#manager told me to return the sweater

[ktownshizzle]

Terms & Conditions | Chapter 1

Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader

Summary: Managing Min Yoongi as one of your encoders during his alternative military service should’ve been simple. He is quiet, punctual—and can apparently type as fast as he can rap! Not to mention the fact that he is easy on the eyes and keeps wanting to help you. You’ve signed an iron-clad NDA, detailing the full terms and conditions of his temporary employment, so you’re supposed to keep things professional, but what happens if neither of you wants to?

Genre: Fluff, eventual smut, co-workers to lovers, office romance, idol!au

Warnings: Purely speculative regarding Yoongi’s alternative military service and how this is really done in SK, I might include scootergate in a future chapter but please know it will be written sensibly imo and with so much love for our Yoongi (I just wanna protecc him at all costs even thru this silly story!), some cursing, boss/employee relationship sorta but there's no power play involved, reader and Yoongi are within the same age range, tbh nothing too bad in this chapter

Word count: 6.3k hehe (approx. 25 mins to read)

Posting date: October 9, 2024

Notes: So it’s my birthday, y'all. 🎂 Hope you enjoy this little treat! 🎈And let me know if anyone wants to be tagged for future chapters. Just leave a comment. Formatting this better soon, really just wanted to get this out!

Your first meeting with Min Yoongi goes exactly as you expected: awkward as hell.

The day kicked off with some solid foreshadowing. 

On the subway, you somehow managed to sit directly on someone’s hand, giving yourself a completely unsolicited grope for breakfast. Awkward. 

Then you hit your usual café, chatting with your mom on the phone while waiting for your drink. Just as the barista handed over your order, you wrapped up the call with a bright and cheery “love you!”—only to realize too late that the barista thought it was meant for him. Awkward.

Things only got weirder from there. As you checked your emails on your phone, you walked straight into a pole, and you made eye contact with a cat who just looked at you, tail swaying, like it was somehow pleased with your suffering.

So naturally, you hoped that your first day with Min Yoongi wouldn’t follow the same cursed trend. But, of course, you weren’t that lucky.

You can feel the office buzzing with excitement as you step in, but you’ve all been told to keep it low-key. Nobody is allowed to make a big deal about him, but in some ways, that just makes it an even bigger deal. You’ve refrained from searching his name on Naver. It’s enough that you know him as 1/7 of South Korea’s biggest boyband. You don’t need to stalk him because that’s just gonna make this weird.

Speaking of weird, the female security guard gives you a wink as you clock in, and you return with a simple nod back, because honestly you’re tired of being treated like you wanted this. Like you asked for this “opportunity”. Some of the girls have called you the "blessed one" to have been chosen to work alongside him in your small, shoebox office. Truthfully, you don’t really care as long as he gets the job done.

But you're feeling scared for many reasons you can’t quite express, the pressure mostly coming from the fact that every fucking person in this office is so motherfuckin’ wet for this dude. Is he even that hot? Nobody is that hot for real. Unless it’s Cha Eun Woo (you just picked up the new Vogue issue and ooof)–now that is a different story.

Your throat is dry as hell, and your stomach is in knots. There’s no time to freak out though as you just received a ping that he’s on his way. 

You clear your throat, adjust your stance, and try to appear composed and professional, despite the fact that your insides are churning. You spot your tiny plastic garbage can on the corner of the room, in case you need to hurl, but the garbage lady forgot to line it again for fuck’s sake.

You pull your knit sweater down to cover the tiny belt that holds your linen pants, the only thing holding something together in this room, ‘cos you are actually spiraling–kind of?

Fuck he’s here.

The doors to your office open, making the little wind chime you hung there tinkle, and you spot the top of his head from behind the pudgy middle-aged guy that walks in front of him—your boss. Two men flank him, one of them you know as someone from his company, because he was the one doling out NDAs the other day like how they do beef jerky samples in the supermarket. The other, more buff guy, his bodyguard, most likely. Until you know their real names, you’ll call them Beef Jerky and Beefy.

Okay, focus.

Min Yoongi finally steps into your line of vision. 

Dressed in his military uniform, he was quiet, unassuming, expression unreadable. His eyes were pretty sharp, a bit intimidating, like he was thinking about something more important than whatever this is. His hair was a bit messy in the front, but somehow it worked for him. He wasn’t huge or anything, just lean and kinda laid-back, with this easy posture that made it seem like he didn’t really care who was looking. Honestly, nothing too special. 

But then, there was his aura, something you couldn’t quite ignore. It wasn’t flashy or loud, but there was this energy about him, like the room shifted just a little when he walked in. He didn’t have to say a damn thing, yet somehow, you found yourself aware of him. It wasn’t just his looks. It was the way he carried himself, calm and confident, like he didn’t need to prove anything. Must be nice to be rich and powerful…

“Miss?” Beef Jerky leans to his side to get into your sightline.

Shit, what did he say? Anyway, you shake your head, and proceed to just introduce yourself.

“Hello, I’m the manager,” you bow, perhaps too stiffly. “I’ll be overseeing your work during your service here.”

He bows politely, too, eyes briefly meeting yours before looking away. “I’m Min Yoongi, pleasure to meet you,” he says in a tone that feels blunt, almost rehearsed.

Your boss Hyun-woo, who you recently found out is his distant uncle, stands beside him, clapping his shoulder. “You are in good hands here, Yoongi. She’s my best, most trusted employee in this entire office.”

You blush at the compliment, feeling a wave of self-consciousness as you struggle to make the interaction less awkward. You close your fists willing yourself to get a fuckin’ grip.

“I will leave you both to get acquainted.”

Your boss along with the two individuals leave the room. The door closes with a soft click.

Annoyingly, something is stuck in your throat and you clear it with a quick sip from this comically huge-sized tumbler your roommate got for you when you had a pesky bout of UTI last year.

“I’ve, uh, prepared your tasks for today.” You gesture to his desk, quickly pulling up the list of assignments on your tablet. You show him his username and password scribbled on a post-it by the monitor. He picks it up and inspects it. You spend time explaining the basics of the work here. Word processing. Nothing to it really. It’s about efficiency, accuracy, and confidentiality, because of the many private government records that you handle day to day.

“Do you have any questions?”

Crickets.

The office feels larger now, the silence between you echoing awkwardly. “Ooo-kay. If you don’t have any questions, that’s fine. But don’t hesitate to ask if there’s anything I can help you with,” you add, hoping to sound approachable but instead sounding robotic, like an email sign off. You wince inwardly.

He just nods again, offering nothing more. He sits and picks up the paper on the top of the file. You guess that’s your cue to leave. And by leave, you mean round his table so you can sit on yours, the one across from him.

You walk back with this weird stutter in your chest. For a moment, you wonder if he finds you too formal. It’s not like you’re trying to be intimidating, but professionalism has been your go-to ever since the promotion. And it’s not like you need to wow him with your personality, so you can become fast friends. If the NDA you signed was to be taken to heart, it would be better to not establish any form of relationship with him outside of team lead and team member, what with the exorbitant number of potential violations and potential fines for breaking it.

When his keyboard starts clickety-clacking, dread sinks in your stomach that it’s going to be like this every day—strictly business, no small talk, no casual exchanges. You’re not the most sociable person, but once in a while, you do appreciate a bit of interaction. You sigh internally, returning to your own tasks, trying not to overthink the situation anymore. For now, at least.

Throughout the morning, you cannot help but steal glances at him. Damn, what skin care does he use? He literally looks radiant, like he’s glowing from within. Fuck, you have to look away because this is precisely why they trusted you to take him under your wing. You are a consummate professional, not a creep like the girls from accounting, especially trampy Danbi. You chalk it to unfamiliarity and curiosity, which you know you will quickly overcome. But for now you cut yourself some slack. Obviously, there was a legit celebrity in the room, and he seems to radiate some undeniable aura. It also feels strange to have someone else in this tiny office that you’ve occupied alone for so long.

Honestly, you’re still baffled as to why he was assigned to you, specifically. Well, that’s not entirely true. You know it’s because Hyun-woo has blind trust in you, having seen you as one of his go-to employees. Truth be told, you think he treats you like a niece. Is that weird? Maybe. He lets you assist some of the other artists who’ve come through for personal or one-time projects and you have always delivered for him, never engaging in any office gossip.

But still, you can’t shake the feeling of frustration. Why did this have to happen to you? You just got your promotion and were so excited to mentor someone, to be that “cool boss” you always envisioned. But now you’re stuck with this temp—who’s really not a temp but a world-renowned idol. It’s all so awkward.

Once in a while you catch him yawning, so in a desperate bid to cut through the tension, you ask, “Um, do you like coffee?”

He shifts to sit straighter. “Nah, I’m good. Thank you.” he responds, quickly looking your way and training his eyes back to the screen, hands typing away.

You nod, feeling slightly deflated. “Right. Got it.” 

The day drags on, and you can’t shake off the feeling of being an over-eager manager trying too hard. 

Within the first week, you discover very quickly that Yoongi is all about business. He is just here to finish his service as discreetly as possible. He clocks in on time, disappears for an hour for breaks, and clocks out on time as well. You don’t know where he disappears during those breaks, but you suspect in Hyun-woo’s office to get more privacy. He barely speaks to you. He greets you with a small bow in the morning and responds with a grunt or a hum. It’s all very… whatever. It is what it is, so you stop trying to be anything but his boring manager. You hand him his tasks every morning, check his output by EOD, like clockwork.

Unfortunately, it was one of those manic Mondays. The pile of documents grows faster than you can manage. Calls keep coming in, requests needing immediate attention, and your desk looks like the utter chaos that is the inside of your brain. You glance at Yoongi across from you—he’s focused, calm, completely unfazed by the sudden rush.

“Do you need help with that?” His voice startles you, low and soft. You honestly even forgot how it sounded, having little to no interaction everyday.

Before you can respond, he’s already pulling the spare chair from the corner and is at your side, sorting through the forms. His hands move with unexpected speed, and soon, the paperwork starts shrinking. You offer a weak smile, trying to appear professional. “Thanks. I wasn’t expecting today to be so hectic.”

He only nods in response, his focus entirely on the task at hand. You glance at him, noticing for the first time how sharp his features are up close—dark eyes, cute pointy nose, and freckles dusting some parts of his cheeks. His tongue, pink and moist, peeks out from the side of his lips as he concentrates. Ok, you need to look away RIGHT NOW.

You’re aware of the attraction most women probably feel for someone like him. Exhibit A—Danbi, who cornered you that morning in the toilet “for the scoop” and you’re sick of her. But if you’ll be honest, it’s hard not to notice that Yoongi indeed has a… pleasant face. But you are a professional. Yes, you are. This whole mysterious, brooding vibe is not going to get to you attracted to him in any way, shape, or form. You’re his manager. You signed those NDAs. Never mind that his lips are just the perfect shape, pouty, plush… and smirking.

