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harrysfolklore · 6 months ago

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first win - op81

gif by @princemick <33

summary: the road to oscar’s first grand prix win. wc: 3.4K

folkie radio: OSC’S FIRST WIN 🥹🥹🥹 that race that so stressful but he did it and i’m so happy! fun fact: i wrote this fic last night bc i just FELT oscar was winning, i just added today’s race a few hours ago 😭 i hope you like it! leave feedback

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

February 5, 2023. Bahrain Grand Prix

Today was the big day. Oscar Piastri was set to make his Formula 1 debut as a McLaren driver.

You've talked about this countless of times, sharing dreams and fears, mapping out every step of his journey from karting to the pinnacle of motorsport.

Now, as you stood in the garage with the crowd's energy buzzing around you, it was hard to believe that moment had finally arrived.

Oscar was going through some pre-race talks with his team. You caught sight of him from a distance, his face a mask of focus and determination. When he spotted you, he broke into a smile, and for a brief moment, the tension seemed to melt away.

You make your way over to him as he finishes up with his team.

"Ready to set the track on fire, hotshot?" you tease, playfully tugging at the sleeve of his race suit.

Oscar grins, a mix of excitement and nerves dancing in his eyes. "Well, hopefully not literally. I don't think the team would appreciate a barbecued car on my first outing."

His chuckle is tinged with a hint of nervousness. You notice his hand fidgeting with the zipper of his race suit – a telltale sign of his pre-race jitters.

"Hey," you say softly, taking his hand. "Remember what we always say? You've earned this. You belong here."

"I know. It's just...," he took a deep breath, "It's really happening, isn't it? All those years of dreaming, and now..."

"And now you're about to drive the pants off everyone out there," you finish for him, your voice filled with confidence.

As the final call for drivers echoes through the garage, you both know it's time. Oscar's eyes lock with yours, a swirl of emotions passing between you. Without a word, he pulls you close, his lips meeting yours in a tender kiss. It's brief but filled with emotion.

"For luck," you whisper as you part, your foreheads still touching.

"With you here, I've got all the luck I need," Oscar replies softly, his smile warm and genuine.

With a final squeeze of your hand, he heads to where he's needed. You watch him go, your heart racing with anticipation.

The race begins, and for the first 14 laps, everything seems to be going well. Oscar is holding his own, fighting in the midfield, showing flashes of the talent that got him here.

But on lap 15, your heart sinks as you see his car slow down, veering off the racing line. The team radio crackles with the devastating news: "Box, box. We have a steering issue. We need to retire the car."

You watch, helpless, as Oscar brings the car back to the pits. The disappointment is palpable as he climbs out, his debut cut short.

As soon as he's free from the debrief, you find him in his driver's room. His face is a mask of frustration and disappointment.

"Hey," you say softly, taking his hand. "You okay?"

Oscar sighs, squeezing your hand. "Not really. I just... I wanted to finish the race, you know? Show everyone what I could do."

You pull him into a hug. "And you will. This is just the first race, Oscar. There are plenty more to come."

July 9, 2023. British Grand Prix

Silverstone is one of the most special races in the calendar, and for Oscar it's even more special because England is his second home.

He really wanted to deliver a great result. So far, he hadn't been able to place above P8 and he desperately wanted to improve that.

"I know you're nervous about tomorrow," you said as you laid your head on his chest, feeling him tense, "But you're going to do great, baby."

Oscar wraps his arm around you, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your shoulder. "You really think so?" he asks, his voice a mix of hope and uncertainty.

You prop yourself up on your elbow to look at him. "I know so. You've been getting stronger with every race. The car's improving, and you're more comfortable with it. Plus, this is Silverstone - you know this track like the back of your hand."

He smiles, some of the tension leaving his face. "I do love this circuit."

"That's the spirit," you say, leaning in to kiss him softly. "Now get some sleep. You've got some racing to do in the morning."

The next day you watch from the garage, your heart swells with pride as Oscar delivers a perfect drive. As he crosses the finish line in P4, the garage erupts in cheers. It's his best result in Formula 1 to date, a performance that will silence any remaining doubters.

When he finally makes it back to the garage, helmet off and face beaming, you're there waiting. He sweeps you up in a hug, both of you laughing with joy.

"You did it!" you exclaim as he sets you down. "I told you you could do it!"

Oscar's eyes are shining with elation and pride. "We did it," he corrects you. "I couldn't have done this without your support."

September 24th, 2023. Japanese Grand Prix

You're perched on the edge of your couch, eyes glued to the TV screen, your heart racing as the lights go out at Suzuka. It's killing you not to be there in person, but work commitments had made the trip to Japan impossible.

Your mind flashes back to your conversation with Oscar yesterday after qualifying. His voice had been filled with excitement and a hint of disbelief as he told you about securing second place on the grid, right behind Max Verstappen.

"Can you believe it?" he had said, his words tumbling out in a rush. "P2! Right behind Max! I mean, I knew the car felt good, but this... this is incredible!"

You had matched his enthusiasm, your pride evident in your voice. "I told you you could do it! Just imagine what you could do in the race from there."

Now, as the race unfolds, you find yourself alternating between cheering out loud and holding your breath. When he crosses the finish line in third place, you leap off the couch, screaming in joy. His first podium and in just his 14th race.

You watch the podium ceremony with tears in your eyes, your heart swelling with pride as Oscar stands there, beaming, champagne in hand next to Max and Lando. It's a moment you've both dreamed about for so long.

It was killing you not to be there.

Hours pass, and you know Oscar must be caught up in team celebrations and media obligations. You're itching to talk to him, but you don't want to interrupt. Finally, just as you're considering going to bed, your phone rings.

"Hey, podium finisher," you answer, unable to keep the smile out of your voice.

"Hey yourself," Oscar replies, and you can hear the grin in his voice. "Sorry it took so long to call. It's been absolutely crazy here."

"Don't apologize! I'm just so incredibly proud of you, Oscar. You were amazing out there. Your first podium, it's a dream come true."

There's a moment of silence, and when Oscar speaks again, his voice is thick with emotion. "I just wish you could have been here. It doesn't feel quite complete without you."

"I know," you say softly. "I wish I could have been there too. But hey, this is just the first of many podiums, right? I'll be there for the next one."

"You bet it is," Oscar chuckles, "And you better be, I need someone to help me wash all this champagne out of my hair."

You laugh, feeling a mix of joy and longing. "I love you, Oscar. Enjoy your celebrations. You've earned it."

"I love you too," he replies warmly, "And I miss you, we have some celebration on our own to do."

October 8th, 2023. Qatar Grand Prix.

The heat in Qatar is suffocating, but the excitement in the air is even more intense. You're back in the paddock, determined not to miss another milestone in Oscar's career. Yesterday's sprint shootout had been a nail-biter, with Oscar securing pole position for the sprint race by mere hundredths of a second.

As the short-format race begins, you hold your breath. Oscar gets a perfect start, maintaining his lead into the first corner. As the final lap approaches, the McLaren garage is in shambles.

When Oscar crosses the finish line in first place, the explosion of joy is deafening. You're jumping up and down, tears streaming down your face as you watch him punch the air in triumph. He's done it - his first ever Formula 1 race win.

As Oscar pulls into parc fermé, you can see the emotion on his face even through his helmet. When he finally removes it, his smile is brighter than the Qatari sun. The team swarms him, and you hang back, letting him soak in this moment with the people who've worked so hard to make this possible.

When he finally breaks free and spots you, his face lights up even more. He rushes over, sweeping you into a tight embrace.

"You did it!" you exclaim, your voice muffled against his race suit. "Your first win, Oscar! I'm so proud of you!"

Oscar pulls back, his eyes shining with. "We did it," he corrects you, just as he did after Silverstone.

You laugh, wiping away happy tears. "Well this is just the beginning. Next stop, Grand Prix victory."

May 5, 2024. Miami Grand Prix.

The air in Oscar's driver's room is heavy with disappointment. You watch as he paces back and forth, still in his race suit, his face a mixture of frustration and barely contained anger.

The race had started so promisingly - Oscar had taken the lead early on and was driving beautifully. But then, a collision forced him into an unscheduled pit stop for a new front wing, dropping him down the order and out of contention for a podium finish.

"I had it," Oscar mutters, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "I was leading the race, I had the pace. If it wasn't for that idiot..."

You step closer, your heart aching for him. "I know, baby. You were driving amazingly out there."

Oscar stops pacing and looks at you, his eyes filled with disappointment. "It's not fair. We've worked so hard, the car was perfect, and then..."

He trails off, shaking his head. You close the distance between you, gently taking his hands in yours. "Hey, look at me," you say softly.

Oscar meets your gaze, and you can see the vulnerability behind his frustration.

"You're right, it's not fair," you continue. "But that's racing sometimes. What matters is how you come back from this. And you will come back from this, stronger than ever."

"I just... I wanted this so badly."

You pull him into a hug, feeling him slowly relax against you. "I know. And your time will come, Oscar. This doesn't change how talented you are or how hard you've worked. It's just a bump in the road."

May 26th, 2024. Monaco Grand Prix.

The streets of Monaco buzz with anticipation for one the most important races in the Formula 1 calendar. For Oscar, this was his second time racing in Monaco, and the excitement was palpable.

From your spot in the McLaren hospitality suite, you had the perfect view of the circuit. Oscar thought you were back home, watching from the living room, but you couldn't miss this race. You wanted to see him shine on this iconic track.

You had coordinated with the team to keep your presence a surprise. As Oscar has his last quiet moments in his driver room before the preparations started, you sent him a quick text: "Good luck, love. Drive fast, be safe. I'll be cheering you on from home!"

Oscar's response was immediate. "Thanks, babe. I miss you. Wish you were here, but I'll bring home a trophy for you."

You smiled, knowing that he was in for a big surprise.

The race began, and Oscar quickly settled into a rhythm. He defended his P2 position until the checkered flag waved.

The team erupted in cheers, and you felt tears of joy streaming down your face. It was his third podium finish, and it was in Monaco of all places.

Oscar climbed out of his car, waving to the cheering crowd, his face glowing with joy and relief. As he stood on the podium, spraying champagne and celebrating with Charles and Carlos, you made your way down to the team area.

When the podium celebrations were over, and Oscar was heading back to the garage, you waited for the perfect moment. As he turned the corner, you stepped out, catching his eye.

"Oscar!" you called out, your voice carrying over the noise of the paddock.

He froze, his eyes widening in surprise. "What are you doing here?" he exclaimed, a huge grin spreading across his face as he rushed over to you.

"I couldn't miss this. I had to see you race in Monaco," you threw your arms around him, laughing.

Oscar hugged you tightly, lifting you off your feet. "You sneaky little... I can't believe you're here!"

"Congratulations, baby. You were incredible out there," you pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes.

"This... this is amazing. Thank you for being here. It means everything to me."

"I wouldn't have missed it for the world," you replied, kissing him softly.

July 7th, 2024. British Grand Prix

Oscar had been more motivated than ever. After finishing second the previous week in Austria, he was eager to claim his first Grand Prix victory, and what better place than Silverstone.

He started strong, fighting his way to the front and eventually taking the lead. The team was buzzing with excitement; victory seemed within reach.

But then, disaster struck. A poorly timed pit stop strategy caused Oscar to lose crucial positions. Despite his best efforts, he crossed the finish line in P4. It was his best finish at Silverstone but not the victory he had hoped for.

Later that day back at Oscar's apartment you watched him pace back and forth. He finally stopped and leaned against the window, staring out into the night. His shoulders were tense, and his jaw was set in frustration. The silence was deafening.

"What's on your mind?" you asked softly, breaking the silence.

Oscar didn't turn around. "I don't want to talk about it," he muttered.

You stood up and walked over to him, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. "I know you're upset. But sometimes talking helps."

He sighed deeply and turned to face you, his eyes filled with frustration and disappointment. "I was leading the race. I could have won. My first victory, right here at Silverstone. And it slipped away because of a stupid strategy call."

You reached out and took his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "It wasn't your fault, Oscar. You drove an amazing race. Everyone saw how talented you are."

"But it doesn't change the fact that I could have won," he said, his voice cracking with frustration. "I've been waiting for this moment my whole life, and it was right there. And now... I don't know when I'll get another chance like this."

You pulled him into a tight hug, feeling his body tense before he finally relaxed against you. "Your time will come. I know it will. You've shown everyone what you're capable of, and there will be other races, other chances. This is just one race in a long career."

Oscar pulled back slightly, looking into your eyes. "I just wanted it so badly. To win here, in front of the home crowd... it would have meant everything."

"I know," you said softly. "And you'll get there. Maybe not today, but soon. And when you do, it'll be even sweeter because of everything you've gone through to get there."

July 21, 2024. Hungary Grand Prix

The Hungaroring buzzed with excitement as the cars lined up on the grid. Oscar, starting from the front row, felt a mixture of determination and nervous energy. As the lights went out, he got a perfect start, pulling away cleanly from the pack.

Lap after lap, Oscar maintained his lead. The team's excitement grew with each passing circuit. This could be it - his first Grand Prix victory.

However, as the race progressed, pit stop strategies began to shake up the order. After a particularly well-timed stop, Lando emerged just ahead of him. The tension in the McLaren garage was palpable.

Soon, team radio crackled to life. Reminding both drivers about strategies, and particularly asking Lando to give the position to Oscar, creating tension both on and off track.

In the final laps, Lando finally relented. He moved slightly wide in a corner, allowing Oscar to slip past. Oscar crossed the finish line first, claiming his maiden Grand Prix victory.

The team erupted in cheers, but the celebration felt somewhat muted. As Oscar climbed out of his car in parc fermé, his face was hard to read.

As you watched Oscar ascend the podium, your heart swelled with pride. Despite the complicated circumstances of his win, seeing him stand on the top step, the Australian national anthem playing in his honor, was a dream come true.

The champagne spray began, and you couldn't help but smile as Oscar, Lando, and Lewis doused each other in celebration. For a moment, the tension seemed to melt away as the three drivers laughed and enjoyed the moment.

As Oscar descended from the podium, his eyes immediately sought you out in the crowd. You managed to catch him just before he was whisked away for interviews.

"Congratulations, champ," you said, pulling him into a quick embrace.

Oscar hugged you tightly, his race suit still damp with champagne. "Thank you for being here," he murmured against your ear.

You pulled back, searching his face. "How are you feeling?"

A flicker of emotion crossed his features. "I'm not sure yet. I need to process everything."

"I understand," you nodded. "Go do your interviews. We'll talk properly later."

Oscar's eyes softened. He glanced around quickly, then leaned in and gave you a quick kiss. "Love you, see you after."

Hours later, after all the media obligations and team debriefs were over, Oscar finally made his way back to the McLaren hospitality area.

As he entered the room, his eyes immediately sought you out. You were there, beaming with pride, and the sight of you seemed to melt away some of his conflicted feelings.

"There's my champion," you said softly as he approached.

Oscar's face broke into a genuine smile, the first one since he'd crossed the finish line. He pulled you into a tight embrace, burying his face in your neck.

"I did it," he murmured against your skin. "I actually did it."

You pulled back slightly to look at him, cupping his face in your hands. "You did. And I am so incredibly proud of you, Oscar."

His eyes searched yours, vulnerability evident in his gaze. "It wasn't exactly how I imagined my first win would be," he admitted.

"I know," you nodded, understanding in your voice. "But that doesn't make it any less of an achievement. You drove brilliantly today, from start to finish."

"I just wish... I wish it had been a clean fight to the end, you know?" Oscar sighed, leaning his forehead against yours, "Without the team orders and all that."

"Hey," you said, making him meet your eyes again. "This is Formula 1. It's rarely ever straightforward. What matters is that you proved yourself out there today. You're a Grand Prix winner now, and no one can take that away from you."

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "When did you get so wise?"

"Oh, I've always been wise. You're just finally starting to notice," you teased, earning a chuckle from him.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For always being here, for believing in me even when things get complicated."

"Always," you promised, leaning in to kiss him softly.

The kiss deepened, both of you pouring your emotions into it - your pride and joy, his relief and love. When you finally parted, Oscar was smiling more brightly.

"So, Grand Prix winner," you grinned, "ready to go celebrate properly?"

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unacknowledgeable · 9 days ago

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Yan!batfam x Reader x TMNT (can you tell what I’ve just watched?)

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I'm not really sure what this is i wanted a lil break from the overwhelming angst from my SK!Reader series, kinda just plot points for this idea that I wanna lay out and explore later more in depth, mostly based of 20018, loosely based off the 2012 Turts, the turtles aren't yandere in this, it’s just the general protectiveness of their family lol :p

The typical neglected batsibling lol, shows up to the manor at age 5, after the disappearance of your mother, 2 years after Bruce adopted dick

Alfred had really put his foot down on you knowing about bruce's “nightly excursions”, citing the different backgrounds and skill sets as to why Dick was allowed and you weren't even told

So, there's already distance, such a huge secret and constant dangerous activities

Someone who didn't have that drive for justice, and two who needed it like air

That, and that bruce didn't really know how to deal with not just some kid, but his kid that wasn't really supposed to exist at all

You were a complete accident, bruce didn't even remember who your mother was without digging into decades old new articles of his past relationships, years after you had already left the manor

On a lighter note, you meet the turtles pretty early on, which definitely saved you in the long run, despite the rocky start

Three years after arriving at the manor, at the age of 8, you run into the turtles while playing (unsupervised, mind you) by gotham harbor

You heard them in one of the sewer drainage pipes, and after some talking, you asked them to play (you didn't actually expect them to say yes, no one ever did)

They were hesitant, they can't just show themselves willy nilly! They got so lucky with April, but that was April, who saw them first and had to ask questions later

But you had asked questions first, so you’ll get to see them later

You saw their silent hesitation, and at the risk of looking desperate because you were you offered to blindfold yourself, so you wouldn't see (don't ever do this, y/n’s dumb and 8)

And they agreed! They actually agreed! You’d been so excited! So excited you barely noticed just how many times you fallen, because the boys played a little rough but you were determined to keep up

So when the time came when you had to leave, you were covered in bruises and mud

Alfred wasn't exactly pleased, but you were smiling and happy, so he wouldn't look a gift horse on the mouth

After that you kept going back, day after day, to play by the waters edge, with people you couldn't see but saw you, instead of staying cooped up in the manor, where you saw everyone and were seen be none

Of course, being batman's kid, you were able to deduce that these kids where some type of mutants, you can only get get knocked over so many time before realizing what you're running into is a hard shell and the hands helping you up only having 3 fingers

So eventually, you find out just exactly what they look like, what kinds of turtles they are etc

This totally doesn't spark a near life long love of turtles, leading you to decorate your entire childhood room with the reptiles, nope no way

You meet April later, since she lives a lot further than the turtles do, and while you could get away with sneaking off to the harbor for 1-2 hours just fine, it was a bit difficult finding a time lapse of time long enough before Alfred grew wary of where you ran off too

The turtles think your dad is some kind of bat mutant or vampire, because you talked about overhearing Barbra and Dick talking about bruce being this “batman” once

No they don't realize they were talking about THE batman until they are way older lol

Otherwise they don't really think anything of it bc their dads a rat like, it’s normal for them

Reader definitely is like, super buff in this bc you've been roughhousing with 4 mutant superhuman turtles since childhood, OF COURSE your gonna be buff

Plus your older than them so losing is just a non option for you, your far too competitive for that

You bring Donnie whatever gadgets you can from the house for him to take apart and use

You’ll bring Mikey spray paints and tag the abandoned theme parks together

You get Raph high quality bedding to stop his spikes from ripping them

You taught Leo how to play chess, and you have a running score on whose won, going back yeaaars

You and April end up going to the same school, (you begged Alfred a lot) so you had a pretty active social life outside the manor and you help her with her job searches a lot

I can't decide if I want Gotham and New York to be sister cities, or just treating them as the same place, I'm still figuring that out lol. I just find the hijinxs of the turtles vs. the angst of the batfamily to be so funny and the worms agreed sooo.

