#i will try to get the second chapter out as soon as time lets me

[paarksunghoon]

resignation (5)

SUMMARY: For the last six years, you’ve dedicated your career to ensuring Park Sunghoon never misses a day of work in his life. But you’re tired of endless days that seem to blend together, and seeing him living his fun, luxurious lifestyle makes you think about what else you might be missing out on. When Sunghoon finds your resignation letter on his desk, he does everything in his power to convince you to stay.

NOTES: unrelated to this fic, trendwave sunghoon has me acting UP. but also when am i not when it comes to him…my bf fr

WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: an incredible amount of sexual tension & fingering.

SERIES PLAYLIST + SERIES MASTERLIST

***

The first thing you feel when you wake up is Sunghoon’s fingers brushing the hair from your eyes. The second is the warmth of his hand. 

It startles you to see him sitting on the edge of the bed and so close to you. He chuckles at your reaction and watches you gather yourself when you remember you awoke in his guest bedroom and not your own. 

“Good morning, sleepy head.” 

Even his morning voice sounds like Heaven with how deep and sultry it is. You blink the sleep away from your eyes and Sunghoon continues to cradle your face as you adjust to the morning light peeking through the window. 

“What time is it?”

“A little past six. How’d you sleep?” 

You nuzzle against his palm and close your eyes. You miss the way he smiles down at you. “Really well, actually. You rich people have this sleeping shit figured out.”

He caresses you again. “You snore like a little kitten.”

“I don’t snore.” 

“Yes, love. You do.” You ignore him, and you ignore the pet name. 

“We have to get to work, don’t we? I don’t have an extra outfit and I don’t feel like showing up in the clothes I wore yesterday.” 

“We’ll stop by your apartment before going to work.”

You make a face. “We’ll be late.”

“I’m the boss,” he says. “I can tell you when to come in.” 

“Oh? This is a first for you.” 

“You need to take care of Pochi too, don’t you?”

“Hm. You’re right. I do miss my cat.” 

Sunghoon bends down and kisses you like he’s done this a thousand times before. He’s slow with it, moving his lips in tandem with you until you’ve truly registered that he’s kissing you. It’s a new sensation. It’s weird, neither good nor bad, just different. Sunghoon’s breath is minty and when you pull away, you’re surprised when he lets out a small whine.

“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” you tell him when he leans in for another kiss. Your arms brace his shoulders and you try to keep him at bay. He doesn’t seem to care, though, and steals another kiss from you. 

“You think I care about that?” Another kiss. Your cheeks heat up. 

“I dunno. I haven’t done this in a while.”

“Kiss your boss and wake up in his arms?” 

You roll your eyes and sit up, pushing him away while he laughs. “Dumbass. I haven’t kissed anybody in a long time.” 

“You’re doing just fine.” 

Looking at him makes your heart race for more reasons than one. Sunghoon is absolutely gorgeous from this angle, especially when he’s wearing casual clothes and sporting hair that looks like it hasn’t been brushed. He looks painfully normal instead of the high-demanding businessman you know him to be. Sunghoon looks almost approachable like this. If the two of you met under different circumstances, you might’ve gathered the courage to ask him out. 

On the other hand, there aren’t many times you can say you’ve awoken in a man’s guest bedroom with gentle kisses being pressed upon your face. It’s the first time anybody has ever woken you up like this, and it took a great deal not to immediately panic and push him away. It’s scary how nice being doted on feels, and you’ve only gotten a little taste of it with Sunghoon kissing you as soon as you awoke. 

This feels different than what you’re used to. Typically, Pochi makes her way to your face and nuzzles her own between your neck, the outside construction prevents you from falling back asleep when you're able to sleep in, and you usually wake up alone. What you’re not used to, however, is Sunghoon looking at you like he’s got stars in his eyes. The idea that anybody could look at you like that is alarming and unfamiliar.

“We’ve got plenty of time,” he says before bending down to touch your lips with his. “I can hear that little brain of yours working so hard.”

“My brain isn’t little.” He smiles against your mouth and gives your lips a peck. 

“Mm. Definitely not. My smart girl. I can still hear you thinking, though.” Sunghoon’s hand touches your outer thigh and it sends a shiver up your body. 

“Oh yeah? What am I thinking about?”

“How we’ll be late if we don’t leave in thirty minutes. You’re probably thinking about what clothes you have left in your closet and if Pochi ate breakfast.” 

“…Am I that predictable?” 

Sunghoon shakes his head and moves his hand up your thigh. “I’d like to think I’ve picked up a thing or two after knowing you all these years. You’re not the only one who observes, you know.” 

“Hmph.”

“Relax for me, okay?” He brings his other hand up to your cheekbone and caresses that spot. “I’m not in a rush. We don’t have meetings or anything important on my docket today.”

“You looked at my calendar, didn’t you?” 

He grins. “Might’ve taken a peek. It’s connected to mine anyway.” 

Sunghoon’s blankets are keeping you warm and toasty, and his touch feels like you’re being lulled to sleep. You find yourself at odds with the idea that Sunghoon could convince you to relax at this hour, especially when you have to stop by your apartment before going into the office. It’s not like anyone would notice either. Sunghoon’s colleagues are in and out of the building all day, some of whom don’t show up until late morning or early afternoon on account of personal business. You aren’t worried about what other assistants might think either, as you’re the assistant who has been there the longest. With the hierarchy system in place, it’s more believable that you’re in business with Sunghoon than being in bed with him.

Yet, some part of you doesn’t like that you’re breaking the routine you’ve built over the years. You’ve never spent the night at anyone’s place, much less on a weekday, and you don’t enjoy the fact that you haven’t seen Pochi. 

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten my promise,” Sunghoon says, pulling you out of your cycle of thoughts. He’s perched on the side of the bed with his elbow resting comfortable on the pillows and you look at him quizzically.

“What promise?” 

The look he gives you is akin to the way he looked at you last night. Suddenly, the memory of his hard dick straining against his sweatpants comes to mind. You’ve been so distracted by Sunghoon’s lips and sweet talking that you nearly forgot about the way he felt in between your legs. Sure, the fabric of your clothes acted as a barrier, but nothing could ever hide the way his dick felt pressed right against your covered cunt. 

Sunghoon leans down close to your ear like he’s trying to tell you a secret. You feel his breath touch the shell of your ear and that alone is enough to make you squirm. He must know, and you can tell by the way Sunghoon digs his fingertips into your skin just a little.

“I told you I’d make you cum today. Will you let me?”

Your mouth runs dry. You look up at Sunghoon and there’s nothing humorous about the way he’s watching you. His eyes are a deep shade of brown that stare directly into yours like he’s trying to hold himself back from being too hasty. It’s almost alarming that he’s being so forward with you at this moment. There’s not a hint of shyness that you can detect, unlike how you feel with your heart beating too fast and your uneven breath. 

Would it be so bad to indulge yourself in his request? It’s not like you’re getting any action beyond the quiet of your bedroom or with the only vibrator you bought yourself after a short stint of bad sex. The fact that he’s your boss is out the window. You know what his dickprint feels like and you’ve practically memorized the way his lips feel when they’re pressed against yours. There shouldn’t be any harm in letting Sunghoon pleasure you when that’s all he seems to want. 

Sunghoon watches you spread your legs from underneath the covers and grins to himself. He helps push the comforter off just enough to expose your legs to him. 

“Can I take these off?” he asks, fingers removing themselves from your thigh to the waistband of the shorts you’re wearing. He traces the hem and you suck in your stomach at the feeling of his hand being so close to where you crave him the most. 

You consent quietly because of the intensity of his gaze. He looks like he’s moments away from devouring you whole, like a boa constrictor who’s locked eyes on its prey. The shorts come off and he tosses them behind him, and you try not to care that he’s haphazardly throwing clothes he’s taken off of your body to focus on the moment. 

Like an instinct, you close your legs when you realize you’re only wearing underwear. They’re plain black cotton, nothing exceptionally fancy since you didn’t plan on having anyone see them. Sunghoon doesn’t rush hastily. He slips his large, warm hand between your knees and slowly guides himself up your legs until your body starts to relax. 

He must feel how nervous you are. It has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the lack of intimacy you’ve received in the past couple of years. It’s like your body locks on itself at this foreign sensation of somebody else’s hand on your body, even if it’s consensual and yearned for. 

He doesn’t rush, nor does he immediately push his hand towards your covered cunt. Sunghoon bends down to capture your mouth in a slow kiss, his plump lips pushing against yours like he’s trying to talk to you with his body. You’re not sure what to focus on—how smooth his hands are or how wet your mouth is becoming—but it all feels so good. For somebody who is as touch deprived as you are, it feels like a million sensations all at once. 

Sunghoon moves up the expanse of your thigh when your body starts to relax against him. Whether it be the sound of your lips smacking echoing through the room or getting used to his hands, your legs start to part before him. Sunghoon doesn’t break the kiss like you think he will. His palm slides up your leg until the edge of his fingers barely brush against your panties, and that alone is enough to make you gasp against his lips. 

“Want me there?” he asks through the kiss. “Need me there?” 

You can barely pay attention to his words when his hand is hovering above you. Sunghoon’s fingers trace the outline of your covered cunt and his seductive caress makes you squirm and buck your hips with every passing touch. When you manage to nod, he rubs you with the pads of his finger. 

Sunghoon’s touch is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. It’s determined, almost like he’s got a mission he needs to complete. His fingers aren’t hesitant and scared to touch you like men from your past. Sunghoon’s touch is calculated and meaningful. He’s urgent about it, but unlike all the times you’ve had sex before, this doesn’t feel like he’s trying to get you off as quickly as possible before he gets his turn. 

Instead, it feels like Sunghoon might be as desperate as you are. He keeps a cool exterior for the most part and doesn’t allow others to see him let go of himself completely. You’ve been around him long enough to see cracks in his office persona, but Sunghoon maintains an air of professionalism when he’s not asking you to help him in his personal life, which doesn’t happen as often as people think it does. 

He brushes his thumb over your sensitive clit and it has your hips bucking by his touch. You’re embarrassed by how much he’s turning you on, and he hasn’t done anything yet. Are you that depraved? 

Before you know it, Sunghoon’s hand covers the entirety of your cunt. You marvel at how big his hands are and ask yourself why you’ve never noticed them before. He’s got his expensive black plated watch with silver accent on, the one he wears everyday without fail, and you tense. Something about Sunghoon’s accessory puts you in a frenzy. 

“You’re so worked up,” he says with a short laugh. “When’s the last time you relaxed?” 

“I don’t relax.” 

He tuts. “That’s your first problem. You don’t let go.” 

Well, it’s hard with so little time and too many obligations. Sunghoon probably knows it too, but that won’t stop him from reprimanding you for pushing yourself past your limit. 

“God, you’re so wet already. I can feel you through your panties.” His words nearly have you choking. Since when is Sunghoon bold like this? Is he like this with other girls, too?

Sunghoon pushes them aside and eyes your bare cunt. It makes you feel shy, which isn’t something you feel very often when you’re with him. But at this moment, you feel like you’re out to gain some kind of approval from him because he’s looking at it like he’s trying to inspect it. Knowing you didn’t prepare yourself for him to look at your naked lap makes you feel somewhat awkward and unprepared, but Sunghoon looks like he couldn’t care less. You pulsate around him and he groans quietly when he notices.

“That’s so good,” Sunghoon mutters as the tips of his fingers slide down your entrance, coating himself in your wet slick. The subtle intrusion makes your head spin. “Do you always get this wet?”

“W-Well, it’s been a long time since anyone touched me the way you are.” 

He grins. “Do your fingers not work?” 

“Sunghoon. This is so embarrassing.” You try to cover your face with a spare pillow, but he laughs and tosses it away from you.

“Surely my fingers will do the job. Yours are so much smaller and shorter than mine.” 

Sunghoon pushes his middle finger into you and stops when it’s half way inside. He watches you from where he sits and watches your breath hitch by how your chest has nearly stilled. 

You don’t protest nor push him away and he takes it as a sign to push his finger deeper. Sunghoon feels your smooth walls envelop him the more he maneuvers his finger in and out of your pussy, and you don’t know if you love or hate the way Sunghoon is smiling down at you. It’s like he knows he’s got you underneath his spell when he’s got you acting like this. 

“Doing so well,” Sunghoon mumbles, tongue licking the corners of his mouth as he salivates at the sight before him. His abdomen tenses and his dick swells in his pants. “Can’t believe you’ve been hiding her from me.” 

Your face warms up when he talks about your cunt like that. But it makes you gush even more, and it starts to splash onto Sunghoon’s wrist the more he thrusts into you. 

He adds another finger and cherishes the deep, loud moan that comes from deep within your chest. Your hands brace his free arm when he picks up the pace until the entire room sounds like plat plat plat. Sunghoon expertly curves his finger until he’s reaching parts of you that you’ve always thought to be unreachable. 

His forehead starts to sweat and his arm flexes. Every vein in his arm comes to your view and you feel yourself clenching around his fingers when you truly notice how well-built Sunghoon is. He’s got muscles and biceps that make you wonder what it would be like for him to pin you underneath his body. 

“Shit,” you curse. “C-Can’t believe you’re good at this.” 

He smiles wickedly. “I’m good at everything, aren’t I?” 

“Not good at checking your texts. Not good at that.” You yelp when Sunghoon thrusts his fingers inside of you at a faster speed. It’s pushing you towards your orgasm the more he moves.

“What was that?” he asks with his ear turned towards you as you gasp for air. “What did you say?”

“Not good at texting.” You manage to say it between harsh breaths but it seems to egg him on even more. Sunghoon pushes his hand harder against you until the heel of his palm rubs against your clit.

“Not good at texting? Who says I need to text you, anyway?”

“I do,” you choke, holding onto his arm as your nails dig crescents into his skin. “You need me.” 

“I need you?” His fingers don’t let up. You nod anyway.

“Brat,” Sunghoon mocks. “But you’re right. I do need you.” 

The way you clench around him makes him yearn to see you come undone like the beautiful mess he knows you can be. His hand aches from fingering you at lightning speed, but he’ll be damned if he stops now.

“Need you to cum more than anything,” he says while chuckling. “I need that.” 

Sunghoon says it halfway between desperation and with arrogance like he knows he’ll get what he wants. He knows you won’t fight him on it either because he knows how badly you want to cum. If not by the way you grip his body, then because you’ve mentioned how many times people have left you high and dry over the past few years. It seems unfair to edge you right now.

It doesn’t take much for you to crash. He stills his fingers when he realizes you’ve come to your orgasm, letting your hips rut against his palm as you chase your high. Coming undone before him is a beautiful sight to see and Sunghoon drinks in the way your hands move from his arm to the bedsheets underneath you. You try to grip onto them for stability as your hips grind against his hand while you finish on him. 

When your eyes open, the room has gotten significantly lighter from the sun peeking through the sheer curtains. Sunghoon has made you forget about the time. You push your head up and pucker your lips for a kiss. He gives into your request right away and gently rubs your aching cunt, pushing your panties where they belong before kissing and touching you slowly.  

“You’re so hot when you cum.”

“Bet you say that to all the girls,” you mutter against his kisses.

“Nuh uh. Just you.” 

“Mhm. I’ll believe that for now.” 

Sunghoon doesn’t get up until he’s sure you’ve returned to a state of consciousness and doesn’t leave your side until you sit up by yourself. He keeps his mouth attached to you while you steady your breath and find it in you not to feel completely mortified that you’ve allowed yourself to be vulnerable in front of him. He doesn’t seem to hear your racing thoughts when you’re kissing him, and you feel your worries ebbing away. You don’t think you’re ready to decipher why that is.

He brings a rag soaked with warm water and pries your legs open with little resistance. Sunghoon gently wipes your inner thigh and pulls your panties aside again, cleaning your cum from your skin. This makes you feel more self conscious compared to his fingers rooted deep inside of you, but you try not to look away. Sunghoon looks calm and focused, like he’s getting paid a lot of money to look after you. He spends a bit of time making sure you’re all cleaned up before throwing the rag in an empty hamper. 

“Let’s get going, hm?” Sunghoon says absentmindedly when you stand from the bed. He doesn’t make a fuss about his dick straining in his sweatpants and steps out of the room before you can even think about returning the favor. Sunghoon moves around his house like you’ve been there a million times before. 

“We still need to go to your place. Is there a café by your place that you like? We can stop for breakfast before heading into the office.” 

His nonchalance pleasantly surprises you. But you think you prefer his attentive care over being left alone in bed to deal with the aftermath of feeling alone once your partner has left the room. Sunghoon doesn’t leave until he’s sure you’re walking behind him.

It’s nice.

***

Nabi texts you just before you and Sunghoon leave his place to lets you know Pochi is back in your apartment with breakfast and a new bowl of water, and attached a cute video of Pochi jumping onto bee favorite spot on your couch. It makes you coo out loud, to which Sunghoon laughs at.

“You really love this cat, don’t you?”

“Pochi is my child, Sunghoon. Of course I love her.” 

“When did you adopt her?”

“The third year I worked for you.” You’re stuck between looking at him and the scenery outside as he drives to your apartment. “I was pretty lonely after a bunch of my friends moved away from Seoul. My little brother has always told me I resemble a cat growing up and suggested I get one.” 

“Sunoo, right?”

“Yeah. It’s funny though. When we were younger, our personalities were completely switched. I was the extrovert and he was the introvert. Seems like we changed over time.” 

“Why does he think you’re like a cat?”

“I don’t like being around people very much and it’s hard for me to open up to strangers. He jokes that I have to be the one to warm up to people before anyone can really get to know me.” 

“So, what, you need people to leave you alone before you decide you like them?”

You laugh. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

“That’s funny. I think I’d describe you as a lion.” 

“A lion?”

“Still a cat, just more powerful. You run the hell out of my inbox.” 

You roll your eyes. “Haha. So funny, Sunghoon.”

“I’m serious! You’re so good with meeting new people and getting them under your fold. I would’ve never assumed you don’t like being around people with how good you are at making connections.” 

“It’s for work, though. I turn on the charm because it’s good for business. At the end of the day, we all use each other just a little bit. In my personal life? I guess I can make a friend or two, but there’s never any time to meet new people.”

“This job eats you alive, doesn’t it? I feel the same way sometimes.” 

“It’s fun and it makes my week interesting. I’ll give it that.”

“It’s time for something new, huh?”

“Yeah. It is.”

Sunghoon swallows the unwanted feelings that creep into his mind. 

“How do I get your cat to like me?” he asks suddenly. 

“My cat?” 

“Yup. Who else?”

“Why do you want to get in her good graces?” 

“I don’t want to get mauled when I meet her for the first time.” 

You laugh. “You won’t get mauled, Sunghoon. She’s pretty shy and it takes her some time to get to know new people.” 

“Sounds just like you.” 

“Mhm. We’re twins.” 

“Seriously, though,” he says, glancing at you. “I’ve never been around cats much. My parents are dog people. How do I get a cat to like me and not spook them?” 

“Well, your best bet is to ignore their existence until they come up to you. They’re a hunting breed, you know. You shouldn’t make any sudden movements if you can help it. If you find yourself making eye contact with Pochi, blink slowly. It lets her know you aren’t a threat.” 

“Ignore your cat?”

“Foolproof way to get her to be okay with you in the room if I’m not there.” 

“It sounds like you’re trying to set me up.”

You gasp. “Why the hell would I do that?” 

“I don’t know!” Sunghoon says with humor. “Maybe you’re trying to get back at me for all the years we’ve worked together. You and Pochi could’ve made an alliance to kill me.” 

“Right,” you say sarcastically. “Me and my domesticated cat want to put a hit out on you, even though she’s a fraction of your size and I’m trying to help you find a new assistant.”

“Exactly. See? You’re following my logic.”

“You’re so stupid.” 

Sunghoon pulls up to your complex and parks his car on the street underneath a large tree. You make a split second decision and invite him up to your apartment so he doesn’t have to wait in the car and waste his gas by keeping the engine on to avoid sitting in the frigid air. He doesn’t make a joke like you think he will, especially since Sunghoon made you come an hour ago. Instead, he nods and follows you through the front door. 

The journey to your third floor apartment is nerve wracking. Is your apartment tidy enough? Is it clean? Is there any lingering dust that Sunghoon will notice? His house is far cleaner than your apartment will ever be, and while you pride yourself on keeping a tidy home, your two hands are no competition for the cleaning crew Sunghoon hires every week.

He seems excited enough. Sunghoon fills the silence by vocalizing his observations and particularly likes that your lobby has a state-of-the-art machine that can prepare coffee and espresso in various different ways. He likes that the mailroom is safeguarded by a touch key entrance and likes how the lobby is decorated. 

When the two of you arrive at your apartment, you hear Pochi meowing from the other side of the door. To your pleasure, your space isn’t as messy as you thought it might be, save for the throw blanket you forgot to fold after watching an episode of Castlevania. Pochi jumps down from the armrest and waddles her way to your feet when Sunghoon enters your apartment and closes the door behind him. 

You’re too busy locking the door and crouching down to sift your hand through her soft fur to notice Sunghoon surveilling your apartment like he’s in a museum. He sees your dark green couch and all of the decor you have in frames. The living room is far smaller than his, but he thinks it represents who you are perfectly. 

“I missed you, baby,” you say as Sunghoon looks down to where your body is and takes off his shoes one by one while Pochi rubs her small body against your ankles. You’re cute when you talk like that. 

“Why’d you name her ‘Pochi’?” he asks when you make your way deeper inside of your apartment. He watches you throw your jacket on the back of the couch while Pochi follows and climbs up the piece of furniture to get closer to you. 

“Pochi means ‘spot’ in Japanese,” you tell him. “You see these spots on her ears? I thought she looked so cute and unique when I saw her at the animal shelter. We bonded pretty quickly and I would always kiss both of her ears when we were first getting to know each other. She gets annoyed if I don’t kiss both of them and only one.”

“Really?” 

“Mhm. Watch.” 

Your lips come to touch her ear. You pull back soon after and Sunghoon watches Pochi sit back and watch you with the other side of her head like she’s waiting for the other kiss. When you don’t move to complete the routine, Pochi meows until you relent and kiss her other ear too. 

“She’s so cute. Pochi might as well be my daughter with how well she listens to me.” 

“You’d look cute with a girl.”

You look at Sunghoon, bewildered. 

“You’re certifiably crazy, Park Sunghoon.” 

He just shrugs. “I’m just saying.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Let me change my clothes and put some makeup on, then we can head out. Make yourself at home. It shouldn't be more than ten minutes.” 

When you disappear, Sunghoon hears the faint click of your bedroom door and walks to your couch to sit. He can hear you walking in your room in the dead silence of the morning when Pochi looks at him like she’s trying to figure out if he’s a threat or not. He follows your instructions when she tilts her head and looks away from her. 

Sunghoon notices pictures that line your fireplace. He doesn’t recognize anybody except for you, but adores the way he can see how much you’ve grown up. There are pictures of you and your childhood friends together, one of you he assumes is on vacation, and a few of you and your college friends littered throughout your space. It makes him realize there’s more to you than meets the eye, and for as long as he’s known you, Sunghoon gets the feeling he’s only scratched the surface.

He also tries not to think about the fact that his hands know what you feel like. Flashes of the early morning run through his mind. He loves the way you sound when you’re about to climax and had to keep himself in check before he made any rash decisions that the two of you would later regret. Sunghoon shifts in his seat and does his best to will his yearning because the last thing he wants is to sport a boner around Pochi, just for you to walk out and see him like that. What would you think of him then?

From the corner of Sunghoon’s eye, he sees Pochi grooming herself and tries to blink slowly when she makes eye contact with him. He feels silly and looks away when he starts to laugh at himself. In all of his years working with you, Sunghoon never thought he’d be playing nice with your cat. 

You emerge from your bedroom looking polished, and Sunghoon is impressed you were able to pull yourself together in fifteen minutes.  

“How do I look? Presentable enough?”

His eyes glance up and down your body. 

“Stunning as ever.” 

“Be serious, Sunghoon.” 

He walks to you and puts both of his hands on your hips, dragging them down to your waist before pulling your body flush against his.

“I’m serious. So gorgeous.” 

He learns in and slots his lips between yours, gently holding your body against himself. You get lost in it too, recalling the way Sunghoon’s fingers felt inside of you as he squeezes your body. The familiar ache emerges before you can even think about it, and you find yourself clenching against absolutely nothing. You think you’re somewhere between desperate and pathetic at this point, but Sunghoon can’t see or feel you down there for you to give a shit. 

“We should get breakfast,” you mumble against his mouth. 

“We should.” He doesn’t stop kissing you and your hands come to gently grip the lapel of his suit jacket. 

“There’s a place around the corner. Killer croissants and good espresso.” 

“Mhm.” Sunghoon pulls your arms away from his body to turn you around and press your ass right against his crotch, effectively caging you against his body while his lips litter short kisses down your neck. “Could eat you for breakfast, though.”

The moan that escapes your throat makes you feel embarrassed, but it makes Sunghoon’s pride swell. 

“W-Work,” you choke out as Sunghoon’s hand touches you above your work trousers. His fingers make out the ridges of your folds and slots his index finger between them. “We need to get to work.” 

“You’re no fun.” Sunghoon pouts and lets you go, but not without giving your cheek a kiss. 

“You are such a fucking menace,” you say as you scold him. “In front of Pochi too?” 

“She wasn’t even looking. Relax.” 

You look and find that Pochi is indeed nowhere to be found. She’s perched on the windowsill behind your curtain and you breathe a short sigh of relief. 

“Did you make nice with her?” 

“I ignored her, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Good,” you say with a definite nod. “She’ll like you in no time.” 

“I’m not so sure about that? It feels counterintuitive to ignore an animal if you want them to get to like you.”

“Cats and dogs are different, though.” You unlock your door and slip your shoes on at the same time after you’ve double checked that everything you need is in your work bag. “Dogs need love and affection all the time. Cats pick and choose when they want to receive it.” 

“Is that why your brother calls you a cat? Because you’re picky about all the people you let into your life?” 

He follows you out and watches you lock the door. 

“Mhm. I wouldn’t have let you touch me if I didn’t want you to.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Don’t think you’re special just because you’re my boss, Park. Keep up.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

***

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[wbbobsesserr]

ᯓ sweet spot — chapter five

pairing: paige bueckers & azzi fudd

notes: we’re finally back on track! everyone cheers. chapter six, aka a new chapter, should be expected soon. also please lemme know what you wanna see in future chapters, i’ve run out of ideas. love you.

my masterlist

wc: 4.6k

azzi and paige split after eating a quick breakfast together. the second she made it back to her own room, she face-planted onto her bed, groaning into the blanket.

she needed to debrief.


she needed to scream into the void.

instead, she grabbed her phone and thumbed open her text thread with nika, typing furiously:

paige: dude
paige: i think i’m actually in love
paige: like not in a cute haha kinda way
paige: like if she looked at me and said “let’s move to a cabin in the woods and raise goats” i would pack my shit TONIGHT
paige: if she said “hey will you marry me” i’d say yes so fast it would be embarrassing
paige: i don’t even care if it’s a ring pop. i don’t even care if she’s kidding. i’d be at the altar in three seconds flat
paige: is that insane
paige: i think it’s insane
paige: but like. she’s it. she’s actually it. i’m done for.

send.

paige sighed, a deep dramatic breath, and tossed her phone onto her bed like she was done thinking about it.

except.

something gnawed at her gut.

a bad feeling.

a really, really bad feeling.

she sat up, grabbed her phone again— and saw it.

azzi: uhhhhh 👀👀👀
azzi: so do i get to know who the lucky girl is or
azzi: bc tbh i kinda wanna hear more about this goat farm plan lmao

paige pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. of course she accidentally sent it to azzi— god had sick jokes.

“fuck my life.”

she wanted to run into incoming traffic. throw herself off a goddamn bridge.
cease to fucking exist.

instead she choked out a breathless reply:

paige: hahaha
paige: just a dumb thought
paige: ignore me pls

another buzz, almost instantly:

azzi: nooo i like it it’s cute lol
azzi: i hope whoever she is knows how lucky she is

paige flopped back against her bed.

“you are,” she shouted to her ceiling. “you’re the lucky one. it’s you.”

but her phone stayed silent in her hand. because some things— the biggest, scariest things— she still couldn’t say.

not yet.


maybe not ever.

paige stood at azzi’s door, her heart thumping against her ribs. she’d half-expected her to cancel at the last minute, or maybe send her a “never mind” text. but no— azzi had texted her earlier today, asking if she wanted to come over, just to hang out since noah wasn’t around. casual. chill. no big deal.

right.

so, here she was, standing in front of azzi’s door, feeling a little like a wreck. paige wasn’t good at casual when it came to azzi. she was mildly good at making everything seem chill, acting like it was nothing, but the truth was, she was about one glance away from combusting.

she knocked three times, quickly, the kind of knock that made it sound like she was overly eager, but then stepped back, trying to cross her arms and act like her heart wasn’t going a million miles per minute.

the door swung open and azzi stood there, in a simple sweater and jeans, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. as always, she looked effortlessly cool, like she wasn’t trying, like she didn’t have the power to make paige’s heart go haywire simply by existing.

“hey,” azzi greeted her, a smile already pulling at her lips. “i’m so glad you came over.”

paige swallowed, forcing a calm smile. “of course,” she said, voice just a little too high-pitched for her liking. “anytime. literally.”

azzi stepped aside to let her in, and the scent of vanilla hit paige as she walked through the door. azzi’s room had this cozy, lived-in feel— books piled on a desk, a few stray clothes draped over a chair, a couple of photos of her teammates on the wall. it was warm, inviting, and paige had to remind herself that this was just a hangout. just two people chilling. no big deal.

“want something to drink?” azzi asked, already heading over to her mini-fridge.

“um, i’m good,” paige replied, but she was already looking around the room, trying to seem like she wasn’t sweating bullets. “thanks, though.”

azzi looked over her shoulder, her eyes soft.

after that, they both just sort of hovered there for a second, like neither one of them quite knew what to do next. it was too quiet. and paige had to get out of her head before she made it worse.

“actually,” paige spoke up, her voice coming out a little faster than she intended, “i was thinking maybe we could go out for ice cream or something? just to— y'know, get outta here for a bit.”

azzi blinked, tilting her head. “ice cream?”

“yeah,” paige rushed to explain, her face flushing a little. “just, you know. i could go for some mint chip and... just hang out. only if you’re down.”

azzi laughed lightly, that soft sound that always seemed to make paige’s chest tighten. “i like that idea. let me grab my jacket.”

azzi disappeared for a second, and paige took the opportunity to steady her breathing. what is wrong with me, she thought, pacing just a little bit in her mind. this was nothing new— she and azzi had hung out plenty of times before, but today... today felt different. she couldn’t tell if it was because of her dumb text from last night (which, by the way, she was still embarrassed about), or if it was the way azzi had smiled at her today, or the fact that they were going out just the two of them.

azzi returned, looking effortlessly cute in a jacket that fit her perfectly, her sneakers clicking softly against the floor as she walked. “ready?” she asked, eyes lighting up with that excitement that paige loved so much.

they walked outside, and paige kept her pace slow, trying to match azzi’s, but she couldn’t help the way her heart picked up when azzi casually looped her arm through paige’s. it wasn’t flirtatious, wasn’t suggestive— it was just azzi being azzi: comfortable, sweet. but for paige, it felt like everything. every step was too much, and not enough at the same time.

“good thing the ice cream place is so close,” azzi said, looking at paige with that soft smile again. “i’m starving.”

“same,” paige muttered, her voice a little too tight. she cleared her throat. “i’m really— really glad you asked me to hang.”

azzi glanced over, catching paige’s gaze, and smiled. “i’m glad i asked you too,” she agreed, “really glad.”

paige could feel herself blushing, her heart thumping louder. she forced herself to look straight ahead instead of at azzi, and just tried to focus on the fact that they were walking side by side, and that, for now, was enough.

when they reached the ice cream shop, it was small and cozy, and there was a short line. paige stayed close, still feeling the weight of azzi’s arm looped through hers, even though they weren’t holding hands or anything. it felt natural, but paige couldn’t ignore how it made her feel— like she was a little closer to azzi than she had ever been before.

azzi ordered first, mentioning how she was in the mood for something with chocolate, and paige quickly followed suit, pointing to a flavor she’d been craving all day— mint chocolate chip, her all time favorite.

when it came time to pay, azzi barely had the opportunity to move before paige stopped her, placing her hand on azzi’s arm. “i’ve got it,” she said quickly, not giving azzi a chance to protest.

azzi raised an eyebrow, the smallest smirk playing at her lips. “paige, really, it’s fine.”

“azzi. i asked to come here, i’m paying,” paige insisted, digging into her wallet and pulling out her credit card.

she handed it over before azzi could argue, because, well, this was just how paige worked— stubborn, determined, and maybe a little bit nervous.

azzi smiled softly, like she wasn’t sure what to say, and paige pretended she wasn’t completely melting at the sight.

“thanks,” azzi said, her voice gentle. “you didn’t have to, but i appreciate it.”

they found a bench nearby, sitting side by side and just... being there. paige scooped the mint flavor, trying not to make it look like she was overthinking every little thing.

azzi was quiet too, enjoying her ice cream, and for a while, there was nothing but the sound of their footsteps, the evening air, and the quiet conversation that filled in the gaps.

“i’m really glad we’re doing this,” azzi said again, taking another scoop in her mouth. “it’s nice to just relax. no expectations.”

“yeah,” paige agreed, glancing sideways at azzi. she really meant it. “it’s been a weird few weeks, but today’s been good.”

azzi nodded, looking over at her for a moment before speaking again. “yeah. i always like hanging out with you. you’re really fun.”

that made paige’s stomach flip in the best (and worst) way. “i’m glad,” she repeated softly, her eyes trailing to the ground for a second before meeting azzi’s gaze. “it’s easy to talk to you.”

azzi grinned, eyes twinkling, as if she hadn’t even realized the weight of what she said. “i'm happy you feel that way, too.”

they both sat in silence for a moment, eating their ice cream, neither one of them saying what they really wanted to say. but for now, this was enough.

the next day, the team met for dinner in the dining hall after wrapping up their classes. paige showed up late, hoodie pulled up over her messy blonde hair, headphones on and music blasting. the noise of the dining hall wasn’t quite as loud as usual, but there was a buzz in the air— people talking, laughing, the usual chatter. paige made her way through the crowded tables and spotted an empty seat next to caroline, sliding in with a sigh of relief.

but azzi wasn’t there.

that was weird. azzi was always on time. always present.

paige’s eyes darted around the table, scanning for any sign of her. nothing. just caroline and nika, both eating like everything was normal.

“where’s azzi?” paige asked, tugging off her headphones and letting them rest around her neck.

caroline shrugged, not looking up from her food. “no idea. she left early after practice.”

paige’s stomach twisted, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. the last time she’d seen azzi was... well, earlier that day, when they’d hung out. everything had seemed fine, but now she wasn’t even at dinner?

“maybe with noah?” nika suggested, glancing up from her phone.

paige’s throat tightened at the mention of noah, azzi’s long-distance boyfriend. she texted azzi quickly, not even thinking about it.

paige: u okay?

no answer.

she stared at her phone for a few seconds, then texted again.

paige: saw u weren’t at dinner. just checking in.

still nothing.

that feeling in her stomach was only getting worse.

paige glanced over at caroline and nika, both of them talking about some random thing, clearly not noticing the shift in her. she pushed her tray away from her, stood up abruptly, and grabbed her phone again.

“hey, i’ll be back,” she said, her voice just a little too sharp, making the girls look up. “i think i’ll go check on azzi.”

without waiting for a response, she left, pushing through the doors and into the cool evening air. the walk to azzi’s dorm was a blur, her thoughts a mess of confusion and nerves. was everything okay? why wasn’t azzi at dinner? why was she ignoring her texts? did she do something wrong?

when she finally reached the dorm, she was out of breath from the jog, but she didn’t stop. she didn’t even think to knock. she just tried the door handle.

locked.

paige’s heart dropped, a tight knot forming in her chest. she knocked softly at first. no answer. her hand was shaking, but she knocked again, louder this time, her heart thudding in her chest like it was trying to escape.

there was a pause. then, the door cracked open just an inch. azzi’s red-rimmed eyes met hers, and paige’s heart did a little flip.

“azzi,” paige breathed, her voice softer than she meant it to be. “what happened?”

azzi didn’t answer immediately. she just stepped back, opening the door wider, letting paige in without a word.

paige stepped inside and stopped in her tracks.

the room was dim, lit only by the small desk lamp in the corner. tissues were scattered across her desk. azzi moved to sit on the edge of her bed, crossing her legs, her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands like she was trying to hide from the world. her eyes were puffy, red, tears still clinging to her lashes.

“noah cheated,” azzi’s voice was barely a whisper, but it felt like a punch to paige’s gut. “he said it happened once. a party. someone he barely knew. it just— he just said it like it didn’t matter.”

paige froze, not quite sure if she’d heard her right. “what?”

azzi swallowed hard, her lips trembling as she tried to hold it together. “he said it didn’t mean anything. that it was a mistake.”

paige stood there, frozen. her heart was pounding, but she didn’t know what to say. she took a step forward, slow, careful, like azzi might break if she moved too quickly. paige blinked once, stunned— and then the emotion hit her hard and fast. anger. sharp and hot in her chest.

“what a fucking bitch,” she muttered under her breath, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

azzi looked up at her, startled, a tiny breath of something that almost sounded like a laugh catching in her throat.

paige’s jaw tightened, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “seriously. who the hell does he think he is? you didn’t deserve that. you didn’t deserve any of it.”

azzi ducked her head, a few fresh tears spilling onto her cheeks, but there was a tiny, almost invisible smile too. like she wasn’t used to someone getting mad for her.

paige took a shaky breath, forcing herself to calm down. she softened again, reaching out carefully, her hand resting gently on azzi’s knee.

“i’m so sorry,” paige said, quieter this time. her voice still shook with the weight of how much she meant it.

they sat in silence a while after that. azzi was staring at the wall, her eyes unfocused. it was a heavy kind of silence, the kind that didn’t feel awkward; more painful than anything.

“all i said was ‘thanks for telling me,’“ azzi laughed, but it came out weak. “i’m so stupid,” her voice cracking slightly as she looked at the ground.

paige sat next to her, not too close but just enough to show she was there. she reached over, her hand resting gently on azzi’s knee. azzi’s gaze flickered down to her hand, and paige’s heart raced, the weight of the touch pressing into her chest.

“you’re not stupid,” paige insisted, her voice soft but firm. “he’s the one who messed up, not you.”

azzi exhaled shakily. “i thought we were solid. kinda. even with the distance.”

“you were,” paige said, her eyes meeting azzi’s. “he wasn’t.”

there was another long pause. azzi looked so small in that moment, curled up in on herself like she didn’t know how to piece things back together. paige wanted to say more, wanted to make everything better, but she didn’t know how.

she just stayed silent, letting her hand linger on azzi’s knee, offering what little comfort she could.

after what felt like an eternity, azzi let out a shaky breath and leaned into paige, just a little, like the exhaustion was finally catching up to her. paige didn’t pull away. she didn’t speak.

she just stayed.

and when azzi’s head rested against her shoulder, paige felt her heart break a little more. not from pity, not from sympathy. but because she could feel it. the weight of everything unspoken between them. the distance between their worlds.

but for now, it was just the two of them in the dim room, with nothing but silence and a shared, unspoken connection.

the silence stretched on, heavy but comforting. azzi’s head was still resting on paige’s shoulder, her breathing evening out as the quiet of the room settled around them. it wasn’t awkward, not at all, but it felt like the weight of everything between them was a little too much to say out loud.

after a while, azzi shifted, sitting up just slightly, her eyes still glossy and tired. she sniffled a little, wiping at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie.

paige, her heart still aching for her, didn’t move, just kept her gaze steady on azzi. “you okay?”

“yeah.” azzi’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper. “tired. not just from everything, but just... i don’t know. everything’s just too much right now.”

paige nodded, understanding. she felt it, too. the pressure of everything that wasn’t said, of everything that was left unsaid between them.

there was a beat of silence before azzi looked at her with those big eyes, still a little red but softer now. her lips parted as if she were gathering the courage to say something. “hey, um. would it be weird if you stayed the night?”

paige blinked, taken aback. she wasn’t sure what azzi meant by it, but she didn’t hesitate for a second.

“you want me to stay?” paige asked, her voice a little tentative, even though her heart was already thudding in her chest.

azzi gave a small, sad smile, her fingers twisting nervously in her hoodie sleeves. “yeah. i... i don’t want to be alone tonight.”

paige’s chest tightened. she didn’t want azzi to be alone either.

“of course,” paige said, her voice gentle and sincere. “i’d love that.”

there was a moment where azzi’s eyes softened with relief, her shoulders relaxing. she gave paige a small, almost shy smile. “thanks.”

“no problem.” paige shifted on the bed, adjusting so she could face azzi more comfortably.

she kicked off her sneakers, leaving them by the door, and slipped under the covers. she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to stay on the edge of the bed or... what. but azzi didn’t make it awkward. she just curled up a little tighter, and paige did the same.

the room was quiet again, save for the soft hum of the fan above them and the occasional sound of their breathing. paige wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, just existing together in the same space. it was peaceful, but the quiet was different than usual. now, it felt more intimate somehow. like a slow, careful dance of two people who were both a little afraid of stepping on each other’s toes.

the hours drifted by, and eventually, paige started to feel the weight of sleep pulling at her. her body relaxed into the bed, her muscles loosening the tension of the day. but just as her eyelids started to flutter closed, she felt something. a soft touch against her side— azzi’s hand, lightly brushing against hers.

paige’s heart jumped, and her breath caught in her throat. she wasn’t sure if azzi even meant to do it, but the brush of skin sent a wave of warmth through her chest. she didn’t move, didn’t pull away. she simply let it happen.

the quiet was different now. heavier, but not in a bad way. charged. and before she could stop herself, paige slowly moved her hand, just barely, until their fingers brushed once more.

it felt like a spark. small, but intense.

azzi didn’t pull away. in fact, she seemed to relax into the touch. the warmth of her hand against paige’s felt grounding. natural.

paige’s heart beat a little faster, but she tried to stay still, tried not to overthink it. azzi was hurting, and paige just wanted to be there. to be whatever she needed.

then, just as the night settled deeper, there was another soft shift. this time, azzi’s hand moved, her fingers curling slightly as if asking for more. paige hesitated for a moment, but then she intertwined her fingers with hers, just gently. like it was the easiest thing in the world.

but god, was she nervous.

“you’re warm,” azzi whispered, her voice tired but steady.

paige scrunched her lips, trying to act as calm and collected as possible. “yeah, um— it’s kinda hot in here. that’s all.”

it was nearly winter. in connecticut.

azzi hummed, and instead of teasing paige further, she squeezed paige’s hand just a little tighter. the touch was quiet, sweet, and in that moment, paige realized she didn’t have to say everything. not right now. not yet.

still, she let herself shift a little closer, closing the small space between them under the covers. azzi didn’t move away— if anything, she seemed to breathe a little easier.

the room was cool, the fan humming low above them. the atmosphere around them was one paige never wanted to leave. a different kind of comfort. one that made her chest ache in a way she didn’t have words for.

her free hand drifted up almost without thinking, fingertips finding the soft curls at the nape of azzi’s neck. she twisted a strand gently around her finger, slow and absent, like she was afraid to startle her.

for a long moment, paige just watched her. the soft curve of her cheek, the way her lashes rested against her eyelids, the steady, even rise and fall of her breathing.

then, in the quietest voice, paige whispered, “i just... i wish you knew how easy you are to love.”

for a second, she thought azzi was already asleep. but then she felt it— the faintest squeeze of her hand, a tiny shift closer under the blankets. not much, but enough to make paige’s heart catch in her throat.

the words hung between them, soft and fragile, but somehow safe here in the dark.

paige smiled to herself, barely, and let her thumb brush lightly over azzi’s knuckles. she stayed like that, twirling a loose curl around her finger, feeling the warmth of azzi’s hand in hers, until sleep finally pulled her under too.

practice wasn’t even over yet, but paige already knew she was doomed.

azzi was across the gym, stretching her quad on the sideline, her practice jersey clinging to her like it was designed specifically to make paige lose her mind. her head was tilted slightly to the side, her curly bun nearly coming loose, a small smile that lit up her face as she chatted with aubrey about who knows what. and god, paige couldn’t stop staring.

“you’re not even being subtle anymore,” caroline muttered beside her, arms crossed, leaning against the bleachers.

paige snapped her gaze away from azzi and tried to act normal, like she wasn’t internally combusting every time azzi moved. “i’m subtle,” she lied, but even she could hear the hesitation in her own voice.

“you’re obsessed,” caroline stated flatly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. she didn’t even look at paige when she said it, just kept her eyes trained on the court.

paige didn’t respond. because, yeah, maybe she was. especially lately. and especially after that night at azzi’s dorm. she’d been trying to play it cool, keep some distance, but the way azzi’s smile made her chest tighten, the way she looked at paige like she mattered— well, that made it impossible.

after noah left, things had shifted between them, but not in some big, dramatic way. not enough for anyone to notice, not enough for anyone to call it out. but it was there, every little moment that passed between them. it was in the way azzi laughed at her jokes, the way she casually touched her arm like it was nothing, the way she always seemed to look for paige in a room full of people. and god— paige wasn’t sure how much more of it she could take.

they were back in the locker room after practice, the buzz of conversation fading into the background. azzi was stretched out beside paige on the bench, her legs draped casually across paige’s lap like it was the most normal thing in the world. paige was trying her hardest not to hyperventilate. but how could she? azzi, being this close to her, her skin still warm from practice, the scent of her shampoo making paige’s head spin— yeah, she was definitely about to hyperventilate.

“you looked good today,” azzi said, voice soft, her focus still on her phone as her fingers tapped lazily over the screen.

paige blinked, caught off guard. “what?”

“on the court,” azzi finished, finally glancing over at paige with that small, private smile that made paige’s heart stutter. “your passing was sharp. you see the floor really well.”

paige couldn’t help it— she just stared at her. “you notice that stuff?”

azz shook her head slightly, a teasing glint in her eye. “i notice you.”

paige’s brain short-circuited. she didn’t even know how to respond to that. she just sat there, trying to stay composed but failing miserably. “you gotta stop saying shit like that,” she managed, her voice a little too high-pitched for her liking.

“why?” azzi tilted her head like it was the most casual thing in the world.

“because,” paige said, her face heating up, “i’m already obsessed with you.”

it was like the room went still, the air thickening with every word. the silence that followed was so heavy, paige could’ve sworn she could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

shit. did she really just say that out loud?

azzi’s brows lifted, eyes wide, and paige felt the world shift beneath her feet. “wait, i— i didn’t mean it like that, not like— okay, i did, but not in a creepy way, it’s just i— fuck—” paige’s brain was spinning, and the words were tripping over each other before she could even try to make sense of them.

then, azzi laughed. softly, breathily, but it was like the sweetest sound paige had ever heard, her chest tightening with the realization that it wasn’t awkward. at all. “you’re cute,” azzi said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. there was no teasing, no judgment— just that quiet, sweet smile.

paige turned so red she could feel the heat on her neck, on her ears, everywhere. she covered her face with her hands, making her best attempt to hide.

