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luxurychristmaspudding · 4 months

Text

On Call | On Call

part ii

summary: sometimes, frankie wonders what he'd do without you. without your help, your laughter, your friendship, the lunches you pack him. and sometimes, when he's alone, he wonders what he'd do with you.

pairing: neighbour!frankie x f!babysitter!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. idiots in love, reader is good with kids. reader and frankie are both bi and have same sex exes. if that’s a problem for you, keep scrolling. fluff, plenty smutty thoughts, f&m masturbation. mentions of grief/dead parent, heartbreak, and biphobia/homophobia. brief competency kink, makin' a man some lunch (in a neighbourly way). drinking.

reader is a teacher, has hair, and there are some descriptions of outfits, but she is otherwise a blank slate :)

wc: 13.1k (normal length fic, my ass)

an: eternal love to @schnarfer for being a constant guiding light and the most wonderful friend. and further eternal love to @din-jarring and @toomanytookas who each make every day a little sunnier.

dividers from the glorious @saradika-graphics

She said call me now baby and I'd come a running If you'd call me now baby I'd come running

- on call, kings of leon

series masterlist | main masterlist

When Frankie gets home Thursday night, weeks later, you’re working at his dining table.

He checks his watch as he closes the front door gently behind him, looking back at the glimpse of you in the kitchen, brows furrowed. It’s late. Surely you should be in front of the TV, fighting sleep.

His footsteps are quiet down the hall, and he pauses in the doorway. You glance up at his soft hey, and he can feel how tired you are.

‘Hey, buddy.’

Your smile is quiet, kind. You watch as he moves to the sink, collecting two glasses, filling them with water.

‘How’d it go?’

You say it at the same time, and it breaks some of the stillness, both pairs of lips lifting in mirrored grins.

‘Good,’ he says, ‘Glad to be home.’

He moves closer and takes a sip from his water, placing yours next to you, gesturing for you to go next.

‘Fine. Totally fine. She was out like a light after the second read. Best kid ever.’

You take a gulp of your water as he raises his eyebrows.

‘Second?’

Mhm.

‘I usually have to do at least four.’

You giggle, fluttering your fingers at him.

‘Magic touch,’ you whisper, ‘Plenty of practice reading kids to sleep.’

He shakes his head at you.

‘That’s not true.’

‘Mm. I’m sure my ninth graders would disagree.’

Frankie rolls his eyes, sitting down heavily next to you. He rubs his face, huffs a deep yawn as he slouches further down into the seat. You try not to stare, but he just looks so soft. You want to wrap him up in a blanket and lead him up to bed. Lay him down and press kisses to his cheeks.

‘She drew this,’ you say, pulling out a sheet of paper from beneath your piles of books. ‘Personally, I think it’s a good likeness.’

He laughs, properly, as he takes in the flourish of crayon across the page. It’s obvious where you’ve helped her - sketching the outlines of people, houses - and obvious where she took over - a mess of scribbles, rainbows of colour. The two houses, the fence, him and Lucia - Papi and me - and then the colourful tangle of you next door - Bug.

He traces the lines with his finger, gaze softening, heart swelling in his chest.

‘She hold you up, doing this?’

You smile at him, shaking your head. You fumble below the books again, pulling out a second sheet.

‘No. Looked so cute I drew one myself.’

You watch Frankie’s eyes light as he takes in your drawing. His and Lucia’s curls, the books under your arm, the oversized caterpillar in the grass. A tidier version of Lucia’s, one where you’re stood closer together. Like a family.

He bites his lip, a sparkling swell of joy flooding his chest.

‘Masterpiece.’ He says. You shake your head at him, bashful. ‘Wanna put it on my fridge.’

You scoff at him.

‘Put Luc’s on the fridge.’

He holds your drawing away from you, pushing Luc’s over your papers.

‘Put Luc’s on your fridge,’ he says, ‘And I’ll keep this one. Deal?’

You suck your teeth, grinning.

‘Deal.’

He stands from the table, moving further into the kitchen. When he reaches the fridge, he takes an alligator magnet and pins your drawing to the metal. He steps back, folding his arms. You watch him.

‘Perfect.’ He says. You giggle.

‘You’re a soft bastard, Frankie Morales.’

He laughs, turning back to face you.

‘Don’t tell anyone.’

You hold out your pinky, and he links it with his.

‘Promise.’

The heat from his hand, so close to yours, is almost irresistible. Your chest heats, and you want to pull him closer, see if he’s that warm everywhere.

You drop his hand, standing on heavy legs. Your I should get going is muffled through a yawn, and he nods, helping you to gather your things. When you’re ready, he follows you to the door.

This time, he pulls you into his chest. And he is warm, warm all over, and you could sleep here, suddenly, wrapped in his arms.

‘Goodnight, baby.’ he says, as you step out of his house.

He’s warm, and he’s so sweet. Baby, baby, baby running through your head as you make your way across the grass, smiling to yourself, still smiling when you turn on your porch, facing him stood on his own. Half of his body dimly lit by the glow within his house, shadows across his face as he makes sure you unlock the door and turn the light on safely. You raise an arm to him, and he does the same. You turn it into a flash of your middle finger, and he does the same - grinning to himself at the sound of your giggle across the lawn, cut off only as you close your door behind you. Goodnight, baby.

It still echoes in your mind as you’re pulled from the silken depths of sleep on Saturday morning by the whirring of a lawn mower. You huff, grumble, roll onto your back and press your forearm against your eyes. You have no idea what time it is, but you know for sure that it is too early for whatever this shit is.

Through the dim light behind your arm, you grimace. Your toes are a little cold, body achy like it needs to be stretched out. All fixed with more time spent asleep, except the buzz from outside comes louder now, more incessant. You roll yourself sideways, squinting in the sharper light coming from the window, mumbling to yourself as you sit and push up off the mattress. When you shuffle to the window and pull the curtain aside, you’re surprised. Frankie is up and out already - his front lawn cut into neat stripes - and now he’s gliding up and down yours doing the same. T-shirt clinging to his body, arms and neck shining with sweat. Cap on to keep the sun from his eyes, the curls at the base of his neck damp and dripping. He’s a sight.

And there’s something about the way he does it, how easy he makes it look. The stripes, the handling of the machine. How he changes the oil of your car, how he can change the tire on his. The way he drives, hand at your headrest when reversing. How he lifts Lucia, how he chops and slices while cooking. So goddamn easy, brow barely even knotted, just his thick fingers working through any problem they come across.

Heat stirs in your cunt.

It’s not that you haven’t thought about it. Him. It’s just that doing so feels… weird. You try not to have detailed fantasies about your best friend next door, feeling disingenuous when you call your good mornings, but certain flashes of thoughts just aren’t so easy to ignore. Stupid ones, like licking his skin when he’s covered in grease, him eating you out over the bed of your truck. Stupid ones like him knocking on your door when he’s done with the grass, coming in to find you reaching for something at the perfect angle in a little summer dress. Thoughts like him bending you over the counter and fucking you stupid, sweat mixing on your skin, the smell of grass flooding your head, tits bouncing in his hands.

Idle thoughts.

Ones that have you flopped back onto your bed, legs spread, one hand between your slick folds as you work yourself. Moaning and gasping into the heat of the morning, brief flashes of Frankie bursting behind your eyelids. The glimpse of skin and coarse hair you’ve seen when he reaches up to lift something, the shy look he gives you from below his lashes. How soft his mouth looks - what it would feel like on yours, what it would feel like to have him whisper against your thighs right now, telling you how pretty you look, watching your hands before he catches them in his and replaces them with his tongue.

It doesn’t take long before you’re cresting in an easy, all-consuming orgasm. Your back arches against the mattress, eyes squeezing shut as your cunt flutters and pulses, fresh slick gushing from between your fingers. Your thighs twitch as your circles ease, heart beat slowing in its thrumming as you swallow and pant. The mower is still whirring outside. He must be nearly done.

Frankie cuts the machine as he trims the very last patch of your grass to a lighter shade of green.

He peels his shirt away from his skin, flapping it in an effort to cool down. The cap comes off next, one hand swiped across his forehead, the other running air through his damp curls.

It’s warm. Unseasonably warm, and if he had any sense he wouldn’t have cut any grass today. But this Saturday suited him, and once he’s done his lawn, he may as well do yours. You don’t accept nearly as much as you should for looking after Lucia, so he’s taken to sneaking in more favours when he can. An oil change, lightbulbs you can’t reach, an Ikea chair you couldn’t find the time to set up. He knows you’ve noticed. Scowling slightly at how you can’t say no, quick to find a way to repay him. It’s become a welcome game of tag over the last six weeks. You won’t be outdone. In fact, if Frankie was a betting man -

‘Gotcha something.’

When he turns his gaze from the street, squinting slightly, he finds you bounding towards him. Barefoot, glowing with the remnants of sleep, and fucking poured into the most sinful sundress he’s ever seen. Like a teenager, he feels his cock twitch in his jeans, and he scolds himself for it.

‘It’s hot out.’ You grin, holding out a tall glass of something clinking with ice. His own answering smile speaks something of his relief, his gratitude.

‘Sure is.’

He takes the glass from you, giving it a sniff. You roll your eyes.

‘It’s lemonade. I’m not trying to poison you.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Yet, anyway.’

He nods, as though you’ve confirmed what he’s long suspected.

‘’S the thought that counts. I don’t get a straw?’

You smack his bicep with the back of your hand as he takes a sip.

‘Dick,’ you grin, ‘I’ll piss in it next time.’

Frankie’s eyebrows shoot up, but he manages to swallow without spluttering it all over you. He considers for a moment, clearing his throat.

‘Nice piss.’

Your mouth pops open, feigning disgust.

‘I said next time, freak.’

He laughs, flashing you a cheesy wink.

‘You love it really.’

You giggle, spinning on your toes like a schoolgirl. He laughs with you, sipping the lemonade, eyes crinkly and affectionate, tracing your lips, the hem of your skirt.

You look up and down the lawn, impressed with his craft. Quiet satisfaction blooms in Frankie’s gut.

‘Looks great,’ you say, pressing his arm. ‘Thank you. You know, you don’t have to do this.’

He shrugs.

‘Was out here anyway. Just helping my favourite neighbour.’

You chuckle.

‘Whatever. But you still don’t have to.’

‘Fine,’ he says, pulling a face. ‘I’ll never, ever do it again. I’ll leave you to mow your own lawn, build your own furniture, set your car on fire…’

‘I’m not that bad,’ you laugh, giddy as you step around him.

‘Bug,’ he says, fixing you in place with a firm hand on each of your shoulders. ‘Baby. I’m not convinced you even know what a wrench is.’

You gasp, genuinely offended this time, and he laughs.

‘Of course I know what a fucking wrench is, asshole. I’ll give you a fucking wrench.’

He laughs harder, and you reach up to swipe his sweaty cap from his head. Before he can grab at it, you’re off, flying in circles across the lawn. He sets his glass down and chases after you, hands slipping through the fabric of your dress. He’s not looking at the plush flesh of your thighs revealed at each stride. Not noticing the way your chest moves, definitely doesn’t see a peek of your ass as you whirl in front of him. He doesn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t. Certainly not on purpose.

He blames the heat, his earlier exertion for why he can’t catch you. Can’t even try to grab you when you zoom by and scoop up his empty glass, when you round the curve of his fence and wait for him to follow you. He’s barely jogging now, drenched in sweat, breathing heavily. He’s almost at you, cap almost within reach, and then you plant the hand with it in on one of the pickets of the fence, jump, and swing your legs over.

‘That is playing so fucking dirty!’ He pouts, and you cackle at him.

If there’s one thing you’ve mastered over the last year, it’s hopping the dividing fence. If there's one thing Frankie swears he will not do, it’s swing himself over. Something about his joints, something about his back. Yada, yada as far as you’re concerned.

‘What’d they teach you in Delta Force?’ You tease, ‘Surely it can’t have been any harder than that.’

He flips you off, hands on his knees.

‘You learn to do that in college? How many fences were you jumping?’

You throw his cap to him, waggling your eyebrows.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy.’

‘Weather boy?’ He wheezes, shaking his head. ‘Not even gonna ask. Christ, you make me feel old.’

You snicker at him again, hopping from foot to foot. He holds out his empty hand.

‘Good game.’

You step forwards, full of faux-graciousness. You take his hand, opening your mouth to snipe something back, but he’s pulling you in too fast for you to process.

And god, he’s wet. Slimy and gross and warm -

‘Get off me, Frankie!’ You howl, and he chuckles, nuzzling his soaked cheek against your forehead.

‘Come over for dinner tonight,’ he says as you squirm in his arms, ‘We’re making pizza.’

You jerk yourself free, and he lets you go, so fucking pleased with himself. You shake your limbs out, trying to erase the sweaty feeling of him.

‘Only if you have a shower first. You fucking stink, dude.’

He begins to back towards his house, and you do the same.

‘I’ll have a shower,’ he says, ‘If you bring a wrench.’

You snort at the bottom of your porch steps.

‘Fuck you, Fish. I ain’t bringing a wrench. And get your goddamn mower off my grass.’

He giggles, a boyish sound so unlike the burly man it comes from. It makes you giggle, too.

‘See you later, Bug.’

‘If you’re lucky, Morales!’

You never do produce a wrench, but Frankie is always thrilled by the other magic tricks you have up your sleeve. He looks forward to the surprise when he comes home from flying - whole Lego cities in his living room, wonky origami in the kitchen, hama beads you’ve dug up from God knows where. The hama beads, he decides, he could live without. He found one in his sock the other day.

He’s home from work earlier than he thought he'd be tonight. Lucia tucked up in bed, he’d tiptoed upstairs to crack her bedroom door open, watching the rise and fall of her back before stepping in and pressing a kiss to her plump, toasty cheek.

He’s just finishing making coffee when he glances across the kitchen to a mixing bowl that hadn’t been out this morning. Curious as the coffee brews, he moves closer to the pale blob inside, and pulls back the clingwrap. He sniffs the dough-like mass, but comes up empty for clues.

He pokes a finger into it, grimacing at the damp sponginess before covering it again and wiping the digit on his jeans. He pours the coffee, adding creamer and sugar, before shouting over his shoulder.

‘Bug,’ he calls, ‘Were you making bread today?’

‘What?’ he hears you answer from the living room, and he smiles as he carries the coffee through to you.

‘I said, were you making bread?’

You’re still where he left you, tucked up on the sofa. You reach for the mug he offers with greedy hands, and he laughs.

‘Bread?’ you ask, taking it, brow furrowing before the confusion clears and you beam up at him. ‘Oh! No. I made playdough.’

‘Made playdough?’ He says, plopping down beside you.

‘Hell yeah, baby. Easy as fuck. Do you know it’s edible?’

‘Edible? You feeding my daughter playdough?’

You roll your eyes.

‘Obviously not. You’re a regular comedian, you know that?’

He chuckles into his coffee, blowing at the steam.

‘Did she eat it anyway?’

‘Not while I was looking.’

He hums at your answer, swinging your legs onto his lap and squeezing your calf.

‘What you watching?’ he asks. You shrug.

‘Some movie. This guy’s a detective tryna take down a drug ring. She,’ you say, flapping a pointed finger at the screen, ‘Is like, a burlesque dancer who’s actually an undercover agent, and he just found out. He’s feeling some type of way about it because he thought he was saving her from some kind of terrible fate, but it turns out she’s totally fine and is actually saving his ass.’

Frankie grins at you, and when you turn your head and catch his eye, you grin back.

‘What?’

‘Nothin’.’

You snort at him. He turns his attention back to the TV.

‘What’s the deal with the monkey?’

You jiggle your legs in his lap in excitement.

‘Oh! You’ll love this. He’s the gang leader. Everyone understands what he’s saying apart from the detective and this one guy who thinks he’s having the worst trip of his life.’

He belly laughs this time, tipping his head against the back of the couch, and you watch, eyes sparkling, as the hoots of laughter leave his mouth. You lean forward and smack his arm, giggling too.

‘Shh, you’ll wake Luc up.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he splutters, still snickering, ‘I’m sorry. Oh my god. If there was ever a movie written for you, it’d be this one.’

You gasp.

‘I know. It’s insane. And the soundtrack is amazing. So many cool songs. And -’ you pause, waiting for the actress to pop back up on screen, ‘She wrote some for it. Can’t remember what her name is right now, but she’s in a band in real life.’

Frankie watches as the woman welcomes the detective into her dark apartment - pin boards full of pictures and maps, a wall that falls away to reveal all kinds of hidden weapons. She turns to face the other actor, and Frankie cocks his head.

‘She kinda looks like you,’ he says, and you make a noncommittal noise. ‘Sure you don’t have a long-lost sister?’

You chuckle, and the camera pans back to the man.

‘I don’t think so. But he looks like you. Just - maybe… a few years older.’

He drops his jaw, staring at you.

‘Just a few?’

You snort.

‘Yeah, Fish. Don’t worry. Old age comes for us all.’

He makes a hurt noise, fingers scrabbling for the bottom of your feet, and you shriek, holding your coffee far away from you as he tickles.

‘Stop!’ you cry, ‘Stop! Okay, I’m sorry! You’re so much younger than him. You barely even look thirty.’

‘Barely - even - thirty -’ he laughs, wrestling with you as he tries to stop from spilling his own drink. ‘Not only did you call me old, you’re a liar, too.’ he stops only briefly to put his coffee down, and you manage to do the same before he launches at you with renewed vigour. His hands are all over you now, finding any sensitive spot he can. You grab and dig your nails into his arms, kicking your legs against his lap, planting a foot against his belly to hold him away.

You speak only in squeaks, hacking coughs and muffled laughter. There’s a pressure building in your bladder, and it only makes your movements more desperate, more uncoordinated. You’re begging, pleading, almost in tears through your yelping, and then your heel digs lower than it should. Frankie’s movements cease as he doubles over your legs, grunting out a pained noise as you whip your feet away from him.

‘My - fuckin’ - balls.’ He gasps.

You try to suck your laughter back through your teeth, but it’s futile. You lean forwards towards him, your palm firm on his back.

‘I’m sorry,’ you wheeze, ‘God, I really - I swear I didn’t mean to do that.’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ he groans, cradling his crotch, ‘There was feeling behind it.’

You snort, pulling his shoulder back so he relaxes into the couch.

‘Come on. It was barely a tap. Lucia could still have a brother or sister.’

He groans anew.

‘I’m in no fit shape for any of that now.’

You giggle and pout at him.

‘Aw. Want me to kiss it better?’

The flush that reddens Frankie’s face is almost immediate, the same heat flashing through your cheeks. Your mouth works to find some kind of joke, something to take it back with, but you flounder.

‘Keep dreamin’, bug.’

A ha! escapes your lips, and Frankie manages a bashful smile, a shake of his head. But your heart is lumbering in your chest, stomach gooey, and the tips of his ears are glowing.

He’s not thinking about it. He’s not.

And neither are you.

So he says something stupid about the monkey, and you say something stupid back. Layers on layers of silliness until the giggles return and the nerves are tucked away.

You love this kid. You really do. But it’s been a shitty fucking day.

You’ve not cried in the staff toilets since your training, but today every vibe was off, as the kids say. You’d been about ready to head home, forget about any work you needed to do, pull on your pyjamas and crawl into bed. Instead, you’re trying to blink back stupid tears on your way to the elementary school across town.

You’re not mad at Frankie, not even upset. When he’d called to say there’d been a fire at work and he needed to stay to provide first aid, your stomach had dropped through the floor. Your are you okay? felt clumsy, rushed, pushed against his panicked panting through the line. But he was just as quick to reassure you - he wasn’t even close, but one guy had burns and they might need him to cover the last flight out.

And it wasn’t a problem - isn’t a problem. You love spending time with Lucia, want to be as much help as possible, but man. You just wish it wasn’t today.

When you pull up to the school gates, Lucia is waiting for you. Her tiny backpack clutched in her fists, bright smile as she chatters away to her teacher stood beside her. Miss Lopez, Frankie had texted you, just in case.

The car door is barely open before the curly-haired whirlwind is launching herself in your direction with an excited squeal, crashing into your legs. You laugh, squeezing her shoulders before dropping down to her level.

‘Hey, baby bean!’

‘Papi said you’d come!’ She beams as you stroke her hair back from her face.

‘He sure did. You gonna come and hang out with me ‘til he gets home?’

She nods like her head’s on springs, and over her shoulder you look to Miss Lopez. She has the sweetest face, a lovely smile. You straighten out and offer her your hand. She takes it, palm soft and dry.

‘Sorry I’m late.’ You offer, and she shakes her head.

‘Not at all. You must be Mrs Morales.’ She says.

You choke on a laugh.

‘Oh - I - I’m not, actually. Family friend.’

Miss Lopez claps a hand to her forehead, grimacing.

‘Of course,’ she says, ‘The office did tell me. I’m so sorry. It’s just been one of those days.’

You chuckle, feeling Luc link her fingers with yours.

‘I know the feeling.’ You smile, and she smiles back. Miss Lopez crouches to Luc's level and gives her a gentle boop on the nose.

‘Be good, be safe.’ She says, and Lucia giggles, starting to pull you back to your car. Her teacher waves to you. ‘See you soon!’

You make sure to return it, ushering Luc to the car.

When she’s buckled in, she gently tugs the chain of your necklace.

‘I missed you.’ She says, eyes wide and earnest. Heat pricks behind your eyes again.

‘Missed you too, bean.’

It’s been a shitty fucking day, so you make cookies.

It’s easy to do, and mostly for you, but Luc is fucking delighted. You make sure to dig out her little chef’s hat, and she whizzes around the lower cupboards grabbing a mixing bowl for you. She loves it, more than anything. She’s a star with shaping, mixing, tasting. On the same page as you about eating the dough, and very content to sit by the oven door to watch them melt and bake in front of her. Easy entertainment, and she’s in your sights as you grade your essays at Frankie's kitchen table.

You know you’re not being fun. Not mustering the same kind of sunshine you usually do so effortlessly for her, not that she seems to notice. You try to keep a smile going when the cookies are done, packing a small box of them into your bag and eating two each before dinner. She might not finish the whole meal, but she looks at you like you hung the moon.

When you settle down to watch Frozen again later, her head starts to bob half an hour in. You let her fall asleep cuddled up next to you, and when another half hour passes, you extract yourself, gather her tiny body in your arms, and carry her to bed.

You set her down gently, pull the covers up to her chin, and watch her snuggle down in the blankets, nuzzling into their softness. You feel so weak, so goddamn tired, so disappointed in yourself for not playing like you usually do, for not encouraging her to sing and dance with you, for not reading her her usual bedtime story. It’s important for development at her age, a nasty little voice reminds you, and it just feels like something else you’ve failed at.

You swallow the lump in your throat, turn on her nightlight, and lean down to kiss her cheek. Her skin is so warm, so soft. You gently swipe the curls from her face.

‘Night night, little love.’

You’re still marking your essays when Frankie comes home.

You know you shouldn’t be. You know you should have curled up on the sofa or in the guest room like he’s told you to before. Know you should be asleep, barely managing to keep your eyes open, but you feel so fucking miserable, and you’ll be damned if Frankie comes home to you crying wrapped in his duvet.

Your coffee is cold, and a sip of its chill only serves to spark irritation in your stomach. You begin gulping it down, wishing it gone, before spilling some on the sheet of paper in front of you. You curse quietly just as you hear his keys in the door, dabbing at the blotch on the page as he toes off his boots in the hall. Your pressing only seems to be making it worse, little flakes of paper coming off on your sleeve as he enters the kitchen.

‘Hey,’ he says quietly, ‘I thought you’d be asleep.’

You give up, leaning back in your chair to look at him.

‘How’d it go?’ You ask, throat tight.

He shrugs.

‘Okay. Dylan has some burns and Eddie is pretty shaken up, but they’ll both be okay. Ended up taking Dylan’s last flight.’

You take a deep breath.

‘I’m sorry, Fish.’

‘Why? You didn’t set fire to it.’

You know it’s one of his usual quips. You know he’s not trying to be smart, not trying to rile you up. But you can feel it happening, all the same.

‘Are you okay?’

He looks at you, assessing. It’s not like you to not snipe something back, not like you to not take the joke further.

‘I’m fine. Just took me by surprise, that’s all. I’ve seen worse.’

You nod. He frowns. He doesn’t like it when you’re quiet.

‘Sorry I was gone so long.’

It hangs in the air for a moment. You clench your teeth, frustrated at yourself for the undeserved irritation.

‘You were at work. ‘S not a problem.’

He’s staring at you. You can feel it as you lean forwards again, pen in your hand. The words in front of you blur.

‘Whatcha reading?’

You should go. You should really pack up before this ridiculous anger bubbles over. It’s not Frankie who deserves it, not the kids who deserve it. You should sleep on it, get some perspective. Fuck, do some mindfulness or something.

Frankie drums his fingers on the wood when you make no reply, and you glower at him as he moves around the table, eyes fixed on your pile of marked essays. He thumbs the corners, and you bristle.

‘Oof,’ he says, picking up the last paper you graded. ‘F for Fail?’

‘No,’ you bite, ‘F for fuck off, Frankie.’

His eyes flick to yours, surprised, and he’s greeted with a wall of fury which he’s never seen before. It shocks him enough to put him on the back foot. Show his belly. He whistles lowly, dropping the paper back onto the pile, and is rewarded with something akin to the gnashing of teeth. The pieces slot together in his head. The bags under your eyes. How short you’re being.

‘Okay,’ he says, ‘I think that’s enough for tonight.’

‘Don’t patronise me.’ You hiss, and it’s like you’re an open book for him to read. The flame in your stomach roars to life at the look he gives you. You need to take a nap.

He pulls the rest of the papers away from you, and you try to claw them back, outraged. He grabs your hands, holding them away from your work, and your wrists twist in his grip.

‘Frankie,’ you seethe, ‘Let me go. I’m not fucking around.’

But he doesn’t. He’s seen you worked up before, knows you better than you think. Knows this isn’t just the result of a few bad essays, knows this is because of something more. Knows how to make you feel better. ‘Francisco Morales,’ you start, ‘Get your fucking hands off me -’

He tightens his fingers again and tugs you up off the chair. It squeaks across the floor as you stand. Something about your attitude sparks a flame south of Frankie’s stomach, and he swallows sharply. Nothing a good hard fuck couldn’t fix, and he blinks at himself, surprised. He drops your hands. Where the fuck did that come from?

‘Get off -’ you growl, and he points at you.

‘Sit your ass on the couch. I’ll be there in a minute.’

You set your jaw and glare at him, and he raises an eyebrow. He watches as your mouth twists into a scowl before you turn on your heel and stomp through to the living room.

He takes his cap off, scrubbing a hand through his hair and exhaling through his nose before adjusting himself in his jeans. He tidies your papers, puts pens and markers back into your pencil case, closes your laptop, packs your bag. Moves to the cupboard for two mugs, busying himself with tea and coffee as he tries to push thoughts of your furious eyes from his mind. How he could kiss the frown from your forehead, the scowl from your lips, how he could take you apart with his mouth, his cock, make you forget, make you feel better -

When he steps into the living room, you’re sat with your back to him, crowded into a corner of the couch. He places your tea on the table behind you, and his coffee on the other at his end. He lowers himself onto the cushions, relaxing against the leather, watching you. Your shoulders are almost up to your ears, fingers picking at the skin around your nails, eyes on your lap. He waits, chewing his cheek, hands twitching at the way your nails dig into skin.