~Masterlist~

#yandere batfamily #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfamily x reader #yandere batfam #yandere dc #gender neutral reader #gn reader #platonic yandere batfam #I'm not sure I'll tag the turtles #since they aren't yandere and I don't wanna flood the TMNT tags #anyway

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r1pp4r · 1 year ago

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since yall loved königs so much, heres some simon “ghost” riley nsfw headcannons!!

WARNINGS: MDNI!! this is just completely nsfw :))

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* okay- simon 100% is a thigh lover and i mean ANYTHING to do with your thighs. especially if he fucks your thighs ugh, especially with your back to his chest and your sitting on his lap 🧍‍♂️

* riding. he looooves the way your body is pressed up against him, and the way you move your hips. it’s so intoxicating to him, he’s obsessed. he loves feeling you bite into his neck and shoulder, or your kisses against his jaw. he also loves the way he can grab ur thighs, and thats why he also loves the mating press or your legs on his waist, but like,, pressed to ur chest

* i don’t think simon has a lot of kinks. like not ones that physically harm you. it honestly depends on your preference :) but like idk. for me he’d have some kinks, but nothing with sadism or masochism like at all. but he loooooves to make you feel overwhelmed. i think he’d be into light bondage sometimes but not a lot. he likes to make sure you know you’re safe.

* playing off that, simon is someone BIG on hearing you verbally consent. a nod or a kiss won’t do. he needs to verbally hear you say what you need, or want. that ties into the fact he does absolutely love to hear you beg for him.

* simon is a stone top. at least imo, only bc of his SA. which that can happen, and he feels the need to have some kind of control over the situation and not you entirely. but sometimes he’ll let you praise him, and he’ll beg for you. he lets his guard down and submits to you in a sense.

* SAFEWORD. EVEN THO ITS NOT BDSM HE HAS A SAFEWORD. for him. not just for you-

* simon adore cockwarming. he loves feeling your little cunt on his shaft, where he just has you against him. he lets you grind into him barely, just getting enough friction to have soft, almost inaudible whimpers. especially when he’s doing paperwork.

* simon doesn’t ask you to give him head a lot bc he feels like it’s a task bc of his size. but you always insist and he swears its the best thing because your mouth was made for him. (sometimes he’ll fuck your mouth if he’s feelin silly n goofy :p)

* MARKINGGGG!!! he loves leaving sweet hickeys all over your neck, softly massaging your clit while sucking soft bruises onto your skin <333

* he takes his time a lot. and i mean a lot of time. he doesn’t like quickies (i agree) sessions can last sometimes 3-5 hours because he has so much stamina. like good lord.

* but he also takes his time bc he wants to show you how well knows your body. good lord does he know it. he knows exactly how to make you sing, and he’s hit spots you couldn’t have imagined.

* yes, simon is BIG but he knows how to use it. people who don’t know how to use their dick and its big, it hurts. but simon knows his angles, how deep he can go, etc.

* simon has a huge breeding kink, and i mean it’s horrid. he fills you up every single time. multiple times. he loves the thought of fucking a kid into you, and loving a kid into you. but he knows your both not ready for it yet, but it still drives the both of you crazy, the thought of you plump w his kid

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damiansgoodgirll · 6 months ago

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HIIIIIII I saw you're Damian and Rhea x reader that you just posted AND I HAVE A IDEA (No rush I'm just sending it so I don't forget)

OKAY SO in the same universe as the previous fic what if backstage on Monday night raw finn starts trying to convince the reader to join the new judgment day (bc he obviously still cares for the kid) like trying to get jd or Dom to guilt trip them or even getting liv Morgan to be buddy buddy since reader had trouble making friends.

But the reader STAYS LOYAL to the terror twins 🖤

running to write this because i love it, here’s part one

the judgment day x reader (platonic) , mention of drew mcintyre

‼️finn being a good manipulator lol, family issues, fear of abandonment, angst, reader feeling insecure, brief mention of suicidal thoughts (sorry it’s a little angst)

don’t break my heart - part 2

you lied if you said that you slept the night right after summerslam. no, you were in your hotel room watching the ceiling over and over, thinking of what was going to happen now. damian and rhea made sure to stay with you a few hours after the show, helping you calm down and making sure that you would eat something.

but they were tired and angry, so you perfectly understood when they waved goodbye and went to their rooms. they needed time to think and to cool off.

5 am and you were up to board on your next flight that didn’t leave until noon. you were living off on caffeine and sugar drinks but you didn’t care. you had no idea what was going to happen on monday night raw because you weren’t supposed to have any matches that night, you knew you would go with rhea and damian but you didn’t know what your future was going to be.

once you landed and you checked in into your new hotel room, you received a text from finn, saying to let him know once you arrived at the arena because he wanted to talk to you.

you drove along with rhea and damian and they both sensed your fear as you kept quiet, “you okay there?” damian asked you.

“uh?” you woke up from your trance.

“dam asked if you were okay, is everything okay y/n?” rhea added turning to face you.

“oh yes, i’m okay, just a lil nervous…” you hated lie to them, you hated lie in general but you couldn’t tell them that you were about to meet with finn. they would probably get mad at you and the last thing you wanted was to have your best friends hating on you too, so you kept it for yourself.

damian kept driving, knowing that eventually you would open up to them when you were ready.

once at the arena you waved them goodbye and went straight to your changing room. rhea told you to get ready in case something happened and if she needed your help so you did as she told you.

you texted finn and told him he could come over if he needed to talk to you so bad and not even 10 minutes later you heard a knock on the door.

“come in…” you screamed and he let himself in.

“hey…”

“hi” you couldn’t deny that the situation was awkward. you stood there for a couple of minutes before he could talk.

“listen…y/n i’m so sorry for everything that happened at summerslam” he apologized to you but you knew he wasn’t sorry at all.

“you lied to me finn…”

“and you lied to damian and rhea because i’m pretty sure they don’t know i’m here” he smirked at you and that look made you sick in the stomach.

“are you here to threaten me? are you to destroy the little family i have left? what do you want finn…i have no time for more bullshit, please” your voice sounded broken and finn hated himself for the way he treated you.

“i know…i’m so sorry for everything and you have to believe me…i’m not sorry for damian or for rhea because i got tired of being their little puppy, dominik too…but i have nothing against you, never have, never wil…i care about you y/n…don’t you remember all the things we shared? all the things we’ve went through?”

and you couldn’t lie to him. you will always remember how kind and patient and caring he has always been with you.

he was the first person you told about your past, even before telling damian and rhea. he was the one who held you while you cried when you told him about your thought of ending your life. he was the one who comforted you and made sure you never felt left out. and he was true when he said you’ve been through a lot because he was always there for you.

but so were damian and rhea so you couldn’t understand why was finn telling you all of that.

“why are you here finn?” you simply asked him, his way of bringing back memories made you feel guilty. seeing how much you depended upon someone made you realize that you probably were better alone than with someone.

“i want you to join us…”

“join who?”

“me…y/n, me, dom, jd and liv…listen, i know you and i know damian and rhea and they will leave you at some point…they are both chasing vengeance and power, they want their titles back, they won’t be with you forever and, i’m sorry to say it but they won’t take care about you forever…you saw the way rhea treated dom or the way damian treated jd…” his words were starting to impress in your head “jd kinda likes you” he chuckled “no, i’m pretty sure he has a crush on you…and listen, liv is really a friendly person, i know you don’t like her right now but i promise you, if you get to know her you will like her more…just give us a chance”

maybe he was right.

maybe you would ended up being alone one day and he was right about that damian and rhea had their own lives apart from you. hell, rhea just got married, maybe she would like to start a family one day…maybe finn was right.

finn always cared about you, he proved it many times so why were you afraid of trusting him?

“i-i…i don’t know finn…” your mind started to overthink. you were feeling overwhelmed and despite you still loved finn, despite you still caring for him, you couldn’t betray damian and rhea.

“listen i-…”

“no finn, you listen to me. how can you expect me to choose between you or them? how-how can you tear this family apart like this? because maybe for you it was nothing but for me…for me it was everything…” tears slowly falling down your face.

finn knew that it was wrong putting you in all of this mess. he knew that no matter what he still would have a space for you in his heart but the idea of choosing them instead of him made him feel useless, like somehow he failed you.

“i can’t choose between you or them because you are the ones who broke this group apart…” more tears falling from your eyes “i-i can’t finn…i can’t” and before he could say anything else, you turned to face the door and quickly left your changing room.

drew noticed you walking down the arena corridors with teary eyes and no matter how many time he called you, your mind couldn’t register any sound or noise. it felt like you couldn’t hear anything except your heart beating in your chest.

i just saw y/n crying and going towards the emergency exit of the arena. finn balor just came out of her changing room. don’t know what happened but she seems overwhelmed, she needs you.

drew texted rhea. he was pretty worried when he saw in what state you were in. he knew that even if he chased you, you probably would have just pushed him away. he knew something about your past and he knew how the other females in the roster would give you “the looks” and honestly he felt for you, he just wanted you to feel welcomed because for him, the wwe was just a big huge family. he knew that you needed time, that’s why he warned rhea.

when she read the text, she felt her heart missing a few beats.

“what?” damian asked a little concerned when he saw the look on her face.

she was still a little shocked “drew texted me…he saw finn leaving y/n’s changing room and he said that when she left she was crying…she’s probably going’s back to the hotel, he said she’s going outside”

that was all damian needed to hear before leaving rhea’s changing room and sprinting over the emergency exit. rhea following behind, making a note to thank drew later.

they both saw you sitting on the emergency stairs and slowly they both approached you.

damian sat in front of you while rhea sat next to you “hey angel…” rhea slowly turned your face towards hers “why are you crying beautiful?”

in that moment you saw it in their eyes.

they cared.

they cared like a family.

rhea was about to cry because she couldn’t stand the idea of seeing you upset.

“finn wanted to talk to me…he, well, he basically offered me a spot to join him alongside with dom, jd and liv…” you said. you feared that they would get mad but rhea’s eyes told you the opposite.

“and what did you say?” damian asked you, gently smiling at you.

“that i can’t…i can’t leave you, i can’t even look him in the eyes, it just hurts too much and i can’t have you hate on me too” you softly spoke.

damian looked at you and saw nothing but pure intentions “y/n…we could never hate you. we know how close you and finn are, and i know it hurts right now so we won’t forbid you to see him again if you want to…”

“but i can’t damian! it doesn’t feel right, it’s not right! i’m not turning my back on you, i would never do that…you guys mean so much for me and i can’t stand the idea of losing you or hate you but…but finn said some things that made me think…”

“what did he say sweetheart?” rhea gently asked.

“well, for instance, rhea you just got married…and i can’t hold you back for the rest of my life just because my head is a fucking mess, you have your life and i don’t want you to feel the need to look after me forever…same goes for you damian, i can’t depend on you for the rest of my life…”

“that’s absolute nonsense y/n” damian said and rhea agreed with him. she was mad with finn for playing those mind tricks with you, knowing exactly that your mind wasn’t in the right place and that you would get negative thoughts very easily.

“listen” damian spoke “we are a family okay? we stay together, now, tomorrow and in ten years okay? just because we have a life outside this company doesn’t mean that you’re not a part of our life outside of it okay? we stay together instead and outside…i love you like you are my own sister, fuck you could be my daughter y/n…” damian joked making you laugh.

“damian’s right” rhea held your hands “we stay together because we care about you, now and in a million years…”

“thank you for everything guys…” you smiled at both at them.

“you don’t have to thank us love…” rhea wiped some of your tears away “now, why don’t you help me getting ready uh? tonight’s gonna be a big night and i want to look perfect” she laughed making you laugh too.

“yup” you smiled and with their help you got up from the uncomfortable stairs.

rhea mentally noted to thank drew and to kick finn’s ass because he made you doubt yourself, and most importantly, he made you cry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

okay so what about part 3 with reader and drew getting to know each other and developing feelings for each other and damian and rhea acting like big parents to reader?

PART 3

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serosluv2 · 1 year ago

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obsessed bf x pretty gf trope hcs w sero & shoto pls & ty 😁😁 (seperately pls)

It’s only 7 months late but here u go anon 😘

a/n: I wrote this in an hour in the bathtub so if it is shit- don’t tell me bc I’m just getting back into writing 😭😭

Shoto Todoroki

He fits this trope so well.

He is THEE resident pretty boy of UA so it makes perfect sense that he has the prettiest girl in all of Japan. (The world)

He is the teeny weeny ist bit dense on like how to take proper photos of you for the ‘gram but trust that he WILL be searching up everything about lighting and angles and exposure and zoom- all that nonsense.

If you’re a social media girly he may leave like one or two comments. He isn’t the best about being outwardly obsessed with you, he is all about those private small moments. Not being able to take his eyes off you anywhere. Always needing to be beside you. If he can’t be with you then trust he is texting you at every free moment and expects a response within 5 minutes.

He loves shopping with you and helping you pick out outfits or jewelry or how to style your makeup that day. He has no real opinion on what looks better tho he just loves seeing you get all prettied up. (Yk that tiktok where the girl is trying to decide on a dress color and her bf is just like “wtv u want mama u look breathtaking in both” ?That’s him.)

I feel like he doesn’t really buy you anything in the beginning of your relationship bc he doesn’t really see the point/value or something in that BUT all it takes is for kaminari to get you some product you’ve been wanting for a while for secret santa and seeing how touched you were by the gesture sends him into over drive:

“OH MY GOD! KAMI!!” You exclaim- wrapping your arms around him. “How did you know? I’ve been looking for this everywhere!” Shoto notices how big your eyes got and the slight blush on your cheeks from excitement and he feels, something unpleasant. Jealousy? Envy? Possessiveness? Whatever it is he doesn’t like how grateful you’re acting toward the blonde. I mean sure, he got you something nice you’ve wanted but that’s not his job (he just so happened to get you for secret santa so he kind of had to get you something) he’s not your boyfriend only your boyfriend- HIM- should be gifting you stuff. Then he kinda has a “ohh.” Moment and realizes he has never really gotten you anything just because.

Anyways after that whole interaction he is getting you anything and everything you look at for more than a second. You keep looking at some necklace at the store? Bought. He sees you liking tiktoks about girls getting flowers? Now you’re getting a bouquet every date night. Does he himself have money? No, but that No.1 hero daddy sure does. And let’s be honest he kind of owes shoto for making his childhood - for lack of a better word- awful.

In conclusion, Shoto loves his pretty girl and will do anything she asks of him without question.

Hanta Sero

Clawing at my cage for this man.

Now sero has been… infatuated with you since he first laid eyes on you one faithful morning. You were ordering at some coffee shop he passes by on his way to school and just one glance had him stopped dead in his tracks. The way your hair framed your face perfectly, your face in general because holy shit- you were gorgeous. Straight out of a magazine. He quickly took notice of the little embellishments you made to your uniform.. uniform? The same one Mina has. OH MY GOD YOU GO TO UA AND HE HAS NEVER SEEN YOU BEFORE?

He literally cannot stop thinking about you and boom you appear again in the halls. Your going the opposite direction has him with your friends and he sees you all have a little cafe cup. Did you buy them all a drink before class? So you’re stupidly gorgeous and nice. Great, he, for sure, has no chance with you now.

But oh that’s where he is wrong.

When you guys start dating he actually cannot believe it. He is very guarded at first because- now it’s my personal hc that sero is a bit insecure- he can’t fathom how you, YOU, would actually want to date someone like…him.

But once those walls come down he doesn’t shut up about you. Seriously all his friends are so annoyed:

“Good god soy sauce if you mention your little girly friend again I’m hurling you across the city.”

“You’re just mad you don’t have a girl as pretty as mine- don’t worry baku-man, I’m sure one day some poor person will take pity on your soul.”

Sero did in fact get hurled across the city that day.

Now where he differs from Shoto is that this man is a GOD with a camera. He has that artistic eye and is able to capture you being your baddest/cutest/authentic self.

Literally ya’ll

He also has a good sense of style. He never thinks you look bad in one thing versus another but he will take into account the vibe of where you’re going and what’s you’ll be doing and give his opinion based on that. Because he grew up with sister and knows how to get around the “which one looks better?” Type question without hurting you.

Now sero doesn’t have money to spoil you senseless but what he does have is the forever lasting instinct to put your comfort above his own. It’s freezing and you didn’t wear a jacket because “a hoe ever gets cold”? Don’t worry sero will give you his and be visibly growing icicles on his body to keep you warm. Feet hurt from those impractical shoes? He’s caring you all the way home even if he is still terribly sore from a killer arm workout the day before with kirishima. A no a mudy puddle and you’re wearing your new white shoes :(! Well sero is laying his jacket down over it or simply caring you over the puddle. He isn’t the type to roll his eyes at how “ridiculous” or “spoiled” you’re being. You are y/n freaking l/n. He’ll do whatever you need to make sure nothing in your life goes wrong.

He also is the type to spam comments in your TikTok or Insta post and makes all his friends do the same. Not that you need it- he just loves fueling your ego.