Shit. He’s smirking because you’re caught.

You look away hastily and start opening some random file in your computer and pretend to be immersed reading it. In truth, you need some air, but it would be too damn obvious if you stepped away.

A few minutes pass in silence. You’ve quelled the initial onslaught of hormones and are back to work mode. You’re happy that he is so efficient and you smile as you get through the initial bulk of paperwork. You’re starting to relax, getting into the familiar groove of getting a file and processing it, until your fingers accidentally brush against his while reaching for the same folder. The touch is brief, but it sends a jolt through you, your heart stuttering in response. You glance up, half-expecting another awkward moment (because you can’t stop feeling like such a fool in front of him), but Yoongi remains composed, as he pulls his hand away and waits for you to take the document.

You do, but your pulse quickens. Just an accident, you tell yourself. He probably didn’t even notice. And if he did, he probably doesn’t care.

But now, as you continue working side by side, there’s an unspoken understanding. You realize, despite his quiet demeanor, he’s someone you can rely on, someone who won’t leave you stranded when things get tough. And that’s actually really nice. It’s what you wanted when Hyun-woo said you were going to have a team. Granted it’s just the two of you for now, but still, it’s nice to have a partner.

Later in the week, you find yourself in the break room, needing a coffee fix. There was a place down the street with cheap and good coffee, but unfortunately you didn’t have the time to pop in with so much work on your desk. So free and awful coffee it is today. 

You enter just in time to see Yoongi struggling with the coffee machine. You have never seen him anywhere else in the building apart from your office, so this was quite a surprise. 

“Need a hand?” you ask tentatively, stepping closer.

“I think I broke it,” he replies, hearing exasperation in his voice for the very first time. 

“Hang on, let me,” you unplug and plug the machine, fiddle with some of the buttons, waiting for it to sputter to life. 

You’re leaning against the counter, waiting for the coffee machine to wake up. You know it takes forever, but it’s too familiar at this point. Yoongi stands next to you, his usual quiet self, hands in his pockets. 

“I’ve timed it,” you say dryly, glancing at him. “Two minutes and forty seconds.”

He watches the machine as if expecting it to hurry up. “Been here for more than that.”

You smirk. “Maybe it’s on a break.”

He quirks an eyebrow, barely suppressing a smile. “I’ll try that excuse next time.”

You hand Yoongi his coffee, mumbles a thanks, and waits for you to finish yours before both of you settle into the break room’s small table. It’s past lunch, and you know neither of you have eaten, so you reach for the cold ham and cheese sandwiches stashed in the fridge. “Hope you don’t mind,” you say, sliding one across to him.

He looks at it for a moment before picking it up. “I’ve had worse.”

“High praise.”

He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Could be worse. Could be that coffee.”

You raise your cup in mock agreement. “Fair point. Don’t even know why I drink this shit. I mean this thing.” You slap a hand over your mouth. Did you just curse in front of your subordinate? Government offices are a stickler for these things, being on the traditional side.

He chuckles at your shocked expression, and teases, “Isn’t that a code of conduct violation?”

You gnaw at your lip, suppressing the smile that wants to stretch out, but you fail. “It is. But you’re no snitch.”

He motions to zip his lips and throws an imaginary key over his shoulder. Dork.

The conversation lingers in that easy rhythm. You talk about the workload, the other departments, nothing too personal. You glance over at him, noticing how more at ease he seems, as if he’s getting used to being here—around you.

“How long have you worked here?” he leans back, stretching his arm out on the back of the chair beside him.

“Five years,” you respond, tapping the side of your lip with a napkin.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” he asks suddenly.

You blink, slightly taken aback by how blunt he is. You clarify, on guard, “Tired of what exactly?”

He gestures around. “The office. The routine.” He keeps his eyes trained on you, which is a rarity as he always seems to be looking at you but never directly like that. That’s when you knew his question was sincere. That he wasn’t trying to offend you, just trying to get to know you.

You shrug. “Sometimes. But it’s not that bad. Besides,” you smile wryly, “now I have someone to talk shit about this coffee and sandwich with.”

He chuckles, light and throaty, a sound that you realize is tickling something in your brain. “Guess we’re in this shit together now.”

You nod, feeling something warm settle in your chest. The wall between you is thinner now, not entirely gone but close enough to see past.

“Same time tomorrow?” you ask, half-joking, half-hopeful.

He raises an eyebrow, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “I have two years here. Hope the coffee machine doesn’t beat me to my discharge date.”

Two years. The thought makes you smile. You really don't mind spending that amount of time with him. In fact, it kinda made you a little happy.

As you step into your cozy apartment, the familiar scent of home hits you. Your roommate’s been cooking again, so it also smells like galbi jjim. Yummm.

Your place isn’t much—a small two-bedroom in Yongsan you’ve shared with Chae since Uni—but it’s got character. You both moved in when it was bare and bland, but with a little effort and a lot of creativity, you’ve turned it into something that actually feels like home. The furniture is mostly Scandi-style—clean lines, muted tones, and a lot of beige—but you’ve sprinkled in your own touches everywhere.

There’s that round white table you scored second hand, now always topped with whatever flowers Chae picks up from the market, and the rattan pendant light that casts this soft, cozy glow at night. The tiny kitchen still feels big enough when it’s just the two of you, with mismatched mugs stacked up and a bright orange pan hanging on the wall for no real reason other than it looks cool.

In the living room, a hybrid shelf is stuffed with books, vinyls, and random trinkets from all the places you’ve been. A Chinese lucky cat sculpture from that street market trip. A polaroid of you two drunk at noraebang, one of many others tucked under the glass coffee table. Trendy prints hang on the walls—well, some lean against the walls, because you’ve never gotten around to actually hanging them. It’s perfectly imperfect. It’s not much, but it’s home.

You hang your bag on the rack by the door and head to the kitchen, where Chae is stirring a pot, hips swaying to the music blaring from her phone. Of course, as she holds a silver spoon, she belts out the lyrics from the BTS song with the same title. And you only know this because she has made you watch some edits to this song that left an impression on you.

The thought of revealing this thing you’ve been holding out on her has your stomach in knots. But again, there’s an NDA involved, and you don’t want to violate anything. But just the same, you’re desperate to talk to someone about this strange new development in your life. You just hope you don’t regret risking your job by telling her.

“Hey, Chae!” you call out, and she turns, beaming at you. “How was work?”

“Busy as usual,” you reply, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. “But I have something to tell you.”

Her eyes sparkle with curiosity. “Ooh, do tell!”

You hesitate, but excitement spills out. “I have a new workmate. And you know him.”

“Please don’t tell me it’s one of my exes.”

“No, no.” You take a quick swig of water and twist its cover back in place.

“From Uni?”

You shake your head, water still swirling inside your mouth.

“Is it one of my weird cousins?”

You gulp. “What? No! Also we haven’t talked about why you gave one of them my number. He’s blowing up my Kakao.”

She cackles unapologetically, “Sorry, I need to get them off my back. So, are you going to tell me who this mysterious person is?”

You breathe out a sigh. “Min Yoongi from BTS.”

It’s like a bomb explodes in your roommate’s brain. She drops the spoon, and you wince at the clatter. “What?! No!”

“Yeah…”

“Don’t you even joke right now.”

“I’m not!”

“Are you serious???”

You nod, half-amused by her reaction. “Yeah, he’s assigned to my department for his service.”

“Min Yoongi?” she repeats, eyes wide, almost breathless. “You… I… Do you know how famous he is? He’s like a fuckin’ national treasure! He has a diplomatic passport and everything, keys to the White House… ”

You chuckle at her enthusiasm, but you can’t help but feel a flutter of excitement. “I mean, I guess? But I signed an NDA. I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

She pulls you to her room, and you follow, rolling your eyes. Her space is a shrine to Bangtan, shelves lined with albums, posters, and even plushies. You’ve never given her shit for it, because you also had an EXO phase, but you got rid of most of your stuff through ebay when you needed some extra money.

“Wait, you have to understand him!” she exclaims, rifling through her collection. “You need to learn about his music, his artistry. He’s incredible!”

“Honestly, he has an above average WPM, that’s all I need to know.”

“WPM?” she asks.

“Words per minute. He’s an encoder.”

She gives you a WTF look, then shoves her photocard album in your arms. 

“Open that,” she tells you before she flops on her bed with a wistful look. “What's he like? You have to tell me. I need to live vicariously through you.”

You can’t help but laugh at her excitement, flopping down on the bed next to her. “Well, he’s a quick study, very efficient, and also very reserved.”

“…and very hot?” she asks, winking.

“Chaeee!” you groan, burying your face on one of her plushies, the brown one. “I mean, he’s not… bad-looking.”

“Not bad-looking? Girl?! He is sexy as fuck!” she grabs the plush off of your face and you try to school your face to seriousness, but fail.

“I dunno. It’s just work.”

“Just work?!” she echoes again, eyes sparkling. “You’re working with a literal genius! Do you know how many girls would kill for this opportunity?”

Don’t you know it? Danbi and her crew are still up on your face everyday trying to get any morsel of information you’d be willing to throw their way. You sigh, but smile at her enthusiasm. “Alright, I’ll tell you more. But just remember: NDA.”

When your roommate seems satiated, she leaves you a trail of crumbs that unknowingly leads you to a rabbit hole. Two words, she said mysteriously, before you disappear into your room. “Agust D.”

That night, curiosity gets the better of you. You grab your laptop and fall down said rabbit hole, watching every Agust D music video, concert clip, and interview you can find. With each passing moment, you become more entranced, not just by the music, but by the man behind it. The raw passion in his lyrics, the confidence in his delivery—it really is quite… in Chae’s words: sexy af.

As the weeks progress, you have graduated from robotic nods to actual smiles. The greetings feel more familiar now, almost like you're becoming friends. 

You walk into the office, a small smile creeping onto your face as you see Yoongi already at his desk. He looks up and meets your gaze, returning the smile with a scratchy hello. The atmosphere feels lighter today, a far cry from your first awkward encounter.

“Ready for another exciting day of paperwork?” you tease, taking your seat.

“Dope,” he replies dryly, but there’s a playful glint in his eye.

Moments later, Yoongi’s head pops from the side of his monitor so that he’s in your view. “Uh, I have a bit of a problem with this file,” he says, brows furrowed with a hint of frustration in his tone.

You immediately jump into action, eager to help. “Let me take a look.”

As you move closer to his desk, you can’t help but notice the way his fingers move over the keyboard, veiny and strong. Images of him playing “Seesaw” on the guitar flood your mind. How can you unsee that?

You shake your head, trying to refocus. “Okay, let’s see…” But your brain keeps drifting, and you find yourself more distracted than ever. His mouth, and his deep voice, as he mumbles his troubles with the document, keeps pulling your attention. You try to push the thoughts away, frustration mounting.

“Is this the line you were talking about?” you ask, forcing yourself to concentrate on the screen.

