dinner, right, Y/N?”

You glance over at Jisung, prying the throw pillow away from his face enough to see him shaking his head and making you feign a teasing frown for his mom. “You don’t want me to stay over dinner, babe?” You taunt with a smile, chuckling when he pushes the pillow back onto his face. Turning to Mrs. Han, you add, “I think Sung doesn’t want me staying for dinner, auntie, but I’ll gladly stay over if you want me to; anyway, my parents are coming home late today.”

“What? Oh, he’s just being shy!” Mrs. Han dismisses with another wave of her hand. “Please do stay for dinner. I’ll text your mom for you too.”

“Alright, if you say so.” You nod, giving her your sweetest smile now. “Thank you so much!”

With that, Mrs. Han then bids you goodbye and proceeds to the kitchen. When the sound of her stilettos fades outside the living room, Jisung removes the throw pillow in front of his face with a groan, scooting closer to you until his shoulders bumped into yours. “My mom, seriously.” He then smacks you on the shoulder with the throw pillow as you press ‘play’ on his laptop again. “Ya, are you seriously dining with us tonight?”

You kick his legs under yours in response. “I think it’s cute, it’s not like she caught us doing something weird.” You shrug in his mom’s defense. “And yes, I’m staying over because your mom is clearly cooking tonight and I can’t say no to an offer and free food.”

“I’ll have to get back at you when we’re back at your house on Monday.” He counters back, shamelessly dipping his spoon on the mint chocolate ice cream in your hands. As he bites on the small chocolate drops on the ice cream, a thought then crosses his mind and he asks, “Wait, are we still hanging out on Spring Break?”

You turn to him, swatting his hand belatedly before taking a big chunk of his strawberry ice cream. “I don’t know, my mom hasn’t mentioned anything and I don’t think my parents have any plans of going on vacation this break.” You answer truthfully before eating the spoonful of ice cream. “What about auntie?”

“Nothing from her too.” He shakes his head. “Though we’re definitely going on vacation this Break—my dad really wants to check out the new Jeju hotel.”

“When are you coming home?”

“Friday night, I think? We leave on Sunday.” He answers, taking a sip of water now that the taste of ice cream is now making his mouth feel sticky. He takes note of how you used the same word again, recovering quicker this time before he could even choke. “So we’re definitely not hanging out on those days.”

You hum against another spoonful of ice cream, this time from the Ferrero ice cream in the small gap between the two of you. “I mean, it’d be nice to be away from you for once—we’ve literally been joined to the hip after classes and most weekends since the New Year—but that would mean no free food which would be a shame; I really like your mom’s cooking.”

“Ouch, I didn’t know you don’t like spending more time with me just for me.” He clutches his chest dramatically, hugging the throw pillow again. “I thought you’d like this since I was away for a year.”

“We barely hung out before you even left.” You chuckle in amusement, grabbing the pillow from him again and this time lazily discarding it to the other end of the sofa. “I already thought you’re annoying the rare times we hung out before. Now, you’re just the bane of my existence.”

Next to you, Jisung laughs along belatedly, holding his ice cream tub away when you try and take another spoonful of strawberry from him. “Yeah but I’m the bane of your existence that you’re ‘dating’ in front of the aunties for free stuff and them leaving you alone.” He points out, giving in to you after when you almost topple over the Ferrero ice cream and handing you his strawberry ice cream. “So you can’t really complain.”

You roll your eyes as you exchange tubs of ice cream. In front of you, a jump scare goes unnoticed as you pay more attention to Jisung anticipating what your next words would be. “I’m grateful,” You clarify in a mumble as you chew on the ice cream. “But you’re still annoying as hell.”

“Not like you’re any better.” He rolls his eyes with another playful laugh, shifting in his seat. “Yeah, I think we shouldn’t hang out on Spring Break: we’re going to ‘break up’ if we keep meeting too much at this point.”

This time, it’s you who gets another thought at this comment. Shifting in your seat as well so you’re now facing Jisung, you ask in a change of topic, “Right, I meant to ask: when exactly are we ‘breaking up’?” You raise an eyebrow at him when his eyes widen in confusion. “It’s just that Chaeryeong and I were talking about it a while back and it had me thinking.”

“Hm? I thought we’ll do it a little after Chan and Miyoung’s wedding.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “There aren’t many events after that and I’m sure the aunties won’t bother you for a while since you’ll start working.”

“And if they do?” You ask back curiously. “Starting work at your own parents’ company while going through a ‘break-up’ doesn’t exactly guarantee a free pass from blind dates—remember the last time Yeji had a relationship the aunties knew about?”

“Right, that was quite chaotic.” Jisung replies, keeping his spoon in his mouth now instead of eating more ice cream as the unexpected question actually catches him off-guard. “But, I don’t know. I guess we can keep going a little longer after the wedding, until the aunties have someone else to bother or, you know—if you end up liking someone else.”

You then catch Jisung’s eyes light up at this idea and you hear him quickly add, “Hey, how about that?” He then removes the spoon from his mouth, placing his ice cream down in between the two of you. “You don’t have to worry about your elders and we don’t have to fake date anymore.”

“Actual dating?” You furrow your eyebrows. Jisung nods at this. “You know how I feel about that. I don’t think I want that for myself right now given the changes that are going to happen after we graduate.” You wave your hands around now, setting your ice cream and spoon down before sinking back in your seat. “And I especially don’t want that just for the sake of getting people to mind their own business; it’d be like giving in to the pressure in a way.”

You glance over at Jisung to see him nodding thoughtfully now, an unfamiliar look crossing his features before he meets your gaze and comments, “Okay, that’s fair—but we both know it’d be too troublesome to fake date for a long time.” He then sighs, sinking into his own spot and leveling with your gaze.

Suddenly, you feel a shift in the air around you as Jisung sets his ice cream down on his other side. “Aish, don’t you just wish you can talk back to older people?”

“Yeah.” You nod in agreement this time, pursing your lips. The air suddenly felt sincere now, a bit comical since the people keep screaming on the television in front of you but, for some reason, you don’t feel like laughing because Jisung isn’t despite obviously having the same thoughts. “I mean, we all know that the talks about dating and career and everything else are often in good-nature but a lot of times they’re just invasive and a bit rude.”

When Jisung doesn’t reply as quickly, you nudge his shoulder and add, “I especially think of the time you told some of the parents during Yeji’s birthday about your plans to study in Malaysia and how negatively they received it because they think you won’t graduate on time and that you should just finish college quickly and work.” Jisung’s eyes widen in surprise this time. “They don’t know how hard you work in your studies or how you really wanted to go abroad and explore and I really wanted to scold them for it.”

“Y-You still remember that?” He asks in disbelief, earning him a casual nod from you.

“Of course,” You confirm, your free hand unconsciously balling into fists on your lap at the memory. “I’ve never wanted to yell at my mom’s friends until that point even when you tried laughing it off so I’m glad you proved them wrong when you came back during Christmas and impressed them when they asked about it again.”

You see Jisung chuckle under his breath shyly, tearing his gaze at you for a moment. “You mentioned that night that you were annoyed. I never knew you were this annoyed.” He muses out loud. “Thanks.”

“Thinking about it now, I feel a bit bad,” You point out after, heaving a frustrated sigh. “You’re keeping up with fake dating me even though it just started as a little joke last Christmas to protect me in a way but I couldn’t stand up to you two years ago.”

Looking up at Jisung, he grins at you reassuringly and shakes his head, effectively easing the atmosphere back into being more lighthearted. “No, it’s okay.” He dismisses your frown. “Just knowing what you really thought then is fine already.”

“And,” He shifts in his seat after, transferring the tubs of ice cream in between the two of you now to his other side so he can scoot closer. “I get free food every other day from your mom because we’re ‘dating’ so it’s nothing, really.”

You scoff when he breaks out into laughter. “Right, of course.” You deadpan before breaking out into genuine laughs yourself. “What was I even thinking, talking about sincere things with you?”

The two of you laugh for a while, even more when Jisung pretends to complain that you just 'wasted’ the last act of the movie talking about ‘mushy stuff.’

“Stop complaining, dummy,” You smack his elbow, sitting up properly now as the credits begin to roll. “you entertained my rants instead of stopping me so it’s your fault too.”

“Because you brought up something of mine from two years ago!” He protests before moving away to gather all your scattered snacks to the coffee table, laughing in disbelief all throughout. “I had to respond or it’d be rude!”

You only roll your eyes at him, making the two of you laugh even harder. You then lean back on the sofa, stretching your hands above your head and removing your legs off of Jisung while he disconnects his laptop from the television and closes both electronic gadgets.

Turning to you, after, you see his laughs turn into a small sincere smile once again. “But seriously,” He says, glancing back at you from his shoulder. “Thanks.”

“For?” You prod him teasingly, earning you a groan of frustration from him.

“For almost getting mad at the elders?” He jokes back with a raised eyebrow before going back to being sincere again. “Nah, for being understanding with me and my choices.”

“Of course,” You reply casually. “even if we joke around a lot, you’re one of my best friends—well, as if I had a choice in that, you know me too well and too long.”

“Way to ruin the moment.” He frowns at you in feigned disappointment, making you chuckle, until another thought crosses his mind. “And, Y/N?”

“Hm?” You look up expectantly at him.

“We have to break up some time after the wedding but I’ll still try and protect you,” He clears his throat awkwardly. “from the ‘rude’ and ‘invasive’ comments after, I mean. You should do whatever you want to do freely and date seriously when you want, not when older people pressure you into it.”

At this, your gaze softens at him visibly, even more when he doesn’t make other hints that he’s joking. “Thank you.” You mumble, just loud enough for only him to hear when you see Mrs. Han pass by the hallway again. “You should too, you know, do whatever you want and date whenever you want to.”