#woohoo first day back after my 6 month leave #not that any of yall care #also I started watching jjk (yeah in late I know)#sero x reader #sero hanta #mha headcanons #hanta sero #hanta sero x reader #shoto x reader #shoto todoroki x reader #shoto torodoki

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akaakeis · 5 months ago

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going on a drive with them -- multi .ᐟ.ᐟ

pairing(s) : bokuto kōtarō, kuroo tetsurō, suna rintarō, sakusa kiyoomi, and kiyoko shimizu x gn!reader (separate!!)

wc : ~200 each .ᐟ

notes//cw : happy 300 posts !! this is me brain dumping bc i haven't posted any writing lately,, food is mentioned in suna's and kuroo's,, they are the ones driving in this hc- let me know if u want a ver. w the reader driving!,, i think that's it tho!! lmk if i missed anything <3

𖥔 oh gosh... a car ride with kōtarō bokuto is never dull.

𖥔 he loves randomly taking you out for drives!!

𖥔 he's gonna keep a hand on you AT ALL TIMES!! like he'll either have it on your leg or you'll both be resting your arms on the compartment between the seats, holding hands.

𖥔 he will BEG you to take the aux cause he loves your music taste <3

𖥔 if he knows the song well enough he will sing along as you two drive!!

𖥔 not simply singing along though...

𖥔 he will lock in and shout out those lyrics, eventually getting you to sing along with him

𖥔 he probably took you out for the drive a bit before the sunset... yes he planned that!! but akaashi suggested the time LMAO

𖥔 when the sun starts to set, you guys drive into an empty area by the side of the road, and you guys get out of the car

𖥔 and he'll get you both up on the roof of the car!! he brought blankets and stuff too

𖥔 the two of you just sit on the roof of the car and watch the sunset together, all huddled up in the blankets he brought <33

𖥔 on the drive back home, you play softer music and yap about your days together :)

𖥔 it's not a drive with tetsurō kuroo unless it's a late night!!

𖥔 he would be trying to fall asleep but fail miserably, resorting to just waking you up 😭

𖥔 "wanna go drive thru somewhere?"

𖥔 you, in a half-awake state mutter an agreement, getting out of bed and into the car

𖥔 he'll hold your hand as you guys drive and you take the aux out of habit

𖥔 it's safe to say you guys end up having a full on karaoke session in the car once you wake up a bit more!!

𖥔 you guys drive through some random 24hr drive thru and pull into the (extremely empty, desolate even) parking lot to eat your food

𖥔 the two of you end up chilling in the car for the rest of the night!! you use your phone and pull up a show the two of you have been watching and you prop it up on the dash of the car LMAOO

𖥔 so the night turns into a binge watching of some tv series accompanied by a drive thru and some karaoke!!

𖥔 "oh my god we have morning classes tomorrow."

𖥔 yeah maybe it wasn't the best idea BUT AT LEAST IT WAS A LOT OF FUN!!

𖥔 you both end up speeding home and knocking out asap in an attempt to get some rest before pounding your head with information right when you wake up

𖥔 yeah... rintarō suna only takes you on late night drives too.

𖥔 he would randomly start spam texting you in the middle of the night saying "let's go to (some 24 hour drive thru)"

𖥔 and you were still awake so why not?

𖥔 he has a DEATHGRIP on having the aux... in the car, don't expect to get the aux unless he's converted you into a severe underground music glazer.

𖥔 he'll be playing the most unknown songs to mankind... but they're honestly pretty good!!

𖥔 it's a pretty chill car ride, honestly

𖥔 you'll be leaning over on his shoulder and just vibing out w the music

𖥔 he'd be telling you about the song and the artist too :))

𖥔 when you're done with that car ride you will have like... 5 new music artists that you like

𖥔 anyway you guys go through the drive thru pretty quick and you head straight home!!

𖥔 once ygs get home you go to his room and continue listening to his playlist and chat while you eat your food <3

𖥔 it ends up becoming a gossip session LMAO

𖥔 ALSO!! you guys pull an all nighter together

𖥔 kiyoomi sakusa took you out for a drive because you weren't able to sleep <3

𖥔 he thought that going for a drive would help to calm your nerves and make you sleepy

𖥔 honestly he was right because he's a really good driver... the ride wasn't bumpy at all!!

𖥔 he holds onto your hand as you guys drive and he lets you use the aux- you opt for calmer music so that he enjoys it too :)

𖥔 he also tells you about his day since he knows you like the sound of his voice

𖥔 just random yapping so that you get to listen to him talk... his voice is so soothing!!!

𖥔 did i mention when he's holding onto your hand he's running his thumb back and forth on the back of your hand

𖥔 he doesn't notice at first when you fall asleep but when he does? he shuts up and and finds himself smiling at how cute you look when you're asleep

𖥔 he drives back home and carries you into the house, putting you into bed before crawling in after you

𖥔 it was a super duper peaceful night <33

𖥔 kiyoko shimizu had a plan before taking you out for a drive!!

𖥔 she didn't tell you anything and was purposely vague about where you would both be going <3

𖥔 LITTLE DID YOU KNOW!!! THE AURORA BOREALIS WAS GOING TO BE VISIBLE THAT NIGHT!!!

𖥔 she took you out for the drive when the sun was setting, and you guys were aimlessly driving around for about an hour while listening to music on the radio <3

𖥔 you guys got to chat a lot during the drive, and for the entirety of that time, she had one of your hands pulled onto her lap as she drove!! <3

𖥔 when the lights were finally showing up in the sky you guys were in a very rural area, just so that you could see it better

𖥔 the two of you sat on the hood of the car and watch the lights until they went away <3

𖥔 and!!! you guys were cuddled up and sharing a blanket that she always keeps in the back seat of her car for you :)

𖥔 you took a bunch of pictures of the lights- mostly her, but also a couple of the lights-

𖥔 while you guys were watching the lights, you ended up talking about your plans for the future and how she was a part of them <3

𖥔 it was a very soft night for you guys!!

notes ::

okay i kept giggling while i wrote this

i love hcs because you dont have to expand on them its just what it is

happy 300 posts!! (im not even at 100 followers yet BYE IM A SPAM POSTER!! I CANT HELP IT!!)

if you enjoyed this, please consider checking out my masterlist!

and following maybe 😋

btw requests are always welcome!! id love to write stuff for you guys <3

have a lovely morning/afternoon/night!!

🏷️ :: @bokukos + @iiwaijime <3 (i just realized i messed up your user... sorry alina!! 😭)

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snowysosturn · 5 months ago

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Speeding Car - Matt Sturniolo Part 16

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29

Pairing : y/n x Matt Sturniolo

Summary : After six years with your boyfriend Alex, you start to mentally check out. At a UCLA party, Alex reconnects with his childhood friend Emily, who proposes a double date with her boyfriend Matt. Your attraction to Matt grows as he pays you the first real attention you've had in years, sparking a complicated emotional journey.

Warnings : MDNI, angst, fluffffffffffffffff (half proof read bc i hate proof reading)

The knock at the door startled me, pulling me from the endless loop of thoughts that had been swirling in my mind since I left work. I was expecting Jess to be here so when I opened the door and saw Matt standing there instead, my heart skipped a beat.

“Hey” he said, his voice soft but a little uncertain. “Sorry for just appearing... Are you free for the night?”

I blinked, taking in the sight of him. He looked good, too good, standing there with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. I opened my mouth to reply, my mind racing. I debated whether or not to tell him Jess was coming over but something in Matt’s eyes made me hesitate. I felt the pull, the same pull that had been drawing me toward him more and more lately.

Before I could find the words, Matt spoke again, cutting through my indecision. “I have a bit of a surprise for you.”

A surprise? My curiosity piqued, I stood there in the doorway, torn between two decisions that suddenly felt monumental. Jess had been there for me, always a reliable friend, and I did want to talk to her about everything that had happened. But Matt.. he was becoming something more than just a friend, even if neither of us had admitted it yet.

Finally, I nodded, the decision made before I even realized it. “Yeah, I’m free.”

His smile widened, relief washing over his features. “Great. Grab your jacket, we’re going out.”

I did as he asked, grabbing my jacket and slipping it on. My nerves buzzed with anticipation as I followed him out of my apartment. I shot Jess a quick text to reschedule our hangout, telling her that something had come up.

The air between us crackled with an unspoken tension, a mixture of excitement and the unknown. Whatever this surprise was, it was clear that tonight was going to be different. Special, even.

As we walked to his car, I couldn’t help but glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He seemed more relaxed, almost like he was in his element. It made me wonder what he had planned, and why it was important enough for him to show up at my door unannounced.

Once we were in the car, Matt turned to me, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. “I hope you’re ready for this.”

I laughed softly, feeling my earlier tension ease a bit. “You’re being really mysterious, you know that?”

He shrugged, grinning. “What can I say? I like keeping you on your toes.”

As he started the car and pulled away from my apartment, I realized that, for the first time in days, I wasn’t thinking about Alex, or Emily, or any of the drama that had been weighing me down. I was looking forward to whatever was coming next. I knew that as long as Matt was by my side, it was going to be something good.

"Can you tell me where you’re taking me?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me as Matt navigated through the streets. I tried to catch a hint in his expression, but he just smirked, his eyes fixed on the road.

“Nope” he replied, his tone light and teasing. “My lips are sealed. You’ll just have to wait it out.”

I sighed dramatically. “Come on, at least give me a clue.”

Matt glanced over at me, his smile widening. “All I’ll say is we’ve got about an hour’s drive ahead of us.”

“An hour?!” I exclaimed, half surprised, half amused. “You’re seriously not going to tell me anything for an entire hour?”

He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that made my heart flutter. “I promise, it’ll be worth the wait. How about you jump on aux? It'll make the time pass quicker.”

I rolled my eyes playfully but reached for my phone, connecting it to his car’s Bluetooth. “Alright, but you better have good taste in music.”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “You’ll just have to find out.”

I scrolled through my playlists, trying to decide on the first song. “What about this one?” I asked, selecting Nightcrawler by Travis Scott.

Matt nodded approvingly, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “This is a banger. I love this song.”

I grinned, feeling a bit of pride that he liked my pick. “Okay, your turn. What should I play next?”

“Ivy by Frank Ocean” he suggested, glancing over at me with a smile. “Such a beautiful song.”

“Oh my god I can't put into words how much I love Frank Ocean, the Blond album is an absolute masterpiece.” I say with enthusiasm.

As Ivy started playing through the speakers. I leaned back in my seat, the melody wrapping around us as the city lights faded into the distance. “This is nice” I said softly, more to myself than to Matt.

“Yeah, it is.” he agreed, his voice equally soft. There was a comfortable silence between us for a moment, the kind that didn’t need to be filled with words.

After a few minutes, I decided to keep the vibe going and queued up The Spins by Mac Miller. As the familiar intro began to play, Matt shot me a glance. “You really do have good taste in music.”

“Right back at you.” I replied, feeling a little more at ease with each passing song. “This one’s a favorite of mine.”

We continued like that for the rest of the drive, going back and forth between our favorite songs. I played Somebody Else by The 1975, fully feeling all the emotions that come with it. There was silence as the song slowly faded out and Double CC’s by City Girls began to play.

“Woah, talk about a switch up.” Matt laughed.

“It’s called emotional whiplash, you keep me on my toes, I keep you on yours.” I laughed as I queued Unavailable by Davido to switch up the vibe yet again.

We fell into another comfortable silence as the song played, the car filled with the soft hum of the engine and the music weaving through the air.

“Do you ever share your playlists with anyone?” Matt asked, breaking the silence as the song faded out.

“Not really” I admitted. “I guess it feels a bit personal, you know? Like, these are the songs that make up my life’s soundtrack. I’ve a different playlist for every mood so I just like to keep them to myself.”

Matt nodded thoughtfully. “I get that. Music’s always been personal to me too. But I’m glad you’re sharing it with me.”

There was something in the way he said it, something that made my heart skip a beat. I glanced over at him, catching his eye for just a moment before looking away, my cheeks flushing slightly.

“Well, it’s only fair since you’re sharing yours too” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“True” he agreed, a small smile playing on his lips. “It’s nice though, it’s like a different way of getting to know someone.”

I nodded, unable to wipe the smile off my face. The rest of the drive continued in that easy rhythm - the music and our voices blending together as the miles passed by. I still had no idea where we were going, but with Matt beside me and the music flowing, it didn’t really matter. It felt like we could drive forever and I’d be content.

An hour of bonding and laughter passed in what felt like mere minutes, the conversation being so effortless made me barely notice that the car was beginning to slow down. We pulled into an all too familiar parking lot, my heart skipped a beat when I saw the sign painted on the building infront of us.

LA Kings Valley Ice Centre.

"We're going skating?" I asked, my voice filled with a mix of surprise and excitement.

Matt turned to me with a proud smile, clearly pleased with himself. "I was serious when I said I wanted to learn how to spin."

A rush of nostalgia hit me, memories flooding back as I stared at the building. "This is where I used to go to skate school" I said, my voice soft with emotion. I couldn't believe Matt had brought me here, to a place that held so much meaning for me. "I can’t thank you enough for this."

Matt’s grin widened. "I really hope it’s not busy, we have loads of time though they usually close at 10" I added, glancing at the time of 7pm.

Matt’s confident reply caught me off guard. "We don’t have to worry about people being in here right now."

I shot him a confused look. "What makes you so sure?" I asked, genuinely curious.

He leaned in slightly, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "I've rented the place for the evening. It'll be just the two of us."

For a moment, I was speechless. The idea of having the entire rink to ourselves was more than I could have ever imagined. Knowing he’d gone out of his way to do this for me. My excitement bubbled over, and I threw my arms around him in a spontaneous hug. "Matt, this is incredible. Thank you so much."

He hugged me back, his arms warm and strong around me. "You’ve been through a lot lately, I just want to see you happy." he said softly, and I pulled back just enough to see the sincerity in his eyes.

We got out of the car and made our way to the entrance. The familiar scent of the ice rink hit me as soon as we stepped inside, bringing back memories of early morning practices and late night sessions where I’d lose myself in the rhythm of my skates. The rink was empty, just as Matt had promised, the ice pristine and waiting for us.

"I can't believe you did this" I said again, still in awe as I looked around the empty rink.

We laced our skates and stepped onto the rink, I fully expected Matt to be like Bambi on ice, wobbly and unsure, maybe even grabbing onto the railing for dear life. But to my surprise, he glided effortlessly beside me, his movements smooth and controlled.

“Wait, you can skate?” I asked, unable to hide the astonishment in my voice.

He smirked, the corners of his lips curving upward in a way that made my heart skip a beat. “I played hockey for years” he said, shrugging as if it were no big deal.

I blinked at him, processing this new piece of information. “Of course you did” I said with a laugh, shaking my head. “I should’ve known you’d be good at this.”

He shrugged, that smirk never leaving his face. “I didn’t want to intimidate you. But yeah, I can handle myself on the ice.”

I rolled my eyes playfully. “Is that so? Let’s see just how good you are then. First one to the other end of the rink wins.”

His eyes lit up with the challenge, a competitive edge flashing in them. “You’re on.” he said, bending his knees slightly, ready to push off.

We lined up at the bottom of the rink, side by side. I glanced over at him, and I couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly he looked on the ice. The way he held himself, confident but relaxed, was so attractive.

“Ready?” I asked, my voice tinged with excitement.

“Always” he shot back, and before I could count down, he took off.

“Ah that’s cheating!” I laughed, quickly following after him.

We raced down the rink, the cold air whipping past our faces. I pushed myself faster, my skates cutting smoothly across the ice. Matt was fast, but I was faster. Years of figure skating training kicking in as I caught up to him. Still, he wasn’t far behind, and the sound of his skates slicing through the ice kept me pushing.

We reached the end almost at the same time, but I managed to pull ahead by just a fraction of a second, touching the wall first. “You thouggght!” I declared, turning around to face him, slightly out of breath but grinning from ear to ear.

Matt skated up next to me, shaking his head with a laugh. “I let you win, you know.”

“Oh, sure you did” I teased, poking him playfully in the side. “Admit it, you didn’t think I’d be that fast.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “Okay, I’ll admit, you surprised me. But don’t get too cocky, I’m just getting started.”

We stood there, both of us catching our breath, the energy between us electric. It felt like we were the only two people in the world, the quiet buzz of the ice rink amplifying the moment. With that, we started skating side by side, our movements in sync as we circled the rink. It felt surreal to be out here with him, just the two of us on the empty ice, like a scene out of a movie. The cold air brushed against our cheeks, but the warmth between us made it feel like the coziest place in the world.

"Alright, show me that spin" Matt said after a while, a challenge in his voice.

"Okay, but don’t laugh if I fall" I teased, though my heart was already pounding with anticipation.

He nodded, listening intently, and I could see the determination in his eyes. He was focused, but there was also a softness there, an unspoken understanding between us that made my heart flutter. I stepped back a little to give myself space. Taking a deep breath, I pushed off and started to spin. At first, it felt like no time had passed since I last did this. My body remembered the movements, and soon, I was twirling gracefully across the ice. The feeling of spinning, the world blurring around me as I found my center, was exhilarating. When I finally slowed to a stop, I was breathless, not from lack of stamina but from the sheer joy of it.

I turned to Matt, expecting him to be watching with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. But the look on his face took me by surprise. He was staring at me with something that looked almost like awe, his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted.

"That was incredible" he said, his voice soft but full of admiration.

I felt my cheeks flush under his gaze, a warm glow spreading through me. "Thanks" I said, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

Matt stepped closer, his hands still holding mine. "Show me again" he said, his voice low and earnest.

"Alright, let’s break it down" I said, skating back over to Matt after my little spin demonstration. He was still standing in the same spot, watching me with a mix of concentration and curiosity. “The key to a two foot spin is balance and control. It’s easier than it looks, I promise.”

He nodded, his expression serious now, fully focused on what I was about to teach him.

“First, we’re going to get into position” I explained, moving beside him. “Bend your knees slightly, and keep your feet shoulder width apart. You want to feel stable on the ice before you start spinning.”

Matt followed my instructions, adjusting his stance until he mirrored mine. I couldn’t help but notice how quickly he caught on, his natural athleticism evident even in something as delicate as figure skating.

“Good” I said, skating around to face him. “Now, when you’re ready, we’ll start by pushing off with one foot and then bringing the other one around. Keep your arms out for balance, and then slowly bring them in as you start to spin. It helps you pick up speed.”

I demonstrated the move again, this time more slowly so he could see each part in action. As I started to spin, I felt the familiar rush of the ice beneath my blades, the force pulling me slightly as I brought my arms in tighter. When I stopped, I looked up to see Matt watching me with an intense focus, like he was trying to memorize every move.

“Got it?” I asked, a little out of breath.

He nodded, taking a deep breath. “I think so. Let me try.”

I skated back a bit to give him space, watching as he took his position. He pushed off with one foot, a little hesitant at first, but then he brought the other foot around, and slowly, he started to spin.