“Yeah, that’s the one. I just can’t seem to make sense of it,” he replies, glancing at you.

“Let me just…” You lean closer, your heart racing as his shoulder brushes against yours. You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks.

How can you focus on work when all you can think about is this thing he does with his tongue. It feels impossible.

Yoongi watches you, an amused smile playing on his lips. “You look like you’re trying to solve a complex equation.”

“Honestly, I’m starting to think my brain is broken.”

Yoongi glances at you with a smirk. “If your brain is broken, then mine’s completely fried. I tried to make toast this morning and almost burnt my apartment down.”

You laugh. “Maybe you should stick to Uber eats.”

“Agreed. It’s safer for everyone involved,” he quips, his eyes sparkling with amusement, before it turns into something slightly more serious. “Not that there’s anyone else, umm, involved. I, uh, live alone, so…”

His comment makes you smile, and you can’t help but feel a rush of warmth at the way he stuttered the last bit out. You don’t know what to make of it, so you just left it at that. 

About to clock out, Yoongi stands from his desk, bag over his shoulder.

“You know, despite my toast incident, I’m actually a pretty great cook. That toast was a fluke,” he declares, his tone half-serious, like it has been bothering him for quite some time.

The way he looks worried that you may think he is terrible in the kitchen, is not lost on you. You raise an eyebrow, “Is that so?”

He shifts the bag on his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at you. “You don’t believe me.”

“Give me a taste then,” you say, biting your lip. You made it sound really suggestive, but you can’t take it back now. Not when he seems to get it, and he seems kind of into it.

He leans with a playful glint in his eyes, “Alright. I’ll bring kimchi jeon, but you also have to give me a taste.” he pauses, pushing his tongue on the inside of his cheek, before continuing. “Of your…”

“Pasta.” You say, cheeks warm, but voice steady. “Friday?”

He smirks, then he’s out the door.

You bury your face on your palms, smiling like a fool as your heart beats loudly in your chest. What the actual hell is happening?

It’s Friday afternoon, and the office is quieter than usual—most of the staff are already winding down, eager for the weekend. You glance at the clock, knowing it’s almost time for the little food showdown you’ve been looking forward to all week.

You and Yoongi walk together to the break room, both armed with your dishes. His kimchi jeon and your pasta. 

You warm your containers in the microwave before you settle down on a corner spot.

“I hope you’re ready to lose,” you tease, sliding the container of Carbonara across the table. Yoongi raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair with that infuriatingly calm smirk.

“You seem confident,” he replies, popping open the lid of his dish. The scent of kimchi fills the room, and you have to admit—it smells incredible.

“Smells good,” you say, trying not to let your surprise show.

“Of course it does. I told you I could cook.” He clips a piece of the jeon with his chopsticks and holds it out to you. “Try it.”

You lean forward, the chopsticks brushing against your lips as you take a bite. The flavors hit you immediately—spicy, savory, just the way you like it. You chew slowly, pretending to think it over even though you’re already sold.

“Not bad,” you admit, leaning back with a grin. “But it’s gonna take more than that to beat my pasta.”

Yoongi scoffs, but there’s amusement in his eyes as he picks up a fork and twirls it into your pasta. He takes a bite, and you watch him carefully, waiting for his reaction.

He chews, then pauses, glancing up at you through his lashes. “Alright… I have to admit,” he says, his tone casual but the look in his eyes a little too serious, “this is really good.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “That’s it? Just ‘really good?’”

He leans forward on his elbows, his gaze steady on yours. “Fine. It’s amazing,” he says, his voice softening just a bit, though there’s a teasing smile on his lips. “But don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, it’s already there,” you quip, biting back a smile. 

Yoongi laughs, a sound that’s more relaxed than usual, and you catch the way his eyes linger on you just a little longer than necessary. “You know what? I’ll give you this one,” he concedes, sitting back with a defeated sigh, though the smile never leaves his face. “You win.”

You hoot, then immediately cover your mouth with your hands, remembering you are in your place of business.

He grins as he takes another bite of your Carbonara, forking pieces of bacon straight to his mouth. There’s something different in the way he’s looking at you now—something softer, like he’s seeing you in a way he hasn’t before. You are thrown for a loop. Maybe it’s the way he keeps sneaking glances at you between bites, or the quiet hum of satisfaction when he takes another forkful of your dish. Whatever it is, you want it and you like it.

You push your chair back, stretching your arms above your head as the day finally comes to a close. It’s been a long one, but productive—and surprisingly enjoyable. After sharing lunch with Yoongi earlier, things felt lighter, less awkward. Still, when you glance at the window, seeing the sheets of rain coming down hard, your shoulders sag slightly. It’s pouring, and you didn’t bring an umbrella.

As you slip on your parka after snapping the detachable hoodie on, Yoongi catches your eye, “You’re not planning to walk in this, are you?”

“I can take the subway,” you say quickly.

Yoongi chuckles, shaking his head as he shows you his keys. “Just let me give you a ride, it’s not a problem.”

You hesitate, but eventually, you sigh. “Okay, sure. Thanks.”

The two of you dash out into the rain, laughing softly as you both get soaked within seconds. By the time you’re in his car, your hair sticks to your forehead, and the chill of your wet clothes clings to your skin.

But you’re glad that you’re finally inside. He blasts the heater and the warmth is immediate, fogging the windows as the downpour intensifies. He fiddles with the stereo as you settle in, and Epik High’s "Born Hater" comes through his car speakers.

“Born hater!” You announce, and you catch yourself, embarrassed at the way you had to say the title of the song so emphatically.

“Cute,” Yoongi mumbles as he looks at you like he is actually endeared and you think you would catch fire despite being soaked.

“Ok hater, what’s one thing you hate?” He asks as he puts the gear on reverse.

The question is sudden, casual, and it throws you off for a moment. “What?” You laugh, furrowing your brow. “Like, what do you mean?”

He shrugs, his grip loose on the steering wheel. “Just one thing you hate. Something small. What’s something that drives you crazy?”

His arm moves behind your seat, while one hand takes the wheel and maneuvers the car seamlessly back out of the parking spot—and you don’t quite understand why you think that lone action is so sexy. It’s a miracle you’re still able to think and respond to his simple question. “Okay… I hate it when people chew with their mouth open.”

Yoongi chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Yeah, I’m guilty of that.”

“What about you?” you ask, feeling more at ease. “What’s something you hate?”

Without missing a beat, he grins. “Mushrooms. I can’t stand them.”

“Mushrooms?” You snicker. “What, like all of them?”

“All of them,” he says firmly. “They taste like dirt.”

“Wrong.” You shake your head, laughing. “They do not. You’re just picky.”

He turns to you, raising an eyebrow playfully. “Nope, I’m right. Name another thing.”

“Pickles,” you say.

“Get out of the car,” he deadpans and you both laugh.

“Not even on pizza? I actually can’t eat pizza without it.”

“Yeah, it’s still a no for me,” you say, rubbing your palms on your pants.

“Are you still cold?” He asks.

“A little,” you say, your damp clothes still causing a bit of a chill.

At the next stop light he reaches for something in the back seat and places a folded scarf of some sort on your lap. Grateful, you mutter a thanks as BIGBANG’s “Haru Haru” comes next.

You sigh, smelling his faint cologne on the garment, and melt in your seat as you pull the fabric over your shoulders, “I love this song…”

“Me too,” he says. “I listened to this song a lot when I was in high school.”

“Yeah, me too,” you share a smile before his eyes go back on the road as the green light comes. “What were you like in school?” you ask.

He raises an eyebrow, considering your question for a second. And his response was blunt, as he tends to be.  “Was a loser. Kept to myself. Worked on music when I could. School wasn’t really my thing.”

“Figures,” you tease.

He doesn’t glance at you, but there was an amused grin playing on his lips. “What about you? You look like a popular kid.”

“Oh, I was definitely a loser, too. Overachieving student who tried way too hard to please everyone,” you say with a self-deprecating laugh, looking at the pouring rain outside. “I always thought if I did everything right, I’d end up happy, but…”

“… but now?” Yoongi asks, tone softer than you’ve ever heard him before.

You hesitate, unsure why this feels like a deeper question than it should. But you wanted to give him some honesty. A tiny piece of you to hold on to if he wants. “Now… I don’t know. I’m still figuring it out, I guess.”

“You will,” he promises, glancing at you in the corner of his eyes and you meet his gaze with a shy smile.

“Thanks.”

Silence falls between you. The music fills the space as the rain lets up, and the streets blur outside the window. It feels like a moment—one you don’t want to think too hard about, because thinking too hard about anything with him feels dangerous.

He pulls up outside your apartment, the car coming to a smooth stop. You don’t move right away, letting the last bit of the song play out as you sit in the warmth of the car.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say, finally unbuckling your seatbelt, but your voice feels quieter than usual.

“No problem.” His eyes meet yours for just a second, and it lingers—like there’s something else he wants to say, but doesn’t.

You step out into the cool night air, still feeling his gaze on you as you make your way to the door. When you glance back, Yoongi is still parked there, watching you, and just to lighten the mood you call out, "Bye, loser!" He shakes his head with a tiny grin, "Later, loser!" before he finally pulls away.

Your heart’s racing the whole way up the stairs, each step making it louder, faster, like it’s echoing off the walls. You enter your apartment and press a hand to your chest, trying to calm yourself down, but it’s useless—he’s been stuck in your head since you stepped out of the car. Hell, he's been there for days. You wonder if he could feel the headrush too, all the way from Hannam, where he went completely out of his way just to drop you off. 

What you don’t know is Yoongi, back in his apartment, though a little later, is doing the same—sitting there, trying to calm his pulse, still thinking about the long drive, and why he didn’t mind the distance. And as he lay awake in his large bed, smiling like a lunatic, replaying the moments of the day, he knew there really was only one reason:

He likes you.

A/N: What do you think??? I'm so excited for this series!!! Again, just leave a comment if you want to be tagged on the next chapters! Thank you so much for reading! ~k

Edit: Answer this story-related Poll

Chapter Two >

[communicationthroughlyrics]

I Can't Hide The Way I'm Feelin' - Pt. 2

You have a propensity for tardiness, and your new interim professor will have none of it.

A/N: Whomp. Pure p*rn, if I'm being honest. Requested by to @gswha. You can read Pt. 1 HERE

TW: 18+ only, Intersex reader, mild choking, multiple orgasms, Nat just being a savage sex fiend.

As you walked into class on Monday, you noticed that she was dressed differently. Her usual sharp business attire was replaced by a more casual ensemble, a tight black sweater and a pair of skinny jeans that hugged her curves like a second skin. You felt a heat rising from your chest to your cheeks, and you quickly averted your gaze. The class was eerily quiet as you took your seat, the only sound was the rustle of pages and the occasional cough.