Jisung opens his mouth to speak but, behind him, you catch a glimpse of Mrs. Han suddenly returning to the hallway and stopping by the living room entrance again, waving at you and unintentionally cutting her son off. “Y/N, Sungie, dinner’s ready!” She informs you before Jisung could even get a single syllable out, making him purse his lips in annoyance with his face hidden from his own mom’s view. “Y/N, I already texted your mom, by the way, and she said it’s fine that you stay over for dinner.”

You turn to the side and nod at Mrs. Han, chuckling when you see Jisung hiding his hands on his lap and exaggeratedly curling his fingers up in frustration. “Thank you, auntie! We’ll be right there!” You assure her, smiling up at her until she disappears back to the opposite direction of the kitchen.

Turning back to Jisung, you swat his finger tips back into relaxing with a laugh. “Guess we have to go back to adhering to the system and fake dating for now, though.” You conclude with a giggle, standing up from the sofa and fixing your clothes. “What were you going to say before your mom barged in?”

After a moment of silent contemplating, Jisung ends up shaking his head and following you, gathering the tubs of ice cream in his hands. “It was nothing.”

“Really?” You ask, elbowing him gently before picking up your water tumblers from the sofa. “Come on, tell me.”

“It’s nothing, seriously.” Jisung assures you with a laugh, walking ahead of you out of the living room and turning around to see you catch up. “Come on, leech, dinner time.”

You bump his shoulder with a laugh when you manage to catch up with him, “Shut up, you’re also a leech.”

“But not on this day, you’re in my house.” He corrects.

Dinner with the Hans regrettably passes too soon even with all of Mrs. Han’s questions on your school life and post-college plans; and Mr. Han bringing up embarrassing and, at times, even exaggerated stories from when you and Jisung were children. When Mr. Han is suddenly forced to retreat back into his home office to attend to a minor emergency (hastily bidding you and Jisung goodnight) and Mrs. Han managed to win in your argument over you helping her and the house helpers to do the dishes, the old grandfather clock at the house entrance strikes quarter to 9 PM which prompts Jisung to offer you company in walking back home.

“Yes, how thoughtful of you, Sungie! Do walk Y/N home!” His mom comments with a proud grin as she shoos you out of the kitchen. “I’ll see you after Spring Break, Y/N, okay?”

You nod, giving her one last side hug, careful of the dish washing liquid bubbling up on her pink gloves. “Have fun on your trip to Jeju, auntie!”

“I’d ask you to come along if it didn’t turn out so last minute, I did mention it on New Year” She jokes, much to Jisung’s horrified face. “Oh, Sungie, what’s that look for? Don’t you want Y/N to go on a trip with us next time?”

You giggle nervously, pulling away from the hug after and taking a step back to Jisung’s side. “Maybe next time, auntie? I have lots of deadlines this break, anyway.”

“Ya!” Jisung hisses at you discreetly, pouting again that you’re entertaining his mom’s antics. You only elbow him in response.

In front of you, Mrs. Han seriously contemplates on the idea before waving her drier glove. “Yes, it is quite last-minute right now since we leave on Monday.” She smiles fondly. “Next time, it is, then!”

“Okay, that’s enough planning for a future trip!” Jisung quickly interjects before you can humor his mom longer, placing an arm over your shoulder and turning you around to face the open door leading outside. “It’s getting late and I have to walk back here on my own after!”

You wave back at Mrs. Han, laughing when she rolls her eyes at her son before bidding you one last goodnight. “Goodnight, auntie!”

With that, Jisung gently pushes you into a run out of his house, haphazardly closing the door behind him and directing you across the front lawn, to their gates, then, finally, to the dimly-lit streets of your subdivision. You’re only pulled to a stop when Jisung almost pushes you to a car parked on the house across his, making you laugh.

“Ya, we didn’t have to run out so fast!” You protest, clutching your stomach with one hand while the other hits his side. “My stomach hurts.”

“You keep entertaining my mom’s ideas!” He playfully whines back in between tired pants, catching his breath quickly before throwing an arm over your shoulder. “If you’ll keep going like this, you might actually become best friends!”

You scoff, keeping his arm on your shoulder anyway as the two of you now walk to the direction of your house. “Watch your words, Han Jisung, or it might actually happen.” You warn him teasingly, adjusting your backpack on your shoulder. “Besides, I was just doing what you were doing on New Year—how did you call it?—’earning points.’”

“I also told you then that my mom already likes you so much,” He pouts, easily pulling you flush against him when a lone car passes by. Instinctively, he then moves you to his other side so he’s walking closer to the road. “You’re just going to be more annoying at this point.”

“Well, I like your mom, too, so I’m going to be extra annoying from now on,” You grin mischievously. “maybe until we ‘break up’ then everything’s going to be awkward for a while.”

Glancing over at Jisung from your side, you see him genuinely frown momentarily before sighing in feigned defeat. “Fine, do whatever you want.”

You want to ask him about the sudden frown but you end up shrugging it off as you cross the street to get to the right turn at the intersection. With the new direction you’re walking into, Jisung shifts you to his other side again.

“You know, it’s not like some car’s going to crash into us,” You move to his other side anyway and swiftly dodging another offer of him slinging his arm over your shoulder. “We’re inside the village? Where the speed limit is 20 kph?”

Jisung scoffs, dropping his arm back to his side “Your house is on your side of the street, dumbass, that’s why I moved you there.” And, as if on cue, you see your own house slowly coming into view among the towering gates and trees. “That little heart-to-heart talk we had must be getting to you, huh?”

“As if.” You elbow his side in retaliation, your backpack hitting his back slightly in the process which only fuels his teasing more.

“Aren’t you glad I’m here to walk you home?” He asks with a grin, just as you reach your gates. “Imagine if you got lost when we’re literally a block apart.”

“I hope the dog next door escapes and chases you back home,” You groan, walking a few steps ahead to open the smaller entrance on your gate with your key.

Behind you, Jisung only laughs, unfazed, before walking over to your side again and extending his arms out for a hug. “Okay, sorry,” He grins halfheartedly. “Come here, goodbye hug.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, swinging your gate open with one hand and stepping one foot on the other side. “What do you mean? My mom’s inside.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t hugged you alone in a while.” He points out while tilting his head sideways, earning him a genuine look of confusion from you.

“Ya, it’s not like we don’t hug platonically before all this.” He adds with a shaky snicker before pouting. “I’m going to get s—”

“Okay, fine.” You scoff with a small smile, stepping outside again to hug him. “Look who’s getting all mushy now.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He shakes his head against your neck, reluctantly pulling away from you after a while. Rubbing the nape of his neck bashfully, he adds, “It’s just that—everything’s been a bit different now since I got home.”

“It’s mostly your fault—”

“—I know and I don’t regret it,” He interjects quickly, wiping the smug smile of your face. “since I’m doing it to get you away from creepy guys but it’s just us now and I sort of...miss being casual.”

Your frown tugs upwards into a sincere smile as you lean back against the gates. “We are casual. It’s just that people are looking now.”

“Can we hang out sometime?” He suggests with hopeful eyes. “just us, like old times.”

“You call it old times like it wasn’t just two years ago,” You point out, chuckling now. “But—sure.”

Jisung nods with a big grin now, excitedly shifting his weight on his feet. “So, see you after the Break?”

“Buy me something nice from Jeju then we can talk.” You conclude, stepping inside now completely. “Night, Sungie.”

“Hm, goodnight.”

When you accompany one of the Han’s family drivers to fetch Jisung and his parents at Incheon International Airport exactly a week later, you only expected to see the box of imported chocolate snacks Jisung promised to buy you as the only unfamiliar thing that you’ll see, maybe even an entirely new carrier with Mrs. Han’s vacation haul if she did actually spent more time shopping than working.

What you genuinely did not expect, upon finally spotting your best friend and his parents waiting for you at crowded Seattle’s Best, is him holding more than just your box of chocolates.

“Hey?” You wave at Jisung in confusion as you stop right in front of him. To your right, you catch a glimpse of the family driver, Mr. Yoo, greeting Mr. and Mrs. Han on the next table before obligingly taking their luggage cart. “Who’s this little angel?”

Only then do you notice the two other unfamiliar people with Jisung’s parents, eyeing you curiously and whispering to Mrs. Han, probably to ask who you are.

Jisung waves his hand at you once before transferring the same hand over the nape of his neck, “Y-Yeah, um, this is—”

But before he could even finish and maybe even explain, the little girl on his lap shifts in her place and jumps to stand in front of you. “Hello!” She grins sweetly in slightly broken Korean, waving one hand at you while the other clutches Jisung’s bear plushie. “I’m Kitty!”

“Oh, hi, Kitty!” You bend your knees slightly to level with her gaze hidden behind round eyeglasses, briefly sparing a glance at Jisung after and raising an eyebrow at him before smiling again at the little girl. “I’m Y/N, it’s nice to meet you!”

“It’s nice to...m-meet you!” She politely returns the gesture, hugging Jisung’s bear plushie shyly after and making your heart skip a beat. “Will you also live with us?”

“At home?” Your furrow your eyebrows deeply now, standing up properly and turning to Jisung who you then belatedly notice has stood up as well and slung his backpack and Kitty’s over his shoulder. “Sung?”

Jisung stands next to Kitty and places a hand behind her back, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Kitty’s going to live with us for a while.”

ch. 4 // series masterlist

tags: @t-toodumbtocare @sandaigdigan-reads @pwarkhans @ruellelix @malai-barfi @mahalau @milkywayfelix @qweens-stuff @tenclouds @crscendoforsung @verobibble

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blackqueerblog · 6 years ago

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"I can’t wait to meet you, Steph. I’ve even bought you a gift!"As I minimised the WhatsApp conversation on my phone, I was filled with dread about what the next evening would bring. It was a couple of weeks before Christmas and I was going on my first date since the end of my last relationship, two years ago. To say I was extremely nervous was a severe understatement.