‘I’m sorry for snapping at you.’

Your voice is small, quiet. He rubs his eyes and sighs.

‘It’s okay, baby. I know you didn’t mean it,’ he pauses. ‘I’m sorry for - manhandling you.’

You huff a breath through your nose, scratch at your knuckle. Frankie feels the worried pit in his stomach start to yawn.

‘Bug,’ he says, softly, ‘Talk to me.’

You wipe your hands over your thighs, and Frankie wonders whether it’s him. Something he’s said or done. He knows he’s not been looking hard enough for another sitter - maybe you’ve just had enough. His gut twists.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing - just. A bad day, is all.’

Too fast. He can feel his eyebrows lift.

‘Because of the tests?’

You shake your head.

‘All of it. The whole day was wrong.’

Frankie waits again, resisting the urge to move closer to you. You need a moment, though everything in his body wants you near right now. The scratching at your knuckle is incessant, and Frankie observes the movement with his own growing anxiety. You clear your throat.

‘All my lessons were shit. Everything was shit. I forgot reports and data drops, and the kids wouldn’t shut the fuck up, and I yelled at my favourite class, and almost everyone in my tenth grade group failed their assignment, and I just - couldn’t smile enough, wasn’t good enough for Lucia, and I’m so tired,’ you rush out, pressure building behind your eyes and at the back of your throat. ‘I’m tired, Frankie.’ You whisper.

He’s nodding, hands clasping and unclasping over his lap.

‘Bug, baby,’ he says, so gentle, ‘Please don’t worry about Luc. Don’t ever worry about not being good enough. You know she thinks the sun shines out your ass,’ he pauses, but there’s no giggle. ‘And I bet your lessons weren’t shit. You had a bad day - that’s all. That does not make them shit.’ He can see your head quirk minutely, hear the thought as though you’d spoken it aloud. Wrong. He keeps going. ‘And things get forgotten, but they’ll get done. Did anyone say anything?’

You shake your head.

‘No. Helen just said they need to be done as soon as possible.’

‘So no one was upset? No one yelled?’

You shake your head again.

‘So it’s fine. You won’t be the only one, bug. And kids never shut the fuck up. It’s annoying as fuck. You know how long I’d last in that classroom?’

‘Five minutes?’ You say, a tiny curl of amusement in your words.

‘Twenty fucking seconds. You’re a saint.’

He hears it, though faint. A small huh of a laugh. He continues, smiling a little.

‘And fuck the tenth graders. If they shut the fuck up, they’d have done it properly. They wouldn’t have fucked it up. They wouldn’t be making my best pal upset, here on my couch.’

You breathe out, shoulders sagging.

‘Maybe they found it hard, though. Maybe I didn’t do a good enough job of explaining it all -’

‘Ah,’ Frankie interrupts, ‘Maybe. But were they concentrating when you explained it? Or were they talking football teams and weekend plans?’

The scratching stops. Frankie counts the seconds by the tick of his heart beat as you pop your knuckles and sigh again. You still haven’t looked at him.

You suck air through your teeth.

‘Football teams and weekend plans. But they still - the results are awful, Frankie. They’re gonna think I can’t do my job.’

‘They’re not gonna think that. They’re not. This is one bad day, one bad result. You’re doing all you can. But you can only do so much, bug. Today was just not your day.’

Your body is vibrating with tension. You link your fingers together, watching the way the skin shifts between the joints.

‘It just - it wouldn’t be so hard if they fucking listened to me,’ you say, still quiet, but angry again now. Upset in a way that makes Frankie’s chest swell. ‘And then I get to thinking - maybe it is me. Maybe I’m just shit at my job and nobody’s bothered to tell me yet -’

‘Enough. You’re not doing this. Of course someone would have told you. Bug, they’re kids. They don’t even listen to their parents when they’re told to defrost the chicken when they get home from school. You’re not doing anything wrong.’

In the low light, Frankie can see you bite your lip, chin wobbling.

‘Hey,’ he says, softly. ‘Hey. Don’t cry. If anyone should be crying, it’s them. You’re doing your best. The least they could do is meet you halfway.’

‘But it’s my job, Frankie. And I care.’

‘I know you do, baby,’ he says, finally leaning forward, squeezing your thigh, ‘I know you do. So - what can we do? You’re tired. Lots of sleep. Long lie in on the weekend. But there’ll be lots of things you can do to turn things around. What can you do for tenth grade?’

You look up, finally. He gets a glimpse of your eyes, panicked, worried, before you turn them away again. You swallow, nod.

‘I guess I could… break it down for them. When I give their marks back. We could write an answer together. And Lucy showed me a really good feedback grid I can print for them all so they know what to work on.’

‘Good. That’s good. Make ‘em write it again?’

You twist your fingers.

‘Yeah. I guess so. There’s time. And they could do with the practice.’

Frankie squeezes your thigh again, stroking his thumb against your pants. You huff.

‘There. See? Already fixin’ it. Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy.’

You quirk your head.

‘You’d think. More like - fuckin’ - difficult, difficult, lemon difficult.’

A slow smile spreads across his lips, despite himself. And when you look up, catch it, you fight to keep your mouth from doing the same.

‘You can laugh, bug,’ he says, ‘That was funny.’

A small giggle floats from between your lips, but it’s still watery. He can taste the salt in the air.

‘What else?’ he says.

You shake your head, retreating back into yourself again.

‘Bug?’

Your eyes are back down on your hands, fingers twisting, twisting, twisting.

Frankie holds his breath, heart aching in his chest. He can feel it radiating off of you, something deeper, painful.

‘I just - it made me think maybe I’m not cut out for it. Maybe I’m not as good as I hoped I’d be, and -’ you cut yourself off, throat tight. You swallow, and Frankie leans towards you. One of his huge hands reaches out to yours, and he gently pries his fingers between your palms, thumb stroking over your knuckles. The tears come without you realising, hot and quick, so many of them you’re startled. ‘And maybe - not as good as dad said I would be.’ You shrug again, wounded, vulnerable. Frankie shifts, the arm closest to you wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you to his chest. Your voice catches, fear and guilt straining against sound. ‘That was the worst part. I felt like I was letting him down.’

‘Letting him down?’ He says into your hair. You feel his lips against your scalp as he speaks. ‘My god, bug. How could you ever think that?’ He squeezes you tighter, and you fight the sobs clawing up your throat. ‘Every day, you go in there and you kill it. No one in that school has ever said a bad thing against you. And you come home with notes, drawings, emails from kids and staff and parents who tell you that you’re making a difference. That you’re helping them learn, you’re making them feel safe, feel like they’re worth the time you give them. Do you know how special that is? Do you know how many of those kids come to you for that?’

A broken noise escapes your mouth, and Frankie begins to rock you gently.

‘I’m proud of you,’ he says, ‘And I know if I’m proud of you, your dad is watching you with his heart about to burst. You could never let him down. Look at you. You are so special.’

You hiccup against him, and Frankie nuzzles his face into your hair. Your tears are hot, damp through his t-shirt, but you can’t stop. You hold to his arms, breathing him in as holds you close. Your legs are going numb, head aching, and you don’t know how long you sit there like that with him holding you. He soothes you with quiet whispers, waves rushing in and out, and once your breathing is back to normal you pull away from him with a great sniff. You laugh at yourself, wiping at your face. He smiles gently back, little crow's feet ceasing the corners of his eyes.

‘You okay?’ He asks.

You nod.

‘Yeah. Just gross. Need to blow my nose.’

He shakes his head at you.

‘You’re never gross.’

You roll your eyes at him, and he chuckles.

‘There she is.’

You shift on the sofa, stretching and popping your joints before hauling yourself up to go to the bathroom.

‘Do you want anything?’ You ask shyly. He shakes his head.

‘Nope. Take your time.’

You shut the door quietly behind you in the bathroom, stepping to press your head against the cool tile. You try to empty your mind, but your chest is heavy. Everything that Frankie said, everything that was so easy to share with him. You’d thanked your lucky stars many a time over the last year that he’d bounded out his front door the evening you’d moved in, but now there was something more to it. You roll your head against the cool ceramic and press your fists to your chest. Your dad was a man who believed in fate, in things happening for a reason. Here, in the quiet calm of Frankie’s house, you have a feeling that he pulled some strings. That he knew who you’d need.

Lips almost pressed to the tile, you whisper to him.

‘Thanks, dad.’

The words hang in the air, slung out the universe, met with warm silence. Your throat tightens again, and if you close your eyes tight, you’d swear he was at your shoulder. Like you could turn around and he’d be there.

When the tightness passes, you inhale deeply and turn to the sink. You splash your face with cold water, blow your nose, and make your way back to Frankie.

He’s right where you left him, the TV on quietly. You flop down into your usual position, and he makes motions for you. You swing your legs onto his lap, and he runs his hands up your shins. Gentle, tender care again. You tip your head back and speak to the ceiling.

‘Thank you.’

He’s quiet for a moment.

‘You don’t need to thank me, bug.’

You make a noise of dissent.

‘You should know. You should know how much I appreciate you. How much I love you.’

You blink at the lights and shadows above you. How easily that slipped off your tongue. It’s never been difficult for you to tell your friends you love them. Hell, you even said it to the lady who served you at the store the other day. But something about saying it to Frankie feels… different.

Your breath gets caught in your chest, and then Frankie’s thumbs dig into the flesh of your calves.

‘Love you too, bug.’

You inflate your lungs at the same time as he kneads a particularly tense spot on your leg, and you loose a quiet groan. You’re not sure if you imagine the minute pause of Frankie’s hands before he thumbs the same spot again.

‘Fuck.’ You hiss.

This time, he does pause. He pauses and prays you don’t feel the way his cock twitched.

‘Does that hurt?’

You pull your head back up and find him watching you with dark eyes.

‘No,’ you say quietly, ‘Not really.’

He nods, studying your face at the next pass of his fingers. Your wince at the tension, but the relief that follows makes your eyes close. This time, he runs his knuckles over your muscles, and you bite your lip, eyes flickering open to meet his. You sigh.

‘That good?’ He asks.

You can’t say anything, nothing that wouldn’t betray the flood of warmth sparking in your cunt.

Mhm.

He nods, kneading further down your leg. Your head flops backwards again, lip clamped between your teeth, brow furrowed as you will your body not to betray you. You almost have it, almost, fingers flexing against the couch cushions, until he presses his thumbs into the arch of your foot and you moan. You fucking moan.

You freeze, teeth releasing your lip as you gasp, but he keeps going. Running his thumbs over and over the sore muscles as you let out quiet little gasps, squirming against the couch, soaking your panties.

‘Jesus Christ, Frankie.’

‘Relax,’ he says, ‘You’re fine.’

You are not fine. Every synapse in your body is firing, every nerve ending alight. You begin to panic, begin to wonder whether you could come from a foot massage alone. Your eyes find his face again, and he turns his head slowly to look back at you, digging firmly into a particularly sore spot. You whine, more pain than pleasure this time, and he presses harder. Hot hurt shoots up your spine, and you whip your foot away from him, breathing heavily. Like dawn breaking, Frankie’s face clears.

‘Fuck,’ he rasps, ‘Sorry, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?’

You wince, flexing your foot against the carpet.

‘’S okay,’ you murmur, trying not to pant, ‘Just a little too deep.’

You can’t look at him. You’re so sure that this man does everything from the good of his heart, with the express intention of making you feel better, but you can’t ignore how your body is buzzing. He can’t possibly know how turned on you are right now. Just a friend comforting a friend. Just a friend. Jesus Christ.

You glance at your watch and curse, all but leaping off the sofa. Frankie stares after you, panicked.

‘Bug -’

You whirl around to smile at him, realising just how wet you are with your thighs pressed together.

‘It’s fine. You didn’t hurt me. I should just - I should really get going.’

He hasn’t moved from the couch, hands crossed in his lap like he’s afraid to move.

‘I’m sorry.’ He whispers.

‘Don’t be,’ you say - too brightly, too quickly. ‘Don’t be. I - thank you. For everything. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

And you’re gone. Bag grabbed, barefoot, shoes in hand, flying out the front door, across your lawns, into your own house. Dumping the shoes and peeling off your clothes in the safety of your bedroom. You flick the bedside lamp on and yank open your bedside draw, rummaging around for your vibrator, pressing it to your throbbing clit before you’re even on your bed.

Your body jerks at the sensation, knees giving out as you moan, long and loud, free hand fisting the sheets as you rock back and forth on your hands and knees. Something clatters through your mind, something confusing and guilty, some mix of emotions that stirs in your chest and in your gut, something that tells you you shouldn’t be doing this - again. Shouldn’t be this close to coming already, shouldn’t be so wet, shouldn’t be shaking this hard. Shouldn’t be moaning so loud, so desperately, shouldn’t be thinking of the way Frankie’s dark eyes bored into yours, the way he worked his fingers over your sore muscles, how he’d held you there so you couldn’t escape. What he’d think of you dripping all over his couch from just touching you through clothes.

You tilt your ass up further, resting your forehead on your arm, feeling sweat gather on your hairline. In your mind, Frankie’s hands are climbing up further than they were before, kneading up your thighs, squeezing and rubbing, all the way until his thumb grazes the edge of your panties. You can imagine how his eyes would get darker as he felt the slick there, so wet it made the closest press of your thighs damp through the fabric. How you’d hold your breath and his gaze as he slipped two fingers beneath the gusset, how he’d sweep them through the wetness there, just spreading it, teasing, enjoying how wet and ready for him you were before slipping both digits inside, easy, so easy -

You clench your teeth against the cry that seeks to force its way past your lips, breath stuttering in your lungs as your body seizes and pulls, cunt clenching and pulsing with your orgasm. Your head slips off your forearm onto the sheets and you curse quietly, betrayed by how easy it had been to come.

You stand on shaky legs, turning the vibrator off with a click before leaving it on the duvet. You kneel and survey your room, the unread books, the pile of laundry, the freshly ironed shirt ready to wear tomorrow. The window across from you, bare of curtains, looking straight through to - fuck. For fuck’s sake.

Frankie’s bathroom light is on across the dark expanse of midnight grass. You freeze, naked, terrified for a moment that you will see him step into frame and catch you red handed. As if he’d know. As if he’d be able to tell, just from the look on your face, that you’d come so quickly, so easily, to the thought of him slipping his hand beneath your panties.

But he doesn’t. With an arm over your chest, you whip the curtains over the gaping glass, and get ready for bed.

Frankie can taste blood.

He barely even registers it, lip clamped between his teeth as he fists his dripping cock in the bathroom mirror.

He’d sat for a few minutes on the couch after you’d left, trying to will his arousal away, terrified you might have forgotten something and come flying back through the door. Terrified Lucia might be rattled awake and find him to ask what the noise was about.

When neither had happened, he’d unzipped his fly to relieve some of the aching pressure. He’d turned off the TV and all the lights, something swelling in his chest at the sight of the plate of cookies on the counter, piled high, and hauled his ass upstairs. The movement had made it worse.

The friction against his cock at every step of his tired feet made him ache fiercely, and he’d forgone his bed, heading straight to the en-suite, where he’d whipped his t-shirt off and pulled himself out.

He’s trying to be quiet. Trying so hard as he draws his fist over his tip, spreading the precum down his length, as he twists and tightens his hand. His heart is racing, body thrumming with desire. He’s trying not to think of them, but those sweet, desperate little sounds you made are flooding his mind. He’s fucked. So fucked.

And he’s weak.

Weak at the knees at the thought of you laid out on his couch. At the thought of his hands drifting higher, at maybe finding your panties soaked. With his eyes closed, he can imagine your face - shocked, desperate, aching for him the way he is for you. He’d swipe his fingers along your slick slit, and he’d taste them - fuck, he’d give anything to know what you taste like. And when you begged, he’d strip you down and spread you out. He’d lower himself between your legs and kiss every inch of skin he could find. He’d breathe in the scent of you, nose the crease between your thigh and cunt, and he’d eat you. He wants to know what other sounds you make as he takes you apart, wants to lick you from your hole to your clit. Wants to hold you down as you squirm, wants his fingers in your mouth to keep you quiet. And he wants to make you come. Wants to drink you down as he feels you twitch and pulse beneath him, and then he wants to fill you with his cock.

He tightens his fist again, barely muffling his groan. He wants to feel you stretched out, gasping as he pushes in. Wants to lean his forehead against yours as he whispers how beautiful you are, how good you’re being, letting him take care of you like this. Wants to see you cry for a different reason, wants to taste the salt on your skin and know it’s him who’s making you feel this good, that it’s only him who can fuck you like this.

Wants to make you his, wants to feel you come around him, watch your eyes roll into the back of your head -

He moans as he spills into his fist, cock kicking and jerking with every spurt of milky release that escapes him. Blood roars in his ears and he strokes himself until he whimpers at the sensitivity, panting hotly.

His mouth is bloody and raw in the glass, eyes wide and guilty. He turns from his reflection in shame, ripping toilet paper and cleaning himself gently, trying not to think of your hands, your mouth, how you might look with his spend leaking from between your legs.

He throws the paper in the toilet, tucking himself in and pushing the lever.

He turns after flushing the evidence of his fantasies away, and is fixed with the disapproving eyes of the Star Wars duck on the edge of the bathtub. He pulls a face at it and flips it off.

‘Don’t look at me like that. I bet you do it when she’s not watching, too.’ He says, pointing to the sparkly gold one beside it.

The duck glares back at him, accusatory, and he sticks his tongue out at it as he swings the door open, flicking off the light before stepping out. He closes the door firmly behind him, and leaves the ducks to their domestic.

Frankie snoozes his alarm the next morning, eyelids fluttering against his pillow as he wraps his arms around his tangle of duvet. He’s warm, limbs languid, still in the haze of a sweet dream, a familiar scent hiding behind the edges of sleep.

He’s almost passed out again when he jerks awake, adrenaline flashing through his veins as he stumbles out of bed and into Lucia’s room. She’s asleep still, groggy as he gently stirs her, mumbling into her teddy about not wanting to go to school. And despite his best efforts, they’re both sluggish, slow, running late as he dresses her and then himself, as he makes breakfast, as he packs her bag, as he reaches into the refrigerator to grab her lunch -

Shit. Her lunch.

He throws a frantic glance at the clock, muttering a fuck too quiet for his daughter to hear as she waits behind him with her shoes, ready for him to put them on. He turns and kneels in front of her, placing one foot on his thigh so he can finish getting her ready. He makes a calculation that includes stopping to get her something from the store on the way to school, but there’s just not enough time -

He whips the door open so quickly it startles you, your hand flying from where it was about to knock. Your stomach is churning, heat crawling up your spine with how fucking weird you must have been last night.

Frankie looks just as surprised to see you as you are him.

‘Bug?’ He says, paused in the doorway with Lucia hitched on his hip.

‘Bug!’ She crows, delighted with the early morning visit, oblivious to her father’s rush. You beam back at her, greeting her with a mornin’, mini Morales, before looking back at Frankie. Something in his chest goes gooey.

‘I made lunch for you both,’ you say shyly, quickly. Frankie’s eyes drop to the two bags you have held out. ‘I didn’t think you’d have time last night. And I wanted to apologise. I didn’t mean to give you shi- a hard time when you got home. And I’m sorry I ran out so fast.’

Frankie sucks a breath through his teeth, heart rate settling.

‘You’re a goddamn angel,’ he says, ‘You know that?’

You chuckle a little, looking down at your feet. His heart swoops, and he knows he shouldn’t, knows he won’t, but he wants to ask.

He wants to ask you why you flew out the way you did. Wants to know why your bedroom light was on so late. Wants to know if there’s some wild possibility you were caught up the same way he was. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he pulls you in for a one armed hug, and with all the gratefulness he can muster, says -

‘Thank you, baby. Luc, what do you say?’

Lucia grins at you with all her teeth.

‘Thank you, bug.’

You giggle.

‘I packed you extra cookies.’ You whisper conspiratorially, and Luc claps her tiny hands.

You smile up at her, and she reaches out for the bags. You make sure she’s got them handled before turning your smile to Frankie, and he’s sure his heart stops. There’s worry in your eyes still, and it takes everything in him to not swipe a thumb along your cheek, to not press the fullness of his mouth against yours.

‘We’re going to the beach on Sunday,’ he says, ‘Do you wanna come?’

Your smile brightens, widens. Relief washes over your features.

‘Please!’ Lucia joins, ‘Pleasecometothebeach - we're gonna build sand castles and bury Papi and swim and eat ice cream -’

Frankie clasps his hand over her mouth, and she cackles against it, legs swinging against his hip.

‘I’d love to.’ You say.

The beach is a raging success.

From the moment you’d felt the silky sand brushing between your toes, it was like the stress of the week had melted away.

Lucia had grabbed your hand as soon as Frankie had dropped the cooler in the best spot he could find, squealing and running all the way to the ocean with you beside her. Frankie had laughed as he ran to catch up, hitting the waves just after you, sweeping Lucia up in his arms as she shrieked with laughter, swooping her low so her toes swept through the water. You swam and paddled together for a while, Frankie only leaving to grab a ball so you could play piggy in the middle in the shallowest shallows.

Now, laid out on the blanket you’d brought, with the sun warming your skin, you close your eyes.

Everything feels slow - the tick of your heart, the carousel of your thoughts, the way you drag your fingers through the sand at your side. You’re drifting into the arms of sleep when there’s the soft snick-crack-fizz of a can beside you, and then you’re suddenly thirsty.

You peek through one eye at Frankie beside you, and like he feels it, his eyes flick to yours. He offers you the open soda before reaching into the cooler for another. You sit up, groaning a little, twisting to look for Lucia.

She’s still slumped on the sand throne you and Frankie had built her, now fast asleep. Legs planted, arms settled on the armrests like a stately little Lord. Her head tilted back, tiny sunglasses and flowery sun hat on. You can’t look at her for too long before you get the giggles, it’s so fucking cute.

Frankie follows your eyes, mouth lifting in amusement, raising his eyebrows at you.

‘We should take a picture. One for her 18th.’

You giggle, and he takes a sip of his drink before flopping down beside you. You take a long pull from your own can before doing the same, turning on your side to face him. Frankies fights to keep his gaze steady, something he’s been trying to do all day. Trying to avoid the skin that had been revealed to him today, trying to avoid how soft you look, how comfortable, how gorgeous. How your skin would taste, how it would feel against his. He closes his eyes.

You watch him. The strong sweep of his nose, the fullness of his mouth. The scruff of his beard, the bare heart-shaped patch before the line of his jaw. Your eyes sweep lower - the wide expanse of his chest, golden skin that seems to go on for miles and miles. It makes your mouth run dry.

It’s not like you haven’t seen him shirtless before in the hot Florida summer, but up this close, it’s different. The soft band of his belly, the smattering of hair above the waistband of his trunks. The silvery bud of a scar above his hip.

When you glance back to his face, he’s watching you. Your eyes dart down again.

‘Mexico,’ he says, ‘2016.’

You nod, and reach out your hand. Slowly, softly. Frankie holds his breath, stomach tensing.

You run the tip of your finger along the puckered edge of the scar, and he shudders. You pause, untacking your tongue from the roof of your mouth.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘No,’ he reassures, ‘Just - tickles.’

It’s a half truth.

It doesn’t hurt. It does tickle. And there’s a burst of heat beneath his skin where your fingers graze him.

‘Was it bad?’

He smiles slightly.

‘Just a scratch.’

You hum quietly, swiping your thumb against it tenderly. He watches you, mouth parted, heart burning. It doesn’t look like a scratch, but you’re not one to pry.

The moment is broken by a soft coo behind you, and Frankie’s eyes lift to it. You roll onto your back.

A woman flashes you and Frankie an apologetic smile.

‘Sorry,’ she says quietly, gesturing to Lucia, ‘She just looks so cute.’

You smile breathlessly, a little flustered. She’s gorgeous. So tan and smiley and stunning.

‘Gets all her looks from me.’ Frankie jokes, and you roll your eyes. The woman smiles.

‘I think you mean her mama.’ She says, nodding to you before continuing on her stroll. You’re still too taken aback to correct her, trying to loosen your tongue before Frankie takes any offence. He laughs beside you, and you roll back to him to apologise -

‘You are literally no better than a man.’

It’s not what you were expecting, and the shock of it makes you laugh, too. You land a soft punch to his arm, a grumbled shut up shot from where you bury your face in the sandy blanket.. But it feels good, the ease at which the jokes come.

To think, there’d been a night on your porch not long after you’d moved in when you’d mentioned the name Annie and clammed up, panicking about what questions would follow next. The name of your ex-girlfriend - ex-fiancee - had been something which only really existed in your mind at the time. Known, of course, to the friends you’d left back home; friends who had loved her, loved the two of you together. But soured by the reaction of your extended family, the people who had voiced their disgust at who you'd loved, who had been so quick to turn their backs in the face of your happiness, the first you’d found since your dad’s passing. It had made your stomach twist.

You’d been worried about Frankie’s reaction, couldn’t bear to think of the first friend you’d made - your neighbour - having the same look of distaste - or worse - intense curiosity.

But he’d done neither of those things. Had marked it with a quiet oh before asking what she was like, where she was, what had happened. You’d told him how you met in college but weren’t brave enough to ask her out until after graduation. How she was an engineer on the east coast - kind and funny and eager to watch you succeed.

You’d been sparing with the details about how it ended. The breakup had still been a raw nerve, something you had no real desire to discuss. Something which you only found to be the case more and more the longer you spent around Frankie. And then he gave you further reason to be less afraid of what he’d think, whether he had the want to judge.

‘Sounds like my ex,’ he’d said, ‘We were friends first, too. Benny.’

You’re snapped back to the present by Frankie rustling around in the cooler.

‘Have something to eat,’ he says, ‘You’re looking a little shaky.’

You’ve been asleep for most of the way home.

Hair blowing in the wind of the journey, cheek pressed against your shoulder. You look so peaceful, so beautiful, and something about this - the three of you in Frankie’s truck, Lucia babbling to herself in the back - feels so right.

He’s loathe to wake you. Wishes he could bottle this moment; the sand still clinging to your skin, Luc’s bright smile in the rearview mirror, but you stir all the same when he slows and pulls into his driveway.

You stretch your arms and yawn, smiling sleepily at him before twisting to look back at Lucia.

‘How you doing, bean?’ You ask.

‘You were asleep!’ She chirps back, and Frankie chuckles.

‘Sure was,’ you grin, ‘Can’t keep up with you.’

You insist on carrying the cooler into his house while Frankie unbuckles her. He holds her hand around the side of the car before she pulls free of him, clattering into the house after you in her sparkling sandals. She passes him in the hall, arms full of toys as she speeds back out to the grass out front, and you smirk at him around the doorway of the kitchen. He shakes his head at you.

‘I don’t know how she does it.’ He says. You grin.

‘She’s four. Give her a few more years.’

He chuckles as he swoops in behind you, pinning your body between his and the counter. He digs in the cooler as you close your eyes against his body heat.

‘Want a beer?’ He says against your neck before pulling away.

‘Thought you’d never ask.’

When you’re settled on his porch, Lucia mimicking the sounds of the dinosaurs she has splayed across the lawn, Frankie bumps your shoulder.

‘You should have asked for her number.’ He grins. You turn to him, still a little sleepy.

‘Whose?’

‘The woman. On the beach.’

You roll your eyes at him despite the heat rising in your cheeks.