"Ms. Y/N," she called out, her voice as sharp as ever. You looked up, and she was holding your assignments in her hand. "I've reviewed your work. It's... adequate." The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her to continue. "But we both know you can do better." She paused, her eyes scanning the room before returning to you. "If you wish to improve your grade, I suggest you visit me during office hours."

You felt your heart sink. You had done your best to impress her, to show her that you weren't the slacker she thought you were. But apparently, it wasn't enough. The rest of class passed in a blur, her words echoing in your mind. What more could she possibly want from you?

As the bell finally rang, you packed up your things and made your way out of the classroom, your mind racing. You hadn't even made it to the hallway before you felt a hand on your arm. It was her, Dr. Romanoff. "My office, now," she said, her grip firm. You followed her, unsure of what to expect.

You followed the authoritative click of her heels, her grip firm on your bicep as she pushed you in the direction she wanted. When you reached her office, she didn't bother with pleasantries. She closed the door behind you, the sound echoing through the hallway.

"Take a seat, Ms. Y/N," she said, gesturing to the chair in front of her desk. You did as you were told, the anticipation building in your stomach like a coiled spring. "I've noticed an...improvement in your behavior, and to be honest, your work was some of the best I've seen for a while." She placed the assignments down with a smack, her eyes meeting yours, challenging you to argue.

The confusion that must have crept onto your features was clear as day, but she didn't comment on it. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs and folding her arms over her chest. The fabric of her sweater stretched tightly across her breasts, and you couldn't help but steal a glance before redirecting your gaze.

The look on her face told you that she had caught you staring, a smirk gracing her features. "Do you remember our conversation on Saturday, Y/N?" she asked, her voice a low purr that made you want to squirm in your seat.

"Yeah, I do," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Good," she said, her eyes raking over you. "I've had a small portion of that conversation playing in my head all weekend, Y/N," She leaned forward, her elbows on the desk. "And I've come to a decision. You need a more... personal form of motivation to truly reach your potential. However, I have to know- who is it that holds your attention so dearly?"

You felt your heart drop into your stomach. Did she know? "I-I don't know what you're talking about," you stuttered, trying to play it cool. But she wasn't buying it.

"Don't lie to me, Y/N," she said, her voice firm. "I know you've been thinking about me. And frankly, I've been thinking about you too."

The room felt like it was closing in on you, her words a punch to the gut. You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, but it was no use. "What do you mean?" you managed to croak out.

"I mean," she began, her voice dropping to a whisper, "that I've noticed the way you look at me in class, the way you react to my words. And I must admit, it's intriguing." She leaned closer, her eyes searching yours. "I think you need more than just a firm hand to keep you in line. I think you need...something else."

The air in the room was charged with something unspoken, something that made your palms sweat and your heart race. "What are you saying?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Dr. Romanoff's smile grew wider, predatory. "I'm saying that perhaps we can come to an...understanding," she said, her voice dropping to a seductive murmur. "One that will benefit us both."

You sat there, your mind racing, trying to piece together what she was insinuating. Was she...was she flirting with you? The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. You had never been in a situation like this before, with a teacher, no less. You let a wry smile creep across your face, trying to play it cool. "What kind of understanding are we talking about here, Dr. Romanoff?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she leaned even closer, her breath hot on your face. "The kind where I give you the attention you so clearly crave, and in return, you give me the one thing I've wanted since the moment I laid eyes on you."

You felt your heart skip a beat. "And what could you have possibly wanted since you met me?" you asked, trying to keep the tremble from your voice. Your heart felt like is was about to pound out of your chest, as she stood from behind her desk, walking to the front of it, closing some of the distance between you. She leaned back against the oak surface, crossing her arms and pushing her chest out more.

"Your full attention, Y/N," she replied, her eyes never leaving yours. "And perhaps a bit more."

You swallowed hard, trying to process what she was saying. This was a line you never thought you'd cross, but the temptation was too strong. "Well, Dr. Romanoff," you began, trying to sound as confident as possible, "I have to know what it is you've been wanting me to do for me to do a damn thing about it."

Her smile grew, and she leaned even closer, so close you could feel her breath on your neck. "Is that a yes?" she murmured her voice a siren's call that made your body respond in ways you couldn't ignore.

In a surge of confidence, you stood, completely closing the gap between the both of you. You leaned in, placing your hands on either side of her body, trapping her in front of you. "What's it going to be, Natasha?"

Her eyes widened slightly at your boldness, but the spark of desire grew in her gaze. "If we do this," she whispered, "you're mine, Y/N. In and out of the classroom. No more games, no more slacking off." You groaned at her command, the thought of being hers sent a pulse through your awakening sex.

"Only if," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. "If I'm going to be yours, I want all of you. No holding back." You leaned in, your face a mere inch from hers, challenging her to deny you.

Her eyes searched yours, the storm clouds within them swirling with a mix of desire and something darker. "You have no idea what you're asking for," she murmured, but the heat in her voice betrayed her interest.

"Neither do you, Romanoff," you whispered, your voice a seductive challenge. You could feel the thick and palpable tension between you as it hung in the air, charged with a current of something neither of you could ignore. She stared at you, her expression unreadable, but the heat in her gaze was unmistakable.

"Well, Y/N," she began, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "If you want all of me, you'll have to earn it. You'll prove to me that you're worthy of my attention."

You felt a thrill at her words, the challenge in her eyes setting something alight within you. "How do I do that?" you asked, your voice a barely contained growl. She stood up, pressing herself closer to you, your chests now touching and your faces mere inches apart. You try to ignore the spark that erupts everywhere she is in contact with your body, but it is slowly overtaking your senses, and all rationality.

"I think," she stuck her finger in the center of your chest, tracing an absentminded pattern all over, making you internally groan. "That you need to show me what I've heard so much about, Y/N." Her eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of doubt. "Your reputation precedes you." She bites her lip, her eyes darting back and forth between your eyes and lips. "I want to see if you can live up to it."

You smirked, feeling the heat from her body and the way she leaned into you, making you want to devour her whole. "Is that all?" You whispered back, leaning in closer to her ear, making her shiver. "Because I've got more than just a reputation, Natasha." She moaned in your ear at the admission, her body visibly trembling against yours.

Without another word, she grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you into a kiss that was as fiery as the passion in your eyes. Her tongue danced with yours, exploring every inch of your mouth, leaving no room for doubt. You felt your knees go weak and had to hold onto the desk to keep from falling. Her fingers wound thier way through your hair, pulling slightly to cause you to moan into the kiss.

Her hands roamed over your body, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You couldn't help but respond, pushing closer, your hands sliding up her sides to rest on her hips. You felt her tighten her grip on you, her nails digging into your skin just enough to let you know she was serious.

The kiss grew more intense, and you could feel your control slipping away. You had never felt this way about a teacher before, but Dr. Romanoff was unlike anyone you had ever met. Her confidence and power were intoxicating, and the way she looked at you made you feel like the most important person in the world.

As you broke away for air, she stepped back, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "That's a start," she murmured, her voice a mix of challenge and desire. "But I need to see more." She turned and walked to the door of her office, swinging the lock shut and sliding a chair under the handle. Her hips swaying with an allure that was impossible to ignore as she sauntered around the room.

She made her way back in front of you, her eyes wandering all over your frame, and pausing on the straining bulge in your jeans. She smirked and took a step closer, her hand reaching out to trace the line of your jaw. "Oh, how I have thought and dreamed about this, Y/N."

Her touch was like a spark to dry kindling, setting your body alight with a need that was unbearable. You reached up and grabbed her hand, pressing it harder against your skin, feeling the beat of your pulse beneath her fingertips. "Show me," you breathed. "Show me how much."

With a smirk that could melt the Arctic, she stepped closer, pressing her body against yours. Your hands roamed over her curves, feeling the soft fabric of her sweater and the firmness beneath. She gasped as you found the hem and slid your hands up, feeling the smooth skin of her stomach and the swell of her breasts. Her hand found its way to your waistband, deftly unbuckling your belt and popping the button of your jeans. The sound of the zipper was like a gunshot in the quiet room.

You stepped back slightly, allowing her to push your jeans and boxers down, your erection springing free. She took you in her hand, stroking you gently, her eyes never leaving yours. The look of power in her gaze was something you had never seen before, and it was driving you wild. You reached for her sweater, tugging it over her head and revealing the lacy black bra beneath. Her breasts were full and heavy, begging to be freed.

With trembling hands, you unclipped the clasp and watched as the material fell away, revealing her to you. She was perfection, her skin pale and unblemished, her nipples pink and hard from your touch. You bent down, taking one in your mouth, her gasp making your cock throb in her hand. You teased and suckled, feeling her hand tighten around you as she moaned your name.

Her other hand snaked around your waist, pulling you closer as she ground her hips against yours. The friction was maddening, and you knew you wouldn't last much longer. You reached behind her, sliding her jeans down her legs, taking in the sight of her in just her lacy thong. You hooked your thumbs into the waistband and slid it down, revealing the wetness that had gathered between her thighs. She was ready for you, and the sight made you growl with need.

You knelt before her, spreading her legs apart. Your tongue darted out to taste her, and she moaned your name again. You lapped at her folds, feeling her shiver and buck against your mouth. Her taste was like nothing you had ever experienced before, sweet and salty and all hers. You pushed a finger inside her, feeling her tighten around you, her walls clenching as she grew closer to climax.

Her hand tightened in your hair, guiding you as you worked her body, bringing her closer and closer to the edge. You felt the tension in her legs and knew she was close. You added another finger, pumping them in and out as you flicked your tongue over her clit. She was so wet, so hot, and it was all for you.

You pulled away just as she was reaching her peak, leaving her panting and gasping for breath. "Not yet," you whispered against her skin, causing goosebumps to rise on her thighs. "I want to feel you come around me."

Her eyes blazed with need as she reached down, taking your hand and guiding it to her wetness. "Take me, Y/N," she begged, her voice a desperate whine. "I need you inside me."

Without wasting another moment, you stood and positioned yourself at her entrance. You could feel the heat of her desire, and you knew she was ready. You pushed into her slowly, feeling her walls tighten around you as she took you in. She was so wet, so tight, and the feeling was more than you could handle. You groaned as you filled her, feeling her body quiver in anticipation.

You began to move, setting a rhythm that had her moaning with every thrust. Her nails dug into your back, her legs wrapping around your waist to pull you closer. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, the only sound other than the muffled cries of pleasure that spilled from her lips.

Her breathing grew more ragged, her hips moving in time with yours. You could feel her getting closer, her muscles tightening around you like a vice. You reached between your bodies, finding her clit and rubbing it with your thumb as you thrust deeper. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she screamed out your name as she came, her body shaking with the force of her orgasm.

The feeling of her contracting around you was too much, and you followed her over the edge, filling her with your release. You held onto her tightly, your breath coming in gasps as you rode out the waves of pleasure. When it was over, you leaned against her, both of you panting and sweaty.