I’d been talking to Robert* for a couple of weeks via Bumble and then WhatsApp, and all seemed to be going well. Since the end of my last relationship, I’d been a bit wary of the opposite sex and had gone into every new dating app chat with a degree of scepticism (especially as I am plus-size – more on this later), however Robert seemed different. He was funny, very intelligent, open-minded and ambitious and more importantly, accepted and preferred the fact that I am plus-size.

It seems a bit silly to have to declare something as trivial as one's weight on an app, but due to how a large percentage of plus-size women are treated in the dating world, some of us choose to add a note about our weight to our profiles, almost as some kind of 'disclaimer'. It’s even worse when your weight intersects with something such as race or gender.

Date night with Robert finally came around and I was practically bursting into flames with excitement. We’d agreed to meet in Clapham in southwest London for a couple of drinks. I arrived at the venue early and tweeted a cute picture of myself, telling my followers that I was out on a first date. Robert arrived and the date began. We had a great time during the three or so hours we spent together – we laughed, we exchanged hilarious date-fail stories, we spoke about our families, likes and dislikes…just normal date stuff, you know? He’d even bought me a little ornament for my room as I’d told him I was still doing it up, which was sweet.

At the end of the night, we kissed and he said he wanted to see me again.A week later, and hours of speaking on the phone and texting throughout the night, we decided that he’d come over to my flat and we’d watch a few shows while I cooked (I know, I know, rookie mistake; like I said, I’m a dating newbie). Obviously, one thing led to another and we ended up sleeping together.

That was the last time I heard from him.Cut to this week when I receive an email from a friend of his. Apparently, Robert had shown my blog to his friends for 'approval'. This friend tells me that in the interests of full transparency, he thought he should let me know that the reason I had not heard from Robert since our second date was because he had been dared to 'pull a fat chick' and – upon completing the dare – had won a sum of money his friends had pooled.

I felt sick. A wave of embarrassment and humiliation washed over me, and I went into my bathroom and cried. I had been terrified of meeting and talking to men for fear of them judging my appearance. As much as I know that I am an awesome person, I’m blindingly aware that the way I look is not what mainstream society considers to be 'beautiful', and that’s something I always have to think about and carry with me.

What should have been a lovely couple of dates – a bid to improve my confidence and self-esteem while tackling the shark-infested waters of dating – has turned into a teaching moment for me, and has definitely made me feel a lot more wary about dating in general and more importantly, trusting men.

Sadly, my story isn’t an isolated incident. We’ve all heard of sick pranks such as the 'pull a pig' game, which involves a group of men daring each other to hook up with the least attractive woman (in their eyes) in order to gain clout. There are tales as long as my arm from fellow plus-size women who have been duped or tricked in this way and frankly, a discussion needs to be had about it.

Dating as a plus-size woman, you see, is an exercise rooted more in patience and frustration than in romance. When you are not being ignored by prospective interests, you are either subjected to humiliation and abuse or you are fetishised for your weight. Either way, the abject failure to consider the feelings of the plus-size women in these situations is just another example of the ways in which we are not afforded the luxury of being treated as human beings. It highlights the lack of respect that some men have for women, particularly if they do not comply with social norms.

As plus-size women, we are not afforded the same humanity, care, love and respect as our thinner counterparts. This can force a monumental drop in confidence and either put us off dating for life or lead us to partake in more casual dating in an effort to prove our worth through sex.

Luckily (or maybe unluckily?) I had already deleted Robert’s number from my phone, after not hearing from him for a couple of weeks, so I have no way to contact and chastise him for what he did. I decided to ignore the friend’s email and used Twitter to tell my story, in the hope of opening up the conversation about the way plus-size women are treated. My aim was to raise awareness, and while I received some amazing, positive feedback, it also came with its share of trolling and horrible comments – almost all from men, who were either laughing at the situation or suggesting I change my appearance in order to be treated better next time.

I like to think that I’m confident enough and maybe numb enough to the whole experience and haven’t let it define me as a woman, but for those of us who are still on our journeys to finding self love and increasing our confidence, going through an experience where you are basically seen as an experiment can be battering.

Ultimately, what I’ve concluded is that men seem to undertake these 'pranks' as a way of gaining respect from their male friends at the expense of women’s feelings. Men, it’s time to stop being impressed by this toxic behaviour. It’s time to call it out, to hold each other accountable. Would you be as admiring if someone pulled a prank like this on a plus-size relative – on your sister, perhaps, or your cousin? Most of all, it’s time to start taking the emotions, perspectives and feelings of fat women seriously. Regardless of body shape, we all deserve to be treated with respect and basic common decency.

*Name has been changed

It's important to give such things more visibility. I think writing about it is a brave act. Stephanie is so beautiful & powerful! 💕💕💕💕💕

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utterlyinevitable · 5 years ago

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The Conference (Part 5)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Paring: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Rebecca Lao) Word Count: 2.9k Rating: T+ Warning: Some cursing Summary: Rebecca reminisces about the night she finally pushed Ethan away.

Author’s Note: ngl the last part with the ryan arc was 100% self indulgent. it was also the first thing i wrote and built the series around. have ya ever had a friend/lover/someone you never got a proper goodbye with and carried with you everything you wish you’d said? yeah. that’s what that was. it also is the perfect contrast to mc x ethan’s relationship.

Taglist: @ohchoices @dulceghernandez @aylamwrites @binny1985 @ramseysno1rookie @interobanginyourmom @queencarb @imactuallytheceoofthecompany @rookiefromedenbrook @eramsey28 @choicesficwriterscreations @heauxplesslydevoted @schnitzelbutterfingers @purpledragonturtles @ramseyandrys @ermidc @mrsdrakewalkerblog

________________________________________

I finally walked into the foreign and dimly lit tavern after wasting the beginning hours of my day off scrolling through Bumble, scouring the app for a good distraction. Eventually I found one - a legal assistant named Cameron. He was cute and his choice of profession gave me the feeling he could carry an intelligent conversation with minimal sexual advances. His tone was friendly enough and a little awkward at times but harmless. We messaged back and forth for like an hour and a half before agreeing to a date across town.

I made sure to put on my best face, watching youtube tutorials for the perfect date night eye to accompany my black cap sleeved maxi dress - you know that one with the high slit. A little bit of sultry but not enough to give him the assumption he could take me home.

I’d never been to The Happenstance tavern before. Hell, I barely had any time to explore parts of the city that weren’t directly surrounding Edenbrook. I was pumped with adrenaline for my first actual date in god knows how long. Thus for once in my life I was fifteen minutes early and decided to sit at the bar to calm my nerves.

I’m meeting a stranger I’ve had half a conversation with an hour ago! In a part of the city I’ve never been to! What am I doing!?

I didn’t even have a chance to flag down the bartender before my name was called over my shoulder.

“Rebecca,” my name fell expertly off his lips and I turned towards the velvety voice fully thinking my date was nervous enough to arrive early too.

There he was, only a footfall away. My eyes quickly and involuntarily trailed over him. His slate gray slimming slacks elongating his legs and outlining the curvature of his manhood, a navy blue polo tucked in with the two top buttons undone and form fitting to hide the taut muscles underneath but accentuating the uncertain look in his eyes.

The hair stood at the back of my neck and I swear goosebumps coated my skin.

Nope. No. Nope!

Immediately I turned right back around on my stool.

Not happening!

“What are you doing here?” he asked, taking the empty seat and motioning to the bartender for two more of whatever he had earlier.

I had been ignoring Ethan, as best I could given our close workplace dynamic. We’d only talk about patients and pertinent information to the caseload. No hello’s, how are yous or see you tomorrows. Nope. Those little accolades were reserved for friends - someone you actually give a damn about.

It had been nearly twelve weeks since we spent that last night of heated passion in my apartment; 12 weeks since I thought it was the start of something new, the start of us. As surely as he promised me we would make a future work, he took it all right back. Running all the way to the fucking Amazon. But I forgave him the moment he came back and our eyes locked in the beer garden of Donohue’s. I trusted him above all else - his reason for leaving was probably justified. Oh how wrong I was. I kissed him and he - he did nothing. He reset us without my knowledge. He made the executive decision for my heart.

That was the final straw.

He couldn’t keep toying with me and my emotions. No. No more push and pull. That’s not a lover that’s… that’s... I’m not quite sure what that was but it certainly isn’t the actions of a respected partner. He knew where I stood and I needed to take my own stand - to continue living my life as if I never experienced him.

I chose to push him away.

To move on from chasing the notion of wholly and completely loving The Ethan Ramsey. Finally.

“If you must know, I have a date,” I said with the most nonchalant malice I could muster.

There was a thick and uncomfortable silence taking up the small foot of space between our seats.

I was staring dead ahead at the bottles meticulously placed behind the bar but out the corner of my eye I could see Ethan’s eyes fell from me to the two tumblers now sitting in front of us.

I reached out for my drink, letting the cold glass soothe my boiling blood. “At least someone wants to date me.” I muttered it mostly to myself, but secretly hoping the words would hit him where it hurts the most.

Take the hint and leave, Ethan.

His voice was even and the words melted off his tongue like butter, “It has nothing to do with want, you know that.” It was a truth he came to know.

My eyes now fixated on the decorative mirror behind the bar as I took a drag of the scotch, hoping to take a peek at how my words affected him. With a thick roll of my eyes I shrugged, “Want, can’t, what’s the difference?”