‘They’ll get stuck like that, you know.’ He says.

You nudge him back, a little harder.

‘You should’ve asked,’ you chuckle. ‘Gets all her looks from me.’

He snorts.

‘Nah. I wasn’t even on the field. Think you mean her mama.’

‘Should have given her the old I’m the babysitter line.’

He laughs.

‘God. Imagine. Maybe that’s what I’ll have to tell the guys the next time they ask if I’m seeing someone.’

Your blood heats, a soft pounding in your ears. Imagine. Imagine.

You roll your head on your shoulders.

‘Are you?’ you ask tentatively, ‘Seeing anyone, I mean.’

Frankie shrugs beside you like it’s no big deal.

‘No,’ he says, ‘I kind of… swore that all off after Benny. Didn’t wanna go through it all again. Wasn’t good for me, wasn’t good for her,’ he says, gesturing towards where Lucia is playing on the grass. He’s quiet for a moment. ‘Just don’t think I’m cut out for it. Getting my heart broken again.’

You know how it ended - before it had really begun. A tentative feeling between friends; Frankie falling hard, Benny unsure about the new step. Caught up with the nerves you remember so well in the new turn of discovering himself, scared by the ripples caused within the tight knot of their group of friends. It had been hard on Frankie. Not made difficult by his brothers in arms, who, to all intents and purposes, had seen it coming - but because he was so clearly a man who loved hard. With all the goodness in his heart. It’s obvious in how he talks about him now, in how he talks about Lucia's mother. Love that lingers, that still sees the light.

You watch him as he speaks. The soft sunlight illuminating his curls, turning them golden, chocolate brown, little streaks of grey peaking through. His eyes are bright and flecked with hazel, his lips soft and full. When he talks, they are shaped with sound, with emotion. Expressive and beautiful, moving with the crinkles at his eyes, the frown lines on his forehead. Something pulls in your chest, and you reach out to hold his wrist just above his beer bottle. He squeezes your hand with his free one, and turns to look at you. So soft, so warm, eyes so kind and yet so sad sometimes it takes your breath away.

You can’t ever imagine breaking Frankie’s heart.

He licks his lips, eyes flitting to your parted mouth before resting back on yours.

‘Are you?’ He asks.

You breathe a laugh, something breathless in the sound. You retract your hand and look away from him, back to Lucia, watching her toddle around with her dinosaurs. He studies you, and it makes something spike at the back of your throat. You hate when he gets you like this; like he can see you better than anyone else ever has.

‘No,’ you say. When you look back at him, his brows curve in a furrow at the sight of your sparkling eyes. You offer him a small smile, take a deep breath. ‘Think I’m the same as you,’ you shrug, ‘Not built to get my heart broken again.’

Frankie dares an arm across your back, squeezing the shoulder furthest away from him. He pulls you into his chest, palm pressing your bicep in comforting sweeps.

‘I’m sorry.’ He says into your hair.

‘Don’t be,’ you reassure him, ‘I’m not - cut up about it like I was.’ You sniff and pull away from him a little to look in his eyes. ‘It just stays with you, like you said before. The hurt and the shock. Everything you had planned. I think it’s just… hard to remember you won’t have that. Hard to not have that future, hard to feel like you’re enough again.’ You smile softly, and he answers with his own. He knows, he understands. ‘Just… really thought I was gonna marry her,’ you whisper, looking down at your hands. ‘Day I asked her, every time I saw that ring on her finger, thought we were gonna spend the rest of our lives together. And it made me so… happy.’ Frankie swallows thickly beside you. The feeling of it, of what you’re telling him, so painful, so raw for both of you. ‘And when it happened, when it fell apart… it wasn’t big. She just told me - real kind, real patient about it - that she didn’t love me anymore.’ Frankie breathes deeply when he hears the catch in your voice, the sting of it.

Your eyes are on Lucia, but you’re so far away that it worries him. He wants you here, safe, having beers with him on his porch, giggling on the steps.

He can’t ever imagine breaking your heart.

You quirk your head, sighing. ‘Spent a long time tryna figure out what I did wrong, but there was never an answer,’ you shrug. ‘I’m glad she ended it, though. Despite it all. I’d have never forgiven her if she’d stayed.’

A strained hum pulls itself from Frankie’s throat as he watches you lean forward to pick at the grass by your feet. He clears his throat, studies your profile carefully.

‘Do you still love her?’ He asks, voice low and hoarse. He finds, to his surprise, that he’s terrified of the answer.

You frown, slowing your pulling.

‘No,’ you say. ‘I have love for her, but we don’t speak. I don’t want her in my life, but I wish her the best. I just found it… hard to rebuild.’

He thinks back to the day you moved in next door, the bright smile that he hadn’t realised didn’t quite reach your eyes, how you’d been a little thinner, looked so tired. How you’ve changed over the year since, so warm, so full of love and light and energy. How you tear around the lawn with Lucia, how you laugh at his kitchen table, how you fit into his side when you’re watching movies.

Something swoops in his gut, something so huge and unbalancing that his breath comes shallow, that his ears buzz and his vision blurs. A feeling that makes so much - too much - sense.

Fuck.

He swallows, closes his eyes.

When he turns to look at you again, it’s with a heart that knows - really knows. He sees everything you are, everything you’ve been, everything you will be. Knows you for all your good days and bad days, has seen you at all hours, could hold every piece of your fractured heart in his hands and meld it back together again if you let him.

Your eyes find his. He watches your brows raise a fraction at his expression, watches them push together in a question.

His mouth is dry, but he speaks.

‘You are,’ he says, ‘You are enough.’

Your eyes don’t leave his.There’s a pressure behind them, a pull in your gut, a skip of your heart. Something on the tip of your tongue.

Frankie’s eyes slip to your mouth. Your breath catches in your throat, and the world stills. The sounds of the evening, Lucia playing, fade to almost nothing.

If you tip your head, you think he might kiss you.

A small, wild ball of energy crashes into Frankie’s chest, and the moment slips through your fingers. Frankie lets out a quiet oof, wrapping his arms around his daughter. A giggle bubbles out of your mouth, and he grins at you, but his eyes linger. Lucia turns her tiny face up to him, and Frankie rolls his eyes goodnaturedly.

‘Whaddya want, mija?’

‘Strawberry laces.’ She whispers, and you both laugh.

‘Strawberry laces, what?’

‘Strawberry laces, please, Papi.’

‘Alright,’ he says, shifting her out of the clutch of his arms and onto the step beside you, ‘Sit tight, mi amor. I’ll be back in a minute.’

The front door isn’t even closed behind him before Lucia is crawling her way into your lap, wrapping her arms around you. You tuck your hands against her back, pulling away to look at her.

‘How’s it going, mini Morales?’

She beams up at you.

‘Good. The bugs are winning.’

‘Winning? Against who?’

‘The dinosaurs.’ She says, gravely. You nod, just as serious, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

‘That’s good. Bugs have a lot going for them.’

She leans back to consider you for a moment, her face scrunching up in the low lying sun.

‘Miss Lopez called you Mrs Morales the other day,’ she says, ‘Does that mean you and Papi are married now?’

Your heart lurches in your chest, head spinning a little. You laugh, disbelieving. From the mouths of babes.

‘No, baby,’ you say softly, and her face falls.

‘Why not?’

You can feel your heartbeat in your toes. You pray Frankie is struggling to find those strawberry laces.

‘We’re - we’re just friends, Luc. People who get married are usually a bit more than friends.’

Lucia frowns.

‘But you are more than friends,’ she insists, ‘You’re best friends. And you love each other.’

Jesus Christ. You squeak out a hm, trying to remain noncommittal. Lucia begins to fiddle with the charm on your necklace.

‘How do you get married?’

‘Well,’ you swallow, ‘Usually you have a big party. With lots of friends and family there. And you have to ask each other first.’

‘Have you been married?’

You wince. How is she doing it?

‘No, bean. I haven’t.’

She nods, thoughtful.

‘Neither has Papi. He could ask you.’

You choke out a laugh. Frankie’s eyes on yours, on your mouth. The moment caught in time.

Idle thoughts.

‘He could. But I don’t think he wants to.’

Her wide, brown eyes shoot to yours, hands stilling on the chain of your necklace. A feeling creeps up the back of your neck.

‘He does,’ she says quietly. ‘You’re his favourite person, apart from me. He told me s- Papi!’

She cuts herself off in an excitable screech, and you scrunch your face at it. Luc is wriggling in your lap, lips open wide in a toothy grin. Her hands reach out in fists as Frankie rounds your shoulder, the plastic packet of strawberry laces crinkling in his hand.

‘Open your hand,’ he says, and Lucia obeys, her fists flattening to palms face up. Frankie drops a small handful of the sweets onto them, and she dances on top of your thighs, shoving two in her mouth at once so she can chew them up like snakes disappearing between her teeth.

She flashes you another grin, red blended with white, and wriggles backwards, running off back to her dinosaurs.

Frankie settles next to you again, offering you the packet. You take it, fingers scrabbling for sugar as the two of you watch her. For a second, it’s like you’re a family. Like you can feel the weight of a ring on your finger, a ring that was supposed to be there some time in the last six months. You shake your head. A silly thought.

Frankie licks his fingers beside you, and you turn to watch him. The sound of the pop as he releases them from his mouth, the smile that dances across his lips as he watches Lucia, the crows feet at the corners of his eyes. An involuntary smile crawls across your own lips.

‘Got another favour you can do for me,’ you say, still chewing.

‘Hm?’

‘Sink’s a little leaky. Think you can take a look?’

You hold the packet of strawberry laces out to him, and he takes one, lowering it into his mouth. You giggle at the way his tongue curls around it. He grins back at you.

‘Sure can, baby. Luc is at a sleepover Friday night. That work for you?’

‘I think it might, Morales. I think it might.’

#frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #pedro pascal fanfiction #frankie morales smut #frankie morales fluff #fic: on call

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galaxiasgreen · 3 months

Text

🍺🖤This Hell We Create

Sebastian x F!Muggle!Reader with eventual smut [E-Rated, 3.6k words]

"It's hot." "No, and here I thought it was the Arctic." When he makes no move to do anything, you raise your chin, glaring up at him. "No shirt, no service." "I am wearing a shirt." A glint of mischief pierces briefly through his mood. "You know, most women usually ask me to take off my clothes—"

The freckled stranger has been visiting your pub for three months now, drinking to forget the worst times.

You might be the person he needs to remember the best.

[read on AO3, read on Wattpad] [NEXT]

TW: swearing, alcoholism, grief, discussions of death.

1: stupid questions

The freckled stranger has been in your pub every day for the last three months.

It never matters whether it's windy, raining, or overbearingly sunny. It never matters whether it's busy, tables crammed, the counter sticky with spills, or if the tax on drink has gone up. It never matters if he's in a good or bad mood. Every day, right as expected, he shoulders inside Ye Olde Hen House, ignores the chorus of greetings from the tipsy regulars, lumbers to the bar and orders a drink. His choice is always the same: cold stout, brought over in as many glasses he can take before he's one whit away from passing out.

You're used to hauling out drunkards. In this part of the old city they trundle in after labour shifts, seeking to forget the day's worries, and wind up on the floor by hour's end. You pity them their weak constitutions and poor decision-making, and the wives who will have to suffer their company upon their brazen return in the middle of the night.

To his credit, the freckled stranger has never been that drunk.

Yet you pity him most of all.

The first time he steps foot inside the pub he immediately draws your eye. Most of the regulars are in their forties, pot-bellied and cheerful like Christmas adverts of St Nick – but the freckled stranger is around your age, five-and-twenty, with youthful skin, a smooth gait and broad, firm shoulders. His hair is a bed of chestnut curls, and the ends shadow his eyes, also a dark brown, like coffee. Stubble grows in patches over his sharp jaw. In the heat of summer he wears only a linen shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and you can see muscle there, and tattoos, though you force yourself to look away before you can determine what they are, burying your curiosity behind professionalism.

When he makes it to the counter, he slaps down a handful of change and sinks onto the barstool, looking at you, gaze burning expectantly but not with disdain.

"Pint of beer, please."

"Two pence."

He pushes all his coins over. You extract two pennies, then fill a glass to the brim. He drinks quietly but greedily, siphoning the beer like it's his first liquid in days, and when he finishes, every drop consumed, the glass clatters to the countertop in a white-knuckled grip, pronouncing the veins in his hands like cobalt forks of lightning.

"Another, please."

You raise an eyebrow. "Knock that back any faster you might see Heaven before you mean to."

"What makes you think I'm going to heaven?" He throws out a few coins – pennies and halfpennies this time. "Pint of beer, please."

He drinks slower and slower each time as the alcohol alleviates his worries. You feel pity, strong and true. Same age or abouts, and people would look down on you for having a peasant's job, but at least you're not wasting your life away like the freckled stranger.

At least of yourself you make a name, whilst the freckled stranger makes a fool.

By his fourth, sometimes fifth drink, he's spread-eagle on the countertop, playing with the pocket change between his fingertips, wide-eyed with fascination.

"Don't fall asleep," you tell him, squeezing a cloth over a soiled plate. "Or I'll kick you out."

"Not sleepy," he slurs, flicking a half-penny into a tailspin. "Am pensive."

"Pensive... right."

"Pensive about pennies." He chuckles to himself. "Your coins are so funny. What's the point of half-pennies and farthings?"

The use of your is unusual, but he's drunk, so what's new. "Why don't you ask King Edward?" you say humorously.

"You say it like he's only next door. Know him, do you?"

"'Course. We're best mates."

"Put me in contact. I'll change— more make sense."

You purse your lips. He's too drunk to respond coherently, though there's still about three fingers left in the glass, which he eventually works up the means to finish, leaving his lips sticky with cream. By this point it's almost closing time and he struggles to get to his feet. You don't help him. Why should you?

"Ta," he hiccoughs roughly in your direction, and staggers out the door, out of view. You wonder where he goes, what he does in the daytime, whether he has family, or friends, or a pretty girl who pities him too.

He's in a mood on a particularly hot June evening, when he walks into the pub with his shirt unbuttoned.

Do not look. Despite being a complete wastrel, the freckled stranger, you hate to admit, is extremely well-built, with a finely-toned chest and brawny arms that could easily win many wrestling matches, and many hearts too. Maybe he already has. The long stripe of flesh between the two front panels tease a wide chest tattoo, inked over his pectorals like fine canvas – what appears to be two runic symbols and the number 706.

You quickly glance away. That's already too much. Just because a man is attractive doesn't mean you should be staring. You compose yourself and make your way over before he reaches the bar.

"Shirt," you say. "Button it up."

He halts, drinking in the sight of you. Up close, all you can smell is his musk, salty like the sea, and just as powerful. His hair is soaked with it too – there are dirt marks there, like he's been in a scrap, but he appears uninjured.

"It's hot."

"No, and here I thought it was the Arctic." When he makes no move to do anything, you raise your chin, glaring up at him. "No shirt, no service."

"I am wearing a shirt." A glint of mischief pierces briefly through his mood. "You know, most women usually ask me to take off my clothes—"

"Do up your shirt," you grind out, "or get out."

The mischief dissipates as his eyes narrow, but he reluctantly buttons up the front. The shirt is ratty and torn at the elbows, but still smells enticingly like him, and he doesn't bother going up all the way, leaving an annoying glimpse of that unusual scrawl of symbols.

"Happy now?"

You go around the counter, ignoring him. "What do you want?"

"What do you think?"

Your eyes narrow. "You know the cost."

A hand slips into his pocket and produces a handful of coins, which he dumps out flippantly. They clatter to a stop in a wide arc.

Impertinent. Your lips flatten. Two can play that game.

"You've been here enough times to know the correct change by now."

He snorts. "Every bloody coin looks the same."

"It has Britannia wielding the trident on one side."

"Who the hell is Britannia?"

You roll your eyes. "Edward is on the other. Know who he is or have you really been living in the Arctic?"

"I remember your best mate." Finally he takes two pennies from the pile. "You could've just said it was the biggest bronze coin and saved yourself the hassle."

You could've also told him it literally says penny on the rim, but who knows if he's able to read – or whether he can right now. "You don't learn if you don't figure it out for yourself." You take them from his proffered hand. "Pint or half-pint?"

"Another stupid question."

"In that case, I won't serve you—"

"Wait." He grunts in annoyance and holds out the pennies again. "One pint of beer, please."

"That's better."

He takes the drink, and your gaze dips to the hand clenching the glass – you've never seen a drunk with such... muscle definition before. His frame is broad, his chest like full barrels of whiskey. He looks like he knows how to handle his body – how to use it to full advantage.

Shame. If only he didn't have the personality of a wet rag.

You serve another few people before he motions for you again, and this time you pour him the drink without saying a word. He exchanges the right money for the glass.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, before you go away again. "I've been rude."

You hesitate, suspicious. "Yes, you have."

"You're just doing your job."

"Yes, I am."

"Can you forgive me?"

That same glint of mischief there, except this one is charming – this one prods a little more insistently at your mental walls. You snort.

"This time."

He takes a sip, leaving a trail of foam on his mouth – he thumbs it away and licks the tip.

Hastily you look away.

"How long have you been working here?" the freckled stranger asks one Tuesday night, when the pub is dead.

You slap your cloth to the countertop, soaked with wood polish. You've talked to him a few times now, but this is the first that's been more than polite greetings, menial chatter, and get out, you're completely sozzled.

"Why?"

"What d'you mean, why?"

"Why d'you want to know?"

He leans back, lips tugging upwards. "I know you but I don't know you, if that makes sense."

"And it should stay that way."

"I just think it would be nice to properly appreciate the woman who serves me drinks every day."

You roll your lips. He's a good talker when he wants to be – when he's sober. "Been working here longer than you've been drinking here, that's for sure."

"A year? Five years? How old are you?"

"Careful."

"I'm twenty-seven."

"Didn't ask."

His gaze on you is lowered but penetrating when he braces his chin in a hand. You can't help but feel a little flushed.

"Do you own this fine establishment?"

"I do."

"Not your husband?"

"Not married."

"But you're so old."

"Do you want to get kicked out?"

His smile curls. "Put-off marrying because it will mean handing all your assets to your undeserving husband?"

You pause to glare at him. "So you know the lack of women's rights but you can't figure out which coin is a penny?"

"Women's rights makes sense. The coins don't. Why do all the bronze ones look the same? I'm still waiting on a meeting with Ed about that, by the way."

"Oh, the lack of women's rights makes sense, does it?"

"I said women's rights makes sense. I'm on your side."He shrugs. "Personally, though, I'm more of a supporter of women's wrongs."

A laugh gutters out of you, and with a self-satisfied, feline grin, he drinks.

Something is very wrong when he comes in on his four-month anniversary.

If rain could embody a person, the freckled stranger would be a barely-contained hurricane. He looks the worst you've ever seen – dark crescents beneath red eyes, skin frighteningly wan, burst blood vessels webbing across his cheeks like crinkles on a flattened wad of newspaper. He glowers at anyone who looks at him askance, a clear signal to stay the fuck away.

He slumps bodily onto his normal barstool – and there comes the pity, an avalanche crashing through your body.

"Beer."

You don't move.

He lets out an annoyed sigh. "Pint of beer, please."

You pour it. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing."

"Fine. All the same to me." It's not all the same – he looks like the truth might kill him from the inside. "Stout's out. I've got porter."

His eyes flash. "Porter's weak shit."

"That or ale. Take your pick."

"Porter then."

You pour it. It's infamously dark in colour, like his eyes right now, black and molten and unforgiving of a world that has cut him up and left him to die. When he takes the glass he doesn't thank you, just jams the rim between his teeth and gulps ravenously. The slam on the countertop reverberates.

"Another."

"Seem to be missing a thank you and please—"

"Can you just—" He catches himself. "Not today. Just not today."

"Today is a regular ol' Thursday for me," you point out coldly. "If you want some leeway for your absent manners you're going to have to give me a reason."

He mumbles something inaudible.

You lean forwards. "Didn't catch that."

Finally his gaze settles on you, and it's guarded, striking, like steel.

"My twin sister died four months ago today."

When people turn to drink, it's mostly because of one of two things: grief, or loneliness. Now you know the freckled stranger is both. You can see it in the shadows that cling to him, in the trembling of his cracked knuckles, grasping the glass like it's the only thread between him and sweet oblivion.

It doesn't surprise you to hear it, nor see it with your own eyes – but a death of a twin... now that's something you've never heard before. Especially not from someone so young.

"Sorry to hear that." The condolence softens your disdain, just a little. "I can't imagine—"

"No, you can't imagine what it must be like, yes, it's awful, is there anything you can do? Sorrows and prayers, sorrows and prayers!" The laugh is hysterical. "I don't want that. I didn't come here to listen to your pity."

Strange... until this conversation, pity was all you felt.

Now you're just angry.

"Why'd you tell me then?" you shoot back, as your temper builds in your belly. "You blurt your sob story and, what, expect me not to say anything?"

"I came to drink, so that's what I'll damn well do."

"Then shut your cakehole, drink your damn porter and stop fishing for sympathy."

Something cracks along his expression. He splutters. "Like hell I'm fishing—"

"Four months, you said? Yet here you are, sulking. You look like she passed only yesterday. Is this what she would've wanted, for you to drink yourself into stupor every bloody day?"

Genuine anger clouds his face. "You don't know what she would've wanted."

"I know you care for her deeply, so I can guess she cared deeply for you too, and I don't know a single loved one of mine who'd want me to live in this hell you've created for yourself."

He stands to his feet – nearly stumbles. "You can't talk to me— like— you don't—"

"Look at you, too drunk to even stand. You drank before you came here, didn't you? You've been drinking all day, feeling sorry for yourself. If you won't accept my condolences, fine, but you better heed this warning instead: if you ever talk to me like that again, I will have you chucked out and barred not just here, but every damn pub this side of the city, and I won't give a rat's arse about your grief or your shitty coping strategies. Do you understand?"

Something lifts and vanishes from his eyes, like a dark shape that flees arrest in the cover of night. The crack in his façade widens, and maybe it's the reek of him, of old stale drink that wisps out of him in short breaths, but something makes you lean back, give him space to process your words, to process his mistake in crossing you.

You were yelling all that, and the rest of the pub has quietened in response. One of the regulars stands up and makes eye contact with you, but you wave him away. You're all right. The freckled stranger understands now.

The look on his face is not just defeat... but clarity.

"Understood," he rasps out eventually.

"Good." Your heart races – you fight to control it. "Now, I've got other customers waiting, so if you don't mind keeping your voice down?"

But he knocks back the rest in one go and leaves without saying a word.

Maybe you were a little harsh.

You stew on it the next morning as you prepare for a busy day. Wiping the surfaces, preparing the stock, checking the tills, rallying the other staff and replenishing the taps – so much to do and occupy your mind, yet there you are, face creased as you think of the freckled stranger and his grief.

He needed the push, you don't regret that, but you do regret, just slightly, how you delivered it. It could've gone so many ways – he could've complained to the police and tarnished the pub's reputation, could've destroyed furniture, glass, could've hurt you. You might own Ye Olde Hen House but at the end of the day you're a glorified barmaid – a wench, some of the older patrons sometimes use against you derogatorily. Who are you to offer the freckled stranger life advice?

You thought he might not appear that evening, but at eight o'clock, he shoulders through the door and takes the same bar stool, right in front of you, as always.

"Pint of beer," he murmurs, "please."

You pour it for him, making it extra frothy, but say nothing when you slide it over. This time he pays the correct coinage, no fuss. So he's capable of using his brain just as much as you're capable of feeling guilt. His knuckles blanch over the glass, clenching it hard – you find yourself distracted by his hands, solid and engulfing, like he would never yield anything in his grip.

You let out a scathing sigh. "Look, I'm sorry."

He raises a finger and tips the glass back until all the porter has slid down his throat.

"Can't have this talk sober," he says, using his muscled forearm to wipe his mouth messily. "Another. Please."

He sets out the coin, you pour him the drink. He doesn't say a word until the next one goes down, and the next. Eventually he massages the bridge of his nose.

"I'm sorry myself," he forces out, even though the drink softens the consonants. "You shouldn't have to apologise."

"I was harsh."

"You were an arsehole."

"Funnily enough that's why I'm saying sorry."

"No, but... it was nice, your bluntness." He sags on the counter, but his gaze is still locked on you. "Every bloody person I know has been coddling me for months. Sorry about Anne this, I'm sad for you that. The condolences and sadness and hugs and well-wishes has never stopped. Even my best friends Ominis and Garreth keep tiptoeing around me like I'm as fragile as a Remembrall."

"A what?"

"Glass," he amends swiftly. His thumb presses into the curve of his jaw, protruding the strong cords of his neck. "I'm so fed up with it. So fucking fed up."

"You know you're not helping yourself, right?" you say, hoping this doesn't cross a line again. "Coming in here to drink—"

"Every day, I know. I just need it. I need to drink. I need to— to forget what I did—" He shakes his head and grasps his temple fiercely. "Tell me something. Quick."

"What?"

"Anything. Your favourite book, how your parents met, the drama of whoever you're shagging at the moment, I don't care. I don't want to think. Just – give me anything. And another beer. Please."

So you tell him your favourite book – you don't get to read very often, you're lucky you can read at all – and you tell him the less-than-exciting story of how your parents met. You're not 'shagging' anyone at the moment, which you say with a roll of your eyes, so you're relatively drama-free. Your life is utterly mundane, as you like it.

You don't leave him with nothing, however.

"I've been at this pub since I was eighteen, seven years ago. Inherited it off my parents now that they're too old to work."

He must do the maths as he squirrels away another beer.

"You must enjoy it."

"It was either here or the match factory. You must know how that went."

He smiles indulgently. "Expert in women's rights, remember?"

You huff a snort.

"You get how this place works, then."

"I've been helping out here since I was a tot, so yes, I know everything there is to know. Plus it pays well and keeps me mostly protected, and I get to be part of the community and meet new people."

He lets out a breathy chuckle.

"Like me?"

You tip your head.

"Yeah, like you, I suppose." You gently pry the empty glass from his hand. "Another?"

"Stupid question."

But he smiles fondly this time, so you make a face and pour his fourth beer without complaint.

You don't talk much from then. You're busy with other customers and he's probably tired of chatting, though you meet his eye several times during the last hour, like a hook on a thread that catches by accident – or fate. It's those coffee eyes that you're drawn to. They dance like fingers on skin, to a rhythm as constant as ocean waves, cascading down your spine even when you turn away.

By the time the other patrons have left and the gramophone has run out of records to play, all that's between you and closing is the freckled stranger.

"What's your name?"

You glance his way. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why'd you want to know?"

"It's not an interrogation. It's just so you're not the bar girl in my head."

"In that case," you smile sweetly, "it's none of your business."

"You drive a hard deal, bar girl," he says, taking it in his stride. "My name is Sebastian Sallow."

"Didn't ask."

"Trade you? I'll even throw in a middle name as a bonus."

"No thanks." You flick towards the door. "Now, it's nearly one o'clock and my pub is about to close, so you better skedaddle before I toss you out by ear, Sebastian Sallow."

"That's a lot more effective now that you can use it against me." The barstool scrapes – Sebastian Sallow manages to make it to the door without stumbling once. "Will I regret telling you?"

You hold the door and smile indulgently as he steps out.

"Stupid question."

You shut it in his face.