“stop,” paige mumbled into her hands, her voice muffled.

azz laughed again, this time with a little more amusement in her tone. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to make you embarrassed.”

paige snapped her head up, her eyes widening. “what— no! i’m not embarrassed.”

the quiet that followed, mixed with the closeness of azzi beside her, made her feel like her heart might actually explode. and want to die. definitely die.

azzi just smiled at her, small and knowing, like she could see straight through all the panic and nerves and was choosing to be gentle with them anyway.

paige stared at her for a second longer, her mind still scrambled, and then, without thinking, she nudged azzi’s shoulder lightly with her own.

“you’re annoying,” she muttered, mostly to cover up how much she meant all of it. azzi just giggled in return, soft and airy, and nudged her right back.

they sat there like that— shoulders brushing, smiles tugging at their mouths, the silence between them not heavy anymore, but light. easy. like maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something neither of them knew how to name yet.

paige felt herself breathe a little easier.
for once, she didn’t feel like she had to run from it.

© wbbobsesserr

[coolwyous]

┈─★ 𝙎𝙋𝙀𝙀𝘿. [ch 1: the stupid red mustang]

   ➴ wc + a/n: 4.4k. didn't mean to make the first chapter this long but y'all know how i get <3 hope you enjoy the lil prologue moment!

   ➴ taglist: @urmom2314 @iisayfa @s-p-e-c-t-r-e-s @mei2yok @xochitlisbest

   ➴ prev. masterlist. next.

you can pinpoint, with expert precision, when it was that your entire life began to fall apart. to figure out how it might end, you have to start from the beginning, and a part of you wonders if it was always going to be daniela avanzini that ruined everything for you.

your last few weeks before high school, and you’re stuck in detention. it had all started with a morning full of inconveniences. 

to begin, you usually carpooled with your neighbor, who happens to be your best friend, but she’s been hauled off to some stupid detention center after getting caught with weed, again, leaving you alone for the second half of senior year. friendless, aimless, and useless behind the wheel of a car as you drive yourself every morning, lucky to make it out of that chaotic parking lot alive.

the morning you got detention, you’re already running late, made all the more inconvenient when you’re cut off in the middle of the parking lot by a cherry red mustang. you lay on the horn to let her know she’s cut you off, but the boom of insanely loud rap music blaring out from the windows makes you think the driver isn’t listening.

“fucking idiot,” you snarl, your grip tightening around the steering wheel. the red mustang swings around recklessly to steal the parking spot you were eyeing. perfect. 

the new girl, who had transferred into your grade just after winter break, swings out of the car and heads into the building, unbothered by the interaction. you’re stuck seeking out another parking spot, only adding to your stress of being late again.

you try to make it to your homeroom on time, but you hear the disappointed tisk of your principal’s voice as soon as you think you’re in the clear.

“y/ln, this is the third time this week,” he had told you, writing something on a slip and handing it to you. “you know this means detention, and the next one is a truancy call, right?”

you grit your teeth and send a text to your parents that you’ll be home late. definitely not ideal.

you’d rather be anywhere but this empty classroom, embarrassed to be stuck under the hawk-eyed gaze of the dean. it’s you and a few other kids you recognize from fights or from skipping class. you try to keep to yourself, after all, being late doesn’t exactly fit into what the rest of these troublemakers get up to, but your hopes of focusing on your homework are shattered when you feel someone kick your desk.

then again, then again. you realize the person is bouncing their leg, and it’s causing your chair to shake with every movement.

“avanzini, another speeding ticket in the parking lot or what?” one of the guys grins, to which the dean quickly hushes everyone. you realize he’s talking to the girl behind you, the one shaking your desk. the new girl— avanzini, or whatever her name is. you’re perfectly happy with a small friend group, and hadn't made it a point to introduce yourself to her since she transferred, but judging by the fact that she seems to be a regular detention attendee, maybe that’s for the best.

nearly a half hour passes, but she’s relentless. her leg doesn’t stop bouncing, even once, rocking your chair the entire time. the dean steps out to take a phone call. you’re sick of her incessant kicking against the back of your desk, and finally spin around to snap at her.

“can you please cut that out?”

your eyes meet, and you feel a jolt through your entire body. the way she grins at you, her hazel eyes lighting up, is nothing short of absolutely dangerous.

“i gotta be somewhere real quick. vouch for me?”

“why would i do that?” you ask quickly, shocked by audacity.

all she does is lean in, flashing those bright white teeth at you, unafraid of being in your personal bubble, as if she has no boundaries. “i’ll owe you.”

“i’ll get in trouble,” you state the obvious.

“i’ll owe you a massive favor,” she presses on, and it’s painfully obvious she’s not the type who is used to being told no. 

“just go,” you shake your head. she doesn’t seem like the type you can reason with, this avanzini girl. 

you expect her to leave through the front door, so to your surprise, she bolts towards the window and messes with the hinges for a few moments before she manages to get it open. way too quickly, she slips out of the window without a second look back. you’re almost annoyed, that she sneaks out without so much as a thank you, but maybe she’s not worth the effort to stress over being annoyed with. 

a few minutes pass by, and the dean steps back in. he takes count quickly of the bodies in the room, and notices the spot behind you obviously empty. 

“where’s avanzini?”

“bathroom,” you lie quickly. the other students shoot you approving looks, but you’d rather disappear than to have them acknowledging you. the fact that you’re in this position because of this girl has you even more frustrated than the whole chair-kicking thing. 

the dean steps out once more to search the hallways, and within moments, the girl is tumbling back into the classroom, chest heaving. she’s breathing heavily as if she’s been running, or maybe something had scared her, or even both. she slips back into her chair, dropping her head onto the desk for a quick moment before lifting up to meet your eyes with her own. there’s something so intense in her eyes, something so mischievous and alluring at once, that you feel your pulse quicken.

“i owe you,” she says simply, flashing you a smile, before dropping her head back onto the desk for the rest of the hour. 

after that day, you see the red mustang in your school parking lot, but never cross paths with the girl again.

your best friend misses graduation, and you feel suffocated by the weight of another summer in your city alone, wasting your days trying to keep busy. you disappear once the summer ends, college taking over your life, the city forgotten for the next year until you’re back a summer later. same house, same routine, now a year older and a year wiser, hoping you can make it through the boredom of the summer before you head back to school.

your parents had kept your room exactly how you left it in high school, but there’s something very lame about being stuck a whole summer again in your parents house after a taste of freedom your first year in college. you know it’s only 3 months, and you’re lucky to have a place to come back to, but it’s still fair to be annoyed by, isn’t it?

you had just finished unpacking the last of your suitcases when you hear the thud of something against your window, a few taps in a specific pattern against the glass. living on the first floor, you there’s only one person who would be in your backyard, tapping against your window like that. you gasp and swing the window open, just like how you had done almost every day for the past 13 years.

and slipping into your bedroom is your best friend since you were 6 years old, smiling at you in a way that makes everything feel like it’ll be okay.

“heard you’re back in town,” she says nonchalantly, but you’re already scooping her up in a hug before she can ruin the moment. 

“megan,” your heart thuds at the sight of her. pink bangs covering her tired eyes, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, she’s exactly like you last remembered her. ”i thought i’d be stuck all summer without you.”

“you know, i was almost scared they wouldn’t let me out. good thing the judge was feeling super chill about bail,” megan grins, giving you a squeeze back, pointing down to the ankle monitor around her leg. “did you miss me, nerd?”

“you’re a whole ass adult now, idiot. this isn’t just juvie upgraded,” you laugh. “how’ve you been?”

“oh you know,” she shrugs. she digs around your nightstand and finds the secret book the two of you had hollowed out to hide your weed from your nosy family, a few pre-rolled joints hiding. she pulls a lighter out from the fold of her beanie, lighting the joint for the both of you. “remember how i told you i moved out after graduation? i have a spot in front of the shop that my boss rents out to me. it’s not too bad. you should come check it out. we can throw a party or something while you’re here.”

“ugh, i’m not gonna know how to act without you as my neighbor,” you groan and throw your head back, reaching for the joint as she takes a few hits and passes it to you. “you’re finally back and you won’t even be next door any more. i might actually miss you, loser.”

“i’ll miss you too. you kept me out of trouble,” she laughs. “my mom was so mad when you moved away for school. knew i was gonna end up doing stupid shit.”

“well, you’ve got me for 3 months, stay out of trouble until then?” you plead. “can’t go losing you. maybe i’ll have to keep an eye on you.”

you and megan had always joked about the curse that had followed her around— this beacon of bad luck, if something can go wrong for her, it usually would. you’ve tried to argue that she’d have better luck if she stopped making all these dumb decisions, but megan’s pretty set in her ways, and even if you worry about her, you know she’s scrappy enough to figure her way out of anything.

“you can come hang out with me at work. it’s slow,” she offers, taking the joint back from you. you watch as she inhales and holds it, doing silly little tricks with the smoke. “the other guys bring their friends all the time when the shop isn’t busy.”

“i won’t annoy you?” you ask. you know the job she’s talking about— megan, who had always been too hyper for any job that didn’t keep her constantly moving, got hired to work at some shady mechanic shop downtown through some burnout friends of hers. this was perfect for your best friend, who was always fidgeting with things, breaking them down, putting them back together, and the owner had even taken her under his wing and looked the other way with her track record. between the shop job and selling weed, megan kept herself decently afloat. 

you wonder if she’d ever be able to channel that energy into something more, but you know that’s a conversation she won’t want to hear.

“hell, you might even make some money. my boss is hiring— he wants a front desk person,” she tells you, nudging your shoulder. “i’ll put in a good word for you.”

“you want to be coworkers?” you question. “what, like we’re friends or something?”

megan pretends to gag, and the two of you laugh and pass the joint between yourselves for the rest of the night, chatting about her night in jail, comparing it to her months spent in juvie as a teenager. you tell her about college, about the friends you’ve made, and you take comfort in knowing that if you’re stuck back home for a summer, at least you get to be stuck with megan too. 

the next day, you’re at velocity automotives, painfully overdressed, talking to the owner and wondering how the hell this place hasn’t gotten shut down yet. it’s messy, tools strewn everywhere, and there’s no clear organization to how anything is set up. without a doubt in your mind, the messiness suits megan, who you see underneath a car in her navy blue coveralls as you talk to her boss about this job she’s setting you up with.

“all you have to do is take phone calls and book the appointments. i’ll handle the rest,” the guy says. he had introduced himself as viper, and at first, you thought he was joking— that is, until literally everyone there keeps calling him “viper,” and you realize he’s dead serious.

“you won’t be here?” you ask.

“i have other businesses in the city. i own apartments, laundromats, storage units.” he squints at you. “can’t be on desk duty the whole time.”

you nod, and hear a clanging noise somewhere behind you that makes you flinch. viper seems completely unbothered and keeps talking.

“it’s an easy job, so don’t expect to be a millionaire.” he goes on. “and the guys will probably hit on you. just ignore them.”

you grimace, but the pay is decent, and the job is easy enough, plus anything that keeps you busy while letting you spend time with your best friend sounds like a huge win. 

“there’s one more thing,” he says. “i need you to stay in the apartment, above the shop.”

the request catches you insanely off guard. “why?”

“some bullshit from the city,” he gripes. “i have to prove it’s a residence or else they’ll make me pay taxes on it as part of the business.”

“you’re offering me a job and a place to stay?” you question. “what’s the catch?”

“didn’t think you’d sound so eager. you’ve got grit, kid. maybe you are skeindiel’s friend after all,” he grins, before issuing another warning. “it’s not luxurious, and those motorheads get loud at night.”

“um, i grew up on sleepovers with megan. that girl snores like she’s dying,” you reassure him. the arrangement is almost too good to be true.

“how soon can you start?” he asks.

“how soon can i move in?” you counter.

viper smiles once more, a gold tooth shining in his grin. “welcome to velocity. i think you’ll fit right in.”

“why the hell are you dodging all my calls?” megan asks you after you finally pick up after her 6th call of the night. she sounds exasperated, and sure, you could have used her help lugging the few suitcases of your belongings up the stairs, but the surprise you’re about to give her is worth the evasion.

“look outside,” you tell her simply, pulling back the blinds on your window.

“what exactly am i looking for?” she asks, and you can see her nose wrinkle confusedly over the facetime call. this is one of the things you love about megan, her simplicity, her occasional cluelessness— hell, she was so focused on working on that damn car from today, she didn’t notice you slipping in and out of the door as she worked, moving all your stuff into the building literally right over her head as she tinkered away.

“hi neighbor,” you grin out your window.

“no way.” megan flashes a bright smile at you from her window as she spins around, her eyes meeting yours. your places are just a block away from each other, and you’re able to see her through the window, clear as day.

“this is so cool,” you say, admiring the place. sure, it’s just as dingy as viper had warned you, but for a studio, it beat a dorm room, and it way beat living with your parents for another summer. “we should go thrift furniture together. my place is empty as hell.”

“did you get a mattress up the stairs by yourself?” she asks.

“uh, no. there was one in there,” you answer awkwardly.

“y/n, fuck no, sleep on the couch or something,” megan’s eyes nearly bug out of her head on screen, making you laugh. “who knows what’s been done on that mattress.”

“okay, like the couch is gonna be any cleaner,” you roll your eyes, but you make a mental note to prioritize a new bed. “hey, what’s viper’s real name?

megan shrugs. “i dunno. never asked. just assumed his mom loved him enough to name him something badass like that.”

“you’re so dumb,” you laugh.

“wanna come over?” she offers, and you hear the flick of a lighter. it’s the megan you know, constantly smoking, to the point that the sound brings you comfort. “you can spend the night, we can get you a blow up mattress or something tomorrow.”

“and watch you play grand theft auto while you hotbox me out?” you laugh, gathering a few of your things into a backpack. “fine, i guess. see you in a sec, neighbor.”

your first week on the job goes mostly without a hitch.

part of that is mostly thanks to megan, who’s made it her personal mission to make sure you don’t quit within a week, and that starts with making sure all her coworkers leave you the fuck alone. 

“how long til you let the first one of us hit?” one of the younger guys asked, tapping his fingers against your desk, knocking the cup of pens off the table with the vibrations. 

“aw bro, if she already let viper hit to get this job, i don’t wanna get in on his sloppy seconds.” the other one eggs on, and you grit your teeth trying to ignore them both as you clean up the spilled pens. you’re hoping the silent treatment will be enough of a hint to leave you alone, but thankfully, you don’t have to wait around and find out. 

megan is slinking through in front of your desk, shoulder checking the first guy out of her way and reaching to grab the second one by his collar. her grease-smeared fingers grip tightly onto his shirt as she yanks him towards her, and you can see the surprise in everyone’s faces at how fast she’s turned this into something bigger.

“talk to her like that again and i’ll crush you under the fucking car jack,” megan threatens, her voice cold and even, her head lazily rolling back and forth to stare between the two of them. 

“damn bro, relax,” the guy holds his hands up, trying to prove he’s no threat. “didn’t know you were sober enough to be listening, skiendiel.”

“wish i could be high enough to tune your annoying ass out,” she grits irritatedly. she drops her grip on his shirt, and by that point, half the shop is busy staring at you, but she clearly isn’t bothered. “if anyone else pisses off y/n again, we’re going to have a fucking problem.” 

“i can fend for myself,” you tell her, mildly frustrated. if she’d just let you ignore them—

“i know,” she says simply, scooping your pens all back into the cup and handing them back to you. “but i made a promise.”

“we were like, 12, meg,” you remind her.

she shrugs, reaching behind you to grab another key off the keyring, starting on her next car. “promise is a promise.”

you shake your head, but leave it at that. you’ll unpack that night another time, your promise with megan to always look out for each other, but for now, you’ll be secretly grateful— the other guys in the shop leave you alone from that day on.

you haven’t figured out the mattress situation, but it isn’t the worst thing in the world. between naps on your couch and crashing at megan’s, you’ve gotten into a cozy enough routine that makes you think your time back home might not be all that bad. sure, viper was unfortunately right about the noise, but you’ve learned to predict the patterns of when the cars will pull up and disrupt your night.

megan’s usually too high to care, or she’ll be too busy playing video games to be bothered, but she’s never really batted an eye at the revving, claiming the noise calms her. you’ll peek out the window just to keep an eye on things, and you’re starting to pick up on a pattern. in the parking lot of the autobody shop, usually around 9pm, you’ll see a bunch of cars pull in and circle around each other.

among them, a bright red mustang.

“hi, thanks for visiting velocity automotives.” your line is too easy at this point, after nearly two weeks of the job being steady and predictable. “what services are you looking for?”

usually, it’s tune ups and oil changes, maybe a tire rotation or a trouble shoot, but about a week after you started, you start to hear the phrase: “i’m here to see megan.”

and that’s it. viper told you that for any appointment where they ask for megan, take down their info, and open the “special schedule.” it’s weird that he’s having you start this, and he changes megan’s schedule while he’s at it, but she doesn’t seem to bothered. it almost starts to feel like it’s code for something, i’m here to see megan, but the girl herself isn’t raising any flags for you.

“what exactly is it that you do?” you ask, hanging back one day to join her for one of those evening sessions. “and how come you only take appointments after 6pm? isn’t it kinda random that you’re the only person that has to work a night shift?”

“i like motorcycles better, honestly,” she tells you, her tongue poking out from her lips in focus as she leans over the hood of her current project, tinkering with the engine.  “i’m just good at mods. viper thinks it makes more sense for me to work nights and do only mods instead of waste time doing oil changes. leave the easy stuff to the idiots.”

“‘cause you’re just that good or what?” you tease.

“i’m just that good,” she grins back. “and he’s paying me good shit too. not a bad deal, honestly.”

“all to make people’s cars look cooler?” you question, watching as she gets into the driver’s seat and cranks the key. the engine rumbles, and then revs like a creature coming to life. megan’s eyes light up like a kid at christmas at the sound.

“make them look cooler, sound louder, drive faster. you’d get it if you cared about cars, y/n, but i guess you’ve always been a loser,” she teases, giving the engine another rev. 

“i’ll leave the car shit to you,” you laugh.

you hear the ring of the door opening, and the response comes out like you’re on autopilot. you’re too busy trying to decipher viper’s weird ass text about ordering more parts (since when was that part of your job?) to bother looking up.

“hi, thanks for visiting velocity automotives,” you say quickly. 

“you.”

the voice is familiar, strangely so. you finally look up, and piercing into you is none other than that intense, sharp hazel stare. she’s grinning, wider and wider the longer the two of you lock eyes. her tongue peeks out quickly to swipe along her bottom teeth, the gesture cocky and eager all at once. 

“and here i was heartbroken thinking i’d never see your face again,” she smirks, leaning over the countertop to tilt her head down and meet your gaze. her keychain dangles from the tip of her finger, inches away from your face. you feel paralyzed, and that stare, confident and unbreaking, makes it even harder to form a coherent thought. 

“service?” you finally breathe.

you remember her clear as day, even with it being over a year now since your detention together. avanzini, with the red mustang and that dangerous crooked smile. 

“i’m here for megan,” she says easily, pointing behind you at the mechanics hard at work within the shop. 

“she’ll only take mods after 6 pm,” you inform her. 

avanzini raises her eyebrow, a perfect arched brow. she gives you a quick once-over, and you feel exposed under her gaze. “will you be there?”

“no,” you say quickly. 

“damn shame,” she clicks her teeth, tapping her fingers on the counter. “set me up for her next opening. please.”

“she can fit you in tomorrow,” you offer, checking the off-hours schedule.

“what’s your name?” she pivots quickly, as if she didn’t even hear your question. her eyes are so, so intense scanning over you, like some sort of predator sizing you up. “you never told me, that day, you know.”

“y/n,” you yield quickly, almost hoping the conversation can end now. “do you want that appointment or not?”

“why won’t you be there?” she presses on, leaning in further again. it reminds you of your first meeting, the way she invades your bubble as if she has no concept of personal space.

“uh, i don’t spend all my time at work,” you state, as if it’s obvious.

“so then what are you doing tonight?” she asks quickly, arching a brow.

“um-” you’re not fast enough to come up with a response before she’s jumping in, cutting you off again, tapping her fingertips inches away from yours to get your attention. 

“come to a car show. by the amusement park next to the pier,” she tells you quickly, one more glance up and down. “dress up. they’ll have drinks and music, and a shit ton of cool cars.”

you don’t know what possesses you to even consider it, but your brain goes foggy with how close she is to you, the pure magnetic pull she exudes. the words leave your mouth before you can even think to catch up with your mouth.

“will you be there?” 

she grins, tongue poking out from behind those perfect white teeth. “of course i’ll be there.”

“i’ll think about it,” you say simply.

“don’t break my heart, okay?” she puts a hand to her chest, pouting exaggeratedly at you. “i’m counting on you. don’t think i forgot about what i owe you. i’m good on my word, alright?”

realizing you only know her by her last name, your next words slip out just as quickly as your first one had.

“what’s your name?” 

“you know my name,” she responds too easily, and your chest pounds in response. 

there’s a beat of silence between the two of you, as she keeps eyeing you, and you wonder what could possibly left of you that she’s looking for. she grins one last time, pushing off the countertop to finally get out of your bubble. 

“daniela. you can put me down for tomorrow, 7pm,” she adds. she swings the keychain one last time on the first knuckle of her index finger, before catching it in her hand and slinking out the door, like a shadow slipping back into the night. “but i’ll see you, tonight, y/n.”

you feel your heart race. if that smile is enough to go off of, trouble might just have found you.

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

30: REAL, FOR US

Previous chapter < MASTERLIST > Next chapter (pending)

Summary: Bucky returns from a long mission to find you by Winnie’s side at the hospital, exhausted but steadfast. After a quiet evening spent in her company, he opens up about his feelings for you, no longer willing to leave things unspoken. As the night unfolds, a playful moment turns intimate, with Bucky finally taking a step toward deepening your connection.

Warnings: Mild medical content, emotional angst, vulnerability and relationship talk, explicit sexual content, smut, mentions of past trauma

Word Count: 3409

The midmorning light filtered through the hospital room blinds, casting soft shadows over the crisp white sheets. Winnie looked a little better than she had done the previous night. She was still pale and weak, but her breathing was steadier and the greyish tinge that had colored her lips had disappeared. You heaved a sigh of relief as you sat down at her bedside, your fingers curling loosely around hers.

“You gave us quite a scare, Winnie,” you murmured, smoothing the blanket at her side.

Winnie’s eyelids fluttered open and she hummed faintly, squeezing your hand with the little strength she had. “Not going anywhere yet, sweetheart,” she rasped, a ghost of her usual humor in her voice.

“Good!” You smiled, squeezing her hand back.

You didn’t talk much, Winnie fell asleep very quickly after you arrived. She was exhausted and you worried about how she would be when she returned home. After sitting silently for a while, you stepped outside to send Bucky an update on her condition.

11:32 AM - You: Winnie’s awake. Weak, but stable. Docs say she’ll need to rest, but she’s going to be okay.

You wonder how he was doing, if he was safe. It only took a few minutes for you to receive a response.

11:36 AM - Bucky: Thank you for letting me know.

11:37 AM - Bucky: Wish I was there.

You chewed on your lip, staring down at his words. He should have been here. And you knew that if Sam hadn’t called, he would be. You typed out a response before you had time to overthink things.

11:38 AM - You: I know.

A beat later, your phone vibrated again.

11:38 AM - Bucky: I’ll be back soon.

You sighed, shoving your phone back in your pocket and slipping back into Winne’s room. She stirred when you sat down, but didn’t open her eyes. You sighed, leaning back in your chair. For now, all you could do was wait.

The hospital room was quiet, except for the steady beep of Winnie’s cardiac monitor. It was later than he had expected to return. He stood in the doorway, shoulders tense. He scanned the room, like he half expected something to be wrong. But Winnie’s breathing was slow and steady, reassuringly so. His eyes finally fell on you. You were curled up in a chair beside Winnie’s bed, fast asleep, your head resting against your folded arms on the hospital mattress. Even in sleep, he could see the exhaustion and worry in your features. It probably matched his own expression, but seeing you eased some of the tightness in his chest. He exhaled slowly. He hadn’t been able to get away for a few days and every second away from you had been agony.

“‘Bout time you got back,” Winnie murmured, her voice scratchy but warm.

Bucky dragged his eyes away from you to find Winnie watching him with a knowing expression. Despite the IV in her arm, and the loose fitting hospital gown, there was a twinkle in her eye. There was very little that could dampen Winnie’s spirit. Bucky admired that about her. 

“Came straight here,” he mumbled, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck.

“I can see that, you’re a right mess, James.”

Bucky chuckled sheepishly, his eyes flicking back to you now and again. Winnie hummed softly, trying to make herself comfortable against her pillows. Immediately Bucky moved around to the other side of the bed so he could help her.

“She’s been here every day, you know,” she said, nodding toward you. “Hasn’t left my side much.”

Bucky glanced at you again, his jaw tightening. He already knew that. You had updated him about Winnie’s condition over the phone, but hearing it like this— from Winnie herself— made his insides ache with guilt. He didn’t want you to have to shoulder this burden alone.

“She worries,” Winnie continued, watching him carefully. “About me. About you.”

Bucky swallowed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I know.”

There was a long pause before Winnie tilted her head slightly, a knowing smile on her face. “So what happened between the two of you?”

Bucky froze, his fingers twitching slightly.

“I don’t need details, dear,” she added dryly, one brow arching. “But I’m not blind.”

Bucky let out a short breath, shaking his head. “We… talked,” he admitted. “I think we came to an understanding.”

Winnie hummed again, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “And does she know what it meant to you?”

Bucky hesitated, fingers flexing at his sides.

“She should,” Winnie said simply, her tone matter-of-fact. “You boys never say things when you should. Always think you’ve got more time.” She sighed, then fixed him with a stern look. “You want her? Tell her. Don’t leave her guessing.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, huffing out a quiet laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

Winnie followed his eyes as he looked over at you. You were still fast asleep, trying to maintain work while being at the hospital had worn you out. 

“You gonna wake her up?”

Bucky shook his head. “Not yet.”

He grabbed a spare blanket from the side cabinet and draped it over the back of your shoulders, his fingers ghosting over your wrist for a moment before he straightened up. He picked up the spare chair and put it down right next to you.

“Get some rest, Winnie,” he murmured. “I’ll be here until they ask us to leave.”

Winnie smiled at him for a moment before closing her eyes. Bucky sighed, leaning his head against the wall. He was exhausted, his body was aching from the mission and the stress and worry he had felt while he was away. He could finally put the weight down— now he was here next to you.

And when you eventually stirred, sleepily blinking up at him, his decision was already made. He was going to tell you everything.

As you woke, you groaned softly, the stiffness in your neck made you wince as you shifted in your chair. The sun had set and the hospital room’s lighting had been dimmed. And for a moment, you were disoriented about where you were. You sat bolt upright in a confused panic, that is until your eyes landed on Bucky sitting right beside you. He looked tired, his broad frame was bent over his chair at an awkward angle. The only thing that looked steady was his eyes on you. He offered you a small smile and you felt your heart melt.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he murmured.

You relaxed a little, rubbing at your eyes before glancing at Winnie, who was now sleeping peacefully.

“You’re back,” you said, your voice still thick with sleep.

Bucky nodded. “Came straight here… so sorry about the smell.”

You covered your mouth to suppress the noise of your giggle, a warmth blossoming in your stomach at his words. You twisted around to look at the clock before letting out a soft sigh. “Visiting hours are almost over.”

He nodded, glancing toward Winnie one last time. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“I feel like I should tell her we’re leaving, but I don’t want to wake her up,” you whispered.

“It’s okay,” he answered back in the same hushed tone. “She knows.”

The two of you left quietly, stepping out into the cool night air. Bucky had brought his bike. Wordlessly, he handed you the spare helmet and waited for you to clamber onto the back. He pulled your arms tighter around his waist when you only gripped him loosely.

When you reached your apartments, Bucky hesitated at his door. “Gonna shower,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Then I’ll come by?”

You nodded. “I’ll order dinner.”

His lips twitched. "Ordering for me now?"

You rolled your eyes. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days. Gotta get some flesh on those bones.”

Bucky huffed a small laugh before unlocking his door. “Be there soon, Princess.” He gave you a cheeky wink before closing the door behind him.

By the time his distinctive knock sounded on your door, you’d already set out the food, the smell of warm takeout filled your apartment. You pulled open the door to find Bucky standing in front of you, his damp hair looking tousled and his dark t-shirt clung to his torso.

“You okay?” you asked. “I was about to send out a search party!”

“Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly, eyeing the food over your shoulder. 

You stepped aside to let him in.

“You fall asleep in the shower or something?” you joked.

“I don’t even know how I got dirt in all the places I found it,” Bucky laughed. “This smells good.”

You snorted. “You haven’t even sat down yet.”

Bucky smirked, his shoulder brushing yours as you came up beside him. “Still smells good.”

The two of you settled yourselves at the table, an easy silence falling between you as you filled your stomachs. For a while the only sounds that were heard was the clinking of your forks on plates, maybe an occasion clanking of a glass as you washed down your meal.

Once you had satisfied some of the immediate pangs of hunger, you spoke up.

“How was your mission?”

“Mission was fine,” he said, reaching for his drink. “Not the hardest I’ve had, but… long. Longer than I wanted.”

You gave him a reassuring nudge with your elbow, indicating that you understood his absence.

“Sam needed an extra set of hands,” he continued. “Some government convoy got caught up in a bad storm. Cargo spilled everywhere, and local gangs saw an opportunity. By the time we got there, it was already a mess.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“More annoying than anything else,” Bucky huffed out a quiet laugh. “Sam kept trying to talk them down while I was getting shot at.”

“Classic Cap,” you snorted.

He smirked. “Yeah. Got it handled, though.”

You studied him for a moment, noting the way his fingers tapped against the table, the slight crease in his brow. “You okay?”

Bucky leaned forward on the table, he propped his chin up on his vibranium hand and shovelled some more chicken into his mouth and mumbled, “Yeah… just tired.”

You reached across the table before you could stop yourself, fingers brushing against his wrist. “You’re back now,” you said softly as he looked at you curiously. “That’s what matters.”

His eyes held yours for a moment, a smile twitching at his lips. Slowly, he nodded before reaching for another container of rice. “Enough about that. What’ve I missed?”

You smirked, spearing a piece of chicken with your fork. “I don’t know… things have been pretty quiet without you causing trouble.”

“Trouble?” Bucky scoffed. “I’m a delight.”

You snorted. “Sure, Barnes.”

The conversation died down a little, the two of you picking up on your easy banter. Things had shifted between you, the barrier that you had put up between you and him had slowly been crumbling and you realized that it had disappeared completely. And as you sat there, eating dinner with him like nothing had ever changed, you realized just how much you had missed him.

After dinner, you carried the empty containers to the kitchen while Bucky lingered in the living room. By the time you returned, he had settled on the couch, leaning back like he belonged there, one arm stretched across the backrest. You grabbed the blanket on the arm rest and curled up in the middle of the couch right next to him. You offered him a corner of the blanket which he pulled over his legs half heartedly, not wanting to take away from your warmth. You leaned back and sighed with contentment. Bucky shifted slightly so his knee brushed against yours and you let yourself relax, knowing you could finally be completely and utterly yourself. No reservations or barriers.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The low hum of the city outside filled the quiet, the sound of a distant car horn bled through the walls. You sighed softly and glanced over at Bucky out of the corner of your eye, he was rubbing his sweaty palm on his thigh, fingers tapping in a seemingly restless movement.

“What?” you asked.

He blinked, like he hadn’t realized he was being so obvious. “What?”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re overthinking… something.”

He hesitated, his jaw working as he stared ahead. Then, with a sigh, he let his head drop back against the couch. “I don’t know how to say it.”

You turned toward him slightly, the blanket shifting around you. “Then don’t think about saying it the right way. Just… say it.”

He pressed his lips together, his throat bobbing up and down as he swallowed. His fingers flexed, then curled into a fist before he relaxed them again. “I keep thinking about something Winnie said.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “What about?”

Bucky took a slow breath, then turned his head to look at you. His gaze was steady, but there was something uncertain beneath it. “Us.”

Your breath hitched slightly, your muscles tensing. Bucky noticed the change in your expression because he was quick to reassure you. “Hey, no— not in a bad way.”

You didn’t say anything, letting him find the words at his own pace.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… I’ve been thinking a lot. About everything. About how I feel. And about what I want.” He swallowed hard, his voice quieter when he added, “About… what we are.”

The room suddenly felt warmer, a flush creeping up your neck.

“And?” you prompted gently.

Bucky looked at you then, really looked at you, his blue eyes searching. His fingers twitched against his thigh like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he should.

“I think,” he started, then stopped, shaking his head like he was frustrated with himself. “No. I know. I want to be with you.”

Your breath stopped.

“I don’t want this to be some— some undefined thing,” he continued, his voice rough and vulnerable. “I don’t want to leave things unspoken anymore. I want this to be real. For us to be real.”

You stared at him, your chest tight, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

Then, after a long pause, a playful grin spreading across your face, you asked, “James Bucky Barnes… are you asking me out?”

His lips parted slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to phrase it that way. Then, after a beat, he let out a short, almost incredulous laugh.

“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice so much softer now. “I guess I am.”

You bit your lip, fighting the smile threatening to break free. For the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky Barnes looked nervous.

You blinked at him, processing his words. Then, as if it was second nature to you, you muttered, “So… do we, like, need a real relationship agreement?”

“What?” Bucky huffed out the word through a laugh.

Without hesitation, you leaned over his lap and grabbed your laptop from the small table beside the couch and flipped open the display with practiced ease. It only took you a few seconds to pull up a new Excel document.

Bucky stared at you, his mouth slightly open. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

You shot him a deadpan look. “A good relationship needs structure, Barnes. Clear expectations.”

His eyebrows shot up. “And you think a spreadsheet is the way to do that?”

“I have different tabs,” you said, scrolling through. “One for boundaries, one for communication preferences—”

“Oh my God,” Bucky ran a hand down his face, looking like he was questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment.

You smirked. You had fully expected him to roll his eyes and call you out for being ridiculous. But instead, he reached over and plucked the laptop from your hands, carefully setting it aside. Then he turned back to you, his gaze darkening, his expression morphing into something else entirely.

“This,” he murmured, sliding closer, “is how we make an agreement.”

Before you had the chance to ask for more details, his hands were on you— one warm, one cold, but both firm as they slid up your thighs. He leaned towards you until your head was resting on the arm of the couch. A shiver ran through you as he dipped his head, his lips ghosting over your skin. And when his mouth found you, hot and eager, all thoughts of spreadsheets and agreements melted away.

His hands were slow, deliberate in the way they massaged your thighs with a steady rhythm that made you melt into the cushions. Up and down, slow and soft, they teased away any lingering tension in your body. Each pass of his palms inched closer to your core, kneading, coaxing, making your breath hitch in anticipation.

The path of his hands was followed promptly by his mouth, leaving gentle kisses along the sensitive skin of your thighs. The warmth of his lips sent shivers up your spine. He paused, reaching the delicate line of your underwear, his breath fanning out over your lower stomach. His fingers traced the soft fabric and his featherlight touches had your hips arching toward him instinctively.

Then, with an excruciatingly slow pace, he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties and oh, so slowly pulled them down, his gaze transfixed on yours as he bared you to him. Bucky groaned, his lips against your core. The vibration sent another jolt of pleasure rippling through your body. His hands gripped your thighs again, keeping you spread open for him as he worked his tongue over you with incredible precision. It moved in languid strokes at first, teasing and tasting, before the pressure increased— flicking, circling, sucking until your legs trembled against his shoulders.

You gasped, your fingers tangling into his hair, desperate for something to anchor yourself as he now devoured you with fervor. Every sensation built upon the last, a crescendo of pleasure winding tighter and tighter inside you.

“Bucky,” you whimpered. Your hips lifted involuntarily, chasing his mouth, the firmness of his tongue, his relentless hunger for you.

His laugh rumbled against you, the sound almost dark and sinister, sending another shiver down your spine.

“That's it, Princess,” he murmured against your soft skin before he dived back in, as though his sole purpose was to unravel you completely.

There was no stopping him. Even as your orgasm overtook you. He lapped at you gently, coaxing every last tremor from your body as you gasped for breath. His fingers stayed inside you, moving slower now, savoring the way you pulsed around him. Your thighs twitched against his shoulders, oversensitive but unwilling to pull away just yet. He pressed one last kiss to your clit before finally retreating, his fingers slipping out of you with deliberate care.

As he moved up your body, his hands roamed over your flushed skin, grounding you, bringing you back down from the high he had so thoroughly sent you spiraling into. He hovered above you, watching you with a mix of satisfaction and reverence.

“You okay, Princess?”

You let out a shaky laugh, still breathless from your climax. “Give me a second. I think you just melted my brain.”

Bucky smirked, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then another to the corner of your mouth. “Good.” 

His hands rested on your thighs, thumbs stroking absent patterns as he deepened the kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. And when he finally pulled back, he lingered— barely a breath away, his blue eyes darkened with lust but laced with a welcome tenderness. Better?” he murmured.

You let out a contented sigh, brushing your fingers over his stubbled jaw. “Much.”

He looked down at you, eyes flickering over your face, like he was trying to commit you to memory… almost like he couldn’t believe you were real. That you were really his.

“You’re staring,” you teased, tilting your head.

His thumb traced a slow line up your thigh. “Just admiring my work.”

You huffed a laugh, rolling your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

His grin widened as he leaned in again, kissing you once more. His fingers curling around your waist as if he wasn’t ready to let go.

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[kisblle]

Dark Paradise IV

Pairing: Low Honor Arthur Morgan x female reader

Part One Part Two Part Three

Word Count: 7,396

Summary: You're reminded that happiness doesn't last forever, especially with Arthur Morgan.

Tags: Heavy angst, pnv, toxic relationship, smut, porn with plot, 18+, MDNI

Author's note: Sorry this took longer than usual to get out, I really wanted to perfect this one because I've had this chapter and the next in my drafts since I got on Tumblr, I just decided to merge it into this story line. Also life has just been so draining lately with my new job and all, I make a lot of money, but at what cost? I feel like I have little time for enjoyable things nowadays.

In a steady, unrelenting rhythm, Arthur moves inside you - again and again. His sweat slicked skin sticks to yours with each powerful thrust, droplets rolling down from his forhead not only from the intensity of your bodies merging, but from the thick, humid air that laces the land of Lemoyne.

He looks down at you gorgeous, wild, and undone. Naked as the day you were born, your hair sprawling like a halo across a patch of shaded grass on the bank of Ringneck Creek. Your breasts bare to the breeze, your warmth wrapped around him, pulling him deeper. The green hues of the grass blend beautifully with the glow of your skin, your eyes telling him everything.

Just the two of you, naked and untamed, lost in the wilderness like creatures meant to mate under open skies. Feral. Primal. Right. Wild. Just animals ritualistically fucking in nothing but the bodies they were born in.

With one final thrust, his eyes lock on your lip between your teeth. “I - I love you,” he gasps, voice breaking as he reaches his climax, pulling out to spill across your soft, heavy chest. He collapses beside you moments later, the earth cool beneath his back, breath catching in his throat as he stares up at the blue sky broken up by branches swaying in the soft wind above him.

Had he really just said that?

Your stomach flips for a moment before he exhales slowly, still smiling, before turning on his side to face you. You wanted to say it back, say those three little, enchanting words as he stares at you completely spent. But something had stopped you. The nerves maybe, or the way he had said it almost too casually, like it had slipped out by accident. But soon, you're not even sure why you're arguing with yourself. The moment fades, lost in the way his lips curve into that boyish grin. He doesn’t bring it up again, and either do you. But those three little words still hang at the end of your tongue, waiting for just the right moment to say them back.

“Lucky no one saw us,” he mutters with a chuckle, breaking you out of your daze. Without thought, he lifts up his hand and scratches his day old stubble before resting his hand on your thigh.

You arch a brow with wide eyes, “You said this was some secret spot you found?”

Arthur laughs, running a hand through his messy hair as he glances toward the pond that curls off the creek. He just laughs, “It's actually a real popular fishin' spot Javier showed me some time ago."

“You bastard.” You purse your lips, pressing a hand to your chest to try and protect your non-extistant modesty as you scan the nearby grass for your discarded dress.

But Arthur only grins wider. Catching your hand before gently pulling you back onto his lap, your bare body melting into him. “C’mon,” he groans softly. “Let’s enjoy it a bit longer. Take a swim? Cool down?”

And when you look into those deep pools of blue when he smiles at you with that chipped tooth grin - it’s damn near impossible to say no.

He holds you bridal style in his broad arms, standing up as he walks to the creek bank, wading in slowly before the sting of the cold pond water hits your bottom, and in a second he drops you from his arms. The chill of water making your nipples peak, catching the attention a a certain pair of wandering blue eyes.

It felt like living inside a storybook, a fairytale you never expected to be part of.

It hadn’t been long since Clemen’s Point, maybe a month and a half, but in that short time, Arthur had done his best to keep the promises he'd made to you. He cared for you in every way he said he would. Steadily and real, like he had promised.

When Sean died, he didn’t pull away like you'd feared. He held you close instead, comforted you not just with touch, but with presence and support.

And then, as the gang's luck soured further, Shady Belle became the saving grace that everyone had needed.

For the first time in what felt like forever, life had rhythm. You were still on chore duty most days, same as always, but Jack was home and safe, and the boys were mostly just laying low. A robbery here, a stagecoach there - even a fancy party hosted by some Brönte guy you knew little about. And for once, everything felt right. Right in a way your godforsaken life rarely allowed.

Maybe it had taken Arthur nearly dying to shake something loose, to snap the both of you into reality. At first, you kept yourself guarded, unsure whether to give him all of you. But slowly, in the quietest ways, you began to trust him.

Falling asleep in his bed. Riding along on his little side quests. The way he actually looked at you like he liked you - needed you, even.

It was such a stark contrast from the months before, it almost felt like he’d turned into someone entirely new, but not new, just changed. His rough edges were still there, his sharp tongue and occasional arrogance - but all of it felt familiar now. Manageable. Nothing you hadn’t already endured.

Arthur smiles as he lowers himself into the water, vanishing beneath the surface for just a breath before rising again, water trickling down his chest and stubble. He gives himself a quick, careless rinse - splashing under his arms, through his light facial hair, and even lifting the girth of himself to splash down there too...his version a bath apparently.

You roll your eyes before dipping lower, letting the cool pond water wash his spend from your body. The tips of your long hair dance across the surface before dipping beneath the waterline, the cool sensation absolutely heavenly against the humidity. You fall into the moment, letting the cool water baptize your skin, letting each curve of your body fall to refreshing sensation.

That is until a strong, wet hand seizes your arm and yanks you up with a jolt.

“Arthur!” you snap, voice sharp with surprise.

“Shhh,” he hisses quickly. “Someone’s comin’. Go hide behind that oak, I’ll grab our stuff.”

Without a second thought, you scramble from the water, feet slipping in the grass as you make for the tree. Behind you, Arthur snatches your disgarded dress with one hand and the rest of his belongings in the other. And just as he fumbles behind the large oak, two men mosey down the creek with fishing poles resting on their shoulders.

They’re too far to see anything crude, but Arthur is still smiling like he's gotten away with murder. Which he has....several times. The cowboy lets out a soft chuckle as you rip your dress out of his hands and quickly slip it over your slicked body, the fabric catching on your curved body from the droplets of water still scattered across your frame. The dress is all that hides you - no bloomers, no chemise, just the thin cloth of light blue dress, one that nearly matches the soft glow of Arthur Morgan's delicate eyes.

“That was a close one,” he laughs, pulling his corduroys over his bare hips, reaching down his fly to adjust his member as he smiles at you with a toothy grin.

Your lips purse under a furrowed brow as he buttons his pants, his eyes not leaving you as he reaches for your hips to pull you close. In a swift motion he pins you to the tree, locking his lips to yours as you wrap your legs around his frame. Wild and free.

You swear there’s a part of him that likes being nearly caught. No matter how much he insists it’s embarrassing, there had been too many close calls for it to just be an accident. Too many actual incidents for you to know that he really doesn't care if he gets caught anyway. Sure there was the incident with Ms. Grimshaw, but that incident with Dutch....that had been too far for you. Yet here he is again, with a grin and flushed cheeks. Like he’s chasing the thrill of being seen out in the open with you, doing something utterly vulgar with two sets of unknowing eyes just a few yards away.

Still, he doesn't care.

It's several minutes before his mouth leave yours, your lips sore and red from how he curls around you. He drops you to your feet, all smiles before he places two fingers between his lips, eyes still focused on you; whistling for that damn nag of his

-

By the time you and Arthur return to Shady Belle, the sun dips low behind the moss covered trees. The air is still thick, but the worst of the heat had passed. Your heart is still heavy and your mind still swollen frome those three little words he had said to you just a few hours ago - but you try and act like you hadn’t even heard them. Arthur dismounts his nag first, then takes you by the waist and lifts you down gently - hand lingering just a second too long as he palms your ass with a firm, deliberate squeeze.

You swat at him, “Oh, stop it,” you scold with a soft laugh, stepping ahead of him with your head turned over your shoulder.

He doesn’t apologize, just watches you walk away with a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, like he knows exactly who you belong to. Like he enjoys annoying you.

But the tender moment is short lived.

“Arthur,” a familiar voice calls out.

It’s Hosea, standing at the edge of the bridge, tipping his hat as you pass. Then his eyes settle on Arthur. “Mind if we have a chat?”

Arthur’s gaze flickers to you, almost as if he's asking for your permission. You turn over your shoulder with a smile, still not used to the way he's become almost so attached he doesn't want to leave your side. But with a raised brow, you smile. “I’m gonna find Mary-Beth.” Excusing yourself into camp without another word.

Arthur watches you walk away for a few beats too long, dazy smile resting on his face. Utterly hyptonitized by the way your hips swing back and forth, turned on knowing there was nothing beneath that dress of yours.

But Hosea’s already walking, motioning with his head toward the small dock poking out near the Lannahechee River.

The gunslinger follows, completely ignorant to whatever Hosea plans to chat about - his mind still only focused on one thing; you.

“What’s this about?” Arthur asks, half paying attention, half not.

Hosea doesn’t answer right away. Just stares out at the river, at the soft ripples reflecting the light of the dying sun.

“You remember Bessie, Arthur?” Hosea says finally, turning to the outlaw with a wise smile.

The gunslinger is taken aback, but he answers, "How could I forget?"

Hosea chuckles for a moment “Course you do.” His eyes seemingly fogging over like he's trying to recall a distant memory. "I remember when she nearly tossed your entire wardrobe into the Montana, claimed it was too smelly for her to wash."

Arthur lets out a soft humorous exhale, recalling the moment from his boy hood. "Woman knew how to make her point."