“The difference is your professional development and our jobs,” his voice was straight as he repeated his same rationale over and over again. “Once you’re an attending -”

That’s a new additive. What -?

The last words took me by surprise. He’d never added them into the mix of rejections before - he never added a glimmer of hope into the mix before…

Don’t let him suck you back in, Bec.

I shook my head dismissively to myself. “You’ll find other excuses to push me away.” I brought the liquid to my lips as I took a moment to let myself turn enough to see his full body language. He was at the edge of his seat, body angled towards me, one arm leaning on the bar and the other tightly gripping his thigh, his scotch untouched and forgotten. An onlooker would assume he was a casual man but to me he looked distraught; the careful ridges in his daily features had fallen.

Good.

My glass hovered just above my lips and I could feel the heat from Ethan’s gaze boring into my cheek. With a little bit of courage and a sly smirk I added, “Either way you’ve made your choice and I'm moving on, don’t worry.”

I checked the time on my phone, downed the rest of the scotch in my glass and slipped off the stool gathering my things into my bag, preparing to head to the back where I agreed to meet Cameron at a reserved table.

My feet fled all of two steps before there was pressure on my forearm grounding me back towards the bar. I whipped around to finally see him face to face, my heels bringing me to his level.

We were close. Much too close. In the simplest of movements his body could be flush against mine.

Stop, Rebecca, don't go there. Don’t think about it - don’t think about his lips or…

I was acutely aware of his firm yet gentle hold. His shoulders once stiff and rigid fell with vulnerability. His soft and supple lips were parted and begging to be bitten.

Pull yourself together, woman!

“Rookie,” his grip on the back of my arm tightened, lighting every nerve in my body on fire. “Rebecca,” he breathed, “Please.” Ethan’s stormy blue eyes were pleading, conveying all he wished he had the strength to say.

I tried to coax it out of him, “Say it.”

“I -”

Even now. Even with me visibly moving to put us in the past like he instructed and the shattered heart he must have had, he doesn’t have the balls to tell me.

If he can’t say it he can’t have me.

“Say it and I’ll stop,” I taunted. “I’ll squash this right now.”

Our eyes locked in showdown. Enraged brown overtaking conflicted icy blue. Standing my ground with a tightened jaw I internally gave him just three seconds before I pulled away once and for all.

Three...

His grip on my arm loosened.

Two...

His eyes squeezed closed and he shook his head.

O-

I was being pulled towards the exit by my hand.

“Lets go,” Ethan said gruffly as he laced out fingers together in a tight hold.

My heart fluttered, Good enough.

I wish I was stronger. God, do I wish I was strong enough to pull away from the black hole that is Ethan Ramsey but I couldn’t. His gravitational pull was too strong. I was and will forever be sucked in. I had a probably perfectly nice boy waiting for me in the other room with a promise of mutual affection. And what did I do?

I got into Ethan’s car.

On the drive we sat in silence, Ethan’s hand never freeing mine except to start the car. The purple and pink evening Boston sky passed by the window. I smiled at the people out the window who were still going about their day and, for the first time in months, I was content. Content with my feelings that never seemed to fade away no matter how hard I tried. Content that he feels the same way. Content that this is an actionable promise that we can be something.

I noticed Edenbrook pass in the distance. My eyebrows furrowed as I realized we were getting further from his apartment complex. The other all-too-familiar street now coming into view.

“Ethan, what the fuck. You’re taking me home?”

He said nothing.

“I thought…” I trailed off, mentally chastising myself for thinking he’d actually give in and let ourselves be happy. I huffed, “So I can’t have fun and I can’t have you. That seems fair…” I tried to free my hand but he held onto me tighter.

A few moments of time passed in the dead silence of his car. Ethan was focused on the road ahead and I was trapped in limbo. Again.

“Are you gonna say anything?” I bit, clearly needing an explanation for this round of betrayal.

He opened his mouth slightly but nothing came out. My unencumbered rage started bubbling over like an active volcano.

WHAT THE FUCK!!!

“Let me out, Ethan.” I said sternly and yanked my hand out of his. His hand now left palm up on the center console as he kept driving.

And he wasn’t slowing down.

I rose my voice through gritted teeth, “Let me out of the fucking car right now.”

Still the side streets passed behind us at a steady pace. Surely he was ignoring me.

My red hot anger reached my ears when I yelled, “Doctor! Ramsey!”

Ethan jumped bringing both hands securely on the steering wheel. Within thirty seconds he pulled the car over. Panic set in and I needed to use all my strength to control my breathing.

Not again. He’s not doing this to me again.

As soon as the car stopped at the curb I unbuckled my seat-belt.

Still staring out the windshield and white knuckles gripping the wheel he begged, “Please let me get you home safely.”

I scoffed, “I can take care of myself.”

What the fuck does he want from me?

He pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed, “I know.”

I looked over at him completely dumbfounded. If we weren’t going to be anything he should just let me move the hell on.

“I’m not your responsibility,” I said honestly through my rage as I moved to get out of the car. “I know deep down you want to help but you’re not. You’re making things worse.” I looked over at him. His fingers left his nose and he started to sit up straighter at my words. “You - You…”

I wanted to tell him he’s broken my heart over and over again. I wanted to tell him how much I missed him and that if he just promised me we’d give us a proper try I’d forgive him. But I didn’t, because saying those words out loud wouldn’t change a thing. Everything with Ethan was inevitably complicated.

He looked over at me for the first time since the tavern. The whites of his eyes were starting to go red and my chest began to ache at the sight. He shakily asked, “I… what?”

Why do you keep doing this to yourself?

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” Furiously I pulled the door handle and jumped out of the car as best as my dress would allow. The air in the car was suffocating.

Behind me I heard the car shut off and a loud slam of the door. There were two beeps alerting me that Ethan did indeed leave his car in the no parking zone. Heavy footfalls caught up to me on the sidewalk accompanied by the uneven huffs of breath from the brisk jog.

“Let me walk with you. Please.”

We were only a 10 minutes walk away from my place. As mad as I was at Ethan for the false pretenses, I was angrier at myself for falling for it. For letting him have me unconditionally. The thought of going through this same old cycle with him again and again made me nauseous.

I can’t do this anymore.

“Stop,” we both ceased our movements at my definitive tone. Turning to Ethan I saw the storm brewing within. Frankly, I didn’t give a damn. “You’re not listening to me.”

His eyes widened like that of a scolded child.

My next words were frank and to the point, “I cannot do this anymore. You cannot turn up and pretend you care when it’s convenient for you.”

“I do -”

“No.” I shook my head. “You’re self-serving,” the words fell quickly off my expert lips. “Choose me or lose me, Ramsey. You don’t get both.”

I paused my rant for a brief second expecting the rebuttal that never came.

“I’m confused enough as it is,” I continued. “Jus - Just get back in your car and find me when you figure your shit out.” I bit my lip before harshly saying, “I’ll be fine without you.”

There on the narrow street on a Tuesday evening in Boston my chest tightened as I took one final look at the man I once trusted above all else. His hair windswept, cheeks flush, shoulders slumped in defeat and...

His hand twitched at his side beginning to reach out for mine. But I was quicker on my heels, turning around and storming off.

The last thing I heard as I sauntered off with a heavy heart was the unlocking of a car.

“Hey, I thought you had a date tonight?” Sienna asked from the kitchen when she saw me cross the threshold of our apartment.

“It didn’t happen,” I said flatly.

“Oh no!” My dearest friend started moving around the kitchen, pulling out all the comfort food we had on tap - a pint of ice cream, cookies she had made earlier that evening, a bag of popcorn - all because she thought I was stood up.

“I…” Fuck, how do I tell her? “didn’t make it.”

Sienna stopped in her tracks and her light brown eyes looked up in confusion, “Huh?”

I shouldn’t feel guilty but I do. Sienna’s the only person who would understand, she did catch him sneaking out of my room that last morning. She’s also the only person whose opinion matters most to me. My stomach tied in knots as I sighed, “Ethan…”

“What!” she practically shouted. Luckily the others were in their rooms for the night otherwise it would have been a very awkward conversation between us. Having to tell Aurora about Ethan is another certain kind of hell I’d rather not deal with any time soon.

“He was at the bar,” I began to explain in complete exasperation. “Of course he was at the bar, of all the bars in Boston he had to choose this one tonight.” I threw my hands in the air for dramatic effect. The irony isn’t lost on me; I agreed to The Happenstance because I knew I wouldn’t run into anyone I know and yet the one person I absolutely never would have wanted to see was already there. “He stopped me before I could meet the guy.”

There was a hopeful gleam in Sienna’s eyes, “And?”

“And he had the audacity to drive me home.” I made a ‘here I am’ motion with my arms.

“That’s it?” she pouted, obviously wanting this story to have a happy ending.

I leaned my arms on the counter and rested my head in my hands, trying to rub the evening out of my eyes and the weight of what I’d said finally sinking in.

“I told him to leave me alone until he got his shit straight. I’m done with him,” my voice cracked at the end and I hoped Sienna didn’t hear it.

If she did, she didn’t let on because her next question was, “Then… why don’t you call that guy and tell him something came up at the hospital?”

Why wasn’t I going to call Cameron? Well for starters I was embarrassed for standing him up - no fake medical emergency could blow that over. I also never wanted to set foot in another bar again - Ethan can set claim to every bar in the state for all I care. I don’t want to see him outside of work ever again.

If you don’t want anything to do with him why do you feel so guilty?

With a weighted sigh I said, “I think I’m just gonna go to bed.”

And that’s the story of how I pushed the man I loved away.