You pulled out slowly, watching as she shivered at the loss of you inside her. You bent down and kissed her softly, tasting the salt of her skin. "You're mine now," she murmured, her eyes half-lidded with satisfaction.

"Always have been," you replied, a smug smile playing on your lips. You pulled her into a standing position and kissed her again, her legs wobbly beneath her. She broke away, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Good," she said, her voice a low purr. "Now, let's see if you can handle the rest of what I have planned for you." You groaned as she lowered herself between your legs, taking all of you into her mouth, moaning around your length as she tasted her cum all over your shaft, mixed with yours. The sensation was overwhelming, and you had to hold onto the desk for support.

Her tongue swirled around the head of your cock, pausing as she felt the ball of your piercing on the surface of her tongue. She looked up at you with a knowing smile, her eyes full of mischief. You couldn't believe that you had finally given in to the temptation that had been brewing between the two of you for months. The way she took you in her mouth was like nothing you had ever felt before, and it was clear she knew exactly what she was doing.

You felt your knees wobble as she deep-throated you, her cheeks hollowing out with every bob of her head. Her hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as she worked you with a skill that was both surprising and incredibly erotic. Your eyes rolled back in your head, and you let out a low moan, your hands threading through her hair. "Fuck, Natasha."

Her grip tightened as she felt you swell, her movements becoming more urgent. She knew you were close, and she wasn't about to let up. She hummed around you, the vibration sending you into overdrive, your grip tightening on her fiery hair as you began to thrust into her throat. You came hard, filling her mouth with your release, and she swallowed every drop, her eyes never leaving yours.

When you had finished, she stood up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I've wanted to do that since the first day of class," she said, her voice husky with desire. You couldn't help but chuckle, the situation so intense and yet so unexpectedly intimate.

"Well, I'm sure there's more where that came from," you said, your voice still shaky from the orgasm. She leaned in and kissed you, her tongue sliding against yours, sharing the taste of you with you. It was a claiming kiss, one that left no doubt in your mind that she was now in charge.

Her hands slid down your body, taking in the sight of you, naked and hard for her again. "Impressive," she murmured, her eyes lingering on your cock. "But now it's my turn," she said, a smirk playing on her lips. You watched as she wiped her desk clean, climbing onto it, her legs spread wide, revealing the wetness that glistened between her thighs, her arousal dripping onto the surface below. She leaned back on her elbows, inviting you closer.

You groaned at the sight, slowly pumping your length as you rested the other hand on her ass, slapping it. "You're so fucking wet for me," you said, your voice thick with lust. She bit her bottom lip, her eyes never leaving yours as she spread herself wider.

"I want you to fuck me like you mean it, Y/N," she instructed her voice a mix of need and command. You didn't need any more encouragement than that. You stepped closer, aligning yourself with her slick entrance, and pushed in. She was so tight, so hot, it was like sliding into heaven. She gasped as you filled her, her nails digging into the desk. You set a punishing pace, her breasts bouncing with every thrust. She moaned your name, her back arching as she met you stroke for stroke.

Her eyes rolled back in her head, you pulled her back to you by her hair, her back meeting your heaving chest. You reached up with your other hand, easily sliding over her glistening torso, tweaking her hardened nipple between your fingers. You could feel her tightening around you, her walls clenching as she neared her climax. You slid your hand down, playing with her clit, feeling her shiver and whimper.

"Come for me, detka," you whispered, your voice a dark command. Her eyes snapped open, and she looked at you, her pupils blown wide with desire.

"Y/N," she breathed, her voice a plea. And with one final, powerful thrust, she shattered around you, her body convulsing as she screamed out your name. You watched in awe as she came, her pussy milking your cock, her orgasm so intense it brought you to the brink. With a roar, you followed her over the edge, filling her with your release. She took it all, her body pulsing around you as you emptied into her. When it was over, you both collapsed onto the desk, panting and sweaty.

It took a minute for her to recover before she turned her head to look at you. "When," she panted, still catching her breath. "When did you learn Russian?"

You chuckled, still trying to recover from the intensity of the moment. "I've always had a knack for languages," you replied, leaning down to kiss her neck. She shivered at the contact, a soft moan escaping her lips. "Plus, I have a professor who had me do lots of research work, so I picked up on a few things."

Without another word, she turned around, spreading her legs to straddle you, pulling you closer to her as you stood in between her toned thighs. You stepped up to her, your cock twitching with anticipation. You reached down and slid into her, feeling her tighten around you again. She moaned, her head dropping to your chest. "Fuck, Y/N!"

You began to move, your hips slapping against hers as you took her on the edge of her desk. She was so wet, so hot, and the way she felt around you was driving you wild. You reached down, playing with her clit as you pounded into her, feeling her get closer and closer to another orgasm. Her moans grew louder, filling the room with the sound of our passion. You could feel her muscles tightening around you, her body begging for release.

Her nails dug into your shoulders as she arched her back, her breasts pressing against your chest. You leaned down and took one of her nipples in your mouth, sucking and biting gently, making her whimper. Her movements grew erratic, her hips bucking against yours as she chased her climax. You felt it building, her walls milking you as her orgasm neared. You began to pepper bites and kisses up and down her throat, as she let her head fall backward, her hair forming a red curtain behind her.

"Don't stop," she panted, her voice thick with desire. "Please, don't stop." You could feel her pussy tightening around you, her muscles clenching as she reached the peak. You didn't stop, you couldn't. You drove into her harder, feeling the desk wobble beneath you. Wrapping your arms around her back, your hands resting on her shoulders, you were able to muscle her up, pistoning into her at an obscene rate. Her legs tightened around your waist, her nails digging into your skin as she threw her head towards your shoulder, her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure.

Her orgasm hit like a tidal wave, making her entire body convulse around you. You felt yourself grow even harder if that was possible. "Fuck," you grunted, the expletive forced from your chest. You didn't know if you could hold out much longer. The way she felt, the way she smelled, the way she sounded, it was all too much. You felt your own orgasm building, the pressure at the base of your spine growing with every thrust.

Her eyes flew open and she looked at you, a wild look in her eyes. "I'm going to come," she warned her voice a mix of pleasure and urgency. You didn't stop, couldn't stop. You pounded into her, her moans spurring you on as you chased your own release. And then it hit you, a white-hot burst of pleasure that shot through your body like lightning. You came inside her, filling her up with your seed, your body shaking with the intensity of it all.

Her legs tightened around your waist, and she threw her head back, her throat exposed to you as she let out a scream of pure ecstasy. You leaned down and kissed her neck, feeling her pulse racing beneath your lips. You could feel her body still trembling with the aftershocks of her climax as you slowly pulled out, your cock still semi-hard and slick with her juices.

You slowly pulled out of her, resting her on the desk behind. She was a mess of sticky sweat and lust, her chest heaving with every ragged breath she took. You took a moment to admire her, sprawled out like a painting of a conquered goddess, her skin flushed and her eyes glazed over with satisfaction. You couldn't resist leaning in for one more kiss, tasting the salt of your combined sweat, the sweetness of her lip gloss, and the lingering taste of your cum on her tongue.

"Again," she breathed against your lips, her voice a needy whine. You smirked, feeling the beginnings of your arousal stirring once more. How could you resist such an offer?

"Only if I get to taste you, darling." You smirked, bending down to kiss her neck, your teeth grazing her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. Dr. Romanoff nodded eagerly, her eyes fluttering shut as you turned her onto her back, her legs still hanging over the edge of the desk. You stepped between them, pushing her thighs apart. The sight of her, glistening and open for you, was almost too much to handle.

You leaned in, your tongue tracing the line of her folds, tasting the remnants of your earlier passion. She gasped, her hips jerking as you found her clit with the tip of your tongue. You took it into your mouth, sucking gently, feeling her body tense beneath you. Her hands tangled in your hair, guiding you, urging you on. The sound of her moans was like music to your ears, driving you almost near madness.

Her legs wrapped around your neck, pulling you closer as you worked your magic. Her hips began to rock against your face, her movements growing more erratic as you pushed her closer to the edge. You grabbed a firm hold on her hips. pinning her to the desk as your tongue began to probe her leaking entrance. She was so wet, and the scent of her arousal was driving you wild. You felt yourself growing hard again, your cock aching to be inside her once more. Trying to quell the desire to sheath yourself inside of her, you inserted two fingers into her, continuing your assault on her clit as you probed her soft, spongy interior.

Her walls tightened around your digits, her moans growing louder as she neared climax. You felt her whole body tense and knew she was close. With one final flick of your tongue, you felt her release. She bucked against your face, her pussy pulsing around your fingers as she came hard. You swallowed her juices greedily, feeling your cock throb with every pulse of her orgasm.

You pulled back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. She looked up at you, her eyes glazed with pleasure, and whispered, "More." You chuckled darkly, moving back between her legs, your cock now fully erect and ready to claim her once again. This time, you didn't hold back, slamming into her without mercy. She took it all, her legs wrapped around you, her nails digging into your back. A guttural moan left her, her lack of shame about being in the middle of a university only spurring you further.

Her breasts bounced with every thrust, the sound of your bodies colliding filling the room. The scent of arousal mingled with the faint aroma of books and dust, creating an intoxicating cocktail that only served to fuel the fire burning between you. Your hips moved with a primal instinct, the desk beneath you groaning in protest with every pound. You willed your hips to stop, only for a moment, causing the redhead to mewl and writhe beneath you. You shifted her, her legs locking behind you as she tried to pull you in deeper. You swiftly picked her up, and walked over to one of the armchairs in the office, sitting yourself down, with her on top.

"I wanna see you ride me, baby," you growled in her ear, sucking her earlobe in between your teeth. Dr. Romanoff's eyes lit up with excitement, and she straddled you, her slick pussy sliding down your shaft with ease. She began to bounce up and down, her movements growing more confident and wild with every moan that left her lips. You could feel her pussy clench around you, her walls tightening as she approached her peak. Your hands found her hips, guiding her, urging her to go faster, to take all of you. You slipped one hand up, palming one of her breasts, bringing your mouth to the other.

Her moans grew louder, her breathing more ragged as she bounced on your cock. You could feel her orgasm building, her movements growing more erratic as she chased the feeling. You squeezed her breast, rolling the nipple between your thumb and forefinger, eliciting a gasp from her. She leaned back, her hands on your shoulders for balance, her eyes never leaving yours. The sight of her riding you was almost too much to handle, her pussy gripping you like a vice, her ass bouncing with every downward thrust.

"Fuck, you look so good like this, Dr. Romanoff," you taunted, only spurring her on further.

Her hips rolled and gyrated, taking you in deeper with every downward thrust. The wet sounds of your skin slapping together echoed through the office, and you could feel the chair's cushion growing damp with your combined juices. She leaned forward, her breasts brushing against your chest.