At first, he wobbled slightly, his arms flailing out for balance. I couldn’t help but smile, remembering the countless times I’d done the same thing when I was first learning. But then, he found his center, his movements becoming more fluid. He brought his arms in, just as I had shown him, and he actually managed to complete a couple of full rotations before coming to a stop.

“Hey, not bad!” I cheered, skating over to him. “You’re a natural.”

Matt laughed, looking a little surprised at himself. “I wouldn’t go that far, but it’s not as hard as I thought. It actually feels kind of..freeing.”

“Exactly” I said, smiling at him. “Once you get the hang of it, it’s like you’re floating. The ice becomes an extension of you, and the rest just falls into place.”

He looked at me then, and I could see the admiration in his eyes. “You make it look so easy” he said softly. “It’s like you were born to do this.”

His words sent a warm flush through me. “Thanks” I replied, my voice a little quieter. “I guess it’s just something that’s always felt right to me.”

We stood there for a moment, the air between us charged with something unspoken. The way he was looking at me, like I was the only person in the world, made my heart race. It was like we were in our own little bubble, just the two of us on this vast sheet of ice.

“Wanna try again?” I asked, breaking the silence but not the connection between us.

“Yeah” he said, his voice low and steady. “Let’s do it.”

And so we did, spending the next hour going over the spin, perfecting it together. With each attempt, Matt improved, and with each laugh or smile we shared, I felt us growing closer. The rink, the ice, the entire world outside, it all faded away, leaving just the two of us, spinning together in our own little universe.

After a few more rounds of spins and playfulness, Matt skated over to where I was catching my breath. His expression was curious, almost challenging, as he asked, "So, what's the hardest skating move you've ever done?"

I paused, thinking back to my competitive days when I pushed myself to the limit. There were a few moves that had taken me months to perfect, but one stood out above the rest - the triple Axel.

"Probably the triple Axel." I replied, a bit of nostalgia creeping into my voice. "It’s one of the most difficult jumps in figure skating, where you take off from one foot, do three and a half rotations in the air, and then land on the opposite foot."

Matt’s eyes widened a bit, clearly impressed. “Three and a half rotations? That sounds intense.”

I nodded, feeling a little flutter in my stomach. I hadn’t attempted a triple Axel in a long time. It was a move that required speed, precision, and an immense amount of control. I wasn’t sure if I could still do it, but a part of me was itching to try, especially with Matt watching.

"Do you think you could still pull it off?" he asked, his tone playful but genuinely curious.

A smile tugged at the corners of my lips. “There’s only one way to find out.”

I skated a bit further down the rink, getting into position. My heart was pounding, not just from the physical demand, but from the challenge I was about to set for myself. I took a deep breath, focusing on the feel of the ice beneath my blades, the cold air against my skin, and the memory of how it felt to soar through the air.

Matt watched intently from a few feet away, his presence both comforting and encouraging. I bent my knees slightly, gathering speed as I glided across the ice. My mind cleared, and all I could think about was the move, the jump, the landing.

As I approached the take off point, I sprang into the air, my body twisting in a haze of motion. The rotations came naturally, muscle memory taking over as I completed the three and a half spins. The ice rushed up to meet me, and for a brief, heart stopping moment, I wondered if I’d land it.

And then, I felt it - my blade slicing into the ice as I landed, a little unsteady but upright, the move complete.

I came to a stop, breathless and exhilarated, a huge grin spreading across my face. I did it. It wasn’t perfect, but I’d somehow managed to land the triple Axel after all this time.

Matt skated over, his expression a mix of awe and excitement. “That was amazing!” he exclaimed, his eyes bright. “You just. Wow.”

I laughed, still buzzing from the adrenaline. “I can’t believe I actually did it. It’s been so long.”

He shook his head, clearly impressed. “You’re incredible, you know that? Watching you on the ice, it’s like you’re in your element. You make it look so easy.”

His words sent a warm flush through me, and I felt a connection between us deepen even further. I hadn’t felt this alive in so long, and sharing this moment with Matt made it all the more special.

"Thanks, Matt," I said softly, meeting his gaze. "It feels good to be back on the ice, and to have someone to share it with."

He smiled, that genuine, heart warming smile that made me melt. Anytime" he replied.

We stood there for a moment, just enjoying the quiet intimacy of the moment, the ice our only witness.

a/n: eeeeeee theyre so cute... just wait until next chapter is all im going to say

taglist : @muwapsturniolo @anitahunt @sturnfannn @jayde510 @chrissfavhoe @babyalliah-777 @v33angel @urmom69lol @willowrites @ribread03 @2muchofaslvt @sturnsaver @sleepysturniolo @jcsturniolo11 @jessie-essie @hoeforchrizz @mynbbys @sturniolopanini @mattsturnxoxo @delicatechrry @t77te @sturnsyaper69 @hotdismylife @maggot3647 @ivysturnss @noplaceissafeanymore @mattssgf @yourfavsturniologirl @maethem0nth @sillyponygrl @mattyblover07 @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @dominicfikeenthusiast @mattsfavbigtitties @ncm9696 @chrisstvrns @schlutt4matty @chrissolos @ilusa @amelia-sturniolo3 @wonnieeluvvr

#snowy speaks #speeding car #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets #the sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo x reader #nicolas sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #chris sturniolo

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ruggiesbiologicalfather · 2 months ago

Text

i've been struck by inspiration

here's my ranking of twisted wonderland students by how likely i'd be to let them behind the wheel of a car. this is gonna be a long one bc i'm including explanations of course. (and i know that in-game it's rare to be able to drive, we're ignoring that and pretending it's common to drive around)

1. Leona: canonically, he can drive and drive well. i feel like this was an easy one. but it makes sense!

2. Vil: he just has so many random skills that i feel like driving would be no problem at all. honestly, there's not much that i think vil CAN'T do

3. Trey: everything about him screams Responsible Driver. he would definitely play chauffeur for heartslabyul whenever they need to go somewhere. AND he'd have snacks in the glove compartment. 10/10 ride

4. Jamil: he can absolutely drive well - near perfect i'd argue. what's the alternative? let KALIM drive? get real. it's his duty to get where he needs to go safely

5. Jack: the self-discipline that this boy possesses is unrivaled. he would be locked in behind the wheel. he spent so long becoming the best driver he can be and by god, he's gonna prove it

6. Deuce: LISTEN TO ME, LISTEN! he's really good on that blastcycle which is more dangerous and difficult (said as a former bike/atv guy). a car is nothing to him. plus he's on his Honor Student streak so he's trying his best. my only worry is speed. slow it down, friend

7. Epel: similar to deuce. farm kids learn to drive really early in their lives. HOWEVER... driving safely?? hmmmm... his biggest flaws are going too fast and whipping around curves when no one else is on the road

8. Riddle: he would definitely follow all the road rules. to the letter. every trip would take an extra 30 minutes to an hour. no music, windows up, silence. he won't even let YOU be on your phone lest he become distracted. also ROAD RAGE. interstate driving would get very scary

9. Ortho: fuck it, let the robot give it a shot

10. Azul: i feel like once he figured out the mechanics, he would be fine on the road. however, if he got pulled over he would definitely argue with the cop and get us both arrested. so... i'm gonna pass

11. Jade: yes, we're getting where we need to go. but... nefariously. and there's something in the trunk. i feel like he'd also randomly go "oops" just to freak out his passengers. "what do you mean OOPS?" "don't worry about it :)"

12. Ruggie: there's a wildness to my boy that drove his ranking down. he would definitely drive a jeep with the doors off. music blasting, wind whipping around everywhere. it would be a fairly safe drive but not a particularly enjoyable one. also i would fall out

13. Silver: i don't know, i feel like he would be chill. i put him low bc briar valley doesn't have cars so his driving education would be quite scarce and he'd be a new driver. but he could get the job done. probably

14. Sebek: similar to silver but he needs to relax. malleus is fine, we're just going to walmart

15. Ace: he just gives off the vibe of "16-year-old kid in the car his dad bought for him." never lets anyone merge, hits curbs, can never figure out the speed limit, etc, etc. even worse if deuce is in the car! "ace, watch out for the mailbox!" "don't tell me what to- *BANG*"

16. Cater: gay people can't drive

17. Rook: distracted driver. god forbid there's wildlife around, he would turn 180 in his seat to look at it. this Oh Shit Handle is getting some use. also i KNOW his car would be shit. i don't care that his family is rich, he's driving a 2003 hyundai sonata

18. Floyd: LISTEN! there's a 50/50 shot that everything goes perfectly fine. like as long as he's in a good mood, he can get the job done. you definitely just have to check in before you buckle up. get ready to tuck and roll

19. Malleus: what is a car?

20. Idia: there's so much anxiety there i feel like one thing would go slightly left and he'd almost pass out. he's white-knuckling the wheel, praying that no one else is on the road. it's alright buddy, you can be a passenger princess

21. Kalim: No.

22. Grim + Yuu: okay, for this one it's a joint effort. yuu at the wheel and grim on the pedals. there's so much chaos and screaming. four-way stops don't exist. yellow lights are green and red lights are yellow. the horn has not stopped honking since the engine started. this is an emergency situation ONLY. like someone is bleeding out in the backseat and no one is answering their phones

23. Lilia: absolutely not. i will walk

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst headcanons #twst heartslabyul #twst savanaclaw #twst octavinelle #twst scarabia #twst pomfiore #twst ignihyde #twst diasomnia

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wannab-urs · 5 months ago

Text

You’re So Dark

Pairing: Professor!Dave York x Grad Student!f!Reader

Summary: There’s only one thing you really want out of this conference – your research adviser, Dave York.

Warnings: smut, professor/student relationship, reader is a brat, this is very close to a self insert fic so she’s also a cocky little asshole, power dynamics, age gap (Dave is in his late 40s, reader is at least 21 but not specified), Dave is conflicted, that’s why he’s such a dickhead, Divorced!Dave, drinking but no one is all that intoxicated, unprotected PIV (but he has a vasectomy and reader is on BC), creampie, oral f!receiving, lots of arguing, no use of y/n. WC: 2.4k

A/N: Based on a true story. Just had this idea out of nowhere, don’t look at me. Thanks to @pedgito for the beta <3

Dave York Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi | Playlist

You knock on his door, wearing nothing but a skimpy tank top and shorts. The conference doesn’t start for a while, so you put on comfy clothes following the long car ride. That’s not your only motivation, though, for showing up at his hotel room in barely anything.

The hotel is nice, nice enough that you feel underdressed in the hallway. You’re set to present your paper on John Donne today at 2. Your research adviser Dr. York – Dave – had picked you up at your apartment at 5 this morning to drive you both to the conference. He’s presenting his latest paper. Something about journals kept by British people during World War II.

You shift your weight from foot to foot waiting for him to answer the door. Finally, you hear the chain drop and the door opens. He eyes you up and down, one eyebrow quirked, before turning around and walking back into the room.

“Are you wearing that to the conference?” He’s already settling back into the shitty desk chair by the window. You look down at your outfit and then back up to glare at the back of his head.

“Yeah. Obviously.” You lay back on his bed and stretch your back, sore from the 5 hour car ride.

“What are you doing?”

“Working.”

You roll onto your stomach and look at him. The mid morning light casts a glare over his screen, but only serves to highlight his features. You hate how pretty he is, how much you want him.

“Are you wearing that to the conference?” He’s wearing navy dress pants and a tight white t-shirt that is definitely a size too small.

“I have a dress shirt.” He seems irritated today. Shoulders tense, sentences clipped. You wonder if it’s you that has him all worked up.

You slide off the bed into the floor and go through some simple yoga poses. Your back is really messed up from that car ride. You sit on your knees and walk your hands forward as far as they’ll go, dropping your head to the floor. You sigh as you sink into child’s pose, feeling the stretch in your sore hips and back. “What are you working on?” You ask, voice muffled by the carpet.

“Will you shut up?” You snap your head up to look at him. He’s fucking tetchy today… and he hasn’t looked over at you once, as far as you can tell.

“Make me.”

“When have I ever been able to make you do anything?”

You sit back on your heels and tilt your head to the side. He’s almost shaking, he’s so tense. You’ve never seen him like this. “You never ask nicely.”

He wordlessly scoots his chair back and spreads his legs, still typing away on his laptop. You crawl over and settle yourself between his legs. He still doesn’t look at you.

“What do you want, Dave?”

“For you to stop talking.”

“Is that all you want?”

“No.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“You’re such a fucking brat.”

You lean in and drag your lips over the bulge in his slacks, hear the sharp snatch of breath, the clack of keys as his hands hit them all at once.

You’re not going to do it until he tells you to and he isn’t going to ask. It’s a standoff. He thinks he has to let you make the first move. Does this not count as a first move? You in such a supplicant pose, gazing up at him from between his thighs.

“You should go get dressed. We have to leave soon.” Quiet, strained, so unlike his usually smooth and confident cadence, and still not meeting your eyes. He rolls the chair back so you have room to scoot out.

Your cheeks sting with rejection, but you know he wants you as bad as you want him. He’s just afraid of the consequences. You slip out from under his desk and retreat to your room to get changed.

–-

The conference goes as smoothly as it can – it was your first ever presentation at something like this, and you definitely got tripped up on some of the questions the audience asked you. Afterward, Dave drags you outside to a group of people. He introduces you to Will, Laurie, Anna, and Doug. They’re colleagues, friends, that he often meets up with at conferences.

“Wanna come with us to get drinks?” Anna asks.

“Sure!” you agree before Dave can turn them down. He scowls at you, but turns a megawatt smile on when he looks back to Anna.

“Sounds good,” he says through his teeth.

Dave gossips in your ear all night, filling you in on each of his friends. Will and Laurie are both supposedly polyamorous and only hook up with each other at conferences, but Dave knows Will’s wife has no idea. Anna is in trouble with her school for a presentation she did last year, and she had to have today’s presentation reviewed by her department chair before she could present. Doug has a thing for Anna, but she’s married.

The gossip is a good holdover, but you’re antsy the whole time. You sip vodka sodas slowly while your mind whirs with the possibilities of tonight. Dave drinks whiskey on the rocks, jokes with his friends when he’s not whispering in your ear.

You and Dave go out to smoke, leaving everyone else in the bar. You split an American Spirit with him.

“If you only smoke when you drink, why do you have a near empty pack of expensive cigarettes?”

“I drink every night.”

“God you’re pathetic.”

“Not as pathetic as the grad student with a thing for her professor.”

“Fuck you. You’re not my professor.”

“Oh, so you do have a thing for me?”

You’d thought that was obvious from your earlier attempt to blow him.

“You know what’s actually pathetic, Dave? The professor who wants to fuck his student.”

“You’re not my student.”

“Oh, so you do want to fuck me?”

He puts out the cigarette in the ashtray and stalks off inside.

By the end of the night, you regret agreeing to go out, desperate to get back to the hotel and get Dave alone. This may be your only shot at getting what you want from him and you can’t waste it. You say goodnight to everyone, tell them how nice it was to meet them all, and head out, Dave close behind you. You think you catch Laurie giving him a knowing look, but you can’t be certain.

You walk back to the hotel, your arm brushing his. Out of nowhere, Dave chuckles and pushes his shoulder into you.

“What? What’s funny?”

“Nothing. I like that you step on the sewer grates.”

“What?”

“The drainage grates. My ex wife was terrified of them. She’d rather walk in the street than step on one. You don’t even hesitate.”

“Oh.”

“I just mean– I don’t know what I mean. You’re brave.”

“Thanks,” you say earnestly, looking into his eyes.

“You’re welcome.” He averts his gaze, looks back down at the ground. You think he might be blushing.

You get to the hotel and the lady at the desk gives you and Dave a strange look. An “I know what this is and I don’t like it” look. You roll your eyes and stalk over to the elevators, punching the button with more force than necessary. You didn’t think it was that obvious, the dance you two were doing around each other.

The ride up to the tenth floor is tense. Dave doesn’t look at you, doesn’t say a word. When you get up to where you’re supposed to split off, he asks if you want to come to his room for a drink. You say yes and follow him to his room. Now the nerves really kick in. It’s fine, you’re fine. You wonder if he’s gonna reject you again. It would be cruel after inviting you to his room, but he’s never really been kind.

When you get into his room you sit on the bed and take off your dress shoes, your coat, and the blazer you’ve been wearing all day. He pours himself a bourbon from the minibar and offers you one. You take the cup in your hand, sipping the liquor and feeling heat trail down your throat. He knocks his back in one shot and stands in front of you at the bed.

You stand up, putting you inches from his body. You cover his bulge with your hand, squeezing lightly and nip your teeth at his throat. “Do you want to fuck me, Dave?”

He shoves you backward with a growl and you fall on the bed. He tugs your trousers off and lowers himself between your legs. He licks you over your panties, feeling how wet you already are. He hooks his fingers into the gusset of your panties, knuckles brushing your entrance.

“Oh you’re soaked for me, baby girl.”

“Don’t call me that. Ew. God. Ew.”

“Fine. Brat.” Dave tugs your panties down and tosses them on the floor. He pushes your thighs apart and settles your legs over his shoulders. He covers your cunt with his mouth and flicks his tongue against your clit. You let out a moan and bury your fingers in his short hair. He flattens his tongue against you and you ride his face, grinding his aquiline nose into your mound as you move against him.

He brings a hand up to press your stomach down, holding you still while he slips two fingers of his other hand inside you. You keen loudly at the stretch, squirming as he sucks your clit into his mouth.

You’re so wet you can hear the wet squelch of your pussy around his fingers. He crooks them upward and you buck your hips hard enough to break the hold he has on you.

“F-Fuck, Dave. Please,” you whine.

“So polite when you finally get what you want,” he mutters into your cunt.

He’s making you feel so fucking good, you’d let him say anything right now. He strokes your sweet spot almost methodically, like he’s had a lifetime of practice that led him here, making you whine and moan and squirm pathetically on just two of his fingers. Your grip tightens on his hair as you feel white hot bliss crawling up your spine.

“Fuck. Dave. Gonna come.”

He doesn’t let up, the firm strokes of his fingers driving you higher and higher until finally you reach your peak and come crashing back down. You shatter, your pussy clenching rhythmically.

“Can I fuck you?” Dave’s voice is rough and low like he’s been yelling.

“Do you have a condom?”

“Do I need one?”

“I mean I’m on birth control”

“Oh I got snipped when I divorced Carol, that’s not what I meant”

“They had vasectomies in the 1800s?”

“Are you clean or not?”

“It’s a little fucking late to ask that, man, you just had your tongue inside me, but yeah.”

“Fair enough.”