___________________

A/N: becca is literally the most unreliable narrator, she’s so problematic 😔 also sorry for this chapter, it’s not the best thing i’ve written :/ fun fact: this scene started out as a one shot called ‘good enough’

comment/reblog bc i need the validation

#had mc stand up my actual husband #soz lover #lol #open heart #open heart fanfic #choices open heart #choices fanfic #choices oph2 #ethan x mc #ethan ramsey x mc #ethan ramsey #oph #oph ff #ff

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cashtonwildflower · 5 years ago

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Pas de Trois: I

NOTE: Here is the first part to my Bi!Poly!Cashton Fic. This is an intro of sorts. The next part will be more eventful, and angsty. Maybe even some smut? Please let me know what you think!

She was agitated.

She imagined that once she got her Masters and her license in counseling, she would have her own place with maybe a roommate. No, she was 24 and after 6 years of schooling and freedom, she was back where it all started her childhood home with her slightly, well excessively overbearing parents. Every single time her phone made the tiniest sound her mom was asking who was texting her and if it was a boy or not.

She also imagined that at 24 she would have a somewhat stable relationship, not a bunch of random strangers on apps like Bumble and Hinge ghosting her (or vice versa) after the conversation had gone stale and no one cared enough to revive it. She just wanted someone consistent, and someone who actually cared for conversation and not just wanted her Snap to see private images she only shared out of sheer boredom, and admittedly filled the void she so longed to have filled.

But that is not exactly why she was agitated at this very moment in time. No, she was agitated because she had an extremely strenuous day at work. She loved her job, but listening to other people’s problems and trying to think of ways to solve them simultaneously was exhausting. All she wanted to do was go home, take off her pants that began to fill entirely too restricting on her thicker thighs, and take a nice warm bath. A glass of wine and some Leon Bridges in the background also sounded like a well-deserved plan to her.

But as always her plans didn’t always, well never seemed to totally work out in her favor. As soon as he crossed the threshold of her home, she was greeted by the sound of her mother’s laugh, which she knew to be fake because no one’s laugh was that shrill, and an unfamiliar man’s laugh. This laugh was deep, warm, and a hint of sultriness to it. It took her no less than 10 seconds to know that she loved the sound of this laugh.

Her thoughts were cut short when felt her dad place his arms around her shoulders and whisper, “Mom, is entertaining the new neighbors. They’re a newlywed couple from Australia.” Her dad said with an eye roll and a tilt of head towards the kitchen. She would be a liar if she said she didn’t feel a little deflated to know that the owner of one of the most beautiful laughs she has ever heard was married.

She felt a twinge of jealousy.

She Imagined the couple to be this perfect, fit, successful couple in their early 30’s. She imagined Mr. Beautiful Laugh to be tall, a little muscular, but also a little soft, with sunkissed Australian skin. She imagined the wife to be the exact opposite of her. Tall, blonde, tan, with a great sense of style, and a knack for making her husband laugh.

She shook her head quickly to dismiss those unwelcome and quite honestly, toxic thoughts out of her mind. Why was she so jealous of a woman she never met? All because of a laugh? Or because she wanted to make someone laugh. She wanted a relationship. She wanted a partner. She wanted someone to share her intellect, and random world views and thoughts with. Yes, that’s it!

Just as she was finishing her war with her mind she heard her mother’s voice call her name from the kitchen.

She took a deep breath, cleared her thoughts, and closed her eyes. As she walked into the kitchen she was extremely shocked to see two gorgeous men sitting in the barstools parked at the kitchen island.

As soon as her eyes land on them she feels ashamed for assuming that her new neighbors were a stereotypical, suburban straight couple. This is 2020 for fuck’s sake.

“Hello, lovely to meet you,” the longer, dark-haired man says extending his hand to offer a handshake.

She smiles and returns his friendly gesture. His large, masculine hand envelopes her small feminine one. “I’m Ashton and this is my husband Calum,” He nods his head to where Calum is standing.

She tears her eyes away from Ashton to glance at Calum. He has buzzed hair, but he is smiling warmly at her. He walks over and takes the hand that his husband just let go of and mutters a friendly greeting.

Despite the fact that their greeting felt like ages, it was barely 30 seconds, and her mother is already announcing that dinner is ready.

As they eat dinner she learns that they just moved to her hometown from Sydney. They have been married for about a year before Ashton got his job at one of the local universities as a Chair of the Photography department. She discovered that Ashton and Calum met in college when they were both 18, but didn’t start dating until they were 21. Then 9 years later they got married and moved across the globe to continue their journey together.

As they are talking, she can’t help but analyze them. Individually and as a couple. She can tell that they love one another, but she also senses that there is some tension. The way Calum sort of shrugs off Ashton’s subtle embraces. The way that Ashton stares her down every time Calum is speaking to her. She also noticed how they both would roll their eyes when the other would crack a joke.

She picks up on them quickly. Reading people as well as she does is good, hell even great when it’s in a professional setting, but detrimental when it’s in her new neighbors that she just met.

Ashton and Calum stay until the third bottle of wine are finished and both of her parents retired for the evening. She did find it strange that they stayed to drink on the patio with her, when the host of the evening, her mother decided to call it a night. But she wasn’t complaining. She liked them. She was comfortable with them.

Maybe it was the wine, or that they seemed pretty genuine but she thought it pretty laughable that the therapist was becoming the patient as she vented about her life and lack of romance to two men she just met 4 hours ago.

“It’s just, my best friend is having a baby, and I can’t even remember the last time I was fucked good enough to actually cum.” The words were already out of her mouth when she realized what she had said.

Her mouth was always faster than her brain when she was tipsy, but this was the worst. Right before she was about to apologize, Ashton must’ve known what was going to come out of her mouth when he assured her everything was okay, and then he and his husband both laughed and thought it was pretty funny. Calum also noted how liked her honesty.

The three continued to chat when Calum asked her about her job. This question then turned into both, Ashton and Calum quizzing her on what she liked and disliked about counseling, what her thesis was, did she prefer treating adults, adolescents or children. Then Calum asked her if she ever treated couples.

It took her a little off guard, but she played it cool and answered yes.

Then Ashton asked the next question. A question that stunned both her and Calum:

“Would you ever consider counseling Calum and me?”

#5sos #5sos smut #5sos writing #5sos one shot #5sos preferences #calum hood smut #calum hood one shot #calum hood wrting #cashton #cashton smut #cashton one shot #ashton irwin #ashton fic #ashton irwin smut #ashton iriwn one shot #poly!sos

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sickrentheadcanons · 4 years ago

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1 New Message

Simon had desperately tried to mind his own business when Mark's phone chimed obnoxiously from the kitchen counter top of their now fully co-habituated flat. He cast a curious glance in the general direction of the iPhone that Mark had carelessly abandoned ten minutes prior in favour of a shower. “Clean body, clean mind, Si,” He'd called over his shoulder on his way into the bathroom. “Ye should try it.”

Under any normal circumstance he wouldn't give two shits about what Mark Renton's few and far between friends had to say but three texts in seven minutes was enough to pique even Simon's interest. He filled the kettle, fished himself and Mark a mug from the cupboard and came to rest casually against the counter beside Mark's phone where he definitely was nottrying to talk himself out of checking his best friend's notifications. 'Since when dae I give a fuck what the cunt gets up tae?' he had reasoned with himself only to counter his own point seconds later with a 'could be his Da. Could be an emergency like; a better check. Just incase.' and with that Simon found himself pressing a thumb to the side of Mark's phone, eyes scanning the screen as it illuminated.

4 new notifications:

Screen Time: Weekly Screen Report Available

Grindr: 1 New Message

'Fuckin' Grindr? What the fuck is he daein on Grindr?...is he-' Simon was ripped from his thoughts by the sound of the bathroom door creaking open ever so slightly and Mark calling out for help.

“Si? Could ye git us a towel? A forgot tae bring one in wae us.”

“Uh... wha-? I mean.. aye. Aye, I'll get yae one now.” he called back and okay, maybe he sounded weird and maybe Simon was having some what of a hard time convincing his head catch up with the fucking rest of him but... Grindr... Mark fucking Renton was on Grindr.

Their evening was quiet; a Connery marathon and little to no chit-chat. Simon was thankful to say the least. It wasn't that he cared- 'It's no like a mind if he's a buftie.' he thought, unable to focus his full attention on the film in front of him.

'A just wish he'd ae spoken tae us aboot it.' Simon was hurt, that was it. That's all it was; he was hurt that his best friend hadn't felt comfortable enough to confide in him. He was hurt that-

Mark's phone had chimed again in his pocket and Simon couldn't help but stare as the secretive wee cunt across from him fished his phone out of his pocket to read the message. Simon watched as Mark's mouth pulled itself into a modest smirk and he quickly typed out his reply before planting his phone firmly back in his pocket.

“Somethin' funny?” Simon found himself asking, an undeniable bite to his tone.

Mark only responded with a shrug, his eyes barely leaving the TV. 'Oh, aye. Cunt's got time tae look at his phone and reply tae his boyfriends but won't even look in my fuckin' direction when am speakin' tae him.'

Simon wasn't jealous. He really wasn't; he was just... concerned? Mark was his mate, his bestmate. Always had been and it was highly likely that he always would be. Si couldn't shake the cunt and truth be told he wasn't sure he wanted to. He had grown used to having Mark around again, though the Mark he knew now was a stark contrast to the Mark he had known when they were still wains. This Mark was bigger, stronger; both physically and emotionally. He was domesticated and responsible. This Mark was holding down a job, paying his rent on time, keeping their flat clean, cooking dinner, ironing his fucking boxers for christ's sake. This Mark was his.