[NEXT] [Divider credit]

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow x mc #hogwarts legacy fanfic #azkaban seb #muggle reader #thwc #the bar girl #my writing #my stuff #being a good author and promoting my work lol

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abiatackerman · 3 months

Text

Wine and drunken whispers

The air in Levi Ackerman’s office is thick with tension, as always. The slight reddish light of the afternoon is filtered through the dusty window, casting shadows on the wooden floor. Levi is sitting behind his desk, doing paperwork. His eyes are roaming over the papers as you knock.

You know Levi doesn't often call for someone in his office so you curiously open the door after knocking. You don't bother for his permission since you know he's already aware that you're coming, by the sound of your footsteps.

"You called?"

Levi looks up from the paper he was reading, hearing your voice. His expression betrays nothing as usual, but there is a flicker of something in his gaze. A brief moment of weakness before the walls slam back up.

"Close the door. Sit."

Levi speaks in a commanding voice as you nod and close the door. You walk towards his desk and sit on the chair in front of him.

"Don't tell me you want me to be your partner. For the ball, which will be arranged by Erwin tomorrow."

Levi raises an eyebrow at your words. He leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest as his gaze rakes over you, taking in every inch of your body.

"Is that a request or a demand?"

He retorts, his tone low and almost mocking. You laugh.

"I don't mind being your partner though. You're probably the only man who can control his own hormones."

You say, crossing your legs as Levi's eyes romas over your legs for a bit. Then his gaze returns to your face, his gaze intense and focused.

"You'll be right on both accounts. And you're the only woman worth taking."

He says, a hint of possessiveness in his tone.

"It's settled then. We'll join the ball together."

You say, looking right into his eyes, crossing your arms.

"Don’t be late."

The day passes in a blink and now the night has fallen, and the ball is in full swing. The hall is filled with the clinking of glass, the murmur of conversation. Soldiers and officers are mingling with each other, dressed in their crisp formal dresses and finery.

Levi is waiting near the entrance, dressed in the most formal black suit, white shirt and pants he has, the silver cloth of his cravat gleaming under the candlelight. He is leaning against a wall, his gaze scanning the crowd, waiting for you to arrive.

As you enter the mess hall, Levi's eyes widened a bit. He has never seen you like this... With the prettiest shade of red lipstick on your lips, eyeliners on your eyes, looking elegant and beautiful in that damn gown of yours. After staring at you for a bit, he finally snaps out of it as you approach him.

"You're late."

He says, not bothering to hide the gruffness in his voice.

"No, I'm just in time... Let's go."

Levi "Tch"s at your words but doesn't argue. His hand rests possessively on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowded room. His touch is firm yet gentle, a silent claim on you for all to see. You two make your way through the room, drawing glances and whispers from the other officers and soldiers. But as usual, Levi ignores them.

"Seems like everyone is shocked to see you with a date... Sorry I mean with a beautiful woman."

You say smugly and Levi lets out a huff of amusement.

"Can't blame them. I don't exactly have the reputation of a 'gentleman'."

Levi says in a dry tone. But the possessive gleam in his eyes tells a different story.

"What they don't know is... You are a gentleman... A huge one.'

You say softly and Levi shoots you a sidelong glance, his eyebrow raises slightly at your words. He opens his mouth to protest, a sharp retort ready on the tip of his tongue, but the arrival of Erwin and Hange cuts him off.

"Well, this is a sight I never thought I'd see."

Erwin asks, his gaze flickering over the two of you, taking in the sight of Levi's possessive hand resting on your waist. He raises an eyebrow.

"I thought you knew that Levi and I were coming tonight?"

You ask with a smile.

"Let's just say, Levi isn't exactly known for his charm and social skills."

Hange chimes in, elbowing Levi in the side. Levi grunts, shooting them a glare, but his grip on your waist doesn’t loosen.

"I know that too.... Anyway, now what do we have to do? Meet with the MPs? I hate those fat pigs."

Levi can't help but smirk at your words, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. Hange laughs loudly.

"Unfortunately, yes. We have to mingle and keep up appearances. But try not to insult them too badly."

Erwin says, his expression serious. Hange just laughs, clearly enjoying the situation.

"Say that to Levi... Not me."

Levi "Tch"s at your words, his expression darkening slightly.

"I'll behave if they do."

He mutters, glaring at nothing in particular. Hange snorts, clearly not believing a word he says.

"Yeah sure"

You reply sarcastically, rolling your eyes.

The ball continues, Levi and you spend the evening mingling and making small talk with the other officers and MPs. Despite Levi's initial reluctance, he is on his best behavior, trying his best not to insult or scare off the other guests. However, he can't help but keep a hand on your waist the entire time, a silent claim on you that none of the other men in the room can miss.

"Let's drink... I'm done with mingling."

You say as you both finish greeting everyone in the party. Levi nods in agreement, his grip on your waist loosening slightly as he leads you towards the nearest table where bottles of wine and other alcoholic drinks are served.

"I've had enough of the polite conversation for one night."

He mutters, grabbing two glasses and filling them with wine. He hands one to you, his gaze lingering on your face for a moment, taking in the way the lights from the chandelier above you cast shadows on your skin. Especially on your red lipstick.

"Thanks."

You smile and take off your heels and take a sip of the wine.

"I'm eating dinner and leaving."

You say sighing as you relax on the chair. Levi remains silent as his eyes roam over your body while you keep staring at the people of the ball. As a maid brings you both your dinner you furrow your eyebrows.

"Is that Erwin? Dancing?!"

You speak in a shock voice as Levi follows your eyes. His eyes widened a bit too when he notices Erwin dancing with some blonde woman, flawlessly.

"Probably someone from the noble family, Erwin couldn't refuse the request."

Levi comments as you nod and you both start eating.

"You wanna dance too?"

You ask playfully as you wink and Levi scoffs.

"Don't wanna ruin my reputation, or this party."

Levi says as you laugh and sip your wine.

"Don't worry, I can't dance too."

After you both finish your dinner you walk around to bide goodbyes to the people. You do the most talking as expected... Levi just accompanies you resting a possessive hand on your back. The whole time you were occasionally sipping your drink and since you're drinking after a long time, you got drunk easily.

"I think I'm.... hic.... drunk."

You say as you stumble on your foot on the way to your barracks. Levi grabs you by your arm and steadies you.

"Clearly."

His expression softens as he speaks. He picks you up in bridal style.

"Come on, lightweight. Let's get you to your room."

He says softly looking at your face. You wrap your arms around his neck and giggle like a kid.

"You know, Levi, you're not scary when you're not yelling at us."

You say as you lean against him.

"I'm not here to be scary."

"Why are you here then?"

"To make sure you don't trip over your own feet."

Levi says as he keeps walking like you weigh nothing. You laugh.

"You know.... Hch.... You're kinda cute when you're not scowling."

Levi scowls at your words and looks at your face.

"And you're annoying when you're drunk."

He says as he reaches your room and opens the door with one hand, still carrying you. After entering he kicks the door shut and tucks you into bed. He removes your heels, and covers you with a blanket. But you kick the blanket off your body.

"Take my dress off first, it's hot!"

You speak and pout like a kid as Levi looks at you with disbelief. He flips you over and you gasp at the sudden movement. Your face is pressed in the pillow as you hear Levi unchaining your dress. Then he reaches your legs and tugs the dress down with a swift movement making you flinch. Before you can say anything he covers your body with the blanket.

"Stupid ass!"

Levi speaks in an annoyed tone as he folds your dress neatly and places it in your drawer. Then he turns to leave but you reach for his hand.

"Stay with me?"

He sighs at your pleading tone and puppy eyes and sits beside you, brushing hair from your forehead.

"Fine. Just this once."

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bvidzsoo · 6 months

Text

Love Me Like A Rockstar (8)

ー☆ Chapter 8: Own My Mind

Author: bvidzsoo

Pairing: Song Mingi x female reader

ー☆ Warning: cursing ー☆ Word count: 8.3k ー☆ Genre: university!au, enemies to lovers!au, rockstar!au ー☆ Rating: sfw ー☆ Summary: Love. You wanted none of it. You had already been heartbroken very badly once, you didn't wish to go through that ever again. But the Universe works in intricate ways and, somehow, you found yourself webbed up in a local rockstar's life, Song Mingi. He was everything you expected him to be, yet nothing like you imagined him he would be. What happens when you find mutual understanding and have heartful conversations? Will he be able to break down your walls? Will you be able to chase away his darkness?

A/N: Hello, lovelies! I'm back with a new chapter and let me tell you, ever since I've started writing this there's been little changes to the plot here and there, but...we should all thank Song Mingi for the way he's been acting this weekend for bringing a major change to it (i wanna kms ha-ha *dies in pain*) Anyways, I have a love-hate relationship with that man right now, don't mind my dramatic ass. Please listen to Maneskin's Own My Mind before or while reading this chapter, just the usual! If you want to be added to this story's taglist, just leave a comment on this post and you'll be added! Also, the drawing our girlie is talking about that is on her bed (later in this chp.), is absolutely waterbomb Mingi and it's a call-back to chp. 4 hehet. I have a surprise at the end of this chapter lol. One last question and then I'm going, should I do a Q&A surrounding this story? Like, if you have any curiosities about it, you can send in an ask and I'll gladly answer it! ^^ I hope you'll enjoy this part and, as always, let me know your thoughts about it!

Taglist: @orshii @or5i @lovely-red2 @scarfac3 @juicy-red @sunaswifes-blog @voicesinmyhead-rc @teez-the-time @maru-matt @kyeos4ng @deathbyyeekies @chicksmoothie @mjlbn01 @xhexy @sharksandminhos

⟨Series M.list ↭ Previous Chapter⟩

♫Playlist♫

I shivered as I hurriedly shrugged off my jacket, backpack discarded the second I stepped inside my warm home, the loud thunder cut short as Mingi quickly closed the front door behind himself, hissing and groaning. I turned my head to watch him struggle out of his worn-out jacket as I stepped out of my shoes, hardly believing that from just a few minutes out in the rain, even my socks got soaked. Mingi’s head shook as his body trembled, and I couldn’t help but chuckle as I watched him. He looked quite hilarious with his black hair sticking to his forehead, glasses so wet he couldn’t see through them anymore, loose clothing now sticking to his lean body like a second skin.

“What’s so funny?” Mingi playfully furrowed his eyebrows as he took his specks off, shaking the water off the glass, as wiping it against his already wet clothes wouldn’t have helped him in ridding his glasses of water.

“You.” I mumbled with a chuckle as I peeled my cardigan off, skin covered in goosebumps as my damp skin was exposed to the chilly air in the hallway. Mingi rolled his eyes, and placed his glasses back on as I took off towards the wardrobe by the stairs, chewing on my bottom lip. Mingi would have to change out of his wet clothes, unless we wanted him to catch a cold. I couldn’t leave him standing there like that, shivering and sniffing as he already sneezed loudly. His apology was sheepish, but I just flashed him a small smile before opening the heavy door of the wardrobe. There were minimal chances that the box I was looking for was still inside the wardrobe, considering the fact that my mother would go on a cleaning frenzy every month and throw out almost everything inside the house that she deemed unusable anymore. Therefore, there were almost one to zero chances that the box I so vividly remember having placed here ages ago, was still in its spot.

“Uh, do you think I could use the bathroom real fast?” Mingi asked, voice sounding unsure as I kneeled down in front of the wardrobe, eyebrows furrowing when I didn’t spot the box right away.

“One second, let me find something.” I called out, leaning forward as I pushed my mother’s long coats hanging in my face out of the way, and disappeared further into the wardrobe as I pushed and pulled at the thick blankets she kept in there. I thought about giving up for a second, about her having thrown out the contents of the box I was searching for, but I gasped when I felt the sturdy cartoon underneath my fingertips. With a triumphant smile, I pulled on it, a few scarfs and my very old Hello Kitty beanie falling out in the process. The box felt heavier than I remembered it to be, and my heart settled knowing that my mother didn’t throw it out. But that didn’t mean it didn’t start beating wildly once I sat back on my heels, box placed in front of me. A chill ran down my spine, and I knew right now that it wasn’t because of the chilly air and my damp skin. Whatever still remained inside this box…is what I never had the strength to throw out, to fully get rid of every memory lingering of Yunho. I gulped, chewing on my bottom lip as I hesitated opening it up. But there was another loud sneeze, and as I briefly glanced at Mingi, I couldn’t help but notice the light red tinge on his cheeks as he typed away on his phone, completely soaked. I really had no other choice but to open up the box of pandora.

And a lump formed in my throat when I finally opened it, a stale scent hitting my nose. My eyebrows furrowed when a golden butterfly necklace sat on top of everything, a harsh reminder of all the gifts Yunho would buy for me during our relationship. I have thrown out all the gifts, except this one. It was expensive, and frankly, too beautiful to be thrown out or gifted to anyone else. Gulping, I pushed the necklace aside and sighed as I dug around the box, jaw clenching at the three sketchbooks getting in my way. They were filled with drawings of Yunho and myself, of all the places we’ve been to, of all the places I have wished to visit with Yunho. Of all the memories we have once made, and of all the memories I wished we could’ve made. Being an artist was amazing, but at certain times it was a nightmare in disguise, brain able to conjure such vivid images that never happened, that it could fool me into thinking that they have actually happened. I sighed quietly as I felt eyes on me, and finally found what I was searching for. A fuzzy and faded knitted sweater, a plethora of colors mixed together, from beige to a light purple, black and silver in the mix too. I pulled it out of the box, together with the grey sweatpants, and cleared my throat as I stood, hands burning the longer I held the clothing in my hands. I felt guilty, almost disgusting as I neared Mingi again, trying to avoid his eyes as he had an easy look on his face, smiling despite continuously sniffing.

“These are the only male clothing we have in the house,” I said as I reached my hands out, looking at Mingi’s chest rather than eyes, “hopefully they’ll fit you.”

“And if they won’t, you can always give me one of your colorful fuzzy cardigans.” Mingi’s tone was playful and I chuckled, giving him a playful glare. Those cardigans would never fit his broad shoulders. The tightness was gone from my chest as Mingi took the clothes from my grasp, a thankful look on his face. The guilt remained, but it wasn’t so pressing anymore.

“You can change in the bathroom downstairs,” I pointed towards the closed door across from the wardrobe, “towels are in the cabinet above the toilet. Do you need a hairdryer?”

Mingi shook his head with a smile and gave my soaked hair a light tap, “Thank you, Y/N.”

The way he seemed to linger on my name sent my heart into a dumb frenzy, and I found myself flustered beyond, emotion so foreign I forgot how to speak for a second. And Mingi didn’t miss it, fuck, because he walked away with a smug smile towards the bathroom and paused in the doorway for dramatic effect, before disappearing with a damn wink. I huffed, glaring daggers at the closed door as I scurried to shove everything fallen out back inside the wardrobe, closing its door rather harshly. I licked my chapped lips and raced up the stairs, throwing the door to my room open and taking a second to take in its state. My desk was messy, but that’s just how it always was, I couldn’t do much about it right now. I opened the blackout curtains, however, the weather already gloomy enough to cast shadows inside my dark room. I flinched as another thunder rumbled through the sky, and grabbed the first clothes I found in my closet, walking to the bathroom upstairs.

After having changed into wide legged leggings that had cotton on the inside, I quickly threw on a white tank top and a soft pink mock neck sweater, sighing in content as warmth finally enveloped my body after I have dried up the dampness on it with a towel. I skipped down the stairs as I had a towel around my head, messily towel drying my hair, completely missing the tall form standing at the foot of the stairs as I stumbled into him. I yelped, but Mingi quickly steadied me by the elbows. Before I had the chance to pull the towel off my head, two large hands grabbed at it and started softly rubbing the towel against my wet hair. I froze, everything inside me stopping as even my breath stilled, eyes wide open. Mingi said nothing as he continued with his actions, quietly humming to himself. I was afraid he’d be able to hear my loud heartbeat as I breathed through my mouth, lips parting as I struggled to calm down. I was thankful for the towel hiding my face, because I could feel the blush spreading down from my cheeks to my ears, and even neck. I couldn’t remember a time when I have blushed this hard, and it made me feel slightly disoriented. For God’s sake, Mingi was simply towel drying my hair for me, why was I having such a visceral reaction to it?! My mind seemed to be screaming at me, but I was too busy trying to regulate my breathing, doing so quietly, as Mingi’s hands became a little rougher, almost pulling on specific strands of hair. My eyes narrowed as he turned my head left to right to his likes, and I groaned as his fingers dug into my scalp.

“Hey, stop it!” I whined and slapped at his hand, making Mingi chuckle as he ruffled my hair to the point I had strands from the back falling into my eyes.

“Oh, good,” He was still chuckling, “for a second there I thought you had fallen asleep with how quiet you were.”

Despite not being able to see his face, or anything if I looked ahead, I could still peek down and see his feet. I was standing on the last step of the stairs, and with an evil grin, I jumped down, his naked toes falling victims to my attack. Mingi yelped loudly, and I cackled as I pulled the towel off my face, smiling at him smugly.

“Serves you right since my hair is all knotted up thanks to you.” I raised my eyebrows at him as Mingi had his right leg raised, massaging his toes with a pained expression.

“So you break my toes?!” He exclaimed, his deep tone a few octaves higher, making me snicker to myself as I threw the towel at him, making him yelp and look at me with an appalled expression on his face.

“Stop being a baby,” I stuck my tongue out at him as I walked towards the front door to lock it before I went inside the kitchen, “And wear some slippers before you come to the kitchen.”

Mingi was closely following behind me, ignoring my words, “What, one of your dwarf slippers? It’s either my toes or heels will be dangling off.”

The image was funny in my head, but I ignored it in order to throw him a scrutinizing look, “The tiles are cold in here, you’ll catch a cold.”

A wide smile spread on Mingi’s lips as he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed in front of his chest, biceps bulging underneath the tight fabric of the sweater, “You’re so cute when you worry about me, doll.”

There goes the pleasant exchange we’ve been having up until now. My voice became devoid of any expression besides the glare I threw at him, mirroring him as I crossed my arms in front of my chest, “I’m not cute. I’m merely saying you’ll probably catch a cold since we’ve been out in the rain not even fifteen minutes ago. And since you’re a singer you should be taking a lot more care of yourself.”

Mingi remained silent for a few seconds, until I watched a light hue tinge his cheeks. Was he blushing because I was lecturing him? Just what in the hell?!

“You’re right, sorry.” Mingi mumbled, but showed no intentions of actually following through with my words as he walked further inside the room, sitting at the table, feet up on the chair as he hugged his long legs to his chest. For such a tall and broad man, he looked extremely tiny sitting on that chair right now.

“Uh,” A little confused by the turn of events, I looked around the kitchen, trying to remember the initial purpose of me coming here, “Right. You don’t like tea, so we have coffee or hot chocolate to warm us up, which one would you like?”

Mingi’s eyes lingered on me for a second too long, taking in my whole being before his eyes settled on my face again, a smile so genuine settling on his lips that his eyes were sparkling, “Hot chocolate is fine.”

I hummed, a little breathless, then turned to open the cabinet above the microwave to take out two tall mugs for the hot chocolate. For some reason, I didn’t mind Mingi’s eyes following my every move as I tinkered around in my kitchen, taking everything I needed in my hands to prepare them on the counter. The thought of having Mingi inside my home, sitting in my kitchen, wearing my ex’s clothes, acting like we’ve been friends since forever seemed to hit me at once as I froze for a second while pouring water inside the second mug, Mingi’s mug. And what was even more surprising was not finding any thoughts that suggested that this was wrong, that I shouldn’t be doing this, that Mingi didn’t belong inside my kitchen. I didn’t want to dwell more on why it all felt so right, so instead, I watched as the mugs whirled around in the microwave, locking these thoughts away for later…I knew they’d come back late at night to haunt me, it’s just how it always was.

Mingi clearing his throat gained my attention as I glanced back at him, and tried not to look too long. The way Yunho’s clothes perfectly fit Mingi’s form was alarming, albeit the sweatpants seemed to be slightly too long for Mingi. I’ve had Yunho’s clothes since highschool, which was a few good years ago, yet they still fit Mingi. It made me wonder if the two ever exchanged clothes or wore something matching, like best friends would do for fun. I know Yunho had once mentioned having matching rings with Mingi, but back then I was too jealous about their closeness to ask any further questions about any other matching items they had. And it was a little surprising just how well Mingi’s skin tone was complimented by the colors of Yunho’s old sweater, Mingi’s necklaces sitting on top of the knitted fabric. That sweater was one of my favorite’s while Yunho and I were dating, Yunho always seemed to be glowing when he wore it. At some point I had even forgotten that I still had it. Perhaps I should do something about the contents of that box, join my mother next month in her frenzy cleaning marathon and throw out its contents.

The microwave pinged and I took the two mugs out, realizing that Mingi and I had been staring at each other for at least a good minute, my cheeks flushed again. A soft chuckle was heard behind me, but I ignored it for my own sake. The silence didn’t last for longer as I opened the little packages containing the hot chocolate powder to pour into our cups, “This might sound crazy, but I swear I’ve seen this exact sweater on Yunho quite a few times.”

I froze, thankful that I had my back to Mingi as panic flashed over my face. Deep breaths, I had this. Mingi didn’t have to know, I could lie my way out of this. And so, I forced a small smile on my face as I faced him while walking to the fridge, “Really? Well, coincidence, maybe. It’s my cousin’s sweater, he forgot it here once, but as he lives overseas he never came to get it and my mother just placed it away for when he comes to visit us.”

I didn’t have one single male cousin. Let alone cousin’s that lived overseas.

“Oh,” Mingi mumbled as he picked at an undone string on the sleeve of Yunho’s sweater, “Yeah, that could be it, a coincidence, I mean. Besides, my memory is a little fuzzy, I might be wrong.”

I gulped away the guilt that suddenly bloomed in my chest and grabbed the whipped cream, raising it up, “Whipped cream for your hot chocolate?”

I grinned at Mingi as he slowly shook his head, “I drink it simple.”

“Really?” I asked surprised as I walked back to the mugs, “Not even with marshmallows?”

Mingi shook his head with a small smile and so I mixed his powder with the warm water, handing it to him. Mingi had a fond smile on his lips when he took it, his cold fingers lightly brushing against mine, making me blush like a stupid schoolgirl who has a crush. And I do not have a crush on anyone, let alone on Song Mingi. I swiftly turned around, hoping that Mingi didn’t notice me blushing as I quickly put whipped cream in my hot chocolate and stuck two marshmallows in it, putting everything away quickly. I turned to face him as I took a sip, leaning against the counter. Mingi sat in a cross-legged position on the chair as he had the mug in his hands, ring clad fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic. I couldn’t help myself as my eyes lingered on his painted nails, slowly trailing up to Mingi’s face. His black fluffy hair fell in his eyes, obscuring his sharp eyes slightly as they were devoid of the black eyeliner now, a few blemishes tainting his otherwise glowing skin around his jaw, glasses slipping low on his tall nose, and plump lips red and slightly wet from how much Mingi always licks his lips. The simplicity of his whole being has never looked more attractive than right now, and as Mingi opened his mouth to say something, I was startled by such alarming thoughts, and so I hurried out of the kitchen.

“Let’s go up to my room!” I called out, on the brink of crying from all these stupid emotions I was suddenly feeling, trying to calm my crazily beating heart. Who allowed my brain to think in such way of Song Mingi? When did I even start considering him attractive? He was annoying, obnoxiously loud, arrogant and irritating, there was absolutely nothing to like about him or find in him attractive. I had to get a grip of myself right now! Mingi’s footsteps were dull as he followed after me, probably surprised that I had waited for him at the top of the stairs, unknowing of the storm inside my head, matching the raging storm outside. Lightning flashed every two seconds, skies rumbling with thunder, shaking even the ground at times. I hated storms, but suddenly it wasn’t as unbearable as before. When Mingi stood next to me, I lead us towards my room and pushed the door open, leaving it like that as Mingi walked in once I stepped aside for him, allowing him inside my safe space.

I have never been consciously proud or embarrassed of what my room looked like, the thought of what others thought of it absent up until right now. As Mingi walked further inside, head turning each and every way, taking everything in, suddenly I realized I was scared of what he would think. My walls were painted a light grey, on purpose, and there was little to no space left bare except for the wall on which the window was. My bed was pushed up against the wall to your left just as you walked inside, sketches that I have done throughout the years plastered up and put on display, my very first drawing even making it up on my wall. It was my little personal museum, a way of reminding myself of where I started out and how much I have evolved ever since, and even how much I was still changing as I was experimenting with my styles, learning a new technique in the class of Mr. Yoon. The desk across from my bed was messy, like I have said, it was littered with everything I needed to have at hand. Pencil holders filled to the brim, at least five of them, then there were brushes and little paint tubes littered all over it, notebooks and discarded sketches sitting underneath it, with my laptop hanging just a little dangerously off, not having paid much attention where I have put it this morning. A plain canvas was spread out on the little free space I still had, a project I had planned on starting today, now postponed for tomorrow. The wall above my desk had three modest shelves filled to the brim with books and some vinyl’s I have started collecting not long ago, pots and plants hanging off from the sides. The wall around the shelves was decorated by posters and pictures of my favorite bands, a few of my favorite paintings mixing in with them. The little stand next to my desk had my vinyl player, plants underneath it and around it, little ones. And then in the corner there was an old guitar that once had belonged to my mother, who has had a phase back in highschool and dreams of becoming a band member, famous and rich. She didn’t have the heart to gift the guitar to anyone, so she’s always kept it and passed it on to me once I was old enough. I never had an affinity for playing any instruments, but I do enjoy good music. A mix of old and new artists making it in that mix, actually—perhaps Noir Zenith slowly becoming one of them too, but Mingi didn’t have to know that. My closet was to the right just as you walked in, and it was of dark and sturdy wood, expanding from the ceiling to the floor. I had a little mirror right on its right side, the wall above and behind it, going right behind the door even, littered with my favorite painter’s paintings. Of course, they were only prints made at the local copy shop, but that didn’t matter. Fairy lights hung above my bed and from the lamp on the ceiling. The two nightstands on either side of my bed were more organized than one would expect from me, little makeup buckets placed on the one closest to the window, charger cable and some headphones sitting on the dark wood. The one nearest to the door had pictures of myself and my mom, and of Seulgi and I on display with a little clock, its drawer so filled with notebooks that I couldn’t quite close it. Thankfully the drawers of my desk weren’t so filled, I had just rearranged them last week, one evening when I was too restless to sleep.

Mingi was quiet as his mouth was slightly open, eyes wide as he took everything in, eyes falling onto my bed. I followed his sight and was mortified to find my biggest sketchbook open and displaying a quite realistic sketch of Mingi performing on stage. It was from the night I had a breakdown and Mingi found me in that diner. Seulgi had sent me some pictures she had taken of Wooyoung and accidentally slipped in one with Mingi too, and because the image just wouldn’t leave my mind, I knew I had no choice but to draw it. I dived for the sketchbook as if my life depended on it, all of it happening so fast I hoped Mingi didn’t actually catch what the drawing—or better said, who—the drawing was of. I shut it closed and pushed it off the bed, the light thud loud in the silent room. When I turned to look at Mingi, ready to face his smug face and taunting words, I was surprised to find his attention on something completely different. Of course, I should’ve expected from a man who plays in a band to be enamored by the vintage guitar in my possession. Its body was a light blue and had cherry blossoms painted over it, something my mother admitted to doing so, which lead to an argument with her father back in the days when he had seen the “damage” my mother had done to the pricey guitar.