Dave helps you up the bed until your head rests on the pillows. He takes your shirt off, stripping your bra with it. He’s fully dressed and you’re bare before him. He leans down and kisses your neck, before his lips trail down to your chest. He sucks a mark into the soft skin of your breast. You start unbuttoning his shirt but he just pulls it off over his head, an urgency that wasn’t there before taking hold.

“Need to be inside you, fuck.”

He shucks his slacks down as far as possible without getting up and immediately slots his length against your slit. You reach down and adjust him yourself, lining up the tip with your entrance. He mutters something about “impatient” but pushes inside you anyway. He’s long and thick and he makes you feel so full. When he’s fully sheathed inside you, your eyes roll back in your head with pleasure.

“Fuck. You’re huge, Dave. Fuck,” you whine, as if he needed the ego boost.

You gasp his name as he starts fucking you, your fingernails digging into the skin at his sides. You pull him into you, urging him to fuck you harder. He growls and picks up the pace, the slapping of your skin, your loud moans, his grunts fill the room.

You get lost in it a little, your mind slipping into that space where all you can think about is the sensation of his cock spearing you over and over.

He slips a hand between your bodies and presses the pads of his fingers to your clit, rubbing in small circles. You throw your head back and scream his name as a wave of pleasure crashes over you. Dave fucks you through it, thrusts slowing but not stopping yet.

“Where?”

It takes you a second to process what he’s asking. Where do you want his cum?

“Inside. Please.”

“So polite. Fucked the brat right out of you, huh?”

You’re too fucked out to respond with a witty comment, so he must be right. He thrusts into you deep and you feel his cock pulse as he spills inside you. The sensation almost makes you feel like you could come again.

He pulls out as soon as he’s finished, rolling to his feet and heading into the bathroom. The bastard doesn’t even seem winded. He comes back from the bathroom holding a wet washcloth in his hand. Dave wipes up the mess between your thighs and tosses the rag onto the floor.

It’s after he’s cleaned you up and is standing in front of the bed that you notice his body. He’s more lean and muscled than you could really see beneath his dress shirts. You wonder idly if you’ll ever see him like this again. His bare, broad chest. His happy trail leading down to his unbuttoned slacks.

He strips off his pants, leaving him in his briefs. His thighs are toned too. You kind of wish you’d gotten to explore his body more thoroughly. He crawls into bed and lays beside you, but doesn’t fit his body against yours the way you want him to. Never one to not get exactly what you want, you snuggle up to his side, throwing your arm across his chest. He readjusts and holds you close.

“Didn’t take you for a cuddler.”

“Didn’t take you for a missionary guy. Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t fucking love it.”

You hum noncommittally. It was probably the best sex of your life, but he doesn’t need to know that.

#Dave York #Dave York fics #Dave York fanfiction #Dave York x reader #Dave York x f!reader #Dave York x you #Equalizer 2 fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #ppcu fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction

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vaspider · 7 months ago

Note

Any advice for someone thinking about moving to the Pacific Northwest?

That kinda depends on where you are moving to! Here are the things I've found useful to know about moving to Portland:

I moved from Philly, where people tend to be more kind than nice, and here, people are more nice than kind. What I mean by this is that people in Philly will call you a jagoff while pulling over to change your tire in the rain, while people in Portland will smile while they keep driving. (This isn't universal, but it's real.)

Oregon has no sales tax. You'll pay a bunch of different income taxes in April, though, so make sure you pay attention to your mail in the beginning of the year so you get all your local taxes done.

Locals tend not to use umbrellas much. I tend to not just bc the rain is rarely hard enough to require one. Get a good raincoat.

Portland was one of the first places in the US to be wired for home electricity. Therefore, the grid needs upgrades, and a lot of the big lines are not buried as they are in other places and are vulnerable to ice. Make sure you have good home batteries for when we have ice storms.

Ditto, the streets don't get treated for ice. Make sure you have good boots and YakTrax or similar.

Pedestrians don't fucking look before they step out into the street. If people acted in Philly like they act in PDX, they'd get hit. If you're driving in the PNW, act like every pedestrian is about to do the most foolish thing ever.

Ditto PNW drivers. I'd rather drive to EWR on a Friday at 5 pm than try to cross the Willamette at rush hour.

TriMet still has a lot of room for improvement, but it's a lot better than any other city I've lived in. Get your Hop set up when you get here so you know you have money on it and all, even if you don't ride often, just in case.

The Oregon Zoo membership has an exchange thing where every month there are different local places you get free admission to. Getting a membership is generally less expensive than going twice in a year, and also, there's a bunch of other stuff you can do with that membership.

Choose where you wanna live as the place you're gonna do pretty much everything. Portland is largely set up so you can do everything you need within your neighborhood, which is nice. Pretty much the only time that I leave my neighborhood is when I have to go to a specialist doctor or to hang out with my cousins who live in SW or go to a special event.

Portland has a lot of cool shit you can do in your neighborhood - honestly more than I've seen anyplace else I've lived. There are hiking groups and bike rides and soap box derbies and all kinds of shit. Join local FB groups, look for posters... you'll see 'em.

If you consume weed regularly & qualify for a medical card, get one. The taxes on marijuana add up a lot faster than you think.

Some of the best food in Portland is at the strip clubs. No, I'm not joking. There's a law in PDX that if you serve alcohol, you have to serve Real Food, which has led to bars and clubs competing over how good their food is.

Food cart pods are the shit. Research your local food cart pods. You'll get some of the best food you've ever eaten and can take a huge group of people with different food needs to a local food cart pod and just have everyone go to different carts and get their own shit.

Look into who owns your local weed store. There are good Black-owned stores, and one of the most popular "chains" is/was owned by some deeply shady people who essentially bribed one of our Secretaries of State. So it does matter.

Be nice to the crows. There is a huge huge huge local murder & crows tell other crows if you're an asshole or you're cool.

I'm sure there's more stuff, but that's what I can think of while I'm listening to a podcast and my wife is driving us home.

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thelastofhyde · 7 months ago

Text

hit the road, jack!

pairing. ex!jack daniels x fem!reader synopsis. the last time you sat in jack’s infamous bronco, you broke his heart. now, a year later, you’re sitting in it with a mud-stained wedding dress and he’s driving you back to the man you left at the altar. is one night, a thousand miles, and a well-timed car radio enough to remind you of the love you shared? warnings. road trip au, exes to lovers, runaway bride!reader, mutual pining, miscommunication/no communication, idiots in love, exes in love, minor character death, infidelity, one ( 1 ) comment regarding food restriction, mentions of period, smut ( unprotected piv, dirty talk, sex in public spaces, implied creampie, fairly non-descriptive ) the reader of this fic is mostly non-descript, with mentions of having hair long enough to stick to her neck when wet and hands smaller than jack's. word count. 14.7k hyde's input. quick disclaimer that this fic was admittedly better in my head, but i tried my best :') it unfortunately never got to reach it's full potential as my friends dragged me off on an unexpected trip on friday for my birthday (which is today aka the 23rd). because of that, i've not had time to finish the last few scenes as well as i'd hoped to (it's literally 5 am as i'm editing it bc it's the only chance i've had) but i don't want to post this any later as this is my entry to the #SummerLovin'24 event, organised and hosted by @pedgito, @chaotic-mystery & @amanitacowboy , a massive thank you to them for creating such a fun event. i really enjoyed taking part and i can not wait to sink my teeth into the other amazing fics from this event. if you care to listen, here is a playlist of songs mentioned/featured in the fic.

INTRO — silver springs.

“Time cast a spell on you, but you won’t forget me.”

Stevie Nicks et al chant out of old speakers, a bass blown out over time and an intruding static that demands to play alongside the band. Perched upon the bar counter, they sit adjacent to a cash register that shakes each time it opens, a slam seemingly the only way to close it. The swish of a mop over chequered vinyl flooring and the squeaks of a waitress’ coffee-stained sneakers play to their own tune. The passing of time turns it all to background noise.

Through lunch, through dinner, and two shift changes you’ve survived. Out in the parking lot now sits only a semi-truck, its drivers, two men in scuffed boots and jeans that fray at their seams, the only other customers that remain. One tucks into a Sloppy Joe, the other has fallen asleep against the table, his coffee turning as cold as your own.

You ordered the coffee for nothing more than an excuse to sit a while longer. Time for figuring out what’s next. What you’ll do, where you’ll go, how you’ll get there. The elderly couple who’d been kind enough to take you off the side of the road, moving luggage into the trunk to make space for you in the backseats, are now long gone from the roadside diner.

It wasn’t a sorrowful departure. You were quite happy to see them leave, and take their pitiful glances and unasked questions with them. The looks still linger on in others. Each pair of eyes you’ve encountered, dragging over the expanse of your messed up hair, and your smudged eyes, and your mud-stained gown. It’s not hard to imagine the scenes they play out in their heads, of a bride scorned and abandoned on what was meant to be the happiest day of her life, a day meant for vows and first dances twisted into one of heartbroken wandering and roadside pit-stops.

You wonder if any of them know you’re not the victim, but the aggressor. The one who fled, leaving behind a bouquet of striped carnations, marigolds, and purple hyacinths.

Tires crunch on gravel as a car rolls into the parking lot. Whichever fool sits behind the wheel has their full beams on. A light flickers over your head. It’s been doing so for the past hour, an irritating reflection in the window that steals your attention back into the diner.

The waitress is eyeing you again, a weary look on her face that tells you she wants to approach but doesn’t know how. Maybe she wants to ask if you’re okay, or enquire about the events that led you here, deep in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe she just wants you to close your tab and leave.

The bell above the door rings as it opens. It’s been a while since you heard it do so. A smile comes over the waitress as she greets the newcomer. Her eyes seem to take them in, slowly. From top to bottom, and right back to the top. Innocent, if not a little flirtatious. She’d not looked at either of the truckers that way. Perhaps this is her lover, here to wait about and keep a watchful eye as she works the night shift. You can’t imagine it’s the safest place in the world for a woman to find herself working through the twilight hours, nothing but open road and sky-rise trees surrounding the diner.

A sip from your coffee. It’s as cold as you expected. Bitter too, having not found your voice in time to ask for sugar. Your stomach growls, a plea for a meal. If you’d only stayed at the venue, you’d be full of vanilla frosting, and smoked oysters, and… had it been the coronation chicken or the roast sirloin the wedding planner had gone with in the end? You can’t remember. What you do remember is her unwanted advice: just stick to some light bites, no bride wants a food-baby in her pictures.

In retrospect, you’d disliked her from the moment you met her. But you had no desire to plan a wedding. And no time either, much to your future mother-in-law’s chagrin. So out she’d gone, a cat on the hunt, dragging home some mousy-brown haired wedding planner as a sacrificial lamb. Better it be her than you who stresses over the shade of napkins, and the taste of merlots, and the seating arrangements.

Footsteps thud against the floor. Slow, deliberate, not a stumble in the way they move. You stare back out the window and spy a cowboy hat reflected in it. It belongs to the waitress’ lover, who by now is likely making his way over to pull her in real close and swoon her with a kiss only men blessed by southern charm possess.

A different version of you, a happier version, used to be kissed like that every morning.

“Are you lost, sweetheart?” The voice of a man echoes. Softly spoken, yet loudly heard in the quiet of the diner. In the window, the cowboy hat stands right behind you. You turn slowly, let your eyes dance over its owner. Like a sculpture plucked out of ancient Rome, he’s a fine art only the most delicate hands could shape. He’s brown-eyed affection. He’s an aquiline nose. He’s a well-groomed moustache. He’s Jack. “Think it’s a few miles up north they’re expecting a pretty bride.”

Leather jackets and well-fitted jeans have been traded in for a suit. Simple, classic. White shirt, black tie, a trademark cowboy hat you’d never failed to spot amongst any crowd. There’s a crinkle where a cheeky grin meets eyes framed by full brows and lashes, a scar on his right temple a reminder of the kind of man he is. Dauntless, righteous, brave. An undercover agent, posing as the CFO of one of the largest whiskey distilleries in the world.

An illusion plays out where no time has passed and his is still the face you come home to each night. A lot can change in a year, however, like the bed you sleep in, or the ring upon your finger.

He welcomes himself into the seat across from you. The protective barrier of a water-ring stained table keeps a safe distance between you both, yet you still feel his knee knock against your own as he makes himself comfortable. One arm stretched over the backrest, the other rests against the table and drums a nervous tune with his fingers.

“You’ve worried a lot of people, darliln’,” his gaze studies you. You wonder if it’s the same look he used to give his targets. The thought sours the sweetness of seeing his pretty eyes after all these months. “Runnin’ off like that, not even a hoot or a holler to let your daddy know you’re alright.”

Your dad. He’d slipped off to the bathroom, a kiss to your cheek and a promise he’d be back in time to walk you down the aisle. What must he have thought, rounding the corner to the sight of a bouquet, abandoned a la Cinderella and her glass slipper. Before you stew in guilt for too long, the rest of Jack’s words catch up to you.

He knew you ranaway. That glimpse of a cowboy hat amongst the pews had not been an illusion.

Jack was at the wedding.

“What happened?” His hand seeks you out. Warm as you remember him to be, large enough to engulf your smaller palm in his. “Why’d you run?” You stay quiet. Shrug your shoulders, eventually, and stare down as his thumb brushes over your knuckles. “You gonna give me a proper answer, sweetheart?”

Another shoulder shrug leads Jack to a sigh. There’s a pause in the quiet tension brewing between you, in the shape of the smiling waitress, pen and pad in hand. Her eyes seem to dart between you both, and you can almost hear her wondering who Jack is, if he’s the man you were meant to meet at the end of the aisle. There’d been a time when yes was the only possible answer to such a question.

“A glass of your finest whiskey. Neat, of course. And how ‘bout somethin’ to please a sweet tooth, hm?” His foot bumps yours beneath the table, calling you to look at him. You meet his eyes, watch him raise his brows in question. “Spied a pretty mean lookin’ cherry pie on my way in. That sound good to you, darlin’?” Your mute staring continues. Your stomach takes control, answers him with a disgruntled growl from within. His head turns to the side, laughing, and he nods at the waitress. “Think she’s gonna need a slice of that pie, miss!”

The right to speak returns to you at last, as you watch the glass of liquid caramel be placed down in front of him, head turning to stare out the window, a familiar Bronco sits poorly parked, obnoxious in the way it treads the line of two parking spaces.

“You shouldn’t drink and drive.”

Surprise flashes over his face, but he recovers quickly, untensing his shoulders as he sinks further into the booth. “Didn't order it for me,” he slides the glass of whiskey over to you. “Eat up, drink up. You need it.”

Though it kills you to admit it, the first bite out of the pie feels like heaven in your mouth. Tart, sweet, with pastry so golden it’s as if King Midas baked it under the heat of his own hands. A sip of the whiskey isn’t so great, but you stomach the burn and accept the erasure of nerves it promises. Your eagerness to clear the plate and empty the glass has nothing to do with the approving smile Jack watches you with.

“How did you find me?”

“You doubtin’ my skills?” He’s teasing. You know this. Still, you fall into the trap of a panicked head shake, a cough over the final bite of cherry goodness. “I stopped at a gas station. Runnin’ on an empty in the middle of nowhere ain’t on my list of wants, you see. Overheard two kids talkin’ about some bride sittin’ at a dinner a few miles down. Don’t take no Hercule Poirot to figure it was you”

“Oh.”

You shouldn’t feel disappointed by his answer, there’s no reason a man you hurt so deeply would have any vested interest in finding you.

The last you’d seen of Jack was through your car’s rear-view mirror, his tear stricken face watching you drive away, five years of clothes, and shoes, and memories stuffed into your car. He’d begged you not to leave your shared home; offered to sleep in the spare room, give you both time to work things out between you. You’d been the one to declare it useless.

“This isn’t something we can fix, Jack!”

“But, darlin’, I love you.”

“A happy coincidence, I was lookin’ for ya anyway. You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on inside that head of yours yet?” At least this time your mute stare is paired with a head shake. “Look, I mean well when I say this, but darlin’, you’re lookin’ a mighty mess. Now, a pretty mess that may be, but a mess all the same.” His hand is back on yours, squeezing with enough strength to ground you and keep you from floating off into the landscape of your own conflicted mind. “So here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna take a trip to the gents, then I’m gonna square up whatever we owe this fine establishment, and then we’re gettin’ that pretty caboose of yours up'n out of here.”

Frozen where you sit, it takes a few moments for the warmth of whiskey to settle in your bones, lurching you forward when it does, a gasp and a tight grip at his wrist, holding him back before he can stroll away from the table.

“Where are we going?”

“For a drive, sweetheart.”

TRACK 1 — vienna

You and Jack are no strangers to a late night drive.

An entire love story, told within the confines of four wheels and a chassis. The very night you met, you wound up in his passenger seat, arms up in the air and the wind blowing through your hair, the charming cowboy next to you taking every joyful laugh as a plea to go faster, nothing ahead but the open road and a southern voice crooning out of the radio. Too lost in your own head, that’s what he’d claimed you to be, having strolled up to a lonely-you in a crowded bar, lamenting over a glass of bitter white wine, freshly fired and with no real clue of what you were going to do next. Never one to entertain a stranger, you’d tried to brush him off, but he flashed that smile and invited you, so tenderly as the intro to a Bruce Springsteen song began to play, to just give him one dance.

One dance led to unimaginable love.

As time passed, a relationship burst into full bloom, the imprint of you carved into the car’s leather. Jack insisted you grow accustomed to the life of a passenger princess. He picked you up from work, drove you to all your girls’ night outs, sacrificed hours of necessary sleep to drop you at airports, and train stations, and whatever other public transport your work trips demanded you to travel upon. But how could you dream of saying no when you got to ogle the view of him, one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, effortlessly manoeuvring his beloved vehicle.

The car came on couples' vacations, too, road trip getaways. Up north, past the Canadian borders, and down south to the skyline of Mexico City. Out west, a trail up to the Grand Canyon, the Empire State Building in the east. But the late night drives, those were your favourite. Times when life felt too much, with work stressing you out, or your parents giving you grief, or a stress headache gnawing away at your remaining sanity, Jack would tug you wordlessly out into the driveway, buckle your seatbelt, and drive off into the night. Roof down, radio on, the cool breeze clearing your mind.

The only breeze you feel now blows in through an open window.

Pulling away from the diner, Jack turned the wheels south, out into the dark of the night. Trees wall the road in, a never ending sea of pine-green lit by headlights, the looming presence of a dark, dangerous, rumbling sky above. A storm brews ahead, awaiting the perfect moment to crack open and drop a downpour on the world. Little words have been exchanged between you, most of them spoken by Jack, as he tells you about the nightmare he had checking in at his hotel, and the difficulty he had finding the venue, and just how beautiful you look in your dress, tears tracks and messy hair aside. Softly playing over the radio, Billy Joel seems to speak to you, pleading that you slow down, you crazy child.