Hosea's eyes lose the memory, turning to Arthur with a stiff, serious presence. “I loved her you know." The old man waits a few long seconds before turning his gaze deep into Shady Belle. “And that girl of yours… she make you happy?”

Arthur scratches at his beard, caught off guard by the question. He might have been flaunting you around camp these past two months, sure. But that didn’t mean he wanted to sit around and chat about his relationship with you, especially not with his patriarch.

Still, Arthur follows Hosea’s gaze back toward camp, where your laughter carries from the porch. You’re leaned over with Mary-Beth, face glowing, mouth wide open in pure joy as you hit her arm in amusement.

God, you’re beautiful. You were finally starting to get that glow back you once had before he took it all away from you, all those months ago.

With a soft hum and a smirk he doesn’t even realize he's staring as if he's hyptnotized by your laugh. Shaking himself out of his daze before responding, "she's a fine woman.”

Hosea’s eyes flick back to him in a matter of seconds. “But do you love her?"

Arthur’s caught off guard again, brows furrowing as he tears his gaze from you and focuses back on the older man, his voice sharp and confused. "Now why you askin' me a question like that?"

Hosea just chuckles as he notices his son's discomfort, "Cause she brings out somethin' in you that we'd all thought you lost Arthur."

A line forms between Arthur's brows before Hosea lets out a loud exhale. "You were goin' down a bad path for a while son. We all saw how you treated her back at Horshoe Overlook."

A blush of embarassment creeps onto the cowboys cheeks, knowing Hosea wasn't wrong. But even more, recalling all the unwanted chaos and hurt he'd brought you by his actions, and how embaressed he was that he was even capable of such acts.

"I know," Arthur manages to say, voice low and rough.

"She's a good girl that one. Not like you and me." Hosea goes on, his voice soft but positive. "Reminds me of my Bessie."

The cowboy looks down at the tips of his boots before shaking his head back and forth, only looking back up at Hosea as his lips part. "Now I mean no harm, Hosea," he says, squinting slightly as he hooks his thumbs into the loops of his gunbelt. "But why we talkin' bout this?"

Hosea just shakes his head, turning his gaze back to the setting sun bleeding over the river. "I went to pick up the mail yesterday, Arthur," the older man says, straightening up a bit.

Arthurs lips part, but he doesn't make a sound.

Hosea hesitates, then reaches into his satchel, fingers lingering there a moment longer than necessary. "Now, I know you're a grown man." he says, voice low and rough. "And you don't have to listen to an old fool like me."

Slowly, he pulls out a letter, the edges brushing against his wrinkled fingers. Hosea studies the envelope for a long moment, thumbs gently tracing the smooth paper, as he stares at the handwriting. But finally, his gaze lifts, steady and weighted with meaning. "I'm trustin' you not to hurt that girl again," Hosea says, voice stern with something between caution and warning.

The old man presses the envelope into Arthur’s hands, his touch firm, before throwing him one last hesitant look. And before Arthur could even reply, the patriarch turns and walks away, disseapearing back into the heart of Shady Belle.

Arthur’s eyes drop, shoulders stiff as he stares down at the letter in his hands. That damned pale purple envelope. He doesn’t need to open it to know who it’s from, he’d recognize that messy curl of handwriting anywhere.

Mary Linton.

He sighs, long and tired.

What the hell did she want now?

Part of him wants to rip the thing to shreds and throw it into the river without even opening it. But the other part, the bitter, bruised part of him remembers her voice too well. Remembers that last day in Valentine, the look in her eyes before she stepped onto that train like everything she'd ever gone through was his fault.

And it pisses him off.

But worse.

It makes him curious.

His thumb runs under the wax seal, opening the letter against better judgement. And then he’s reading it, eyes skimming over Mary Linton's wonderfully messy handwriting like she was writing to him like they were twenty two again.

A thanks for helping Jamie.

Blaming him, again, for not being the man she could marry.

And a new request; come see her in Saint Denis.

Of course she’s in Saint Denis.

Out of all the places a woman of her standing could be, she just had to be in the same city Arthur was no more than an hour's ride from.

Of course it had to be like that.

It didn’t matter where she went. Mary Linton could’ve written from the edge of Earth, and she knew Arthur Morgan would find a way to get to her. That was the kind of man she had made him into.

Nothing more than a pathetic dog.

But this time, something felt changed.

He’s read that damn letter four times before he lifts his head up from it, holding it tighter than he should have. And as he walks back into camp, he can't help but to feel completely conflicted.

His heart doesn’t belong to Mary anymore, not all of it at the least, Maybe half. Maybe less. The rest... that part was yours. You’d stolen it so quietly he hadn’t even noticed how far it had slipped out of his control.

Hosea had been right, he had become a miserable bastard. But with you, things felt... less so. You made him better. Or tried to. And he wanted to be that man, for you.

But still.

He felt torn in two. Like a man wrestling with a giant.

He shoves the letter into his coat pocket, muttering a curse under his breath, as he trudges towards the center of camp. The cowboy grabs a bowl of stew from the pot bubbling over the open flame, and then a bottle of warm beer from Pearson’s wagon, doing his best to try and clear his mind, and fill his stomach.

He finds the table at the center of camp, empty besides a couple scattered dishes. It only takes a handful of minutes until his spoon is scraping the bottom of the tin bowl as he takes his final bite, but his mind is still caught in the mess of the past. Confliction and guilt tearing him up inside .

But then theres you - bouncing over, smiling like nothing’s wrong in the whole damn world. You drop into his lap with a laugh, arms winding around his neck, eyes soft and wide.

Still wearing nothing underneath.

Your fingers trace his chest, up to his chin, thumb brushing against the roughness of his jaw with a smile. You hesitate for just a moment before saying the words that have been eating you up inside since the afternoon.

“I love you too.”

Four words. Light and easy. But to a man like Arthur Morgan, it was nothing but bullets raining from your mouth.

The gunslinger stiffens. His brow furrowing, nose scrunching like he’s confused, irritated even.

“Why’s you say that?” he mutters, voice low and almost offended.

Your smile instantly drops, freezing for just a moment in his arms before slipping out of his lap and standing up. Blinking at him like he's pulled out his Cattleman's Revolver and shot you straight in the gut.

“Well... this afternoon...” you swallow uncertainly as a worry line forms between your brows, thumbs tangling together in something between frustration and worry.

And then, in the midst of everything, he remembers what he said when he was inside you just hours ago. Flushed and stupid, in the heat of the moment.

He hadn’t lied.

But he also never planned on saying those words so carelessly. Forgetting that he had even admitted that so recklessly to you. The words had flowed from his mouth like instinct, yet, he hadn't thought you'd take them seriously.

For god sake's he was balls deep inside you - you should have known better.

“Yeah, I remember,” he interupts you, much colder than what he means to be. “Just... don’t wanna talk about it right now.”

Your jaw sets and something tightens behind your ribs.

Don’t wanna talk about it?

Talk about what?

Could he not even say it to you?

You fold your arms, bitter laughter bubbling in your gut before you can stop yourself.

“What? Can only say you love me when you’re eight inches deep?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, sighing as his fingers reach for his temples, “You know that ain’t what I meant.”

But you do. You do know. Because this is Arthur Morgan. And no matter how much you love him, no matter how much he'd swear he's changed. He hadn't. Wouldn't. And more than likely - couldn't change. And tonight, he makes you feel like a fool for trying to believe otherwise.

Without thinking a bitter scowl deepens on your face as you grab his beer and dump what’s left of it on his shirt, dropping the glass bottle rather dramatically on the grass next to him. The stew stained tin clatters as he pushes back from the table, arms jolting as he tries to shake off the warm beer now soaking his chest. His jaw sets like stone as his eyes cling to you with nothing but frustration. But before he can say anything, you turn around and shuffle away with tears in your eyes.

“Stupid whore!” He barks after you, the words cutting much deeper than they would have just months ago, when things weren't so serious.

And it’s not until you’re far enough away to cry without being seen, that it really sinks in.

Arthur Morgan couldn't change.

...

It feels like he’d been punched in the gut.

Arthur drags himself up the splintered, rotting staircase of Shady Belle, the weight of everything on his shoulders making him feel that with any step he could fall through. And against better judgement, halfway up the staircase he yanks the damn letter from his pocket again, eyes scanning the words he already knew by heart.

Mary Linton.

God, he was such a fool.

Why hadn’t he just said it back? Why couldn’t he have been normal for once - just said I love you, kissed you breathless, carried you upstairs and fucked you so good you’d say it again and again until he forgot anyone else ever existed?

But no.

You had to say it then, when Mary was still sitting heavy on his chest like a ghost that refused to let go. Right when his heart was stuck in a tug of war. Unsure if he was ready to let go of the past or ready to start really choosing you.

And now, with you gone and that broken look still burned in his memory, all he had was silence. And no matter what the silence meant, he knew one thing.

That his small bed would feel much bigger without you in it tonight.

Arthur tosses the letter onto the chipped old armoire in the corner his room, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. He strips off his beer soaked overshirt, finding his way to his bed as his rubs at his temples. Everything from Mary Linton to you, running a marathon through his brain.

And it isn't more than a few seconds later that he leans back, trying to atleast dream to forget the day.

...

Arthur wakes up later than usual, head foggy, and eyes heavy. Light from the cracked window bleeds into dusty room like some open wound. He blinks, the slight haze from his tired eyes clearing just enough that he could sense movement.

His body stiffens.

You were there.

Standing near the armoire, you're wearing nothing but a thin, pale chemise that catches the light just right. Your nipples peak through the silky fabric in such a way that Arthur almost forgets yesterday as a whole. You look like an angel, something so pure, so opposite of the man he was.

But your eyes... your eyes were wide and wet, lip trembling as he watches you gulp in horror.

And in your hand.

That letter.

He sits up fast, breath catching in his throat. A surge of heat burning in his chest. Guilt, rage and shame. Twisting together into something dangerous.

Your eyes catch him, looking down at him as if he's shot you like some dirty O'driscoll.

“Came up here to apologize,” you gulp, voice cracking like you might break in two. “Don’t even know why" you nearly laugh as you roll your eyes to the ceiling. "Apologizin?...... Apoligizin' for tellin’ you I love you…”

You wipe several tears away with the back of your hand, trying to hide the emotion now lacing your voice. “Well now I know why.”

Arthur’s jaw ticks.

Doesn't speak.

After a nearly restless night, Arthur had decided Mary wasn’t even worth the trouble in the end. But if you were so damn hell bent on painting him as the bad guy then fine. He’d play the damn part.

He's always been good at it anyway.

He sneers as he gets up from the bed, angry that you were already throwing baseless accusations at him at the crack of dawn. But as heat stirs in his chest, he ruffles through his wardrobe anyway. Searching for some nice overshirt that he'd know Mary would at least appreciate, and maybe one that could teach you lesson.

For snooping. For touching things that weren’t yours.

It didn't take a scholar to figure out that he was pissed.

Not just at you for going through his things but at himself, for leaving the damn letter out in the first place. For getting close enough to you that stupid shit like this even mattered. It was Mary for god sake, it's not like she'd even ever want him back.

Just a game of back and forth that they'd always play, and he'd entertain.

You step toward him as he finishes buttoning his shirt. “Don’t ignore me,” you snap, voice cracking under the weight of every emotion you've ever had for him.

He turns to you slowly, something hard and venomous behind his eyes and the look he gives you is poisonous.

“You had no right to go through my things,” he growls, nose flaring like a wild dog. “Ain’t your business what I do. Think just ‘cause I fuck you that means you get to own me?”

The words were sharp, cruel, meant to slice deep. And as much as every flick of his tongue stabbed you, you couldn't help but to feel that he was lying.

You had seen it for a while now, last night even, when had asked you with his eyes for permission to talk to Hosea. Deep down you knew he was just projecting.

But you still flinch, lip trembling again, eyes wide with something between disbelief and heartbreak. Mary's letter still fresh on your mind, his words still bleeding you dry.

And without another word, he brushes past you, out his bedroom door, down the creaking staircase.

You don't hesitate to chase after him. Mary’s letter still crushed in your fist, your feet pounding down the stairs after him. You loved him for god sake, you refused to believe any of his fighting words. Refused to believe that he would choose some ghost of a woman over you.

He storms through the front doors like he was being chased by something a hell of a lot worse than the woman barely stumbling behind him. But your mouth still spits hell fire. "You goin’ to see her?" you accuse him.

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn't even look at you.

You follow him into the heart of camp, the morning air cool and damp against your bare feet. Your voice raising, louder now. Angry, so that anyone could hear.

“So all of this... nothin’ to you?!” Your eyes widen in worry as you march after him like a bat out of hell. "Jus' some waste of my time?"

People turn and watch, but Arthur doesn't stop. Face laced with an etched scowl, eyes locked on his Turkoman and nothing else.

"You bastard!" you shout, grabbing at his shoulder, trying to pull him back to you. Stop him from leaving. "Least look at me! Say it to my face! Tell me I wasn’t enough! Tell me you don’t want me.”

He turns so fast you take a step backward on instinct. His glare vicious, jaw clenched, nostrils flared. An entirely different man than you'd come to know...come to love.

“You weren’t,” he snaps, voice low and mean, like he wantsto hurt you. “And you’ll ain’t ever be her.”

Your mouth drops open, wind knocking from you like a punch to the ribs.

Sure, you’d never be Mary. But you swore that what you and Arthur had shared was more real than the dress sitting on your damn body, then the mud stained to his boots.

You had seen it. Saw it. Nursed it back from the fucking dead.

Just to lose him to some woman that'd never let him go.

In one last act, you grab at his shoulder, letting him hear your final plea as he starts to mount his horse. You heart nearly breaking in two.

"If you ride off to see her, I'm done, Arthur," you spit, voice shaking with a mix of fury and sadness. "I’m leavin'.... won't be here when you come ridin' back."

Arthur’s hand freezes on the reins.

Then, slowly, he looks down at you.

Sneering.

With a jerk of his arm, he violently pulls his arm out of your grip - hard enough to send you stumbling. You trip on a raised root, falling straight onto your behind in the overgrown grass. Legs cocked open pathetically, palms weighing heavy on the ground. Gulping like he'd shoved you down with the force of a million words.

He leans forward in the saddle, adjusting himself as his cold eyes stare at your sad excuse of a body.

“And where you gonna even go?” he asks, voice sharp and cruel, almost as a laugh because in reality he knew you had no one. He gives you one hard stare before digging his spurs into his nag. Leaving you with nothing but the echo of his departure, and the last pieces of your dignity.

For moments you sit there, on the knotting grass. Horses shuffling all around you as tears stream hot down your flushed cheeks, fists clenched in the grass, chest heaving with the reality of your situation.

Caught up in a mess of Arthur Morgan once again.

And the worst part?

He was right.

You had nowhere to go. And he knew it. Knew that you couldn’t go if you tried, no money, no family, just the familiarity of the Van Der Linde gang that was starting to eat each other from the inside.

But in a mess of feelings and tears, you feel the rush of a set of arms engulfing you into a warm hug. It’s Abigail Roberts, her frame slight but her hold firm. She sits with you, stroking your hair, whispering soft comforts even as her voice shakes with something that sounds like fury. “That no good son of a bitch,” she mutters, pulling back just enough to wipe away your tears with her thumbs.

Your eyes meet hers, they're icy and firm, telling a million stories but also a million warnings. “I love him,” you croak, barely able to get the words out.

Abigail had known that kind of heart splintering pain. She’d felt it more times than she could count with John. But you? Still young, still unshackled, no child clinging to your hip, no ring on your finger. The black haired beauty was smarter than what she gave off, she knew what had to happen.

“You gotta get out of here, darlin’,” she says, rising to her feet and offering a hand to help you up.

You sob.

That was your last promise to Arthur anyway, wasn’t it?

“He's right. Got no money. Nowhere to go,” you cry, shaking your head, voice breaking as all you wanted truly was to be gone. Forget him. Forget everything. Respect yourself enough to stop playing outlaw.

Abigail’s mouth tightens, leading you beneath the shade of her tent, easing you down on her cot. She rifles through her wardrobe as broken sobs escape your mouth. But in the midst of it all, she pulls out a thick, lumpy sock, and turns back toward you. “Was gonna use this for myself, once upon a time,” she says, tugging out a fistful of cash, slapping it on her hand a few times. “But it’s too late for me. Not for you.”

Your eyes are wide, still glistening, staring at the chunk of bills resting in her hand. Your lips parting as she attempts to slip the wad into your hand.

“I - I can’t...” you whisper, cheeks wet with tears and hesitation.

“No, you are,” she cuts in, firmer than you’ve ever heard from her. Something maternal in her tone, something resolute. “Trust me, a girl like you’s got a future. A bright one. Brighter than whatever all this is.” She pauses, her voice softer now. “And Arthur....better leave now before you wake up a few days late with a swollen stomach."

Your gaze locks with hers, wide and wordless.

Her words hit you harder than you thought they would.

And suddenly you understood.

It was time to go.

...

Twenty minutes later, you’re back in the room you’ve shared with Arthur for the past month. His clothes are still scattered around, his beer stained overshirt from last night crumpled at the foot of his bed. You wonder who’ll wash it now, it wouldn't be you this time.

You gulp and reach beneath the bed, pulling out the old suitcase you brought with you to Milwaukee all those years ago, chasing something better. It had belonged to your mother before Typhoid took her.

You pop it open. Inside: a few forgotten pieces of a past life. A locket with your parents’ faces inside. A shirt you never wore but couldn’t throw away. And a small black and white portrait from Blackwater, the one you took just hours before Arthur took your innocence.

You stare at the photo. Less than a year had passed, but you hardly recognize the girl in it. Smiling, light still untouched. So different from who you are now. Used and broken.

And before you pack the last of your things, you set the portrait on the table beside Arthur’s bed.

You wanted to forget him, forget the hurt.

But part of you, wanted him to remember.

Wanted him haunted.

...

Outside the rotting mansion, Hosea stands waiting. Pulling you into a soft, fatherly hug, his voice low with sorrow. “I’m sorry, girl,” he murmurs.

He’d seen it all. Last night’s heartbreak, this morning’s silence. He watched Arthur ride off, watched Abigail hand you that money with trembling hands and a tight jaw. Heard her beg you to go. Guilt weighing on his shoulders as he knew the cowboy would still be here if he hadn't handed him the letter.

But Arthur was a god damn adult. And Hosea had agreed with Abigail, better to leave now before other circumstances could tie you to him.

And as much as it hurt Hosea to see you go, he couldn't help to feel relieved. To at least know someone was getting out, someone good.

You swallow hard. Tears gone, but grief remains.

You weren’t just leaving Arthur.

You were leaving the only family you’d known for years. The people that had taken you in when you had nothing to show, and no one to care for you. Family more than friends at this point.

“Say your goodbyes,” Hosea says gently, rubbing your arm with his thumb. “I’ll take you to Rhodes. Buy you a train ticket to wherever you need to go.”

...

The streets of Saint Denis buzz with life, hooves clicking on cobblestone as the sun shines high in the midst of the Lemoyne sky. Mary Linton’s delicate arm loops through Arthur’s as they step out of the Rauler Theatre, both of them smiling.

Arthur could admit it, he’d had a good time. How could he not? Mary had once been his world. Maybe part of him would always feel something for her. But as they strolled toward the trolley stop, shoulder to shoulder through the heavy air of the city, something felt utterly different.

Hollow.

There was no fire in his chest. No ache. No heat behind his eyes.

It felt less like love and more like memory, a good time with an old friend. Sonething he could cheerish, but didn't need to survive.

And that’s when he remembered you.

The way you made his pulse jump with just your smile. The way your voice sounded like angel's singing, even if you were just telling him off. He remembers the way you smiled even when he didn’t deserve it. And then, above everything, he remembers the way you looked at him the last time. Eyes full of hurt, mouth trembling as he shoved you away.

While Arthur just didn't want to feel controlled, you felt betrayed.

And now all he felt was sick.

His boots slow on the busy sidewalk. Coming to a full stop without truly realizing where he was or who he was with.

“Arthur?” Mary’s voice breaks through his deep haze.

He blinks, realizing he hadn’t heard a word she had said since they left the old threatre. “Sorry,” he mutters.

She watches him for a beat, her chocolate eyes unreadable. “I said... is it too late for us?” Her voice cracking slightly, more a plea than a question as she holds his hands tighter.

Arthur inhales through his nose, heavy and ragged. He knew the answer. Had known it for a long time.

“I can’t lie, Mary. I... I got a woman back home” he says quietly, almost embaressed. Gently slipping her arm from his.

Mary’s expression falters for a brief moment, her face clearing from any found emotion. But in a few short seconds she grins with a sense of meloncholy.

“And I ain’t even really sure why I’m here,” Arthur adds, voice breaking with sudden clarity, the weight of his betrayal sinking in. “I shouldn’t’ve come. I’m sorry.”

Mary nods, her composure surprisingly steady despite the slight shimmer in her eyes. “Treat her better than me,” she says simply.

And in a second, Arthur turns and leaves, heart pounding, stomach in knots.

He’d fucked up.

But more than anything did he want to fix it.

Not with words. Not with excuses. But with a promise.

By the time he reached the jeweler, his hand was already on the wad of cash. He didn’t want something stolen. Didn’t want some rag tag ring from a fence.

No, this had to be real. Something with weight. With meaning.

Something that said: I’m yours. For good.

Something with a promise.

...

Back at the train station, the sky had started to turn grey. Rain slightly drizzling over the covered platform as Hosea tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentle as always.

“Don’t cry,” he murmurs, a small tear falling down your cheek.

“I’m scared,” you admit, glancing down at the train ticket in your hand. You hadn’t told him where you were going. You figured it was safer that way, for everyone involved. Hosea hadn’t asked either. Maybe he didn’t want to know. Maybe he just didn’t want Arthur beating it out of him in the long run.

It didn't take much for you to imagine the storm of Arthur riding back into camp. Throwing tongue every which way when he realized his bed whore had gone missing.

The twisted thought slightly comforted you. You knew Arthur well enough to atleast know he would be mad at your departure, no matter what he had told you before he left

“You can always write,” he says, voice full of hope “Don’t know how long we’ll be at Shady Belle, though. You know Dutch.”

You manage a watery laugh." Oh, I know." You falter for a few moments as you gaze into the wisdom laced eyes of Hosea, his soft look sending you into a spin of tears. “I’m just scared of being…”'

"Alone," he finishes your sentence.

He chuckles. “We can’t be such a great bunch that you think there’s no one better out there.”

You give him a humorous look, tears still staining your cheeks. A happy goodbye. “You know that ain’t what I mean.”

The train’s whistle shrieks in the distance. Passengers begining to stir from their seats, grabbing bags, shuffling to the edge of the platform.

Hosea turns to face the tracks, then glances back to you. “Promise me one thing,” he says, his voice low and firm.

You look up, eyes wide like a doe.

“Don’t come back lookin' for us. Save yourself."

...

Arthur’s horse thunders down the muddy path toward Shady Belle, his coat soaked and his wallet a few hundred dollars lighter. The gold ring in his pocket - a golden band with a pearl in the center - feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He imagined you wearing it. Naked on the banks of Ringneck Creek, riding him, the ring catching sunlight as your hand brushes over his hair.

Utterly his.

The camp is quiet as he gallops in. He doesn't even bother to untack his horse, too charged with excitement. He leaps off and storms through like a mad man, eyes scanning the outlaw camp for a sillouette of you.

You weren’t there.

But your strange dissapearence doesn't even register until two small fists beat into his back.

“You no good son of a...”

He spins, catching Abigail Roberts wrists mid swing. She thrashes against his grip, wild with rage.

“What the hell?” Arthur stammers, confused and surprised it wasn't you beating on him. He would understand if it was you, warranted in fact.

But Abigail?

“She’s gone, you bastard!” the black haired beauty snarls, driving her boot into his groin as hard she can.

Arthur collapses, wheezing as he drops her arms from his grip.

From across camp, John jogs over, pulling his wife's arms behind her back in anyway to control her outburst.

Arthur's painful wheezes dissapear in a moment's time, turning to an almost panic.

“What...what she mean? She's gone?” he coughs as he looks up at John for clarification, moving back to his feet.

John grimaces. “She’s gone, Arthur. She left."

Arthur froze.

Gone?

No.

You didn't know how to ride, wouldn't dare try to find your way in swamps like these. And above everything - you had said you loved him, just last night.

You wouldn't leave.

And he was ready now. Finally ready to love you back the way you deserved.

His stomach twisting, panic shifting to fury, anger.

He turned to John, eyes flashing. “Where did you take her? Couldn’t stand that I was happy for one good time in my life.”

John face drops, angry at just the accusation. "I ain't take nowhere," John sneers, continueing to hold Abigail back from trying to rip Arthur to pieces. "But I don't blame her for leavin' you either."

If John hadn't been using Abigail as if she was a human sheild, Arthur would have torn his brooding equal to shreds at that very moment. But before he could push the black haired woman away, a gentle voice cuts through the shouting.

Arthur turns, all eyes finding the small frame of Hosea Matthews. The old man sits at the dominoes table, calm as ever. Standing up and pushing his chair in without his eyes leaving the game.

"I took her to the train station in Rhodes," he speaks

Arthur’s anger breaks, replaced by something broken and raw. Lips parting.

“I told you not to hurt her,” Hosea says, eyes finally meeting the cowboys. More dissapointed than ever.

Arthur couldn’t keep his gaze. His eyes dipping to the tips of his boots. Shame rolling over him like a wave. If it had been anyone else -John, Bill, even Dutch, he’d have thrown fists.

But it was Hosea.

The one who warned him.

The only who told him to do better.

Arthur’s voice cracks as he breaks the silence, barely above a whisper. “Where is she?”

Hosea shakes his head.

“Gone, she's gone Arthur."

[itdontmatter283472374]

What are we? Chapter Ten

Azzi didn’t expect to sleep much that night. Between the dull throb of her ankle and the gnawing uncertainty about what the MRI would reveal, she knew it would be hard to quiet her mind. But when her head hit the pillow, something shifted. Maybe it was the soft hum of the streetlights outside Paige’s dorm window, or the comforting weight of the blanket she was curled under. Maybe it was just the way Paige had said it: You’re gonna get through this.

The next morning, the pain was still there, sharper now as the swelling had set in. She could barely put weight on her foot, so she spent most of the day in bed with her leg propped up, alternating between naps and scrolling through texts, some from her teammates, some from Chris. But the message that stood out the most came just before lunch.

Paige💗: Let me know how the MRI goes. I'm making you something to eat tonight — and I don't mean a protein shake. You need real food.

Azzi smiled at the text, feeling the usual tightness in her chest loosen just a little. She had no idea what she’d do without Paige. Even when things were uncertain, when the world outside seemed to rush ahead without her, Paige had this way of making it feel like there was no need to rush at all.

The MRI was scheduled for the afternoon, and as soon as Azzi hobbled into the waiting room, a wave of anxiety hit her hard. A part of her — the part that had always been fiercely independent — wanted to brush it off. It’s just an ankle, she tried to tell herself. But the nagging thought kept creeping in: What if it’s worse than they’re saying? What if this is it?

The technician called her name, and Azzi stood up slowly, wincing with each step. She gave the receptionist a weak smile before following the tech down the hall. The cold, sterile air of the room made her skin prickle. She sat on the table and watched as the technician placed a few pads around her ankle.

“Just relax, Azzi,” the technician said, her voice friendly but detached.

Azzi nodded, lying back on the table, trying to ignore the rising tension in her chest. The MRI machine hummed to life, and she closed her eyes, counting the seconds until it was over.

Azzi’s foot throbbed in time with the machine’s whirring, a constant reminder of the pain that refused to dull. When the MRI finally ended, she barely remembered how she got back to the waiting room. The technician had told her she’d get the results soon, but every minute stretched longer than the last. The quiet of the room felt oppressive, and Azzi couldn’t shake the feeling that the world outside her little bubble was moving on without her.

Her phone buzzed, snapping her from her thoughts. It was Paige, like clockwork.

Paige💗: How’d it go? Any news yet?

Azzi hesitated before typing a quick reply.

Azzi💗: Still waiting. I’m starting to lose my mind over here.

A few seconds passed, and then Paige’s text came through.

Paige💗: You don’t have to wait alone. I’m on my way to your dorm.

Azzi smiled faintly, but the knot in her stomach didn’t loosen. She hadn’t realized how much she needed Paige’s presence until the offer to be there was out of her reach. Before she could respond, the door to the waiting area opened, and a doctor walked in with a clipboard in hand.

“Azzi Fudd?” she asked, glancing over the papers.

Azzi stood slowly, meeting the doctor’s eyes. She had a sinking feeling she knew what was coming.

“Unfortunately, it looks like you’ve got a Grade 2 sprain,” the doctor continued, looking over the results. “There’s some swelling in the joint, and it’s going to require some time off the court. We’ll need to follow up in a few days, but for now, we’ll start with rest, ice, compression, and elevation. I’m going to recommend a brace for support, and we’ll reassess in a week.”

Azzi’s heart dropped. A sprain. Not as bad as a tear, but still... it felt like a death sentence to her. She’d be out for weeks. She’d been here before, with her knee, with her past injuries. This was the last thing she wanted to hear.

“Okay,” she said quietly, her throat tightening. “Thanks, I guess.”

She tried to keep it together, but the weight of it all hit her harder than she expected. She felt like she was suffocating under the reality of it.

The doctor left her to gather her thoughts, but Azzi barely had time to process it before Paige burst into the room, her face soft with concern.

“Azzi,” she said gently, walking over and setting a small bag of food on the chair beside the bed. “I’m here. What’s going on?”

Azzi took a shaky breath, forcing herself to sit up a little straighter. “I... I sprained it. A Grade 2 sprain. They think it’ll be a few weeks at least. I... I don’t know.”

Paige’s eyes softened with understanding, and without a word, she sat down on the bed next to Azzi, careful not to jostle her leg. She didn’t try to fix anything. Instead, she just was there, a quiet presence that made the room feel a little less lonely.

“Hey,” Paige said softly after a moment, her fingers brushing Azzi’s hand. “You’re going to be okay. You’ve been through worse, right? You’ll get through this too.”

Azzi let out a shaky laugh, the sound wet with the edge of a tear she hadn’t noticed gathering in her eye. “I hate that you’re right. I just... I don’t want to feel like I’m letting everyone down.”

Paige’s gaze was steady, unflinching. “You’re not letting anyone down. Not me, not your teammates. You’re doing what you need to do to heal. That’s all that matters right now. You’ve got this.”

Azzi closed her eyes for a moment, letting the words settle over her. It felt good to hear them, even if they didn’t erase the anxiety or fear clawing at the back of her mind. At least, in this moment, she wasn’t alone. And that meant more than anything.

“Thanks,” Azzi whispered, squeezing Paige’s hand. “Really. You don’t know how much this means.”

Paige smiled, her thumb brushing the back of Azzi’s hand. “Yeah, I do,” she said quietly, her voice warm with affection. “I know exactly how much it means. Just take it easy, okay? Let me take care of you.”

Azzi nodded, allowing herself to settle in the comfort of Paige’s presence. It wasn’t going to be easy, but with Paige beside her, maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so impossible.

That night, after Azzi had spent the day with her foot propped up and ice packs strategically placed, the weight of everything still hadn’t quite lifted. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being stuck, her body unable to do what it was meant to do. The familiar ache of frustration gnawed at her.

Paige had stayed by her side the entire evening. They had talked, played a few games, and spent time together in the quiet, which, to Azzi’s surprise, had become a comfort. But now, as the clock ticked past midnight, the stillness of the room seemed to settle heavier on her chest.

“Do you wanna stay the night?” Azzi asked softly, hesitating just for a second. She didn’t want to seem too needy, but the thought of being alone after everything made her uneasy. Paige had been a quiet anchor throughout the evening, and Azzi wasn’t sure she was ready to face the night without her.

Paige looked at her with a soft, understanding smile. “Of course. I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

Azzi let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Thanks. It’s... it’s nice to have you here.”

Paige gave her a reassuring look and adjusted her position, settling in beside Azzi as the movie Love and Basketballflickered to life on the TV screen. They didn’t need to talk much. The comfort of being together—of sharing something familiar—was enough.

The warmth of Paige beside her made Azzi forget, just for a while, the mess of the world outside. They settled into the movie, laughing at the familiar lines, eyes glued to the screen as their favorite moments played out.

Then, Azzi’s phone buzzed, breaking the quiet atmosphere. She glanced at the screen and saw Chris’s name. She sighed, rolling her eyes before swiping the call.

“Hey, babe,” Azzi answered, trying to keep the cheer in her voice.

“Hey, checking up on you,” Chris’s voice came through the phone, light and casual, but there was an edge of concern beneath it. “How’s the ankle? Still hurting?”

Azzi shifted a little, the discomfort of the situation settling in. “Yeah, but it’s... it’s getting better. I’ve been resting.”

“I guess that means no plans to, you know, get up to anything tonight?” Chris joked, a small laugh in his voice.

Azzi’s smile faltered, her stomach twisting. She let out a nervous, uncomfortable laugh, trying to keep the mood light. “Yeah, definitely not tonight. Definitely not with the injury.”

Chris chuckled, unaware of the way Azzi’s discomfort grew. “Well, guess that’s a good thing, huh? No sex on the table with you out of commission.”

Azzi’s laugh was a little too quick, a little too sharp. She shifted her gaze away from the screen, her face warming as she could feel Paige’s quiet presence beside her, but she kept her tone neutral. “Right, yeah. Goodnight, love you.”

“Goodnight, love you,” he said, a little too casually, before the call ended with a click.

Azzi set her phone down, the awkwardness settling between them like an elephant in the room. She wasn’t sure how to break the tension. The silence that followed felt too heavy.

“Sorry about him,” Azzi muttered, looking at Paige, her voice a little strained.

Paige just smiled, as if to reassure her. “Don’t worry. It’s your boyfriend. You can’t control what he says.”

Azzi shifted closer to Paige, feeling the need for something comforting. She curled up, tucking her head into the crook of Paige’s shoulder, hoping the closeness would ease the awkwardness, even if just for a little while.

Paige adjusted, wrapping an arm around her, and Azzi closed her eyes, letting the warmth of her presence settle her thoughts. The softness of Paige's hand on her back calmed the jittery energy that had taken over after Chris’s call. She allowed herself to relax, to let go of the tension in her body, the frustration she’d been carrying all day.

And before long, Azzi drifted off to sleep, the last thought in her mind the quiet comfort of having Paige close.

The next morning, Paige dragged herself out of bed and grabbed her things, making sure she was ready to head back to her own dorm. The night with Azzi had been quiet but comforting in its own way. They had watched Love and Basketball— their favorite movie — and even though Azzi had been hurting physically, Paige had been there in a way that felt important. It hadn’t been about anything romantic or even that deep, just showing up. And that mattered.

Paige walked down the hall of the dorm building, her sneakers tapping lightly on the linoleum floor. She had barely turned the corner when she saw Nika standing near their dorm room, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and eyes immediately locking on Paige.

“So,” Nika began, a teasing glint in her eye. “Where were you last night?”

Paige stiffened a little but quickly played it off. She swung her bag over her shoulder and shrugged. “I was with Azzi,” she said nonchalantly.

Nika’s eyebrow shot up, clearly not buying the casual tone. She pushed off the doorframe and leaned in a little, her voice a mix of curiosity and skepticism. “Isn’t she still dating Chris?”

Paige nodded, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “Yeah, she is. But when I was there last night... during the movie, he called her.”

Nika’s gaze sharpened. “And?”

Paige hesitated for a second, her mind flashing to that awkward moment when Chris had cracked that joke. “Well, he kinda... asked for sex,” she muttered, feeling an uncomfortable flush rise in her cheeks. “Like, while she was there with me. She’s injured, for God’s sake.”

Nika’s jaw dropped, and for a moment, she was silent, completely taken aback by the revelation. “Wait, hold on.” She blinked a few times, clearly processing the absurdity of the situation. “He... asked for sex? While she’s on crutches? After she just hurt herself?”

Paige exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck, her gaze flicking away. “Yeah. He was trying to make a joke about it, but it was... it was weird. Like, really weird.”

Nika took a small step back, her mouth forming an exaggerated ‘o’ of disbelief. “That’s messed up. For real.” She stared at Paige for a second longer, then lowered her voice, her tone turning sympathetic. “I mean, you’re just trying to be a good friend, right?”

Paige paused, her thoughts racing. Was that what it looked like? Was she just playing the long game, as Nika seemed to think? “Yeah... I mean, I’m just being there for her. She needs someone, especially now.” Her voice softened as she added, “It’s not about anything else.”

Nika raised an eyebrow and shot Paige a knowing look. “Uh-huh. Sure, okay. But come on. I’ve known you long enough to know when you're trying to play the long game.”

Paige’s face twisted into a mix of confusion and mild frustration. She crossed her arms in front of her, trying to stand her ground. “What? No, Nika. I’m not ‘playing the long game.’ I’m her best friend. I’m trying to be there for her because she’s going through a tough time. It’s just that simple.”

Nika gave a dramatic roll of her eyes, as if Paige had just told the world’s most obvious lie. “Right. ‘Best friend.’” She gave Paige a teasing smile, the kind she usually used when she thought she was being funny but was actually kind of pushing boundaries. “Sure, ‘Big Daddy Bueckers.’ That’s what they all say.”

Paige’s eyes narrowed, her patience beginning to fray. “Stop it, Nika. I’m serious. I’m just being there for her. I’m not trying to do anything else.”

Nika raised her hands in mock surrender, but the smirk on her face didn’t fade. “Alright, alright. Whatever you say. But, Paige—come on, you can’t deny that something’s going on there.” She gave a pointed look toward Paige’s face, her gaze dropping for a second to her expression.

Paige gritted her teeth, frustration building up. She could feel the annoyance rising in her chest, and before she could even think twice, she snapped. “Can you just drop it?” Her voice was sharper than she intended, but she didn’t care. “I’m not trying to have a conversation about this right now, okay? I’m just trying to be a good friend, and that’s it. Can you just—”

Paige didn’t finish her sentence. She turned on her heel, heading toward their room, not wanting to deal with Nika’s teasing anymore.

But Nika wasn’t about to let it go that easily. She followed her a few steps before calling out, “Come on, Paige. You can’t tell me you don’t have feelings for her, too. I see the way you look at her. You can’t hide that.”

Paige spun around, her face flushed with frustration. “Nika!” she snapped. “No. I’m not. Okay? Just let it go. I’m just her friend right now.”

But Nika was relentless, her teasing grin only growing wider. “Yeah, whatever, Bueckers. I know how you are.”

Paige stopped in her tracks, her hand gripping the door handle. She felt her heart race, but she was tired of arguing. “Just stop, Nika,” she said, her voice quieter now but no less firm. “You don’t get it. I’m not trying to make this more than it is.”

Nika didn’t respond immediately, and Paige didn’t wait around to see what else she had to say. She threw open the door to her dorm and walked inside, not looking back. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Nika standing there, probably still with that stupid smile on her face.

Paige sighed and let her bag fall to the floor. She didn’t need to explain herself to anyone. She was doing the right thing, and if Nika couldn’t see that, then that was her problem.

The bar was packed in the cozy, end-of-winter way — coats draped over booths, heaters on full blast, and half the UConn women’s team clustered near the back under string lights that flickered like old Christmas decorations someone forgot to take down. It was Friday night, and they’d just won big. Spirits were high, drinks were flowing, and music pulsed from the overhead speakers.

Paige was already two shots in, lounging in a high stool with a lazy smirk and a girl — someone from the lacrosse team, maybe — leaning into her side like gravity had chosen Paige over the rest of the room. Her arm hung casually over the girl’s shoulders, but her eyes? They kept drifting to the other side of the bar.

To Azzi.

Azzi, who sat tightly between Ice and Aubrey, sipping from a Sprite with a twist of lime and laughing at something, but only halfway. She looked great — everyone noticed. Curls down, gold hoops in, her jeans cuffed just enough to show off the Jordans Paige had once picked out with her. But the energy? Off. Not bad, just… different.

The weirdness hadn’t gone unnoticed.

"Okay," Nika muttered to Aaliyah, leaning in close over the table’s thrum. "Tell me I’m not the only one seeing this."

Aaliyah raised an eyebrow. “Seeing what?”

Nika gestured subtly with her glass, tilting it toward where Azzi sat, then back to Paige with her arm draped around Lax-Girl #3. “Them. Acting all... cagey.”

“Azzi’s still with Chris,” Aaliyah said slowly, like that explained something. But she looked over at Paige too, squinting. “Right?”

“Mmhmm,” Nika replied, unconvinced. “And Paige has had, what, a new girl every weekend since New Year’s? She’s putting up numbers. But look at how she keeps glancing over.”

Sure enough, Paige’s eyes flicked back toward Azzi again — just for a second — before she laughed at something the girl beside her said. Too late. Nika had already clocked it.

“And Azzi,” Nika added, “has been extra quiet every time Paige walks in lately. Even at practice.”

“I thought they were just getting close again,” Aaliyah said.

“They are. But not in the 'just friends' way.”

Aaliyah gave a skeptical look, but then Azzi’s laugh cut off when Paige stood up to head to the bar, and their eyes met across the room. It wasn’t romantic — not obviously. But it had a weight. Like they both knew something no one else did.

“Yeah, okay,” Aaliyah murmured. “That was something.”

Nika smirked, satisfied. “Right?”

At the bar, Paige ordered another tequila soda, ignoring the text buzzing in her pocket — probably the girl beside her, checking where she’d gone. She didn’t look back, though. She just leaned against the bar, watching Azzi from the corner of her eye while Azzi shifted in her seat, suddenly looking like she wanted to be anywhere else.

Azzi caught Paige staring, then quickly looked away, muttering something to Ice and getting up like she needed air. Paige took a slow sip of her drink, like she hadn’t been caught. Like none of it mattered.

Except it did.

Everyone was starting to notice.

And whatever was going on between them — it wasn’t going to stay quiet much longer.

The bar had only gotten louder. Someone had paid for another round of shots — Paige maybe, or Dorka, no one could really remember — and the dance floor was a swirl of limbs and laughter under pulsing red lights. “Gonna Love Me” was blasting from the speakers now, and half the team was belting the lyrics like it was gospel.

Paige was wobbling slightly in her seat, still holding her half-finished tequila soda like she couldn’t remember what to do with it. Her hair was a mess, and her hoodie had slipped off one shoulder. Her lips were curved in a lazy grin, but her eyes were glassy, her voice just a little too loud.

"Azziiiii," she drawled, slumping sideways into Nika, who nearly toppled off her own stool.

"Wrong friend," Nika said, laughing and gently peeling Paige off her. "That one's over there."

Azzi was standing just a few feet away, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. She hadn’t drunk more than a sip all night, and her phone was clutched in one hand, thumb hovering over the screen like she’d been mid-text before deciding against it.

Nika caught her eye and nodded subtly toward Paige.

Azzi sighed. “I got her.”

"You sure?" Nika asked, tone softening. She glanced back at Paige, who was now halfway into a slurred conversation with the bartender about who invented ranch dressing. “She’s... a lot right now.”

Azzi gave a tight smile. “I know.”

She stepped over and tapped Paige on the arm.

"Hey, c’mon. Time to go.”

Paige blinked at her, then lit up. “Azziiiiii,” she repeated, more affection in her voice now. “My girl. You’re here.”

Azzi exhaled. “I’ve been here all night, P.”

“Oh... right.”

Paige tried to slide off the stool and missed slightly, stumbling forward. Azzi caught her easily, one arm looping around her waist.

“Whoa, okay,” Azzi murmured, steadying her. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

Behind them, Nika watched with a look that was equal parts curious and concerned. Paige wasn’t a lightweight, and she wasn’t a mess — not usually. But tonight felt different. Sloppier. Edgier. Like something inside her was cracking around the edges, and she didn’t know how to stop it.

"You taking her back to yours?" Nika asked, stepping closer.

Azzi shook her head. “Her dorm. She’ll be more comfortable.”

Paige looked up, trying to focus. “You’re taking me?”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Paige grinned, then leaned into her again, arm draped lazily over Azzi’s shoulder like she’d done it a hundred times. “You’re the best.”

Azzi didn’t respond. She just guided her toward the exit, one slow step at a time.

As they pushed through the bar’s front doors into the cold February air, Paige shivered and tugged at her hoodie. Azzi handed her a jacket — her own — without a word.

“Thanks,” Paige mumbled, the wind sobering her a little. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I know,” Azzi said quietly. “But I wanted to.”

And with that, they disappeared into the night, one leaning just a little heavier on the other than either of them cared to admit.

Paige barely made it down the hallway without bumping into the wall three times. By the time they reached her dorm door, she was clinging to Azzi’s arm like it was the only solid thing in the world.

Azzi swiped Paige’s key card and pushed the door open.

The lights were off, the air inside warm and still, smelling faintly of clean laundry and eucalyptus body wash. Familiar. Azzi guided her in, helping her sit gently on the edge of the bed.

“I feel gross,” Paige mumbled, eyes half-lidded. “Sweaty... sticky... I need a shower.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “You sure you can even stand?”

Paige huffed a laugh. “You offering to carry me?”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but her ears flushed pink. “No. I’m offering to help. But only if you don’t puke on me.”

Paige grinned sleepily. “No promises.”

Azzi helped her up and walked her into the small en-suite bathroom. Paige leaned on the counter, watching herself in the mirror for a second.

Azzi opened the shower door, turned on the water, letting the steam start to fill the room. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s get you out of this.”

Paige lifted her arms obediently as Azzi carefully tugged her sweatshirt off, slow enough not to jostle her. It slid over her head, revealing the tank top beneath, already sticking slightly to her skin from the bar's heat and too many people pressed together.

Azzi hesitated. The silence thickened.

Paige looked at her through the mirror. “You okay?”

Azzi blinked. “Yeah. Just—trying not to drop you.”

She knelt slightly to unlace Paige’s shoes, fingers brushing her ankle, then stood again, reaching for the hem of her tank top.

“This okay?” she asked, voice quiet now.

Paige nodded, her gaze locked on Azzi’s.

Azzi pulled the shirt up, careful again, her knuckles ghosting against bare skin. When it was off, she dropped it in the hamper and finally met Paige’s eyes.

Neither of them said anything. The steam wrapped around them like fog, curling at their feet, softening the room’s edges.

Paige stood in just her sports bra and boxers now, her breath visible in the warm air. She looked vulnerable. Beautiful. Real.

Azzi swallowed hard. “I’ll wait outside.”

But as she turned to go, Paige reached out — fingers gently wrapping around her wrist. “Stay.”

Azzi froze.

Paige’s voice was softer now. “Just…stay while I shower. I don’t wanna be alone.”

Azzi nodded, heart pounding. “Okay.”

She sat on the closed toilet seat, facing slightly away as Paige stepped into the shower. Water cascaded down behind the frosted glass. Azzi tried to focus on her breathing. On anything but the vague silhouette just a few feet away, the hum of the water, the way the air smelled like her shampoo.