“Is that a Martin D-19?” Mingi gushed as he walked toward the guitar, mouth hanging open. My eyebrows raised at his knowledge about it upon one glance. To me, it looked like a regular acoustic guitar. But then again, I should’ve expected it from a music major and a guy who has a literal band and plays the bass.

“Yeah, it was my mother’s.” I answered as I set my mug on the nightstand and sat at the edge of my bed, watching the awed expression on Mingi’s face. He had placed his mug by the foot of my desk as he crouched down, admiring the guitar from up-close.

“It’s absolutely beautiful.” Mingi whispered, fingers carefully tracing its body. Not even at gun point would I have admitted my next thought, which was of just how beautiful Mingi looked in this exact moment. Lightning flashed and the ground shook with the intense thunder, making Mingi tense for a second before he turned back to face me with the prettiest smile I have ever seen on someone.

“Your mother knows how to play it?” He asked, sounding enthusiastic. I was breathless, but after a big gulp, I forced my brain to function.

“Yeah,” I answered with a small smile, “she was a big rock lover back in the days, even wanted to start her own band. But due to her parents negative reactions to it, she unfortunately had to give up on that dream and do something more ‘real’.”

I rolled my eyes at the end of my sentence, not very fond of my grandparents. They weren’t bad people, but they also treated my mother harshly, and even myself, always asking about my future plans and straight up crying when I told them I wanted to become a painter. I saw the way Mingi’s face hardened for a second, but I knew he didn’t want to talk about it as he became expressionless quickly after. I was curious what made his mood become sour so quickly, if he perhaps related to what I have said in some way, but I wouldn’t prod. If he wants to tell me, he will sometime. So, instead, as a distraction, I scooched up further on my bed and patted the mattress next to me with a lazy smile, watching Mingi’s eyes slightly widen. He looked a little shy as he grabbed his mug and rose up to his full height, steps almost hesitant as he approached the bed, making me snort. It made Mingi narrow his eyes as I crossed my legs underneath myself as he kneeled on the bed and then settled beside me, long legs extended as he playfully wiggled his feet left and right. I chuckled as I clasped my hands together, letting them rest in my lap as Mingi took a sip of his hot chocolate. The silence was comfortable between us, the harsh rain hitting the windows loudly, wind rocking trees harshly, and the lightning and rumble a constant background noise.

“Last time when we performed at Outlaw, when you didn’t come,” Mingi paused and turned his head to look at me, “you know, when we met at the diner—”

“Let’s not talk about that.” I muttered with a grimace and Mingi hummed, licking his lips.

“Right, so, that night,” His voice was quiet, lips pulling into an abashed smile, “the crowd was bigger than usual, at first I blamed it on being a rowdier night, but it turned out those people were there to see us, Noir Zenith, to see me.”

I felt a small smile appear on my own lips, Mingi looking pleased with himself despite the light pink tinge of his cheeks, “And now Hongjoong might help us sign with a record deal, I feel like everything is finally coming together. Like my hard work is finally being rewarded.”

I bit my lower lip to stop myself from smiling too wide, subconsciously reaching out to hold Mingi’s arm as he looked me in the eyes, “That’s so good, Mingi! You deserve all the praise and attention your band gets, you’re really good.”

“You really think so?” Mingi sounded small, eyes wide in wonder as he flushed more. I knew I have said some things that weren’t the nicest, and now it made me realize that Mingi never deserved hearing those things from me. Yeah, I didn’t like the guy much at the beginning—not that now I like him more—but I still shouldn’t have shit on his music, on something he pours his whole soul and heart into.

“I really do, Mingi.” I slightly squeezed his arm, hoping that he could hear the sincerity in my voice as a wide and bright smile spread onto Mingi’s plush lips, so contagious that I found myself with a matching smile on my own lips. I chuckled, for some reason not wanting to release his arm just yet, the knitted sweater soft and warm under my touch.

“Lovely seeing you slowly turn into my number one fan, doll.” Of course, trust Mingi to ruin the moment. My eyes narrowed as I sighed loudly, slowly shaking my head. Mingi chuckled before taking a large gulp of his not so hot anymore chocolate, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Now, don’t get cocky.” I rolled my eyes, pulling my hand off his arm, watching as his eyes lingered where I have touched him, “I can recognize good work without becoming your fan.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Mingi mused playfully and I scoffed, bumping my shoulder into his before I went to retrieve my laptop from my desk, “Seonghwa and Wooyoung want us to try out new genres.”

“Really?” I asked surprised as I settled back in my previous spot, knee brushing against Mingi’s thigh, “Like what?”

“Well, nothing specific, just something little softer.” Mingi pursed his lips, fiddling with the mug in his hands, “Maybe something more indie rock.”

“I love indie rock,” I muttered absentmindedly as I powered on my laptop, “and why are you reluctant?”

Mingi seemed surprised that I had caught on, but it was quite obvious in his tone that he didn’t sound very enthusiastic about it, “Because my voice is rough and raw, unlike Seonghwa’s who’s smooth and almost angelic, and Wooyoung’s who’s can reach pitches I can only dream of and has a roughness that is absolutely soft at the same time, alluring.”

“Your voice is deep and powerful, it conveys every single emotion you’re feeling when you sing, Mingi. Your raspy tone alone tells a story, even without speaking the same language I would understand what you’re singing about. But just because it’s rougher and more powerful compared to Seonghwa and Wooyoung’s doesn’t mean it’s not beautiful and enchanting, Mingi.” Occupied with typing in the password to my laptop, I failed to notice the way Mingi’s breaths became shallow, the way his eyes bore into the side of my skull, “I think your voice is unique and desirable, you should be proud of it and not look down on yourself because of it. Many wish to have what you have, so really, don’t think any less of yourself because you think Seonghwa and Wooyoung are somehow better and more alluring. It’s not true, each one of you has their charm and well…I think you’re the most charming out of the three of you.”

I didn’t expect the expression on Mingi’s face when I turned my head to look at him. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were glazed over as his sharp eyes watched me intently, his breaths loud as his cheeks were red. My eyebrows furrowed, and for a second I worried I have made him angry, but the longer I looked, I realized the look in his eyes had nothing to do with anger. I gulped and averted my eyes, suddenly feeling my heart race again, biting my lower lip and trying to ignore the overbearing proximity between us. It was only our knee and thigh touching, yet it felt like Mingi was all over me, his scent still strong despite having changed out of his clothes and getting soaked by the rain. He always had a sharp scent surround him; it reminded me of pine trees.

“Thank you.” At last, Mingi found his voice and it was lower than before, goosebumps covered my skin as the low baritone of it traveled through my body. I nodded once in acknowledgement, not trusting my voice as I went on the internet to search for some movies to watch and pass the time while we wait for the storm to pass. If it passes, “Do you think rapping would fit my tone?”

It was an unexpected question, but as I mulled over it, I concluded that Mingi had the perfect timbre to both sing and rap, “Yeah, I think it would.”

I dared to take a peek at Mingi from the corner of my eyes, and was relieved to find the intensity gone from his face, instead, a soft smile grazed his lips as he finished his hot chocolate. He leaned back and placed his empty mug next to mine on the nightstand and fished his phone out of his pocket, “I found some old videos of me at school plays, let’s see what my music genius bestie thinks of them.”

I rolled my eyes, but nevertheless peered over Mingi’s shoulder in curiosity, “Don’t make fun of me, I’m merely stating something that someone with not musically trained ears hear. You should be more thankful.”

“I’m more than thankful, Y/N.” Mingi suddenly turned his head, our faces too close for comfort, so I quickly leaned back as he placed his arm on my thigh and pressed play on a video he pulled up from his gallery.

『Do you wanna, do you wanna own my mind, own my mind?

Do you wanna, do you wanna own my mind, own my mind?

Do you wanna know what the good, good, bad things all feel like?

Do you wanna, do you wanna own my mind, own my mind?』

The movie of my choice was simple, The Quiet Ones. Nothing better than something a little spooky while there’s a wild storm raging outside, but to my utter surprise, Mingi looked terrified after only ten minutes of watching it. We were both leaning against the headboard of my bed, pillows behind our backs, and laptop placed between our lower bodies as our legs were stretched out. And despite the laptop being between us, Mingi’s shoulder pressed against mine not even five minutes after settling in our current spots. Trying to watch the horror movie, which was one of my favorite movie’s, turned out to be a fail, and I had no choice but to give in to Mingi as he only stopped whining when he got what he wanted. And that was watching a rom-com from the nineties, called 10 Things I Hate About You. I’ve seen it numerous times already, but it never gets old. There is something about the way the actors play their parts, and the plot too, that have me coming back to it with the same enthusiasm I had for it when watching it for the first time. At first, I thought Mingi hadn’t seen it and had only went along with my suggestion because he didn’t know what else to watch, but when he started quoting Patrick’s lines as if he were the character himself, I narrowed my eyes at him and poked his arm. After some painful jabs, he admitted that it was his favorite movie and he regularly rewatched it, especially if he was in a bad mood. That was a piece of information I wasn’t expecting from someone like Mingi. He looked like a guy who enjoyed tough and brutal movies, with the occasional romance movies if a pretty girl begged him to watch it together. Turns out, Mingi’s favorite genre is romance, and he hates horror, and depends on the type of thriller whether he likes it or not.

We found ourselves joking and laughing throughout the movie, making our own commentary about it after our first disagreement. Which was about whether Patrick accepting the money to charm Kat was right or wrong. Of course, it was very wrong to play with someone’s feelings and get paid for it too, but Mingi argued that if he never accepted it, then him and Kat would’ve never gotten together. And for that, I threw in the hypothetical scenario of him accepting money from Wooyoung so that he could take me out on a date and make me fall in love with him if that meant Wooyoung could have Seulgi date him. Mingi’s eyebrows furrowed and he declined such scenario, exactly proving my point why this was so wrong then, but he remained believing that for Kat and Patrick it totally worked out. And then he had the audacity to compare my stubbornness to Kat’s, making me call him just as stupid as Patrick was.

Time flew by as our laughter got louder, completely missing the way the rain had started to quiet down as we were immersed in the movie we were watching. It felt like a bubble was wrapped around us, isolating us from the cold world, and letting us enjoy ourselves without being so cautious of what we were saying. It felt nice. I couldn’t remember a time when I was able to let loose with someone other than Seulgi. It was a nice feeling, it made me excited in some way, completely making me forget that I was doing this with Mingi. He made it too easy to forget my worries and made me feel really comfortable all of a sudden, never stepping out of line—if we ignore his stupid flirting—and always keeping everything lighthearted. It was a nice change for once.

I groaned as I let my head fall back, lips pursed as my ass had gone numb from sitting so much in one place. Mingi snickered as Kat reversed into Joey’s car, clearly amused by the snarky remarks exchanged between the two characters. He was clearly into the witty exchanges, especially between Patrick and Kat, even having said that it makes Kat attractive how quickly and well she can shut Patrick down. I had told him that she wouldn’t have to do that if Patrick wasn’t so stupid most of the time, making Mingi roll his eyes at me, and say that I simply didn’t appreciate some good banter. Which wasn’t even true, I liked bantering if it had a smart purpose, not just to rile each other up, what was the point of that?

I licked my lips as my head lulled to the right, eyes falling on Mingi’s profile as he had his legs up, leaning forward as he hugged them around his knees with one arm. He was smiling and chuckling, pretty red lips pulled to the side, showing off his white teeth. His brows were dark, and his browbone being more prominent really sharpened his face in a very aesthetically pleasing way. Mingi’s face was very beautiful, and as an artist, I couldn’t help but admire it, and recognize it. So many pretty portraits of his face could be made, pity he doesn’t model. My lips pulled into a tiny smile at the thought of him modelling for me when we had to sketch human forms for our next class. I’m sure my professor would appreciate my drawings even more. Mingi’s glasses were discarded, and my eyes paused on his long nose, biting my lower lip just as Mingi chuckled again, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. He sniffed before rubbing two fingers against his plump lips, wetting them not even a second later. I gulped as I suddenly wondered what they would taste like. It was such a startling thought that I jumped, but Mingi suddenly looking at me certainly scared me more. I gulped, instantly blushing as a friendly smile painted Mingi’s lips as he leaned back, placing his head on the pillow, and letting it roll to the left. Our gazes connected, and I wasn’t surprised to find my heart beating so quickly once again, my lips pulling into a straight line as I struggled to keep my breathing even. Mingi’s easy smile didn’t disappear as his eyes racked over my face, it only became wider.

There was a whole galaxy behind those beautiful deep brown eyes of his, they sparkled with life and an excitement I haven’t seen in anyone before. I wished that I could recreate that in my drawings, but I wasn’t good enough to give simple eyes such deep emotions yet. And I really wished I was able to do so, because the longer I stared into Mingi’s eyes, the more lost I got in them, thoughts and worries disappearing into nothingness. Mingi’s hand twitched for a second and I tensed when I felt a finger gently poking my cold hand. I gulped, but I wasn’t able to look away as ever so softly more fingers brushed against my skin like feather, Mingi’s bottom lip between his teeth. His actions were slow and cautious, probably afraid that I would pull away, but I was too captured by his alluring gaze to even think to move away from him. Slowly, his longer fingers intertwined with mine and his rings cut into my skin when I squeezed his hand, uncaring that it hurt a bit. I knew my cheeks were now surely very red, but I couldn’t actually be bothered to feel embarrassed, not when Mingi’s cheeks were dusted pink as well. His high cheekbones were flushed the pretties color they could have been, and I smiled as Mingi blinked, looking abashed. Somehow no words had to be exchanged between us, everything felt comfortable, scarily familiar. I haven’t felt like this…since my ex. And not even with him have I felt so safe and understood, it always seemed like there was some invisible barrier between us, and I never understood why. With Mingi, if I allowed myself to feel and be unafraid, no barrier lay between the two of us.

I gulped, eyes suddenly falling on Mingi’s lips as his tongue poked out just slightly to wet them, his plump lips red and full. I’ve never seen a person have such full lips, and it made me wonder if they were as soft as one would imagine them be. Aware that my eyes were glued to Mingi’s lips, I looked back up in his eyes, trying to ignore how insanely attractive his mole right underneath it made him look. There was something about Mingi’s bareface that was so charming and beautiful that it almost made me feel jealous of it. Mingi sniffed quietly, and his bottom lip was between his teeth again as his eyes fell to my lips, my rapid heartbeat halting for a second. Could he be having similar thoughts to mine? I wouldn’t know, but when Mingi’s eyes found mine again, they were just slightly more intense and sharper. Like he was determined and nothing could stop him. I gulped loudly as he moved his head, just lightly, but it was closer than before. My heart was beating like crazy, but almost as if I was under a spell, I found myself shifting my head just a little bit closer. Mingi’s eyes no longer were on mine, and as my lips parted when I licked them, I felt Mingi’s hand squeeze mine just a little bit more. I gulped as I proceeded to lean even closer, my eyes fixated on Mingi’s lips now too, just wondering and wondering infinitely if they were warm, soft, wet, and what they would taste like. I didn’t startle nor flinch when Mingi angled his body so that he could lean dangerously close, the bridge of his nose brushing against mine. His hot breath mingled with mine as our lips were parted, a pull so magnetic I couldn’t untangle myself from it even if I tried to. My eyes threatened to flutter closed as I pressed my nose against his, the side of our lips rubbing just a little together as I couldn’t breathe regularly anymore. Mingi’s lips pressed ever so slightly against the corner of mine, feather like, and it suddenly wasn’t enough. The distance, it was too big—even if it didn’t even exist between us anymore—and I squeezed his hand as I angled my head to finally press our lips together, Mingi’s breaths audible due to our proximity.

But suddenly, a door was slammed shut loudly, “Sweetheart, I made it home finally! I saw a car parked in front of our house, all’s good?!”

The curious and shrill voice of my mother sent Mingi and I flying away from each other, both of our eyes wide as I was panting, my whole body burning. I couldn’t look at Mingi as I scrambled to press pause on the movie and Mingi was off the bed in a flash, sprinting towards my window. I could still feel his hot puffs against my face, and I gulped as I forced myself to forget everything I felt just seconds ago.

“The rain stopped,” Mingi’s voice was hoarse, so gravely that I had to clench my fists to stop myself from doing something I would regret, “I will be going.”

“I’ll go downstairs, let my mom know you’re here.” My voice wasn’t better off, I sounded breathless. I felt lightheaded as I got off the bed, standing and pausing for a second.

“Right, I’ll change back into my clothes and then—”

“No,” I didn’t mean to sound desperate as Mingi’s eyes fell on me, I had to look away in embarrassment, “keep them, they are of no use to me.”

“Right.” Mingi cleared his throat and I quickly walked past him, thankful that he stepped aside, and hurried out of my room and down the stairs. I took a deep breath to compose myself as I heard my mother placing down plastic bags in the kitchen. I needed to behave like everything was fine, when nothing was fine anymore.

“Hi!” My greeting was high pitched and way too cheery, my mother’s eyes narrowed when she saw me standing in the doorway, “Glad you made it home, the storm was awful.”

“It really was.” My mom grimaced as she continued unpacking the groceries, “You got home alright?”

“Yeah, uhm, actually,” I gulped and bit my lower lip as I heard Mingi coming down the stairs, “a friend from university drove me home as it was already raining, and he, uhm, stayed over. Because the rain was so bad he wouldn’t have been able to drive home. You know, safety measures and all.”

My mother paused and looked up at me with both of her eyebrows raised, “He?”

And on cue, Mingi appeared next to me, glasses pushed up on his nose adequately for once and hair not as messy as before, “Hello, my name is Song Mingi.”

“Nice to meet you, dear.” My mother’s eyes were glinting, looking way too happy for someone who was just introducing themselves. I was afraid of what would come, so, I grabbed Mingi’s arm and guided him towards the coat hanger.

“Mingi’s leaving, mom.” I said as I let go of his arm, averting my eyes as he wore his shoes and pulled on his jacket.

“Already?” My mom asked with a pout, coming to stand in the doorway, “Don’t you want to stay for dinner, dear?”

Mingi froze, eyes first finding mine before he looked at my mother with a polite smile, “Don’t worry, Mrs—”

“Oh, don’t be all formal with me, I hate that shit.” My mother chuckled and winked at him, “Call me Boyoung.”

Mingi gulped, seemingly taken aback by my mother’s behavior. I couldn’t help but chuckle quietly, knowing how surprising the contrast between my mother’s personality and mine was. Sadly, I haven’t taken after her when it comes to my attitude, but that’s fine.

“Well, Boyoung, thank you for your offer, but my friends and I actually agreed on dining out tonight.” Mingi’s excuse sounded real, so I knew he wasn’t lying. I gulped when my mother threw me a very slick glare, almost saying that this was my fault. I rolled my eyes, offended by her assumption.

“That’s a pity, dear,” My mother pouted, but soon a bright smile appeared on her lips, “But you are invited for whenever you feel like having dinner with us, right, my starlight?”

I tried not to glare at my mother for the outrageous nickname, especially when I saw Mingi’s lips twitch in amusement. I told her not to call me that in front of others so many times, “Right, mom.”

My mother chuckled, all too aware of my dislike for the nickname, before her eyes landed on Mingi again. There was a brief pause, one too awkward for my liking, and then Mingi was clearing his throat and opening the front door.

“Uh,” He made eye contact with me briefly, “talk to you later.”

“Wait,” My mother’s eyebrows furrowed as Mingi stepped outside, trying to adjust the strap of his backpack, “Aren’t those Yun—”

“Talk to you later!” I loudly said, making sure to send my mother a very alarmed look as Mingi froze for a second before he hummed quietly and took off towards his car.

The air was chilly and humid due to the harsh rain, and as I closed the front door, I knew I had a lot of questions to answer when my eyes fell on my mother’s amused face.

❱❱ Next chapter

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lol, this is the surprise I mentioned...I saw this post and it would just not leave my mind, besides, I think it's very fitting for our plot, no?

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familyvideostevie · 1 year

Text

takin' a breath

for @strangerfreaks <3 simply put, you love being in love with sirius black. you just never realized other people noticed all that much. | fluff, established relationship, the general idea that love is lovely, 1.8k

No matter how many times you check your watch, the hands don't tick backwards. You're going to be late.

Nothing to be done about it, you suppose. Sirius is always late, anyway, though he'd texted you he was on the train so he might arrive at the bar before you. Your own train slows and the speaker reads out your station in a clipped tone. You step on to the platform and the strangest thing happens -- the air changes, somehow. Like someone is looking at you. In the moment before you turn around you hear your name in a voice you know very well and when you do turn, there he is.

"Were we on the same train?" Sirius asks as people stream past you towards the exit. "I don't think this has ever happened to me before."

"Different cars," you say.

"Fancy that." He holds out his arm once he reaches you and you hook yours through it and head towards the escalators. "You look lovely," he says. "Are we late?"

"Well, you're always late," you remind him. He rolls his eyes. "I meant to be there ten minutes ago." Sirius smooths down the collar of your coat and you allow yourself to admire him.

You never get tired of his face -- he's handsome in an edgy way, a way that makes you look away at first and then draws you back in. You're very familiar with how he looks by now. The slope of his nose, the intense line of his eyebrows and the length of his lashes. His eyes are dark, deep, mysterious. The rings in his nose and his ears stand out, gold against his otherwise dark features, and his hair begs for you to run your fingers through it.

He tolerates your staring. You know he likes it but you're kind enough not to call him out. "Remus texted me that they're all going to be at least a half hour. Bus is stuck in traffic."

You step off the escalator and emerge onto the street, the chill of the fall evening wrapping around you both. You press a bit closer to him. "Guess it's just us for now."

He hums. "How was your day?"

"Nothing of note. You?"

Sirius turns into you a little bit to speak as a truck passes. He smells like tobacco and the spicy cologne you bought him for his birthday. "By lunch I was ready to get out of there."

"You always are."

He's always on the go, your boyfriend, always looking for the next thing. Everyone who knew him before you met tells you the same thing -- he's wild, spontaneous, full of energy, but with you, he seems to become a centered version of himself. Not like you've changed him, not quite, but like he feels it's okay to slow down because you're around. He takes a breath, lets the somewhat permanent scowl settle into something calmer. You feel it too, like being near him is the most natural thing in the world. Puzzle pieces that fit, magnets that snap together, every cliche in the book fits.

The night is quiet, for the most part, so when you finally get to the bar and go inside the noise is a bit jarring. There's music and chatter, the clink of glasses and chairs scraping on the floor as they're pulled to new tables. You head for the bar and unwind your arm from Sirius's. He makes grabby hands so you undo your coat and turn around, shaking it off and into his arms.

"Do you want me to do drinks or find a table?" he asks, breath hot on your cheek as he leans in to ask.

"I'll do drinks," you say. "You got them last time. Do you want the usual?" He nods, squeezes your elbow and heads off to find a table with a wink.

You wait patiently and wonder what you're going to order. Sirius always gets a pint of whatever dark beer they have on tap and you'll take a sip even though you never like it that much. Maybe it's a wine night? Bit weird to get a glass of wine in a bar like this and surely James will tease you for it when he gets here, but it's a bit cold out and it sounds warming --

"Excuse me?" You look around to see if someone's just addressed you and find a girl about your age at your side. Her eyes are bright and her face flushed and she's holding a pint. Clearly she's a bit further along in her night than you are.

"You alright?" you ask her. She nods frantically.

"Was that your boyfriend?" she asks, the words tumbling out of her like she has to ask you or she'll combust.

"Uh, yes," you say. Bit weird, but alright.

"He's so handsome," she says. Her tone is the one that girls use in the bathroom at the club when they compliment each other, like she's so happy for you and wants to share in your good fortune.

You smile. "He is," you agree.

"And the way he looks at you!" She sighs like she's reading from a romance novel. What is she on about? He was beside you for mere minutes.

"He's got a bit of a stare."

The girl shakes her head, a few pieces of her bangs falling in her face. "No, I mean yes, but you guys were just standing here and I looked over and it was like he was..." She waves her hand in the air, her beer sloshing dangerously close to the edges of her glass. "He was orbiting around you, or something. The air was crackling, I swear."

You really should ask what she's having so you can get a glass too, whatever will make you feel her enthusiasm.

She puts her hand on your arm. "It's just so nice," she says. "To see love like that."

Her words take you by surprise. No one has ever articulated your relationship like that, so matter of fact. "Thank you," you tell her genuinely.

She beams at you and then seems to catch sight of her friends, giving your arm a squeeze before darting off into the crowd.

"Alright then," you mutter. "Wow." The bartender finally takes your order and you mull over this kind girl's words as you wait. You've always thought that you and Sirius were well suited. Both of you are quite private, guarded in front of people you don't know but endlessly loyal to those you do. He has always made you feel like a priority even when you've fought. Very early on you realized that he was an all-in kind of guy -- he laid his feelings out and promised you that if you felt the same he'd give you everything he could. And he has, even though you don't need much. His hand on your back, his voice in your ear when you wake, his smile across the room. Just being next to him has always been enough. You've just never known how to articulate it, how this kind of love is everything you've wanted for yourself.

You manage not to spill your drinks as you try to find Sirius. He's gotten a table in the corner that will easily fit your friends once they arrive, but for now you slide into the seat next to him.

He beams at you, a toothy grin that makes him look younger, and puts his hand on your knee under the table. "Thank you, darling," he says.

You lean into his side. "Good table." He takes a sip of his beer and nods his agreement. "A girl at the bar said the strangest thing to me," you blurt out. You don't know how you're going to explain this to him but you want to tell him. You always want to tell him everything.

"Oh?" He's got a bit of a foam mustache but he wipes it before you can.

"She said I had a handsome boyfriend."

Sirius scoffs. "You do." You roll your eyes.

"But she also said that --" you use air quotes -- "it was nice to see a love like ours."

His face goes very soft, almost like the way he looks first thing in the morning when you wake to find him watching you. "Very poetic," he murmurs.

"I don't totally know what she means," you admit. "But it was a nice thing to say. I think she might have been a bit drunk."

"Oh, I know what she means," he says. You raise your eyebrows, telling him to go on. Sirius blinks a few times, scratches the back of his neck. You know him well enough to know that he's nervous, which is a bit rare. He leads with confidence, oozes with it, but he's told you many times one of the things that he never gets tired of is how you can crack that exterior.

"It's like when we're in the same room and everything shifts," he says. "Like tonight. I stepped off the train and knew you were near, you know?"

Oh. "I --yeah," you say softly. You do know. It's like you and Sirius orbit each other, like being near him changes the makeup of the air in a room. Your heart beats in time with his and your very atoms settle when he's near. If you were good with words, if you were a little better at expressing yourself, you'd say that you two are made of the same stuff. Your life before him was great, sure, and by no means were you waiting for him for it to start. But now that he's here, next to you, it's like everything has snapped into focus. It just makes sense.

"I can't believe she noticed, though," he says. His tone is more teasing than sincere now, so you let your own musings fade for now. "I mean, I've barely even touched you! I took your coat! We could have been on a first date!"

"You never touch me that much," you remind him. It's not a scold, it's just how it is. You've never needed to touch him that much. Just his gaze feels like his hands are on you, sometimes. You can always tell when he's looking at you from across the room. Remus once said he was convinced you two could communicate telepathically. You find yourself looking at a doorway moments before Sirius walks through it. He digs out a tissue before you've even felt the tickle in your nose. You can sense each other's distress over the breeze like a bloodhound. It's a bit weird, actually. But you don't know how else to be.