“D’you remember our trip to Vienna?”

Your head snaps over to Jack. His eyes remain on the road ahead, and a part of you is thankful, unsure of how you’d fare gazing into them as melancholy tangles itself in their shades of brown. The other part misses how it used to feel to catch him watching you from the driver’s seat, affection incarnate as his loving gaze burned heat into your cheeks, your own voice pleading him to pay attention to the road, the light’s already green, Jack!

“How could I forget you almost getting us kicked out of Saint Peter’s church?”

“Hey, now darlin’, let’s not start playin’ the blame game!” His head turns once in your direction, a teasing smile splashed upon his rosy lips. You try not to think about how you’ve felt that very smile pressed against your mouth, memorised the shape of it so perfectly you could draw it with your eyes shut. “You knew what you were doin’ wearin’ that pretty little sundress.”

The dress in question had been a purposeful attack, an attempt at getting payback for the night prior, in which Jack found pleasure in reducing you to tears, begging for release hour after hour, after hour of edging touches. Never the best at putting up a fight against his pouting lips, pleading eyes, and filthy tongue, you’d caved into his hands the moment they skimmed their way up the length of your thigh, the watchful eyes of any Lord above be damned.

“I still dream of the garden’s at Schönbrunn Palace,” a sigh floats out of you as your brain hits play on a kaleidoscope of memories of strolling the grounds, hand in hand with a man you’d imagined yourself being with for the rest of your life.

If I asked you to marry me, would you say yes? He’d asked, as you watched a couple get engaged before your very eyes.

Promise me we’ll get married here, and I’ll consider it.

“I still have nightmares of the boat.”

“The boat!” The patterns in the kaleidoscope shift into images of a viennan skyline reflected upon glassy waters, a city cruise dragging you down the canal. “I still can’t believe you fell off it!”

“I jumped.”

“Backwards? Just admit it, you fell into that water!”

“I jumped, to make you laugh!”

“Oh, don’t worry, me and the coast guard were definitely laughing!”

A silence settles between you both. Jack drums his fingers along to the closing notes of the song, your foot does the same. It crosses your mind that this, in itself, may very well be a dream. Sitting back in the Bronco, staring over at Jack as he drives you both into the aimless night. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s visited your dreams.

You watch him inhale, deeply. With a blink, his eyes reflect the moonlight, glassy with unfallen tears, the image of him too beautiful to be fiction.

“Sometimes I wish we’d never left Vienna.”

His words cut you deep, the sorrow he speaks them with cuts you deeper. Barely a week back in your own home, suitcases still unpacked, pulling into the driveway hours after the unexpected funeral of a friend, you broke both your hearts.

All that goes up must come down and, in the very same place your relationship started, it ended. Sat across from him, rain beating down on the windows, tears trailing down your face. He begged you to stop before those words came out of your mouth, tried his best to switch the engine back on and pull out into the road. You’re just stressed, darlin’, he’d said, a deceptive whine in his voice cracking his straight-faced facade. Just need to clear your head, right? Lemme take ya for a drive. It was too late, your own hand curling back around the handle and forcing the door open, the water from outside flooding in. I’m sorry, I can’t be with you. Not anymore.

“Yeah,” you exhale, shaky. Swallowed emotions, a tight lipped smile, eyes that search for sanctuary out the window. “Me too.”

In the wing-mirror, lighting crashes amidst the sea of pine-green.

TRACK 2 — purple rain

A perfect summer’s storm.

Mother nature’s mid-June release of pent-up heat, making space amongst the skies for what’s yet to come in the scorching months of July and August, the last of any rain to be seen until September brings back the sombre skies and cooler weather. The rain falls heavily, a persistent thump-thump-thump of water that bounces off the car’s roof, bonnet, windows. In the sky, thunder roars an angry sound, each one louder than the last, followed by an even brighter flash of lighting that electrifies its surroundings, turning the black night into shades of violet, and midnight, and indigo, and purple.

“You’ve not bought any new albums? None at all?” The question comes as you flip through Jack’s collection of discs, a notable lack of change in his roster since the last time you’d sat in his car.

This lack of change is likely not without good reason, like the lack of time to go CD hunting between secret missions to save the world, or a general lack of interest in newer records. He’s always been a fan of the old fashion, after all, the home you’d once shared made up of collections of vintage whiskeys, and classic records, and faded wallpaper that he convinced you gave the kitchen charm.

“Nothin’ new since…” His eyes shift over your way, the look in them enough to wordlessly end his sentence. “You were always the one buyin’ me music. Said you didn’t want me get-”

“Getting bored on missions,” impulse seems to be what forces you to speak, an honest smile sent his way. “I remember.”

It had been a while into your relationship, with i-love-yous and apartment keys exchanged, until the truth of Jack’s job came up.

On your first date, he’d told you he was a businessman. A few dates later, he specified that he was an investor, dipping his fingers into the honey jar of some classically Texa whiskey distillery. Only a half lie, and not one that was hard to believe. Every fibre of his being, stitches and loose threads included, made sense as a man in the business of selling whiskey. The overzealous amount of Statesman whiskeys occupying the shelves in his apartment, the photos he’d send of the view from his high-rise office, the endless number of suits and ties that occupied his wardrobe, even his damn name, Jack Daniels.

Then, out came the truth.

A phone call from one of Jack’s co-workers, Ginger, lasting no more than five minutes and of which only three words mattered: Jack’s been shot.

A bullet through his head. Any ordinary man would have died. Yet there was your Jack, eyes open, a measly bandage over his temple, and standing up-right. To your own credit, you managed to keep a grasp on your sanity long enough to drive him home, cook him dinner, and sit yourself down across from him at the table. But when he pricked his finger on the tip of his knife, the rivulet of blood dripping down his finger was enough to send you over the edge. Open mouthed sobs, hands clinging to him the instant he sank down on his knees at your side, tears staining every inch of his white cotton t-shirt.

You could’ve died, Jack.

Now how could I go dyin’, when I got such a pretty reason to live for?

You begged with questions, he promised with answers. Hands intertwining with your own, a gentle voice guiding you out the apartment, the soft slam of a car door closing. He turned the key in the ignition, pulled your hand up to his mouth for a kiss, and drove you both off into the night. Under the melodic fall of rain beating down on the car, you came to terms with three facts: Jack was involved in the business of selling whiskey; Jack was otherwise known as agent Whiskey, esteemed senior agent to the Statesmen secret intelligence agency; and Jack was not often shot- at least not in the head.

Arriving home that night, with the rain falling heavy on your front lawn, you’d tried your best to dash from the car and into the house but Jack had other plans. He’d gripped your hand, and pulled you close, and kissed you under the flash of lighting. And when you dared whine that your clothes were soaked, he held you tighter and let himself guide your body into a gentle sway, two lovers under the moonlight and the storm. That night had ended with a fatal promise from Jack, your limbs entangled upon a shared bed, his lips pressing into your forehead.

I promise I’ll always come home to you safe.

“Don’t need no discs anyway, already got all I need right here,” Jack’s impeccable timing, seemingly sensing the shift in your demeanour. It’s like he knows what you’re thinking about, and trying to drag you out of the past and back to the present, his fingers stretching over to turn the volume up. A familiar set of haunting chords plays over the radio, a grin instantly appearing on his face. “Shit, they even got Princ-”

“Stop the car.”

“Huh?”

“Just pull over, Jack!”

Despite the confusion, he abides by your words, foot pressing down on the break, hands steering the wheels off-road, fingers switch the car off. Without the hum of the engine, the rainfall grows louder, the view out the windscreen suddenly blocked behind a wall of flowing water. The radio plays on, the voice of an angel singing lyrics that so aptly match the purple shades painted across the sky by the storm above. There’s a cautious echo of your name, and, for a moment, it’s easy to forget this is the first time you’ve heard him actually say it in over a year. It feels like just yesterday he was calling out to you, begging with solutions you weren’t willing to give.

Your heart beats with a longing to escape your chest, hard and steady against the cage that is your ribs. Your eyes fill with emotions from the past and of the present, as every version of yourself that’s sat within this car comes together as one. Your hand curls around the silver grip of the door, pulling it open and lunging yourself out into the pouring rain.

Under the storm's wrath, you’re reborn. Baptised by mother nature, a soul cleansed of all its prior troubles, returned to you brand new and free of heartbreak. As the rain soaks your face, your neck, your dress, it washes all the pain away. Breathing easy, head tilted back, eyes closed. It's the feeling of being alive, an anomalous euphoria found only beneath a thunderous sky. The tears that dare fall here mean little, a known comfort that they’ll mix with the rain and be swept away.

Enthralled under the moonlight and barefoot, you drift on through the trees that line these woods, chasing the sweet promise of petrichor. You’re unsure if it comes from the sky, or the trees, or Jack, but something calls your name. A fallen tree trunk becomes your own personal tightrope as you dance over the length of it, one careful foot in front of the other, arms stretched out to the heavens above. All it takes is one misplaced step and you lose your footing, slipping over moss and bracing for impact that never arrives.

“Heaven to Betsy, darlin’!” Jack’s hands, warm as a summer breeze, catch you by the waist, your shoulder socking him square in the face as you fall back into his figure. He makes no complaint of pain, taking it like a champ and placing you back down on steady ground, upon unsteady feet. “Did’ya sneak a few extra whiskeys when I was takin’ a leak?”

You open your mouth to reply, to deny, but the rain comes to a stop, and the thunder no longer rumbles, and the moonlight breaks through the parting blanket of clouds, and you’re suddenly so aware of how close you both are.

Like his hands, do his lips still feel the same? Soft as a feather, pillowy as a cloud, as sweet as a peach? It’s not something a married woman should be thinking about another man, about the man another version of her had loved.

But you’re not a married woman, are you?

Wet to the bone, it's as if your wedding dress has shrunk, possessive linen meant to warn you away from leaning forward till your face meets his.

“Careful where you point those eyes, sweetheart. Don’t go givin’ me a reason to make a dishonest woman out of you.” His warning only makes you want to lean in more, test just how dishonest he’s willing to make you, in a dress you wore for another man, upon a forest floor covered by moss, and mud, and rainfall.

He’s stepping back and holding out his hand before you can even try, saving you the trouble of mixing up your head even more.

Careful steps back to his car, where the radio plays on as Prince’s voice slowly fades out. The headlights are back on, the key sits in the ignition, and you half wonder just how quickly he chased after you, abandoning his precious car so carelessly at the side of a darkened country road, free for any Tom, Bill, or Sally to claim for themselves.

“You’re lucky I got spare clothes in the back,” Jack’s voice echoes out from where he stands, bent at the waist, and rummaging through the floor of the back seats. You want to think he’s not going this on purpose, putting himself on display so obviously, but it feels easier on your conscience to blame him for your own inability to stray your eyes away from how snugly the soaked dress pants hug his behind. “Ain’t no hope in hell I’d let you in my car, all drippin’ wet.”

“You never used to complain about me being wet in your car.”

It’s a quickfire response, the kind you don’t quite get the chance to think over before you say it. Though it may shock your own ears to hear, it seems to shock poor Jack more, the smack with which his head hits against the car’s roof loud enough that you almost feel it in your skull.

You rush over to his side, dress dragging through more mud, and more leaves, and more broken gravel. No chance to even rest your hand upon his arm, Jack’s already pulled himself out the car to face you, a splash of pink brewing across his cheeks and a hand soothing over the back of his head. In the backseats, his hat lays abandoned, knocked off in the commotion.

“Can’t just be sayin’ things like that, darlin’,” he says as he holds out a change of clothes for you, smugness in his voice yet a shake in his hand. “Not unless you’re tryin’ to give old Jack over here a heart attack.”

In silence, you both turn your back on each other. Jack does so in spare of your modesty, and you, in search of someplace dry to lay down his clothes. You do so upon the passenger seat, hands immediately contorting every manner of way they can to reach the dress’ buttons that span down the length of your spine, each more finicky than the last. You manage to free only two, in the very centre, before you sigh and wonder if the entrapment you feel in the white gown could get any more literal than this.

“Jack,” it only feels right to seek out his aid, you tell yourself, the sooner the buttons are undone, the sooner the dress will be off, the sooner you’ll be changed, and the sooner you’ll both get back on the road again, destination unknown. It only makes sense, really, so who could blame you when you say, “come help me out my dress.”

No reply comes your way.

At first, you think he’s not heard you. Then, you worry that he has, and is choosing to ignore such a request, thinking it best he keeps his hands away from any act that involves undressing you. Then, fear that you’ve given him that heart attack after all. Fingers brush wet hair off your shoulders before you can turn to check on the cowboy.

Cicadas scream out into the night, and some faceless host rants over the car radio about the rising conspiracy theory of spycams in childrens’ toys, and your heart beats louder than any set of drums could ever hope, but all you can hear is the steady breaths Jack pulls in and blows out behind you, so close you feel each exhale brush your skin. His fingers do so too, with each button they pop loose, each inch of skin he reveals.

Before you can ask him to touch you with more than just his mouth and breath, his own voice fills your ears.

“I used to dream about doin’ this someday.”

“I think we both know this isn’t the first time you’ve gotten a girl out her dress, Jack.”

“Is your mind ever anywhere but the damn gutter?” A pinch delivered against your left side, a chastising tsk accompanying his words. “I meant that I dreamt about this, me helpin’ you take your weddin’ dress off.”

There’s an audible hitch in your breath, one that perfectly tells Jack everything your own voice seems to fail to. Air stings at your eyes, yet you refuse to blink, too aware of the tears building within them. His warm hands dance back up your spine as the final button is loosened, tracing slowly over skin he’d once memorised, a missionary returning to the land it once knew.

Your dress falls to the floor.

“‘Course I never thought I’d be doin’ it on the side of the road, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

TRACK 3 — lover you should’ve come over

“Wait, are these pyjama pants?”

The realisation dawns upon you twenty minutes after you hit the road again. Confined to the small space of the Bronco with little to look at— besides Jack, his clothes still damp and smelling of summer rain, a towel laid over his seat— you’ve resorted to the finer details, picking apart the scraps of clothing he’d handed you. A plain white t-shirt that, when paired with one of his tight-fitting jeans and a corduroy-lined leather bomber jacket, becomes a Jack Daniels staple. You find it best to ignore how it smells of campfire, and sweat, and the cologne you’d bought Jack on your last anniversary. He’s paired it with a pair of blue chequered pyjama pants, loose-fitting yet tied securely around your waist by a fraying draw-string.

“Took myself and the old gal up to Alaska a few weeks back, chasin’ after a view of the Northern Lights.” There’s a flash of something hot, bright, green as you register his words, myself and the old gal, tamed and dampened only when you remember that’s what Jack calls the Bronco, his old gal. “I was livin’ out my car the whole trip, figured it was easier than trynna find some inn out in the middle of the Alaskan woods. In fact, if you check down there, pretty sure you’ll find some uneaten energy bars I packed for the trip.”

He seems to point aimlessly down at a space around your legs, hand back on the wheel and guiding the wheels around a harsh bend before you can truly pinpoint what he’s referring to. You settle on the glove compartment, sitting upright and reaching a hand out to pop it open.

Then you remember what it houses, the weapons Jack carries in there. The lasso, the whip, the pistol, the bullets. A sickness burns your throat, your eyes unable to even glance down at the opened compartment, instead searching for Jack’s own eyes that stare back with equal amounts of surprise.

“I forgot those were in there.” He steals the words right out your own mouth, a nervous chuckle following them. You’d known to never touch the dreaded compartment, for your own sake, too eager to forget about the parts of him that made him an agent, the parts of him that put him in danger. “You can read ‘em, if you want. They were written for you anyway.”

Confusion floods the soul, curiosity winning over survival and dictating that you muster the courage to turn your head, take a peak at what sits inside the glove box. When you do look, you find there’s no whip nor pistol, no piece of Agent Whiskey in sight. What is there are the energy bars he’d promised, a hiking guidebook of sorts, a map, and a stack of wrinkled envelopes.

One glance back at Jack, he encourages you to take them with a nod, and so, you do. Feel the weight of them all in your hands, do your best to not drop any as you pull them out onto your lap. They scatter all over you, each a different shade of white, unopened and all sporting a red return to sender stamp. All appear addressed to the same place, and it takes only a moment of wondering why it seems so familiar for you to realise.

It’s your old address.

“They’re all labelled with dates, I wrote the first one a few weeks after you left. Wasn’t sure where you’d moved to, I figured there was a chance you’d gone back to your old place. I never forgot about how much you loved that apartment,” he says, and you did. Leaving it behind had been hard, the first real home you’d made for yourself since moving out of your parent’s place, the first space you made your own in the world. The idea of making a new space with Jack, a place you could build together, share together, had outweighed the pain of saying goodbye to your little one-bed apartment. “Wrote the second one because you didn’t reply, and I was missin’ you. Then I just kept writin’ em, and sendin’ em, and waitin’ on you writin’ back, even if just to tell me to get lost. I got a note back, along with the letters, but it wasn’t from you. Some older couple moved in to your old place, told me they’d been keepin’ em all safe incase you ever came round to collect your old mail, but they figured it was time I stopped writin’ to a ghost.”

Attentive to his every word, you search for the letter with the earliest date. Sent two weeks after things ended, with a colourful stamp and a seal that’s slightly opened at the edges, the glue’s hold loosening with time and neglect. You tear it open completely and unfold the sheets of paper found within, eyes drawn immediately three quarters down the page.

I saw our friends tonight for the first time since you left. They asked how you’re doing and where you were. I thought they were just being cruel at first but no, they didn’t know about the break up. I told them you weren’t feeling well, that you decided to stay home tonight. I guess I just wanted one more night where you were still mine, even if it was just in the eyes of our friends. I will tell the truth next time I see them.

You feel as though you’re invading his privacy, reading over words he’d written months ago, despite being the intended audience. That doesn’t mean you have the willpower to stop, however, eyes diving deeper down the page.

Or maybe I won’t have to tell them. Maybe, next time I see them, you’ll have come home. There’s still a chance for us. I believe it because I love you. You said this wasn’t something we can fix. I think you’re wrong. There’s never been an issue we couldn’t solve by talking it through, why should this one be any different? Let’s get coffee, darling. Our usual place, our usual time, next Tuesday. We can get through this, you just have to let me know it’s something you want, that I’m something you still want.

Jack’s quiet in the driver’s seat, forgiving with the time he gives you to read over his letters. When the turning of pages and the ripping of envelopes rings too heavy in the car, your shoulders tensing up in a discomfort of disrupting the peaceful silence, he wordlessly turns the radio back up and the voice of Jeff Buckley greets you both.