Minutes passed. Neither of them spoke. But the tension — unspoken and electric — lingered, heavy and undeniable.

Azzi clenched her fists in her lap.

She wasn’t sure what this was yet. But she knew it was something.

Something she couldn’t ignore anymore.

Paige’s hair was damp, clinging to her cheek in soft waves. She had a hoodie pulled halfway over her head now, tucked under the blankets like she was trying to disappear into them. Azzi had helped her climb into bed without saying much, letting the quiet stretch between them again — not uncomfortable, just charged.

“You good?” Azzi asked, brushing her hands on her jeans.

Paige nodded against the pillow, her eyes already heavy. “Yeah. Thanks for… all of that.”

Azzi smiled faintly, already backing toward the door. “Get some sleep, okay? I’ll text you in the morning—”

“Wait.” Paige’s voice stopped her cold.

Azzi turned. Paige’s hand had slipped out from the blankets, palm open in a kind of soft plea.

“Can you stay?”

Azzi hesitated. “Stay?”

Paige nodded. “Just—here. I don’t know, I just… I feel safe when you’re close.”

That last part hit something deep in Azzi’s chest. She bit the inside of her cheek, then crossed back over without another word. She climbed under the covers beside Paige, careful not to get too close, but close enough that their elbows almost touched.

For a minute or two, it was just quiet. The sound of Paige’s soft, even breathing. The warm cocoon of blankets. The low hum of the dorm heater.

Then Paige turned, her face barely a breath away from Azzi’s.

Azzi’s breath hitched.

“You always take care of me,” Paige whispered, like a confession. “Even when you don’t have to.”

Azzi swallowed. “You’d do the same.”

Paige’s eyes dropped to Azzi’s lips for just a second — quick, like she didn’t mean for it to be obvious. But Azzi noticed. And suddenly, the tension that had been simmering for months — the glances, the too-long hugs, the way they kept orbiting each other no matter who else was around — it all surged to the surface.

Azzi leaned in without thinking.

Their lips met softly — once, then again. Paige’s hand found the side of Azzi’s face, thumb brushing her cheek, and that tiny contact lit a fuse.

The kiss deepened — still careful, still uncertain, like they were both testing the edges of something new and terrifying and magnetic. Paige pulled Azzi closer without a word, her fingers curling into the fabric of Azzi’s shirt.

Azzi breathed her name. Once. Like it meant something more now.

It did.

And even as their lips moved together in the dark, neither of them quite knew what this meant, what tomorrow would look like, or how they were going to explain any of it. But right now, with hearts pounding and lines blurred, none of that mattered.

All that mattered was this.

Them.

Finally.

[joelmillers-wife]

take my hand (joel miller x f!reader) chapter six

18+, MDNI series masterlist: here | please check this for complete series warnings and tags pairing: joel miller x f!reader chapter summary: your mind a mess of conflicting thoughts and feelings, you find solace in an unexpected person wc: 3.3k rating: this story is 18+ (minors, do not interact), there will be eventual smut in later chapters  chapter warnings and tags: cursing and tlou lore accurate outbreak content below, maria and tommy family time, talk of feelings, angst-ish, fluff-ish, brief mentions of the loss of children, (there’s no joel in this one I’M SORRY), reader has no description besides she has hair, jackson!joel, age difference: reader is in her 30s and joel is in his 50s, sloooow burn a/n: a short, early surprise chapter :) ao3 | follow @writtenbynic and turn on notifications for chapters! dividers made by: @saradika-graphics , check them out!

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VI. UNDER PRESSURE

'Cause love's such an old-fashioned word And love dares you to care for The people on the (People on streets) edge of the night And love (People on streets) dares you to change our way of Caring about ourselves

Winter had come and gone, and you had figured that spending two winters in Jackson would get you used to the cold, but it did not. Somehow it felt more brutal than the last, as if the weather evolved each year as the infection would—a constant mutating monster that got worse as time went on. 

With the spring, your plans to build that garden in your backyard were brought to life—Joel still being a part of that plan. You constantly reassured him he was not obligated to help, but you were always met with the same response. “I wanna help. Let me do this.”

Because, despite the seasons changing, Joel’s presence around you did not waver. He had kept good on his promise to fix that broken light in your house. And that one chance that he got to fix something inside your house only invited him to work on other things inside. You didn’t want to feel as if you were complaining—you appreciated the help and the company, and figured these were just things he had to do to keep himself busy when he had free time. 

You just couldn’t shake some feeling inside you, a feeling you still couldn’t quite place. People’s comments on Joel being around you had burrowed under your skin and created a warm and unpleasant pit in your stomach, making you try to figure out why him being around you made you feel so odd all of a sudden. Why people noticing this makes you feel weird.

Regardless, the time you spent together in your home only grew as you would offer him meals or to stay for a drink after work was done. He never let you pay him directly for the help by doing something for him in return, but you still wanted to give him something to reciprocate his kindness. 

“Don’t worry, darlin’. You don’t ever gotta owe me anythin’,” he’d say.

And, yeah. That word has still stuck around when he speaks to you—another thing that made you feel… warm. That pit in your stomach only started to grow until it ended up keeping you awake for longer than your usual anxiety kept you. 

You couldn’t figure out what to do with it—how to fix it. The first place your mind went to was asking Tommy about it, leaning into the fact that he would know why Joel is like this more than anyone, but the idea of that didn’t sit right. It felt odd going to Tommy for something so personal that regards his brother, and you definitely couldn’t go to Ellie about it. So, that left you with one last person you thought could help.

You shuffle back and forth on your feet as you stand waiting for the front door to open after knocking. As a few seconds pass, your insecurity begins brewing. This was a stupid idea… What the fuck were you thinking? 

Quickly, you decide that no one is probably home and turn to leave, when you hear a noise behind the door before it opens.

You twist your body back to face the door, one foot already backed up ready to leave. Maria stands there looking surprised, but not upset at your appearance before speaking your name, her voice lifting up at the end in question.

“Hey,” you breathe out, suddenly unsure of your decision to come here. “Is, uh—is Tommy home?”

She looks out behind you before saying, “No, I’m sorry, honey, you just missed him. He went out in town to get Benjamin some fresh air while I worked on some things at home. He should be back in an hour if you wanted to wait here?”

You shake your head gently. “Oh, no that’s alright. I actually, um… I wanted to talk to you on your own for a bit. Only if you aren’t too busy.”

Her eyebrows raise momentarily before a warm smile appears on her face. That’s why you wanted to come to her, you realize—her natural ability to make you feel safe.

“Not at all. I need a break from working on these damn blueprints,” Maria says before gesturing to you to come in. “Please, come in and make yourself comfortable.”

Maria steps aside a bit, allowing you the space to walk inside before she shuts the door softly behind you. A brief touch on your shoulder as she passes by indicates for you to begin following her into the living area, where you find papers laying out on the coffee table.

“Do you want me to make you any tea or coffee?” She offers.

“Tea, please,” you say with a grateful smile. She nods once before turning into the kitchen to make the drinks. Taking a second to look around while nervously fidgeting with your hands, your body gravitates to the fireplace mantle where a small chalkboard is placed in the center of the shelf. Written on the board are the names Kevin and Sarah, with the respective dates below it—the memorial of their lives. 

Maria had spoken about her son before the outbreak, Kevin, and you of course knew of Sarah. You remember the first time you came here, you didn’t know about Joel’s daughter, and assumed the memorial was some family member to either Tommy or Maria, considering you never took a closer look at the dates out of respect. Now, knowing what you do, the sight of the board makes your heart ache.

You’ve been over here a few times before—enjoying dinners with the couple and their child, or coming over for small meetings with some other members of the community. You just couldn’t recall a time where you spoke only with Maria, let alone about matters that didn’t regard things in town.

The sound of the tea kettle whistling grabs your attention, and you walk into the kitchen to find Maria preparing the mugs for the two of you. Hearing your presence, she turns around briefly to smile at you, gesturing at the table for you to sit down. 

“Make yourself at home. Sorry for the mess,” she says, referring to the array of blueprints and clipboards sprawled across the dining table, similar to the living room table. “We’ve been needing to build a lot more houses and space recently with all the newcomers. I thank God for marrying an ex-contractor, and getting my brother-in-law, even if he pisses me off most of the time.”

You chuckle softly at Maria’s teasing talk of Joel—the mention of him bringing a smile to your face without even thinking, before the same feeling in your gut warns again and you’re reminded of why you are here.

As you move to sit down at one of the seats, Maria brushes away some of the papers to make room for the two of you. She makes her way over to the fridge, asking, “Are you a milk or honey person with your tea?”

“Milk, please, and sugar if you have it.”

A soft nod can be seen from behind her as she pulls the milk jug and begins to prepare the tea for the two of you. 

Rounding the table to set one down in front of your seat before settling herself in the chair across from you, she asks you, “Is everything okay? Is there an issue with your house or something with the work?” 

You quickly settle her concern. “No, everything is perfect with that, thank you.” You look down to your mug, rubbing your fingers over the handle of it as your nerves take over more and that insecurity begins to build again.

God… Why does this feel so awkward?

“I actually—I wanted to talk to you about something a bit more… personal, I suppose.”

A slight look of shock fills her features before it gets overtaken with a more serious expression—Maria sitting up straighter in her chair and leaning her arms on the table to show you she’s paying attention. The sight calms you a bit as you recognize that same trusting, yet stern, look she had given you that first day in Jackson. “Of course, sweetheart. You can share anything you’d like, whenever you’re ready.”

Her reassurance washes over you, quieting the noise in your mind and calming the anxiety brewing in you. It’s the push you need before sighing and blurting it out.

“Why does Joel always spend time with me?”

Maria doesn’t react at first, before doing a double take, tilting her head towards you with confusion. “I’m sorry, what?”

You sigh before looking back down to your mug, tracing your fingers over the ridges from the floral design surrounding it, before all the words you’ve had trapped inside you just comes out. 

“He, recently, is always at my house. He started doing it by saying that Ellie would tell him about things I need fixed at my house—stuff in my yard or front porch. But then, at the Christmas party, I told Ellie thanks for letting him know, and she said she didn’t bring anything up.”

You look down, frowning at the mug in your hand as you recall Ellie’s words. “She said that Joel would tell her about things he noticed regarding me. And a little before that night, people in town were whispering and giggling over Joel being around me a lot, saying that he’s always near. I didn’t believe that, but then when Ellie told me that stuff, I realized that he really does kinda just… show up? I mean I don’t think I’m bothered by it. Just that… I don’t know, it feels weird for some reason. And I didn’t know who to talk to about it because it felt weird to go to Tommy or Ellie with this, and you’re the only other person I think would know him the most. And… frankly, you’re someone I trust the most around here.” 

Taking a deep breath after the end of your rambling, the trembling feeling that’s been growing in you for months seems to settle into an afterthought—as if voicing everything has brought you a sense of peace, even if briefly.

You look up to face Maria again, but the reaction you see isn’t one you were expecting. Her brows were completely shot up, eyes slightly wide and her lips parted open and twitching up a bit at the corners.

Great. She was laughing at you.

Filled with embarrassment, you shake your head and move to get up. “I’m sorry, this was dumb, I shouldn’t have—”

Maria straightens up and grabs your arm to keep you seated, shaking her head.“Sweetie, no, I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I promise.”

Still uneasy, you feel tense as you wait to see what she has to say, hesitantly lowering yourself back into your seat, bracing your mind for whatever words she has to say. Your body sinks into the chair, as if you want to burrow deep into the wood and away from this moment.

Maria slouches back into her seat almost comically and looks off to the side, softly huffing out a laugh before turning to look at you. “Joel—oh god, um… Joel, from what I know of him, struggles with showing people he cares.” She pauses to look at you, her eyebrows raised and head tilted in hopes that you understand what she’s trying to say. 

You shake your head, feeling clueless. “I… I mean I knew that, but… what does that have to do with me?”

She smiles and sighs, closing her eyes briefly to formulate her words. “The only two people I’ve seen Joel be comfortable around are Tommy and Ellie. Even then, there’s this wall between him and them—thin, almost as if it’s through a veil. Something that slightly clouds the vulnerability between him and the ones closest to him.”

Maria frowns for a moment, but her face shifts into something resembling sympathy. “No one here in town has had a conversation longer than a few minutes with Joel before—me included. Our talks are strictly business or cordial. Now he knows I’m not the biggest fan of him and his… past, but I know when he does care because I see him with that little girl or my husband. Joel shows his love for those two by doing things for them or getting gifts he thinks that Ellie would like.”

You wait a moment for her to continue, but she just looks at you expectantly, as if you were meant to catch on by now. That was true, you suppose—you’ve seen Joel go out of his way to get things to make Ellie happy, or do things that contribute to the community simply because Tommy and Maria asked of him. 

That was expected, though. He loves them—they’re his family. 

Your thoughts leading you nowhere, you shake your head slowly at Maria in confusion until she reaches over to grab your hand. Cautiously, as if unsure how to speak to you, Maria asks, “Honey… have you ever liked someone?”

Your confusion only deepens as you try to piece together why she asked that. “Of course I have. I like many people here.”

Her lips quirk up again. “I mean, have you ever liked someone? Romantically?”

Oh.

Your eyes widen. No… this isn’t that. 

She speaks up before your anxiety takes over completely, her hands held out in front of her cautiously as if trying to calm a wild animal. “There’s nothing wrong with that, I promise. I’m not saying that you necessarily have those feelings for Joel, but more so that I think he has feelings for you. I just don’t think he knows how to show it.”

You look back down to the mug in front of you, trying to focus on the swirling patterns the milk has made with the tea—trying to focus on anything to distract from whatever the fuck is running through your mind.

Maria speaks your name softly, making you force yourself to look at her. “When you said it makes you feel weird, is it like there’s butterflies in your stomach?” She asks.

“More like a blizzard.”

She lets out a laugh. “Oh I know that feeling all too well,” she says, before her face settles into a more serious expression. “I think you may like Joel in the same way that I think he likes you. You don’t need to do anything with that right now, though. If you aren’t sure what is going on then you do not need to rush and figure it out. I’m just offering what I think is happening and what it may mean.”

You take in her words and consider what you know about romantic feelings—a crush, as you have heard. She wasn’t wrong to ask if you ever felt something like that before, because… you haven’t. The state of life made the notion of a crush not be something that had ever crossed your mind. It was almost a fairytale. Something that always felt so out of reach—not something tangible to you. It makes sense that you wouldn’t recognize what the feeling was yourself, let alone know what it looked like on someone else. 

You briefly recall some moments that happened when you had first arrived in Jackson, a few instances at the mess hall or bar where men had come up to talk to you. You had taken it as them being polite to newcomers, but the giggling and whispering from other women around had made you feel uneasy. Embarrassingly, the person who had to tell you what their real intentions were, was the damn teenager you had befriended. 

“Dude. You’re hot. They’re flirting with you. Come on,” Ellie would say. The realization made you feel odd and caused you to avoid interacting with them for too long, coming up with an excuse to leave. It hadn’t happened for the past few months though, thank god—

Oh, fuck.

Your eyes widen as you realize something while sitting there processing what Maria had said. Those moments with the men in town had stopped a few months ago… when Joel and you had become friends.

He’s always near you.

Maria notices your expression and gives you a knowing smile. “I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry to have thrown this at you at once.”

Shaking your head, you tell her, “No this… this isn’t your fault. I mean, thank you, ya know, for telling me all this in the first place.”

Her hand soothingly rubs up and down your arm that plays on the table. “Of course. I hope you know you can come to me about anything like this whenever, okay?”

You subconsciously nod at her, your mind still reeling with all the thoughts racing through you as you try to piece everything together.

The sound of the front door opening pulls you away from your thoughts, causing you to straighten up and look more present.

You hear the sounds of a child giggling before you see Tommy appear in the doorway with Benjamin held on his hip. He looks at his wife with a smile before his gaze lands on you with a surprised expression. “Hey, m’sorry to barge in—didn’t know it was a girls day today.”

Maria laughs before standing up and collecting your two now-empty mugs, bringing them over to the kitchen counter. “No worries, honey. Seems like my mind was read by her because she gave me a much needed break,” you hear her voice travel as she walks. 

You stand from your seat as you get ready to head out. “Yeah, sorry… I should’ve given you a heads up before coming over. I don’t mean to keep you too long while you’re busy.”

Walking back into the dining area, Maria shakes her head. “Believe me, you do not need to ever apologize for stopping by.” She gives you a pointed look, with understanding in her eyes. “You’re always more than welcome here. We appreciate the company, truly.”

Tommy gives you a nod as well, silently reaffirming the sincerity that Maria conveyed to you. You take a second to look at them in front of you—Tommy holding their son while looking at Maria lovingly. The ease they both share around each other. The home they’ve built together, both physically and emotionally. 

It makes your throat tighten for a moment, taking in their words as they offer you the right to be a part of their lives so openly. It’s a feeling of comfort you haven’t had in a long time, and one you didn’t think you were deserving of—one you didn’t even think was possible for you in this lifetime. A fairytale.

Maria looks at you for confirmation that you believe her, you nod your head with a small smile—your eyes watery. “Thank you, Maria.” She returns your smile before offering for you to stay for a bit while Tommy makes dinner.

“No, thank you. I told myself I’d get some organizing done on my few days off, so I need to get back home to do that.”

She nods in understanding and walks you over to the door, stopping to hug Tommy and say your goodbyes to him and Benjamin on the way.

As you reach the door where Maria waits for you, you give her a hug as well when she leans in to whisper in your ear. “You tell me if you need anything in this situation—I happen to be sorta good at giving love advice.” She pulls away with a soft smirk before her face hardens, transitioning into one more serious.

“And just… be careful when it comes to him, alright?”

You pull away from her, the last thing she said confusing you for a moment as your eyebrows lightly twitching. Not mentioning it, you quietly thank her again for the advice and say goodbye to her before heading outside.

That word she had said before you left, love, ringing in your ears the whole walk home. With it, the idea of that fairytale begins to fill your mind and slip into your dreams.

a/n: surprise! wanted to post this short chapter before I post chapter seven this saturday, hope you guys enjoy <3

follow @writtenbynic and turn on notifications for updates! I’m still doing my tag list for now, but they’ve been kinda wonky recently so I apologize if it doesn’t work! <3 I’ve gotten some people saying it keeps glitching and tagging repeatedly, or my post goes away and comes back?? so I am so sorry I don’t know how to fix this but hope it stops :(( if I miss anyone’s tags, please let me know!

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[arlecchno]

Heeey since you're not posting much I just wanted to ask how are you? 😅❤

hello! i apologise that this is somewhat late... if you honestly ask me life has been hell for me LOL 😭 (word vomit incoming beware guys) which was one of the reasons why i've been on an unnoticed hiatus lately. this is like the first time i've ever opened my socials in over a month???? i think because i just truly needed it for my health 😞 i had a bunch of complications with my intestines that my hospital was basically my second home, and i was just recently discharged and sent home to fully recover (honestly this shouldn't be a surprise coming from a fanfic author this is like our canon event) and senior year has been TOUGHHHH i've been struggling a whole lot trying to catch up on everything i've been missing out during my absence.... and now i am torn between continuing being a writer or just.... quit 💔 i do love doing what i do and posting here it's just that i never have time for it anymore and that i lose motivation way quicker than i did a year ago😕 but hopefully i don't!! i'll most likely just have a long hiatus until i finish hs (which is in just a few months yippee i'm free) or i will try to squeeze in some time in my schedule to get some things out of the way **cough **cough the alhaitham everything has changed fic 😢 also thinking of dropping asphodelus,, only because i have completely forgotten the whole plot and i have no idea where it's going... but we'll see uhhh anyways yeah this is long as hell i hope you don't mind 😭😭 i hope you're doing great!!!! i miss interacting with everyone here ehdhhhhh i hope i can be more active now that i'm slowly recovering 😞🤞 and for others reading i hope you're doing fine as well :P always take care of yourself and have a happy weekend 🤍🤍🤍 feel free to come by my inbox and say hi!!! i'll try to reply as soon as i can hehe

[writeblrfantasy]

my 10 holy grail pieces of writing advice for beginners

from an indie author who's published 4 books and written 20+, as well as 400k in fanfiction (who is also a professional beta reader who encounters the same issues in my clients' books over and over)

show don't tell is every bit as important as they say it is, no matter how sick you are of hearing about it. "the floor shifted beneath her feet" hits harder than "she felt sick with shock."

no head hopping. if you want to change pov mid scene, put a scene break. you can change it multiple times in the same scene! just put a break so your readers know you've changed pov.

if you have to infodump, do it through dialogue instead of exposition. your reader will feel like they're learning alongside the character, and it will flow naturally into your story.

never open your book with an exposition dump. instead, your opening scene should drop into the heart of the action with little to no context. raise questions to the reader and sprinkle in the answers bit by bit. let your reader discover the context slowly instead of holding their hand from the start. trust your reader; donn't overexplain the details. this is how you create a perfect hook.

every chapter should end on a cliffhanger. doesn't have to be major, can be as simple as ending a chapter mid conversation and picking it up immediately on the next one. tease your reader and make them need to turn the page.

every scene should subvert the character's expectations, as big as a plot twist or as small as a conversation having a surprising outcome. scenes that meet the character's expectations, such as a boring supply run, should be summarized.

arrive late and leave early to every scene. if you're character's at a party, open with them mid conversation instead of describing how they got dressed, left their house, arrived at the party, (because those things don't subvert their expectations). and when you're done with the reason for the scene is there, i.e. an important conversation, end it. once you've shown what you needed to show, get out, instead of describing your character commuting home (because it doesn't subvert expectations!)

epithets are the devil. "the blond man smiled--" you've lost me. use their name. use it often. don't be afraid of it. the reader won't get tired of it. it will serve you far better than epithets, especially if you have two people of the same pronouns interacting.

your character should always be working towards a goal, internal or external (i.e learning to love themself/killing the villain.) try to establish that goal as soon as possible in the reader's mind. the goal can change, the goal can evolve. as long as the reader knows the character isn't floating aimlessly through the world around them with no agency and no desire. that gets boring fast.

plan scenes that you know you'll have fun writing, instead of scenes that might seem cool in your head but you know you'll loathe every second of. besides the fact that your top priority in writing should be writing for only yourself and having fun, if you're just dragging through a scene you really hate, the scene will suffer for it, and readers can tell. the scenes i get the most praise on are always the scenes i had the most fun writing. an ideal outline shouldn't have parts that make you groan to look at. you'll thank yourself later.

happy writing :)

[acid-ixx]

ch.4: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1, chapter five pt 2,

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, alcohol abuse, allusions to self-harm.

"baby bird, i know i haven't been talking to you much as of lately. but i just want to let you know that we miss you alright?"

not delivered.

"i really regret ignoring you, we all do. i'm-"

he hesitates, then deletes the last word of his message.

"—we're the ones in the wrong for everything, alright? you blocked me, i'm sure you did for everyone else too, i get that, but we care for you now and that won't change anytime soon. please remember that."

not delivered.

"and it pains me seeing that you're not replying to my messages at all, baby bird. but i promise i'll-"

dick bites his lips at the mistake of addressing himself only rather than that of the family, but a greedy part of him wants you to read the messages and to see only him in spite of everything rather than them, feeling a sense of... need to be the first and only one you see when you think about accepting their apologies, even if he's writing to you whilst simultaneously trying to get his family in your good graces.

dick doesn't know it. why he's suddenly obsessed with you. you? yes you, his stupidly precious sibling, the one who looked up to him, frail and wronged by the world, with so much drive behind that stare. third child of bruce, yet second youngest in the family. the one that got away, the one he has never once saw outside that one memory of glinting, awe-inspired eyes that told more stories than poets, drew more emotions than artists.

nobody saw you outside of your status as the manor's ghost— but compared to your other siblings, he knew you the most. he wants to be the only man good enough to be considered your brother, your oldest brother; an obligation he's willing to uptake just for you. he wants to be the only one with the authority to call you his baby bird. he doesn't know why, despite the thirteen and a half years, it's him wanting, no, needing to see you again.

you, just you.

every bits and pieces of you.

in his mind, it's just him and you. in your tiny little bedroom, with your dozens of sketchbooks and diaries, with only your brother, dick, to accompany you. in your own little world, as you speak to him of your dreams and passions with nothing else in your mind. you'd look up at him with sparkling eyes, look at him like he means everything in the world to you, and he'd see you as his world.

when he thinks of that, the more he hopes of the possibility of you reading his messages; his declaration of never leaving you alone anymore. and with hope comes along this dread that you'd reply with a nasty reply, or that... you'll never bat an eye him anymore.

dick doesn't take a second glance to correct his mistake again this time.

"i promise i'll be better for you baby bird. my little hatchling, my little one. i discarded you, someone so precious. you must've felt hurt, no? i get that, i'm so sorry you have to go through that because of me. but look! you have me now, we have each other now! and that might not be enough yet to mend the bridge i left to fall, but if you just, please reply to me, or anyone else, then we can fix this. i promise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"you won't ever feel hurt anymore, or sad or lonely. hell, even bruce is getting you a new bedroom fixed up, isn't that great!? i'll even convince the old man to make sure your room is close to my old one so you can visit me anytime. i'll even stay over at gotham for even longer, just for you! and i'll spend my time with you, with just the two of us, okay? nobody else can disturb us. i'm sure you'd like that too."

not delivered.

"and we can hang out anytime you want, no? sleepovers, movie nights, journalling— all the cool stuff you wanted to do with me in the past, we can do now! and it'll be fun with you, i can see it happening alrrady, i just know it. you can't convince me otherwise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"that's why i'm begging you to unblock me, little one, or to at least read all my previous messages, please? :( i'm still so sorry over how i treated you in the past. i've nothing to defend myself over how i acted towards you. i was so delusional, ignoring you when all you clearly wanted was to spend time with me, with the family."

not delivered.

"we can even have that dinner together, remember?! at that fancy restaurant you talked about, yeah? my treat, of course. you can order the entire damn menu and i'll leave you room for seconds and desserts. i can even make arrangements to get bruce to rent out the entire restaurant so it would just be the two of us plus the family, but mostly just us— that would be good! then you can sleep at my room after we get home to the manor since we're turning your old one into an atelier just for you! i'll even carry your cute little figure up any flight of stairs whenever you get tired."

not delivered.

"i promise i'll really make it up to you baby bird!!! <3"

not delivered.

"for all the times we neglected you, left you thinking you didn't deserve a spot in the manor (which you truly do, it's us to blame for never seeing it that way), made you feel negative emotions towards us— i'll take your pain and turn that into joy, i promise."

not delivered.

"and if you do manage to read through all this, please remember..."

not delivered.

"i love you so much, alright? we'll find you soon, and you'll be happier with us, i'm sure of it. i love, love, love you so much my baby bird."

not delivered.

he sighs, resigning his thoughts all to himself as he checks his phone every minute for a simple ring of notifications just from you. he prefers to leave his phone in silent mode from the multitude of other contacts bothering him, but god forbade if that means he'd scroll past to a single reply of yours, then he'd rather burn in hell.

and anything is better than the pain inflicted on him when it comes to the thought of you ignoring him.

because after all, he does mean it when he says he loves you, his baby bird, his adorable little sibling.

he'd rather hell than you seeing him any less of an older brother.

what takes longer? is it a seed growing into a bud, a bud into a bloom, or a flower to fully shrivel and die?

how long does it take for it to be considered worthy? deserving of attention and the rightful spotlight to attain its needs for life?

what takes its time? what other variable does it need for it to survive in such harsh conditions? if it's forcefully pried open as a seedling, as a bud growing in a field full of weeds sapping, draining it of its nutrition, or in a scorching, desolate desert, or pestilent lands; would it still be considered a flower?

what does a seed need to grow into a flower? beautiful, treasured, with vibrant colors reflecting off the surface of each petal, growing pollen for every pollinator to spread its bountiful success you call development?

what does it require?

everyone knows the answer, some could only be ignorant enough to turn the other way and reject the idea altogether.

it needs care, nourishment — healthy soil building a strong foundation, its home with roots carefully embedded in the ground, then it also requires water, a source of life given to it in specific times with just the right dose, and sunlight kissing its stems and petals warmly — and finally, love.

lots of love, attention, and patience from mother nature herself and its caretakers we call humans.

but how could a flower receive any, if not, all it needs, if it's raised under a marshy, overgrowth rainforest that speaks of death and cruel poachers that could step on the bloom of any moment?

how could a flower live, let alone survive, if its careless caretakers who took it away from its fertile lands neglect it of its requirements to grow and bloom into its rightful imagery?

just how?

you are a flower.

and you will wilt soon the longer you live in what you once thought was your home.

growing in cracked, dry soil, with no water nor sunlight aiding your growth.

you are a flower.

who had been loved by your creator, mother nature herself; your mother. but you've never once felt the care nor love of your cruel humans you call family, your father had never once saw your budding petals, kissed it, patiently watered or spent time outside in the sunlight with you. your brothers don't notice your dehydrated pets, shriveled leaves and bent stems, nor do they tend to it. your sisters don't decorate the pot you reside it, they don't talk to you every time you sag down in loneliness and isolation as you are forced to stay in the same place and witness the same scenarios over and over again.

not much knows it, but flowers, much like any plant, can communicate, they can feel. and when they do, they do deeply.

and you are a flower. a flower worthy of being pressed into books, storing your beauty forever. a flower worthy of being situated into a stunning arrangements of bouquets, worshipped through birthdays, dates, weddings, and even funerals.

you're a flower, and you're beautiful and deserving of praise and honor from your stages in life as a seed, from a bud, to a blooming flower. yet you're neglected the same way ignorant trespassers would step on growing blooms, uncaring for sabotaging their life completely, and oh-so easily.

you're a flower, a symbol of nature's fertility, resilience, and tranquility.

you symbolize your mother's long standing determination to care for a child whose father looked other ways but her. who raised her seedling with care, watered them with stories of fairytales: fantasies about prince charmings who take their flowers away from barren lands to spoil them with rich soil and neverending sunlight, about princesses who stop by flower shops to awe at the arrangements of bouquets, eyes glazing with fervor as they recount each and every symbolism every unique flower shares.

your mother places you in your favorite, decorated pot: your shared bedroom with her, and she kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your chubby little fingers, the same way the illuminating sunlight kisses at your flushed body whenever you two would go out for your walks.

she was your mother nature, and you were her precious flower.

you were once a blooming bud then, and you wished you would still bloom now.

how could you grow into what you're worth, when even you couldn't grow without the love that was taken from you?

what about the care, the patience, the determination she once held in her warm gaze, now cold and fading with life the last time you saw her; would it all be a waste?

how could you grow now?

and yet you don't even need to ponder for solutions. the answers were clear, clear as the water your petals used to bathe in, clear as the rain that pitters against alfred's car windows the same day you were taken away from your mother's hold—

you simply wilt.

8:31PM.

your friend said she'd pick you up quarter to nine, so you'd at least have the time to prepare and make yourself look good. but right now...

god, right now, you don't feel anything good, not even a wee bit of it at all. ever since he texted you, you feel like shit, utterly repulsed. vile, like the image of you vomiting every contents of your stomach— and now you're going out drinking with an empty one. you can already feel the bitter taste of heavy alcohol mixing in with the acids of your stomach.

you can already feel the breakdown you're having right now as you remember how fucking broke and useless you are for having to ask your friends to treat you to drinking because you have nothing left to offer beyond the fucking taxes you have to pay and the nearly due rent and bills.

you have nothing to offer. you're so shitty. you deserve to die.

the more you stare at the mirror, the more your eyebags seem to deepen, your lips began to dry, and the pit in your chest sunken.

and that makes you exhale even deeper, ignoring the way your throat constricts on itself in instinct.

your eyes flitter to your fingers, nails bitten, skin ripped at the seems with dry blood staining chipped cuticles.

when you looked back at your reflection, you want to cry even more, seeing an image of a moving pile of flesh. all puffy skin and sagging eyes.

you don't remember the last time you felt pretty about yourself.

whether it was in the manor, or back when your mother was the only one raising you— it seems like your memories are in shambles right now.

you don't remember the last time you looked in a mirror, looking healthy, fresh, and proud of yourself for dressing up in your style. in the back of your mind, there will always be hatred, resentment for how you look. and right now, you hate how you every bit of your appearance because...

because you look exactly just like an image of your mother and bruce wayne. a reminder, your punishment for your parents' beautifully tragic affair with one another. a billionaire who courted the lowly dirt-class slut of gotham.

yet you're uglier because you're not them, you couldn't be them. you're not picture-perfect brucie with slick-black hair and a face like fine-aged wine, or the image of your sultry, "man-eater" mother in her lingerie. you're just, you— you've inherited all the stupid flaws you wished you could shave off your damn body.

you remember seeing your father's face in television with your mother beside you by the couch, combing your hair and giggling when your eyes had lit up at the sight of the rich man. you haven't once took your eyes off the news channel whenever he appeared, looking at bruce, always enamored with his aesthetics, only to never notice your mother's tired eyes, or how shaky her fingers would sometimes become.

"momma, that's daddy, right?!" you asked her whilst the side of your body was pressed against hers, with all the enthusiasm a child could muster. your grin was wide, eyes peeled to the screen, enough to ignore the flinch in your mother as you had once thought it was her igniting with the same excitement as yours.

she simply leans down and kisses your cheeks, her eyes, a beautiful shade of your eyes color, albeit lighter in hue, never once left the crown of your small head, ignoring the headline for the news about 'brucie's new fling caught on camera!'.

your mother was so glad you were still illiterate at your age. she wish she could never break off the illusion that it was her who simply birthed to you, with no face for a father. maybe you would've never ask her about why he had never once came to visit your small family, why you could never meet your other siblings, or why he's seen with multiple other women by his side every time you open the television.

you ask at frequent intervals; it makes her wish to strip away the past in which she chose to tell you who your father was. you would've experienced less heartbreak, she would've never seen the way your eyes would dim at her every excuse, or the way she felt your heart crack at the seams, only further breaking hers.

yet after a while, she replies and buries her thoughts, ignoring the tears that lid her eyes. with not so much enthusiasm in her light voice, with the undertones of guilt and sorrow digging deep throat her throat, but it was enough for young, little you to jump on your springy couch with her response.

"... oh, yes, that's your papa...! isn't he so nice looking—?"

"and handsome! i'm so lucky to have such beautiful parents! i wish i was as pretty as you, momma, and daddy too!"

when you had looked up with haste, glinting eyes staring up at her with a wide grin, some baby teeth still present, others absent from your gums, yet you displayed admiration no less; your mother just as quickly wipes her red eyes and sniffling nose with the worn sleeves of her sweater and reciprocates your beaming energy with a small smile.

she wishes you'd dismiss her previous melancholic expression, replacing it with the same fond, yet tired gaze she always offers you, wishing you'd be as oblivious to the pain it brings her to see your hopes and dreams of meeting a father you could only admire through a screen or article. yet you're always so perceptive, so interlinked with her reactions that she's sure that one of the few positive traits your father had given you. she should've expected your words, yet her broken heart finds a path to heal whenever you sense her pain and soft a bandage to the cracks of her bleeding scars with your kindness.

you would always be her little flower. the one she'd nurture in a garden filled with rosy bushes and scarring thorns.

"—you're so beautiful, momma, even if you cry because daddy isn't here with us, or you're too tired taking care of me. you're beautiful because you're my mother, and i'll take you over everything in the world..."

and you tell her, an inaudible whisper to your voice, with eyes that were once wide, beaming with joy, now gazing at her with softness like the wind kissing blades of grass in a gentle dance. you look at her, and she stares back, eyeing your chubby cheeks and lips the same shape of hers, the ends of your lashes curves the same way as hers, and your voice matches her like a lullaby when you speak every vowel in a soothing lilt.

you calm the hurt in her chest, replacing it with a mellow warmth. she even forgot the tears that slowly dripped her eyes, all replaced with the comfortable softness of her precious child's palms, smooth and cozy, resting on both of her cheeks as you pepper her crying face with kisses.

she holds both your palms caging her, and allows the your hold to linger for longer. the silence ensues, yet you both embrace the unsaid assurances.

it's times like these where she realizes you encapsulate the beauty of both worlds.

it's moments like this, she sees herself in you, and maybe she could lead herself to believe that she is beautiful, because she sees her beauty through her child, her grace.

the memory only further deepens the guilt in your heart.

if there's one word to describe you now. it would be disgrace. to your father's honor, and your mother's legacy. for easily letting yourself go, for being so weak, for being the line that jumps between two polar opposites of one another; trying to traverse their path of belonging.

you're a disgrace, a mistake, and you deserve to be treated as such.

it was why you never find yourself beautiful. a person such as yourself would always find allure, worth in all things chaotic - you live in gotham after all - but never find that same value in yourself as you look at your reflection that distorts your image even more, making you uglier and uglier the longer you look.

split ends everywhere, hand tangled, reddish eyes from nearly crying again.

even if you beat at yourself, erratic and impulsive, even if your skin is colored an ashen blue and purple, rotten shades of yellow and red, you think of yourself ugly and repulsive.

no matter how much color you try to bring into your bleak, repulsive life, at the cost of hurting yourself to become pretty— every part of you will always be that ugly, little duckling in comparison of your siblings who always outshone you.

dick with his playboy body, jason and his towering one, tim with soft boyish features, damian's silky tan and smooth skin, and duke's baby face.

you couldn't even have your hair frame you as perfectly as steph's light blonde hair does, or share barbara's proportionate face, or look as gracious yet deadly like cassandra.

you're nowhere near as special, you're not like them. you have features too unique, yet out of place, and you couldn't bring yourself to be conventionally good-looking.

you hate yourself so much. you hate every little mole, every little pimple, every damn imperfection that litter your body, making you even lesser than what you already are.

your family; mother, father, brothers and sisters, god, even your fucking friends! every time you sit by them side-by-side, you'd feel insecure, imperfect, an eyesore and you just want to strip away every part of your limbs one by one if that meant replacing it with even better ones; all for the sake of at least feeling pretty.

you remember the first time you tried to find a sense of style, and damian's comment and– god fucking damn it—!

your hands found its way to your brushed hair, tangling itself through already fragile strands to rip at the seams. you don't care, you don't fucking care, you pray to any god out there to get them out of your head, pleas unheard, you're always left to hurt.

"what are you trying to achieve with that, huh? what even are you trying to think with that horrendous color combination? what are you, a clown? even that damned joker has more coordination than you think you could achieve."

in front of his friend, jon kent, with a scowl on his ever-so angry face and his hand already making a way to grip his sword; an absolute threat to dice you up shall you ever bother being in the same room as him.

he said that to you... you're older, you could've been stronger, could've at least found a semblance of fight in your bones. but no! god, no. your life was ruled with fear with damian wayne being the demon haunting you in the manor, always making living harder, making breathing a heavy task.

how could you ever fight back? not when you've conditioned yourself to tear up at the slightest bit of noise, feel goosebumps prick your skin when you hear someone raise their voice at you, and your heart rate hasten at the slide of a knife against any surface?

you! you who's so fucking weak to even make a comeback. you, who ran away with wide, traumatized eyes. because you're scared, so fucking fearful of an even bigger cut to your skin marked by damian— even if you're accustomed to cutting yourself with even deeper gashes.

because it's him that you fear, not the pain, not anymore. just him and his contempt at you for ruining his pure bloodline just by you being his half-sibling.

you don't want a repeat of your first meeting, or any meeting with him at all. not when you'd drown even deeper in a pit of fear every time you stare at his glaring, emerald eyes. one that tells you he chose to merely not kill you out of the goodness of his heart. but he will, god he will if he feels you've been too comfortable in his presence.

every damn time, everytime you feel fear, you see green. you hate green, any literal meaning of it, every implication of itx even seeing it, and fuck! your outfit has green embellishments.

you feel even uglier, yet the twinge of fear immediately overpowers any concern your had with your appearance. it's as if eyes were suddenly on you, and it's not only yours staring at you in the mirror.

your lips wobble, snot began blocking through the passage of your nose.

fuck, fuck, fuck.

why?! why can't you just forget about them all. why, why, why?!

you bite your lips harshly to conceal the pained whimpers from the back of your throat, but it doesn't work. it only makes the fear worse.

tears rim at your eyes, you merely wipe them away. your heart attempts to beat out of its gilded cage, yet you swallow your quivering chokes and proceed to continue staring at yourself in the mirror, dressed in a rush, with nothing to conceal your ghastly eyebags and sunken skin.

and green. you'll see it everywhere now. fuck, would dick send out damian to kill you now? you don't know, you're scared but you can't chicken out, not when your friend is already near to your apartment. god you wish you had beer in your cabinets instead, but you're broke and unprepared for life and your hair's all in a tangle and you just fucking want to die.

your hands grip at the edge of your sink, you look at your mirror and see the blood on your already bitten lips.

not even concealer can cover the damn scars all over your face all through the neck.

calm down.

you stare even deeper at yourself and ignore the green, trying to think of something else—

something less emotionally scarring, like your appearance. even if it brings you great pain, too, you'd rather that than your family. no more of them, fuck, no more. even if you stare at your eyes and see that familiar mix of colors of your mother and bruce's eyes. the shape of your face, even the curve of your brows all resembled your late mother— and you miss her, her captivating beauty that you never saw aged like fine way before she was taken away from you. you see bruce in the strands of your hair and the way it sometimes fray when too stressed. you see them in every image you wish to erase of yourself.

yet your genetics are nothing to them, not when you can't even care for your tangled hair or ashen skin.

even the dead looked more lively than you ever could.

with a pale complexion, with scars that litter all over your shoulders, wrists, and hidden parts of your body, one you're too ashamed to show anybody— it was no doubt that you looked pathetic and erased the beauty that both your parent's cultivated. and it makes you wonder; would it really be worth it?

would it be worth it if the people around you see you?

you with your melancholic eyes, trying to find an escape in a maze you call your mind? you can picture yourself drinking alcohol until you reach the domain of death, sitting in a stool, alone, as you nearly empty the contents of your stomach remembering the sole reason why you're there in the first place.

would it be worth it if all eyes suddenly were on you? they turn to you to gaze at the ugly bruises on your body, they mock your appearance, call you names, look at your sniveling, red nose and warm cheeks intoxicated from all the heavy liquor you'd down, and whisper. they'll whisper insults, slurs, and every known jab until it's all their words that pierces through your eyes, until the loud bass becomes mere background chatter for all the gossips that ensue.

are you actually going to do this right now?

you don't know, you don't know and you wish never cared as much.

all you could really focus on was your eminent goal of getting out of your stuffy apartment, to rid of the paranoia that somehow, you're being watched over in the confines of your four walls and that the familiar image of green will come attack you. the more you think, the more the hairs on your skin start to raise with every known intention to signal you of your anxiety.

eyes, they may be everywhere.

eyes, eyes, eyes. as you stare at your eyes, you try to ignore emerald eyes, they dilute even further. you gulp, yet your focus remains distorted. images flash at the mirror, and suddenly they're here, with you, with their eyes. bright blue for some, dark green for another, and they all gaze at you with contempt. one's hand claws at your throat, the other pins your wrist down on the edge of the sink. the eyes glare, and they never soften. yours merely shook, unblinking as your breathing becomes heavier; trapped in the cages of their wanton staring.

you yelp, then blink. when you did, they're gone. and you're back to looking at the same image of yourself. you grimace slowly.

ugly, with dry skin and falling hairs. the worst version of you, the normal version of yourself— there was never a best version for you.

as long as it's you, you'll never be enough.

all you wanted was to drink with your friends at a club; some working nightshifts at the location you're going to— yet you want to back down. want to take your phone by the corner of your vision and cancel your sudden plans.

but you're scared, you're so fucking scared of any new messages.

hell, even finding the contacts for your friends was a task in itself you wish to never repeat. with jittery fingers trying to type of messages and blurry eyes navigating through the screen of your slippery, glass screen protector.

you're scared, rightfully so.

you're scared to find his message once more suddenly popping up, your fingers accidentally pressing on it like the clumsy swine you are, and rereading that damn heart over and over again.

you slam your dominant hand against the tiled sink, hard and uncaring for the pain it induced all throughout your body. the tremors of the impact shook you to your core, yet you seethe in your breath and don't allow yourself respite to let the tears flow freely from your already red eyes. you feel your heart beating erratically through your chest, the shivers controlling your body, the shrieks that you contained within you— and you enchain them all with no respect for yourself.

you deserve this. you deserve to be hurt, to be punished for your actions, for your mistakes, for your sins.

even if your hand became swollen, splotched with varying shades of disgusting purples and yellows, you won't treat it with medicine. even if the sharp edges of the sink broke the fragile layer of your already scarred palm, and bled profusely with that familiar shade of red; you won't rush to wrap it with gauze or even spare a droplet of betadine. even if by the next day you'd have to write out your overdue assignments with that specific hand, then you'll force yourself to learn through the other and punish yourself again if you fail once more.

you deserve this.

and as your phone pings, lighting up to show you a notification of one of your friend's messages about being ready to pick you up by the lobby of your apartment's ground floor, you ignore your injured hand and the bruises on your knees from falling so abruptly on tiled floors just moment's ago. you dismiss the ache of your head, the soreness of your eyes and the disgusting beat of your heart.

you ignore the pain that wrecks at your entire body, in favor of destroying it even more, just as you deserve.

you don't recall how many shots you had before you're nearly passed out by the bar, sitting on its stool with your head leaning on one both your arms crossed, drool close to slipping out of the corners of your mouth and heavy eyes lidded, about to fall into the depths of sleep.

you're sure you looked wasted, absolutely drop-dead drunk with no thoughts circulating in your head other than the pleasant buzz in your ears and the flash of colors in the disco balls blanketing the entire room with its neon lights. your face must've been an unearthly shade of red, and you can already feel just how blazen it is, and how your fingertips are ice-cold to the touch (probably colder than the marble you lay your arms upon). in other words, you're actually wasted.

and it's so worth it if it means it gets you to forget. and forget you did, because you can't even dig deep into your head to even remember a single memory of whatever grief you went through earlier in your apartment. not even the throb of your head from when you pulled your hair from its roots, all to the way you slammed your dominant hand on your bathroom sink, bruising it with unnatural shades of purples and yellow.

it makes you omit every type of pain, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. it doesn't cure you of your ails, but god forbid you if you just want to savor moments where nothing but a mind numbing headache is the only feeling present in your current state.

the remix of songs were long forgotten in your mind, they all become an amalgamation of miscellaneous sounds. your body is so inclined towards the flat, rectangular cool surface of the marble glass of the bar that you can guarantee you could sleep here, especially since black behan to cloud both your vision and your mind.

everything feels so hazy, and pleasant, and straight-out peaceful that the screaming tandems of equally drunk clubbers and the occasional sobers holding up their friends who sang along with whatever remix the dj comes up with, or the forming crowd as people began to rock and dance to the bass that shakes up the entire floor to the point you can feel vibrations run along your spine— didn't register within the crevices in your mind.

all you can focus on, is the gratifying pleasure ll alcohol induces in your body. gone is the feeling of fear that emanates off of every inch within your body. your bones don't feel as if it's locking up everytime you feel eyes on you, and your throat doesn't certainly feel constricted with the lack of flow of blood anymore.

god, this is why you've never once regret drinking right after the moment you turned eighteen— not when it's positive effects outweighs all the negative emotions that rule over your body.

you couldn't even notice a man with shades (seriously, who wears that to party? isn't the club dark enough?) sitting beside your drunken form in the corner of your eyes, raptured in the thin line between focusing on reality and drifting off to dream world. you don't even bat an eye to his muffled giggles and the way he twisted his stool just to admire the view: you.

you're oblivious to the entire commotion happening within the depths of his mind because you couldn't feel any aptitude to danger right now— thanks to the effects of the hard liquor overtaking whatever fear you've felt being watched long ago.

or maybe you just felt safe beside the stranger. or, you're merely drunk. you don't know.

fuck, you're so close to passing out.

you don't know where your friends are, where they came running off to but you know you won't be getting out her sooner or later and you definitely don't have a ride home. so your only way back without getting ambushed as a completely vulnerable citizen of gotham, is by a safer, more convenient means of a ride— but that certainly wouldn't be safe if your friends are as equally drunk, or even more so, as you. but does your hazy mind care? no. not when you flip your head to rest on the other side once the other side became hotter that you notice a conveniently attractive man staring right back at you with an entertained grin.

as if your existence alone makes him happy. as much as your mind keeps blanking out, that mere implication made your heart pang just a teensy bit. of pain, or pleasure, or mere joy, you don't know. but you do know that it triggered some unknown feelings and you don't want to feel.

you want to drink some more, feeling solemn all of a sudden just from staring at him. you're sure the obvious frown on your quivering lips and the heavy, hot sigh

and it doesn't help that his face seems similar. the longer you stare, the more his grin seems to sharpen. confidently? or shyly? you can't seem to gain a clear image of him; what when rainbow lights are blazing out through the holes of the disco ball and your eyes recently just opened to your near journey to traverse through sleep.

all you can make out to be is his jet-black hair, side bangs framing the left side of his face, a faint outline of an eyebrow piercing

you also took note of his spiky jacket— yet what draws you the most to him are his sunglasses that he chose to wear conspicuously in a damn club of all places.

he's attractive, to say the least, but he triggers a set of emotions deep into the cages of your imprisoned heart that sets itself free. he gives you a sense of nostalgia, of familiarity that you can't pinpoint but feel; like you've seen him before but don't know when. your eyebrows furrow in and your eyes squint at him, unknowing to the judgement you're subjecting him in. your lips wobble, though, because his presence just makes your heart feel something, akin to pain but not quite, and makes your head buzz that you just want to cry as a reaction.

he, the stranger, don't know it, but he makes you all sad, primal emotions overtaking any drunkenness you feel as deep tremors buzzed into the confines of your chest, until all you're doing is staring at him with pouting, downturned lips and sad, puppy eyes; rimming with salty tears.

you don't know why you feel sad all of the sudden, and you can faintly see through blurry, watery vision how his face shifted from entertained to worry, eyebrows raised and eyes wide open at your sudden mood shift.

maybe you or him could've spoken up, you more so, but you're just so emotionally drained and overwhelmed today that you began sobbing silently without breaking eye contact with the man.

despite you wanting to say anything: an introduction, a question opening up as to why he's staring at you, or even a mere phrase telling him to "back off"; the only words that came out from your parched throat, all from trying to reason in your head on what a proper sentence should be, were:

"you're hot," and if you were sober enough, you would've felt sheer embarrassment and shame from eyeing the boy, but you're not— and because you're not sober, or any bit sane, the next few sentences you spewed out were all coherent, yet wonkily pronounced utterances paired with teary eyes and sniffling nose, as you can't seem to control the feelings of melancholy in your heart and the sudden emotional burst from your ramblings.