"I can fix that." He winks and slings his arm around your shoulders.

"Don't be annoying." He smacks a kiss to your temple but releases you. You stay close to him, pressed together from shoulder knee. Sirius presses his lips to the shell of your ear and you shiver.

"I love our love, too," he says. What a sap.

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here!

#sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black x y/n #sirius black fluff #sirius black fanfic #marauders fanfic

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purrpletiger · 1 year

Text

FRESH DRAWING GUIDE:

Hello everybody, I've come to give you all this absurd reference guide for drawing Fresh. yep. I decided to spend hours slapping this together.

If I got anything wrong or should add anything PLEEEASE lemme know! All ideas welcome!

If you want to see my "research" on this character, let me know in the replies, because there's so much to talk about with him and I'd love to do a character analysis or two, I couldn't put much about his personality or source posts in this because it's just a drawing guide!

Link to all the full images

Transcript and close-ups of the text on the image: (May be in a strange order)

Fresh was created by @loverofpiggies (CQ)

Main Outfit:

YOLO sunglasses

Backwards propeller cap

Pink Polo shirt

Crayola Jacket

Gold Tooth

SWAG fannypack

Convertible Zip-off pants

White Heelie shoes

Pink socks

He has thick eyebrows to emote! (The eyebrows are usually depicted with black hair but one human design has eyebrows that match the pink hair color!)

The bag says SWAG on it

His glasses say YOLO by default, but the letters can magically change mid-scene...

this design for Fresh is Tall, we dunno how tall but taller than CQ's Sans characters (or just Geno since he's literally sans undertale with some added steps). But his height is just his host's height sooo it can vary.

those (cyan and yellow) shoe details are on the innerside but not outerside

HE HAS HEELIES!

Pink glove cuffs!

his skateboard is inconsistent dont worry about it

Glasses Off:

The host's soul shows up in their left eyesocket

- The soul tends to look unstable (cracks & a sortve stroboscopic effect.. i couldn't think of a better word.) but not in some cases...

It doesn't have to be a white upside-down heart, that's just a reference to an undertale monster soul.

He has a purple substance full of little RADs that emanate from his eyesockets (when his sunglasses are off)

"The soul in Fresh's eyes CAN be cracked. That soul isn't his. it belongs to his host. And.... after a while.... things go bad for the host, and he needs a new one." -CQ

(example of soul with unstable effect with no cracks) (example of soul with cracks but lacking the effect)

The purple aura(?) can glow and emanate from the eyes when his glasses are on too

i miss this one design specifically. the colors and the SK8 OR B SK8 shirt were peak

I miss the SWAG necklace...

Fresh leaves a rainbow cloud of smoke when he "poofs". Either teleporting him and his host body somewhere or leaving his host behind.

Human Designs:

Fresh can possess humans too.

They all look physically different because they're different people that he's possessing.

Fresh can possess pretty much any body, but I thought I'd show the varied examples of humans anyway

Don't forget the orange jacket flaps! or his hat propeller!

I dunno what's up with the multicolor tongue thing. I think it was extra parasites in the host's mouth? I feel like it was scrapped at some point... but I could be wrong

FURBIES!:

Oh yeah, he also does this: (no image for the bat tho)

"I mean when he fights he pulls Furbies out of his magical fanny pack. takes out a wiffle bat. and hits the furby at his enemies.

And then the furby explodes in a blaze of glory." -CQ

Despite using some furbies as explosives, he seems to 'care' about and treat these two like precious babies:

This one is potentially named McFreshby The Fresh Furbrah (Fresh is mentioned to have one named that, and this is the only other furby he's been depicted with)

It can also do THIS: (roll its eyes back into a spookier look)

This is DJ FurBs. that's all i know about him

The REAL Parasite:

Fresh is actually this little parasite controlling a host body. (if you didn't know that why are you reading this post rn!?! but nah I love new Fresh fans, welcome!)

The main parasite is this purple one with the eyemouth and four(?) tendrils, the other colored tentacles are prrrobably Fresh's offspring (freshmageddon moment?) (I'm not actually sure, I'm just pretty sure they're not part of the main parasite but are parasite tentacles)

You can also see Fresh's five or more purple tendrils here stretching out all over his host's body

All art from CrayonQueen/@loverofpiggies

Reference guide made by PurrpleParrasite/@purrpletiger

pls suggest changes or additions if u have ideas!

That's all!

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rapilne · 21 days

Text

Anime Club Membership | Soobin Au

#pairing: soobin x f!reader.

#genre: fluff | #w.c: ~4000+

#synopsis: soobin is in love but has an anime club membership and is convinced this is a problem

#notes: I started this a while ago and it was dying on my notes until I woke up at 3am and couldn't go back to sleep. it's kind of long a not a lot happens but I thought it was cute and it was fun writing it cause im in my soobin feelings era. tbh wanted to make it smutty but I tried once and I realized im horrible at it so it won't happen again. happy reading if you read it :p

Kai is currently struggling to figure out the ramyeon machine at this fancy new convenience store. It's way bigger and flashier than the usual spots they frequent, and the selection is overwhelming—thirty flavors of ramyeon, some he's never even heard of.

“Why are there so many buttons?” Kai whines, exaggeratedly pouting. “Making ramyeon shouldn’t be this complicated. Seriously, there are like a hundred different liquids you can get from this thing. Do you think this one’s for hot water? It’s got a steam drawing on it.”

“You’re the one making it complicated,” Beomgyu says lazily, reaching over and pressing a button. “You can always just push it and find out.”

“Wait—!”

Turns out the steam drawing stands for chai, actually.

Kai’s eyes widen in shock as he watches his ramyeon turn into a chai latte. Beomgyu bursts into laughter, unable to contain himself as he glances at Kai’s horrified expression. “Oh man, I’m so—”

“Tell him something, Soobin!” Kai pleads, desperate for backup.

Soobin, wide-eyed as he stares at the cup in Kai’s hand, opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, the cashier lady shushes them from behind the counter. Kai’s cheeks turn bright red with embarrassment.

“Sorry,” Kai apologizes sheepishly, flashing a lopsided grin that usually works like a charm on the ahjummas in his sister’s apartment building. But this time, he’s met with a blank stare.

Beomgyu struggles not to laugh again, covering his mouth, and Kai briefly considers finally punching him. Instead, he glares at Beomgyu and turns back to Soobin, whispering, “Hyuuung! Do something!”

“What’s he gonna do, exactly?” Beomgyu chuckles, taking the ramyeon cup from Kai’s hands. He sniffs it, scrunching his nose at the smell. It reminds him of that old Play-Doh his cousin dared him to eat when he was eleven. “He literally can’t take me in a fight,” he adds, casually tossing the cup into the trash.

Soobin scoffs, visibly offended, forgetting the ramyeon situation instantly. “I can so take you in a fight.”

“Nu-uh,” Beomgyu replies, sing-songing his words.

“Yeah-uh!”

“Nope.”

“I actually—”

“You know you still have to pay for that, right?” A sudden chilly voice behind them interrupts. They all jump, turning around to face the scary cashier lady. Beomgyu might have squealed a little.

“Yes, ma’am,” the three say in unison.

The lady throws them one last unimpressed look before turning back to the counter, mumbling something that makes Kai’s cheeks flush again.

“This is your fault, Beomgyu. You’re paying for it. After I beat you up,” Soobin says, trying to sound firm.

“Beat m—” Beomgyu laughs out loud, placing a hand on Soobin’s shoulder. “You mean just like how you beat me in LoL? Oh, wait—that never happened.”

“CHOI BEOMGYU, YOU KNOW DAMN WELL I WON THAT MATCH WITH MY—”

“Uh, hear that? It’s the sound of the crowd disagreeing,” Beomgyu interrupts, hand behind his ear, a mocking smirk on his face.

“Actually,” Kai lifts his index finger and then adjusts his imaginary glasses, “I’m the crowd, and I’m on Soobin’s side.” He swiftly interjects on the elder’s behalf, secretly he has his doubts, but he’s also defending his own cause. “Soobin, fight him.”

Soobin watches as Beomgyu lazily plops down onto a nearby chair, already looking bored. Leaning back, Beomgyu rests his head on his interlocked fingers, raising his eyebrows. With a cocky smirk and his tongue poking his cheek, he taunts, “Yeah, Soobie-boobie. Fight me.”

You’d think with Beomgyu sitting down and Soobin standing over him, the younger might feel a bit intimidated, but it’s Soobin who squirms, eyeing Beomgyu’s almost lazy expression. There’s something positively deranged about his look, Soobin thinks.

“Uh, well,” Soobin chuckles nervously, “You know what? I thought about it, and I’m not up for any fighting today. I, uh, recently joined this club where we discuss important stuff. You know, like social issues and, uh, philosophical debates.” He turns to Kai. “The morality of using force on weaker people is something we discussed, so…”

Beomgyu decides to ignore his last jab and straightens up. “Important stuff, huh?” he teases, unable to contain his amusement. “Sounds like code for ‘anime marathon with your nerd friends’ to me.”

It’s been almost a month since Jihoon, his former TA, discovered they share a passion for anime and manga. He invited Soobin to a ‘gathering’ where they discuss their favorite shows, debate the best characters, and organize screenings of new episodes. Beomgyu likes to call it the “ultimate hangout spot for anime nerds.”

“Well, I mean, we do discuss important themes in anime,” Soobin admits with a pout.

Kai chuckles, forgetting his ramyeon mishap. “Hey, nothing wrong with that,” he says, offering a supportive smile. “I also think anime is about important stuff.”

“Thank you, Kai,” Soobin says, dimples showing. “Seriously, it’s all really cool. Beomgyu wouldn’t understand the appeal. It’s not like he’s capable of thinking about anything serious for more than two seconds.”

Beomgyu feigns offense, standing up and placing a hand over his heart dramatically. “Hey now, I’ll have you know I’m a very serious person,” he protests, lips in a full pout, his tone dripping with mock seriousness. “I also understand it’s all very cool. So cool, in fact, that it’s the perfect topic to impress Y/N with, right?”

Soobin’s cheeks go red. He’s always been quick to blush, but this time it’s because Beomgyu’s words hit a nerve.

Ever since he first laid eyes on you in the introductory course, captivated by your pretty smile and blushed cheeks as you introduced yourself to the class, Soobin knew he was a goner. He’s never been one for crushes, not even in high school, so it’s as if fate saved all his affection for you. Looking back, Soobin realizes he’s never appreciated Beomgyu’s loud, extroverted personality more than when his friend boldly approached you to introduce himself—and Soobin too. (Did he already say thank you?) From that moment on, you became friends, and with each passing day, Soobin’s admiration for you only grew stronger.

“Yeah, right,” Soobin mumbles, trying to brush off Beomgyu’s teasing with a weak smile. “Guess that’s really gonna make her swoon.”

The memory of your comments some nights before he heard you exchange with one of your mutual friends about who you find especially attractive, plays in his mind, fueling his insecurities. “Dance majors I guess? Like Yeonjun. You guys are friends, right?” you had said.

Beomgyu sighs, sensing Soobin’s mood shift. “Ah, come on, Soob,” he says, bumping his shoulder gently, his tone softer now, realizing he might have gone too far. “You know I didn’t mean it. It’s not like Y/N’s going to judge you based on your anime club memberships.”

“It’s just one club,” he mumbles in a small voice when Kai chimes in. “He’s right, hyung!” Kai says, smiling brightly as he puts both hands on Soobin’s shoulders. “Besides, who knows? Maybe she didn’t really mean anything by it! Like, I think Soyeon is really hot, right? But I have no interest in actually going for it. She’s scary. So, maybe what Y/N’s really into is people like you!”

Soobin can’t help but let out a nervous laugh at his friend’s attempt to reassure him. “Right, Kai.”

Beomgyu then claps loudly, making Soobin jump. “That’s it, then! No more pouting from you, Mr. Naruto Pokémon,” he says with a grin, making Soobin scoff. “And Kai, I’m sorry about your food. I promise we’ll come back with Taehyun tomorrow to figure this bad boy out. Now let’s get you some tteokbokki from Mr. Kim’s shop,” he adds with a reassuring nod, dragging his friends out of the fancy convenience store.

As the three of them strut out, with Beomgyu complaining nonstop about paying for something he didn’t even eat, Soobin can’t help but overthink—it’s what he does best, after all. People like him, Kai said. No one has ever called him hot. Cute, sure. Sweet, even. And yeah, he knows he’s good-looking—people have told him as much—but he’s also convinced that people like him can’t compete with the Yeonjuns of the world, with their style, dance skills, and effortless coolness. Can he ever be like that?

Deep down, he knows his friends are right. He knows you’re not the type to judge someone for liking anime or joining clubs. But the weight of his feelings for you, combined with the pressure he puts on himself, makes him doubt his worth every time. He’s got to figure out how to be okay with who he is and hope that’s enough for you to notice him—really notice him.

With loud thoughts in his head he kicks a tiny rock, chis foot catches on a crack in the pavement. He trips, and for a split second, he sees the ground rushing toward him.

He looks around and sighs realizing no one notice, but walking along the sidewalk, as he watches kai animatedly explain demon slayer’s plot to a bored looking beomgyu, the nagging doubt keeps lingering in the back of his mind telling him that the gap between friendship to something more is as big as… well, as big as the difference between Tanjiro and a low-level demon, he supposes.

---

The surge of excitement pulses through you as you finally find yourself at the Seventeen concert, a dream come true made possible by Soobin’s miraculous ticket acquisition. You shoot him a grateful look, your smile stretching wider than ever, and Soobin mirrors it, glowing with the same enthusiasm. “I can’t believe we made it!” you shout over the music. “You’re seriously the best ever, Soobin!”

Your entire being radiates with happiness as you look at the stage with wide eyes, hands reaching up and a grin that refuses to fade as you scream the lyrics to a song he vaguely remembers hearing once. He’s always been more of a girl group stan.

Then, as if drawn back to reality, your attention returns to Soobin. “Oh my god, I still can’t wrap my head around how you got these tickets! They were gone in seconds!” you shout to be heard over the music, but Soobin hears you just fine.

“Well, you know how it goes,” Soobin leans closer with a tiny smirk. “The perks of being multi-talented, well-connected, universally adored…” he quips, though the reality of getting those tickets was far less glamorous. His older sister works for a big-shot media company and managed to snag these tickets. He owes her a thousand favors. But for you, it’s worth it, he thinks.

You chuckle. “Always humble, I see.”

“Always…”

“No, seriously,” your tone shifts, “this means the world to me. Thank you, Binnie.” Your sparkling eyes focused on him, and your sincere words send a hint of color to Soobin’s cheeks, subtle and noticeable to only him.

“Enough with that,” Soobin whispers, trying to keep the moment light. “You’ve already thanked me like a hundred times over. You know I would do anything for you.”

Did he—did he really just say that? Was that too intense? Do you now think he’s too intense?

Before he can start overthinking, your radiant smile washes over him once more, and he feels a weight lift from his shoulders.

“What you need to do now is enjoy the concert,” he says, trying to change the topic. “Or you’ll blink, and it’ll be over.”

“YOU’RE THE BEST!” you yell once again, jumping in place before pointing at the stage. “Look, look! The performance team! I’d miss my own wedding before I miss this. Have you seen Hoshi tonight? He’s so hot, I swear to god…”

He’s well aware of your fondness for the K-pop group’s performance team, particularly Hoshi. You’ve made it clear enough, and Soobin has never given it much thought.

As the concert pulses around him and he watches you scream your lungs out for the dancers in front of you, Soobin’s mind begins to wander, connecting dots he never realized were there. Taemin, Kai, Momo, —your list of biases reads like a who’s who of dancers. He remembers your comments about dance majors like that kid Hyunjin and his own friend Yeonjun. And now, here you are, gushing about Hoshi and the entire performance team with stars in your eyes. He’s never, ever seen you like this.

As the gears in his mind whirl, he reaches for his phone, opening a familiar chat without hesitation.

---

The concert ended about two hours ago, and Soobin is currently looking down at his phone in the stall of the bathroom at the only Thai place opened at this hour. He’s having the best time of his life with you, and it suddenly came to him that he must do everything in his power to get you. Hence why he scrolls until he finds the familiar name. He’s positive he’s never pressed a button faster.

And he is a fast button presser, if you ask him.

“Hey Soob, sorry I didn’t call, just saw your text and—” the line answers after a few rings.

“Teach me how to dance,” he urges as soon as he hears Yeonjun’s voice.

“Hey Yeonjun, how are you? Just peachy, thank you! What about you, my good friend? I’m pretty great too, actually, just happy to say hi to—”

“Hyung!” Soobin interrupts with a yell. “This is a life-or-death situation! No time for this!”

“No time to even say hello? After everything we’ve been through?” Yeonjun’s joke echoes a bit. “By the way, I just put you on speaker, and Tae’s here.”

“I don’t—”

“Why did you just do that?” Taehyun’s voice interrupts Soobin’s from his own side of the phone.

“Did wha—?” Soobin starts, but gets cut off once again. He realizes he’s not talking to him at all as he hears a conversation between his two friends on the other line.

“Why did I do what, Tae?” He hears Yeonjun ask.

“You just let him know I’m on speaker as if you’re warning him.”

“What? What I would warn him about?”

“Exactly!” Soobin hears his friends bicker. “I don’t know what you two don’t want to talk about while I’m here.”

“Are you serious? Taehyunnie, is this what I’m thinking? Because jealousy is not a cute look on you.” Yeonjun laughs. “Well, you know what? It might be—”

“STOP!” Soobin yells into the phone. “If someone needs to be warned about something, it’s me about your flirting.”

“We are not flirting!” Taehyun yells on the line. “Actually, you should be the one who’s flirting. Aren’t you on a date with Y/N right now? Why are you on the phone?”

“It is not a—well, I never specifically said the word date when I asked her to—you know what? It doesn’t matter! What matters is that there’s an emergency!”

“An emergency?” Yeonjun’s voice now sounds closer. “Hyung, what’s going on? Are you okay?” Taehyun continues.

“Yes! An emergency! That’s literally the first thing I said!”

“You never—”

“And no! I’m not okay! I’m the protagonist of a tragedy, and the plot twist? I’m not just ‘not okay’—I’m the complete opposite, like if ‘okay’ ran away and left me stranded in a dumpster fire of chaos.”

“Uh-huh,” Taehyun hums, catching on to Soobin’s melodrama. “If I recall, the very first thing you said was rudely demanding Yeonjun dance lessons. Honestly, Hyung, I don’t know why we keep falling for this kid’s theatrics.” Soobin groans as hears Yeonjun’s light laugh in response, followed by a quiet, ‘you’re right.’ “And seriously, why do you even want to learn to dance? Didn’t you have a strict ‘no dancing’ policy?”

“Well, that is why it’s an emergency. Like I said, a life-or-death situation. I need to revoke this policy and become the best dancer there is.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I don’t know how else to tell you how serious I am. Life or death, Yeonjun!”

“Stop saying that! You’re not dying. Well talk about it later, JUST GET BACK TO HER”

—

Soobin’s mind races as he walks you back to your place after the dinner. He’s hyper-aware of every step, every word that comes out of his mouth. It’s like his brain is stuck replaying moments from the concert, analyzing every little thing you said or did.

“I still can’t believe how close we were to the stage,” you say, your voice tingling with leftover concert adrenaline. “Did you see the way they moved? Hoshi is unreal!”

There it is again. Hoshi. The name has become a ghost haunting Soobin’s thoughts, a reminder that he’s no dancer. He’s no Hoshi. But then you look at him with that smile, the one that makes his heart do a weird flip, and he almost convinces himself that you might feel the same way. Almost.

“Yeah, he’s pretty good,” Soobin replies, trying to sound casual, but his voice comes out a little too high-pitched, a little too forced.

You glance at him, eyebrows raised in amusement. “Pretty good? Soob, he’s like, one of the best dancers out there!”

He completely understands you’re being a fan and freaking out about seeing your favorite artists — just one week earlier he was crying at the mere sight of KARA performing in front of him (he tells everyone he’s a casual listener. Soobin has never been casual about a single thing in his life.)— but he can’t help but run his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah, I mean… sure. He’s great,” Soobin stammers, “But, you know, dancing isn’t everything.”

You stop walking and turn to face him, your expression shifting to something more serious. Soobin’s heart sinks and he’s two second from permanently loosing it, really.

Why did he say that? What did it have to do with anything? You’re going to think he’s crazy, worse, you’re going to tell him that you wish he were more like Hoshi, more like Yeonjun, that you need someone who can dance and—

“No, you’re right. Dancing isn’t everything,” you say softly, taking a step closer to him. “Soobin.. I..I just wanted to tell you that didn’t come to the concert just for Hoshi or the performance team or the group. I came because I wanted to be there with you.”

His heart skips a beat, and for a moment, hope flares up inside him. But then the little annoying-world ruiner- voice in his head creeps back in. Do you know? Oh my god, you must know he likes you and the stupid ass voice keeps whispering that maybe you’re just being polite, just trying not to hurt his feelings. He’s Soobin, your cute, sweet old friend who’s always there, but never the one you’re actually interested in.

You chuckle, a light, airy sound that sends a shiver down his spine. “I mean, sure, I appreciate good dancing. But you’re right, you know?”

He thinks that if he opens his mouth nothing good will come out of it, so he just nods and hs mind runs back on his earlier conversation with Yeonjun and Taehyun. The dance lessons. That is it— when learns to dance, he can finally be the kind of guy you’d notice, the kind of guy you’d actually want.

You continue walking, and he falls into step beside you, his body catching up before his brain.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, wondering why he seems so distant all of a sudden.

“Soob,” you start, trying to break through whatever wall he’s put up, “did you have fun tonight?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah! Definitely. It was awesome,” he replies, but even he sounds weird to his own ears. He’s trying hard not to ruin a perfect night more than he already did but at this point he’ll hold a grudge against himself for the rest of his life.

You stop again, this time taking his hand in yours to make him look at you. The warmth brings him back to reality, and he stares at you, wide-eyed and confused.

“Are you sure?” you ask, searching his face for any sign of what’s bothering him.

He opens his mouth to say something, but the words get stuck in his throat. You’re so so close, so so beautiful and all he can think about is how much he wants to kiss you, but he’s convinced you don’t feel the same way. So, instead, he just nods, giving you a small, strained smile.

You sigh, dropping his hand, and for a split second, he wonders if he really did ruined everything. He might as well just dig a whole and crawl inside it, but you start walking again and he follows.

“Okay, but if something’s bothering you, you know you can tell me, right?” you say, trying to keep your tone light, even though you’re a little frustrated that he won’t open up.

“Yeah, I know,” Soobin mumbles. Once again kicking himself mentally for not being able to just say what’s on his mind and be a normal person.

The rest of the walk is filled with a comfortable silence, but it’s the kind that makes Soobin’s thoughts race even faster. He’s so wrapped up in his own head that he doesn’t notice the way you keep glancing at him, trying to figure out what’s going on.

When you finally reach your door, you turn to him, your heart pounding in your chest. It looks like you want to say something and he hopes is not a revelation that you actually hate him for ruining a perfect night, but all that comes out is a soft, “Goodnight, Soobin. Thank you for everything. It was the best night ever.”

“Goodnight, Y/N, im really glad” he replies, his voice barely above a whisper.

You hesitate for a moment, then lean in to kiss his cheek.

“Sweet dreams,” you say with a smile, before disappearing inside.

Soobin stands there, staring at the closed door, mind all fuzzy. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm down, but it’s no use. His critical thinking skills went away with you so he doesn’t know what to think other than to become the best dancer you’ve ever seen. Because he’s that dumb and because maybe, just maybe, if he does, you’ll look at him the way you looked at Hoshi tonight.

----

Somehow Soobin didn’t make you not want to see him ever again so, the next day, you two are back at your place, ready to binge-watch this new drama Soobin’s been waiting to start since Beomgyu said it was the best thing he ever saw, but he’s having real trouble focusing on the screen. Every laugh, every breath, every time you shift closer, sends his heart racing.

You, on the other hand, are trying your best to get his attention. The way Soobin’s been acting lately is nothing less than confusing. One moment he's making dad jokes and making you laugh till your sides hurt, the next, he's lost in thought, as if he’s not even there.

Halfway through the episode, you stretch your arms above your head, letting out a dramatic yawn as you lean into Soobin’s side, your body brushing against his making his pulse quicken.

Soobin freezes, his eyes widening. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you murmur, nuzzling closer, "Just comfy. Is that alright?"

His heart pounds in his chest. "YEah! Comfy is… good."

“Good.”

A tense silence comes between you two and you can faintly feel the TV in the background, but neither of you really hears it. You’re so close now that Soobin can feel your breath on his neck and he feel to himself that he needs to stop acting like a fourteen year old being alone with a girl for the first time now. He’s convinced this is the moment where you’ll feel how fast his heart’s beating and realize how hopelessly in love he is with you and then you’ll freak out and it’ll all be over and-

“You’ve been acting weird lately,” you say, “Is everything alright?”

Soobin nearly chokes on his own tongue. “Me? Weird? Nope not at all! I’m—uh—totally normal. Just…normal Soobin... behavior.” He clears his throat, trying to play it cool, making you scoff a little.

You raise an eyebrow. “Normal, huh?” You shift even closer, your hand brushing his thigh. Soobin tenses, heat rushing to his face. “Because you’ve been acting like there’s something's going on. Something you’re not telling me.”

“I—” Soobin starts, but you cut him off by placing your hand over his, your fingers lacing together. The simple gesture makes him shiver all over, and suddenly, word vomit is coming out out of his mouth before he can stop them. “You’ve been talking a lot about dancers lately.”

“Dancers?” you repeat, genuinely puzzled.

“Yeah, like Hoshi, and Taemin, and—and Yeonjun,” he says, the last name coming out quieter, almost like he’s embarrassed. But he already started and he’s not sure he can come back from that and from the confused look on your face, he’s sure he can’t sink any lower. So he goes for it… as much as he can, anyway.

“I just thought—well, I thought maybe you liked them. Like, really liked them. And I’m not, you know, a dancer. So I thought…maybe I should.. that you don’t…”

Your eyes widen in surprise, and then you burst out laughing. Not the reaction Soobin was expecting. “You think I don’t like you because you’re not a dancer?” you manage to say between giggles. “Soobin, that’s-- no! That's ridiculous!”

Soobin’s face turns bright red, and he pulls his hand away turning towards you completely “It’s not ridiculous,” he mutters, pouting slightly. “And it’s not just that, it’s about the whole vibe I bring to the function! I just… I’m trying to be someone you’d actually like.”

You scoot closer, closing the gap he just created. “Soobin, I already like you. A lot. And not because of some dumb reason like dancing. I like you, Soobin.”

Soobin blinks, completely caught off guard. “You…like me? Despite… everything?”

“No, Soobin. I don’t like you despite everything you are, I do exactly because of it. I like pretty much everything about you.”

“Rea…lly? Even the fact that I… have an… anime club membership?”

You roll your eyes playfully, your hand finding its way back to his thigh, your fingers trailing up his inner leg. “Yes, Soobin, I like that too. Honestly, I’ve been trying to get you to notice for weeks now, but you’ve been so oblivious! I was starting to think I’d have to spell it out for you.”

“Well, you kinda do,” he says, still processing your words. “Because I’m clearly not the brightest when it comes to this stuff.”