You return to his letters, the second he’d sent already open in your palm.

I went to our usual spot. You never showed up. Your lack of reply to my letter should have been enough to tell me that, but I still had hope. Maybe I really am a fool. Our friends seem to think so. I told them about us and they immediately asked what I’d done wrong. There was no answer I could give them. The worst thing isn’t just that I’ve lost you, it’s that I don’t even know why.

You open the next envelope, and the next one, and the next one, paragraphs melting together into a heartbroken shape.

I tried to sleep in our bed. I lasted half an hour before crawling back to the guest room. Our room just feels too empty without you. I smell you everywhere no matter how many new sheets I buy.

Eggsy and Tilde got married. It’s the first wedding I’ve been to without you. I’m doing a lot of firsts without you recently. I hate it. Our friends (am I wrong to call them our friends? I’m not ready to just call them mine) tried setting me up with someone new. They showed me a picture and she’s beautiful, but I just kept comparing her to you. Against your beauty, she’s nothing.

Your mother was at the Statesman ground tour today. I was surprised to see her, she already done the tour years ago. I tried not to talk about you too much, I didn’t want her knowing how desperate I am to hear about you. Congratulations on your promotion, I always knew you’d get it. I’m so proud of you for finally applying for it. I heard you’ve started seeing somebody, a veteran turned mechanic. Your mother was kind enough to give me his name. I hope you understand that I don’t want to invade your privacy but I had to make sure you’re safe. The guy’s got a clean slate, other than a sketchy trip down to South America with some other vets. He seems like a good man. I want you to get your happy ending. Are you happy? I’m not.

Only one envelope remains unopened. The weight of it sits heavy in your lap, a fear settling in that has you not wanting to open it. You study the front of it, find out it was mailed three months ago. The radio moves in sync with you, it seems, the song that plays reaching its climatic moment at the same time as you do, tearing open the final letter. Next to you, Jack clears his throat and wrings his hands over the steering wheel.

This last one, you read the letter in full.

Darling girl,

Spring came faster this year. The daffodils you planted bloomed in early March. I’ve been tending to the garden, I know how much love you put into it. The flowers are coming up alright, the fruit and vegetables not so much. If only I had your green thumb.

I visited Tequila last week. I don’t know if it’s right to call him that anymore. Champ’s still not named his successor, part of me thinks he wants to retire it. That’s not what Tequila would’ve wanted. He would’ve wanted Ginger taking on the mantle. The grounds he’s on are beautiful, if not sombre. They overlook a lake, and the grass is cut everyday, and the sun shines on his grave from sunrise to sunset. I didn’t say much to him, just sat and enjoyed the view. Thought about a lot of things, and finally realised why you left.

You were scared. For me. I thought you were being selfish, breaking my heart like that, but I finally understand how awful that day must’ve been for you. We’d just buried my comrade, our friend, and you had to watch Tequila’s wife say her last goodbye, knowing it was almost me in that casket and you on the podium. That was my mission he went on, I could’ve been the one who didn’t come home to the woman I love.

I’m sorry I took so long to understand. I retired from my position at Statesman. I’m agent Whiskey no more. I’m coming to find you, and hope you give me one last real try at fixing us.

Love always,

your Jack.

“Your wedding invitation found me first,” Jack says, foot off the accelerator, eyes off the road, hands on the wheel.

The weight of his stare drags down to your lap, where the heap of papers now all sit, piled atop one another and rustling with every movement you make. Your own eyes have welled with tears that slip down the apples of your cheeks and splash the papers below, smudging the ink.

The confirmation of his invite knocks out the questions of how he wound up in the pews.

“I didn’t invite you,” you’re unsure if the truth is crueller than fiction. No part of you wants him to think you’d be so spiteful, so hurtful as to invite him to a day you’d once promised to share together. “I didn’t invite anyone. I was… busy, with work. My mom dealt with the invites, she must’ve written you down by accident.”

Your lips may be the ones to say it, but your own ears struggle to believe. Your mother’s always been a meticulous woman, practical, with her affairs eternally in order. The only mistakes she makes are the ones she means to.

“Yeah,” Jack sighs out from the driver’s seat, resignation in his voice. “I figured you didn’t invite me.”

TRACK 4 — 50 ways to leave your lover

Jack drives deeper into the night.

Out the car window, you watch as the world flies by, a blur of unlit trees and unmarked road signs. Earlier’s storm has rolled away and revealed the blanket of stars above, twinkling alongside a full moon. The road is long, and winding, and seemingly never ending. There’s no discussion of destination, no sanctuary you’re waiting to reach. You feel no urgency for it, either. So long as you sit right where you are, passenger in a car, you don’t have to take the wheel, you don’t have to choose where to go, or what to do. You can just exist within this liminal space, where no wedding lies in the balance and no hearts lay broken.

It’s just you and Jack, like the old days, going for a drive.

“Ask me,” permission comes off your tongue as you observe the driver and his less than subtle glances your way. “I can see the wheels turning in your head. Everything you wanted to know in the diner, I promise I’ll answer this time.”

“I guess I’m tryin’ to put myself in your shoes, figure out what was runnin’ through that pretty head of yours,” Jack is, at his core, a gentleman. For hours, he’s let you sit beside him, biting his own tongue and fighting back his own curiosity, a trait so vital to his existence it led him into a world of spies, and guns, and movie-esque kinds of evil. Even now, with your promised approval, he eases his way into his questioning, the part of him that knows you better than your own self dictating that this is something he must address with care. “How’d you do it?”

“I just slipped out the back, Jack,” there’s a chuckle of sorts that welcomes itself out the depths of Jack’s chest, your choice of words going hand in hand with that of the Paul Simon record reaching its end over the radio. As quick as the humour appears, it goes, leaving nothing but the unfortunate reality of the situation. “Someone left a door open, it led out onto the back gardens. The further away I got, the faster I started to run. I made it all the way past the highway on foot before an older couple pulled over. They dropped me off at a diner, and that’s where I stayed until-”

“Until I found you,” it’s a reminder you shouldn’t want, the image of Jack setting off to find you in the midst of the commotion of a missing bride. It’s not healthy for your poor psyche, already at odds with what it wants, no need for further complications brought on by unresolved feelings. You can’t help but smile at him, however, no filter strong enough to cover your subconscious’ joy. “Why did you run away?”

Your smile fades.

The promise you made is already at threat of being broken. You thought there’d be more questions, more time until he hit you with the heaviest of them all.

Why did you run away?

You know the answer. Of course you’ve known the answer, from the moment you decided to turn on your heel and sprint down the halls, in search of an escape. As much as you can pretend otherwise, and feign naivete, you can’t change the truth. That doesn’t mean you’re ready to admit it out loud, and so you refute it with a question of your own: “Why did you come to the wedding?”

It would be easy to forgive Jack for getting irate when faced with your avoidant response. He doesn’t even acknowledge it. Instead, he spins the steering wheel and shoots you a smile, the kind that used to keep you warm at night.

“I wasn’t goin’ to come at first,” comes his admittance. You can’t say you blame him, really, a picture of yourself in his shoes, receiving an invite to his wedding. The thought conjures a painful throb from your heart. “Nearly tossed the damn thing into the fireplace when I got it. A few weeks later, I met with Champ for a drink. Drank myself blind, till I started tellin’ him all about the invite. He told me I had to come.”

A lift of your eyebrows, a snap of your head towards him. There’s a desire to have his full attention on you. There’s also the awareness that the road acts as a buffer for the tensing heartache that swells and lulls between you, each exchange of words a game of painful chess. You make the choice to bring forth a pawn this once, a simple why?

“He said I’ve been livin’ with life on pause since you left, maybe watchin’ you marry another man would be the thing to help me hit play at last.”

INTERLUDE — go your own way

Like tires upon gravel, time rolls on.

No matter how easy it is to forget about the world outside, look out the window and pretend you’re simply on a train, trapped in a constant onward motion, there’s no ignoring the orange glow that begins to grow on the horizon, nor the red lights on the car radio that read 05:38. A new day grows fast upon you and, where you remain mute to it, Jack can not allow the fantasy to go on any longer.

The tires screech against the gravel and everything comes to a stop.

“Thinkin’ time’s up, sweetheart,” his hands retreat from the wheel, finding purchase on his thighs. You try not to follow their descent over the tailored suit, try not to think about the thick muscles that sit hidden beneath the black trousers. It’s not your place to think about them anymore. “Where are you goin’?”

Decision has never been something you’ve struggled with, much less when the choices are so simple and limited. Either you go back to the wedding venue, and meet whatever fate awaits you of scornful mothers, and disappointed fathers, and abandoned fiances. Or, you can go anywhere.

You make a mistake, let your mind wander to places it shouldn’t, and end up asking yourself where will Jack go. He still lives in the home you once shared, this you know. Will he go there, pour himself a drink, and try to forget this night even happened?

You can still picture it all. The coffee table Jack hand-carved, both your initials engraved on the side. The picture frames all along the wall, a mural of memories shared between you. The matching set of mugs, eternally sitting on the drying board, waiting for Jack to stagger his way down the stairs and fill them with boiling coffee. If you walked through that door again, would you find everything just the way you left it? Or, has he gotten a new table, changed the pictures in the frames, bought new mugs? Is there someone there, right now, sleeping in his bed and waiting on his return?

A bitter taste overcomes your tongue at the thought, your insides twisting up like you’ve not spent the past few months sleeping next to someone else and saying yes to proposals you weren’t expecting.

“What do you think I should do?” You don’t want him to tell you to go home, you want him to say come home.

“You can’t ask that of me. My answer’s gonna be nothin’ but selfish.” Would it really be so bad, you wish to ask, if Jack was selfish? Maybe life would be easier if he was. He clears his throat, like he clears his mind, and gone is your moment to tell him you want selfish. “I can say this, though… Your fiance’s a good man, a kind man. Kind enough to trust your parents words and let me, a stranger, go searchin’ for you. He deserves to know what decision you make. It ain’t just your weddin’, it’s his too.”

He’s right, and you hate it.

There’s no way you can tell him now that you were even contemplating not going back, of disappearing into the sunrise with him, driving till life leads you down the right roads to find a new home, your old home, Jack.

The muddied wedding dress seems to call to you from the car boot, a whispering of your name that tells you to put it back on, go back, and walk down that aisle. You owe that much to your fiance, if he’ll still have you. With him, you’ve never had to worry about him coming home safe. With him, you could live a happy enough life, keep yourself busy enough to ignore all the what-ifs your mind would try seduce you with.

Besides, that’s what Jack needs, right? To see you marry another man, a final nail in the coffin named us, so he can finally move on with his life. You owe him that much, at least.

With a nod of your head and the straightening of your spine, you set your choice in stone, “drive me back to him, Jack.”

The engine shudders to life and the radio sets itself back on course, some upbeat voice that demands you go your own way, a musical slap delivered upon your face. Jack turns the steering wheel, rerouting the car’s course with an effortless u-turn before he presses down on the accelerator, propelling you forward down the paths you’ve already travelled.

You tell yourself you’re doing the right thing, even if a familiar dread starts to settle in the pit of your stomach, brushing them off as rational nerves. Who wouldn’t be anxious when facing a man they left at the altar?

A yawn escapes you.

“We’re a few hours out from the chateau.” There’s something in his voice that weighs on him, the tone between you shifting to something of desperation. Goodbye is a few hours away. This time, for good. “Sleep, it’s late.”

“Aren’t you tired?” Pull over, you want to say. Let’s sleep. The wedding can wait a few more hours.

How unfortunate that he cannot read your thoughts, understand the intentions behind your staring as you recline your chair, turn to face him on your side, hands crossed protectively over your abdomen.

One blink, and your eyes are already fighting to stay open, dragging you down into the depths of slumber.

“I’m fine. Don’t sleep much these days anyway,” the sound of Jack’s voice fades slowly into the background, melting away with the hum of the engine, and the turn of the wheels, and the voice on the radio. “Never got used to the feeling of an empty bed.”

TRACK 5 — i’m on fire

When your eyes next open, the sun’s warmth is caressing your face.

The sound of children’s laughter fills the air, and the smell of smoke fills your lungs, and the feeling of resting against Jack’s shoulder fills you with dread. Fearful to move, you take in all of him that you can see from this angle.

There’s no suit upon him, replaced with the casualness of a cotton t-shirt and a pair of faded denims. The hat’s back on his head, the curls of ungelled hair that peak through dry as a bone. A cigarette rests neatly between fingers on his left hand, the right one grasping at the neck of a beer bottle. No wheel sits in front of him, no gear shift keeps space between you. The Bronco’s been replaced with the view of your parent’s backyard and the comfort of a well cushioned outdoor couch.

You know this memory.

You’ve lived this memory.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” just like you remember, Jack’s stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette the moment he notices your open eyes. “How you feelin’?”

“Like my uterus is trying to carve its way out of me,” your mouth plays along with the dream, speaking the same words it had years ago.

“That good, huh?” A beer stained kiss meets the corner of your mouth, another follows up to your forehead, as Jack’s free hand reaches into his pocket, reemerging with silver foil between two fingers. “Got these off your mother. Let me go get you somethin’ to eat, then you can take two, hm?”

You remember thinking that you love him. You didn't dare speak it, however, simply nodding as you took the blister packet of paracetamol out his offering grasp and uncurled your legs back down onto the floor, stretching your arms. Jack bends down, presses his lips against the crown of your head, and then he’s off, venturing over to where your father stands grilling another round of burgers on the barbeque.

Jack’s always been a confident man. He carries himself with a head held high and a careless smile on his face, no chip on his shoulder and no flare for anger in his bones. A southern gentleman, who knows his own charms and, most dangerously, how to use them. Place him alone with your father, however, and watch how he crumbles like a house of cards. To the untrained eye, it’s unnoticeable, but you don’t miss the glances he spies your father with each time he throws out a joke, nor the way his hands can never seem to relax, a nervous tic of drumming against his thighs or balling into fists as he makes conversation with the older man. He’s desperate for the approval of your monotonous father, so desperate he fails to see he won it months ago,

“Eat up, drink up, you need it,” he says as he hands you the paper plate, and his half-drunk bottle of beer. He settles back down on the couch, pulling you into him once more. “Your old man was sayin’ we should probably head off soon, ‘fore it gets too late. Think he’s startin’ to warm up to me, he’s even worryin’ bout me drivin’ in the dark.”

“Oh, he loves you,” you take a bite, break two of the pills out their casing, wash them down with a swig of bitter beer. The summer sun burns in the corners of your eyes, forcing them into a squint. “He kept looking for you at the dinner table at my mom’s birthday, you should’ve seen his reaction when I told him you were stuck in New York slaving away in your office.”

Months later, you’d come to find out he wasn’t in New York, surrounded by mountains of paperwork, but somewhere in the south of France, hunting down some billionaire wine-maker with plans to poison the crops of surrounding vineyards, leaving only his wine safe to consume.

In your memory, Jack plucks the hat off his own head and rests it gently upon your own, a shaded barrier against the bright light in the sky. You thank him, he watches on quietly as you continue to eat, gaze not peeling itself away from you the whole time.

“What? Do I have ketchup on my face? Or, in my hair?” You’d asked him, mid-chew. No answer, more staring. Panic made a debut in your mind, suddenly alert to his unusual behaviour. “Wait, is it a bug? Jack, is there a bug in my hair?”

“I love you.”

No build up, no grand-speech, no overly romantic setting.

He said it like one shares the weather, or the time, or what they’re wanting for lunch. He said it like it was something he always said, would always say, despite it being the very first time you’d heard him do so. Tears had flown in quickly, your hormones already gone haywire with the unexpected arrival of shark week earlier that morning. There’s a vague assurance that you told him you loved him too, through tears, and he teased your weepy face with kisses down your cheeks and full-chested laughter.

“Bless your cotton socks, my sweet girl, cryin’ all cause old Jack says-”

“Tell me now baby, is he good to you?”

You jolt awake.

Jack’s by your side, suit on, hair air dried, one hand on the wheel, the other rests out the window. The roof is down, letting the sun shine on you and his caramel eyes. An old Springstein song plays in the background, the very same thing that coaxed you awake. Just like the dream, he takes a few minutes to notice your opened eyes, head turning your way as another car shoots off ahead of you both, overtaking him.

“You were mumblin’ in your sleep. Were you dreamin’ of somethin’ sweet?”

“I was,” too quick comes your reply. Too honest. Nerves have you stumbling over words, scrambling to pick them off the floor of your mind and spew out the first thing that doesn’t involve Jack and his easy-going professions of love. “About the first time my fiance told me he loves me.”

You regret it as soon as you speak, the visible halt to his smile. He overcorrects it, forcing a grin that stretches the corners of his mouth so tight it almost looks painful. “Well, c’mon, don’t go keepin’ it to yourself!”

“He, uh, wrote it in the sky.”

“How romantic. Pricey too, I bet.”

“It was his best man who did it, an ex military pilot.”

As you try to reminisce on the day, little memories blossom in your mind. Instead of vivid motion capture, the day is black and white, no sound. You don’t remember where you were, what he was wearing, how you felt when you read those words up above.

It happened only two months into your relationship, that you do remember. You also remember being parked in your old neighbourhood the night before, twenty minutes spent trying to will yourself to go knock on the door to your old home. The Bronco was in its usual spot, parked outside. No lights were on as you pulled away and willed yourself back to rational thinking.

“Jeez, if that’s how he’s tellin’ you he loves you, I can’t imagine how he proposed.”

You wonder if this is as tortuous for him as it is for you, listening to you detail the life you’d gone on to live just months after walking away from five years of love. “In a restaurant,” you can’t remember the name, or what you ate, or what you wore, as if the memory is one that doesn’t belong to you, never belonged to you. “I ordered dessert, ‘will you marry me?’ was written on it in cherry sauce.”

“You must’ve said yes immediately.”

“I did.”

You leave out the part where the whole restaurant had watched him get down on one knee, or the part where you rushed to the restroom right after accepting the ring, spewing your guts out in a stall. By morning, you told yourself it was fine, you were just feeling nervous.

After all, you loved him enough to spend time with him, so why not spend the rest of your life with him?

TRACK 6 — she’s always a woman

It had been too easy to forget the thing you loved most about road trips with Jack.

It wasn’t his constant commentary of interesting facts on sites you’d drive past, or his love for taking the long-way to anywhere and everywhere, or his ever-present need to drag your hand up to his lips with every few miles.

The thing you loved most was listening to his voice, unfiltered, unashamed, outloud, singing along to his favourite songs. The voice of a crooning angel and the shyness of a bashful fox. Every so often, when he’d catch you watching him a little too fondly as he sang along, he’d throw in a voice crack, or twist up a lyric into a sickly innuendo.