"thank you, you too, actually— but are you alright-"

"you're so hot, god, please. i don't know..." you gave him no time to speak as you hiccupped, lips wobbling even more than you can imagine. and you're trying your damn best to rid of the urge to punch at your chest as a coping mechanism through the multitude of emotions eating you up and away. but you never realized you were trying for an absolute stranger, palms fisting into itself as he stares at you worriedly all of a sudden.

"like... you're familiarly attractive, i—" the next few sentences were incoherent as your words bubbled around you like detergent soap. your fingers found itself into your face as you try to wipe off both tears and nearly dripping snot as you continued rambling drunkly.

"you just! you're hot, for me, i don't know... i'm just, we all—eughh... i don't know, i'm so sad..." and you truly are, for no reason at all other than seeing the man. poor him, must've felt so ashamed that he's the reason you're crying but at the same time... nothing can really stop you from ceasing your tears.

at least, that's what you've convinced yourself to believe in. that you're truly incurable of the ailment of being constantly depressed with nobody to aid you with your troubles. not even your friends, nor past therapists that you've consulted.

you've nothing to comfort you, and that makes you even more solemn than ever.

the simplest of emotions felt, the deeper and complex you take it out to be. sadness, or moreover depression, the horseman of apocalypse that destroys any hope you've tried to kindle with your life.

it makes you all the more burst into a wave of even more tears.

"... okay, okay, wait here for me, alright?" he suddenly stood up, hurriedly, probably unsure, or disgusted by you. you're unsure about what he's saying, too caught up crying that you simply nod to whatever he said and continued on with your episode.

as you're left alone, you allow your tears to dry only cry once more. when he left you, you weren't aware but you just felt even more lonely. at pushing away the only company you had after your friends left you in the dust, you feel depressed and regretful and all emotions related to grief and you just want to drink some more but you don't know if you can take it anymore!

god, it all returns to pain. pain you thought you could bury deep once you took multiple swigs of alcohol.

pain that makes you want to bang your head against the marble of the bar—

and you're so close to doing so, but only stopped when your blurry vision sets itself on the man returning with a handkerchief and a cold glass of ice water. at his kind gesture, you simply teared up even more, pouting when he walked your way and looked at you with a sheeping grin.

when he sat right back up on the stool seated to your right, he hesitated with his hold on the handkerchief near your face. but the moment he gathered up his pride and pressed it against the unnatural blaze of your cheeks, you merely leaned closer to his palms, eyes closing as you can feel the tears cease itself finally at the blind comfort he's unknowingly providing you.

"there, there... be careful, 'kay stranger?"

he mutters, a light chuckle accompanying him. it's only now you can finally focus on the cool churn of his voice and the , with your eyes close and the haze of your thoughts washing away, leaving you breathless in your respite— not restrictive, nor lonely, but still short of breath.

this reminds you of the times alfred had to hold you in his arms everytime you threw a tantrum at the manor.

it made you realize that the months, a near year even, after leaving the manor, made you crave physical affection. making you feel like a husk of yourself when not given. you feed off of the scraps of physical lovez to the point that even this man who's wiping away the tears from your cheeks makes your heart beat faster, in a comfortable manner.

sensations. he once told you that if you feel too deeply within, then to ground yourself you must feel beyond interior ranges of emotions.

and that's the technique you've been willing away from your head for so long. because it always requires another person in the room to comfort you, to simply touch you softly, gently like you're porcelain the same way the stranger is pressing damp fabric against your tearstained cheeks and hollowed out eyes.

the pain you've felt was because you're merely touch starved. alone, in a space where everyone has someone, and a no one can't have anyone.

but now that you do have a someone, no matter how dangerous he could've been outside of your impression of him, you feel the pain lessen, the heavy burdens become featherlight at his kind gestures of wiping all the salty tears from your face, the runny snot from your nose with no rush whatsoever.

"feel better now, hon?"

"mhm..." a long, drawled out yawn emits from your mouth, yet you're too comfortable with him to even care, suddenly feeling a wave of drowsiness after your emotional episode.

after he finished wiping your face, and felt it considerably cool down from the damp fabric, he placed it on the bar, one hand on your face keeping you stable. yet his other hand promptly went back to your cheeks.

he chose to do this of his own volitions, even leaning closer as your head finds itself slowly dropping to his clavicle (careful to avoid the spikes from his peculiar designed jacket), looking up at him and staring at his gray eyes.

the man looks down at you as you now realize he's cupping your face. at the implication of your entire ordeal with him, you might've felt flustered sober, but you're just so drunk that any spacial awareness for the proximity between your bodies just disappeared and left you with the need to sleep within the confines of the safety this man left you with.

you don't know it, but yet again the man smiles down at your adorable antics, finding the way you're absolutely trusting of a stranger both stupid, yet endearing. because he's no more stranger, and heaven bless him because he's so glad he's the person who approached you rather than anyone else because you looked so cute, and his crush on you may have lead him to stalk you occasionally just to ensure you're safe— that doesn't erase the gesture that he did it purely because gotham is too dangerous for your own good. and he's glad he trusted his human side of intuition, rationalizing with himself that today just seems to be the day you'd bump into danger if he's not there.

you're so stunning up close... how come tim never once found interest in someone as admirable as you is a mystery. but you trusting a stranger in your vulnerable state is much more.

and he's grateful he's that stranger.

because he may be a stranger to you, but a familiar one. and you feel safe, a feeling you haven't felt in so long that you simply just melt against him like clear putty; because you're transparent with what you feel right now.

and right now you feel warmth. not the uncomfortable one that blazes through your (now) cool face when you were drunk, nor the burning one whenever you thought of your family— but a pleasant one. like sitting near a fireplace as you watch the embers crackle, drinking hot cocoa whilst a quilt covers your body from the cold of the winter. you feel this way at his kindness, at his efforts to help you contain your emotions to a reasonable degree.

"what's your name, kind stranger?" you mutter on his chest (how come your head is laying on it, actually?) hearing the soft thumps of his heart. it's warm, he's warm and every bit of comfortable, as he does his best to move slightly back to remove his jacket and drape it over your body before he could reply to you, chuckling whilst doing so because you looked up at him with your eyes conveying every damn emotion that made you feel soft.

"it's conner, conner kent. call me kon, though. or yours if it's you." he purrs. it took you a minute to register his obvious flirting but what comes after is an absolute flush on your body and you recoiling from his hold as you look back at him, mouth agape. the tips of your ears were warm, and every bit of

an overexaggeration to his flirting, sure. it makes you look less appealing in your eyes, extra sure! but it's been so long since someone last attempted to flirt with you; but most were under the guise of when you were still a wayne and... and not as yourself. you! you who sports so many imperfections that—

"haha! is it strange to say that you look so cute whenever you look at me with wide eyes in the short span of time we just met?"

he slides in through your train of thoughts before you could delve even deeper through self-deprecation. and you're glad that he did because... god, he makes you want to shamelessly gloat as a reply. you've never had someone complement your eyes before, actually...

"i'm..." you look back at him after you stared down at your palms, heat overtaking your entire body. yet again it wasn't uncomfortable, and just the right temperature. you stutter your name afterwards, making sure it's your mother's last name that you highlighted implicitly and not bruce's.

he seems to grin even wider when you introduce yourself. that's when his next reply generally warranted you to nearly burst off your seat out of sheer diffidence.

"well," he says your name, tasting every syllable in his pierced tongue. "your name tastes sweet, dove. but i think your face is even sweeter now that you're not crying — not saying that isn't cute too but you're so stunning now that i look closer at you without any barriers. your eyes, especially, they're like some mix doe and siren eyes, or whatever my other friends talk about in social media. point given, you're drop-dead gorgeous in my eyes."

it all comes naturally from him that your brain merely shortcircuited and fried itself comprehending his message, forgetting you were drunk in the first place replacing it with a flush in your heart, the pit of grief and despair replaced with the lighthearted need to banter or reply meekly at his shameless flirting right after he comforted you.

this is the first time you felt something for someone's romantic gestures, instead of that wave of nausea that accompanies you.

he makes you feel... pretty about yourself. in a good way, in a way you don't feel the need to hide your insecurities for once and instead allow his eyes to flitter around your entire face, analyzing your features because... because he simply makes you feel pretty the more he stares at you.

yet all you did was take his hand on your own, a sudden burst of confidence even you couldn't explain, and played with it, as you pouted in reply before thinking— using his hand-now-turned-fidget-toy — of a good enough response.

you simply said, coughing before continuing, "i don't take back what i said moment's ago. you're hot too, even if my vision was obstructed by my tears."

"oh, really?" he smiled gently and allowed your hands autonomy to play with his. it's like telepathy, he knows it's automatic that you crave physical affection and attention and he's willing to provide you that solace.

"now that you're not crying— you think i'm even more handsome?"

you snort at his question, then took a step back with your thoughts to properly study him. neat, yet messy hair, piercing on the eyebrows and on his tongue (hot), sunglasses and spiky jacket draped upon your shoulders— goddamnit, of course he's hot! and you made it efficiently clear that he is, with your hands fiddling pattern against his soft, yet calloused hands, by squeezing it.

"yes, you are even more handsome, kon..." brief and concise, just how you like it. even if he gave you an entire essay describing you in his eyes, for you, you prefer actions; and you did so by simply being affectionate with the stranger, now acquaintance you have a slight crush on.

you'd never expected this turn of events, but it was a pleasant one and one you'd never really want to trade with anything else now that you've met kon.

so when he opened his mouth to spew something else, your ears perked up to listen and your mind, albeit slowly sobering up, prepared itself to reply to whatever flirting, conversation topics, and anything random it is that he wishes to talk about to you.

you smiled at him whilst he talked, he reciprocates as always.

yet this time, you weren't afraid to hide just how joyous you feel, for once, having a person interested in you not only physically but with your interests, too, as your conversations kept shifting to things about you.

it made inclined to learn about yourself, too. and that makes you happy, and fuzzy in the insides the more he asks you questions beyond your favorites. like in movies, he didn't simply just ask your favorites and you replied with an answer and moved on, no! you both discussed the emotional depth it impacted you with, why symbolism matters so much, and why in the near future you'd both inevitably meet up, you'll both watch it together.

that makes you feel excited.

you even forgot the main reason why you're here in the first place; to drink. now, though, it seems like you just wanted to talk to kon all night long.

fortunately for you, that's how the rest of your night went. with a pleasant buzz in the background, the sounds of remixes all drowned out in your ears as you favor the chatters of the man beside you, with the tremor of his voice a comfortable volume and his tone laced with freshly made honey.

when your friends finally ran back to the bar where you all collectively agreed to meet up at once everyone's shenanigans were finished, they giggled drunkenly whilst some sober ones whistled at seeing your hand unknowingly massaging his palms like a stresstoy and the jacket draped upon your shoulders.

the moment you returned it to him, he joked about wearing it every second now since it reminds him of you, and how it's his favorite piece of attire now beyond all his other clothing. you merely blushed and ignored the cooing of your friends behind you.

you didn't feel concerned over not seeing him anymore, as he had given you a slip of paper with his number on it in through a tissue with paracetamol pills wrapped around it (like the thoughtful gentleman he made himself out to be when he excused himself a second time to get those items, since you'd left your phone with one of your friends; you swore you felt a blush creep into your cheeks and heating the tip of your ears), you instead felt a pang of longing and furrowed your brows, looking at him as if asking if you'll see him around anytime soon as he reciprocates with a sure grin that makes you feel a wave of feather like affection.

he left shortly after, striding to you as your group recollects all your stuff and whispering a, "text you later, dove. stay safe for me, alright? don't let any other strangers get to you."

you're glad this night would end on a good note, willing away any prior doubts towards spending the night in a completely foreign street and expecting fir criminals and thugs to break in but no! you can't help but admit that your new... interest, conner, made your night a thousand times better.

and his little nickname for you... haha, you're so flustered thinking about texting him tonight. you'd neglect your assignments for now if it meant messenging him right after you get home, safely, for his sake.

when your group all came outside though, that's when things shifted.

time is a construct. it's complicated and structured like that as well. it can either be too fast, or too slow. when your friends had taken their sweet time to spend the night dancing about the dancefloor, when you'd taken the precious time to flirt and talk to kon; that's when you all collectively realized that their damn cars were stolen.

the air suddenly shifted to this thick atmosphere when you all stepped out, one that can be sliced through with a sword, and you swore—

god, you swore this night couldn't have been any better with the turn of things, but now. right after you got out the club, it all took a turn for the worse.

this is it.

you're going to die today.

you're going to die, in some dirty ditch, your friends nowhere to be found, with nobody to save you.

nasty bruises already began to form on your skin, one with harsher colors of purple, blue, and yellow on your wrists and other patches of skin; way harsher

the man in front of you was gnarly, but you've no time to judge as he kicks you in the guts.

matted brown hair lay atop his head like a bird's attempt at a near, he has an odor that reeks of sewer rats, piss, and feces, and an unruly beard that houses bits of his leftover.

he holds a weapon whose shape you couldn't make out with your hazy vision, body nearly cramping in on itself once he kicked you again.

straight in the abdomen, with brute strenght accompanied by his worn leather boots decorated with glinting spikes that sparkle under the moonlight's glow.

in the abdomen, spikes.

blood first, then curdling pain next.

no noise rips through your ears, only wringing ever present, but your mouth opens, and you can feel its tender chords crack as a scream erupts from your throat, shrill and resounding from the deepest depths of the cockpit your mouth has to offer you; uncaring for the man in front of who who suddenly covers his ears and grits his teeth, who looks at you like you're mad, yet unlike same way his two other lackeys from behind look at your like you're the creation of carnage itself.

pain shot throughout your body, most especially at the core of the holes that pierced through your clothes and right inside your skin. and as your bulging, teary eyes try to look down with an agape, whimpering mouth, his shoes still connected to your body; you could only hold off so much of that familiar taste of acidic bile paired with that lingering scent of cheap booze.

tears were a byproduct of the misery, as it began to escape from your already puffy eyes. when the man released his legs fron pinning you down, your sobs only worsened as your unpinned, shivering arm try its damned best to cover the already leaking blood.

six holes, the diameter of the more than half of your finger, was what you could make out in your line of sight. the blood that leaked from them looked black, you couldn't find where the gradient of black and red connects, your only certainty in this situation was that you'd bleed to death before help could come to you.

the spikes were as long as a toothpick, a crimson puddle lay dripping on the floor.

your legs were shaking against your will, your eyes frantically search around you yet your pinned once more, his larger body framing against your own, providing no room nor qualms for an escape.

but the only escape you wanted was one from the pain of his pressing against your injury, even more blood spilling out of its confines. your tears only hastened its descent from your shaky eyes.

when your mouth opened for the nth time to wail out, he seethed in a breathe and threatened you, with his breath as vile as his entire being, that smells like every mix of synthetic chemicals from cigarette flavors, all expired, with teeth rotting and sporting yellow and black wallpaper.

gross, so gross. you want to die when the stench hits your nose. you shrivel in yourself, you couldn't breath.

"listen here, little bitch, you quiet down or i kill you. and 'ya either give me everythin' you own in your damn possession, or i'll kick you even more until a thousand little holes will fuckin' make you bleed to death, hear me?"

hearing his statement only made the adrenaline pump even more fight of flight into your heart. but you can't do either, you can't, not when you're still hazy from the fucking alcohol and the self defense tools in your tiny pouch were thrown a few feet away from you.

you've nothing to defend yourself.

oh god, oh shit, fuck.

you want to die, you want to so fucking die than go through the same pain of nearly being abducted or held hostage again.

yet your eyes could only close, your teeth kissing your bottom lips, biting hard to drown out another pained scream. whimpers, god, they're so loud yet you can't help the whimpers and the broken faucet from your eyes. even if you beg your own body to stop, it doesn't listen to the pleas of your mind.

the only thing it can focus on is the pain. recreant, volatile pain.

a moan escapes you, shaky and prolonged. the only other emotion that you could experience after is sorrow.

you didn't expect your pleasant night to end off in such a tragic note, but as your attacker held you by your throat with one hand, a knife pointed against your face, the next that happened was your head slammed roughly against the wall; a dull, beating ache lulling the back of your head after the momentary spark of pain— you're reminded that this is reality, and you're close to losing consciousness quick.

you're going to die.

bloody, a sobbing, dissociating mess, with your thoughts spinning around the same way the stranger and his lackeys laugh — bared yellow teeth, with the smell of ichor prevalent in their clothes, predatory eyes leering at you like you're prey — at your drunken moans of pain.

you're going to die.

"well, you gonna answer me or what, bitch? you wanna die!?"

he shouts you with spit that sprays all over your face, flashing you a grin and by extension flashing you his ugly, bared teeth. some missing were in his gums, others were artificial, most rotten like him.

you're going to die.

alone, in a ditch. bloody, laying in a pool of your own crimson the same way you saw your mother drowns in a puddle of hers.

you'll die like her—

what an honor.

the more you think about the situation, the more you're led to believe that the only way to solve this was through death alone, with no restrictions, no buts or ifs. you've no fight left in your body, or any weapon to fight. you're drunk, defenseless and if you actually managed to escape, you'd still bleed to death in some unknown alleyway. if you're lucky, a stray police may find you and give you a proper burial. but you remember you're in the living incarnate of hell in america, you'll never have a proper death.

this was night in gotham. your death alone only adds to the already astounding high percentages of all the other lives lost to the same twisted fate. you were no different. and to die early than to suffer from torture is better.

i mean, who would give a shit if you die tonight, right? your family— wrong! alfred would panic at your disappearance, but he'll forget about you like he did others, you're sure of it. that's why he still chose to fucking serve the wayne's instead of fully taking your side. if he had to choose between saving you or the people he swore his loyalty onto, he wouldn't hesitate. you're sure. even if the thoughts made the doom in your heart heavier. even if you know your story would never be covered nor acknowledged, you still year

but life is unfair, everything is. that's why you're here now, in a dark fucking alleyway with men who'll more than take advantage of your dying body and leave your corpse in the dump after. life is unfair, yet it's even more cruel in gotham. you should've expected this, should've known that a turn of events could be possible. you'll feel regret in the afterlife, only for a life that could've been well-lived, but never for the choice of living through the torture you call being a wayne.

so you came to the conclusion; confident for once after living for thirteen and a half years walking on eggshells around a manor.

this is not as bad as their neglect.

you smile in response to the guy, genuine and filled with grace as your heart that once pounds against your chest now slows down to a calm pace, finally at peace. with no other intention than to rattle him even more, to the point of choosing you to kill with his own hands as brutally as he likes— so you finally take a well deserved rest from life.

you gather saliva at the center of your tongue, ignore the taste of blood that swirls, nor the soreness of your throat and the crimson dripping down your nose.

when he looks down at you, disoriented at what you're doing, you spit at him, all the beating in your heart hastened, yet slowed down as quickly as you heave in a final breath.

... you're finally going to die.

"FUCKING HELL, YOU DAMN CUNT—!"

you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the knife that would hopefully stab you in the face, or the chest, and think of your last thoughts. you thank alfred for caring for you for those thirteen years, you hope you win your mother's graces in the afterlife even if she discovered your deliberate choices for killing yourself in the spur of a moment, and you wish your old family a happy life living without you, even if they already did so for so long.

all you needed was seconds to conclude your prayers.

but they weren't answered as you wanted them to be, not when you open your wide eyes to what was supposed to be a glint of silver piercing through the middle of your face was replaced by a bullet, quick and precise, shooting through his cranium without mercy, body immediately laying limp within those seconds.

the other two behind him were good as dead, too, your savior not wasting any moment to end their lives then and there.

and as you stumbled from the grip released from your body, your torso nearly crumpling in on itself, a flash of familiar, metallic red enters your vision when you'd look up from your savior who's huge form now meticulously acts as your shield from the brutal carnage that lays upon your line of sight and a pillar of protection trying to help you stand from the pain that shot through your lower abdomen.

but you don't want to stand, you want to drop dead right now. you don't want this, you didn't want this to happen.

instead of gratitude, dread fills your lungs with water and your fingers were left to tremor.

he looks down at you, you couldn't make out his expression, but you could feel the anger coursing through his body, the same as the day you first met him when he was still newly rebirthed, like it's telling you of his unadulterated rage at witnessing the scene before him. his body shakes, heavily, and his grip on your hands tighten, a mechanical groan drawling deep from his automated voice banks that changes his voice.

yet all you feel was fear overtaking your entire body prior to the comfort at the prospect of death.

you'd rather die than this.

even you couldn't believe the whimper of his name from your wobbling lips, as your body, out of instinct despite the pain, tried to push itself against the wall, away from him.

he only moves to hold your waste protectively, like a... brother suffocating his younger sibling with blankets when they complain it's cold. overbearing, disgustingly affectionate; you don't want it.

you feel cold.

this day could've been any worse— and it took a turn to the all worse scenarios you could imagine.

"jason...?"

"angel..."

a single familiar name was spoken, yet a new nickname was introduced. angel: the same way jason swore what you looked like when he sped through his motorcycle after hearing a shriek from all across the streets, finding you, bleeding and beaten to a pulp, with your attacker almost stabbing you.

of course, who wouldn't hesitate pulling a gun against someone trying to kill your precious? jason doesn't even need to choose.

and whether he did it in the name of justice and respect to his moral code, or because finding someone with a familiar face, sharing the same hopeless, yet death-accepting expression as he did back when he died— it all doesn't matter in the heat of the moment now.

what matters is that his angel is hurt and the madness in him festers the longer you bleed out in his arms, defiant and fearful all the same.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,000+ words. AND I LITERALLY HATE THIS CHAPTER (new least favorite fr) 😭 this decision is so impulsive i gonna regret it soon. chapter 5 will be released after a few days and i promise it has more action than this I SWEAR. first parts are always boring. anyways, there're so many song references in this chapter and for the next chapter. if any of you could guess what they are, i'll be rewarding all of you with something special. otherwise, please leave comments for this chapter! what motivated me to write was reading everybody's comments and inputs, about the love they have for this series as much as i do. interactions, asks, comments, they're all important and dear to me and i heavily appreciate it. so more interaction = more content. after all, i'd rather a post with little likes but with no interaction than a post with no interaction but all likes.

otherwise, i can't add anymore to my taglist so taglist requests are closed!

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[seospicybin]

THE FUCKBOY NEXT DOOR.

PART I

Bangchan x reader. (s,a)

Chapters: Part II / Part III / Final.

Synopsis: Having issues to break up with your boyfriend, you seek help from the boy next door and the number one fuckboy in the area, Chan. (10k words)

Author's note: I went through a nasty break up a few weeks ago and this is basically just me trying to cope by being delulu about having a fuckboy Chan as a neighbor. Enjoy x

It becomes a habit now that Chan doesn't know where he is when he wakes up in the morning.

The first thing that he'll do is retrace everything to last night. He was DJ-ing at a club, had a few drinks in between, met a girl who was eyeing him the whole night, had a few more drinks, there was a little touching and a quick makeout session in the dark alley and people can guess what happens after that

So this is where he is right now, the girl's bedroom and he can recall everything that happened last night except the girl's name.

"Fuck!" Chan mutters under his breath.

Judging from how bright the sun is outside, he knows he only has a little window to make his escape so he quickly gets off the bed as calmly as possible. He then tiptoes around to gather his clothes and put them on without making any noise.

However, he fails at it as the head from his belt hits the bed frame and the clanging of metal meets metal echoing in the room.

The girl steers on her sleep and rolls over to the side, she brushes her hair away from her face, catching Chan putting his belt on.

The plan to make a quick getaway has come to a failure but he keeps his cool, continuing to buckle his belt and then plants his hands on each side of his waist.

"Morning," He awkwardly says with a forced smile.

"Morning," the girl replies with a smile then props an elbow against the mattress, sending the duvet sliding down her body and exposing her bare chest to him.

Chan might have been a little drunk when he met her but damn, his fuckboy radar works well even under the influence of alcohol.

"You're leaving already?" She asks, flipping her hair to the back to expose more of those beautiful mounds to him.

Chan has to tell his pervy brain to focus actively, he looks away and picks up his jacket from the floor.

"I promised a friend to help him move out today," He lies, then pretends to check the time on his phone, "And I'm kind of late."

The girl nods then twirls her hair around her finger, "Well then... when can I see you again?"

"I hope soon," Chan says with his charming grin that disguises the insincerity in his answer.

The girl smiles at that which confirms that the grin works, "But seriously, I can't wait to see you again," she says.

"I'll call you," he says because that's what he can promise her at the moment but whether he'll do it or not is uncertain.

"But you don't have my numbers yet," she says with her eyebrows wrinkled in suspicion.

"No, I'm sure you already did," he says, convincing her by scrolling the contacts on his phone.

"Yup. I have your numbers already," he lies again, showing her a random contact on his phone for a quick second.

"But my name is Thalia," she says, cleverly catching the name on the contact.

"Yes, of course, you're Thalia," he says with utmost confidence and his ultimate weapon of a dimpled smile.

The girl seems alarmed though. She sits up on the bed and clutches the duvet close to her chest, "We're going to see each other again, right Chris?"

"Yes," he answers without a beat, and at this point, lying is as easy as breathing to him.

"Can I get a kiss before you leave?"

"Sure," he says, coming around the bed to give her a quick peck on the lips.

The girl smiles when he lets go and watches as he walks to the doorway, "I'll call you, Tanya."

"It's Thalia," she corrects him with an apparent displeasure on her face.

Chan shoves his phone into the pocket of his jeans and takes the time to properly bid her goodbye. Nothing a girl likes more than a sweet mouth and a little assurance, he'll give her exactly that.

"I'll see you soon, Thalia," Chan says with a smile.

"See you soon, Chris," and the girl naively believes him, if only she knew that this will be the last time they're seeing each other.

Yet again, Chan makes another successful getaway.

-

The warm weather of spring makes it a pleasant walk from the bus stop to his apartment building. He wants to stop somewhere for breakfast but his head feels heavy from the hangover, he just wants to go home as soon as possible, have a bowl of cereal then take an aspirin for the pounding headache.

In the lobby, he makes a quick stop to collect his mail and takes a quick check at it, sorting them out on the spot so he knows which ones he should bring upstairs.

From the corner of his eyes, Chan catches his neighbor, you with your boyfriend chatting by the elevator. He notices the gestures, the expression, and the whole interaction, it doesn't take a genius to know that something is going on there that the naked eyes can't see.

Chan throws the unnecessary mail into the trash bin nearby and walks to the elevator, hearing the little conversation going on between you and your boyfriend.

"...the waffles were delicious. We should have breakfast there again," the boyfriend says as he looks at you, "What do you think?"

"Yeah," you meekly answer while looking at the little screen that shows the floor the elevator is stopping in.

Chan tries to remain invisible but his eyes accidentally make contact with your boyfriend so he may as well make his presence known.

"Hi, neighbor," he greets, he knows your name but you seem to prefer to be called that way.

You do what you always do whenever you meet each other in the building, give him a quick judging look and a courteous smile.

"And hi neighbor's boyfriend," he greets your boyfriend next.

"Hi," your boyfriend greets back, "Chris, isn't it?"

"Yes and you are Lee," Chan responds.

"Right. So how was your Friday night?" Lee initiates a small talk.

"I believe it wasn't as good as yours," Chan playfully answers.

"Oh, we just stayed in and watched a movie, right baby?" Lee says, putting his arm around your shoulder.

All of a sudden, you take a step forward and say, "It's here."

The elevator doesn't chime until a moment later but you seem to be more than eager to get in. You turn around to give your boyfriend a quick hug.

"I'll try to leave early so we can have dinner together," Lee says with a quick kiss on the cheek.

"It's okay. Take your time," you say with a faint smile.

Chan quietly gets into the elevator and holds the door open for you, he tries not to look at what's happening in front of him not out of politeness but it's just painful to watch.

"I'll call you," Lee adds, catching your hand as you enter the elevator and kissing it.

"Okay," you say then wave your hand at him.

To help you get out of it, Chan releases his finger off the buttons and sends the doors sliding shut.

"Bye, baby," Lee says for the last time before the doors completely close.

It's just another awkward elevator ride with you and he'll usually try to endure it but after watching all that and trying not to say anything is hard, he can't help but impose.

He glances at you to check whether you're ready to hear about what he has to say but you always have the same stoic expression. Then it occurs to him that he has never seen you smile impolitely or out of joy, or even hear your laugh, but maybe after you hear what he's about to say, he'll get to see a different facial expression on you.

"Oh, man! That was painful to watch," he sighs as he keeps looking straight ahead at his reflection in the shiny furnace of the elevator.

There's no one else in the elevator so you're fully aware that he's talking to you but you don't respond until a while later.

There you go, with your judging look and stoic expression, looking at him as you say, "Excuse me?"

Chan doesn't want to sound rude but beating around the bush isn't his thing, he prefers to be straightforward. He knows it's all based on assumptions but he's pretty sure his judgements are pretty accurate.

He's going to just do it and lay out the facts, he turns to the side, then leans his back against the cold surface of the elevator.

"Your shoulder tightens when he called you baby and the fact you lied about the breakfast tells me that you didn't actually like his choice of restaurant," he pauses to let out a cynical chuckle, "the waffles weren't that good, I guess?"

When he wants to see a different facial expression on you, he doesn't mean seeing your angry one, but oh well, the damage has been done.

"Because I'm a good girlfriend that's why I let him choose the restaurant," you become defensive all of a sudden but that's an unconvincing answer.

"No, you let him choose out of pity," he simply remarks, "And just now, your nostrils flared when I pointed it out."

With all of these signs combined with his personal experiences, Chan narrows it out to one conclusion. He looks at you in the eyes and says, "You're about to break up with him, don't you?"

It looks like you've been slapped right on the face except that the slap doesn't come from someone, it's from the truth that comes out of Chan's unfiltered mouth and he instantly regrets it for meddling in in someone else's business.

"I'm sorry, but why are we having this conversation?" You ask, crossing your arms together in front of you.

"It's not like you're any better. You slept around, you're scared of commitment and now, sticking your nose at my business. You are the kind of person that I deeply despise!" You angrily say with your chest heaving.

It seems like you're saying all of those things about him out of anger because he sees right through you but now he knows why you always give him that judging look. He's the one who started it so yeah, okay, maybe he deserves that but that doesn't change the truth. The problem is what he said and your response, they're heading in the opposite direction.

"I think someone has her panties in a twist," Chan coyly responds.

"Look, there's nothing wrong with wanting to break up. That doesn't make you a bad person," he adds and decides to end the talk right there.

It gets quiet in this enclosed space and it's already suffocating as it is but how lucky that he has to patiently wait for the elevator to ride through three more floors to get out of here.

When the elevator finally dings open, Chan lets out a breath he doesn't know he's been holding but he's not the one in a hurry to exit both this space and the situation. He stays where he is and lets you out first.

When he thinks you don't have anything else to say, you stop right outside the elevator and look at him with a piercing gaze.

"Don't, for one second, think that you had any effect whatsoever on my panties!" You emphasize every word in anger, then storm off.

Know what? Maybe Chan should skip the bowl of cereal and take two aspirin instead. As for you, maybe you need to chill the fuck out.

-

Just because you've been neighbors with Chan for the past three years doesn't mean that you know each other on a personal level.

All you know about him is that he's a DJ which explains why there's always music playing in his apartment, he always wears a sleeveless top to showcase his muscles, and he always has a stupid grin on to show off the stupid dimples on his stupid face, an annoying Australian accent and from how many times you caught different girls taking a walk of shame out of his apartment, it's safe to say that he's the number one fuckboy in the area

So how dare he say all of that stuff in the elevator when he doesn't know anything about you at all? Moreover, what does a fuckboy like him know about relationships?

It shouldn't be hard to ignore because it's something you usually do but gosh, the memory of the conversation still vexed you a few days later.

Then it hits you that it bothers you so much because deep down, you know what he said is true. You've been wanting to break up with your boyfriend and hearing that comes from someone outside that relationship only solidified that thought.

There's nothing wrong with your boyfriend, Lee is nice, too nice even, and when you think about it, maybe that is the problem, he is too nice and that leads you to another problem, you don't know how to break up with him without hurting his feelings.

But you know who can help you with that? Someone who has a lot of experience in breaking up with people.

Oh, what a joy that you find the answer right across your door!

Before you get to ask for his help though, you're fully aware that there's another thing to do and there's no other way to do it but walk up to his apartment, knock on his door, and apologize.

As you're standing there in front of his apartment door, you're dreading it. All sorts of thoughts crossed your head like why did you have to be so riled up that time in the elevator? Why did you have to say that thing about the panties? Just why? Ugh!

Let's just get it over with, you mutter inside your head.

With hesitant hand, you knock on his door and then hold the urge to turn around and run back to your apartment. You let yourself take a step back as you wait for him to come for the door.

Do not open the door, do not open the door, you chant inside your head while tapping your foot against the floor. However, things are not always going the way you want.

The door swings inward and a second later, Chan appears with disheveled hair and he only has one arm in the sleeve of his t-shirt, then you spot a girl's shoes next to his feet.

Oh no, please don't say you're coming at the wrong time.

You reflexively take another step back but he grabs your forearm and then opens the door wider, showing you that there's a girl there.

"It's my neighbor, she's here to remind me about the tenant meeting," he says to her.

The girl looks at you rather suspiciously and crosses her arms together in front of her as she glares at Chan.

"No. Don't you dare try to get out of this, Chris!"

"But it's true. We have to leave now," Chan says, then gives you a look that tells you to lie along with him, "Right?"

Running a quick assessment of the situation, you're certain that Chan is trying to get himself out of it to avoid having a difficult conversation with the beautiful lady. You hate to be the accessory to his crime but if this means that it would help you earn his forgiveness...

"The pigeons!" You make up a lie on the spot.

"The pigeons are ruining our rooftop garden so we held this urgent tenant meeting," you add with what you hope is a convincing smile.

"Oh, those damn pigeons!" Chan heavily sighs with a phony expression.

The lie makes your throat dry and your cheeks hurt from forcing a smile, you have to keep it going as the lady considers whether to believe that the tenant meeting is true or not.

Chan grabs his jacket from the clothes hook and puts it on, "We'll continue this later, okay?" He says to her.

Without waiting for her answer, he gets out of the door and drags you with him to go to your apartment. Once both of you get inside, he immediately closes the door behind him and lets out a long sigh.

"Oh, wow!" He exclaims once he realizes that he's inside your apartment.

He allows himself further inside and leisurely walks around your apartment, checking your kitchen, trailing his fingers on your book collection on the shelf, and observing the potted plants lining up on the window sill.

He walks back to the middle of the room and takes another 360-degree look around the apartment, then nods in approval.

"So, this is what the inside of your apartment looks like," he says in a cryptic tone.

Not sure if he wants you to respond to that or if should respond at all. You choose to remain silent and only respond when his intentions are intelligible.

Chan then sits on the sofa, making himself comfortable, and looks at you, then at what you're holding in both hands.

"Is that for me?"

The jar of cookies you've been unknowingly holding in your hands is a token of apology and it is for him.

"Yes, it is for you," you say, handing it to him with both hands.

"I'm sorry about the other day," you sincerely apologize, but you know you have to let him know what you're apologizing for, "for what I've said to you. I'm terribly sorry."

"Well, since you're helping me with the uh... situation," he coyly says as he scratches his eyebrow, "consider us even."

See? That wasn't so hard. You feel bad for lying to the girl but at least, you've been forgiven.

"Thank you," you add with a smile.

Chan doesn't say anything else but opens the lid and takes a cookie out of the jar. He gets comfortable on the sofa, sitting slumped with his legs spreading wide, and then he takes a big bite of the cookie.

It doesn't take long for him to notice that you have something else to say to him other than an apology.

Before he gets to it, you force yourself to start speaking.

"So, Chris..." you call, then abruptly stop talking. You suddenly have a second thought about asking for his help.

"What's up?" He asks while chewing on his cookie.

It's at the tip of your tongue but your mouth feels like they're sewn shut. You clasp your hands together and muster up the courage to just blurt it out.

"Do you want something to have with the cookies?"

You swear you plan on asking for his help but somehow, your mouth saying a different thing.

"Milk would be nice," he answers.

"Milk. Yes, I have milk," you awkwardly say, slowly making your way to the kitchen like a walking dead.

You take a carton of milk from the fridge and while pouring it into a glass, you're scolding yourself for being so cowardly.

After taking a moment to take a deep breath and muster up the courage to ask, you walk back to the sofa with the glass of milk in hand. With a smile, you hand it to him.

"Thank you," he says, his eyes catching something in your eyes.

You immediately break the eye contact and take another step back, standing and watching him finish his third cookie then wash it down with a sip of milk.

"I hope you don't mind that I'm going to stay here until the girl leaves my apartment," he informs.

"Oh?" You meekly gasp.

"But I can leave if you're uncomfortable," he says as he sits straight on the sofa.

"No, it's fine," you shortly reply, "Take your time."

"Okay, thanks," he says, reclining back on the sofa and continues munching on the cookies.

You can't decide if he stays longer than you expected is a good thing or not. You use the opportunity to reconsider it and walk to the kitchen to get out of his sight.

"Do you need help or not?" You quietly ask yourself as you pour yourself a glass of water.

Why is it so hard? He's right there. All you need is to go and ask for his help.

The water sloshes out of the glass as you fill it too full and you reflexively back away to avoid getting water all over the front of your dress.

"Everything good there?" Chan asks in a slight panic.

That's it! Enough time has passed from overthinking it! You walk up to him and just do it.

"You're right," you blurt out, "I've been wanting to break up with my boyfriend."

Sensing that it turns serious, Chan slows down his chewing and puts away the cookie jar. You expect the I-told-you-so grin on his face but no, he looks saddened instead.

"Things aren't working out," you openly share with a sad sigh.

You take a seat on the ottoman facing the sofa and sadly sigh, "I've been wanting to break up with him for a week now but I just don't know how."

"How long you've been dating each other?"

"Three years," you answer.

"Wow," Chan lowly gasps in awe.

Three years is not a short time, he understands why you hesitate to break up and it isn't an easy decision either.

"I need your help," you hopelessly say, unintentionally becoming vulnerable in front of him.

"My help?"

"Help me how to break up with him," you further explain.

"Of all people, why me?" He asks in utter confusion.

It's hard to answer that without being rude, you decide to let him process the question until it leads him to the answer. After a while, he lets out a dry chuckle and nods, "Okay, yeah. Make sense."

Chan takes another minute to accept the fact that his help is needed because he knows how to break up with someone without feeling awful about it afterward.

"I guess you want to let him down gently?"

"Yes," you answer.

"Well..." he inflates his cheeks then lets the air out through his pursed lips, "You can break up with him through a text."

Which part of 'let him down gently' did he not understand? How is it a good idea to break up through a text? But okay, it's just one suggestion, you give him the benefit of the doubt for now. Who knows he'll come up with better suggestions.

"I'm sorry. No, I can't do that," you kindly refuse his suggestion.

"You can send it when he's sleeping," he adds.

Oh, God! He gives you an even worse suggestion instead of better ones. You know what? This is a bad idea and you regret asking for his help.

"I don't—" You stop yourself from talking and get up from your seat.

"I'll just check if the lady is still..." Your words trail off as you walk towards the door and check through the peephole first, then you get out of the door to check his apartment next.

"Hello? Excuse me?" You shout from the doorway but no one is answering you.

You take it the lady has left and walk back to your apartment to deliver the news to the rightful owner of the apartment.

"She already left," you tell him.

Chan lets out a sigh and closes the cookie jar, he finishes the milk to its last drop and then gets up from the sofa.

"Thank you for the cookies and the milk," he says with his signature grin.

"No worries," you reply, trying so hard to hide the disappointment in your voice.

Chan holds the cookie jar in one arm and takes a step closer to you, "if you need help on how to write breakup texts, I'm just across the hall," he says.

You don't respond to that but keep a smile on for him as to seem polite.

"And good luck!" He says with gentle pats on your shoulder.

The second he walks out the door, you collapse onto the sofa and dread it even more than before. Turns out, asking for his help is not helping at all.

The next day, you meet him as you collect your mail in the lobby and it's hard to ignore him when his mailbox is next to yours.

"G'day!" Chan greets you as he leans the side of his body against the wall while sorting his mail.

"Good day!" You respond and hurriedly walk toward the elevator. You push the button to summon it to the lobby and hope it comes soon enough for you to avoid talking to Chan.

Of course, things don't go as you want it. He comes just in time for the elevator about to arrive, he crumples a few letters in his hand into a ball and then tosses it into the trash bin.

"How did it go?" He asks.

"Pardon?" You nonchalantly respond.

Good thing that the elevator chimes open and you can pretend to forget about what he asked you a while ago. You get inside while clutching your mails in hands in front of you but it's not safe yet as you have to share the elevator ride with him.

"So... the break-up texts? Did you do it?" He asks again, going to the corner of the elevator and leaning his back against it.

"Chris, I think you can't just end a three-year relationship with a text," you put it as nicely as you can.

"Yeah, I reckon," he innocently answers.

It seems like Chan can't tell the difference between what is easy and what is right. It isn't a good idea in the first place to ask for help from someone like him who doesn't consider other people's feelings except his own.

"What are you going to do then?" He asks, shifting his weight on one leg.

Since his help is not helping at all, you have no answer to that yet. This should be something you have to figure out on your own in the first place.

"I'll figure it out," you not-very-convincingly answer.

Chan crosses his arms in front of him, making the muscles and veins on his arms more evident under the fluorescent light of the elevator.

"Lee seems like a nice guy," he remarks with a deep inhale of air.

Well, if you have to compare your boyfriend to Chan, then yes, Lee is a really nice guy. Lee excels in a lot of things, including how to treat a person with feelings.

"Yes," you settle with a simple answer.

"A drawn-out break up is only going to end in a big scene," he says, "Just saying."

Chan has a point. It's worse to prolong the pain for both you and Lee, you can't keep pretending that the relationship works and it's unfair that you keep Lee oblivious about all this.

"We can practice, you know," he offers.

"Practice?"

"On how you're going to break up with him," he explains.

He comes up with a better suggestion this time and is almost endearing even but again, he wouldn't know how a person with real feelings reacts to a break-up which makes you unsure if the practice would be any help.

The elevator is about to arrive anyway so you decide to skip on responding to his offer. Once it chimes, the doors part open and you take the first turn to get out with Chan getting off after you. You turn to the left to your apartment while he turns right. You take the key out of your pocket to unlock the door and push your way in while clutching your mail close to your chest.

"You know where to find me if you need help," Chan says just before you close the door to your apartment.

Hard pass, you answer in your head but you put on a smile for his kind offer, then close the door

-

Okay, you admit it. You were too haste when you said that you didn't need his help. You were doing fine for these past few days, you've been avoiding meeting your boyfriend to give you some more time to think of the best way to break the news to him until he calls you.

The phone rings and you just stare at it, considering whether to pick it up or not. If you pick it up, that means you have to lie to him and if you don't, it'll alert him that things are, in fact, not okay.

The latter seems like a better idea so you pick it up after taking a long, deep breath.

"Hi, baby. Am I calling you at the wrong time?"

Not entirely wrong but it would be nice if he didn't call you, you answer in your head.

"Yeah, sorry, I was in the bathroom," you lie.

"Coconut shrimp for dinner. What do you think?" he asks out of the blue.