"Fuck me, Y/N," she moaned, her voice a sweet symphony of need and desire. "Make me scream your name again." You groaned, wrapping one hand around her throat,  the other around her waist, as you set a relentless pace that had both of you on the edge of oblivion. Her movements grew more frantic, her breathing shallow and erratic. The pressure in her core built, her muscles tightening around your cock with every stroke. You met every gyration of her hips with a powerful thrust of your own, your grunts and her moans filling the silence between your skin slapping together.

Her eyes rolled back in her head, and her nails dug into your shoulders as she climaxed. Her pussy clamped down on you like a vice, her juices flooding over your shaft and her walls quivering around you. "Fuck! Y/N!" she screamed into the office around her. The intensity of her orgasm washed over you, and you could feel yourself on the brink. You didn't stop, didn't dare. Instead, you quickened your pace, pushing her further, watching her face contort with pleasure and pain as she came again and again. Her legs tightened around your waist, her heels digging into your back, urging you to go deeper, harder.

You pulled out of her briefly, flipping her over on the floor in front of the chair so that she had her leg flung over your shoulder, and you could hit that sweet spot with every thrust. You didn't give her a chance to recover before you slammed back into her, filling her completely. She was soaking wet, and the sound of your skin slapping against hers was the sweetest symphony of pleasure and desire. You grabbed her hips, pulling her back to meet every thrust, her moans turning into screams of ecstasy. The slap of flesh echoed through the room, mixing with the sound of your heavy breathing. You could feel her tightening around you, her pussy gripping you as she neared another climax.

Your hand snaked around her throat, not too tightly but enough to add an edge to the already intense moment. You squeezed gently, feeling her pulse against your fingertips, her eyes snapping to yours, wide with a mix of fear and excitement. You could tell she liked it a little rough, and the way she responded only turned you on more. "Come for me," you ordered, your voice low and demanding. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she screamed your name as she shuddered around your cock, her orgasm sending waves of pleasure through her body. The feeling of her essence spraying around your throbbing member, milking you towards your oblivion sent you over the edge, your hips stuttering as you collapsed on top of her.

Her legs quivered as she came down from the high, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to catch her breath. You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her neck, feeling her pulse slow down. You pulled out of her gently, watching as your cum dripped out of her still-spasming pussy. The sight was obscene, but incredibly erotic, making you want to take her again and again. You looked up at her, a smug smile playing on your lips. "Good girl," you murmured, stroking her hair.

Dr. Romanoff pushed herself up onto her elbows, a lazy smile spreading across her face. "You know, Y/N," she said, her voice a mix of breathlessness and amusement, "you really are a quick learner.” You had never felt so alive, so desired. It was a power exchange that you never knew existed, and you reveled in it. You were hers, and she was yours, and the thought was as thrilling as it was terrifying.

As the shadows grew long outside her office window, she finally pulled away, her chest heaving with exertion. "I think," she murmured, her voice thick with desire, "that we've made a good start.” You nodded, unable to form coherent words. Your body felt like it was on fire, every nerve ending singing with pleasure. "I'll see you tomorrow," she said, her voice a promise of more to come.

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

the five stages | f. odair

masterlist

summary: a journey back to a golden period of time of polaroid pictures, white knitted sweaters, and lively sea-green eyes. why? because in the present, those same pair of eyes are ruthlessly unrelenting and you have no other chance of their escape.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: heavy angst, vomiting, implied smut, depression, maggots, hallucinations, relieving fluff, mild horror. I don’t want to spoil the story too much, so I won’t be adding any more warnings, sorry y’all. this could be very triggering so please read at your own discretion. some descriptions are quite graphic!

notes: I’m super proud of this one—it’s sorta based off “little talks” by of monsters and men and “on the nature of daylight” by max richer. this fic probably won’t get many views, so I’ll be incredibly grateful for any—if any at all—type of engagement! <33

word count: 8k

The bedroom was cold; dark; empty. Empty even though I still resided in it.

My alarm had gone off two hours ago, yet I hadn’t moved an inch. When I finally turned my head to the side, I found that the space beside me was vacant. Cold; dark; empty—I reached out my hand anyway.

Thirty minutes passed before I wrestled myself out of bed and started making breakfast downstairs. The otherwise warm and flavourful plate of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast left my mouth feeling dry and my throat lodged.

It used to be one of my favourite meals. At least, when he was around.

Dishes were piled in the sink, dirty and untouched. I sat on the couch, pondering whether today was the day I would finally get to cleaning them. It wasn’t. I couldn’t. We always did that together. I wondered—if I left them in the sink long enough, would he return? Even just for five minutes to help me put them away? One month and seventeen days had passed, and yet I still entertained this thought religiously.

I wasted an hour running circles round the same contemplations before deciding fresh air, as cliché as it was, might do me some good.

Grey clouds concealed the sun’s warm golden light when I stepped outside, but that was fine—I didn’t like anything golden anymore. But he would want me to leave the house at least once a day, so that’s what I would do. I would go down to the beach beside our—my house and feel the sand collect between my toes as I walked to the water’s edge.

But wasn’t that where he was when it happened? Wasn’t he in water? Didn’t those things pile on top of him? Didn’t they sink their fangs into his neck and tear at his flesh until he was blown to…

Bits of egg, yoghurt and stomach bile sat at my feet. My legs buckled, and I collapsed to the ground in a sandy, tear-stricken heap. Since my lower body had refused to cooperate any longer, it took me until midday to crawl back up the dune and to my front doorstep.

Fuck. I needed to rest.

“I need you to rest, sweetheart.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” I whined. “I’m not sick.”

Finnick placed a bucket on the ground beside the bed. The room smelled of lemon disinfectant—a joy I often found in being sick… That is, if I were sick, which I was not. I must have drunk spoiled milk or eaten something bad during breakfast. Nevertheless, Finnick was not having it.

“You’re throwing up everything you manage to get down, and you’re shivering like it’s the middle of winter,” he said adamantly, tucking the comforter up to my chest. “It’s summer, and you’re very much not fine.”

I sat up, ready to heatedly debate the subject, but the room began swirling, and my ears were hissing like a staticky television channel without a signal. A quiet whimper buzzed in my throat as I hunched forward. Damn him, I was sick.

The mattress dipped as Finnick sat beside me. His hand was on my back, rubbing it soothingly as he used his other hand to tuck away the curtain of hair concealing my face. I huffed, half in annoyance, half in an attempt to suppress the nausea rising in my throat, and then sunk back against the pillows.

“Not sick, she says,” he jested, smiling down at me. I rolled my eyes, though unable to hide the weak, betraying smile creeping across my lips. “Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he said, a gentle command. “I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

The wooden flooring welcomed me with hard, cold arms as I hauled my sandy body through the front door. Images of fangs, bloody flesh, and panicked sea-green eyes flooded my mind.

More breakfast, more bile. No lemon disinfectant.

My knees were folded beneath my body; my body was hunched over my knees. I was sobbing now, so hard that I threw up again (was there even anything left in my stomach at this point?), creating a thick puddle of vomit and tears beneath me. Cries and gasps for air bounced around the house. To call me a mess would be an understatement. I was a disaster. A disaster wrapped up in an unmendable tragedy with a ragged, threadbare ribbon barely holding me together.

And in case I wasn’t aware of this fact, the floorboards were so shiny that they mirrored a reflection of myself. My hair was a being of its own, all wild and unkempt, and my face was another story entirely—a red, blotchy thing I wasn’t too interested in delving into.

But the most unsettling aspect had nothing to do with me, it was that there was someone else in the reflection. Two green balls of light were glowing above my head.

Dishevelled golden hair…

Dimpled cheeks…

My forehead was pressed to the floor as I screamed.

“I don’t want to make you sick as well,” I said, contrarily enjoying the feeling of Finnick’s skin warm against mine, hot blood flowing through his veins.

A day had passed since I first became unwell, and the sickness had continued to wreak havoc inside me.

We were both under the thick covers, our limbs tangled together as he held me atop his chest. (my body didn’t register the scorching summer temperatures. I actually felt as though my core temperature was a few degrees below freezing. Meanwhile, Finnick was characteristically toasty warm. It was perfect for me, but not so much for him, evident in the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. Nevertheless, he made no complaints).

My body rose and fell with each breath he took. I was trying to inhale whenever he exhaled in a weak attempt to prevent the festering sickness in my body from entering his, and though it was a futile gesture, I did it anyway.

“In sickness and health, remember?” he said.

I smiled. “We’re not even married.”

“Yet, you mean,” he countered. “I plan on spending the rest of my life with you, sweetheart. You know that.”

My heart fluttered at the thought of spending an entire lifetime with him—waking up in each other’s embrace each morning, the warm sunlight peeking through the blinds of our bedroom; Finnick calling me “Mrs. Odair” or “My wife” at every opportunity because doing so made us both giggle like two moronic, love-struck teenagers; and being unable to prevent the deep smile lines on both our cheeks as we age, a constant display of our perpetual happiness.

“Sixty more years of having and holding you,” he continued with a gentle musing in his tone. “For better or for worse... For richer or for poorer.” He then stroked the side of my face and brushed away the sweaty strands of hair sticking to my forehead. “In sickness and in health…”

“…Until death do us part,” I finished, my voice slow with fatigue.

Two fingers sat beneath my chin and tilted my head upward. My eyes connected with Finnick’s. They were soft. Heartfelt.

“Not even then. I’ll love you beyond the grave,” he murmured. Then his lips were slowly curving into a pensive smile. “When we’re both ghosts and haunting the next owners of this house.”

I was now smiling, too. “I’d hoped you would say something like that.”

How could he lie like that? There was no we. There were no next owners. There was only me, alive and alone in a comatose house. And mind you, I was sane enough to know that it wasn’t actually his ghost haunting me, though I wish I weren’t because having that knowledge was even worse. It meant he was truly erased from existence.

“Go away,” I whispered to the reflection on the floor.

He didn’t. His vacant green eyes kept staring down at my crumpled figure.

I shot off the floor and spun around, hot tears streaming down my face. “Go away!” His face remained expressionless. He looked like himself, only colder. “You said sixty more years! You said we’d be together!” I mindlessly picked up and flung a small picture frame at him, only for it to pass through his body and shatter on the floor behind him. “Why did you lie to me?!” My voice was frayed with fury, though underlined with grief.

He said nothing, did nothing. All he did was watch.

My legs buckled, and I was on the floor again. I was whispering, half-sobbing, the same question over and over until the words slurred together. “Why’d you lie? Why’d y’lie?” The only time I stopped was when my tongue grew too heavy to move anymore.

To my surprise, he eventually came and sat beside me, remaining cold and silent—as I too had become.

Glass fragments from the picture frame were scattered across the floorboards. The photo within had fallen out and, ironically, drifted towards me. I didn’t bother acknowledging him as I moved onto my hands and knees and began crawling forward—my palms slicing open and blood seeping out—until the photo was in my hands. My shins had granules of glass pricking into them, but I couldn’t feel the pain; all I could do was stare at the memory in my hands.