In the present, it’s you who interrupts his spirited rendition of a Billy Joel classic.

“You were right, in the letters,” the leather of your seat squeaks as you fix your posture, sit yourself up straight if only to force yourself to stop observing the way his lips fall into a natural pout and, instead, focus on memorising the licence plate that drives ahead. “I’m sorry.”

“Right about what?” As though nothing has changed, his hand extends towards your own, effortlessly intertwining your fingers, beginning an ascent to his mouth before mind takes over instinct and he’s letting you go, setting you free.

You give up on the licence plate ahead, turn your face once more towards Jack and his pouty lips.

“I couldn’t be with Agent Whiskey anymore.” A relationship made up of a man, a woman, and an agent. Whiskey would kiss you goodbye in the morning, while Jack would be the one to come home to you. With the passing of time, three became a crowd, and so you removed yourself. “I didn’t want to break your heart, Jack, I swear. But I also didn’t want to let you break mine. And you did, every time you walked out of our home and left me wondering if you’d ever come back. Then, when Tequila… You loved your job. You loved being Agent Whiskey. How could I ask you to leave that part of you behind?”

“Darlin’ if you think there’s any world where losin’ you was easier than losin’ Whiskey, you’re out of your mind.” Like his first I love you, he speaks words that flow out of him as easily as an exhale, as though they carry no weight to them. As though they do not momentarily flip your world on its axis and have you wishing he’d turn the car around, driving you both off into the forever you never got.

Yet another car overtakes the Bronco, its driver angrily pressing on his horn. You both continue to ignore the speed at which Jack drives. Up ahead, everything you’ve been dreading comes into view, an unmissable billboard. Clearview Manor.

50 miles to go. 50 miles till goodbye.

“I’m hungry.”

“Those energy bars should still be in there, if you’re wantin’-”

“Jack, I’m hungry,” you say it louder, hoping he’ll pick up what you’re laying down.“Can’t we stop somewhere for breakfast?”

His answer comes in the form of a left blinker switching on, wheels cutting over gravel and carrying you off the main road. Then, as if to break your heart some more than his last declaration, he turns to you. “If it had been me waitin’ on you at the end of the aisle, would you have ran?”

You try to picture it.

Jack, in his suit and tie, hands clasped behind his back to keep him from drumming nervous fingers over his thighs, eyes brimming with tears as you take your first step down the aisle. Would the panic have settled in? Would you have felt that same wrongness as when you’d been sneaking a peak at your fiance waiting down the aisle?

Would you have ran?

“It’s not something I planned, y’know? Running. I didn’t think it was even an option,” you’re laying your final card on the table, a truth you couldn't bring yourself to admit earlier at last coming out to play. You’re unsure if it dismisses or further condemns you for your runaway crimes. “I took a peak, at the ceremony hall, while waiting for my father. I needed to see what I was about to walk into. I guess I thought the nerves were just from that, the unknown. Then I saw you, a few rows from the back. At first I thought I was hallucinating, that you were just a man who happened to be wearing a cowboy hat. But then I saw my mum pulling you in for a hug, and I caught a glimpse of your face. That’s why I ran. I couldn’t… marry another man, not with you standing in the crowd.”

“You’ve not answered my question,” it’s the first you’ve seen Jack put his foot down since he dragged you out the diner, the seriousness etched into his frowning forehead and stamped onto his lips. “Would you have ran?”

“No.”

Jack just keeps driving.

TRACK 7 — dancing in the dark

“You can’t be serious!”

Squeezed into the corner booth of a dingy, run-down bar, you and Jack sit across from one another, digging into a stack of pancakes lathered in maple syrup.

The bartender and two of his patrons glance at you both every so often, and you have to wonder how odd a pair you and Jack must make. One dressed to the nines, if you ignore the dried mud at the bottom of his dress pants and his loosening tie, the other wearing yesterday’s make-up paired with cotton pyjama pants. You prefer it to the stares you’d gained in your wrinkled gown.

“Deadly. I’m a serious tap-dancin’ student,” his fork stabs into the fluffy goodness, dragging it along the plate, soaking the pancake in as much syrup as possible. You try not to think of mornings that used to be spent like this, sitting at your own table, flour in his hair and eggshells in your own, both of you ignoring the disastrous mess in the kitchen begging to be cleaned as you tuck into your homemade pancakes. “Retirement breeds weird hobbies.”

“Before long, you’ll be playing bingo at the old folks home.”

“I just have to ask, I really do,” a dread you haven’t felt since stepping out the car— with the help of Jack and his offering hand, the other holding your door open— creeps back in. You don’t want to talk about your own current reality, not when it’s been so easy to pretend none of the wedding fiasco happened and, instead, you’re simply catching up with Jack after bumping into each other in this bar. “This fiance of yours… is he bigger than me?”

As quick as it inflates, the tension pops.

“Oh my god, Jack!” You laugh, a little too loudly, and dip your head as other tables turn their heads your way.

“What?”

“You did not just ask me that.”

“Oh, but I did.”

“You can’t just say things like that!” In mock surrender, he throws his hands up. Your own grab ahold of your knife and fork once more, an ironclad focus on the near-empty plate as you will the shameful heat away from your face, mumbling over your words. “But, no, he isn’t bigger. Happy?”

“You’ve no idea.” As though you’re being haunted by music, a song begins to play over the speakers. You’re not the only one who takes notice, Jack’s eyes lighting up with a devious look, his legs already rising out of his seat. “Think that’s our queue, darlin’.”

“Sit back down.”

“Oh, c’mon now, don’t be so uptight,” he lays out his hand, begging for you to place your own in it. Flashes of a memory, six years back, the very same song playing as the very same man attempted to coax a dance out of you. “One dance, sweetheart, then I’ll leave you in peace.”

Just like your younger self, you’re incapable of resisting his baby cow eyes, letting him guide you out onto a makeshift dance floor before it’s too late to run back and hide in your seat, the eyes of strangers already piercing you with their questioning stares. If you weren’t deemed a strange pair with your attire alone, you certainly are now, feet stumbling awkwardly along with Bruce Springstein.

“This song was playin’ when we met,” he says it like you don’t know, like you don’t remember, like you aren’t replaying that night as you speak, pretending you’re both in that same crowd of swaying bodies, young, and naive, and on the cusp of experiencing the greatest love you’ll ever know, rather than here, on an empty dance floor, stumbling blindly through the hardships of holding each other so close, mutually aware you’re dancing on borrowed time and, soon, you’ll have to go. “Knowin’ now how it ends, if I was sent back in time, I’d still ask you to dance. I’d do it all again.”

“This gun’s for hire, even if we’re just…”

He spins you, drags you closer, sways you. It’s far less care-free than the first dance you shared, no alcohol to dull the shame and a whole lot of history packed between your bodies.

The first dance had been the thing you had dreaded most about your wedding, dancing with your husband, to a whole room of loved ones watching. Dancing now with Jack— even through all the embarrassment you feel as an elderly couple point over at you— feels easier, less daunting, so much so that you can’t help the way you start to laugh, arms loosening around his shoulders, hips moving less abashedly.

The two of you inch closer, and closer, and closer as the song reaches its end. Like a happy couple finishes their first dance, Jack’s mouth lands atop yours.

A gentle kiss, innocent of sin, it begs you to give back, to press your own mouth against his. You answer its calling, hand clasping at the back of his neck, holding him safely against you, less he drifts away and reveals this all to have been a dream, a nightmare, a delusion. Like coming home after a cold winter’s day, his kiss is the comfort of knowing you’re exactly where you belong.

And it’s absolutely terrifying.

You rip away from him, flashes of your fiance’s face blinding you as you stumble off, doing what you do best: running away. You miss the way the patrons all go back to their own drinks, and the way a new song comes on, and the way Jack chases after you, stopped only by the slamming of a bathroom door.

You come up for air when you find yourself faced with the image you paint in the mirror.

Never has there been a more heartbroken girl, eyes a mess of tears, and faded eyeliner, and smudged mascara, hair a nest fit enough for any bird to build its home in, body draped in the clothing of an ex-lover. It’s almost as frightening as the image you made yesterday, wedding gown freshly laced and make-up pristinely done.

A knock rings against the door.

It’s followed by a gentle call of your name.

You switch on the tap, welcome the cold splash of water over your face. Pray that, if you scrub hard enough, you’ll wipe away the taste of him, forget the shape of his touch, purge yourself of the desire to follow anywhere he may go. Your hand slips down your face, the dim bathroom light catches on something.

Your engagement ring, a tight shackle that binds you to someone else, reminds you of the closure you owe to Jack.

He calls your name again.

“Darlin’,” it’s muffled behind the door, but the regret in his voice is all too clear. “I just got caught up, I’m sorry. Come on out and we’ll get back on the road-”

The hinges creak as the door opens, only a crack, and your hand shoots out, grabbing a hold of Jack’s tie before you can will yourself to be rational.

He lets you invade his space with little protest, mouths returning to the dance they never got to complete. Hands move, slipping off ties, and undoing draw strings, and locking doors. There’s a mumble, are you sure, followed by a moan, please.

All hope of forgetting his skin is lost, a leg hooked around his waist, fingers tangled in his hair. He bites at your neck, and kisses along your jaw, and pants into your ear, all the while his hips rock back and forth against your own, filling you inch by inch. Mouth covered by your own hand, muffling a cry of his name as you feel him brush against that spine-tingling spot inside you. Your head falls back, eyes slip shut. Jack’s quick to rectify it.

“Watch, darlin’,” he whispers, a hand tilting your eyes down to where your two bodies meet. “ Want you to see how perfectly your lil’ pussy takes me.”

You do as he says, hypnotised by the sight of his cock, glistening in your own arousal, sawing in and out of you, each thrust deeper than the last.

“He can’t fuck you like this, can he?” Despite his ego-fueled words, there’s a desperation in his voice, a soul lost in a sea of darkness, searching for a life jacket. “Tell me he can’t.”

He can’t, you tell him, clinging onto him tighter, needier, begging him to never leave.

Any minute now, you worry, someone’s going to knock on the bathroom door, kick you both out. Instead, the music that plays outside the door seems to increase in volume.

“Fuckin’ made for me, meant for me,” both of you grow increasingly desperate, fingernails digging into flesh, and mouths rejoining in a frenzy of kisses, and the tightening of an invisible string, drawing you nearer and nearer to the edge. “My sweet girl.”

An end that comes all too soon, both of you exhausted, and spent, and collapsing against one another, a sticky mess left between your legs where his hips continue to rut into you through his own overstimulation.

“I’m sorry,” his head falls against your shoulder, burrows into the warmth of your neck. There’s a press of his lips against your skin, and a million apologies that follow. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I love you.”

“It’s okay, Jack,” you lie, sooth a hand over his back, ignore the tears you feel falling against your skin.

TRACK 8 — hit the road jack

The clock reads 13:18 as Jack brings the car to a stop.

A set of stairs lead up to a grand double-doored entrance, a sign post declaring the extravagant building as Clearview Manor. Rented for the whole weekend, the wedding party isn’t cited to leave until late Monday evening. Though all cars remain parked in the driveway, no familiar faces await your arrival.

“I hope you get your happy ending,” the two of you step out of the car in sync. A voice whispers that it’s the last time you’ll step out the Bronco, you brush it off and follow Jack as he makes his way over to the boot. “No one deserves it more than you, Jack.”

“No promises, darlin’,” he extends his arms to you, you almost move in for a hug.

The sight of your wedding dress, no longer porcelain white, stains of brown upon a greying fabric, reminds you of why you’re here. You try your best to smile earnestly as you take it off his hands, but fear it only heightens the distress that dilates your pupils. “I’ll see you inside, right?”

The boot slams shut, and it’s an awful reminder that your time together is coming to a close, Jack dons his signature smile, cowboy hat back on his head, a head that’s shaking no.

“The mighty fool that I am, thinkin’ I could stomach watchin’ you get married to another man. After this little road trip of ours… well, I guess I just ain’t ready to hit play yet.” A tongue made of lead, shoes filled with weights. Moving feels impossible, talking even more so. You want to say his name, tell him you don’t need to marry another man, crawl back into the Bronco and beg him to drive off. “Go’on, get! There’s a good man in there, waitin’ to give you everythin’ you deserve.”

Instead, you just turn on your heel, take the first step towards the rest of your life. A life without Jack.

Halfway up the stairway, the sound of Jack’s engine reaches your ears, followed quickly by the obnoxiously poignant car radio, giving its final performance for you both.

“Hit the road, Jack, and don’t you come back, no more, no more, no more, no more!”

Eyes meeting where Jack sits, back in the driver’s seat, you share one last laugh.

OUTRO — everywhere

“Thank god you’re okay.”

Two arms, strong and secure, wrap around your waist.

On the other side of the bridal suite door stands both your mother and your mother in law, ushered out by your fiance upon your return the moment he noticed the panic on your face as questions and fingers prodded at you.

You block out the thought of the scowling faces, burrowing your own into the space between his shoulder and neck, whispering your inquiry on, “how bad is the damage?”

“We told everyone you were suffering from food poisoning. All our guests think you’ve been spewing out of both ends the past few hours, but I think that’s justified for the bruising you’ve given my ego.”

“Santi,” the shape of your fiance’s name feels foreign in your mouth, the taste of it sour on your tongue, so much so that you can’t say it in full. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be, what matters is you’re here now.”

Jack was right, your fiance is a nice man. A good man. A man anyone would be lucky to land in the arms of, the kind of man people dream of, and romance authors write of.

But to you, his arms just feel like a cage you’ve lost the key for. “Why did you ask me to marry you?”

“I don’t know. We just… make sense.”

“We do,” you pull apart, at last, nodding your head along to his answer. “But is that all marriage should be? Two people who make sense?” You stumble a few steps back from him, feet needing space to begin pacing back and forth as your filter slips and the word-vomit begins to spew itself out onto the pristine carpeted floors. “Do you really love me enough to spend the rest of your days with me? Because I don’t think you do, and I don’t think I love you like that either.”

Santiago is calm, collected, and completely unresponsive.

The longer he watches you pace and rant, the quicker you do each thing, as though you’re racing ahead to escape the fear of breaking his heart more than you already have, his love possibly more intense than you make it seem. He ends that fear in one foul swoop of words.

“When you didn’t walk down the aisle, I felt relieved. I also slept with someone at my bachelor party and the guilt has been eating me alive.”

“I just fucked my ex in a bathroom!” In an almost paradoxical response, the pair of you keen over in laughter, any expected animosity thrown out the metaphorical window and leaving you both no choice but to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. “God, we’re a mess.”

“Wait, the cowboy’s your ex? I should’ve known, your dad told him you were gone before he even bothered to tell me.” Santiago had little luck at winning over your dad, though admittedly it was no fault of his own but, rather, your father had yet to move on from Jack. There’s a sudden commotion as Santi rushes past you, peeling back the curtains and peering down out the window. “What car is it the cowboy drives?”

“A Bronco.”

“Well, you might wanna hurry, because he’s just pulling out of the parking bays.” It’s more than just a warning. It’s a blessing to leave. Overcome with emotion, you dive back into his arms and find there’s no fear of goodbye, not like there had been with Jack. An engagement ring that slips off with no resistance, no longer a shackle that ties you both together. You hand it back to him gently. “Go, before it’s too late! I’ll take care of this mess, see if I can spin this in a way that’s heartbreaking enough to get our deposit back.”

There’s more you want to say, but now’s not the time. Apologies and thank-yous can wait till you pick up your things from his apartment, right now you’re too busy rushing to the door.

A call of your name comes when you’ve got one foot out it, treading into the now motherless hallway. You face Santiago with a smile, ready to say that magic word.

Goodbye.

“Promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t invite me to your wedding.”

You make it out the double-doors, which slam loudly shut behind you, before you spot the retreating shape of Jack’s car and an anxious glee commands you to break out into a sprint, legs kicking faster than they ever have before.

Don’t speed up, you think, watching as the Bronco slowly creeps down the driveway.

“Jack!” You call out to him, hoping that, with the open roof, he’ll somehow hear you over the radio. Pushing your feet to move a little faster, your arms join the mix, waving wildly to the wind, a careless attempt to catch his attention in the rearview mirror. “Wait!”

The car breaks with a squeak, the blaring music comes to a halt, and Jack turns to face you with his own eyes, as though he can’t trust the mirrors. When you reach the car, you pull at the door handle and find he’s already unlocked it. You slide in with ease, back into the seat you’ve always belonged in: by his side.

He can’t seem to move, frozen with his eyes focused on nothing but you.

“Drive, jack,” you finally proclaim, asking him what you should’ve the moment you saw him in that diner, in the pews, in the heartbreaking hours post-burying a friend.

“Where to, darlin’?”

“Anywhere, everywhere!” You can’t help the smile that overcomes you as he pulls your hand up to his mouth, planting a familiar kiss upon it, before the engine hums back to life. “It doesn’t matter, as long as I’m with you, all roads lead home.”

Like old times, you lean forward and turn up the radio, a familiar tune filling the air as you sink back into your seat, the wind back in your hair and an open road laying ahead, ready to lead you both wherever the wheels may take you.

“Oh I, I wanna be with you everywhere.”

bts with hyde. this is just a little reflective commentary that i put down here, to avoid flooding my author's note with too much rambling. please feel free to skip this!!

this fic is a compilation of firsts for me. it's the first challenge i've taken part in within the pedro fanspace, which has been equally exciting as it has been daunting. i struggle immensely with writing on a time schedule, and so i'm pretty proud of myself for not posting this (too) late.

this is also my first time writing for jack. admitedly, i'm not sure if i've done justice to him, as his character is somehow incredibly strong and, yet, so open for interpretation that i found myself struggling to connect with him in my writing. i have no plans to write for him in any future wips, but that might change. it was definitely fun to push myself out my comfort zone and write for a new character!

something i want to praise myself for is the attention i put into smaller details of this fic. for example, each flower mentioned in this fic has a very specific symbol/meaning attached to it, fitting with the themes of the scenes in which they're mentioned. the other place i hyperfocused on very unimportant details is the playlist. it opens and closes on the only two songs fronted by a female vocalist, with my intention being that these songs are a representation of the reader's inner turmoils and thoughts in the opening and closing scenes. the rest of the playlist is full of male vocalists, giving a peak into jack's mind despite the entire fic being told through the reader's eyes.

okay, i've given myself enough delusional and unnecesary praise, i'm going to sleep now. please don't be mean if you didn't like this fic, it's literally my birthday 🫡

if you've read this far, ily, i hope you have a good day !

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