"That sounds nice," you easily respond.

"I know you'll like it but, babe, do you mind getting us a bottle of wine on the way?

"I'm sorry?" You ask in confusion.

"For our dinner, remember?" he answers, "I'll cook tonight we'll be having dinner at mine."

You hardly paid attention to him because your mind was always elsewhere, you couldn't remember saying yes to the dinner but you did and it must be out of pity.

"No, of course, I remember, I'm just..." you rake your brain to think of something to say.

"I thought it was next week," you lie again with an awkward chuckle.

"You silly!" Lee says, "Aren't you glad that I called, huh?"

"So glad," you lie, again and again.

"I should start prepping the ingredients so they'll be ready when you get here," he says, his voice exuding enthusiasm.

"Okay."

"Don't forget the wine!"

"I won't."

"I can't wait to see you, baby," he sweetly says.

The lies are piling up so may as well add another one to the pile, "Me too."

"I love you, bye."

Don't think you can lie your answer to that, you gulp air, "Bye," you say to the phone, then quickly hang up.

Desperate times call for desperate measures and you don't know your desperate measure means knocking on your neighbor's door. Probably because you hate to admit that you need his help.

Not long after, Chan opens the door and his head pops out from the gap, "What's up?"

"My boyfriend just called and tonight, we'll be having dinner in his place," you blabber in panic.

It takes a second for him to process it then his face turns a little surprised, "What are we going to do then?" He asks in confusion.

You may be in dread but you catch the error in his question, "We? Now, you got your panties in a twist," you tell him.

"Shame on you!" He responds with a sly grin then opens the door wider and shows himself dressed in nothing but a white towel hanging low around his hips.

He puts one arm against the doorframe and leans close to you as he says, "Cause I'm not wearing any panties right now."

You should have noticed it from his wet hair and the beads of water rolling down his neck, and now that you're seeing the whole of it, your eyes immediately following where the beads of water going, they're going down the outline of his abs and eventually, to where they're all gathered as his pelvic bones leading down to one way: down south.

However, your instinctive reaction goes against what you're actually feeling inside.

"Ugh!" You groan and turn to the side, "Put some clothes on and I'll see you at my place!"

Without waiting for his answer, you rush back to your apartment and close the door behind you as fast as possible, then you rest your back against it.

The images of his naked body flashing through your head, his glistening wet pale skin, and how some parts of his body are blotchy red around the neck and chest. You get flustered all of a sudden, you immediately press the back of your hand to your cheek and you can feel them heating.

"Get it together!" You scold yourself.

After waiting for almost fifteen minutes, Chan finally comes knocking on your door like it's a musical instrument.

"Are you dressed?" You ask with your hand on the doorknob.

"Hardly," he jokes.

You peek through the peephole and see that he's already dressed to what you can say is his usual attire of dark short pants with a matching sleeveless top, showing off his bulging biceps. You open the door to let him in and he coyly walks in, treating your place like it's his own, sitting on your sofa with his legs spreading wide.

"Okay, so, why am I here?"

You stand in front of him with your hands clasped in front of you, "I've been lying to him the whole phone call and honestly, I've been doing it since the moment I decided that I want to break up with him, and I... I don't think I can lie to him again."

It's easy to admit your mistakes to him because he barely knows you and his opinions about you won't matter that much to you.

"I need to do it tonight," you hopelessly say.

"I take it you need my help to practice your break-up speech?"

You hate that he guesses it right but it's also convenient that you don't have to beat around the bush to ask for it. But first, you try to explain the situation as much as possible so he has ideas on what you're facing here.

"Lee is a man of many emotions and I'm not exaggerating when I say he'll likely cry," you inform.

Chan's forehead wrinkles as he processes this piece of information then stifles a nod. It seems like he still has no idea what you want him to do about it.

"I think it's less painful if you acknowledge the dumpee feelings," you blatantly explain.

"Okay, I got you. Let's practice!' He says, sitting up straighter on the sofa and then putting his hands on his knees.

It's just a practice but your anxiety takes over you not just mentally but also physically as your palms get sweaty. You wipe them down your jeans and take a breath.

"Lee," you call him by your boyfriend's name, and even though it's weird that you're roleplaying, you continue, "I want to break up with you."

Chan looks at you and gets quiet for a moment, "Wow. I'm in utter shock and it makes me very sad to hear that," he says with a rather serious tone.

Not the kind of reaction Lee would likely pull off but that will do if you decide to continue with it.

"I'm fully aware that this is so sudden but I've been thinking hard about it for some time and I think this is a decision that I should take," you say and you know it's a practice but you feel something caught in your throat.

"I'm sad and I need time to process it, but I'll be okay," he calmly says.

Chan gets the tone right but you believe breaking up wouldn't be this easy in real life, especially when there are real feelings to protect. To be honest, you're not ready to face the truth that you may hurt those feelings tonight.

"I think that went very well," Chan says, returning to his default settings.

"Yeah, I think that's it," you meekly say.

The worries and sadness are drawn on your face that Chan can easily see through your veiled expression, "If Lee is as nice as you said he is, then you shouldn't worry much," he says.

He waits until your eyes meet his to continue, "He may get surprised or shocked even, but he'll come around and respect your decision."

You can't believe that those words are coming out of his mouth or that he even tries to comfort you, but you appreciate it. Maybe his heart is still there, he just doesn't let it control him most of the time.

He gets up from the sofa and walks up to you, he takes your hands, ignoring how cold and sweaty they feel in his, "You got this," he assures you.

"Thank you, Chris," you sincerely say with a sad smile.

It is time to stop torturing both you and Lee with lies and forcing yourself to believe that the love is still there. It's time to accept the truth that if you can fall in love, you can also fall out of love.

-

It's a surprise that Chan worries about things that aren't his business. He's been playing some music to distract him from his head but he keeps the volume low because he doesn't want to miss hearing the sound of the elevator that will tell him any signs that you're back from the dinner.

Eventually, he tires himself out from worrying and falls asleep on the sofa. He startles always close to midnight after hearing the knocking on his doors.

Half disoriented, he trudges his way to open the door and finds you there, surprisingly, looking nice in a white cotton dress and your eyes dry.

But from the way you let yourself into his apartment, forgetting your impeccable manners and walking with shoulders slumped and carrying your shoes in your hands, he takes it that you did it.

"So... how did it go?" He carefully asks, following you as you're making your way to the sofa and then sitting on it.

You let a heavy sigh and your shoulders slumped even more, "At least, there's no crying," you answer with a sad smile.

Chan is unsure of how to react to that, is that a good thing or a bad thing? He just stands there with his arms crossed on his chest, thinking out loud.

"And even though it was ending... it was incredibly meaningful to me and I'm going to miss him," you say with your lips trembling.

Oh, no, Chan knows when a girl is about to cry, he quickly finds a remedy to it, one that he knows always works wonders for him. He runs to the kitchen and brings a bottle out of his alcohol stash, then hands it to you.

"Let's have a drink!" He says, realizing that he forgot the glass.

"Wait another second, I'll get the glass," he says, sprinting to retrieve two glasses from his kitchen cabinet.

When he returns, he sees that you're chugging the alcohol straight from the bottle. You gasp and then wince from the bitter aftertaste of it.

"Okay, straight from the bottle it is," he says, popping onto the sofa next to you.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and then hand the bottle to him in which he wastes not another second to take a sip of it.

"The thing is... I really care about him but he wanted to get married, and I'm just not ready for that," you share with your eyes blank and looking at the void.

You take a deep breath but it seems like it only sends your heart sinking deeper and deeper, and making it harder for you to breathe.

"And if I'm not ready with a guy as great as him then what if I'm never ready?" You say, turning your head his way with your eyes glassy, pooling with tears.

"What if that was it..." you lift your shoulders then drop them as you let out a low sigh, "my one chance at love?"

The tears start streaming down your face like a bursting dam and Chan knows he can't do anything about it but let them out.

Hearing your words makes him think about what his idea of love is. He used to think that it was something he could get whenever he wanted it but now he knows that he's wrong, because that's just a short-lived infatuation, just some sort of meaningless connection.

From you, he learns that love is a privilege that not everyone can experience.

"What if I never get a second chance?" You ask him the question that he doesn't know the answer to.

"I don't know. I'm just sad," your voice cracks, then you break into tears.

Chan is quick to catch you into his arms and offers you his embrace. He knows he can't do anything about this sadness but he can try to soothe the pain, he's placing gentle rubs on your back as you cry into his chest.

The cry is resounding in this space, echoing the sadness back to you and it makes him inexplicably sad too, and he gets the urge to make it stop.

"It's going to be alright," he murmurs at the top of your head.

You look up with your eyes wet and red with tears caught in your lashes, "Is it?" You croak.

He doesn't know when but he knows for sure that time heals everything.

"It will be," he answers with a gentle caress of his knuckle on your wet cheek, "eventually."

Your eyes tell some more assurance for him and he doesn't know what drives him to do it, but he leans in, then kisses you.

To his surprise, you kiss him back and he knows you're doing it because you seek his comfort and he wants to give you exactly that. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you close, giving you that closeness you seek. He kisses you ever so softly because he knows he's kissing a broken heart and he wants to mend it. He can taste your sadness and the bitterness of it, and also the relief underlying all of it. As he kisses you, he lets his heart open just enough to take some of that sadness away from yours.

As the kiss deepens, the sadness withers, and something else emerges. Chan loses in it for a bit until he realizes what you're trying to do with your hand that reaches for the front of his jeans.

He abruptly detaches his lips from yours and shakes his head, "No, we can't do this," he says.

As much as he fancies you enough to have sex with you, he knows better not to do it when you're not in your right mind and your judgments are clouded with sadness. The last thing he wants is you waking up in the morning full of regrets.

"I want this, Chris," you croak.

"No, we can't," he adamantly says and takes your hand away from him.

"You're sad. You do want this," he says in an effort to put some sense into you.

You roughly crumple the front of his t-shirt and pull him close, "I want– No, I need this, Chris," you say to him with your eyes dark like two bottomless pits.

"Please?" You plead as a tear rolls down from the corner of your eye.

This is the most hopeless he ever heard of you and it breaks his heart. You said it yourself, you need this and he knows what you mean by that. You need the distraction, you need him to take this pain away even just for a fleeting moment, moreover, he can't break what's already broken.

He takes your hand off of his clothes and puts it in his, he leans in until his forehead is pressed against yours.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" He asks once again.

"Yes," you answer without a beat.

That's all Chan needed to hear, he inhales air and puts an inch between your faces. He then tenderly holds your face with both hands and looks at you, unsure where to start but maybe, he can start by making those tears coming out of your eyes.

Chan dabs the tears pooling in the corner of your eyes with his knuckle and without the slightest of hesitancy, he places a gentle kiss on each of your closed eyelids and before you can open them, he captures your lips in a kiss.

Sex is not something new to him but Chan knows that this time is not about physical fulfillment, but a way to offer comfort and hopefully, to also mend your broken heart.

He takes his time to strip away every piece of clothing on you until you're bare, lying on the bed with nothing but sadness that fills your heart.

He touches you with utmost gentleness, using just his fingertips to feel the softness of your skin and you're so pliant, sensitive to his touch.

To make it fair, Chan takes his clothes off as well before joining you on the bed, caging you in between his arms and hovering only inches away above you.

"Touch me," he says to you, taking your hand and placing it on his shoulder.

He then glides your hand down his neck and chest, he makes you feel every inch of his pale skin with him. However, when he looks at you, your eyes remain on his.

"You feel so warm, Chris," you lowly mutter.

He brings your hand close to his mouth and kisses it, then crashes his lips on yours.

The gap between your bodies becomes non-existent as you keep pulling him close, he relents by lowering himself on top of you and props an elbow against the mattress to not put his whole weight on you.

Lips locked, hands around each other, bodies pressed together and the temperature keeps on rising in the room. Chan makes you feel every part of his lips brushing and gliding over yours. He skillfully parts your mouth open with his tongue so he can kiss you deep and hard, yet slow until you run out of breath.

At the same time, his hand makes its way down until his fingers land on your delicate flesh. He touches it tenderly, running his fingers between the folds, and drags them upward to rub on your bundle of nerves.

"Ah..." you moan against his lips as you curve your hand around his neck and pull him incredibly closer.

Judging from it, he knows he's doing it right and he should continue, he applies gentle pressures on your clit, making you drenched and that way, he can slowly put a digit inside of you.

You let go of his kiss to let out a moan and your head falls onto the pillow as he puts another digit into you, two fingers pumping in and out of you.

Chan intently watches as your face contorted along to the pleasure, how your jaws slack open and breathless moans keep spilling out of your parted mouth.

The way you clench around his fingers makes him impatient to feel you and how tight you feel around him, and the noises you make oh, they're his new favorite tune that he wants to keep listening to until his eardrums burst.

He glances down as he pulls his fingers out of you and finds them thickly coated with your essence, it doesn't stop him from shoving them into his mouth and lick them clean.

Chan holds you by the chin to keep you still as he kisses you, "Give me a second to get a condom, yeah?" He says to you and you nod in answer.

He makes his to the bathroom and pulls the drawer open to take a condom. To save time, he decides to put it on right away, he tears through the foil packet with his teeth and rolls the rubber down his hard length.

On the way out, he catches his reflection in the mirror and gets reminded that this is not about him. Tonight, it's all about you.

He returns to the bedroom, finding you still lying in bed naked and hugging yourself. He climbs onto the bed and lowers himself on you, letting you absorb his body heat to warm you.

Craving for another taste of it, he goes down and plants his mouth on your cunt next, tasting you right on his tongue.

You're squirming as his tongue laps over your wetness, drinking in on your essence and then using it to circle on your clit.

He's not the only one getting impatient and asking more of it, you both want it and there's no wasting time anymore. Just before he takes it to the next part, he places a long, tender kiss on your clit and immediately brings his mouth to yours again so you can taste yourself on him.

"I'm going in, mmh?" He says as he endearingly brushes your hair away from your face.

You hold on to his shoulder as he settles himself between your legs, aligning his cock with your entrance but before that, he rubs his length between your folds, lubricating it with your essence.

Your hands fly to your chest, hugging yourself again as you lowly moan to his hard length rubbing over your clit and then, pushing its way into you.

"Goodness fu—" he can't even finish his sentence without breaking into a satisfied groan.

It's just the tip but he can already feel how tight you are around him, he's scared yet excited to push more of him into you. He reorganizes his breathing and rests his hand on your abdomen to do it.

Chan looks down to check and he still has a little more of him that needs to be inside you, he sharply inhales air through his nostrils and pushes the remaining length in one quick push.

"Oh..." you breathlessly moan as you're squeezing on your breasts.

Chan allows himself to take a moment to adjust himself to being inside you and you seem to also need time to adjust to his size because you feel so incredibly tight around him. It makes him wonder how this little thing can take him so well.

He takes your hands away from your chest and puts them around his shoulders, that way he can put his body on top of you, lips locked with yours again in no time as you wrap your legs around his waist, sending him deeper inside you.

As he takes a breath in between kisses, you hold his face and look at him with a different kind of sadness in your eyes which only reminds him that his initial plan is to make it go away.

He starts thrusting into you, wanting to fuck this sadness out of you. He wants to make you think of nothing but how his cock fills you full and how good he is fucking you right now, and soon, he's going to make you feel nothing but immense pleasure.

"Ah... ah... ah..." you moan for every thrust going into you and the skin-slapping sounds echo along with it in the room.

Chan plants his mouth on your breasts to contain his grunts and groans while keeping the steady motion of his hips pulsating against you.

A hand reaches for his chin and forces him to look at you, instantly engaged in eye contact with you. He continues thrusting into you with eyes looking deep into you, they're no longer looking like bottomless pits, they look like deep oases that he wants to dive into.

The next thing he knows, Chan finds himself deep in you, not just physically but also connected with you in a way that he's never experienced with anyone else until now. He feels barer than he already is and instead of shutting himself off, he embraces it and lets you in.

Soon enough, he finds himself lost in it and fully connects himself to you in a way that lets him know how it feels to love without fears or insecurities holding him back, without worrying if it's being reciprocated or not, to love wholly and completely.

"Oh," you let out a broken moan and that's when he notices that you break into tears again.

Chan abruptly stops moving, afraid that something he does is hurting you without realizing it.

"No, keep going, keep going," you tell him with your voice hoarse.

He needs to make sure to continue, he cups your jaw and asks, "Are you okay?"

"Yes, please, keep going, please," You repeatedly nod and plead with your teary eyes.

He wants you to stop crying, he wants you to stop thinking about what hurts you and start to see him as he tries to take this pain away from you. His body picks up the pace, going impossibly fast and also taking himself close to his high.

Your eyes are screwed shut, your breath is ragged and your hands are gripping onto his shoulders, overwhelmed by the pleasure that he brought on you.

The moment he's sure that you already come to your climax, he allows himself to let go and uses all of his strength to give you a few more thrusts until there's nothing left in him but waves of pleasure that wash over him.

"Chris..." you softly call and then pull him for a chaste kiss on his lips, "Thank you."

Chan's face hovers only inches above you as he softly gazes into your eyes, you look so fragile and open like a wound and he's just glad that he can make your heartache gone even just for a while.

"Shh..." he stops you from talking by running his thumb over your lips and then kisses you with his heart wide open. He lets this beautiful feeling pour out of him and into you.

"No, thank you," he mutters his gratitude between kisses.

Thanks to you, he experiences something he's never felt before with someone else, something new, something pure and real, something that feels a lot like love.

When he wakes up in the morning and finds you're not there, it hits him that maybe it is love but Chan is not ready to admit it yet.

-

A week passes and Chan hasn't seen you ever since that night.

He can't tell if you're avoiding him or needing the space and time to piece yourself back from the break-up, he hopes it's the latter. Gosh! Let him be right.

Regardless of what happened, he can live with the fact that you despise him but it would be sad to know if you choose to go down the path of believing that you're not going to find love again.

Chan just needs to know if you're doing okay, that's what matters for now.

Fortunately, the two of you have been neighbors for quite a long time to learn your routine and knockabouts. He knows what you like to do on a Saturday morning, he goes to the lobby and chats with the concierge as he waits.

At the first sight of you entering the apartment building, his heart palpation, and in all honesty, he's just so happy to finally see you after a while.

Are you not seeing him there? Or you're just pretending which only confirms his initial thought that you've been, in fact, avoiding him.

You're walking through the lobby carrying a bag of groceries in your arm, you skip checking on the mailbox and go straight to the elevator. It just happens that the elevator is vacant and the doors slide open after you push the button.

Chan decides to take the risk, sprinting to get into the elevator before the doors close. You already despise him so a little more hate shouldn't be a problem to him.

"Morning, sunshine," He greets you with his dimpled grin.

"Good morning," you politely reply without looking at him.

Things are going back to normal and he should be glad, right? At least, you're back to your usual settings of looking stoic and acting polite, and the best thing about it is you're still talking to him.

"I should learn to avoid people from you. You're good at it," he pushes it a bit just to see if he can crack through this facade.

"Excuse me?" Your head turns his way and with your eyes widen, "I have not been avoiding anyone."

Chan holds the urge to smile for successfully getting your attention and rests his back against the cold, metal furnace of the elevator, "Are you sure?"

"Well, we're seeing each other now," you tell him.

"That's because I know you like to go to the farmer's market every Saturday morning," he says at the same time, admitting that he knows about your routine.

You slowly turn your body facing him and squint your eyes at him, "You've been keeping tabs on me?"

"It's my favorite pastime activity," he shamelessly answers then pokes his cheek with his tongue.

"It's better than watching porn," he playfully adds, something that he knows will annoy you the right way.

"Ugh!" You groan as you look straight ahead.

Oddly enough, that's what he misses the most about it, interacting with you and seeing your reaction to his antics, but you, especially.

"Don't be so uptight," he coyly says.

He takes a step closer to you and puts his hand on the handlebar, "it's not like we haven't slept together or anything."

You let out a scoff and hoist the strap of your grocery bag higher on your shoulder, "I'm shocked you even remember," you say.

You turn your head next and your eyes immediately lock in a gaze with him, "I figure I'm just a low notch on a very long bedpost," you add.

"Are you calling me a man whore?" Chan says, feeling offended.

You take a step closer to him and daringly stare back into his eyes, "I didn't call you a man," you answer with a sly smirk.

There's a few seconds of silence until Chan realizes what you just said to him but you know what? He's going to give it to you, for now.

He looks at you and smiles, "Touche!"

You both look at each other and at the same time, burst into laughter, and it keeps going until the hilarity subsides with each passing second.

Is this real? Did you just poke fun at him with a beautiful smile on your face? Did you really laugh and the sound of not only echoing in this enclosed space but also in the back of his mind? Did he just see a different facial expression on you? Either way, he likes it and he likes how it makes him feel.

The elevator chimes open and soon, the doors part open. He lets you get off first and then takes his turn after, he gets a little disappointed as you both are going in the opposite direction.

"Hey, Chris," you call as he's only a couple of steps away from the door of his apartment.

His heart palpation again but he keeps his calm and then slowly, turns on his feet to face you, "Yes?"

"I'm cooking curry for dinner and I know it'll be not as good as the one you always ordered but you can come and..." your hand is fiddling with the strap of your grocery bag as you speak but your eyes remain steady on him, "see if it suits your taste."

And did you just invite him for dinner? Him, the neighbor you despise so much?

Chan acts coy and scratches the back of his head, he holds the urge to answer right away. He has a reputation to uphold and he reckons, you have to at least wait a minute for his answer.

"Yeah, okay, let's see," he nonchalantly answers but his smile tells otherwise.

You crack a laugh and nod, walking to your door with the keys jangling as you're unlocking it.

Chan thinks that's the end of it until you call his name again, his heart leaps this time and he almost flies his way to you.

"Yeah?"

"Don't worry, I'm not going to ask you what are we," you say with a smile then get inside of your apartment.

That's funny because, after that night, he was hoping that you would ask him that as most girls do but that's where he is wrong, you're not most girls, you are his neighbor whom Chan is secretly in love with.

-

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[salem-s]

01 ─ PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS suggestive themes, nudity, swearing, graphic imagery. ── WORD COUNT 5.9k. Yikes. ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. ── SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT PART ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER forget it by blood orange

“I’m gonna hop in the shower, so here.” 

You gather each item of clothing he sporadically scattered across the room earlier, bunching it in your arms and hissing as his belt loop harshly knocks against your elbow. You plop the pile on his belly as Rafe lounges lazily, one arm resting under his head and the other skimming over his bare torso.

The act neglects to faze him as he simply watches you, the thin grey sheets bunch up dangerously low around his hips as the clothes sit – with no intention of going back on his body anytime soon – idly in his lap. 

If anything, his eyes do all the talking: come back to bed. Now.

Pushing the wordless message to the back of your mind, you notice that he makes no effort to move, instead his eyes scanning up and down your nude body. 

You scoff at his sloth. “No, by all means, take your time.”

He hums teasingly at the attempt to act tough. “You don’t want me to join you, baby?”

Rafe’s nimble fingers reach out to grab you by the waist, his sweet talk stirring something scandalous in your tummy. But you swerve his touch, knowing you'll undoubtedly give in if he gets his hands on you, and you have too much to do today to even contemplate going back to bed with him right now. 

“Nuh-uh, Cameron,” you warn seriously, waving a finger at him, trying not to grin at his ridiculous pout. He looks too comfortable on your bed, like he was made to lay there. “I need to have an everything shower.”

“And I should care because..?”

You roll your eyes, as if it’s obvious. “My everything shower time is me time. It’s forty five minutes of work. I’m sweating. I’m cleaning. I’m shaving. You don’t need to see all of that. I don’t want you to see all of that,” you say sternly.

Instead of seceding, Rafe scoffs in utter disbelief. It’s almost mean.

He sits up in bed, clothes bunching on his lap.

“So, let me get this straight. You’ll let me see your gaping asshole, but you won’t let me see you shave?”

You and Rafe have this mutual agreement where you sleep together when it’s convenient, or when someone’s bored, or after a night of drinking and smoking and one wants to lay around and have a little fun. It’s simple, no strings attached or added complications, because neither you nor Rafe have the emotional or physical capacities to even consider being in a romantic relationship in this day and age.

At least that’s what you repeat in your head over and over again, reiterating the mantra more than you do your own class notes.

But that's besides the point. 

Towards the end of freshmen year, your separate friend groups collided after a risky run in with campus police. The experience undoubtedly brought you all closer to the point where, by the end of the year, everyone was already planning shenanigans to get up to at the start of sophomore year, and it just snowballed from there. 

Your friendship with Rafe, however, started rocky. The two of you liked to quip and jab at each other – often at the expense of the other. It was more teasing on Rafe’s side and defense on yours, because a favorite past time of yours is putting cocky men in their place when they try to act up around you. And if Rafe is good at one thing, it’s being overly confident in every situation he manages to squeeze himself into. 

Months of tennis-match-bickering back and forth led to one night where Rafe accidentally found you walking back to your dorm in a state of hysteria after you got love-bombed by your three-peat situationship – a nice boy named Jeremy who simply wanted to take the next step – muttering to yourself incredulously. After making sure you literally weren't in a state of psychosis, Rafe had shrugged off his jean jacket (which wasn't very warm) to give to you and walked with you.

You had lamented on why people couldn’t just take casual sex literally, how it’s impossible to find someone who understands the meaning of casual. In his oh-so-well-mannered nature, Rafe was eager to agree on this case and point, how relationships never work in college anyway, that it’s impossible to have fun these days without the other person ruining it by expecting more.

One thing led to another and you both created the agreement: casual sex. Friends who constantly bicker who also happen to have sex. Two people who hook up when it’s convenient with no emotional repercussions whatsoever. The idea seemed much easier since you and him are neighbors in the dorm, his room being ten feet to the right where you share a concrete wall. 

While it solves the walk of shame problem, it augments the issue of when Rafe brings other partners over and the noise gets a little extreme. You often wonder if he can hear whenever you bring someone else, and a small part of you hopes so, because the girls he brings home are genuinely so fucking annoying. 

(Because it doesn’t really help when Rafe’s the best lay of your sexual career. Not that you'll ever have the gall to admit that to him.)

You bark out an unattractive laugh at his crudeness, and ignore the flip of your heartbeat when Rafe grins cockily at the noise. Taking a towel out from the drawer, you wrap it around your body and spin around to face him, still unmoving with no sense of urgency or implication that he’s leaving anytime soon. 

“You’re loitering. Go back to your room.”

Rafe tilts his head to the side, almost inviting the confrontation. “You know I can eventually fuck a yes out of you, right?”

Duh, you think. You're well aware of the effect his body has on yours even if your mind keeps telling you no, it’s nothing more than sex and it never will be.

However, he takes your silence as contemplation, a lazy smirk etching his lips.

“Sweet girl,” Rafe drones out, his saccharine tone taking a slight warning as if to say make up your mind. 

But no, you're not falling for that stupidly endearing pet name that regretfully makes your mind turn to mush. “Nice try. Get dressed.”

“Can you help me? I forgot how.”

You roll your eyes, opening your mouth to respond but three harsh knocks at the door interrupt your thoughts. And thank god, because you aren't sure how to respond to his incessant flirting without eventually giving in, since his relentless attempts at a round two, three, four are usually successful.

Despite the interruption, you stand confused, eyes darting to the mini clock on the nightstand showing the time.

“Fuck’s sake. Marianne's early, we aren’t supposed to leave until ten.” You dart your gaze from the time to the man in bed, watching you with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Jesus. Will you get dressed?” 

Rafe doesn’t move, instead he stretches his arms up and you have to tear your gaze away. “Will you tell Mare to give us, uhhh, like, ten minutes?”

“You’re insufferable,” you huff, clutching the towel tighter as you move towards the door to look in the peephole. “I’ll have you know that I–”

You freeze when you look in the peephole, hand hovering over the doorknob. Heart dropping to your feet, you suck in a harsh breath as if the wind is knocked out of your chest, already feeling its beat thumping against your rib cage a mile a minute. 

It’s not Marianne behind the door. 

It’s your mother. 

Your mother who you've been ghosting for the past month. 

Shiiiiiiiiiiiit. 

“Know what, baby?” Rafe eggs on lazily, unbeknownst to the shit show that just began. 

His voice thrusts you back to reality, stumbling back a few steps as you suck in another harsh breath, mind racing at the premature anxiety induced encounter that’s about to happen.

Your mind reels: your overly pretentious and spectacle-driven mother is behind that piece of wood. Rafe is still naked on the bed. Your mother’s been hounding you about several issues for weeks now that you've pushed to the back of your to-do list. You doesn’t have any clothes on and–

Oh, god, neither does Rafe.

You spin around as three more knocks make you jump out of your skin, locking eyes with him as you gesture to his clothes urgently. 

“You need to leave.”

The complete 180 in behavior makes Rafe furrow his brows. “Wh–?”

You run over to him, grabbing his shirt and forcefully shoving it over his head and messing up his already tousled hair. “I’m not fucking around. Get dressed. Now,” you hiss stern-fully, ignoring his confused gaze because it just increasingly pisses you off more. 

“Mare will live if she sees a sliver of skin,” he begins to defend, grabbing at your waist like a toddler and frowning when you swat him off. 

“Yeah, well, it’s not Marianne at the door, it’s my fucking mom. So. Get. Dressed. Now.” 

Rafe has the audacity to laugh in your face. 

It only makes your stomach bubble in anxiety as you huff and throw the sheet off of his legs, messily pushing his legs through the holes of his boxers and jeans to urgently usher him to do what you're asking of him. Again, he makes absolutely no effort to move, instead watching you with an amused look.

“Why are you panicking?” he asks nonchalantly as if the whole situation isn’t an anxiety attack waiting to happen. “I’m great with parents.”

“No,” you immediately warn. 

“I’m, like, the parent-whisperer.”

You continue to try (and fail) at dressing him. “Not while you’re my fuck buddy. She cannot know about this.” Your head whips back and forth between the door and the boy lazily lounging, chest heaving.

It’s infuriating how relaxed he is. Rafe reaches up and pushes some hair out of your face as three more knocks break the sound barrier. “Well, baby, I’m already here.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, pressing the heels of your palm to your forehead. “Fuck. I’m not screwing around, Rafe. Get dressed.” Then, pathetically, you add, “Please.”

Three more knocks, more like pounds, snap you out of your millisecond pity party. Stepping away from Rafe, you exhale shakily and push back the same strand of hair he attempted to brush away. Your brows furrow in thought, eyes trained on the ground as you calculate your plan of attack as a silence falls between you both.

Rafe manages to stand, pulling his jeans up the rest of the way and buckling his belt. The whole time he’s obeying your command he’s frowning, unable to discern if he’s frowning at the fact that you're so worked up over a parent (or how you used his real name) or how he’s actually listening to you.

“Okay,” you say sternly after a moment, mind made up as you slowly walk towards the door with your eyes trained on him. “You’re gay.”

“What?”

“It’s the only explanation that won’t get me viscerally berated. That, or you pretend to be my boyfriend.”

“You’d rather me be gay than be your boyfriend?”

You laugh humorlessly and it makes him frown deeper. The way you don't elaborate – nor stop laughing – makes his irritation bubble out of thin air, hands clenching at his fists at the fact that you think it’s so funny for the latter to be true, as if he could never provide that for you, as if the concept is a fantasy. 

But the laugh dissipates as quickly as it came, your hand ghosting over the doorknob as you point to him with a shaky finger. “Don’t play.”

Then, you open the door a crack to reveal your mother. 

Paulette is the living, breathing epitome of a trophy-wife-turned-emotionless-mother. Whatever concept a PTO mom has, it’s Paulette in a nutshell.

She drips heavily in subtle designer that, undoubtedly, looks flawless and effortless, but unfathomably performative as it simply flashes people on how much money she likes to flaunt. She donates to various charities but not without announcing the act with the specific amount coat-tailed to the sob story. She likes to doll you up into her perfect mold model child, while viscerally berating you behind the curtain and nitpicking all of the things you do wrong. She likes to make fun of your style and independence and blame it on the lack of male attention in your life.

Long story short? The two of you don’t get along. 

Paulette curtly says your name in greeting and it’s hardly friendly. “I’ve been standing here for ages.”

You put your body in the small crack of the door frame, doing your best to shield your mother from seeing Rafe.

“Hi. This couldn’t have been a phone call?” you ask hurriedly, sheepishly, cheeks already flaming at the periculousness of the situation.

Paulette narrows her gaze like a hawk. “Apparently not. You haven’t answered a single one of my calls.” Then, she sighs as if being here is an inconvenience. “I’m done standing here, angel. It reeks of skunk. Let me in. We need to talk.”

“But–”

“Enough,” she snaps, not giving you the chance to think before she puts a perfectly manicured hand on the door, pushing it open with such force that it causes you to stumble. “I do everything for you and you can’t even–”

Paulette pauses when she steps into the dorm room, taking in the sight of Rafe, who stands tall and lean at the edge of the bed, thankfully fully dressed. 

The silence engulfs the room as the door clicks shut, you clutch your towel with a pained expression etched on your face at the scandalous scene unfolding. Paulette’s stern gaze shifts from Rafe, to the unmade bed, to your basically naked body, and back to Rafe. 

You shift uncomfortably after a beat. “Uh, mom, this is–”

“Rafe,” he suddenly introduces himself, flashing Paulette a charming smile that has you frowning in confusion. Since when does he have that kind of smile on the back burner? You nearly roll your eyes when he takes a step forward, politely offering Paulette his hand to shake. “Rafe Cameron.”

“Rafe,” Paulette repeats slowly, as if phonetically sounding it out, "Cameron."

You cough awkwardly at his outstretched hand. “He’s my f–”

“I’m her boyfriend.”

Your blood runs cold as you whip your head around to stare at him. The audacity of him–

But Paulette takes his hand and shakes it firmly, making a small hum of contemplation that has you holding your breath in anticipation, in anxiety. Silence engulfs them once more. 

Retracting her polished hand, Paulette studies Rafe with a curious look.

“Boyfriend?” she hums cautiously. You nearly puke. Rafe nods. Your mother says your name again accusatorially. “You didn’t tell me about this.”

Rafe doesn’t falter. Instead, he beams and dials the charm to an eleven. “I asked her a few weeks ago, so it’s pretty new. And private. We haven’t even told some of our friends yet.”

You reel. How is he this calm? How is he making this up on the spot as if it’s been rehearsed? Why does he look so damn happy? Why is your heart in your throat? Can he stop smiling like that? Because it’s making you think that he–

“Weeks?” Paulette shoots you a look. “Is that so?”

You shrink under your mother’s gaze, not trusting words so you simply nod instead.

Paulette huffs at the response, putting her hands on her hips as she glares at you with an incredulous look. “You could’ve saved me the time and patience, if you just told me.” Paulette rubs out a growing migraine. 

Your irritation suddenly spikes. The condescending tone in your mother’s voice, the way Rafe’s fake smile slowly starts to fade as he further discovers the dynamic between mother and daughter, the way you're is still standing in your too-short towel– it’s all too much. 

“Okay, as much as I love the reunion, what exactly are you doing here?”

Paulette looks at you as if you have two heads. Exasperated, she throws her hands up in a really? gesture, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world for you to be able to read your mother’s mind. You reciprocate the motion sarcastically.

“The wedding?”

You furrow your brows. “Wh– Jessa’s? What about it?”

Paulette then proceeds to ignore you, turning her full attention to Rafe, who’s been watching the entire conversation like a tennis match. “Has she told you about the wedding?”

Rafe’s gaze darts to you, cautiously shaking his head at your widening eyes. “Uh, no.”

You know where this is going, and panic surges to your throat. 

You quickly jump to step in between your mother and Rafe. 

“He’s not coming!” 

The panicked tone startles all three of you, as you blink a few times and then clear your throat. You take a step back to gather yourself at the sudden outburst, but nearly jump as you bump against Rafe’s chest. There’s no escape with him right behind you and your mother right in front of you. 

You've never felt more trapped. And underdressed.

Paulette raises her brow in offense at the tone of voice, at her daughter’s manic behavior, almost egging you on to continue embarrassing yourself. 

Although you take a deep breath and remember the situation, finding your cool and taking a long, deep breath. That cool almost goes out the window when Rafe takes a particularly deep breath that makes his chest gently graze your back.

“Uh, well, we haven’t talked about it yet," you defend shakily, the tone so unlike your normal demeanor. "But it’s over Thanksgiving, I assume he has plans with his family.”

Then Rafe does the one thing you don't want him to do. 

He fucking shrugs and opens his mouth. “I don’t have plans.”

(Actually, he does. But those plans entail trekking the long drive home, enduring a week of arguing with his dad and step-mom about ridiculous shit, drinking with his home-town friends, and spending Thanksgiving with his family where they all either pretend to like each other for one night or fight so violently that the kitchen is covered in thrown food. It’s a plan he’s been dreading, honestly.)

Paulette huffs as you feverishly blink, thinking of all the ways you can kill Rafe before you let this whole ordeal happen. Strangulation, maybe.

Your mother hums your name. “See? This all could’ve been avoided if you asked him and answered the phone.”

“Mom,” you say without thinking, voice threatening to shake with anger, “did you really come all this way to interrogate me about a date?”

Poison could be easiest, you think. It is a woman’s weapon, after all. No one would suspect if he all of a sudden had food poisoning, maybe from the dining hall or from all the food service he greedily orders. Remember when Arya–

“Interrogate is a strong word, angel,” Paulette pffts, almost mockingly. “You were the only one at Mariano’s wedding last summer without a date. Do you know how many excuses I had to make for you?”

You can’t help but scoff. Needle between the toes. “I doubt people really cared about the nuances of my love life.”

A slight ping of pain pokes your heart, knowing deep down that your mother has to hand out excuses for your lack of respect for tradition, never having a good enough suitor to bring home to the family and kickstart a life with, which is an aspect of the women’s lives that seem to matter most to these people. 

It makes you want to puke. 

“But now I do,” her mother retorts, gesturing to Rafe. “This time, it’ll be far less embarrassing for us.”

Stab wounds. A hundred of them. 

All you can do is sigh. 

Pushing him off a cliff. Cutting his dick off and leaving him to bleed out in this room. Strapping him to the roof of a car and driving it off a mountain. 

As you daydream, Paulette sighs in content and claps her hands. “That settles that. Now, angel, I booked a reservation at the Hilton before Ronaldo drives me back. We need to go over your dress fitting alterations before I go since you’ve neglected to tell me your measurements. They have a good vinaigrette dressing we should try.”

“Sounds delicious,” you deadpan, but her mother either doesn’t pick up on the sarcasm or flat out ignores it. The thought of sitting alone at lunch with your mother settles a kettlebell in your gut. “Let me get dressed quick.”

“Oh, angel. You’re doing your hair and makeup too, right?” Paulette asks, the thought of you walking out in a nice outfit without doing anything to fix up your appearance being downright appalling. 

You reel, this type of behavior being nothing new. Instead of snapping, you simply nod and bite her tongue. Silence is better than whatever fight a backhanded comment will cause.

Paulette exhales in relief. “I’ll wait in the car for you, it’s the Mercedes out front.” She turns towards the door then stops, offering Rafe a curt nod. “It’s nice to meet you, Rafe. I’ll see you in Italy.” Then she remembers something. “I hope you have a passport.”

Then with that, she’s out the door, leaving you and Rafe to stand in silence. 

Beat. 

You feel him behind you, inches away. You don't even know if you can turn around and look at him without grabbing the nearest sharpest object and shoving it in his throat or twisting and pulling his balls off like an apple off a tree.

There’s a reason you told him to avoid the whole boyfriend alias, and this being the reason. 

You mother has always been keen on appearances, embracing the rather traditional gender roles in society. The women in your family thrive on the concept of a strong man to provide for his partner, for his family, and you have yet to express favor of that drastically sexist and outdated notion. The thought of pursuing a career, a life outside of relationships, is seen as selfish. 

To bring someone home to meet the family means being someone who is sought after, yearned for, loved. It’s an embarrassment to be older than twenty and not introduce a partner, for whatever stupid reason, because most of the women in your family marry young, having taken advantage of their youth and sinking their talons into men who either inherit generational wealth or did the bulk of the schooling to be in the well-off positions they’re in today. Last summer, you showed up to a wedding dateless, and – according to your mother – there’s never been a more embarrassing feat for the familial image. 

Once in high school, Paulette paid off a boy in your grade to go out with you for a few months so you'd have a date to her upcoming charity gala. It was your first ever boyfriend, if you can even call him that, so safe to say you have a hard time trusting people – specifically men – when it comes to dating. 

Real dating.

Which is something you know Rafe cannot provide. 

It doesn’t help that Rafe is a conventionally attractive man – who you have repeatedly pushed down your feelings for – who realistically is a perfect candidate in Paulette’s eyes. He’ll only fuel your mother’s instinct to flaunt her daughter’s ability to reign in someone like him: charming, rich, handsome. 

Boy, Paulette will have a field day introducing someone like him to the rest of the family. It makes you want to kill him with a gun. 

Breaking you from her violent thoughts, Rafe chuckles nervously behind you. “I feel like you’re mad.”

Understatement of the century there.

You scoff. “Mad? You think I’m mad?”

“Well, yeah–”

You spin around, facing him with a twitch in your eye and a quivering lip. “I’m not mad, Rafe. I’m fucking furious. I’m seconds away from throttling you right now.”

“Whoa,” he says in surprise, throwing his hands up in surrender with wide eyes, “I just did you a favor. I got her off your back.”

Rolling your eyes so hard it kickstarts a migraine, you can’t help but laugh darkly.

“Off my back,” you scoff in disbelief. Then you shake your head and walk over to the dresser, shimmying out of the towel and slipping on underwear. “Off my– You opened the biggest, grossest, evilest can of worms you could even imagine.” You clip on a bra and move towards throwing on a casual dress. 

All Rafe can do is watch and attempt to defend himself, teetering between irritation and wanting to joke about the whole ordeal. “Okay, well, you didn’t really give me much of a script to go along with.”

You shimmy on the dress, looking at him incredulously. “Yes, I did!”

“I wasn’t about to play gay!”

You throw your head back, groaning. Slipping on a pair of heels he’s never seen before, your face burns incredibly hot, and it feels like your skin is on fire as his eyes don’t leave your figure.

“You had one job, Cameron. One!”

“No, it’s not–” Rafe huffs in exasperation, throwing his head back in frustration as well. The words don’t seem to come for a moment, but then he looks back at you, softer, more hesitant. “You don’t…You don’t think I can do it?”

“Do…what?”

“Be one? A boyfriend?”

Oh, the laugh you let out is audacious, as if the entire concept is the biggest comedic joke on planet earth. Apparently, the thought of it is hysterical because it makes you double over, damn near clutching your pearls as you howl. 

The sound pisses him off, and he can’t help but scoff at the utter display of mockery. “What the fuck is so funny?”

Is he kidding?

“Rafe,” you spat incrediously as you come down from your laughter, “zoom out for a second. There’s no way you’re going to convince anybody, and it’s not like I’m gonna be any better.”

There’s a pause between the two of you, and you can practically see the smoke coming out of his ears as he clenches his jaw, looking at you as if you've just offended his entire bloodline. No matter how hard he pouts or if he really snaps his jaw, he has to know that’s the gospel truth, otherwise he’d be an idiot.

Although the sight makes you confused, but you blame your sudden dizziness on the previous interaction with your mother because there’s no way he’s getting upset about this right now. He has to know this is hilarious, right?

It’s only the truth: Rafe Cameron has repeatedly told you that he doesn’t do relationships, only holding short-term girlfriends back home when it was all the rage, that he can’t picture himself being tied to one girl forever. The thought was completely unheard of for him. 

Maybe after college, is what he told you one day as you both lounged lazily, I’ll really start thinking about it. He had said that right before kissing you. 

Rafe unclenches his jaw and narrows his gaze at you in calculation, either soaking in your words or coming up with his next rebuttal. Whatever it is, he thinks about it very carefully so that it leaves you waiting in anticipation. 

“I could convince people,” he says cautiously, more to himself. “Totally. I could.” Rafe unclenches his fists, then whispers, “You really think I’d be that bad at it?”

The slight hesitation in his voice halts your movements, and you put your hands on your hips. “Give me a break. That’s not what this is about.”

Rafe’s shoulders sag. “Then what?” The sudden disposition makes you want to scream.

Why does he care so much?

“You’re… You’re just not coming.”

“Wh–” Rafe starts, reeling in confusion. 

You shush him with a pointed finger. “No. You’re not. You’re gonna have the flu, or something. Maybe an incurable disease. I haven’t decided yet.” You sit down at your desk and hurriedly curl your eyelashes. “Whatever it is, it’ll be so badly…bad that you won’t be able to go, or even lift a finger.”

Rafe can’t help the twitch of his lip curling up into a smirk. “Is that a threat, baby?”

“Don’t baby me, right now. I’m not your baby.”

“Sorry, baby.”

“Seriously, Cameron. I’m about to twist and pull your balls off.”

Fully grinning, Rafe finds himself moving from his vantage point, sauntering over to the desk and resting his hands on your shoulders as he leans down close to her ear. You ignore the thump of your heartbeat, figuring it’s the aftermath of such an anxiety inducing conversation with its best kickstarter: your mother. 

“Like an apple,” you emphasize with a gesture of plucking an apple off a tree in an attempt to regulate your dizziness from his close proximity, “just twist and pull them right off.”

Rafe rubs gentle circles in your muscle tensions, clearly finding the whole thing amusing. Prick. “You done?”

The relaxed tone makes you roll your eyes. “On second thought? You’d probably be into that. Freak.”

“You know me so well, hm, baby?”

“Nice try.” The honey in his voice almost makes you falter. Almost. “You’re still not coming.”

His thumbs massage the knots as he shrugs nonchalantly. “I dunno. It seems like it’ll be fun.”

You pause putting on mascara, looking at him through the mini mirror in disbelief. “Fun?” He shrugs again which makes you raise a brow. That's not the word you'd use, frankly. “You haven’t met my family.”

“I can totally woo them over. We already have so much chemistry.”

“The only time we’re not arguing is when we’re fucking.”

“I’ve never been to Italy,” he sighs dreamily, straying away from the point. “Been to Spain, Greece, France. But never Italy. I’ve always wanted to go.”

“No.”

“The food, the girls, the history.”

“No.”

“You’re really depriving me of my dream?”

“Yes,” you hiss, finishing your touches to your requested makeup. “Besides, I doubt you’ll be able to find a flight for next week.”

Rafe furrows his brows in confusion. “Jesus. The celebration’s a week long?”

You sigh irritatedly, moving to brush through your hair. He frowns at how aggressively you rip through the snarls. “No. The wedding’s two days after Thanksgiving.”

“Why are you going so early?”

A flicker of panic rises in your throat as you pause, moving to say something but stopping yourself. The last thing you want is Rafe Cameron weaseling himself into your life. It feels intrusive and oddly personal, and it suddenly dawns on you that you don't even know his middle name. Or if he even has one.