You grin, your eyes glinting with mischief. “Well, then. How about I show you instead?” You lean in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, “Would that help you understand?”

Soobin’s breath hitches, and he nods slowly. He thinks he might explode any second now. Is this really how he wants to die?

You move to straddle his lap, your hands resting on his shoulders as you look down at him with a playful smile, and the answer is yes.

He stares up at you, his hands hesitating at your waist, not quite believing this is real. “Are you…are you sure?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Positive,” you murmur, your lips inching closer to his. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

And just like that, you kiss Soobin.

He melts right into it and his brain registers it so, so slowly, and once it hits him that you are kissing him, — that he is kissing you,— his arms wrapping around you as he finally lets himself believe that this is real.

As the kiss deepens, you pull back slightly, your forehead resting against his as you both catch your breath. “So,” you whisper, your fingers tracing small circles on his chest, “are you finally convinced?”

Soobin grins, his dimples on full display and his mind full of you. “Yeah,” he says, his voice filled with awe. “I think I am.”

You smile back, leaning in for another kiss, but this time, Soobin surprises you by pulling you even closer, his lips moving against yours with a newfound confidence. The kiss turns more intense, your hands tangling in his hair as his grip on your waist tightens.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathless, faces flushed with excitement. Soobin looks up at you, “I can’t believe this is finally happening.”

“Believe it,” you say, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Soobin’s breath is intense, his body reacting to your proximity and your voice.His hands roam up to your back, fingers pressing into your skin as he pulls you even closer, the heat between you growing almost unbearable.

You slide your body against his, your hips grinding slowly, deliberately, as your lips meet his once more in a passionate, fervent kiss. Soobin’s hands grip your hips, guiding you against him with a need that matches your own.

And as for the dance lessons? Well, Soobin might still take Yeonjun up on that offer—if only to keep up with your pace.

#soobin #soobin x reader #soobin fluff #soobin au #choi soobin #soobin imagines #soobin x y/n #soobin x you #soobin scenarios #txt x reader #tomorrow x together

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miifu666 · 13 days

Text

Yandere isekai! Alpha!

Who you met during your mindless scrolling through the brainrotting reels and videos thats feeding the addiction part of your brain, in no time you're suddenly transported in the middle of a busy street with your pajamas.

Not knowing if you've accidentally sleepwalked or if you were daydreaming, you noticed the strange waft of different smells the people around you have.

Its all too much for your brain, the smell of different perfumes clashing eachother is making your head spin. In no time, you accidentally hit your head on someone.

A tall person, maybe 6'7 you note. You have to crank your neck upwards to see him, apologize and run back to your home despite forgetting that you're in the middle of an unknown street.

"S..sorry..?" You half muttered, trying to get a glimpse of the man by squinting, the backlight of the sun isn't helping the unfortunate circumstances you're in.

"No problem! ...hey are you lost, little thing?" The man tilted his head, blocking the sun and giving you a bit of how he looks now. "You don't smell like an average beta.. or omega... even alpha"

He's an attractive person, a lazy smile etched on his perfectly smooth face. Pulling the fat of the cheeks a little and curving his cat-like eyes just beneath his golden rimmed glasses. Theres a few moles you see near his left eye, under the eyebrow and bottom lip. He looks like one of those pinterest models you see, one that people put as a drawing reference.

"Uhm.. what?"

"You're okay?"

"I think so? What do you mean.. average beta?"

Hearing your answer, the tall man can only hummed and fix his dark blue hair. It wasn't long enough to reach his shoulder but not short enough to reach his ears too, a layered cut maybe? You try to figure out the man's body action before hearing out what he has to say. Theres a small fear of you getting kidnapped, pulled into some drunken bar or maybe a dimmed and empty place to steal your organs.

"Betas? You know, the second gender?" He muttered, the lazy smile is still stapled on his face. You asked if he's talking about the same beta, omega and alpha that you know about. The ones that you've read in fiction and posts, a universe where people have secondary genders instead of just the usual biological male or female. "Hmmm... yes?".

You wanted to laugh, make a weird face, punch him on the guts, to say he's joking would be an understatement. He looks serious, in fact. He looks at you judgingly despite the small smile he kept. You panicked, finding out that those isekai fictions are actually happening to you, during your scrolling on the dumb thin brick of electronic. Maybe if you weren't so focused on it, you would realized you're slowly being transported into another dimension.

The man tilted his head again, a small humm is heard despite the loud steps of the crowd walking past you. The crowd, you're also in the middle of the busy street. The sweat on your palms feels more wet now that you realized everyone is seeing you in your pajamas, the only pair of outfit you wear to be comfortable alone, uninterrupted in your small abode.

"You look so anxious.. wanna go somewhere to talk? Seems like you need something to straighten your mind"

Time moves quickly, you're now sitting in a thick sofa. One that feels like its been used for years, the comfortable dent it has gives you a sense of belonging. The man, introduced himself as Elias. Explained to you how this world works, after noticing how despite having betas around. You have a particular smell that isnt too strong or "unique" as he would say it. "Quite the catch you are" he smiled as he tilted his head again, the act reminding you of an owl. "An alpha like me have sharper nose... but i can barely smell you. Its like smelling a deer.. small deer"

Now you're lounging in his house, holding a warm chamomile tea he brewed. Feeling snug despite being in a strangers house, waiting for him to finish changing. He discussed about you having a place to stay, urging you to live in his house for awhile till you can figure things out in this world. 'How kind..' you think, 'maybe the alphas in the fiction isnt as horrible as it actually is in here... '

You didn't noticed the lingering look he's giving you, the licking of his lips each time you tend to appear skittish and unsafe. He has a need to keep you alone, keep you safe around him and maybe spoil you a bit. Who knows? Maybe throughout all his life being an Apex Alpha, you are his true mate. The reason he's been so devoid of any feeling and not so obedient for his wolf side is because you haven't appeared in his universe.

Fortunately hes a patient man, so patient. He can easily break you down to become his perfect little omega, no matter if you'll have it as a second gender or not. In his eyes, you'll always be an omega. His omega

Elias is an old yandere oc i created, i had some ideas of how he is but i wanted to show more of his personality here. Theres a few notes past me put on his character but the rest, is improvised.Sooo this is all not proofread.

#🎨—galleria #🦭—oc #📖—Writings #✍️—doodles #📃—ref sheet #yandere oc #yandere male #yandere male x reader #male yandere #yandere

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pedgito · 2 years

Note

i just saw your post about glasses!eddie munson and whenever you have the time, would you be able to write a cute series of reader finding out about his glasses ITS JUST ADORABLE

author’s note: this was meant to post sooner than now but here it is lol, i finished this pretty quick but got sidetracked. glasses!eddie has invaded my brain and it’s never leaving.

cw: sfw, glasses!eddie, eddie’s not so subtle flirting, acquaintances to friends, once again another fic where everyone bullies eddie (give this man a break), if i missed anything lmk!

word count: 2.5k

“Do you wanna switch seats with me?” Your voice is soft, leaning back toward Eddie, whose eyes are nearly closed from how hard he’s focusing on the board, blindly scribbling something down on the paper. He’s lost on where the voice comes from until you’re in focus, looking back at him with a smile.

Eddie wasn’t a friend, but he wasn’t an enemy either. He was the boy who got picked on relentlessly and as much as you wanted to help, you weren’t sure it would change anything. Plus, he didn’t seem that bothered by it—or he was just really good at faking like he wasn’t.

“Oh,” Eddie replies, still confused, “I’ll be fine—Mr. Donahue’s handwriting is always shit, I can barely understand it.”

It wasn’t a total lie, but it was still legible.

“Munson!” The teacher's voice rings from the front of the classroom, “let's stop trying to distract other classmates and focus on our own work, okay?”

And if it wasn’t the condescension in his tone that pissed you off, it was the way he so quickly blamed Eddie for the interaction. He shrinks slightly, sending you an apologetic look.

It happens a few more times that week, catching Eddie glancing at the board as if it’s nearly impossible to see—and maybe he was telling the truth, but it’s also obvious that Donahue hates Eddie for no other apparent reason than just because he thinks he’s up to no good, which isn’t fair to Eddie.

You show up early to class the following week, bag resting in the chair of the desk beside you—Eddie’s usual seat, waiting. He’s always bordering on being late, making it to class as the bell rings, looking more frazzled than the others.

You weren’t sure what he got up to between classes, but he definitely seemed overwhelmed.

“This seat taken?” He asks with a smug smirk, pointing at your backpack. You smile slightly, reaching for it.

“Sorry—I just wanted to make sure I could sit beside you.” You tell him honestly. It throws Eddie off, his eyebrows furrowing together slightly before relaxing, eyes roaming over you curiously. “You said you can’t understand his handwriting, I was gonna let you copy my notes.”

“Can I copy your work too?” Eddie asks jokingly, but you can tell he means it. “I’m barely scraping by with a D in this class.”

You snort out a quiet laugh. “Let’s worry about the notes first.”

Eddie spends most of the class still struggling, forehead creased up as he sifts through your notes, writing things down sparingly. It’s almost like he’s trying not to be mean, focusing a little too hard on one word every now and then as he looks over, your papers perched on the corner of the desk.

“If my writing is horrible you can tell me,” You say, which makes Eddie chuckle, “seriously, I won’t be offended.”

“It’s not that,” He assures you, “it’s just—the angle, it’s a little hard to read them—“

“Oh, well,” You grab the papers in a bunch, extending them toward him, “here, just take them.”

Eddie ignored you, his fingers wrapping around the leg of your desk to pull it flush against his—it’s quick enough that it doesn’t make much noise, only a slight shifting that draws a few eyes.

“Or…that works too.” You say shyly, face heating up at his straightforwardness. “Better?”

He glances over, shifting the papers to his side and gives a subtle nod as his lips pull together in a tight line, “Yeah, actually.”

And it’s almost blissful silence as Eddie copies them down, asking a few questions when your words meld together out of habit when you’re writing too quickly, he still leans in slightly but you don’t pester him on it—eventually Eddie’s actions are noticed, all eyes shifting toward the back of the classroom.

When you look up, everyone is staring back, including the pensive and threatening eyes of your teacher.

Eddie mumbles a soft, “Sorry.” as he pushes your desk back.

“Do I need to remind you two that this isn’t a matchmaking class?”

And it’s a ridiculous comment to make, but it has Eddie scoffing slightly underneath his breath.

“I’m letting him copy my notes,” You say innocently, “is that okay?”

You can’t remember having a problem in any of your classes, either flying under the radar or one of the usual favorites—you’ve never felt this tense, staring down the entirety of the group that was staring right back, though your gaze was focused on Mr. Donahue.

Eddie looks at you briefly before settling his eyes toward the desk, fiddling with pen in his hands to soothe his anxiety.

“If Eddie has a problem, he can come sit up front,” He says coarsely, “I don’t think you have the wiggle room to be socializing, do you?”

And suddenly his gaze on you is forgotten, flicking toward Eddie.

Eddie doesn’t give him the satisfaction, shuffling his shoulders forward in an effort to hide himself, scribbling something random down on the paper in front of him—it’s something he did when was bored or uncomfortable, even, a comfort.

You catch Eddie toward the end of class, gripping his sleeve before he can sneak away.

“How far behind are you?” You ask him, peering up at him curiously. Eddie looks sheepish, glancing away for a moment.

“Uh, I haven’t really taken notes all semester—I kinda just..scribble shit down so it looks like I’m working.”

Your eyes slant down slightly, in an ire of disbelief as your mouth parts, “Eddie, are you serious?”

He shrugs, reaching a hand up to scratch his jaw. You huff through your nose, snatching the pen perched in Eddie’s pocket and uncapping it before shoving it into his hands.

“Give me your address.” You insist, holding out your arm to him. Eddie seems skeptical, fingers wrapping around your arm gently, shifting your sleeve up, “I’m getting you caught up—don’t look at me like that.”

And truly, he’s not sure how to respond. Kindness and niceties weren’t at all familiar, feeling like there was always some ulterior motive. Still, he scribbles down the information with slow strokes, careful that it doesn’t smudge—leaving a small smiley face out of spite, forcing a similar expression onto your own face.

“I’m free after six,” He tells you, “so unless you want to get caught up in awkward conversation with my uncle, wait until then.”

You laugh at that, pulling your sleeve down.

“How else am I supposed to uncover all of your secrets?”

Eddie smirks slightly, eyes averting toward the floor.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know—you just have to ask.”

He spends most of his nights—sans the ones where he’s performing for the small audience at The Hideout or hosting Hellfire meetings—organizing campaigns and writing down random things that come to his mind, feeling the need to get the thought out on paper, even if it’s song lyrics or a drawing.

He adjusts the thin rimmed glasses up his nose, eyes hurting from the strain he’s forced them through all day. He knows he should spend a few minutes resting, even just closing his eyes for a moment, but he can’t help it. Eddie knows it’s his fault, the beginnings of a headache forming as he tries to focus, his finger sneaking up to rub at his eye—he can feel the haziness, willing it away.

But then you’re knocking at his door and every thought is thrown out the window—part of him never expected you to show, his heart thrumming in his chest as he leaps from the bed, tossing the papers away haphazardly and forcing the glasses up into his hair without a thought, pushing his bangs away from his face.

Eddie whips the door open, causing you to startle slightly.

“Hi.” You say wearily, a soft smile on your face.

“Hi,” Eddie responds slightly out of breath, before clearing his throat and offering a smoother, “Hey.”

Your eyes glance up, noticing the difference in his face. His bangs were like a trademark, constantly hiding his eyebrows. You point up curiously, speaking before you can think things through.

“You wear glasses?” You ask, eyebrows knitting in confusion.

“No—no uh, of course not.” Eddie responds quickly, adamant in his refusal. “Why would you—“

He’s clearly caught off guard, standing awkwardly in the doorway, eyes crossing as he follows your finger, only realizing his mistake when you drag the glasses down slowly, pushing them gently up the bridge of his nose.

“Well, that is definitely an interesting pair of non-existent glasses.” You say jokingly, grinning at his embarrassment, cheeks flushing a deep red.

It’s hard to explain how perfectly they fit his face—like it’s the missing piece that pulls him together. He’s not dressed up like usual, in a faded graphic shirt and gray pair of sweats, no jacket or rings in sight. It’s natural—and it’s in that split second you can see the real Eddie. Not the threatening, menacing Eddie Munson that everyone played him out to be.

Eddie nods wearily, beckoning you inside.

“I won’t tell anyone,” You promise him with a tinge of amusement, rounding on him as he closes the door, shoving the stack of papers at his chest, “—if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Eddie pulls the glasses off of his face, folding them up.

“It’s not that,” Eddie tells you, “—didn’t mean for you to find out about them, it kinda ruins the whole image, you know?”

Image. It makes you laugh to yourself silently.

“You didn’t seem like you were trying to hide them,” You giggled slightly, “besides, I don’t think they ruin anything.”

“I kinda forgot you were coming.” Eddie lies, knowing he had been riddled with nerves since he stepped foot inside of the trailer that evening, not understanding why he was so anxious to begin with.

“Look, I don’t mean to overstep or anything—“ You stop briefly, sighing softly, “but if you need a tutor or even just…some help, I don’t mind.”

Eddie doesn’t really know how to take it, staring at you like you’d grown a second head.

“I study with Nancy a lot,” You explain, “it’s really not a big deal.”

“I’m a lost cause,” Eddie admits with half-smile, “there’s no saving me.”

“I don’t believe that,” You tell him honestly, approaching him to shove the glasses back toward his chest, his other hand still stuffed full with the papers containing your notes, “—seriously, put them back on and I can spend a couple hours seeing where you’re at.”

Eddie listens, though skeptically, placing the glasses back onto his face—you smile without really thinking, causing him to react similarly.

“It’s okay to let someone be nice to you,” You assure him, “as many assholes as there are at Hawkins, there’s still a few of us who mean well.”

“I can’t be taught, I’m just warning you now.” Eddie remains adamant, leading the way toward his room. You follow behind eagerly, taking in the abstract way of decoration littered around the trailer.

“Fine—you can at least show me your drawings then.”

Eddie looks back at you briefly, a confused grin on his face.

“I’m really observant,” You tease, “and curious.”

“Promise not to tell anyone?” Eddie asks.

“I’ve already got one secret to keep,” You respond, teasing him lightly, “what’s one more?”

“How bad is it?” You ask him, staring up expectantly.

“What—oh, my eyes?” Eddie asks, “Uh, kinda bad. It’s okay, though—I manage.”

You crease your eyebrows together, motioning for him to remove the glasses. He does, watching as you reach for a paper, holding it up in front of him.

“Tell me when you can read it clearly.”

Eddie nods, squinting as you move the paper closer and closer, until it’s only a few inches from his face, your eyes widening in shock.

“Eddie,” You stress, “you can’t be serious?”

“I told you I manage,” He argues with a slight laugh, “but it’s bad, I meant that.”

Your expression remains the same, arms falling to your side as you discarded the paper.

“They look weird,” Eddie defends, “that’s why I only wear them at home—I already get enough shit at school anyways.”

“Bullshit,” You say boldly, “they do not look weird.”

Unfortunately, you did see all of the relentless teasing he caught at school, that wasn’t lost on you.

“You don’t have to lie,” Eddie says, “it won’t bother me.”

“I’m not,” You counter, smiling as the glasses returned to his face, his eyelashes touching the lenses, bangs brushing against the rim, “they fit you—they’re…cute.”

Eddie snorts in disbelief, “Okay, enough.”

You smile to yourself, watching as his cheek flushed a faint pink.

“Can I try them on?”

Eddie doesn’t answer outright, pulling them away from his face and handing them over—they’re a little bigger, his more prominent facial structure different from yours and causing the glasses to slide down your nose slightly. You push them up with your finger, squinting at the strain it puts on your eyes.

You can see Eddie smiling over the rim, admiring how perplexed you look in the moment, “Don’t look at me like that,” You say playfully, “these things are really strong.”

Eddie shakes his head, “It’s—nothing, nevermind.” He pulls the glasses from your face gently, placing them back on his own.

And Eddie’s never been shy, but suddenly he can’t force the words out, afraid of the mix of both rejection and embarrassment.

“I like you like this,” You tell him, hoping it eases him, seeing how tense he was—clearly unloved by many, “I mean, I like you both ways but this—it’s nice.”

“You’re the first.” He says flippantly, not aimed at you for any specific reason. He’s not immune to the words thrown at him, they do start to wear on him after time, even if he brushes them off for the most part.

“They’re insane,” You tell him with a surety, “all of them.”

“Careful,” Eddie treads, “Jason would have a fuckin’ field day if he heard you say that.”

You shrug, smugness in your expression.

“He’s terrified of me.”

“Jason—terrified of you?” Eddie asks, begging for more clarification.

“Our parents are friends—I’ve seen…a lot.” You say cryptically, not wanting to dive into details, “I’m not one for blackmail but I’m not totally above it.”

“You’re so interesting,” Eddie speaks candidly.

“I’ll take that was a compliment?” You respond, “Hopefully.”

Eddie nods with a subtle smile.

“Well—like you said,” You start, repeating his earlier sentiment, “I’ll tell you anything, just ask.”

You hold your finger up as his mouth opens—

“But, notes first—secrets later.”

Eddie pushes his glasses up comedically, forcing a quiet laugh from you—it’s the exact reaction he wants. He settles, agreeing with your rules.

“Deal.”

Please consider a reblog if you enjoyed this fic! It’s makes a huge difference. ♡

#eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fanfic #joseph quinn fic #joseph quinn x you #my writing

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justalonelyslytherin · 1 year

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Happy Father's Day - Lloyd Hansen

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x female Reader

Warnings: cursing, violence, gun handling and shooting, death, blood, insinuation/mention of hurting and/or killing a child

Wordcount: 3.9k

If you enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging. I don’t allow for my content to be copied, translated, or reposted on other websites/apps. Please don’t steal my work.

A/N: Another one of the longer ones in this series. Writing Lloyd was so much fun. And I really enjoyed this scenario and the open end, if Reader and Lloyd will get along or not. Part of the ‘Happy Father’s Day’ series. Dividers by the fantastic @/firefly-graphics

Footsteps echoed through the empty hall, drawing nearer until the door swung open. A figure walked into the office.

“You are late.”

Carmichael, who had been sitting in his chair and watching the arriving car through the dimmed window, turned around.

“Yeah well, I didn’t want to be here.”

“It’ll be worth your expenditure.”

“You better be paying me good for this. Summoning me here, you are becoming flamboyant. I could be otherwise entertained.”

“As always. You should know better of me.” Carmichael pursed his lips, glancing at the other man over his glasses. “This one is a special mission.”

“Are you finally getting rid of Susan, that frigid bitch?”

“No. But similar. I wanted to see your reaction myself.”

“And once you're finished we’ll have a drink together. Like the good old times.”

Lloyd raised an eyebrow as Carmichael opened a drawer. Withdrawing the file in an exaggerated motion, he held it in the air. It was inconspicuous. Like any other file the CIA used on their targets.

With a heavy thud it landed on the dark wooden desk, the noise reverberated through the dim office. Licking his lips and cocking his hip out, Lloyd took a lazy step forward. He swiped the file up in one smooth motion. Opening it, he was greeted with a picture.

Lloyd’s grip tightened around the file, the etches crinkling. His jaw ticked, square, and ready to snap as he eyed the contents.

“Her?” He asked after a tense, long silence.

“Her,” Carmichael confirmed. He leaned forward in his seat, elbows placed on the edge of the desk, “I want her disposed of.”

“Any particular reason?” Lloyd lilted lazily, eyes dragging over the file towards the other man. He didn’t need to read the print, he had committed it to memory a long time ago.

“None that should matter to you. I thought you might like to do it yourself. Since you two have…history.”

Huffing he let the file drop onto the desk, the smack reverberated through the office. A devilish, hungry grin spread over Lloyd’s lips.

“It’ll be my pleasure.”

Today had felt like an ordinary day to her, but if she knew one thing it was that there were no ordinary days.

There were quiet days and then there were hectic days. There were days when everything went according to plan and days when everything went wrong. There were days in which she’d been safe and days in which she’d nearly died.

The latter ones were now few and far between. Once it was her day-to-day, her nine-to-five. It was behind her now for most of it.

But as a seasoned agent, she should have known nothing ever truly stayed gone and that especially as someone in the intelligence industry there was no such simple thing as retirement.

Dying was your retirement.

The house was quiet when she arrived home. Something wasn’t right. It felt deadly quiet, not even the usual noise from the neighbors or cars passing over the street was there. It was too quiet.

Her days in the field might have laid behind her but her instincts were still as sharp. And so was her habit of still carrying a weapon with her at all times. As silently as she could, she put her purse beside the front door, moving slowly and carefully. Squatting, she drew her gun from inside the bag.

The entryway was clear and so was the office she never used. When she walked through the living room, clearing it as well, gaze moving into the adjacent, open kitchen she froze. Halfway hidden behind the kitchen counter lay a body on the floor. Rosa. Her household help. Face down, in a puddle of her own blood, unmoving.

Rushing over, there was nothing she still could have done for the nice lady she’d become friends with. She wasn’t long dead, body and blood felt warm.

Then she heard it. A creek. Snapping her head towards the ceiling she listened. When another creek sounded, she bounded to the stairs. Taking two steps at a time she rushed up.

On the second level, she ignored most of the doors, bypassing clearing each room in favor of getting to the most important of it all. At the far end of the hallway was a cream-colored door, opened just a slit. A soft melody played, faintly echoing through the hallway. She’d closed that door just before she left the house.

The door swung open, barely stopping before it hit the wall as she barged in, gun drawn high. She pointed the barrel at the figure standing on the other side of the room, looming above a baby bed.

“Hands up where I can see them and step the fuck away from the cradle!” Her voice was firm but there was the hint of a shake looming close.

The figure stayed relaxed, slowly raising his hands. There was a big gun in his right hand, making her grit her teeth as her heart dropped. Hopefully, she wasn’t too late already. Please, don’t let her be too late. Her grip around her gun tightened as the person turned around.

Shock coursed through her, almost making her forget what was going on. Almost.

“Lloyd.”

He grinned at her, “Hello Sunshine.”

The pet name rolled off his tongue so smoothly as if not a single day had gone by. It didn’t trick her, it was a farce and so she kept her guard up and the gun centered on his chest. Not that Lloyd could have cared for any of it. That grin, that split his lips and pulled at his mustache mocked her together with the glint in his eyes. The amusement was highly evident on his face.

“You sneaky little thing, aren’t you?” He made a show of trailing his gaze through the room before he continued, “A safe house – that’s not so safe anymore – and a baby?”

His laugh made her skin crawl.

“I didn’t peg you for the chick that would let herself get stuck with a brat,” he taunted and she rolled her eyes. “Although I would have enjoyed being the one to fuck one into you.”

“Step away from her,” she demanded, unreactive to his jabs. He wanted to provoke her but she wouldn’t grant him that pleasure.

Lloyd looked behind him toward the crib in which her baby was peacefully sleeping. “And what if I don’t? You shoot me? Shoot in the direction of your darling?” Her eyes flickered to the crib behind him, just for a moment. Enough to confirm he was right. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

“As I thought,” he hummed, slowly putting his hands down.

She’d just lost her advantage, her threat. The gun in her hands was useless if she couldn’t – wouldn’t – use it to actually shoot him. It was just a show and he could do and please how he wanted without her being able to prevent it.

“I have to give you that: She is cute as a bug.” Her heart nearly gave out as Lloyd turned around again and leaned over the crib. He was reaching down, his fingers running over the baby's smooth dark hair and soft cheek. As his pinky ring graced her cheek, the cold sensation of the metal on her skin made her frown. It caused his lip to quip upward.

With his other hand – the one holding the large gun – he leaned down too. The nose of the gun softly traced along her little tummy.

It made her breath hitch, instinctively she took a step forward. A mistake as Lloyd’s head cocked back at her. There was enjoyment glinting in his eyes. He loved games like this, toying with people’s emotions, but most of all with their fear.

“Oh look at you, all momma-bear. Am I driving you crazy with concern huh?” He was having the time of his life.

“What will you do?” he wanted to know, taunting once more, “I could shoot her right now and you wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

He was right. She wouldn’t be able to cross the room fast enough to prevent him from pulling the trigger or ripping the gun up and away from her child.

“Step away from her,” she demanded, voice shaking with equal amounts of rage and concern. It was an empty demand. What threat did she have against him? What options to stop him? Her words made him laugh.

“Give me one good reason why I should do that instead of pulling my trigger right now?”

“Because she is yours.”

Lloyd raised an eyebrow, beneath his long lashes his eyes dilated in surprise but also in glee. Once more he started laughing. A full belly laugh this time. So much he had to wipe away tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.

“That’s a good one, sunshine.” But she stayed unwaveringly serious. Lloyd eyed that as well. Straightening up he took in the sleeping baby closely.

“Oh, are you serious?” The amusement was still there but now there was a hint of seriousness in his tone as well.

“Her?” He pointed towards the cradle. “Mine?”

Reluctantly she nodded. There was a brief moment in which Lloyd turned solemnly serious, a moment in which he seemed to contemplate it all. Then his face twisted in rage. In a split second, he lunged at her.

She was slammed to the floor, him above her as her gun skidded over the ground, out of her reach. His hands wrapped around her throat, strong hands unrelenting. The air was pushed out of her lungs as he choked her. Wrapping her hands around his forearms, she tried to stop him but there was no point. He was too strong.