Simon shoved himself up from his slumped position across their couch and mumbled nothing more than “Am goin' tae bed.” as he retreated to the dark, quiet confines of his bedroom; door slamming behind him before Mark had a chance to respond. Simon needed time alone, time to think and process all of the information he had acquired in the last four hours. 'Fuckin' Grindr. What if he's meetin' up wae psychos? Doss cunt's gonnae get himsel killed.' Simon didn't know much of anything about dating apps; Tinder, Grindr, Bumble, Hinge... 'all ae load ae old pish!' but he knew enough to know they could be dangerous and honestly? He couldn't fucking stand the thought of anything happening to Mark. He couldn't lose him again. He refused to lose him again; Not this time.

That is how Simon Williamson found himself staring down at his own phone, deep in thought as his thumb hovered apprehensively over the download icon for Grindr. He was just being cautious. Just looking out for his best friend and making sure he wasn't being lured in by the Begbie's of the world; 'Meetin' up wae fellas expectin' ae quick shag an' windin' up wae yer heed kicked in instead.'

With a deep breath, he took the plunge and watched as the app planted itself firmly on his home screen, wee yellow face fucking smirking up at him. 'Cunt.'

The sign up process hadn't been as long and arduous as Simon had anticipated; a few minor details entered, location and notifications turned off and a quick photo of his chest uploaded to his profile, he was set. Mark's profile was easy enough to locate; another shirtless torso but Simon knew what to look for, immediately recognising his friend's undeniably attractive torso and the scar from Mark's surgery. Mark didn't have a bad body, Si would give him that. Broad shoulders, toned biceps and a light dusting of chest hair all combined with strong, trim abs; aye... he could see the appeal (not that he was a wee buftie mind).

Mark (48) Online Now.

Bartender, traveller, fitness enthusiast based in Edinburgh.

Looking for mates, dates & anything in between.

Weight: 175lb

Height: 5'10

Body Type: Toned

Gender: Cis Man

Prnonouns: He/Him/His

Position: Vers Bottom

Tribes: Rugged, Daddy, Discreet

Simon found himself biting his lower lip in attempt not to laugh as he read through Mark's profile, thumb flicking back and forth between the other man's photo and his bio. “Never would ae pegged yae as a bottom, Rent Boy.” Simon mumbled, tapping to exit out of Mark's profile with every intention of calling it a night but oh... oh... “Wit the fuck is ae tap?... how do I undo a tap?.. wit have ae done?” Simon's phone buzzed in his hand, altering him to a new message; his first message in fact.

Mark>> Thanks for the tap. Great pic.

Fuck. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? Ignore the poor wee cunt? What was the point in that? He was on here to keep an eye on Mark; nothing more, nothing less. He couldn't do that without at least fucking talking to him... Simon groaned inwardly. Why the fuck did he think this was a good idea to begin with?

Aye. No bother. You look good too.<<David

Mark>> Looks like you're close by. Local?

Somethin like that. <<David

Sorry, am new to all this. A don't really know wit am doin.<<David

Mark>> I get it. I've no been on here long either.

How long?<<David

Have ye met many people off here like?<<David

Mark>> A few. Usually only if they can accom.

Accom?<<David

Mark>> Accomodate. I cannae bring people home. Flate mate.

Is that all Simon was to him? A fucking flat mate?

Oh. A see.<<David

Mark>> Disappointed? ;)

Why would a be disappointed?<<David

Mark>> You tapped me? and there's usually a reason people are on Grindr at 11:44PM.

Aye. Right enough. <<David

Mark>> So, you didn't actually answer my question.

Mark>> Are you disappointed?

Simon took a shaky breath, his palms suddenly clammy as he continued to gnaw nervously as his lower lip. Mark was flirting with him. No, not with him; Mark was flirting with David and it didn't feel bad... It didn't feel bad at all.

If Simon was to be completely and utterly honest with himself, he liked it. He enjoyed this playful, out-going side to his friend that he had rarely (if ever) seen. Maybe Mark had just never felt entirely comfortable around Simon or maybe Mark had spent most of his adolescence too smacked off of his wee ginger tits to worry about flirting and building strong, meaningful relationships. Aye... probably the latter.

Simon stared down at his phone, contemplating his next move. This wasn't right; he knew it wasn't right. He'd heard about this, there was a whole fucking TV show based around the idea. Was he really about to Catfish his own best friend? (or fucking flat mate as Mark would rather have it)...

Aye, fucking right he was.

#sickrent #sickboy #sick boy #rent boy #simon williamson #Mark Renton #slash #m/m #fanfiction #trainspotting #t2 #Jonny Lee Miller #Ewan Mcgregor #rentboy

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acatfishconfession · 4 years ago

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Chapter 1: Who am I?

If someone - anyone, had bothered to ask me (other than my elementary school teachers) where I could see myself at age twenty-nine, pushing thirty. It sure as fuck wouldn’t be here.

“Where is ‘here’, exactly?” Here, is sitting in a broke down computer chair. Listening to sad instrumentals on YouTube auto-play while I sip my Dunkin refresher, binge eat munchkin donut holes and cry over my laptop keyboard.

I wish I could say that was the worst of it. Truly, I do. But the real depth of it - the most heinous and offensive thing of all that I am doing right now is why I am here and writing this with my D.D. and emotional bullshit.

Most of my time is currently occupied flipping between five fake Instagram accounts, three fake Facebooks, two fake Twitter accounts, a fake Tinder, a fake Bumble, and my three personal accounts on social media where I’ve already lined up my next potential ‘mask’. Which is what I like to call the unwitting victims of image theft.

That’s right, world.

I am an online catfish.

Hate me. Hate me as much as I do.

I keep hoping that maybe if I feel enough of it - it will somehow trick the overly sensitive, non-confrontational, and social anxiety-riddled side of me into once and for all stopping this madness. Or at least making me feel guilty enough to just want this be over - in whatever way this sort of insanity can end once and for all.

I’ve spent more time than I’d like to admit considering the two ways it most likely will. As well as the one that I don’t dare to even mention because it’s as foolish and more unlikely than any other.

The two main ways it will likely end are death or prison. The likelihood of death being by my own hand though, is slim. Not impossible, but most definitely unlikely. Purely for the fact that I am without doubt, the biggest pussy I know. Hell, most of my tattoos were just a means to try and impress friends. Which sucks even more now because I hate damn near all of the friends I wanted and equally the tattoos that I have.

Still not sure if it’s because I hate the tattoo artist that did them or just their artwork in general. Either way, there it is. I’m a pussy. If you were concerned for a moment that I might kill myself and by partisan obligate you to contact someone for help - you can relax now.

No. If I die it will most likely be homicide via crime of passion. I am fully aware that I may inevitably piss off the wrong person in my catfishing ventures, and end up at the bottom of a river somewhere. But that would probably be good old karma just doing what she’s best at. After all... When you play a dangerous game with emotions, those emotions can become the most volatile weapon anyone can wield. Especially when they are tested and toyed with enough. As for prison... Well... I know there are many legal actions people can take in regard to how their photos are used and what is said about them. How they are portrayed by others online or otherwise falls under the realm of slander - if I’m not mistaken. Not entirely sure if we can call it genuine identity theft. I’m pretty sure the entire point of being a catfishing is to work in a lucrative enough way to which the content owners will be forever (or at least prolongingly) never the wiser to what you’re doing. So you change things like name, locations, ages, birthdays, etc. Avoid them and their circle of friends with prejudice. I don’t just mean ‘don’t send them friend requests’ or ‘don’t check their pages’.

If you’re good at catfishing (if one even call the level of depravity you have to hit to do it well ‘good’), you pull out all the stops. Finding all of their accounts on every site and app and blocking them, their friends, their friend’s friends, and families. Whole geographic locations sometimes. Anyone from their area or who went to their school. You vanish from their potential radar.

And believe me when I say.... At catfishing... There are none better than me. At least, not that I’ve ever heard of.

That’s not to be confused with boasting. I feel disgusted with myself in even stating it. Because that’s what it is - disgusting. This is the first time I’m admitting this in my entire life. So, I suggest you take a deep breath with me before you read what I’m about to confess. Ready?

In - one, two, three, four, five, six.

Out - seven, eight, nine, ten.

I have catfished as (yes, I’ve counted)… One-hundred and twenty-seven people.

I know... I know... It’s impressive. Horribly and disturbingly so. And that does not account for the number of accounts I’ve had for each of them. Emails, Instagrams, Facebooks, etc. Even a few Vampirefreaks and Darkstarling accounts back in the day. I can’t even remember the names of most of them anymore. Only their faces. But even those fade over time.

You’d think for as prolific as I’ve been with getting to know them, their lives, and those around them so intimately to pull off the amount of catfishing I have - I’d remember more clearly. But I suppose if you do anything for as long as I’ve been catfishing, you’re bound to lose track of a few memories or blips of time.

I know you’re all dying to know exactly how long I’ve being doing this for. So I’ll tell you. The answer may be as equally shocking as my ‘mask count’. Realistically, take a moment and try to guess how old I was when I started. Here’s a tip. As I sit and write this, I’m 29. Just a few months shy of my 30th birthday. Now go on.... Give it your best shot.

Got a guess?

Ladies, gentlemen, and thems. I have been catfishing since I was eight years old.

That’s right. Only eight years old. I’m sure you were thinking surely fourteen or even fifteen. Technically, you’re right. Somewhere around there is when I actually became aware of what it was exactly that I was doing. But things were much different then. When I was eight, the internet being a modern in-home comfort was relatively new. We had dial-up. Screechy AOL start up sounds that were most likely close rivals to what would be Cthulhu’s mating call. The days of poorly moderated chatrooms and weak HTML coding. Not even Myspace existed at that point (I really miss Tom. We took him for granted. Zuckerberg’s rules kind of make him seem like a bit of a cuck. But I digress.)