The thought of knowing more about him makes you nervous. But the thought of him knowing more about you makes your stomach churn queasily.

So you simply settle on a nonchalant shrug. “I just am.”

The tone makes him frown. “So, what? You’re just gonna dick around Italy for a week beforehand? Alone?”

“No.” You hate that he’s staring at you with those bright blue eyes, waiting for more, and you hate providing more. 

Rafe notices your apprehension, squeezing your shoulders. “Hey,” he says firmly, slightly irritated that he has to beg but refusing to say please. “Stop deflecting.”

“You’re pushy when you don’t get what you want.”

“Sweet girl,” he warns, thumbs massaging circles.

You sigh, knowing he won’t let up until you give him what he wants. Fucking brat, you think. “I’m staying with my nonna,” you admit softly. “Well, she’s not technically my grandmother but she practically raised my dad, so, she basically acts like his mother. She lives in the countryside.”

Rafe pauses his movements, studying your face in the small mirror where you refuse to meet his eye, that one snippet of her personal life taking out a chunk of her dignity. Your gaze is hard, purposefully focused on doing your hair.

He finds himself frowning at the notion that you found it difficult to tell him such a simple thing. More often than not, wants to shake you like a tree to make the fruit fall, to make you tell him more snippets of your life, information he’s been yearning to know but too afraid to ask about. 

Well, for fucks sake, you've been sleeping together for three months. God forbid he wants to know a little about you. 

“That’s…nice,” he whispers cautiously. 

You notice his sullen expression in the mirror, finishing up your hair so you can spin around in the chair and face him. His hands go to rest on the top of the chair as his piercing blues meet your eyes. He looks so fucking pretty right now that you grip the chair to refrain from forgetting the past ten minutes and dragging him back in bed. 

Instead, you furrow your brows to try and mask you appreciation for his annoyingly pretty face, studying his expression, trying to look deeper in his eyes to search for anything other than honesty but coming up short. 

You both stare at each other for a few moments, trying to gauge the other before you tap out, blinking out of whatever daze you were trapped in.

“Why don’t you have any Thanksgiving plans?”

Rafe shrugs. “I do.”

“Then why–?” 

“If you had to choose between hanging out in Italy or having a week-long screaming match with your entire family, what’d you pick?”

That shuts you up. 

Fuck. You look up at him with determined curiosity, trying to read between the lines of if he’s doing all of this simply to escape the horrors of his own family, or if he feels compelled to because your mother was standing five feet in front of him, or if he truly loves getting off on torturing you. Whatever the real reasoning is, the anger slowly starts fizzling out of your fiery chest and instead is replaced with calculation. 

There is some potential for his presence. He could provide a shield for Paulette’s usual torture. Then, again, he could also fuel it.

“If I let you come,” you start slowly, which makes him stand straighter, “you’ll have to convince them and you need to behave. Especially in front of my nonna.”

Rafe nods, pathetically obedient. 

You raise a brow. “I mean it.” 

He manages a small smirk. “Did I mention I’m great with grandparents, too?”

You rolls your eyes so hard it hurts. You sit up straight and put a hand over his to make sure he understands what he’s getting himself into. “Excluding her, my family is fucking horrible, Cameron. Like, White Lotus pretentious. They’re rich and obnoxious, can’t mind their fucking business, painfully sexist, and can be everything under the sun that is synonymous to that. I need you to know what you’re getting yourself into. This isn’t a fucking playdate.” 

And I’m probably going to be miserable the whole time I’m with them, you want to add, but refrain. 

But Rafe only snorts at the irony. He’s been putting up with people like that his entire life.

“And my nonna is gonna put you to work,” you add with raised brows. “She’s going to make you carry shit around, tend to her garden, do a bunch of stuff to prove to her that you’re good for me. She doesn’t play around with me.”

“Baby,” he says, running his tongue over his bottom lip, “I’m about to be the best boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

You snort, turning back to the mirror to last minute check over your features, hoping the results will suffice your mother's high expectations. “Yeah, that’s not gonna be hard,” you mutter, not seeing the way he frowns. 

Standing, you smooth over your dress and grab your purse and jacket with a deep breath. Truly, you need to calm yourself down before you crashes out in front of him. 

You don't want to admit it, but having him parade around the wedding pretending to be your boyfriend will probably make your life a little easier.

It’ll most likely stop making you feel like a constant disappointment to your mother for a good week, probably the only week of your life where you'll feel an ounce of your mother’s approval. It’s pathetic, you already know, to seek out affection through a lie, and the thought of telling this reasoning to Rafe will not only embarrass you further, but will give him fuel to make fun of you.

It's despicable that you probably can't earn your mother’s love and respect on your own – without a man – but frankly you're sick and tired of feeling like a constant outcast. Perhaps this will finally get your mother to start being proud of your other feats now that the boyfriend question is out of the picture, like for starters, your academic career.

Whilst you wallow in your scheming pity party, Rafe follows you to the door like a puppy, a newfound sense of determination glossed over his features. 

“No, you just wait, sweet girl,” he murmurs to no one in particular. “I’m going to be the best fucking boyfriend anyone’s ever seen, show all those other assholes up. I’m gonna hold doors open for you and shit.”

(There’s a tiny part of him that, also, wants to make this experience for you as easy as it can be, because after seeing the tumultuous tension between you and your mother based off of one brief encounter, Rafe can already tell that you were originally going to have a hard time at the wedding all alone. If he can offer even an ounce of consolation or support for you, he’ll take it.) 

“Sure, Cameron. Now be a good boyfriend and walk me to the car.”

Rafe fights a smile, excited to start proving himself.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

note this is my first time ever posting on tumblr and i still don't really understand the site (i.e. requests and communities and things like that). hope you enjoyed!

[juletheghoul]

father figure

a/n: Clint got me big time, and originally I wanted to write one hot scene but I am who I am and now I have 21 pages written lol. Thanks to @foli-vora & @just-here-for-the-moment for screaming at me about this and for letting me scream at them about it too, hopefully you enjoy the first chapter. I'm still on a little break from Tumblr but with the movie out I really wanted to share. xoxo

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, shitty dad (neglect), absent mother, allusions to illegal activity, daddy kink, secret relationship, period piece - takes place in 1987, Clint being a big guard dog for you, let me know if I missed any!

Pairing: Clint Flood x F!Reader

Ko-fi link 🥲💕

word count: 5.3k

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist series Masterlist

-

It’s so cold, the breath from your lungs steams a little. With an angry sigh, and the comforter from your bed wrapped tightly around your shoulders you descend the dark steps into the living room. It’s late, past midnight but the neighbourhood is still buzzing with life. 

The dial on the thermostat still shows what the temperature should be set to and then what the actual temperature is and they don’t align, that can only mean the heating bill hasn't been paid again. Your teeth clench, anger swirls like a sudden squall, a heavy sigh pushed roughly through your lips.

The kitchen door opens and the object of your ire walks in, speaking loudly to someone and the annoyance only climbs. On any regular day you’d be asleep by this time, not that he’d care, based on his fucking volume.

Your mouth is open, the scathing words already in the chamber when the bulk of him blocks the kitchen light and the words die in your throat; Clint, neighbourhood thug and overall goon. He follows your dad in, his leather jacket covered frame too big for the dingy little kitchen, his big boots squeaking against the linoleum. 

“Fuck, it’s cold in here—“ you dad frowns, pulling two glasses from the cupboard, “Clint, can I get you a drink?” 

“Uh, yeah, sure.” He shifts on his feet, the bulk of him moves slowly towards the too-small kitchen table, “Thanks.”

“You didn’t pay the heating bill.” The shock of Clint in your house doesn’t stop you from giving your dad a hard stare, his wide-eyed, mooncalf expression doesn’t inspire shame or regret at letting him know. He frowns after a few seconds, an angry huff leaving his lips before laughing, it annoys you that he meets Clint’s eyes before answering you. 

“Yeah yeah, I sent it in, must be another mail fuck-up, you know how it is.” He shakes his head but the pulse in your ear only quickens with anger. 

“When?” With more force than is necessary, you pull the blanket tighter, “When did you mail it in?” The clench in his jaw only compounds your suspicion.

“You didn’t send in shit, and now you’re here in the middle of the night with—“ your eyes find Clint, and what meets you isn’t what you expect. The perpetual scowl you’ve come to expect to see on his face, whether he was walking down the street, idling in his car at a stoplight, or even sitting in the diner having coffee is gone. What’s there is a piercing gaze, a knowing expression, pride? 

“You’re here, getting mixed up in God knows what instead of getting a fucking job—“

“I am getting a job. A good one, one that’s going to change our—“ Clint clears his throat, and the words die, his expression shifts from angry determination to a pleasant, paternal—yeah fucking right—blankness. 

“Go to bed, I’ll make a few calls tomorrow and get the heating turned back on.” 

The disgust is hard to hide, so you don’t even try. They both call out a soft goodnight when you turn and walk back up the stairs. You don’t respond.

-

The bell jingles, but your eyes stay on the pile of returned tapes in the bin under the window. The weekend crowd would be in soon, just like every other Friday, all of them flooding towards the new releases section to pick their movies for the weekend. The box is heavy, but you lug it over anyway.

“Let me help you with that—“ his voice cuts through the mental list flickering through your mind, startling you enough that you practically jump. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He's taller than you remember, greyer, hotter. 

“You didn’t,” you lie, “just caught me off guard.” The step back is involuntary. 

“Where did you need it?” He holds the heavy box without trouble, it barely seems to register, a testament to at least one of the rumours you’ve heard about him, that everyone has heard about him—his strength. Seemingly just to compound the thought, he shifts it to get a better grip, and for a moment holds it with one hand. 

“Yeah uh, just there is fine. Thanks.”

He gives you a tight smile after putting down the box, highlighting the deep scar that begins from the top of one eyebrow and runs down his nose, ending just under the other eye. It’s jarring enough to see it healed. Unwanted images of what it must have looked like fresh, of having a bloody slash across his face fills your mind's eye. It sends a chill up your spine. 

Clint's smile evaporates under your gaze, the usual scowl takes over while a curious guilt burns within you.

“Thank you.” You repeat yourself, giving him a smile of your own. A tiny, silent apology. He nods.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“Your dad asked me to meet him, I forgot you work here.”

“Forgot? I didn’t know you knew it in the first place.” You mumble it mostly to yourself as you begin the process of filling the shelves with the returned tapes. 

“I’ve seen you here before.” He leans against a bare space on the wall, the leather in his jacket creaking as he crosses his arms. You’re not sure what to do with that information, and the easy assumption is that he’d been in the store before, or that he’d walked by enough times, seen you during a shift enough times to recognize you as the video store girl. You accept this assumption.

“Been here a few years.”

“I know—“

“Look, whatever bullshit my dad is trying to get involved in, can you please just tell him to stop?” The words bubble up, spilling out as you slide tape after tape behind the corresponding case. He frowns, you continue.

“He doesn’t need to be getting himself mixed up in things he shouldn’t be getting mixed up in.” His expression is cold when your eyes lock, the reminder of who he is, of his reputation makes your stomach drop.

“It’s not my business, it’s not anything I want to know, but it shouldn’t be his business either.”

“Your dads a big boy sweetheart, not up to me to tell him what to do.” 

The bell chimes over the door, ripping your attention away from the endearment. Your father walks in. Something curdles in your gut that he smiles at the sight of Clint, smiles in a way that spells trouble.

“You’re late.” Clint’s tone is icy, the warmth that curled around the syllables he’d directed at you has frozen over into something unwelcoming. It served to highlight a warmth you hadn’t noticed. That curdled thing shifts to a warmth of your own to see the smile die on your fathers face, to see him chastised. Shame eclipses it however, you focus on your task and leave them to their business.

Your father leaves without a word once their meeting is done, Clint doesn’t say anything either, but his eyes find yours, they linger longer than necessary before he walks out of the store. Thoughts of him linger, of his strength, of his voice, of the shape of the word sweetheart in his mouth until the rush comes and you forget all about him.

-

It’s not until a week later that you see him again, another unofficial meeting at the video store. They stand in the x-rated section, the two of them speaking in hushed tones while half-heartedly pretending to look at the cheap pornos lined up on the shelf. The curtains for the section aren't completely closed off, giving you a clear view of them from where you stand at the aisle just outside of it, and you’ve stacked those shelves enough times to know exactly what Clint is looking at. Something inside jumps at the thought of knowing which tape caught his attention, however superficially. Barely legal babysitters, a girl that Bobby, your shithead coworker has taunted you with by saying she looked an awful lot like you.

Your brow creases when you see him idly pick up the case, watch him study the image of the bubbly girl smiling cheekily. He puts it down, and then looks back at you. Your stomach drops, but you don’t look away. Heat floods the whole of you, a cold drop of sweat following the line of your spine. They leave without a word, but the look in his eye stays with you.

-

The heat turns on a week after that, blessed warmth blows steadily through the vent in your room, chasing away the chill that’s haunted the whole of your house. Clint walks in with your father that night, a tight smile greeting you in the kitchen. 

“Shit, I didn’t know you were home tonight.” Your dad frowns, take-out bags in his hands and something burns clean through. Anger, annoyance, embarrassment when Clint frowns in understanding. 

“I never work on Thursdays.” 

“Fuck. Okay well—“

“You serve yourself a full plate, and we’ll make do with the rest.” Clint speaks over your dad, that same tone you’ve heard a few times, the one that leaves no room for argument fills the tiny kitchen but you protest anyway.

“It’s fine. I can just go out and get myself something.” It should make you happy that he wants you to have some, but all you can focus on is the fact that it’s him that offers it and not your dad.

“Get yourself a plate, and fill it. Come on.” Your feet bring you to him, your hands reach for the cupboard and obey while your dad says nothing. 

“That’s it sweetheart, go on, grab as much as you like.” He opens the containers and urges you, his tone softening up into something warm, something almost nurturing. You smile up at him, taking a little bit of the sticky sweet orange chicken, you huff out a laugh when he tuts at how little you take. 

“That’s not enough. Don’t be shy, there you go.” He slides a few more pieces onto your plate before opening up another container.

“You want fried rice? Or just the steamed one?” His hands are scarred, his knuckles littered with the tiny silver lines of stitched over skin. His fingers are deft when they open the containers, for a second you imagine how they’d look opening up the button of your jeans, or the tiny ones on your favourite cardigan. 

“Veggies too, here have some broccoli.” He tips another container, piling the shiny, bright green vegetables onto your plate while you reign your thoughts back in.

“That’s more than enough, I won’t eat all of this.” He waves you away.

“Eat.” He urges, and with a shy, tight lipped smile and less than wholesome thoughts, you sit at the table and eat. 

Your dad serves himself after Clint, silently. His plate has perhaps half the food that yours does. 

“I won’t eat this all, you—“

“No, that’s yours. He should’ve considered his daughter before coming home without enough food. Next time he will.” Clint eats, impervious to the sulk on your dads face. 

The strangeness of it all isn’t lost on you, to have someone who is for all intents and purposes a criminal, going to bat for you against your own father. If this had happened a few years ago, if you’d been younger, more naive, you might have felt bad for your dad, you might have stuck up for him and defended his actions, but you aren’t that person. The shut off heat comes to mind, the unpaid bills over the years, the endless schemes to make a quick buck, the general neglect moves your fork across your plate. 

Clint catches your eye and winks, a cheeky thing that fills your body with heat, shoos away the very idea of neglect. 

Undeterred, your dad continues a previous conversation you tune out. Your eyes are fixed on the man across from you, on the breadth of his shoulders and the flex in the muscles of his jaw and neck as he chews through his bites of food. 

When they leave, the thought of him lingers. The sound of his voice fills your ears when you tuck yourself in, the heat of his form beside you fills your bed like a ghost, until you fall asleep and dream of that wink. 

-

It doesn’t register at first, but after the take-out fiasco, the meetings at your house tend to take place on Thursdays. They fill out the kitchen, talking about things you have no reference for, coded language regarding God knows what while you make yourself dinner, or tidy up, while you fold laundry on the couch. Little things pop up too, the fridge is full of food, a rare occurrence and part of you suspects that Clint is responsible. How novel, that the neighbourhood goon would push your father into providing. 

It shifts eventually, from an influence on your father, to him providing directly. It starts with a coffee, a warm, sweet one from the diner down the street given to you without a word before another video store meeting. Fresh donuts on another night, breakfast before a shift on another morning and although completely confusing, it feels a bit like a feral cat bringing dead mice to your door. An offering, a courtship? You shake your head, eat the food, drink the coffee, and enjoy the donuts. 

-

Rain pours, heavy and relentless as you finish up vacuuming the musty old carpet of the store. A loud sigh leaves your mouth, already shivering in anticipation of the short walk home in what is quickly turning into a fucking monsoon. A car pulls up in front of the store, idling just outside the door and you recognize it as Clints. 

“Get in!” He shouts from the open window when you open the door, pressing yourself as close as you can to lock it without getting drenched.

With a frown you stare at him, noting the lack of your father. 

“Come on, get in sweetheart, I’ll drive you home!” He reaches over, unlocking the door and you jump in as fast as you can. You don’t escape the water, despite it only being a few seconds your jacket is soaked, water droplets run down the back of your neck. He turns the heat up full blast and you’re more grateful that you know what to do with. 

“Thanks, what are you doing here?” You rub your hands together in front of the vent, soaking up the warmth. 

“I didn’t want you walking home in this.” His tone is simple, matter of fact. He drives slowly, the windshield wipers are working as hard as they can but the visibility is still trash. 

“Why?” 

“It’s pouring, you shouldn’t have to walk home in this, you shouldn’t have to walk home at all.”

“And why shouldn’t I–”

“Because.” The word comes out in a huff, almost annoyed–no, not annoyed, passionate, “If it were up to me you wouldn’t even need to work.”

Your mouth clamps shut, your mind races. Thoughts swirl as he turns slowly down your street. Heat that has nothing to do with the air blowing through the vents claws at your chest, curls in your gut and trickles to the place between your legs. 

He parks outside your house, dark and lifeless, coming up out of the concrete like a rotten tooth. 

“Why are you saying that?” The car rumbles, the rain pelts against everything. His eyes are hungry when they meet yours and the air in the car, in your lungs is gone. 

“Because you deserve to be spoiled. You deserve to be taken care of and loved–” the words are a tide, a great big wave on the horizon of a barren desert. 

“You definitely shouldn’t have to worry about bills or whether there will be heat in your house, you shouldn’t be taking care of your dad, he should be taking care of you.” A crack spreads through the veneer of the fantasy and clarity comes through. Where you thought he was confessing his feelings for you, it was actually a paternal worry. 

Embarrassment burns so much hotter than desire.

“I’m fine–”

“I know, I know you’re fine but I don’t want you to just be fine. I want you to be happy, I want you to smile.” He frowns, his big hand engulfing yours and it only makes you feel worse, until he pulls you in and presses his mouth to yours. He swallows the gasp, along with an unintentional whimper. His kiss is softer than you'd ever expected, a delicate, plush press of his lips to yours until your arms drift up to slip along his neck. He feeds you a sound of his own, a low, rumbling thing as he deepens the kiss. He tilts his head and slips his tongue past your slightly open mouth, slides along yours, licks deep until you moan.

When he pulls away the world is on its ass, your heart races and your pulse pounds both in your ears and in your cunt. 

-

His jacket thwacks onto the ground of your tiny bedroom. It’s accompanied by your soaked jacket, the discarded items surrounded by tiny pools of rainwater but you couldn’t care any less. His hands squeeze at the meat of your hips, they slide around to the small of your back, press you close to feel the heavy weight of his cock against your hip as he presses you down onto your tiny bed. 

The lust, the want is so intense it drips onto your inner thighs. It clouds any and all thoughts that aren’t about his tongue licking a hot stripe up your neck, or the look on his face when he kneels between your legs, when he sees the glossy lips of your sex, the wet spread of you begging for any part of him. 

His cock barely bobs, it lands like a brand against your cunt when he settles in the cradle of your hips, bracketed by your thighs. His lips engulf a nipple, his tongue swirls mercilessly around the sensitive peak and liquid fire burns clean through you. With a steady suck and a life-altering flick of that tongue he rocks his hips. His cock spreads your seam wide, coating himself in your arousal, the fat tip of it bumping your clit with every push and pull. 

There isn’t enough air, there isn’t enough room in your lungs. 

“So fucking wet for me huh baby?” He nudges at your nipple with his nose, his tongue licking at it again and again before he moves to the other breast. He sounds almost pained as he worships your chest, breathing hard through his nose as you stare in horny silence.

It’s so hard to focus on anything but the all-consuming heat of his mouth on your nipple, or the heavy weight of his cock against your mound but you try to take in the details of him. The scars on his golden skin, the freckles on his shoulders, the size of him on top of you, so broad he blocks the light when he moves up towards your mouth. He’s an eclipse, a dark, welcome shadow across your sky, across your life. Until him, you hadn’t realized how fucking bright everything had been, how blinding, how exposed.

“Gonna take care of you.” He kisses a path up to your neck, leaving both nipples wet and puffy. “Gonna fuck you how you deserved to be fucked, you want that?” He reaches down, pressing himself harder against your clit. 

An inhuman sound comes from somewhere in your throat, the part of your brain that forms words has left the building. 

He laughs, a cocky, self-assured thing. 

“Come on, pretty baby, tell me. You want my dick don’t you? Because I really wanna give it to you, but I gotta hear it. You gonna be my good girl and tell me?” The tip of his dick slides deliciously over your clit and it’s so good you might come just from the stimulation, it’s already building at the base of your spine, spreading through your hips like a warm bath. 

“Oh yeah, she wants me so fucking bad huh? Look at her, all wet, trying to pull me in, greedy little thing.” He moans almost to himself, looking down to watch himself tease you halfway to madness, 

“Please Daddy–” It slips out, unbidden, unmistakable and panic hits like a bucket of cold water. 

His eyes shoot up, silently pinning you to your bed and for a split second, you can almost pinpoint every single drop that hits your window. 

“I–I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I–” You scramble for a second, trying and failing to get out from underneath him. You don’t make it far, his grip tightens, his eyes dilate, a grin spreads across his handsome face. 

“Oh baby, that’s what you need huh? Just a daddy to take care of you. A real one.” His lips drift across your skin as the rain pelts harder, the soft glow of your lamp casts his face in shadows at this angle, the scar on his face looks more pronounced, his normally slicked back hair falls in soft tendrils. Something swells, an emotion you can’t really parse, it lodges itself in the back of your throat. 

“Let me take care of you, baby.” His kiss is gentle, his hands too, hitching your legs high on his hips. You’re wet enough that he slides right in, but the size of him bottoming out inside you makes you gasp out a surprised moan. 

“Holy fuck–” You swallow thickly, breathing deep despite feeling like his dick is in your lungs.

He lets out a deep sigh, licking his lips before he looks down to see himself stretching you open on his length. 

“That’s so fucking pretty, Daddy’s in there nice and deep.” His words send a shock of pleasure through your body, like a lightning strike pulling more and more liquid arousal to seep out around him. He sees it, and smiles big. 

“Oh you like that, you just wanna be my baby don’t you?” 

You want to answer, you want to use your words and pull him apart, make his heart race the way yours does but he pulls his hips back and thrusts in deep and every word falls out of your head, leaks out around his cock, comes out as a breathy pant. 

Your inner thighs burn, sweat beads on your skin and his, the slick rhythmic noise between your legs fills the space between you along with your heavy breaths. Rain pelts outside, lightning flashes, shining a spotlight on the vulgar tableau like a spotlight, like a camera flash for an image you never want to forget. 

He’s so fucking beautiful, so warm against you, so fucking hard inside you. His eyes take in the no doubt cock-dumb expression on your face and there is only desire in his gaze. The rest of the world falls away under the weight of it. One big palm skates up, squeezing at the weight of your breast, his thumb brushes against the sensitive peak before sliding up and pressing gently against the base of your throat. There is no threat, only the comforting feel of him holding you down, the reassuring feel of just how much of your skin his hand can touch at once. It sends a hot lick of desire up your spine. 

“Harder–” You pull him closer, canting your hips up to meet his thrusts, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, the blunt ends of your nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders and he pulls his lip into his mouth at the sound of your voice. 

There is no preamble, no teasing, in a moment he’s up and kneeling between your legs. Those big hands are holding onto your hips tight enough to bruise, thrusting, and pulling you towards him at the same time. Your bed rocks, your breasts bounce, and your brain runs celebratory laps around itself on just how lucky you are to have found this man. 

His face is a frown of concentration, mouth open, dark eyes fixed on the way you leak around him, on the way your hands scramble for purchase on anything they can reach. He grunts, moving one thigh up so your calf rests against his shoulder and the other reaches down to swirl mind-blanking circles at your clit. 

“Oh god–” Your stomach tenses at the threat of pleasure looming, heat spreads and he doesn’t alter his movements, he doesn’t speed up. 

“That’s it baby, come on, you can do it.” He nods at you, his eyes guiding you into the abyss, his thumb in place and it’s almost there, you can taste it. 

“Come on, pretty baby–” He leans forward a little while keeping his rhythm, lining himself up and then he lets a glob of spit fall slowly over the target of his thumb and the thought, the act, the feel of that extra hot slip sends you over the edge. 

Your voice breaks with it. Your body clenches tight as a bowstring, and he only grips tighter, fucks you harder, swirls his wet thumb faster. Your pulse pounds in your ears as you ride out the high, the vulgar sounds between your legs only get louder, more obscene until he pulls out, and tugs at himself in tight, fast movements. The sight of him over you, bathed in shadows and silhouetted by the streetlamp outside, his arm flexing, muscles shining with exertion while he strokes himself above you is enough to reignite that desire in your belly. 

It’s only compounded when he lets out his own unadulterated moans, when he leans forward again and palms your breast, squeezing as he paints you in himself. 

He’s the most relaxed you’ve ever seen him after he comes. That constant tension you’ve come to recognize in his shoulders is gone, the scowl he wears in the video store is replaced with a serene, soft expression as he wipes his cooling come away from your skin after making his way naked and unbothered to your bathroom next door. A shyness creeps in along with the clarity of what you’ve done. Any stress you’ve leached away from him, seeps into your body the longer you lay there, naked and hyper aware of the shift in who he is to you. 

“You okay? I didn’t hurt you did I?” He tosses the damp washcloth into your laundry basket, but lingers beside you, sitting at the edge while you lay there, naked, damp and fidgeting. 

“No, no, not at all.” You take a deep breath, try to smile but he frowns, his warm hand settles softly, lightly on your belly. You can see the way he draws up, shoulders rising with the growing tension. 

“Are you upset that this happened?” There’s something slithering through the tone, through the undercurrent of his question and you can see it clear as day, doubt that you wanted this, doubt that you wanted him. 

“No! No, this was, it was great, really.” Your smile is real, and his eyes are intense, trying to decipher your words and your body language. You rise, shoving down that self-conscious chatter about your body, about the fact that he can see everything. 

“I–Clint, it was really good…I’m just, I’m nervous about what happens now.” Your hand holds his arm, breathing through and ignoring the mean little voice that focuses on his hand on your belly. 

“What do you mean?” His thumb rubs at your skin, frown in place.

“Well, what is this?” You gesture to the two of you, “not to be that girl, but what are we? You’re working with my dad, are we dating? Was this just a one night thing? Are we going to pretend nothing happened–?” Questions spill out, word vomit in his lap like a sick cat. 

“Okay, okay–” His hands land on your arms, sliding up to cup your cheeks and the tension leaves him again, a smile replaces the frown and you mirror the expression back, embarrassed. 

“I am happy with whatever you want. I would prefer this wasn’t a one-time-thing, at this point I don’t even think my dick would get hard for anyone but you, sweetheart.” He pulls you forward softly, but firmly to straddle him. 

“As for your dad,” He lets out an annoyed sigh against your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss there before shaking his head.

“I’ll be honest, I’m not sure he has a future in what I do.” He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t give you any details and you don’t ask. Your arms wrap around his neck, your fingers thread through the damp hair at the base of his skull. 

“So what happens now?” he pulls you closer, his strong arms make you swoon but you focus. 

“I’d like to keep seeing you. I’d like to take you out on a real date, show you off.” 

“Really?” Your teeth dig into the plump of your lower lip, heat spreads through every inch of you, pooling in the parts of you that are pressed up against the parts of him. 

“Yeah baby, of course, if you’d let me.” His smile is so soft, so sincere it bolsters you enough to pull you forward, his mouth begs for yours and you have no choice but to obey. It’s soft and sweet, and when you pull away your face is warm with the feelings swirling within. 

“I want that too, but–”

“What is it?” His hands stroke your back, soothing, strong, reassuring.

“Can we just keep it to ourselves for a little bit? I don’t want to deal with the drama of my dad. Not just yet.”

“Whatever you want, baby.” 

-

Your dad shoves himself into the kitchen an hour later, shaking himself off like a wet dog. Clint sits at your table, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands and the smile, the pleasant conversation between you is gone and it’s like he’s another person. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Your dad speaks to Clint, ignoring you completely, it doesn't phase you. The clench in Clint's jaw though, that makes you smile to yourself. 

“Why? I told you I would come find you.” He frowns, rising and putting his cup into the sink. 

“This isn’t going to work if you aren’t going to listen to me.” He leans against the counter, pointedly staring your father down. Your father crumbles. 

You rise, knowing whatever they have to speak about is none of your business. 

“Thank you for the coffee, sweetheart.” He says it as you walk away, tone cold but you smile anyway. His smell lingers in your room, in your sheets, wraps itself around you as you fall asleep. 

-

Your heart leaps, a staccato, tachycardic thing that would worry you if weren't for the recognizable shape of him entering the video store. He smiles a private smile, hands you another sweet coffee he knows you like from the diner. His fingers linger on yours when you take it from him. He pulls a warm pastry from one of the big pockets in his jacket, and gives it to you with a wink. Your face warms and suddenly, keeping this whole thing a secret seems so stupid. Every molecule of you wants nothing more than to jump over the counter and climb him like a tree, wanting to feel those strong arms wrapped around you. 

Your dad walks in, and the urge dies. The thought of his expression if he saw that is enough to curdle milk. 

“You busy on Thursday?” Clint asks low, uncaring and you shake your head no. “Don’t make plans.” He winks again, and then turns, and leaves you with the sweet taste of coffee in your mouth, wishing it was his tongue instead.

-

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[submattsmxmmy]

roughdom!stepbro!chris x bratty!stepsis!reader

🖤 content warning: 🖤 smut, stepsibling kink, jealousy, posessiveness, praise/degradation, nipple play, oral(f!receiving), rough sex, forbidden love, fluff at the end

🖤 summary: 🖤 chris throws a party while your parents are out of town without telling you, and you get revenge on him by wearing your sluttiest outfit and dangling yourself in front of his friends

hiiii, it's @ariestrxsh, and this is my second account ! if you're not into stepcest, that's totally fine. don't like? don't read. sorry, mom. sorry, god. and sorry, chris sturniolo, if you ever read this depraved piece of writing.

dividers by @/strangergraphics

holdyourbreath

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," you mumbled under your breath as your tires rolled to a stop in front of your house. You'd just gotten off a double at the local diner you worked at, and now that it was nearly 10 p.m., you wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower and go to bed.

However, the loud music that was coming from your living room and the several parked cars on your street indicated to you that that wasn't happening any time soon. Of course, Chris had decided to throw a party while your parents were out of town. You shouldn't have expected anything less.

You rolled your eyes and cut the engine, slamming your car door once you got out. A bunch of Chris' friends were wandering in and out of the front door as you approached your home. "Excuse me," you said with an attitude as you pushed past a few men who were blocking the entry way.

As soon as you set foot in your living room, you could smell the weed wafting through the air. You started immediately looking for your stepbrother so you could give him a piece of your mind and ask him what the hell he was thinking.

You recognized some of the people at the party from Chris' friend group, and you immediately braced yourself when Chris' asshole best friend, Jackson, approached you. You could tell that he'd always been into you, and each time he interacted with you, he got more desperate.

"Hey, it's been a while. Can I grab you a drink?" He asked, looking you up and down and clearly trying to hit on you. You scoffed and gave him a tight lipped smile. "You know, I'm really not in the mood right now. I worked a double today, and Chris kind of threw this party without telling me."

"Come on, let me get you a drink, and we can go somewhere more private and talk. You just need to relax a little," Jackson said, pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. Oh yeah, just relax. That's a woman's favorite thing to be told to do. Must be such a ladies man, you sarcastically thought to yourself.

"Get me a drink, and I'll throw it in your face," you retorted, swatting his hand away and narrowing your gaze at him. You had half a mind to tell him that if Chris ever found out that he was trying to get into your pants, he'd be dead, but after that little relax comment, you decided it'd be more fun to not even mention it and let him dig himself into a hole.

By the time you'd reached the kitchen, you were fuming. Your entire house was a mess, trash and empty bottles of alcohol littering nearly every surface. Your eyes danced over to some boy lighting up a joint in the corner or the room, and you snapped.

"Hey! You can't smoke in here!" You exclaimed, approaching him and pulling the joint out of his mouth. You tucked it behind your own lips as you barged out your backdoor in search of Chris.

That's when you saw him - your annoying, cocky, and deplorable older stepbrother who was shot gunning a tall can of beer while a group of people stood around him, cheering him on. You took a long drag from the joint you'd just confiscated and glared in his direction, thinking about what idiots college boys were when they all got together.

As if he could feel your angry stare, he turned around to face you, his eyes lighting up as he did. "Hey, sis. Bet you're glad to be done with work. I see you're already having fun, huh?" He asked, walking towards you and motioning towards the joint you held between your two fingers.

"No, I took this away from some moron who was lighting up in our house! I just took a couple hits for your sake so I don't fucking kill you," you snarked at Chris. "Woah. You really know how to have a good time," Chris sarcastically chuckled.

"We need to talk," you said through clenched teeth, grabbing his arm as you dragged him to a secluded spot on the side of your house. "What? You can't even wait until we get upstairs before you jump on me?" Chris teased you, smirking, which earned another eye roll from you.

"Chris! What the hell are you doing!? You know mom and dad are gonna be able to smell the weed your fucking friend lit up?" You responded with anger. "C'mon, they're not gonna find out," Chris replied, softly brushing his thumb against your cheek. "They're gone until Monday night. I'll air out the house tomorrow, hmm?" He said calmly and sweetly, looking into your eyes.

"Chris.. I was hoping we could have the house to ourselves tonight," you told him, pouting as you laid your hand seductively on his chest. "I had a really bad day. I was hoping you could make it better." Chris smirked at you, knowing how badly you were fiending for him despite being upset about coming home to some dumb party you never would've agreed to.

"Don't worry. We'll make plenty of time for that. Hell, I'll fuck you nice and hard upstairs right now if ya want," Chris cooed, leaning in as he took the joint from you and took a drag from it. "With all these people here? What if someone sees us go upstairs together?" You wondered, glancing around to make sure no one was within earshot.

"Then it won't be weird, because we both live here," he smirked, blowing a puff of weed smoke out of the side of his mouth. "Maybe, Chris.." you said, considering it. "But I'm really mad at you right now! I just wanna get out of this stupid uniform and take a nice, long hot shower," you told him, fiddling with the strings of your apron that was still tied around your waist.

"Okay, go do that. I'll be wherever you need me to be when you're done," he whispered, leaning in and kissing your forehead. You hated how much it made you melt when he did that.

Sometimes, you wanted to hate Chris, but there was something so charming about him, especially when he knew you were mad at him. He knew how to quell your anger by saying all the right things. You took a few more puffs of the joint before passing it off to Chris.

"You're gonna spend the rest of the weekend making up for it." You jabbed your finger into his chest, but there was a playfulness to it like you weren't pissed at him anymore. A smug smirk played in the corner of his lips. He took the joint back from you, his eyes traveling to your ass as you turned around and walked away.

Chris emerged from the tucked away spot on the side of the house, joining his friends again. "Hey, where's your sister going?" Jackson asked, approaching Chris as he craned his neck, watching you head inside. "She's not my real sister," Chris corrected him, only realizing after saying it how weird it was that he'd made the clarification.

"Uh, she's goin' upstairs to change or somethin'," Chris shrugged, acting like he didn't care what you were doing. "Do you think I'd ever have a chance with her?" Jackson casually asked, starting to slur his words from how much he'd had to drink.

Chris responded with an agitated expression, a clenched jaw and a furrowed brow, jealousy immediately flooding his system as he looked up at his friend, eyes sharp like daggers. He'd never heard him say anything about being interested in you at all until tonight, and Chris was not happy about it. His friend grew uncomfortable with the silence, unable to read Chris' facial features.

"What? She's like, insanely hot. You think she'd ever sleep with me?" Jackson asked. "Not a fuckin' chance," Chris snorted, and he had to hold himself back from saying, and not even if I weren't fucking her. "What? Am I just not her type or something?" Jackson asked, his smile falling. "Somethin' like that," Chris responded, avoiding telling him the real reason.

"Well, what is her type?" Jackson asked, taking a sip of his drink. Chris took a long, final drag off of the joint he held between his two fingers, still studying his friend's expression and trying to determine if he was a threat or not.

"If you're not it, why do ya care? Just lay off, man. She's my sister, and you're my best friend. It's weird," Chris shrugged, trying to hold back his snarky remarks as he threw the spent roach on the sidewalk and crushed it under his shoe. "But like, not your real sister," Jackson pointed out, using Chris' own words against him, "so, why do you care?"

Chris' intense blue eyes flicked up at Jackson with hatred in them, and he balled his fists at his sides. "Just lay off, huh? I care because I care."

"I don't want to like date her or anything. Just want one night with her," Jackson candidly admitted, not realizing the chord he was about to strike. The only thing worse than Jackson wanting to date you was Jackson wanting to use your body for his own sexual gratification and nothing more.

Without thinking, Chris shoved him. Hard. Jackson's drink sloshed in his hand, and some of it splashed onto the cement, just barely missing his shoes. "Chris, what the fuck?" Jackson shot back, the whole incident drawing attention to the two of them. The guests outside fell silent, watching their altercation unfold.

"Stay the fuck away from her, and don't talk about her that way," Chris quietly muttered as he pushed past Jackson and headed back inside. Jackson stood there, confused, wondering what he'd said to set him off. It's not like Chris hadn't said worse things about women in front of him.

Once he was back in his kitchen, Chris angrily grabbed a beer from the fridge, his cortisol at an all-time high. He tried to brush it off, not wanting the incident to ruin his night. He was determined to still have a good time and not let anything else get to him - well, except for you, descending the stairs in the shortest, skimpiest black dress you owned, hair still wet from your shower.

He watched as a sea of eyes were drawn to you, all his friends drinking you in as their gazes danced over your slutty little dress and your exposed skin. He watched as you shot a few of the boys a suggestive smile, and by now, he'd had enough. He pushed through the crowd, bounding up the steps to you.

"What the fuck is this?" Chris asked, grabbing your wrist and motioning towards the black fabric that barely covered your ass. "You think this is some kinda fuckin' catwalk? Trying to show yourself off to all my friends?" Chris demanded, nostrils flared and an angry stare that bore into you.

"What? You don't think I look good?" You asked him, giving him a flirtatious smirk. You knew exactly what you were doing, and Chris was walking right into your trap. "You do look fuckin' good. That's the problem. Who're ya trying to show off for, hmm?" Chris asked, tightening his grip on your wrist.

"For you, silly," you replied, giving him a smug expression. "I don't buy it. Go change," Chris ordered you, his eyes dark with lust and jealousy as he looked you over one more time. You leaned in, your soft lips brushing against his ear lobe as you whispered, "Make me."

Without saying another word, he twisted your arm so that you had no other choice but to turn around. "Ow!" You cried out as he marched you back up the steps, tightening his hold on you. He dragged you into his bedroom, where there was a couple making out on his bed and starting to undress.

"This is my fuckin' room. Get the fuck out," Chris sternly said, picking up the girl's top that was thrown on his floor and shoving it into her arms. Both of them looked astonished, scurrying out of the room as they struggled to put their clothes back on. Chris immediately locked the door after he slammed it in their faces.

They were both too stunned to speak, exchanging an inquisitive look before they headed to the bathroom to finish what they'd started.

"What the fuck do ya think you're doing, huh?" Chris asked with a bit of hurt in his voice that he was trying to mask with anger as he pushed you up against his wall. He roughly grabbed your waist. "You're not tryin' to get Jackson's attention, are ya?"

You laughed at his accusation. "Fuck no. He wishes." You bit down on your lip, completely turned on by the way Chris wanted you all to himself. Chris searched your face for any deception, hoping that you were telling the truth.

"You'd never fuck him, would ya?" He wondered aloud, digging his fingers into your sides, almost afraid to hear your answer. "Not even if we were the last two people on earth," you responded without hesitation.

The words that left your lips were like music to his ears. With one hand still firmly on your hip, he reached up with his other, cradling your face, his touch almost gentle for a moment. "That's what I like t'hear," Chris whispered, leaning down towards you.

His glazed over blue eyes met yours for a moment before he closed the distance between your lips and his, his nose brushing against yours to tilt your face towards him. His kiss was hungry, aggressive, and full of need. Now both of his hands were reaching up, his fingers threading their way into your hair.

He softly moaned into your mouth, the sound sending a tickling vibration through your lips as he pressed his erection into your hip, pinning you between the wall and his body. You felt the reckless passion in his touch that he was always careful to reign in every other sexual encounter the two of you'd had.

This time was different. It was like he couldn't pull you close enough. Maybe it was the alcohol, the weed, or the fear that he might lose you to his best friend or some other man, but he couldn't hold back the sheer desire he felt for you.

He pulled away from your lips, nudging your head up so he could leave a trail of kisses down your neck. He slipped your strap off of your dress and watched as the flimsy fabric fell away to reveal one of your tits to him.

He leaned down and took it into his mouth, swirling his tongue around your stiff nipple and gently biting down on it. He tugged your other dress strap down with more fervor this time, moving to your other breast and wrapping his lips around your sensitive peak.

Your hands found their way to his head, holding him against your chest and combing through his hair with your fingers as he hummed against your nipple. The entire time he suckled on each breast, his perfect blue eyes never left yours.

He pulled away, nudging your legs open with his knee and spreading them apart. His right hand wandered below your waist, and he slowly traced his fingers along the inside of your thigh, smirking at you when he dragged them through a drop of arousal that had started leaking down your soft flesh.

"Fuck, you're dripping," he whispered lustfully. His hand continued its path up your dress, and his demeanor changed when he made direct contact with your heat. "No panties?" He hissed, spreading open your lower lips and roughly rubbing your clit with his middle finger. You arched your back off the wall, melting into his touch as a gasp left your lips.

"Oops. I guess I forgot to put them on," you innocently answered, but Chris knew better. "You came downstairs with this skimpy little outfit on and didn't even bother puttin' panties on underneath? Who's this for, huh?" He rasped, staring down at you possessively.

You didn't want any of his friends, but you couldn't help how much you liked the way he treated you when he thought that you did, so you didn't set the record straight. You gave him a half-hearted shrug, a smirk starting in the corner of your mouth.

"You really are a little fuckin' slut, aren't ya? Tryin' to show your pretty pussy off at my party? You've got some fuckin' nerve," he whispered into your ear. You could hear the territorial edge in his voice, turning you on even more.

Without warning, he dropped to his knees, staring up at you as he hiked up your dress. He kept his blue eyes fixed on you as he attached his lips to your throbbing clit. He quickly flickered his tongue over your bundle of nerves, watching your jaw fall slack and your head fall back softly against his wall.

"This pussy belongs to me. Say it," Chris demanded in a husky voice, pulling his mouth off of you just long enough to watch you squirm at the lack of touch. "It's all yours, Chris. My pussy belongs to you," you softly whimpered, running your fingers through his hair, guiding his head back between your thighs.

You tilted your head forward again, taking in the view of him licking a long stripe from your hole to your clit, wrapping his lips around it again and beginning to suck. Chris lifted your right leg, throwing it over his shoulder, the heel of your shoe resting on his back while he ate you like a man starving.

He had both his hands on your ass, pulling you down onto his face as you started to grind against his tongue. You could already feel your legs starting to tremble, nearing the edge as Chris expertly worked his mouth on you.

Before you could finish, he moved his hands to your hips again, pulling his head away. "Turn around, fuckin' slut," Chris ordered you. You obediently listened, pressing your cheek up against the wall.

Chris gently ran his fingertips along your outer leg from your high heel all the way up to your hip before pushing your dress up even further and revealing your perfect ass to him. He grabbed a handful of each cheek, admiring the way curve of your back and the way you were bent over, inviting him to do whatever he wanted to you.

He spread you open again, drinking in the view of your slick folds and your drooling hole. You gasped and smiled as you felt him spit on your cunt and then start massaging his saliva into your sensitive flesh with the pad of his thumb. He chuckled at your reaction before he leaned in and started eating your pussy from the back, moaning to himself like he was devouring his favorite meal.

"Chris.." his name fell from your lips as you peered back over your shoulder at him. You pressed your hands firmly up against the wall, trying to stabilize yourself. You arched your back further, sticking your ass out and giving Chris easier access to your throbbing clit. You felt him drag his tongue along your folds, periodically slurping up your juices.

He released his grip on your left cheek, raising his hand a few inches and then delivering a harsh smack followed by a rough grab, causing you to jump and squeal and leaving a painful sting on your sensitive skin.

Your body started to tremble again, feeling the tip of his nose pressing against your entrance as he alternated between kissing, licking, and sucking. You were on the verge of losing control, Chris' name pouring from your lips along with a slew of profanities. You were just about to finish when you felt him pull away.

"No, no, no!" You cried out desperately, tears pricking the corners of your eyes at the sudden withdraw of sensation when you were so close.

You let out a relieved sigh as you heard the sound of him fiddling with his belt and his zipper. You felt his mushroom-shaped tip slowly dragging up and down your slit, the warmth of his hot breath against your neck, and the feeling of his hands as he clasped your wrists and kept them pinned against the wall.

"Tell me who ya belong to," he said huskily into your ear. Before you could answer, you felt the jolt of his hips, breaching your entrance and stretching you around his fully hard cock. "C'mon. Be a good girl and tell me who owns this pussy," he reiterated, his voice softer this time.

"You do, Chris. All yours," you managed to get out. He wasn't as concerned with going fast as much as he was going hard and deep. Every time he drove his hips forward, slamming them into you, you let out a desperate whimper. He could feel your ass recoil against him with every thrust.

His left hand left your wrist and snaked around your throat, pulling you off of the wall, and he wrapped his right arm around your waist, pulling you back against him. "Good girl," he whispered into the crook of your neck as he started kissing and biting down on your soft flesh.

You tilted your head, giving him better access, feeling his lips and his teeth along your sensitive skin while he fucked you from behind. Chris usually liked to tease you, make you beg for it, but he couldn't stop himself this time.

Your breath hitched in your throat as he started thrusting in and out of you at an irreverent pace, the grip of his fingers tightening around your neck. "Say you're mine," Chris purred. "I'm yours, Chris," you moaned as you started to come undone, clenching around his length.