“You little bitch.” Lloyd was seething. Spitting as he looked at her like an animal gone wild. “You are enjoying this aren’t you?”

“Greedy little slut, took everything you could get your hands on, didn’t you? Even a baby!” Her mind was reeling, both from the lack of oxygen and his words. They didn’t make sense. She hadn’t taken anything from him. It wasn’t like she had tried to get him to knock her up and then vanish.

Even with the blood rushing in her ears and the black rims growing at the edges of her vision she couldn’t get his hands off her. But maybe getting his hands off her neck wasn’t what she should focus on. With what quickly draining strength she had still left in her, she started squirming under him.

She couldn’t die right now. Not like this. There was no way in hell she would leave her daughter to Lloyd’s mercy.

“You are a twisted, backstabbing–” Mustering enough strength she managed to kick him in the balls, hard enough to sway him for a moment. It was only a short moment but it was enough to kick him off her and send him to the side.

She coughed and wheezed, greedily sucking in as much air as she could. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him sit up, brushing a hand over his mouth. It came away with a streak of blood.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” She wheezed, turning to her side, all the while her eyes roamed through the room, looking for her gun.

“You were the reason the CIA kicked me out! Not that I would have enjoyed being in that constringent shithole with their stupid rules. I’m much freer where I am now but that doesn’t change the fact you betrayed me!”

What?

“I didn’t!” She watched him try to stand up and so she swiped her leg out, ripping his feet out from underneath him. He smacked against the floor as she continued, “I didn’t even know you were kicked out! No one would tell me anything about what happened. You were simply gone!”

“Liar,” he roared, looking at her with rage. Seeing his rage was nothing new, but this was the first time it was focused on her.

“I thought you were dead!”, she roared back, “It took me weeks with no success until I found out– … until I found out I was pregnant. Only when I went to Fitzroy did he tell me you got kicked out.”

“Bullshit! Someone ratted me out! Who was it then?”

“Who? I'll tell you who! Your buddy, fucking, Carmichael!”

There was a fire burning in Lloyds eyes and with newfound vigor, he pushed to his feet. Scrambling, she looked around the room, frantically trying to find her gun. She needed to reach her gun before Lloyd could reach his.

“He never liked me, Lloyd. He always hated that I was by your side. That ass was always jealous of what we – you – had since college! He couldn’t stand that I was taking you away from him, don’t you understand?!”

Lloyd had never seen the clear disdain with which Carmichael had regarded her. The poorly hidden hatred and animosity.

She’d stalled him long enough to locate her gun in the room, just as Lloyd had risen to his feet and centered his attention on his gun – much closer than hers. Their eyes crossed as a mutual realization set in. They had the same plan and they both needed to stop the other. There was a second in which neither one of them moved. Then, jumping around she scrambled for her gun. Nearly there, only millimeters from grasping it in her hand, her fingers brushing the cool plastic, a hand wrapped around her ankle. With a violent jerk, she was yanked back. Not without a fight. Her kicking was fruitless, Lloyd’s hand stayed around her foot like a vice. It was to no avail.

He was pulling her back until she lay under him and Lloyd pinned her to the ground with his knees and hands. His gun was pointed at her. The click of the bullet slipping into the barrel had her deflate.

All the fight rapidly left as she realized: she’d lost.

“Don’t kill her,” she whispered, eyes dimmed in grief. She pleaded with him, “Don’t punish her for what you believe me to have done.” In a violent lurch her face whipped to the side, the sound of his backhanded slap echoing in her ears. The metallic taste of blood spread in her mouth.

It didn’t stop her from continuing, “Look after her.

At least find her a safe place with a new family if you don’t want her.”

This raging fire kept burning in his eyes as Lloyd centered the barrel of his gun to her forehead. Cold metal touched her skin, creating a burning halo. She wouldn’t close her eyes. No, she chose to keep looking into his, waiting for her inevitable end.

When the trigger got pulled, the shot rang out loudly above her but the bullet never hit.

No longer was the gun pointed at her but at the door, she’d burst through not long ago. Ripping her eyes away from the gun, she focused back on Lloyd. He was already looking down at her, his jaw clenched and lips pursed.

Behind them – in the cradle – their baby started to wail.

In his hands, Carmichael held a couple of pictures. A drone shot from a burned-down house. Multiple from the burned-down interior of said house. And one of a corpse burned so badly she was unrecognizable.

The door to his office opened up without premonition.

“Well done.” Putting the pictures down the man with the glasses looked up.

“How did it feel?” “Satisfying,” Lloyd mused, hands loosely clasped behind his back as he whipped on his feet.

“So the bitch got what she deserved.” Carmichael looked pleased, a sly grin formed on his usually composed and unhappy-looking face. “You know I never trusted her. Always knew there was something off with her.”

“She was a rotten apple from the beginning.” “Was she?” Lloyd asked with ease. “Why’d you never say something then?”

“I wanted you to have your fun with her. I thought that’s all she was to you anyway.”

Nodding Lloyd hummed, “She was a pretty good fuck.”

In the end, Carmichael stood up, walking towards a sideboard with glasses and a bottle of expensive alcohol. “Let’s drink to that.” He poured some into the two glasses, the trickle of the liquid sloshing the only sound.

“A toast,” he said, turning around with the two glasses in his hand. One held out towards Lloyd, the other comfortably nestled in his own. “To the two of us. That no woman will ever be worthy to come between us.”

Lloyd was now directly in front of him. Before he could register the thing shoved against his chest, the muffled sound of a shot rang out. The glasses toppled from his hands, their golden liquid soaked the carpet beneath his feet. He could only glance at the gun between them in shock. The gun Lloyd had aimed and fired at his chest.

“The bitch is indeed getting what he deserves.”

Lloyd’s mustache quirked up, revealing the grin on his lips as Carmichael stumbled and slid down the sideboard. Sitting before him, the man's blood mixed with the carpet.

“You should have never come between me and her.” It was the last thing Lloyd whispered, watching as the light left the man's eyes.

Picking up one of the two glasses, Lloyd eyed the remains of the liquid in the crystal clear cup. He downed it in one swift gulp.

“Happy Father’s Day to me.”

Outside the office, Carmichael’s men lay slumped over. Dead too. Lloyd stepped over them, wasting no glance back as he walked on.

Behind the corner at the end of the hallway, a figure awaited. Fitzroy. The older man had his hands shoved into his pockets as he watched him approach. Both men looked at one another, unable to stand their opposite but still working together. An Exception.

“You better treat her right,” Fitzroy was serious, looking down on him with disdain. “Or I’ll come to get her and my granddaughter and you’ll be dead.”

The words didn’t impress Lloyd. It was a real threat. Fitzroy still had his trumps and his ways to win over Lloyd.

Yet he calmly and dryly answered, “She isn’t your granddaughter.”

“No, but she is as good as.

I was the only one there for them, during the pregnancy and when she gave birth to that sweet little angel.”

It was a carefully calculated attack, the words meant to cut deep. Lloyd didn’t say anything to that. He walked past the man without another word. Outside a car waited for him already, driving away the moment he sat inside.

High-pitched coos and unintelligible babbling littered the air as she held her daughter in her arms softly swaying her from side to side. Her heart fluttered as she took in the chubby cheeks and long lashes.

“We still have to get used to our new home, don’t we?” She mumbled against the soft tuft of hair dusted along her daughter’s head. Her little head couldn’t stop turning around, not nearly fast enough to follow her curious eyes.

“It’s so big.” Her little one cooed in agreement, even though she likely couldn’t understand her yet. Taking in the huge room they were in, big still felt like an understatement. The improvised baby room looked anything but suited for a baby. The luxurious theme felt overpowering, just like the rest of the castle did. Adjusting from a comfortable little two-story house to a castle with rooms in the hundreds would take time.

“Who would have thought your dad would show up to join your life.”

There was still a part of her that didn’t want to believe it and a part of her that mistrusted Lloyd. Her lip and back still ached from the fight, the memories of him pointing his gun not only at her but at the baby and threatening to shoot fresh in her mind. Too fresh perhaps.

Lloyd had changed from wanting to kill her to wanting to protect her and their daughter in less than a minute. A split-second decision that otherwise would have found her with a bullet in the head and her daughter orphaned.

A noise from the outside alerted her. It drew her to the big window so they could watch what was happening outside. Together they eyed the black SUV drive over the gravel of the huge driveway, fast approaching the house. When the car stopped just before the entrance and Lloyd stepped out of the car, she sighed.

“Speaking of the devil,” muttering to her daughter, she pressed a kiss against her head. The baby coed once more and babbled happily in her arms. Clumsy little fingers gripped her sleeve.

“Sunshine! I’m back!”

Not a moment later Lloyd’s loud voice boomed through the house. One might think that with its size his voice would get drowned out. It didn’t take him long to reach the room and push the door open. Once his eyes settled on the two of them, still close to the window a grin appeared on his face.

“There they are!” Striding over he stopped shortly in front of them as his eyes settled on the toddler.

“Bug.” She rolled her eyes at his newly proclaimed nickname for his daughter. Her eyes followed his hands, reaching out and demanding to hold the baby. For a moment she hesitated to pass her over. Lloyd’s eyes jumped to her, narrowing slightly but ultimately he dropped his hands to his side.

Not for long. Just as quickly as he had folded his hands found her waist. Rather forcefully she was turned around, gazing back out of the window.

“You’ll start to trust me again.” His voice murmured into her ear as Lloyd settled behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist. Her back was pressed against his front. Resting his chin against her shoulder, he nosed along her neck, whispering more words into her ear.

“And maybe by the next Father’s Day, I’ve fucked another one into you already.”

She scoffed, lips twitching upward in a smile as she glanced back at him, “In your dreams. How about you learn to handle your existing daughter first. She’s already got your temper when she is tired and cranky, by that time next year she’ll likely have reached the terrible twos.”

BONUS:

“If I find out you lied to me,” Lloyd threatened as he stood up, still looking down at her. He nodded towards his gun.

“Why would I?” Scoffing, she too slowly sat up and wiped away the blood from her mouth. “I would have never betrayed you, I loved you.”

Something in the way he laughed so dryly deeply hurt her. Her eyes were turned downwards as she got up. When she stood in front of him, face to face, her expression remained unchanged and just as solemn.

“You are serious?”

“Is it so hard to believe? My future was yours.”

She was about to breeze past him and towards the cradle, towards her crying daughter when he stopped her. His hand wrapped around her biceps.

“Looks like you are getting what you wanted in the end,” he rumbled into her ear. Then he dropped his hand. “Calm her down, take whatever you need for her, and be done with it in five minutes.”

He didn’t leave the room while she did so, hovering beside the door with his arms crossed, holding onto the gun as he watched.

#lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x female reader #lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen x fic #lloyd hansen imagine #lloyd hansen fanfiction #sly writes

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straykids-97 · 1 year

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Ego

Part one of the Who Are You saga, inspired by Mingi’s infamous ‘Who are you?’ From Halazia 🫶🏻

‘Ego is nothing other than the focus of conscious attention.’

Synopsis: Wooyoung and San finally convinces you to try something new… and you quickly discover that it’s very taboo…

Warnings: hard Dom! Wooyoung, pleasure switch! San, sub!reader, Dom/sub dynamics, bxfxb, implied bxb, voyerism/ exhibitionism, unprotected sex, use of bondage equipment, impact play(Wooyoung smacks)

Word Count: 3.4k

You had met Jung Wooyoung first; his boisterous voice and golden retriever behavior are what drew you to him in the first place. You were quiet, shy; and he was equally drawn to you for that very reason.

Wooyoung liked the quiet ones.

It didn’t take long before you met his best friend; Choi San. He was like Wooyoung in the manner that he too was loud. But, he like you, was shy as well. It took a while to get him to open up to you, and vice versa. Now, you three were inseparable.

Well, virtually, in thought.

The only thing that could split you up would be their impending tour; one that they would be away for, at least, four months. But, none of you wanted to think about that. You had a few weeks before that even happened, and all you wanted to think about was the sun shining on your face and San curled up into your side as you lay with Wooyoung on the grass.

You were idly playing with the ends of San’s hair, and he was peacefully dozing in the crook of your arm. Face planted on your breast as he snoozed away. Your head was resting on Wooyoung’s thigh as he read a book, I’ll Be Right There, a book recommended to him by Hongjoong. You peeked up at Wooyoung, looking at his usually smooth features. Currently, his eyebrows were knitted together in concentration, hidden partially by his glasses that were sliding down the bridge of his nose. You reach up with the hand you were using to run through San’s hair to push them up and he blinks a few times, startled at the movement. A cheeky grin spreads across his face, “y/n-ah, what are you doing?” He teases, nudging you playfully. You smile back at him, stopping when San pulls you tighter into his chest, grumbling in his sleep. “Oh, whoops. Sorry, Sannie.” You return to the motions of running your fingers through his short hair and he settles back into your arm, resting once again. “Poor baby, can’t be disturbed.” Wooyoung snorts, making you giggle.

You decide that you could live the rest of your life just like this.

You giggle at Wooyoung as he drunkenly tries to rid himself of his jeans. He stumbles, holding onto your table for balance. San stands, half undressed, one leg out of his pants and the other bare, looking rather proud.

A night of drinking led to the boys staying the night, something that you were used to.

San heaved a hefty sigh before leaning against the wall again, kicking his leg free vigorously, “San-hyung,” Wooyoung began to chastise as San leaned onto one of your side tables for stability, “Be careful!” You hold San’s elbow just as he manages to kick his foot free. He gives you a sweet drunken smile, “Thank you-u-u!” He draws out the ‘U’, singing it slightly as he begins to remove his white shirt. You start to laugh but stop when you hear a chair clatter to the floor. You and San turn to see Wooyoung on the floor, looking startled. There was silence for a few moments until Wooyoung burst into laughter, you and San following right behind.

“Hey!” San announces, raising his hands above his head in triumph for his friend, “You got your pants off!” You join in with San as Wooyoung manages to get to his feet, bowing and nearly toppling over yet again. “Thank you! Thank you, no need to con-congratulate me!” He slurs, yanking his black shirt off with ease, “I did it myself.” You laugh at them as they wander into your apartment, gathering their shed clothes as they flop onto your couch. They begin to bicker about the TV remote as you toss their clothes into the washer and start it; not before pulling their wallets and phones out.

You enter the kitchen to gather up water bottles and saunter back into the living area to find them both staring at the screen, engrossed in whatever it was that they put on. You smile, handing them their drinks and flopping between them. “Drink this,” you tell them, “you’ll feel better in the morning.” San immediately opens the water and begins to drink the water, “Wooyoung-ie,” San demands, “listen to y/n! She’s looking after your health.” Wooyoung grumbles as he looks over at you, frowning and narrowing his eyes. “Why are you dressed still? San and I are basically naked.” He waved his hand over your body.

You feel your cheeks heat up, “Wooyoung!” You slap his arm, making him whine, “Ow.”

“Don’t pressure her into down dressing, Wooyoung.” San frowns at his friend, “Well, she’s more dressed.” Wooyoung pouted. You look down at yourself, and without thinking, stand up and pull your shirt off, flop down, and kick your pants off. San cheers, “Yeah! Join the party!”

Wooyoung didn’t say anything; he gripped his water so hard that he spilled it.

The next morning Wooyoung woke up before San and entered your room as you brushed your teeth. You nearly jump out of your skin when you see him lean against your bathroom doorframe. “Woo,” you hold your chest and turn to look at him, spitting your toothpaste out. “I didn’t know you were awake.” He blinks at you, he doesn’t respond. “Woo?” You frown, leaning over and rinsing your mouth out. You lean back and see that he’s standing right behind you, making you whirl around in shock.

“Woo-” You start to say, but stop when he takes a step toward you. Normal joking, playful Wooyoung was gone. You had never seen this side of him before and you didn’t know if it scared you or-

You couldn’t think straight as his face neared yours, his breath fanning across your cheeks as he eyed you. “Why’d you go to your bed last night, y/n?” His voice was low. It almost sounded rhetorical. “Uh- because there wasn’t room-” You stop talking when he cocks his head to the side, “because-” He blinks lazily at you, his eyes darkening with an emotion you hadn’t ever seen before.

Lust.

“Don’t lie, baby.” He murmurs, tucking a stray hair behind your ear, continuing on, “I can tell when you lie.” Wooyoung’s eyes bounce over your face, watching for the minute emotions on your face to detect the truth. “Now tell me again,” he tilted his chin up, looking down his nose at you, “I-” you stutter before clearing your throat. “I didn’t want to make it awkward so I went to bed.”

“Alone?” You feebly nod at his question. He frowns at you, tutting his tongue, “you should have asked us to come with you. San would have loved to cuddle you, you know.” With that, he takes a step back and you feel like you can breathe again. “Tonight, when we get done with practice. Meet us for dinner.” He says, eyeing you once more before leaving you alone in your bathroom. You stand there, utterly baffled at his actions, but something makes your skin flush hot.

And you weren’t sure what it was that made you listen to him.

Just as their practice ended for the day, you messaged them and asked where to meet for dinner. San told you the usual spot; a BBQ place that wasn’t far from their company that they enjoyed.

You felt anxious as you slipped your shoes on and began the trek over to the usual spot. You could have driven and it would have taken less time, but you wanted to walk to calm down.

You enter the establishment, greeting the older man who owned the place and requesting your usual spot in the corner by the window. The man immediately obliged and guided you to the back, “Are your friends joining?” You quickly nod your head, “Yes. I should probably ask when they’ll be here.” You admit sheepishly. The older man smiled down at you, “Ah, no rush! They’ll arrive when they feel like it.” He waves you off and you giggle as he walks away.

However, his words don’t stop you from still messaging the group chat to find where they were. Just as you finished typing out the message you heard San yell your name from across the mostly empty restaurant, “y/n-ah!” He sounded chipper than normal.

Your head snaps up to him, and see him frantically waving you down, a bright smile splattered over his face. You can’t help but mirror him, your anxiety instantly melting away as you stand and he wraps his arms around you, “Sannie!” You beam as he picks you up, “How was practice?” You ask as Wooyoung joins you, also hugging you. “Hard.” San sighs, sliding into the booth, “We’re blocking a new choreo,” he waves his hand as he drags the water cup toward him. You slid into the booth, Wooyoung waiting until you were settled before also joining you both in the booth.

You all chat as dinner commences, every little worry you had disappearing as the meal continues.

As usual, you all stayed so long that you were the only group left and the owner eventually had to tell you guys to leave, like usual. You all sheepishly leave, but San pouts, “We’re off tomorrow, can’t we come over for a little bit?” You can’t tell him no- you’ve never been able to when he juts out that bottom lip.

You sigh, “Yes. But don’t mind the mess. I haven’t properly cleaned since last week.” You waggle your finger and he links his arm with yours, resting his head on yours, “I don’t mind. Do you, Woo?”

“Not at all.” Wooyoung links his arm through your other arm and you all walk arm and arm down the street. The 15-minute walk feels like nothing now that you have company, and you almost forget what happened this morning. But as soon as you enter the safety of your apartment, and San closes the door, the mood changes.

You feel suffocated again, but you try to ignore it as you kick your shoes off, “I found a new movie we could watch.” You being, trying to diffuse the feeling that currently surrounded you all. “What’s it called?” San asked, his voice sounding deeper than normal. You turn to look at him to find him a few feet away, his warm eyes regarding you carefully. As if he was watching you, preying on you as if you were a small rabbit and he a fox. Your eyes bounce to Wooyoung, who was pulling his jacket off, and hanging it up by the door.

You clear your throat and look away, “Um. I forgot it’s on my list to watch though.” You say, shuffling to your living room, desperately trying to get some space to think clearly. You click on the TV and scroll through the various different streaming services until you find the one you are talking about. “I was wanting to watch it last night, but you guys were too drunk.” You giggle nervously.

That seemed to break the damn that was holding Wooyoung back.

“I wasn’t too drunk. I still remember a lot,” he counters, coming to sit on your couch. “Like you going to bed alone…”

“Yeah,” San adds, making you whirl to see him barely a foot away. You gulp; the look in his eyes is unmistakable. “I could have held you…” He trails off, implying that there is more on his mind. “And?” Your voice is barely audible. “And?” Wooyoung pried, making you turn to look at him. You felt like you were spinning in circles with these two.

“Is there more you wanted to happen, y/n?” San asked, making you shift and look into his eyes. He pressed his chest against your back, moving your hair behind your ear, “Having dirty dreams about me, baby?” He purred.

Your mouth falls open and you nearly drop your remote. “Wh-what? No-” You start but you freeze as Wooyoung rises to his feet and he approaches you, pinning you between his and San’s chests. “Don’t lie, y/n,” Wooyoung warns. You shudder as Wooyoung’s fingers ghost down your sides. Your mind was whirling, “I-I,” you can’t form a coherent string of thoughts as their hands paw and grope all over you.

Your skin felt hot, like you had been drinking and the liquor was starting to get to you. “Look at her,” Wooyoung leaned in, biting his lip, “she’s all flustered. It’s so sweet.” San took a deep breath as he held your hips, pulling you against him. You gasped, feeling just how much he was enjoying this. “San,” your voice is husky, and it causes him to groan into your hair. “Woo,” he moans, biting your ear. You shudder as Wooyoung steps away, “She’s just so- fuck.” He grunts as Wooyoung pulls his shirt off, wiggling his finger at you. “Strip.”

You gawk at him, “Strip?” Wooyoung doesn’t look amused that you parroted his question. “Don’t make me repeat myself.” You slowly start to take your clothes off, glancing over your shoulder to find San only in his underwear. You would have giggled at him any other time, but this wasn’t one of those times. Containing a shudder, you bite your lip turning back to Wooyoung just as you peel your pants off.

“Good girl,” He gestures to the couch, “Sit.” You do as you’re told, sitting on the edge of your couch, watching Wooyoung and San like a hawk. They share a look and Wooyoung nods to you, “You go first.”

First?

Your eyes nearly fall out of their sockets as San kneels before you, basically drooling as he places his hands on your knees. “God-” he groans, spreading your legs slightly, “I’ve been dreaming of this day.” You nearly choke on air as he places a wet, sloppy kiss on your inner thigh.

Your head was spinning again, drunk on the feeling of San between your thighs. And just when you thought it couldn’t get worse, Wooyoung sits beside you, wrapping his arm over your shoulders. “He’s good at foreplay…” He chuckles, biting his lip as he looks at you. “And I like to watch… If you don’t mind.” His cool fingertips cause you to jolt as his fingers dance along the skin of your exposed chest and stomach.

He was distracting you from San as his mouth inched closer and closer to your drenched panties. Your eyes snap to him as San’s thumb runs up your slit, causing you to arch your back. “San!” You cry out, tears of pleasure prickling your eyes. You were overstimulated but in the best way.

You hated to admit that, even when all they did was work you up at this point. What would it feel like when they finally did do something-

You gasp as San moves your panties to the side, groaning as he taps your wet core. “She’s so wet, Woo.” Wooyoung grunts, his eyes meeting yours as his cold fingers dance down your stomach again, pausing their circuit long enough to join San’s fingers as they played with your cunt. Your legs quiver slightly as San fingers you softly and Wooyoung rubs your clit. Both men are groaning, one in your ear and the other as he watches your wet pussy with a hungry gaze.

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any better, San bats Wooyoungs hand away from your clit and latches his mouth to it instead. You gasp, going to reach for his hair.

But Wooyoung is faster, lifting your leg up and holding it in place as he simultaneously grabs your wrists. The crook of his elbow held the back of your knee prisoner, not only keeping you from moving, but giving San better access to your weeping cunt.

“Fuck!” You cry out, writhing as much as you can in your limited movement. Wooyoung let go of your hands long enough to slap your tit, “Enough!” He hissed, “Stop moving or San will stop.” San pulled away, “I’d hate to do that, I’m enjoying it so-” He stopped as he relatched to your swollen clit.

You groan, biting your lip to contain the wail of pleasure that threatened to rip through you as San inserted another finger, curling upward to hit that gooey spot. Your eyes roll and your mouth falls open, Wooyoung takes the opportunity to latch his mouth to yours, muttering a quick, “Cum for us.”

You oblige.

You tense, your complete body washing with the most fierce orgasm you have ever experienced in your entire life. The only thing keeping you from screaming was Wooyoung’s mouth.

You shudder as San pulls away, holding his fingers out for Wooyoung as he rises to his feet. “My turn,” Wooyoung slides off the couch, and San swaps places, grabbing your jaw and wrapping his lips around yours. You were too distracted by San’s plump lips to notice that Wooyoung wasn’t going to use his mouth to pleasure you as San had.

You feel the tip of Wooyoung’s cock rub you, causing you to gasp and look at him. San chuckles huskily, “This is my favorite part,” San groans, lapping your ear as Wooyoung pushes into you. You gasped, holding onto Wooyoung’s wrists as he pushed your knees up to your chest. San held one of your legs, and one of your hands as he used the other to rub quick fast circles on your clit. You gasped, not realizing that San had manhandled you into his lap until he spoke into your ear, “You’re not gonna walk for a few days after we’re done with you.”

You whimper as Wooyoung pounds into you, fast, oh so fast. You squeal as an orgasm stuns you, causing them both to moan as San slaps your clit, causing you to shriek in surprise. San manipulated your head back so that he placed a sloppy wet kiss on your mouth. You whimper at his tongue, which still tastes like you, danced with yours.

Your cheeks and neck were flushed; these two were so overwhelming, in every sense of the word.

Wooyoung never ceases his impossible pace, whimpering slightly, pounding harder. Your toes begin to curl as the sensation of yet another orgasm threatens to overtake you, but before it can, Wooyoung pulls out and sprays cum across your thighs and ass. You gasp, staring down at the mess. He takes a few moments to gather himself before San maneuvers you up, freeing his strained cock. You gasp as Wooyoung helps guide San’s cock into you. You throw your head back, Wooyoung was longer, but San had girth.

You gasp at the sensation of spit landing on your clit, and you look up to see Wooyoung watching your pussy with a wicked glint in his eye. He watched as his spit leaked down to where San plunged into you. Your mind goes blank; San was deep inside you, a completely different sensation from Wooyoung.

You pant as Wooyoung’s thumb draws slow, deep circles over your clit. You don’t know where to hold, San’s wrist, Wooyoung’s, or the back of your legs. “Fuck- fuck!” You cry out as San suddenly snaps his hips into yours in quick succession. An intense orgasm rips through you, and you almost jump away, but San and Wooyoung’s hands keep you firm in place. Wooyoung chuckles as San whines, “How could you last so long?” He grunts, burying his face in your neck. “I barely did. Seems like we need to get used to her tight, little-” He stops talking when another orgasm barrels through you. “God!” you scream, San’s hand slapping over your mouth before your neighbors called the cops over a noise complaint. “She’s gonna get us into trouble, Sannie.” Wooyoung sighs, and San takes that as to hurry it along cuz his hips pick up pace. And after finding a rhythm, he caused you to cum twice more before doing the same.

The three of you pant, lying on the couch. You were lying on Wooyoung, and San was lying on you. San made invisible patterns along your hip and thigh as Wooyoung played with your hair. “As much as I would love to lay here all night,” Wooyoung sighs, “But the stench of sex is starting to get pungent. We should shower.”

San looks up at Wooyoung, “Round two?”

©️straykids-97

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