Before I was twelve years old, no one knew what the hell ‘catfishing’ was. We’d never experienced enough of it to have to worry that people online would lie about something as outlandish as their face. Their age, name, or location - maybe. Shit, people have been lying about their relationship and marital statuses since the dawn of man. The internet didn’t breed lies like that, (though I’m certain it made it a great deal easier to do). Those were the kind of lies that you’d think of when it came to telling lies on the internet. But nothing like this.

Now look at us. For every ten of your actual friends on Instagram, there is at least one catfish following you or trying to make friends with you. Not that it’s a factually proven ratio or anything, more so an idea. I’m clearly not a scientist or research analyst, and as we’ve already established - I’m way too busy maintaining fake accounts to actually look up factual catfishing statistics.

So why? Why did I do it? Why do I continue to do it? Why confess now? Most importantly, who the hell am I? The ‘whys’ are a bit more complex than just selecting reason A or B. But if you’re really curious to know and willing to hear what I have to say and find out what makes up a catfish. Or at least - me. The most prolific online catfish likely to date (here’s hoping I am because I’d hate to know there is anyone crazier than me out there). Then stick around, because I’m ready to tell you - all of you. Everyone who cares to read this story. I am going to do my best along the way to help you answer some questions you might have. What is it like, how does it make me feel, do I really feel guilty, are there other kinds of catfish, and which one am I? And of course - how to spot and potentially stop a catfish.

Maybe by the end of this blog series, and once you are past out-right hating me (if you can find it in you to get past out-right hating me.... *Insert nervous and shameful laughter here*). You’ll be at least thankful to have learned some new things and gained an understanding that you hadn’t expected to from this. Or at least be thoroughly entertained - because, who the hell doesn’t love a controversial story line? As for who I am....

I really wish I could give you an answer. Because truth be told - I don’t even know anymore.

Maybe in writing this series, I’ll figure that out. Hell, you might even help me get there a bit. Aside the most obvious and recently discovered portion of that answer being, that I am first and foremost, a massive piece of shit - for stealing people’s photos and lying about who I am.

#story autobigraphy catfish controversial writing series book author blog blogging internet fake faking socialmedia

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butterflydreaming-writes-fic · 4 years ago

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*sweats* I'm excited to offer a gift fic for @imthatpeculiarone in this round of the Profound Bond Gift Exchange: Reunion.

Title: This Wheel's on Fire

Word Count: 3,419

Fluff, Rated Gen

An old Lincoln Continental with faded paint nearly hits Baby in the supermarket parking lot. Dean slams the brakes. His untasted coffee takes a dive, and Dean is quickly slapping take-out napkins from the glove box stash even as he slides into an open parking spot. He takes a minute of the limited time he has for this errand to get himself calmed down.

His temper flares up again when he sees that he’s parked next to the gold Continental. He doesn’t have time to move the Impala to another spot, so he slides over the bench seat. The Fiat on that side is crookedly parked but still leaves enough space for Dean to open the door more than four inches.

Phone in hand, he scrolls through Jody’s text messages for the list. While he was driving to the store, she’s added more. He grabs a shopping cart on the way in, notes where the freezer with the ice is, and speeds up an aisle toward the bakery section, where he almost collides with a guy striding through the T-intersection.

“Shit! By bad,” Dean says, stopping short of running the startled man down.

The man squints. His blue eyes burn brighter. “That would be the second time today,” he accuses.

“What?” Dean asks.

The man rolls his eyes. “I don’t have time for this,” he gripes as he beelines for another section of the store.

Dean doesn’t have time either. The cake is ready when he gets to the bakery counter, but they’ve written “Congratulations Kelsy” instead of “Kelly.” To fix it, Dean would have to wait for the only person on staff with the rare skill of being able to write with decorator gel to get back from a break of unknown duration. He takes the cake as-is and a tube of Cake Mate. He rattles through the aisles for the rest of the supplies, eyes the coffee cart, but opts to get in the shortest of the long checkout lines instead.

The cranky guy gets in line behind him.

Their eyes meet and lock. For a second it looks like the guy might yield and move to another line, but as Dean is starting to unload his items onto the belt, the guys interrupts.

“Can I go ahead of you? I only have three things.”

“Sorry, buddy,” Dean says. “I’m on a clock.”

“I’m not your buddy,” Blue Eyes snipes. He eyes Dean’s purchases, expression a mix of irritation and confusion.

“Man, what is your issue with me?” Dean protests. “Look, I haven’t had my coffee yet, so maybe I’m missing something. But I’ve gotta finish shopping and be gone in sixty seconds, OK? There’s a pregnant lady waiting for her cake and baby shower games. I’ll be out of your life in five minutes.”

The man’s face suddenly brightens. “You’re going to a baby shower.” The brilliance of his smile is like white sparks. Dean feels his body respond to the warmth of that smile even though the sudden transformation from pissy to friendly throws him.

The checker has started scanning Dean’s purchases. He gives her the sticker with the barcode for the cake. “And six bags of ice,” he tells her.

Blue Eyes asks, “Is the party for your partner?”

That startles a laugh out of Dean. “No,” he answers, a drawn out negation. “My friend is hosting. The mom-to-be is from her church.” He adds, “I’m not seeing anyone currently.” He gives the guys his own friendly smile.

Dean’s lure lands, because the man extends a hand. “I’m Cas. By the way.”

“Dean.” They shake hands. Cas has a strong grip. In the fleeting skin to skin contact notes the slight callous and Cas’s long fingers. He has good hands.

“It's a happy occasion.” Cas sets down his purchases: a guinea pig plushie, pack of gold gift wrapping tissue, and a glossy white bag decorated with rainbows and unicorns. A tween must be having a birthday.

Dean reaches for his wallet to pay. It’s not in his pocket. “Crap.” This grocery store isn’t set up to take pay apps.

Cas catches on. “Dean, I’ve got this,” he says. “It’s just,” he gestures at the bags, “diapers and candy bars.”

“It’s a lot,” Dean objects. “I’ll Venmo you the money right now.”

“I don’t know Venmo,” Cas says. He tells the cashier, “I’ll pay for mine with his.” To Dean he says, “Let’s exchange phone numbers and we can settle up later when we’re not holding up a checkout line.”

“Are you sure?” Dean asks.

“I believe in trusting people.” Cas nearly bumps Dean’s hip putting his card into the payment terminal. When the path is clear, Dean pushes the shopping cart past the checkstand, but for a long moment Cas and Dean are crowded into each other’s personal space.

“You said you haven’t had coffee yet. Can I buy you a cup?” Cas points to the coffee cart. “I know you’re short on time, but we can get each other’s contact info while they make our drinks.”

They both order drip coffee, black. The barista doesn’t have any brewed, and offers a choice between Americanos or a five minute wait.

“We can blame our delay on traffic,” Cas suggests.

They opt for the wait.

“OK, give me your number,” Dean says after they take a table in the tiny dining area. “If you want I can bring you cash after I drop off the party stuff.”

The cart is too big, so Dean takes out the bags and sets them on the table, leaving the cart parked out of the way. He’ll need it when he gets the ice on the way out. They start out chatting about movies and end up in an oddly intense discussion about social justice and the existence of a benevolent God in the minutes until the barista calls out that their coffees are ready.

Dean takes the lid off and slugs the coffee. He can’t help the sound that comes out of him, even though it is borderline inappropriate for a grocery store. “That’s scalding,” he says, eyes watering, “but so good.” Cas is smiling at him. “My friend woke me up with the shopping emergency,” Dean explains. He gestures to his coffee-splattered clothes. “And then some dick in a crappy Continental makes a illegal left on the way in here — “

“Excuse me ,” Cas interrupts with flashpoint ire. “That turn was both legal and clear , and if your boat hadn’t been taking up two lanes we would not have had that near miss!”

Dean takes a long swallow of hot coffee before he gets in a fight over Baby’s honor. He takes a mental half-step back as he realizes that Cas was the driver earlier. Dean has a bad temper, he knows it, and he’s learned to be better about it than he was in his twenties. Cas had saved his bacon with the money thing, and he had done it in spite of thinking Dean was in the wrong.

“Look. Thanks for the help,” he says. He’s sincere but somehow it comes out sounding aggressive. “I mean it. Thanks.” Without saying anything more, he grabs his bags and stalks out. He makes it all the way to Baby before he realizes. He gets the shopping bags in the trunk and goes back for the forgotten ice.

Cas is walking directly toward him. For a solid three strides across the asphalt it is a game of chicken. They stare daggers at each other, oblivious to any traffic around. Nearly simultaneously, they both realize that Cas is walking to his car, which is parked right next to the Impala, and Dean is walking back into the grocery store. They pass each other; the absence of acknowledgement is an acknowledgement in itself.

Dean makes it back into the store, loads up a shopping cart with the ice Cas paid for, and pushes the rattling cart out the door and across the lot to his car. The Continental is still in its spot. Cas hasn’t left yet; he is sitting in the driver seat. Dean can’t get into his driver’s seat until Cas leaves, so he loads the ice into the trunk slowly. He finishes his coffee.

When Cas still hasn’t left, Dean walks around the Lincoln’s large ass end and raps a knuckle on the back window to get Cas’s attention. He waits for Cas to roll down the window a few inches, before pitching his voice to him. “I can’t get in my car until you pull out,” he tells him.

“Your shopping cart is in the way. I’ve been waiting until it’s safe,” Cas informs him.

Dean just shakes his head and walks away, dragging his cart to the corral at the end of the parking row. He lobs his empty paper cup into the same trash can he dropped the mess from his spilled coffee into. He watches Cas back out of the space, smooth and easy, the engine of the Continental bumbling like a contented bee as he drives away. Dean jogs back to the Impala and slides into the driver seat before a car can take the newly empty spot, not that anything would fill the space like that late ‘70s Lincoln Continental Mark V.