The picture had been taken in District Thirteen, a day before he signed up for… the mission.

I was drifting in and out of sleep when a sudden bright flash lit up my eyelids.

“Oops.”

Heavy eyes fluttering open, I was met with a small camera pointing down at me, which was being held up by a lengthy muscular arm, which was connected to an even more muscular and broad shoulder, which was connected to—okay, sorry, I think you get it.

“Finnick!” I shrieked, pulling the covers over my naked figure.

He laughed, the vibrations rumbling deep within his chest, beneath my ear. A soft whirring sound accompanied the polaroid sliding out of the camera, its black film hiding the doubtless embarrassing picture beneath. He placed the film on the sheets beside him, letting the photo develop in darkness.

“I was supposed to cover the flash,” he said, still chuckling.

I rubbed my eyes, which were twinkling with little sparkles of light. “I think you blinded me.”

“Lucky you,” he jested. “You’re finally free from my repulsive exterior.”

I started to reach for the picture beside him—“You’re an idiot”—but then he was rolling us over until his arms were pillared on either side of my head and he was hovering above me.

His hair was a mess, a testament to the night before (and very early hours of the morning), and he was sporting a beautiful, lazy grin. “Yeah? Well, you’re engaged to an idiot,” he said, tilting his head in an arrogant manner. “So what does that make you?”

The sea-glass ring hugging my finger gleamed in the lamp’s dull light as I reached out to touch his face, my fingertips brushing along the edges of his pronounced jawline. Tangled strands of hair and a beaming smile were reflecting back at me in his eyes. No one had ever loved anyone as much as I loved Finnick—disregarding the one exception that was staring down at me.

“Blinded by love,” I whispered.

Brief yet poignant emotion trickled through his features, his eyes. Then, like a flick of a switch, he covered it up and lowered his face into my neck, groaning the words, “So corny.”

My fingers were tangled in his hair, holding him close to me. “Liar,” I laughed. “You loved it.”

“I love you, which is why I put up with your corniness,” he murmured into my skin.

Even after all this time, my heart still leapt whenever he said those three words, even when he was being a jerk about it. I kissed the top of his head. “I love you, too.”

We laid like this for a short while longer—Finnick keeping his face buried in the warmth of my neck, his arms curled beneath my body; me playing with the golden waves of his hair that were somehow softer than my own. He was so heavy on top of me that it was starting to become difficult to breathe, but in no universe would I ever tell him to get off. It was a blissful sort of suffocation.

A sort anyone would snap a picture of just to keep as a reminder of how beautiful it feels to be smothered with love. With that being said, the picture that lay awaiting beside me was brought back to mind.

“Oh no,” I moaned, picking it up and taking a short glance at the developed photo. I covered my face with my hands, repeating the words, “Oh no.”

The photo was plucked from my fingers, and Finnick began humming contentedly to himself.

In the photo, my face had been nuzzled into his bare, muscular chest, eyes closed in sleep-drunken serenity, hair thrown over my shoulder and spilling across the pillow. My hand rested on his contoured stomach with just enough of my upper arm and low light to conceal my breasts. Finnick had a delicate hand draped over my waist. He was gazing down at me with a smile that was just… full of pure love.

I had to admit—it was a beautiful picture. Despite my initial disapproval.

“Beautiful,” I heard him echo my thoughts, his eyes still scanning the photo. Then his brows furrowed, and his head slightly inched forward as though he had just noticed something peculiar in the picture. “Oh, and you are too, I guess.”

My head tilted back against the pillow with an abrupt laugh. I shook my head, looking back at him. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” he said, leaning in closer.

His lips were on mine for what must have been the millionth time in the past few hours. The bedside clock announced that breakfast was soon approaching, though it was clear neither of us would make an appearance within the next hour (or two).

“You love me,” he whispered as he slid inside me.

And I did.

I really did.

The muscles in my cheeks were straining due to how hard I was smiling.

It wasn’t my idea to keep a picture of us half-naked in the entryway of our home. He always was a bit unusual like that. Completely unashamed of who he was and how he acted. Sometimes a little too boisterously, but that’s what I loved so much about him—how confident he was in his love for me, so much so that nothing else mattered, no one else’s opinion.

God, I love him so much.

Love…?

Wait.

That’s not right.

Shouldn’t it be “loved”?

And why was I smiling? I didn’t have anything to smile about anymore. He was gone. Our wedding never occurred. Our faces never wrinkled with smile lines. Our clasped hands never weathered with age. He was gone.

The polaroid slipped from between my fingers. My hands were covered in glass and blood, blood that had painted a dark red splotch in the middle of the shiny film. Figures.

After a short while of staring blankly at the scattered debris decorating the floor, I finally found it in myself to start climbing back onto my feet. My straightened legs wobbled and ached beneath me with the little energy I had. That’s what happens when you can barely stomach food anymore: no energy, always sleeping, always swamped by nightmares or bittersweet memories—at this point, they were one and the same.

Not a strand of gold or a fleck of green was in sight when I glanced over my shoulder. For now, at least. He liked making an appearance once or twice a day.

Pieces of glass crunched beneath my bare, stinging feet as I made for the stairwell. A mess for another day, I reasoned. Just like the dishes. Sticky red footprints stamped each wooden step I ascended, growing less prominent as I reached the second floor.

After taking a right down a short hallway, the encompassing walls littered with magnificent seashells and dried ocean flora, I turned the knob to the furthest room and entered. The floor was landscaped with mountains of clothes which drenched the room in a familiar, all-consuming smell. The scent kind of reminded me of receiving a warm hug, albeit from someone you know you should let go of in more ways than one.

His hair, golden and tousled, caught my eye as I passed the wall of string-hung polaroids in our… sorry, my bedroom. His smile was all dimpled and brilliant, and he had his tanned arms wrapped around my middle. Just moments after the picture was taken, he had tackled me into the water and rightfully earned a smack on the back of the head. In turn, he did it again.

But before that, we were both looking into the camera with the most joyful expressions—huge grins, bright eyes. Frozen in time.

I never let myself look too long at that picture anymore. And I never, ever looked into his eyes. Green used to be my favourite colour. I didn’t have a favourite colour anymore. It was safe to say I didn’t have a favourite anything anymore; everything favourable was a reminder of him.

I picked up a white knitted sweater off the ground and tugged it over my head, staining it with splotches of dark red. Knowing him, he would wear it regardless—whatever was mine, was also his, and was equally the same in reverse, even things as grotesque as blood.

Well, he would have worn it, I should have said.

The sweater had been specifically tailored for him. I remembered how the soft sleeves hugged his arms so well that every fluid curve of his biceps was visible, similar to a building wave before it crested. On me, the sleeves swallowed my arms whole, which I liked to think in their own unique way had also been unintentionally tailored for me, like someone out there knew one day I would need some way to drown in him when he was gone.

Finnick’s fingers tugged at the silk ribbons, unwrapping the opulent gift box that sat on our dining table. Capitol devotees would send extravagant parcels weekly, turning up in abundance on our doorstep. Sometimes Finnick didn’t even bother opening them; sometimes we opened them together just to get a good laugh out of whatever ridiculous item was inside.

He never, though, opened the perfume-scented letters marked with lipstick stains.

“Oh,” I said in surprise as he lifted the lid. Inside was a folded piece of fabric, knitted and cream-white and intricate, though still simple. It was soft to the touch; thick enough to retain warmth. I held it up with two hands, admiring the hand-sewed threads of cotton. Whoever’s handiwork this was, it was nothing to laugh at.

Holding it up to Finnick’s torso, I smiled and said, “Try it on.”

“What?” He shook his head and smiled quizzically. “No.”

“Yes. I think it will look good on you.” I pressed it further against him with conviction. “Try it on.”

He tilted his head and exhaled deeply through his nose, giving me a begrudging, squinty-eyed look. From that, I already knew I had won him over, and watched as he snatched the sweater from my grasp and tugged his shirt off with one hand. I averted my eyes, feeling the tips of my ears flush with heat—we’d been together for over a year now; you would think I’d have grown accustomed to seeing him shirtless.

His head slipped through the neckline and he pulled the sweater down his body. I was right. It looked really good on him. Perfect, actually. The measurements were so precise that the fabric sloped off his shoulders like a compact mountain of snow. The thick-knitted collar dipped into a deep, uneven neckline that partly revealed his chest and made his neck look like a strong, contoured pillar. He looked at me expectantly, as though to ask, “Well?”

“It makes your neck and shoulders look really nice,” I blurted out, instantly cringing inside.

His expression contorted into something of amusement and surprise as he took a slow step towards me. “My neck and shoulders, huh?” he said, grinning devilishly. Oh, now I’d done it. Leave it to me to rocket Finnick Odair’s already atmospheric ego. “Anything else?”

I began backing away, but his prowling strides were so long that the space between us only shortened. When my backside hit the edge of the dining table, I knew I was done for.

“You know,” I began, avoiding his unrelenting stare. “I think it was just a momentary lapse of judgement.” He was closing in now, placing his hands on either side of my body to trap me in place. “It—It actually looks terrible on you,” I said, feigning sincerity and adding a little nod to help further my case.

His eyelids drooped as he gazed down at me, lips curving into that seductive smirk he had mastered long ago. “No takebacks,” he purred, voice low and gravelly. Dear God, I could only pray I wasn’t going to melt into a puddle on the floor. He always did this—took every opportunity to flirt and render me a stuttering, bashful mess. It was his favourite game to play. “This is now my new favourite shirt. All thanks to you, sweetheart.”

But, given the right timing and ever-wavering amount of confidence, I liked to play too.

I inhaled deeply, hoping my voice wouldn’t betray me. “Maybe you should take it off then,” I said, cocking my head to the side. “So you don’t ruin it.”

His mischievous expression revealed his next words before he even spoke them. “Maybe I will,” he said, and then he was tugging his sweater over his head, and I was tearing off my own. As his hands slipped beneath my thighs and lifted me onto our dining table, I prayed the wooden legs wouldn’t collapse under the weight of our next actions.

My fingertips ran over the soft, rippling patterns on the knitted sleeves, my arms crossed in a self-soothing manner. After that day, the sweater had become a sort of good luck charm—or so we agreed upon as we lay panting on the tabletop. He started wearing it to a multitude of events and parties in the Capitol (basically any place in which he needed a pick-me-up, a reminder of what he had to come home to, who he had to come home to).

He even wore it the day we got engaged.

So many happy memories were associated with this one white sweater. So many times, those cloud-soft sleeves were wrapped around my body, suffocating me in the scent of him—if nothing else, at least that remained.

The last time he had worn it was the day of the Reaping for the Quarter Quell; the last time our lives were ever semi-normal. I had fought tooth and nail to reach him before he was escorted onto the train, despite being ordered, “No goodbyes,” by one of the Peacekeepers. In modest terms, I had significantly decreased his chances of reproduction.