He held onto you tightly, fucking you through your orgasm and the aftershocks as your whole body started to shake against him. "That's it. Cum all over my cock," Chris whispered as he started to pulse inside of you. He pumped you full of his cum, softly whimpering into your ear as he finished.

His thrusts slowed to a stop, giving your body a final squeeze before he released you from him grasp and pulled out of you. You turned around, and the two of you stood there breathless for a moment, you leaning with your back against the wall, and Chris, towering over you. The two of you exchanged a dazed look.

Chris liked the dynamic between the two of you, the way you acted out just so he could put you in your place. However, he'd be lying to himself if he said he was okay with having you prance around like that in front of his friends. It bothered him that in their eyes, you were available. Single.

It killed him that he couldn't show you off, have you under his arm, and pull you close and kiss you when he saw other guys checking you out. It was a love that was too forbidden. You had to keep each other a secret.

He reached up and stroked your cheek with a softness in his expression and something else that looked a bit like love. He leaned in and locked his lips onto yours, kissing you passionately one more time.

"Okay, now, I mean it. Go change. I'll meet you back downstairs," Chris whispered, looking into your eyes. His tone was serious, not looking for a fight.

"Chris," you said, placing your hand on his before he could pull away. "I don't wanna go back downstairs. I want everyone to leave. I want you to sleep in my bed with me tonight," you begged, batting your lashes at him.

Normally, he'd scoff, roll his eyes, and make some comment about how the only reasons he'd ever sleep in your bed is if he fell asleep there after the two of you had fucked. However, this time was different.

"Of course," he said sweetly, still cradling your face and running his thumb thoughtfully along your cheekbone. "I'm gonna go tell everyone that someone called the cops or somethin'. They'll all dip," he chuckled, pressing his soft lips to your forehead.

"You better," you whispered, looking up at him with hearts in your eyes, unable to contain how smitten you felt. "Ya gotta stop looking at me like that. You're makin' me sick," Chris replied, but he didn't sound like he meant it, especially because he was looking at you the same way.

Chris helped you fix your dress and joked with you about needing to wear it around the house more often. You quietly unlocked the door and carefully stepped out after making sure no one was around. You slipped into your own room, thankfully, without anyone seeing you do the walk of shame from your stepbrother's bedroom to yours at the other end of the hallway.

Chris managed to get everyone to leave rather quickly, watching them all scatter like roaches when he yelled one simple word: "Cops!"

Less than an hour later, Chris was spooning you in your bed, his legs intertwined with yours as the two of you laid tangled in your sheets. He had his arms wrapped around your frame and his lips pressed to your cheek as he peppered your face in kisses.

Both of you were giggling as Chris recounted to you the way he almost fought Jackson over the comment he'd made about wanting you. "Don't worry, Chris. I'm not actually interested in any of your friends, especially not Jackson," you assured him, closing your tired eyes. Chris squeezed you tighter, nuzzling into the crook of your neck.

"I fuckin' love you," the words tumbled out of his mouth, his hot breath hitting your skin. He froze at his own admission. He'd known for months now that he loved you, but the vulnerability of saying out loud sent him into a mental spiral.

He hadn't meant to. It just came out.

He laid there in silence for what felt like an eternity, worrying that you didn't feel the same way and scared that you'd call the whole arrangement off if you knew how he really felt. After all, he was your stepbrother. It was wrong for the two of you to be sexually involved, but romantically, too?

"I love you, too, Chris," you nonchalantly replied as if it were a completely normal phrase for you to say to him. He smiled to himself, relieved that you reciprocated his feelings and that it didn't have to be some monumental, dramatic thing.

Chris lightly ran his fingertips over your arm in a soothing manner as you drifted off to sleep, and he held you the whole night.

[spaceyaemonds]

pairing: dr. jack abbot x reader

sum.: a quiet afternoon with dr. abbot.

warnings: age gap (jack is late 40s, reader is 23), unplanned pregnancy, jack is divorced, not a widower and mentions of his ex wife, it is mention that reader and her mom talk often. please let me know if i missed anything. minors DNI.

note: more of a filler chapter(i’ll consider this 6.5 instead of 7 LOL)!!! just a little look inside them, and we will definitely be seeing more soon!!! jack and reader will meet each others moms next chapter!! also, thinking about doing more drabbles set in this universe, like the proposal, is there anything specific you guys want to see?? unedited. and as always, any feedback is extremely appreciated, it helps keep me motivated. especially reblogs/comments/asks!

wc: 960ish

prev next

Over the past eight weeks, you’ve just about changed Jack Abbot’s entire life.

He goes to a farmers market on Saturday’s, brunch on Sunday’s with your friends, actually eats decent meals and gets a good night's rest at least three nights a week.

Also, he’d never admit it outloud to anyone, but he’s pretty invested in Vanderpump Rules.

Currently, he’s got your feet in his lap while he reads a medical journal, one hand massaging your ankle. Every once in a while, he glances up at you to watch as you knit what he thinks is supposed to be a sweater.

Ever since finding out the gender of the baby almost a month ago, you’d been determined to at least make something for the baby to wear. You got good at knitting surprisingly quickly, and so far have made three hats, two pairs of socks, and started a blanket.

You’ve got your bottom lip tightly tucked into your teeth as you concentrate on the yarn in your hands, and before he can stop himself, he’s reaching over and gently thumbing it out from between your teeth.

Finally, he thinks to himself when you’re wide eyes meet his.

You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself.” He gestures to your swelling bottom lip as you lick it.

“Sorry,” You let out a small giggle, “I didn’t even notice.”

He nods, hand going back to your ankle, “I figured.”

As he starts reading again, you take the time to watch him, head cocking to the side as you smile.

This hasn’t been so bad.

Sure, it’s been an interesting and difficult situation for both of you. But you like to believe that it could be worse.

He could’ve just not cared. Ignored you and went on with his life. Or pressured you into an abortion you didn’t want.

He could’ve done what he could to just take the baby the second she’s here.

But he really surprised you. He’s been so supportive and so good to you. It’s shocking, in all honesty.

You both feel a lot of guilt, though.

You think you’ve stuck him with you. That he’s only here out of obligation.

He thinks he’s ruined your life.

You work through it all, somehow. You talk him off his ledge more than he talks you off of yours, but you can tell when it’s eating at him more than he can with you.

Or so you think.

Jack likes to think he knows you pretty well despite the timeline of things.

He spends as much time as he can with you. Soaking up every moment of something he didn’t even think he ever wanted. Holds your hair back when you get sick. Rubs your back and feet when you ache. Tries some of the most interesting food combinations he’s ever heard of, some of which are better than others.

Fucks you when you’re insatiable and want him more than anything.

He isn’t quite sure it’s love yet, but he knows it’s on its way there.

He’s loved before. Hell he loved someone enough to marry her, but couldn’t love her enough to give her what you’re giving him.

Another source of guilt for him- one that he’s completely bared to you.

You didn’t know what to say, when he told you about what ate at him most. Why he couldn’t figure out what brought on the need, the desire, to do this with you, but he couldn’t even bring himself to try with her.

You just listen, rub his back, and whisper in his ear that some things just happened for a reason.

He appreciates you and the the way you just let him talk. Or just let him sit with you in silence. Whatever he needs, you somehow manage to give him.

One of the more recent favorites of his is when you take a bath. He can sit up against the cabinets under the vanity with a beer in his hand while you sit and talk about your day, things you want to do for the baby, or just read.

Life is more peaceful with you than he thinks it ever has been.

He glances back over at you, and sees the look in your eyes.

A look he knows all too well will result in him doing something he doesn’t exactly want to do.

“Spit it out, honey.”

You smile at the sound of his voice when he calls you honey.

“I was talking to my mom yesterday,” You trail off as he closes the journal he’s been reading and turns his body all toward you.

“Well?”

Jack knew your mom knew the basics, much like his own family did. How you got pregnant. How you met him. His age.

He knew that the last one had her concerned. Extremely.

The two of you talk most days, and she always gets distant when asking about the baby. Something about it makes him slightly uneasy.

“She’s coming to Pittsburgh next week. Wants us all to get together,” You look down, fidgeting with your fingers, “wants to meet you.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, making unease crawl up your chest.

It was a bad idea to bring it up.

“How do you feel about that?”

He sounds calm and collected, surprising you yet again.

“I mean, you are the father of her grandchild.”

You finally look back up at him, eyes meeting.

He sighs, shaky, “Is that all I am?”

You tilt your head to the side, “You tell me.”

It’s quiet for another beat before he shakes his head as he brings one of his palms to cradle your jaw.

“It’s only fair if you have to meet my mom, too.”

You laugh, nodding lightly before kissing his palm.

“Yeah, I can do that.”

He lets out a huff as he kisses the side of your head, “It’s a deal, then.”

[keen-li]

All Aisle Ever Need 01 | jjk

chapter: 1/ ?

summary: You decide to take a risk and sign up for a program where you marry a complete stranger. You’re surprisingly okay with the idea—excited, even—though the occasional nerves still creep in. This could either be the best or worst decision of your life. Still, the mystery of it all feels thrilling, and you've made peace with not knowing the man you’re about to marry. No matter who he is, you’re ready to go through with it.

But on your wedding day, as you walk down the aisle, something makes you squint. There’s something familiar about the man standing at the altar. And then it hits you… you know him. You've made promises to yourself before, so many of them broken. This won't be any different...shit.

pairing: Jungkook x fem reader.

story type: series.

Genre: exes to lovers, second chance au, right person wrong timing, lack of communication, forced proximity, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut.

rating: m. Mdni

wordcount: 8.2k+

warnings for chapter: troubled parental dynamics/figures. It's implied that they are both grown, Jungkook is older than reader(the age is subjective). cussing. found family. none really from here on.

A/n: though of this whilst watching MAFS. i've been in a burnout and this got me out of it?. please don't ask me if it's a happy ending story(i'm not saying it is or is not.) I just feel if you ask me that then you're not really interested in the story.

anyways I hope you enjoys it.

date: 25/04/25

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story under cut.

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You've always bought the same type of clothes, jewellery, produce as well. Why would you need anything else when you enjoy what you have.

And maybe that’s why you’re in the position you’re in now.

You should’ve been smarter and known that emptiness would follow you soon enough.

 If you had taken the leap sooner--stepped out of the one-way route to love--you’d already be where you’re trying to force yourself now.

You would’ve realised that maybe what you’re looking isn’t in the men you find pleasure in.

You'd be getting married conventionally, and not having to sign up for some program.

Comfort comes cause the type of man you want is hard to find. He’s either already married or behind his desk overworking himself.

There is a little ego-death, just a little. Having to confront yourself on the type of man you want when you're at your limit is humbling. It should be something you know about yourself already.

You're not best at caring of yourself of late. When was the last time you had a self-care? You're still alive so it's fine.

Just like your type; you've been stuffing yourself behind your desk any chance you get.

But before your wedding you swear you’ll have a day to care for yourself. Physically at least.

You’ve been shaking your head for coming to this point, but your solace is in hope.

Putting your chance at love in someone else’s hands—someone trained, someone professional—might actually be the smartest move you’ve made in terms of relationships. That way, your own traits that have gotten you nowhere won’t come into play.

None of your past relationships have ever seen daylight because of how dumb you end up feeling for indulging in them, for believing they could be more.

They could never see the sun, let alone could they see the conversation of marriage.

You’ve tried to bring up the topic of marriage, and immediately they turn it down or change the subject. After that, you never bring it up again.

Honestly, after experiencing enough of that, you quit on the idea of commitment. Maybe you were stupid for wanting that.

What does marriage have that you can’t get from a simple relationship bound by an unstable verbal agreement.

You could definitely survive on that, right?

That’s what past you got by saying to herself.

You gave up on getting attached. It was just hook up and get out. None of them ever wanted anything serious, so you became that too. But it was never fulfilling, you thought that would be your answer. But it's not who you are.

You went on and it wasn’t long until you felt the emptiness of it all. And you had enough.

But still, somehow you still got stuck with the bro type. You'd like to blame lust but your therapist would like to blame your fear of being alone. You get her point but you don't think it fits your case well. You've never felt lonely or been afraid of it.

Anyways, you’ve dealt with that type for so long and you conclude if was just lust.

So, many of the guys following your frontal lobe development, have told you that you were too much. But all that meant to you was you knew what you wanted and they were not in the same frame. You have goals.

Now you want something serious and someone serious too. Someone who knows what they want and where they want to be in the future. Someone who’s going to have a plan immediately they see you. Because you do.

“I have to tell you guys something.” You clear your throat calling for your friend's attention.

Taehyung's head snaps to you. Jisoo on the other hand meets you with her eyes first.

You’d been hanging out normally, just chatting, laughing and catching up.

No moment was perfect enough to say what you wanted to, so you waited. But you’d been laughing and getting carried away with connected stories that the moment was not getting perfect enough.

For a moment you contemplated procrastinating the news. But if you procrastinated this any further you’d end up having no one at the venue.

So, being presented with the opportunity when a silence settled. It was now or never.

You want lie that it’s excitement, but there’s nothing exciting about the dryness in your throat.

You watch taehyung, seated on a stool elbows leaning against your island, and Jisoo standing next to you, walking from the fridge to the sink. Shit you have their attention.

That’s what you wanted. Speak.

You’ve been friends with Taehyung the longest because you were at the same high school, and you met Jisoo in university because you were in the same dorm and happened to be doing the same program. You all got along as a group and stayed that way. So, being there for each other through most life events, you have to tell them no matter how nervous you are.

And knowing them, what you’re about to say is far from  what they expect.

Due to the serious and nervous undertone in your voice, they stare at you closely, inspecting your awkward tucking in of lips. Normally, Taehyung would be quick to say something witty about your behaviour, but he’s silent, only making you more nervous.

You release your lips and suck in a breath. “Okay... promise not to judge?” You warn, watching them both, but focusing more on Taehyung.

“What the fuck are you 'bout to say?” He narrows his eyes at you like he does when investigating you about a boyfriend. Does he think that’s what you’re about to say?

“You’re not going to judge?” You ask once more for good measure but it serves to irritate them. You chuckle like it’s amusing. Nothing is amusing, not after you tell them.

“At this point, we will.” Jisoo exclaims with a laugh, and Taehyung follows.

"Yeah, we might just."

Feeling the non-existent pressure on your neck, you pull your mouth open. “Fine.” You mumble to yourself for encouragement. There’s no going back; you’ve already told them there is something to be said. “I’m getting married.” It comes out quick and rushed, if they hadn’t known you like they do it could’ve been sworn you had just spoken gibberish.

They look confused. Do you repeat yourself?

You probably shouldn’t have started it that way. You could’ve started with  explaining  the program. Cause now they think you’ve lost your mind.

The two stare at your empty ring finger, then at each other, and then back to you, hoping you’ll clarify with a mocking laughter at their foolishness.

“What?” you say fumbling with the finger. They look at you like you’ve finally lost your last marble.

“To who?” They thunder in unison, confusion dripping from each syllable.

The reaction doesn’t shock you, and you don’t judge the question either. But little do they know you’ve been wondering the same thing as well.

“Well, I don’t know that part, but...” you feel a little ashamed to say it because they will think you’re definitely crazy now. You’ve never been the type to do something like this. They knew you wanted to get married, but not this much.

“Do we need to get you on medication?” you're not on any medication but the words still spill out of Jisoo’s mouth with concern and shock.

Your news has, Taehyung sitting up with folded arms, his eyebrows knit so hard they could touch.

“You barely have a boyfriend, what do you mean marriage, babes?” You turn your head away from Taehyung’s eyes. This is embarrassing.

It’s true for them it’s quite the jump, but if you could just explain yourself...

“You're hiding a boyfriend?”

A boyfriend? it’s comical.

After your nervous laughter dies down, you elaborate. “No. I signed up for this thing where you get married to a stranger.” You explain, your hands waving as you speak. It’s something you always do when you’re defending yourself.

As you process the words to use, you realise it does sound not like you. You’d definitely react like the same. “It’s called Married at First Sight.”

“Wow.” Is all that you get back. What the hell do you do with that?

“I got picked, which means I’m getting married.”

“To a random guy?”

 You nod, lips folding again.

Telling your friends makes all this feel so real. You still can’t believe you signed up for this, let alone that you got picked. Something in you hoped you wouldn’t get picked because 1. what are the odds? And 2. maybe if you didn’t get picked, it would be a sign from the universe that you should just sit your ass down.

Your fingers fumble with the marble of your counter. As much as you’ve seen their reaction, you still don’t know what they think and it's making you feel more embarrassed. If they don’t support you or want you doing this, what the hell would you do? What if they think it’s stupid. “What do you think? You’re making me nervous.”

“I mean—how do you feel?”

“I’m okay." You scoff. “But I’m going into this so blind. And I kind of hate the feeling. But it’s nice to have the weight of finding a match out of my hands.” But having the control out of your hands is not like you, so that’s where the nerves are coming from as well. Cause what if they don’t give you what you want?

“Why’d you sign up, though? could’ve set you up with this guy I know.”

You appreciate your friends setting you up on blind dates; you really do. But they never go well, which is not on them but more on the guys. Surface level, they look like a match for you, but mentally and emotionally, they couldn’t be further from what you want. Maybe you need to look deeper than the superficial, which is honestly what this program is doing for you.

“Those don’t go well for me. You know that.” They do.

Did you mention that Jisoo is engaged? You’ve never seen her happier. She wasn’t even this happy when she graduated.

And you want that too. You’ve always thrown yourself into school and work to suffice for the love you weren’t able to feel. And growing up you always relied on academic validation. But it could only carry you so far after you hit every milestone and still felt nothing. The only thing that came close were the relationships. Situationships.

“You really want to do this?” jisoo coos.

“it’s not so bad to try"

“If they give you what you want.” Taehyung intersects.

You hope they do. “I wrote in detail, so they better.”

You have no clue what criteria they go by, but it couldn't be something contrary to your asks.

You get excited thinking of the perfect man for you standing at the end of the aisle. Like, gosh, you’re going to be so happy. Your stomach flutters already.

“They probably know what I need though.”

“Yeah. But you still want the basics, like—” Jisoo doesn’t even have a chance to finish when you cut in.

“Oh yeah... tall, smart, a man with a plan type of thing.” You feel so childish for being so excited about this. But it’s more about the excitement of having the perfect man for you. You try not to picture his physical appearance because you might end up disappointed if you linger on it for too long.

Taehyung and Jisoo smile, listening to how excited you are. If you’re happy, they are too; that’s all they care about. That what what think of and not that this is the most conventional way to go about it.

Returning to your cooking, you decide to dig more into their thoughts. “What do you guys think I need?”

Feeling experienced, Taehyung takes the lead to share. He’s heard and seen a fair share of your crushes and boyfriends and how it's ended, so he feels like he knows what you’d like. “Definitely a business-style, you know. Sleek back hair, tall, nerdy.”

“Is that what I give off?” You chuckle a brow raised. Embarrassed. You've definitely grown into that assumption.

You do. You’ve always been the academic type and Taehyung’s parents always trashed him for not being like you. Even though he wasn’t even a bad student. You always made him look bad. But that's all to say you’re smart and a work focused person,  so you need a man who is the same.

You also like to be control. Whether that’s knowing all the tiny details of an event, or planning all the trips. As much as he benefits from it, Taehyung is definitely sure you use it as a coping mechanism for something.

“You need someone who can take control.” He adds.

"But still obsessed with her." Jisoo chirps in and Taehyung couldn't nod harder.

It would be nice to have someone to do things with. But an obsessed man? You're not sure. You want him to love you but shouldn't be too overbearing.

“I feel crazy for doing this.” You bite your lower lip, letting your worries out a little. “Like I’m seriously going to get married to a stranger.” You believe it less the more you say it.

“It’s not the conventional way, but you know we’ll be there for you no matter what.” You warm into Jisoo’s rub on your back. You’re trying to mask your true nerves with excitement; you doubt it’s fully working, but you’re trying. “As long as you’re happy And he makes you happy.”

“I’ll make sure of it.” Taehyung promises, sounding more like a threat to your groom.

You seem serious about it and it must be if you got picked. So the only power he has is to be there for you as a friend. Its honestly not such a bad thing, if he wanted to get married he'd think of doing it like this too. It more thrilling. And there’s nothing Taehyung loves more than thrill.

Having your friends feels comforting, and it’s all you need. Really. But with how serious this is, you’re going to have to call your family soon, and you’re not ready for that. The idea raise the bile in you.

Unlike your friends, you have no clue how they’ll feel. You haven’t spoken to them in a while but the last thing they’d be thinking to hear from you is marriage. The last you remember none of them thought you were marriage material.

It's out of courtesy that you’re even telling them. But no matter what they say, you’ve already been picked, and you are getting married.

“it's still crazy though.” this isn't how he imagined this going. But he should be the last person calling you crazy when it’s the only thing he knows. But you get it; it’s out of your character to do something like this. But who knows you could find what you’re looking for outside of your comfort zone. It’s not 100%, but you’re ready to take that risk. “Imagine you marry an ex...”

Taehyung is not helping soothe you. The thought has crossed your mind before.

“Don’t scare me,” you brush off the thought with a hand on your chest, and they both can’t help but laugh. It would be so funny if you walked down the aisle and it was one of your stupid exes. Gosh... you’d walk out immediately, no question. “Don't think they would be serious enough for marriage.” They’re all probably out there still being reckless and whatever.

“What if he doesn’t like something that you like?”

“Don’t know" you chuckle "But I’d be damned if he doesn’t want to listen to my playlists.”

“Ouu, he’d be a gone man if he didn’t like your mugs too.” You know Jisoo’s being sarcastic; for some reason, everyone dislikes your mugs. The designs specifically. But you like them, so he would be damned if he didn’t like them.

“I mean, we have 3 months until we decide whether we want to be together or not....”

“Would you want to get divorced?”

You don’t even want to think of that. Divorce is not something you think about or want to think about. You know how much you hate it and how it affects children. You don’t have kids with the man, but still, you just hate divorce. It feels too much like failure.

“I hope not, but if he’s completely unreasonable, then I’ll have no choice.” You wouldn’t want to fight for something that bears no fruit. But you pray that’s not going to be the case. It shouldn't be too bad.

“I just want to like him, and I hope he likes me too. I would want this to work out.” You stare blankly at your hands. “I don’t know if I’d be able to look for love again after this.”

You’re being to dramatic but that’s because this feels like all you have.

“In that case, let’s pray he’s the one.”

You all go quiet for a second. The pot on the stove starts to bubble.

“This is real,” you murmur.

And somehow, that thought is both terrifying—and thrilling.

--

“Namjoon, what do you think?” He’s the only one who’s been quiet about what just came out of jungkook’s mouth.

It’s not the idea of Jungkook getting married to a stranger that’s concerning (Though that’s its own thing.) It’s more about the idea of Jungkook getting married in general.

“I mean—do what makes you happy. It’s not the conventional way...” Namjoon begins, and Jungkook can’t help but roll his eyes at how serious his friend is being. He’s not surprised, though; Namjoon has always been the more serious and mature one between the two. Unlike Jungkook, Namjoon has always known what to do and when to do it. He is the kind of guy with structure, but Jungkook, on the other hand, is more of the go-with-the-flow kind of person.

He does things on a whim, reckless with who he goes out with. Relationships have always been fun for him; he never took them seriously. That was until he sat with himself and looked around. All of his friends were settling down and were not available to go out. One was having a child, the other was getting married, and standing at the altar as a groomsman so often, had him worried about what he was doing.

He watched his friends fall in love and be so happy; he wanted that too. Could he have it too? The bro lifestyle he was living was not going to give him that.

He hid behind hookups so much that he hadn’t realized he did want to settle down, find a nice woman, and live that picture-perfect life, he saw his parents have.

And it was time for that. So, by chance and through his coworker, he stumbled upon this program and signed up.

He wasn't going to get picked, so it wouldn’t be so bad if he did try.

He never had much hope in it; like, how would some experts know from a form who to pair him up with? It was a scam to him. His plan was to go out and meet ladies the usual way, but even they didn’t see him so seriously; he was just a hookup to them too. It did hurt him. But honestly, they weren’t wife material anyway.

Jungkook has always liked doing stuff that people would call crazy; it made him happy. So being told that a match was found and he was going to get married to a stranger didn’t make him nervous at all—if you exclude the seriousness of marriage though.

“Come on, hyung...”

“I wouldn’t put this past you, so I’m not surprised. I’m just worried if you’re ready for this. I don’t think you realize how serious it is.”

It’s not shocking that Namjoon stares at Jungkook with such distrust; he himself doesn’t trust himself fully. But he wants to. Because how can a wife trust him if he doesn’t?

 Nothing will convince him or others that he is serious and growing, other than through actions. And that’s what he intends to do. Namjoon may not trust him now, but when he sees how serious he is, he will.

“I’ve grown, hyung, don’t you think?” Jungkook sips his beer, staring at his friend. Having this conversation at a bar may not have been the best, but it was the perfect moment to do so. Though jungkook has never cared about perfect timing.

Namjoon lets out a puff of air. He doesn’t want to seem like he’s not supportive. “You have, but this is a serious commitment, Kook.”

He doesn’t need to be told once more how serious this is; his brain can do that just fine.

 “I know. But I’ve reached that point where I want to settle down. I’m ready to get serious.” It’s definitely something he never thought he would say. “I want to show that I can be serious, you know? I want to be like you, Seokjin.”

He pats the man on his shoulder, and he can’t help but feel honored to be an inspiration. Seokjin was one of the first to get married and is now expecting a child. Jungkook envies that—the ability to feel stable enough to bring in another life. He wants to be stable too. Have a little mini him to play around with.

Who the hell has he become.

“I think it’s good you want to settle down, Koo. I just hope you’re doing this for the right reasons and not just to prove yourself,” the oldest begins. Seokjin doesn’t think he’s some wise man, but he can confidently say he has the most knowledge on this among all of them. He does support his friend and thinks it’s great he’s doing this, but something in him fears he’s in it for the wrong reasons. “I mean, it won’t only be you. You’re merging your life with someone else—someone you don’t know to add. I wouldn’t want you to drag her feelings into a journey of trying to prove yourself.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Because the truth is, part of him doesn’t know truly why he’s doing this. And not knowing is something he hates nowadays.

This is where Jungkook’s second thoughts root even further. He fears that—fears dragging someone along into his flawed perception of self. But it’s not what this is about, and even though he doesn’t mention it, he does want to find someone to love and someone to give the love he hasn’t been able to give his past lovers.

“I get what you’re saying, hyung, and I promise that’s not the case. I do want to care for the person too.”

Seokjin nods, taking a sip of his drink. “That’s good. You are growing,” he mocks, and they all laugh.

“The not knowing what’s ahead is a little off putting, I’ll be honest.” Jungkook doesn’t stare at his friends but rather analyses every bubble of air in his drink that rises to the surface. They rise fast, then disappear. Like everything he used to think love was.

“Do you think you can do it?”

“I think I can... I want to.” He finally looks up to stare at nothing in particular.

“The first step is the commitment, so if you have that, then you’re good.” Jungkook nods; he should probably be taking notes on what Seokjin is saying. “Oh, Namjoon, you’re going to be the only single one.” They all laugh, but Namjoon only chuckles.

“It’s scary how you’re still single.” His friends see him as the perfection of what a woman wants: tall, smart, a man who knows what he wants. It’s all what women describe, but still, the tall silver-haired man has never taken dating seriously, nor does he hook up. It’s concerning.

“It’s because I want to,” he replies, taking a drink of his beer. And that’s all they’ll ever get from him.

“So what are you looking for, Koo?”

They shouldn’t even get him started on this. He’s never really known because he’s never really thought about it. But of late, the answers have been coming in like ants—tiny but a lot. “Um, just someone outgoing, you know... likes to have fun.” He won’t burden them with all he’s been thinking because some are just stupid stereotypes. “Someone who likes to go out and try new things, likes to have fun.”

“Jungkook? a party girl?.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes; maybe his previous preferences slip into his ideas of who he wants, which is not good. He wants something new, something he’s never had. Because what he’s had is not what he needs. So maybe this will be different.

“No... listen. I like going bowling and stuff like that, you know? So I hope she would want to do that with me.” He smiles, trying to defend himself. “When I get married, I’ll quit the club too.” The additional sentence causes a roar of laughter among his friends, drawing attention from other bar-goers. Seokjin does go out occasionally, but the difference (especially with his wife’s due date approaching) has been significant.

The laughter dies down.

“Look at him acting like he’s grown.”

“I am grown... I’m going to be a husband.” It’s surreal for him to say.

“She needs to be strong to handle you.”

“I’m not that bad..”

--

The most exciting thing about this whole thing is finding your dress. You’ve been looking at dresses for a long time so you would like to say you know what style you’re looking for, you’ve been thinking of this since you were in middle school so you should know. You’re grateful your taste has grown out of the poofy ballgown phase.

Cause of the context of the wedding you want something simple. Clean. Intentional.

 And Jisoo knew of the perfect store to go to.

Most women find their dress months in advance, but you’ve got a week. A week. So this has to be it. Today  should be the day.

Picking out the dress is the only part of this whole process that feels like you have control over, so you’re throwing yourself into it. And with that comes nitpicking. A lot of it.

You step out of the dressing room in your fourth gown and face the mirror. It’s a beautiful dress. You loved it on the rack. But now, wearing it, something’s... off.

“Why don’t i feel something?” you ask, running your hands down the dress draping your figure. You turn to your friends, looking for validation. “I’m supposed to feel it, right? Isn’t that a thing?” you aren’t sure if it was a myth, but you’ve heard that when you find the right one you’ll be able to feel it.

“You should.” Jisoo says gently, sitting up straighter at the sight of your face. She knows how sensitive this moment is for you. The time pressure, the stress, if you spiral now, it’s over. “What don’t you like about it?”

You stare at the mirror. Tilt your head. Bite your lip. Try to search for an answer.

“i don’t know i just dont feel like a bride in it.” You continue to feel over it trying to convince yourself but still nothing.

Maybe its cause you have no romantic connection with this man and hence you don’t feel like the conventional bride who can actually feel like she’s dress shopping with a purpose.

“Then we try another,” the stylist says with an encouraging smile.

You hope you don’t sound like a bridezilla because this is the fourth dress you’ve tried on and don’t like. Your stomach churns.

What if you don’t find one? What if you end up walking down the aisle in something you hate cause you weren’t able to find ‘the one’ in time. You can’t wear something that doesn’t feel like you. You’re not a person very particular about clothes but this is your wedding dress in question. It has to be perfect.

“Hey...” Jisoo comes to your side, her hand warm on your arm. You feel your shoulders drop just a little. “Don’t pressure yourself. We can come back tomorrow.”

You nod, but the thought makes your chest tighten. You don’t want to come back. You want to feel it now.

“Can I try a few more first? Just in case?”

“Of course,” she says, like she never had a doubt.

You head back into the dressing room. One more. Just one more.

Walking back into the dressing room and getting into another dress. You’re praying this will be the one or good enough at least.

“Fucking hell yn...” Taehyung whistles.

That’s new. He didn’t react like this for the others.

“You look so gorgeous babes.” Jisoo adds with a blushing smile as you walk onto the pedestal to finally see what they see.

The dress in terms of material feels great. It’s soft on your skin and it pours down your body like liquid. Without even looking at it you’d say you feel comfortable.

Once you take in your figure in the mirror, you can fel the tears sting the corner of your eyes. You definatlety feel it. You feel that feeling.

With the other dresses it felt like they were wearing you, but for this one, you’re definitely the one owning it.

“Gosh.. it’s almost too perfect to be marrying a stranger in.” You state still enamoured and not believing that the reflection is you.

“if this dude doesn’t cry or fall to his knees when he sees you i’ll beat his kneecaps in.” Taehyung expresses and when you look at him through the mirror you catch him tabbing a tissue at his eyes, jisoo too. Gosh now your tears are falling too.

“Come on guys.” You try to say through  a sniffle. “you’re making me cry.”

Sniffling and patting at your eyes with a tissue you try to collect yourself.

“on a serious note. You look gorgeous.” Taehyung says, folding the tissue in to his palm. “you look beautiful. I should’ve married you instead. This guy doesn’t deserve you.”

You choke out a laugh, knowing he’s joking. You and Tae never looked at each other like that.

“If we were getting married, I’d wear sweats. Jeans if I’m feeling fancy.”

“Ouch,” he gasps, clutching his chest. Jisoo snorts. “Is that all I am to you.” He’s way more than that. He’s everything you'd ever want to dream of in a friend.

“i hope this dude realises how much he’s won with you.” Jisoo says softly.

“If he has two eyes, he will otherwise we’ll fight.” Of course it’s tae saying that.

“Why do you hate him you barely know him.” you say causing the man to pull back in defence.

“I’m just setting boundaries.”

He’s always been protective. You can’t blame him.

“But how do you feel?” Jisoo asks.

You take a breath. Let the silence hold for a second. You take in the weight of the dress, the way it fits, the way it makes you feel like maybe this whole thing won’t be so terrible after all.

“i love it.” It comes out soft but it says all that’s needed to be said. “i think it’s the one.”

Cheers erupts in the room the room, and your heart feels light for the first time in days.

You laugh through your tears. “I’m gonna be a Mrs. Something.”

“I just hope he’s got a good last name, at least.” Taehyung grins.

You hope so too.

But that’s one of the many things you’re choosing not to think about. Not yet.

--

Jungkook has never woken up early for anything. And the last thing he ever thought he’d be waking up early for was his wedding.

“You ready for today?” Seokjin says bascally aready dressed while Jungkook walks around in his sweats.

“As ready as i can ever be.” His eyes don’t leave the suit hanging on the wall. Gosh how would he have found one if he didn’t have his friends.

“You sure? You’re too calm.”

“Not everyone’s gonna be in panic.” Namjoon chimes in.

Seokjin’s wedding morning was definitely chaotic cause of how the man panicked.

 Though at the time he never thought of it seriously, Jungkook worried that it was custom to panic like that and he’d panic too. But even still he feels too relaxed, last night’s drinks might have something to do with it. When Seokjin and namjoon had gone to sleep, and jungkook couldn’t, he's only solace was the liquor cabinet. He hopes it’s not obvious. Cause he can fool his friends but his mother might be able to catch it, no matter how hard he’s brushed his teeth.

“it’s good to atleast show some of your nerves.” Seokjin moves to the counter to pour some drinks. Jungkook gags at the smell of spirit. “You can’t be perfectly relaxed.”

Can’t he? It is possibe for him to not be worried about anything. He doesn’t have to be having doubts and fears for this to be real. He doesn’t.

“I’m fine.” He groans, rubbing his face and reaching  for the suit hanging on the door of his room. He's fine...so fine.

Seokjin doesn’t dig in deeper. And one thing the older does know is that no matter what, Jungkook must be feeling something and his silence about it might be proving what Seokjin thought. Thinks.

“Did you send the gift?” he turns to namjoon worried about one thing.

“Yeah.”

Jungkook wanted to make a good impression so he hopes the gift does some apologising if you’re able to notice he's fucked up face.

“Can you help me with my tie?” He knows how to do it. Has been doing it for school for so long. But for once he just wants to feel like she’s involved in something he's doing. Something positive.

The drooping look on her face is discouraging enough, but he tries.

“You’ve been doing it for so long. Do you really need my help?” She says not even looking at him, and yet again he feels the embarrassment.

Clearing his throat, he turns to do it himself but his dad replaces his hands. “I told you guys, you didn’t have to travel for this.” He says lifting his chin up a little for his dad.

He was fine with them not coming, and seeing that they lived so far away it would’ve been an inconvenience. And it’s not like its a wedding his mother would want to attend anyways; so he didn’t  want to waste their time.

He was perfectly fine with them not coming.

“it’s your wedding why wouldn’t we come?” His father says patting down the tie and arranging his collar. It's almost as if it’s his first day at school and his graduation again. He hopes he can do this for his son one day too.

In a whisper away from anyone else his father speaks. "I want you to enjoy today. And whoever she is I want you to give her your all. Love her more than you love yourself, more than you’ve ever loved anything.”

His eyes are sincere as the words are spoken. His father isn’t emotional so even that soft fall of his brows is a lot. And it’s all Jungkook can ask for. “She's gonna love you too, I know it. You’re a good kid.” He pats his shoulder.

He can cry...no. So he sniffles the waters away.

His father has always been a good husband. And that’s who he wants to be as well, no matter who he marries, no matter how difficult she could be.

His parents have been the ideal couple in his life for a long time. And that doesn’t change no matter what.

Everything is silent for a moment as jungkook sinks into what’s about to happen today. It’s only until a voice breaks his serenity.

“Namjoon!” his mother calls out playfully with a glass in her hands, she doesn’t even drink.

Namioon flinches and turns to her smiling awkwardly.  He's never known how to act around her. “When are you getting married? Sure there are so many woman dying to be hitched up to a perfect guy like you.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes and tells namjoon he doesn’t have to answer.

But his mother won’t let that be.

“Not anytime soon Mrs jeon.”

The laugh she releases is sharp and demeaning. But it’s not directed to namjoon. “You see? People who wait to find a girl the right way.”

When Jungkook’s gaze meets hers, he has to remind himself she's the woman that birthed him.

“You didn’t have to come you know that?”

“Come on. You want me here, I’m your mother.”

Contrary to popular belief...

“You’re such a handsome boy, why do you want to get married. You’re wasting your time.” She starts.

She should be praising him for seeing the value in getting married and maturing to the idea. But no...

Jungkook puffs out a breath. The room has been silent since his mother began speaking. And he drowns in it. There's a lot he could say.

Instead, he throws the jacket on and teases at it a little in the mirror. Some are unnecessary touches but he does them anyways. Feeling ready enough he steps away but before he walks out further he looks at the woman sat on the couch.

“If you can..,try your best not to speak to her, okay?”

--

“Did they call?” Taehyung’s voice is almost none existent in your field of thoughts.

It’s only when he repeats that you catch what he said. "no.”  You say no energy in your voice. “but it’s fine...their loss.”

You toss your phone on the couch a little too harshly, just wanting to forget it. Forget everything.

You won’t and can’t beg for people who don’t want to be in your life. Informing them was just a courtesy, you didn’t want him here anyways.

Though it would’ve been great if they could just put their pride aside for you for once.

Taehyung wraps his arms around you. “Their loss. Just know you’ve got us.” He nudges at your temple with his nose.

“Yeah, you’ve got people who care and that’s all that matters.” Jisoo hugs you too and now you’re sandwiched between them. It reminds you that no matter what, you still have people around you who do care and want to support you. So if those people who you thought would want to see succeed didn’t want to be here then it’s not on you. You have your friends.

“let’s finish getting ready guys.” They brush them away playfully and immediately your hairstylist is quick to working on you.

 “So bossy.” You roll your eyes at the remark. “Gonna give this guy a run for his money.”

It doesn’t matter. You cheer to yourself.

Nothing else matters today, you’re getting married and you don’t need to cloud your thoughts with negativity. You wouldn’t want your husband to see you all gloomy. That’s not gonna to be your first impression.

You smile.

All you want to do right now is walk down that aisle. Nothing else matters.

“Did i mention a little something came in for you in the mail” jisoo’s voice comes in excited but you aren’t able to turn cause you’re on your final steps of getting your makeup done.

“huh?” when she stands in front of your eyes fall in the object in her grasp. “What’s that?” you eaxclaim with a smile taking the box onto your lap.

“Open it.” She exclaims, more excited than you.

The tiffany and co logo on the box is evident when you unwrap it. You can’t help but smile from ear to ear. You haven’t met him yet and he’s making you smile this hard? Once it’s open you’re met with a silver locket and bracelet. You’ve gotten gifts before but you have no clue why you’re blushing so hard for this one.

“oh my gosh these are so cute.”

“tiffany and co too...” Jisoo adds, immediately rushing for you to put it on cause it would look good with your dress.

Taehyung watches from across the room, already dressed. “Anybody can buy that.”

“hater...” you and Jisoo choir.

--

Seokjin made it clear for him to behave when he sees your family. He has no clue what he thought he would do, because as much as he’s outgoing, In front of the in-law's he’s a dove.

He’s trying to be calm and act like he’s ready and been ready, but he can’t deny the cold sweats that threaten to run and mess his suit. This is the most trust he’s put into anything. All he’s praying is that it works out.

He’s a fucking groom.

Jisoo sits watching him closely, he is handsome and somebody you would find handsome too. But something she knows you’ll be worried about is probably his personality. He looks like the opposite of what you want and all you’ve been running away from. But who knows with you nowadays. He could be a good guy though.

“Hello.” Jungkook waves to your side. From all he can see, there’s a woman probably same age as him, could be a sister? Friend? Next he sees is an older lady probably the same age as his mother. That could be your mother. The rest of the crowd is filled with 2 people.

Not many people, but t doesn't matter. He wouldn't invite anybody too, if he didn’t have to. Maybe you're too embarrassed to be marrying already.

He's eyes can't stay on one spot. He tries but it's painful.

When he turns to his side, Seokjin and namjoon smile at him, it helps ease whatever he’s feeling but immediately his heart tightens up watching the person sat next to his father whisper into his ear..

What the hell is she saying? Is he standing up straight? Is he smiling enough or too hard.

--

This is the craziest thing you've ever done. The bravest too.

And—God, you hope—it’s the last wild thing you’ll have to do for a while.

Breathing is something your body usually handles without question, but now it needs supervision. You have to consciously pull air into your lungs, or you won’t make it down this aisle walking.

You have no idea what’s waiting at the end of it.

What if you’re not attracted to him?

Worse—what if he’s not attracted to you?

What if you’re not what he’s been hoping for?

“This still feels like a dream,” you mumble, looping your arm around Taehyung’s. He smells like cologne and nerves. What the fuck is he nervous for.

“You ready?” he asks gently.

No, but you nod. “Yeah.”

The gentle music of a live plays as people  stand and you walk, still not in view yet cause if the infrastructure. Its a small venue but sill manages to make you feel like you’re drowning.

As you walk and get closer you try your hardest not to look at the one thing you’re most curious about.

So your eyes choose to scan the venue instead—the warm fairy lights, the soft music, the flowers. You knew the production team would go all-out, but you didn’t expect them to go all out for you. It’s perfect.

You’ve never felt this special in your life. Twelve-year-old you couldn’t have imagined this moment. Even though this isn’t the love story you thought you’d get, the feeling is still here, blooming in your chest.

Who says he can’t become the love of your life?

Jungkook's eyes are wide when they land on your.

From your soft smile to styled hair amd the the dress that falls down your body carefully, he watches every detail. He can’t look anywhere else. He swears his heart was just in his chest a moment ago.

Jungkook watches the person walking you down the aisle, he’s a younger guy. That’s interesting. A sibling?

From all that he’s imagined he could get, you were not on the card. But he'll take it.

You’re more than he bargained for.

You walk slowly, soaking it all in. Nearing the arch, you finally allow yourself to look at the man chosen for you.

And—shit.

He’s… handsome.

You eyes squint.

He smiles as you approach, so at least he doesn’t seem horrified. That’s something.

Taehyung shares a nod with the man, nothing warm or cold behind. You hug him before he walks to his seat, clinging for just a second too long. Then, it's just you and him—your groom. You can’t meet his eyes for more than a second. And it’s embarrassing.

You’ve been on debate teams, presented in University projects and in meetings at work. Basically you’ve had eyes on you before and it was manageable...but these? They burn.

“Hi,” you say, voice small.

 You glance toward his side. A good amount of family. One person stands out—tall, silver hair. Probably a groomsman.

Your groom is attractive, sure, but not your type. Tattoos?, the way he stands—he looks like someone you tried to avoid.

You hate how superficial that sounds. But the thought won’t leave.

At least he’s taller than you.

“Hi,” he replies, equally nervous. Then leans in. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you. You look nice too.” You eye him down, eyes narrowed.

If this were a blind date, you’d already be knee-deep in awkward small talk. But this? This is… bigger. It requires bigger questions.

“Let me take that for you.” Jisoo’s whisper interrupts. She takes your bouquet and you almost refuse, needing something to keep your fingers occupied.

“I see you got the jewellery.” His voice is as light as the pale blue sky. It’s odd to compare it to a colour but that how it feels. His voice reminds you of the blue sky you’ve stood under so many times wondering if your soulmate died. There’s still a possibility of that.

You glance down. You’d worn it and forgotten. It had become that comfortable. That familiar. But now with the recognition, you can feel the cold silver touch every part of you. You can feel it sway and graze you every turn you make. Even the smallest action causes movement.

“Oh yeah. Thank you.”

“You’ll have to thank my groomsman too. He helped me pick it.”

He looks over at Namjoon, who immediately looks like he wants to disappear.

Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. It might sound like he couldn’t handle it alone. But truthfully, Namjoon just knows more about…well, this kind of thing.

“Thank you, groomsman,” you direct a more warm smile to the man.

Namjoon mumbles something, but you don’t catch it.

Turning back, you stare a beat longer when your eyes catch he's features. You bite the inside of your cheek. His face—it’s not common. Not forgettable.

And yet…

The officiant steps forward. Time for the official part.

“Yn, meet for the very first time, Jungkook Jeon. Jungkook, meet for the very first time, Yn Y/l/n.”

His name hits you like a church bell.

“Jungkook?” you repeat sounding a little shocked, like you didn’t hear it right the first time.

He chuckles nervously. “That’s me.” Do you not like his name?

Your stomach drops.

You know him. The name. The face. It clicks.

Your nose works over time pulling in air. You can't open your mouth, cause you might just puke.

Shit—does he know you? He doesn’t seem like he does.

Is this real?

The man you remember wouldn’t be standing here right now. Does she have some polar opposite twin or something?

You rub your arms and wish you could blame the AC for the chill. But that's all on him.

Glancing at your friends. They have no clue what’s happening inside your head right now. They don't know how fast the room spins.

Where do you put your hands, what do you hold onto?

None of them know about him. He’s the only one you've never told them about. And they sit there waiting for you--with smiles and excitement--to marry him.

You made them come here. They smile for you. They support you.

You asked them to be here for you. You wanted to do this.

What a waste of time. You should’ve known.

To add-on, as you look at your friends for a second time you stop at a face you were not expecting and hadn't noticed. How did you miss that? A face that had told you she didn’t want to be here, well not her specifically but mainly on behalf of your father. But what the hell is your mother doing here? She said she couldn’t come.

What the fuck is going on. Collect yourself,  you don’t want to look like you’re about to faint. Even though the overwhelming review of information could just kill you right here.

But it’s okay. You still have time to walk away. Walk away from everyone.

You thought this was going to go well.

You hoped it would.

But now?

This is not what you wanted.

-

-

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A/n: 😏😏 what did you think? I hope you liked it. Please don't ask me if it's a happy ending story(i'm not saying it is or is not.) I just feel if you ask me that then you're not really interested in the story progression. I will try my best to post frequently (I've been working on 2 as well) so just hood your horses.

anyways I hope you enjoyed.

same time next week?

Lets discuss in the replies 🖐😊

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let me know what you thought of this chapter. do you think she'll marry him?