He gets a weird feeling looking at the empty space. It feels like a missed opportunity. He wishes he’d kept his mouth shut about the left turn. How many times had someone cut him off in traffic or made a bad lane change, and how many of those times mattered after? None. He and Cas had been having a good conversation, connecting.

Dean tunes the radio to the classic rock station, relaxes with the comfortable and familiar, and heads out. Kelly’s address is less than five minutes away, but too many of the residential streets dead end, and by the time he finds the right path through, it’s been a quarter hour. there is space for him in the driveway, though, and he pulls in so that he can unload the ice bags. He tosses one on his shoulder and knocks on the unfamiliar door.

* * *

“I should have handled that better,” Cas says to the stuffed animal, his last minute gift for Kelly’s baby-on-the-way. Her house is close by and he knows the way, so he finds himself thinking about Dean, feelings a mix of irritation and deep attraction. Dean, who he will probably never see again.

Because he knows that quite a few guests will be attending her party, he parks the Lincoln around the block to leave space along the street in front of her home. Kelly Kline-Rooney and her husband Jefferson have a newly remodeled, two-story Craftsman home with a large yard and back garden. Cas drew the plans for the remodel, and over some difficulty with the contractor, he and Kelly became friends.

He’s arrived early to help with set up, but Jody, the organizer — who he meets for the first time — shoos him out of the kitchen, so he gets to spend the time with Kelly. “How are you,” he asks her, “and how’s the baby?”

“I’m good,” she says, “we’re both good.” She heaves a little sigh and fidgets in her armchair. “Actually, I’m a little wound up. I haven’t finished painting the mural in the nursery, and all of a sudden I feel like there won’t be enough time to get anything finished before my baby gets here.” She smooths a hand over her belly. Her expression changes and she gasps, “Oh! Give me your hand.” She takes him by the wrist and pulls his hand toward her baby bump.

He feels her baby kick, all that life, gearing up to meet the world. Cas has to admit, because Kelly has enthusiastically roped him into the experience of her pregnancy, he has become more interested in the idea of having children. It has broadened his outlook.

“Kelly,” he finds himself saying, “I met someone today.”

Her eyes sparkle with interest. “It’s not even ten o’clock yet!” she laughs.

“I met him at the grocery store,” Cas says, shrugging. He smiles, thinking about Dean. His smile breaks as he recalls how it played out. “Unfortunately,” he confesses, “we didn’t part on good terms.”

“Cas,” Kelly mourns. “What happened? Tell me all about it?”

“This beautiful man,” he starts, thinking of Dean, his deep voice and the way he spoke with conviction and certainty. The way he made direct eye contact. The sexy freckles and the shape of his lips.

“Yes?” Kelly prompts when Cas gets lost in thought.

He laughs. “He is… very attractive,” Cas emphasizes. “You know I’m not overly focused on appearances, but Dean.” He shakes his head and looks heavenward. His eyes fall to his hands. He picks at his fingernails. “We almost got into a car accident, and that’s what we ended up fighting about. But before that, we got coffee together and talked, and we exchanged numbers.”

“Well that’s good!” Kelly encourages. “Something sparked between you. You can call him and smooth things out.”

“I wasn’t in the wrong,” Cas grumps.

“No, sweetie. I’m not saying you have to apologize or anything. But you can talk. You only just met. Sometimes first meetings don’t go all that well because of sparks.” She gives him a robust pat on the knee. “I’m rooting for you.” Inching forward in her chair to get up, she sighs, “I miss drinks with booze in them. How about we get some fancy lemonade and pretend it’s rosé?”

“I’ll get it,” Cas says so that Kelly doesn’t have to rise. He enters the kitchen with a hello for Jodi and gets introduced to Patience a moment before she leaves to answer the front door. Cas can hear her greeting the newcomer, and he stops mid-pour when he hears the deep timbre that answers. He finishes pouring Kelly’s sparkling pink lemonade before he musters the question for Jodi, “Is that Dean?”

“You know each other?” Jodi responds with cheerful curiosity.

Patience comes back in, holding up a grocery bag. “Dean came through. I’m going to help him bring in the bags of ice — “

“I can help with that,” Cas interrupts.

“Would you? Thanks!”

The look on Dean’s face when he sees Cas is… not what Cas expected. Dean’s eyes light up, and there is a genuine wonder in his surprise.

* * *

Missouri’s granddaughter, Patience Turner, waves for Dean to come inside. “Hi Dean! Jody’s in the kitchen.”

“Hiya, Patience. Where can I put the ice? I’ve got five more bags like this.”

“There’s a big cooler out on the barbecue patio,” she says. “Through the living room. I’ll get you some help unloading the car.”

The living room already has a dozen people in it. Dean exchanges salutations with the people he knows and exudes charm at the rest. He shakes out the bag of ice into the cooler, which looks big enough, and scopes out the landing spot for the cake. There is a long table already stocked with plates and plastic cutlery; it has some gifts on it that will need to be moved to join the pile of gifts on the coffee table. Dean registers that one is a white gift bag with unicorns and rainbows on it, stuffed with gold tissue.

Patience is in the entry with Cas.

For a solid beat, Dean doesn’t know what to think, because something in his chest turns over like a big engine revving up. Once the wheels of his mind get going, he still continues standing there like an idiot. “Hey, Cas,” he says.

“Hello, Dean.”

Cas turns and goes out the door. When they reach the Impala, they are alone together, and it is awkward. It is definitely awkward. Cas stands by the trunk, expectantly.

“Here, let me get that,” Dean says. As he unlocks and lifts the heavy lid of the trunk, they are standing too close again. Dean should mind that Cas’s keeps getting into his personal space, but he doesn’t. He wants to get closer. This level of attraction makes him stupid, and he feels the urge to make an offhand comment to sabotage himself.

But then Cas says, “I’m sorry we parted on a bad note.”

“Yeah, um,” Dean answers, “me too.” He knows it’s not enough, not when he’s gotten a second chance. “I mean, I’m sorry, too.” It’s hard to believe it can be that simple, but Cas’s face lights up with hope, so maybe it is.

“Between the two of us, I’m sure we can get all of this in one trip,” Cas says, and now they have to get moving. Apparently, he is also a pro at self-sabotage. It’s weirdly comforting.

They don’t get much of a chance to talk alone after that. Dean fixes the writing on Kelly’s cake and catches up with Jody, while Cas makes party talk with the people he knows. They chat, but not alone, not until Dean is volunteered to fire up the barbecue and Cas escapes outside with him.

It’s a gas barbecue, and clean. There isn’t much to do while it heats up. “How do you like your burger?” Dean asks, because food is an easy topic.

Cas shrugs. “Well done?”

Dean shakes his head. “A good cut of grass-fed beef, medium rare — that’s a burger to sink your teeth into. Juicy, fresh.”

“I don’t eat much red meat anymore,” Cas says. “I sneak a trip to White Castle once in a rare while.”

“White Castle? You’ve gotta let me make you a real burger, Cas.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Trust the Meat Man,” Dean says, pointing both thumbs back at himself.

Cas squints at him. “You’re very confident in your opinions,” he says.

Dean’s not sure how to take that. “Shouldn’t I be?”

“There’s more than one side to things,” Cas answers.

“A right side and a wrong side?” Dean teases.

“Dean.” Cas gives him an eye roll and a look, a real cut the crap look that delights Dean. He knows he likes arguing with someone who can hold his ground.

“You’re easy to get riled up, y’know that?”

“Am I.” Cas’s tone is flirty.

“Or maybe it’s just easy for me to get your wheels burning,” Dean flirts back.

“How, by disparaging my car?” Cas asks.

Dean blinks. “Your car?”

“You called it ‘crappy’.” He does the air quotes. “It’s not. There’s a lot to love about an old car. As I would think you would know, since you have one yourself.”

“Did you just compare my Impala to your land yacht? How does a guy like you even have a car like that?”

“I like it,” Cas defends.

“It’s still not a Chevy,” Dean says.

“I have never understood the Ford - Chevrolet rivalry,” Cas comments. “They’re not sports teams. It’s bizarre.” He’s serious.

“OK, OK,” Dean responds. “I’m not trying to be an asshole,” he says. He adds on, “It just comes easy to me.”

“So we should just kiss and make up?” Cas asks, making eye contact.

Dean licks his lips. Damn, if that isn’t an invitation.

They both glance at the sliding glass doors and the potential audience inside. “Ah, the garden shed,” Cas starts. “There might be some needed equipment.”

“Yeah, barbecue stuff or,” Dean agrees.

As soon as they are inside the painted shed, they are in each other’s personal space again. There is nothing accidental about the kiss that follows. Cas’s hands grip Dean at the hip. Dean puts his hands on Cas’s jaw. He holds his head and kisses him deeply, eager to feel him. He gets Cas’s lower lip between his own and gently lingers as they explore each other’s mouths.

They make out for as long as they think they can get away with. But the barbecue is unattended, and they know someone will wonder where they’ve disappeared to if they are gone too long.

Dean makes the moment they have last as long as he can. “I guess we should get back,” he murmurs, nuzzling at Cas’s neck.

“Mmh,” Cas makes a noise that could be agreement.

“What are you doing after the party?” Dean asks.

“Probably helping clean up,” answers Cas.

“Funny, me too. What about tomorrow?”

“Well, tomorrow I have to run some errands after work. Grocery store shopping.” Cas’s eyes are twinkling.

“Oh. I see. How about I do the shopping, and cook you a nice dinner? My place?”

“You’re on, Meat Man,” Cas agrees.

* * *

#pbexchangereunion #pbexchange #deancas #also on ao3

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