When I reached Finnick, he had brought me into a kiss so harsh and fervent that my lips were bruised the next day. He then yanked off his sweater, leaving his upper body completely exposed to everyone around us in complete disregard for his trauma-induced fear of doing so, and shoved it into my hands.

I had just stood there frozen in bewilderment, watching as he called out, “I love you, sweetheart!” Two Peacekeepers were forcing him onto the train, but he too fought for the last word. “Don’t forget—I’m always with you!”

That statement had never been truer than it was now. For better or for worse.

My vision unblurred as I returned to reality. Dismal, grey light was peeking through the shutters that formed the balcony doors, the daylight hours seeming to tick away at a snail’s pace. I used to wish for the days to be longer, for time to move slower, so I could savour the moments I had of happiness and sunlight which used to be plentiful.

Why do wishes only come true when you grow to desire nothing but the opposite?

Slothfully, I crawled onto the unmade king-size bed, my limbs crumpling and balling to my chest as the side of my head hit the pillow. The imprint on the mattress beneath my body didn’t match my own. It was much larger and broader. How long would it take for the springs to forget his body weight and recoil back into place as though he never existed at all?

I inhaled the sweater’s scent with every breath I took (and I tried not to wonder how long it would take for his scent to disappear as well) and hugged my arms around my waist. No pain was worse than the fleeting moments I forgot the embrace was my own and not his.

Hours passed, and so did the evening. A beautiful orange sunset hadn’t slipped through the shutter’s cracks because the clouds never dissipated. Night-time brought no consolation either. Not even the stars or moon made an appearance. Everything that once gave me a shred of optimism was hidden behind a veil of gloom.

I knew tomorrow wouldn’t be any different—the weather, my mood, his absence. Because the end of autumn was closing in, and the days were becoming bleaker. Trees would start shedding their leaves; the leaves would start to die.

I hoped I would too.

I was still curled up on my side, my body aching with stiffness, when my face began scrunching into this ugly, twisted mess of despair. My tears were slow yet heavy, synonymous with the day I had incurred.

But then something strange happened.

Someone called my name.

No. That couldn’t be right. I was the only one who occupied a house in the Victor’s Village; the others had either relocated after the war or were… dead.

But there it was again—my name, distant and eerie, yet spoken with a tone people often used to beckon over and aid a frightened, injured animal. My vision blurred, both from tears and concentration on the voice.

“Hey.”

I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment my surroundings transformed into a kitchen, just that they had and that I was no longer in my bed but standing upright.

Ahead of me, in the distance, the sun was beating down on the crystalline water, and white frothy waves were cresting on the smooth, golden sand. It was a perfect day; not a cloud was in sight. The only blemish that smeared the blue sky was the reflection staring back at me from the window I gazed out of.

In my hands was a soup bowl and a damp dishrag.

“Sweetheart?” That once distant voice, concerned and beckoning, was standing right beside me.

Blinking, I snapped out of my daze and turned away from the window.

He stood tall beside me, despite being half hunched over the kitchen sink and scrubbing the last of the few dirty dishes stacked neatly on the bench top. His head was turned towards me, his enamoured sea-green eyes peering into my own as though he was searching behind them for what troubled me.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, standing up straight. His touch was warm and gentle as he reached for my hand, leaving soapy bubbles on my palm and fingers. “Where’d you go?”

Three odd things seemed to occur at once: first, I flinched away from his touch, overwhelmed by its paradoxical unfamiliar familiarity; second, I felt an inexpressible relief from seeing him standing before me, seeing his cheeks painted with a soft pink hue as though blood-red roses were hidden just beneath his skin.

The third was an onset of disorientation. I couldn’t tell you why I felt disorientated standing in my own kitchen with the love of my life, just, simply, that I did. There was an answer—it was close by, right under my nose, yet unreachable. We did this every day, didn’t we? We would eat meals together and then wash up together. So, why did I feel so unsettled?

I shook my head, dispelling the confusion that muddled my brain. “Sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t know what happened.” I laughed uneasily, without a hint of mirth.

He laughed too, not to poke fun or because he found my obvious turmoil amusing, but rather to comfort me, so I would feel less alone in my unease. “It’s alright,” he said gently.

Neither of us addressed what had happened; we simply resumed our routine of washing and drying in domestic silence. And as seconds turned to minutes, and as the sky remained sunny, I found myself smiling. All that mattered was that he was standing beside me and that the sun was beaming in the sky. So, I kept smiling.

After I finished drying the last dish, we began placing the plates, bowls, and an abundance of cutlery in their assigned drawers and cupboards, weaving past each other and giggling anytime we got in one another’s path. I was carrying a stack of white plates, eyeing the high cupboard they needed to go in, but before I could even attempt straining onto my toes, the plates were out of my hands and taken into another much larger pair.

The smell of sea salt and expensive cologne wafted from behind me as he towered over my shorter frame and placed the plates in the cupboard.

“I could have done that,” I said, smiling as I turned around to face him.

He had a playful glint in his eye. “Yeah, right. What are you, like, four feet tall?” he joked.

It was an extreme exaggeration since I was no way near that height, but I suppose everyone was miniature in comparison to him, being over six feet tall and all. I feigned open-mouthed offence, to which he gave the side of my head a quick, playful kiss of apology.

He then leaned against the counter with crossed arms. “Plus, when was the last time you actually put these dishes away? I’m surprised you even remember where they go.” He was grinning at me in a teasing manner, but every ounce of humour had drained from my body.

My eyes drifted to the floor.

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it—when was the last time I put the dishes away?

I couldn’t remember. In fact, I couldn’t remember what had happened this morning or the day before. Hell, I couldn’t even remember what we were doing before the dishes.

To be standing in a room, in a place you call home, and have a sense that nothing is in its right place, even though that is where everything has always been, is a disconcerting feeling beyond belief. To be perplexed by your own state of being—your existence—is even worse. I could almost describe it as a nauseating bout of vertigo.

My hands found the counter’s edge behind me, and I exhaled a shaky breath.

He stepped in front of me, one large and gentle hand reaching up to cup my jaw. “Are you okay?” he asked, his forehead wrinkling with shallow worry lines as he inspected my face. I hated that. I hated that I worried him so much. Sure, partners were supposed to lean on each other for support in a relationship (as he too did with me when needed), but I always felt so guilty doing so. Hadn’t he already suffered enough… pain in his lifetime? Who was I to cause him any more?

A sunbeam suffused the room, oozing across his face. The illumination lightened his eyes into a refreshing mint green, though, in contradiction, unearthed a pain that had been previously been concealed. Pain from what, I wasn’t sure. From concern regarding my unusual behaviour? Maybe a thought that was troubling him? Or perhaps he too was enduring a spell of confusion and had an inexplicable feeling that he was out of place.

Whatever his pain regarded, seeing it had rattled the deepest structures in which held my mind together.

It was then that I suddenly realised I hadn’t answered his question, so I gave him a wan “I’m-not-too-sure-myself” smile and then began slinking back to the sink window.

He followed behind me. I could feel him staring into the back of my head, could feel his brows draw together and his lips pull into a tight line, patiently waiting for a further explanation, though I wasn’t sure I could offer him one.

I hadn’t noticed before, but on the windowsill was a small picture frame containing a polaroid picture of us in bed—I was lying on his chest, half-naked and asleep, and he was looking down at me, smiling fondly yet with a sort of mischievous knowability. Running down the middle of the protective glass was a small, jagged crack.

I plucked the frame from the windowsill, inspecting the picture in my two hands. It seemed to uncover a place in my mind—once clouded by disorientation—I’d forgotten. Whether this place was real or imaginary was beyond me, but the fear I felt upon its recollection was incandescently genuine.

“Do you think,” I spoke tentatively, “people can have nightmares while they’re wide awake?” My thumb ran over the crack.

I might have heard him inhale a quiet, sharp breath, but it also could have just been the waves breaking on the distant shore. “Like a flashback?” he asked, an unidentifiable unease in his tone.

“No, not exactly.” I searched my brain for the right words, the right way to tell him how I was feeling, but it was difficult when I could only conjure vague fragments. And it was all I could do to tell it to him elliptically, as I knew saying the words in any other manner would shatter my heart.

“I had this vision,” I began, my words apprehensively staccato, “where I was somewhere else.” My eyes flickered over the picture. “Somewhere… bad. Everything was grey and heavy, and I was alone. Sometimes you were there, but you—you weren’t really you anymore.” I paused and looked up to find him staring at me in the reflection of the window. He looked pained; it was then suddenly hard to recollect a time when he didn’t. My throat started to constrict. “You were gone and…” my voice quietened to a broken wisp of wind, “you were haunting me.”

The room was silent.

He said nothing in response

The transparency of his reflection in the glass was so familiar—so haunting—and it was like another forgotten matter had been dredged from the depths of my mind. Stinging tears brimmed my waterline, and, due to my inability to bear the sight of his translucent appearance, I forced myself to turn around.

I glanced up at him, smiling weakly as I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head as if my need to apologise was nonsensical (even I was unsure of what I was apologising for), and he then pulled me into a tight embrace. His chin rested atop my head; my face was buried in his chest, and his arms held me like I was some dilapidated structure that relied on his support to remain upright. Part of me knew this sentiment was correct.

I expected his next words to be ones of consolation or reassurance, maybe an “I’m right here, sweetheart” or an “I’ll never leave you”. Instead, I felt his head turn and heard him say, “Think it’s going to storm?”

With a sniffle, I turned my head towards the window. The arms wrapped around my body tightened as if he somehow knew I would need the extra support. Because when I saw the wall of dark, opaque clouds rolling through the sky towards us, an unshakeable dread zapped through my heart.

My hands clung to the fabric of his cream-white sweater, which then brought to my attention that an inexplicable tingling sensation was spreading down the fingers of my right hand, numbing them.

Lightning flashed on the horizon, and the once serene waves began cresting violently on the shoreline. The dread grew.

Before my attention could drift too far, my name was called again.

I looked up to find those green eyes gazing down at me, swelling with tears. He was crying. Why was he crying? And why was his hair wet? His usually golden strands had darkened to a deep brown and were drenched with cold water that dripped onto my cheeks, and his hair was swept haphazardly across his forehead, a reflection of someone who had just endured an intense storm or had just been fighting for his life against a swarm of—of—

No.

My own eyes began to burn.

“It’s killing me to see you this way,” he spoke, every second word breaking and wavering in volume.

The world seemed to tilt on an axis. Return did the disorientation, ravaging my mind more violently now. “What do you”—My chest was rising and falling with heavy breaths—“What? What do you mean?” My lower lip was quivering, and my eyebrows were scrunched together in confusion. His words replayed in my head: It’s killing me to see you this way.

It’s killing me.

His hair was dripping—no longer with water, but with a thick, red substance that both dripped down and clotted on his skin. He didn’t look pained anymore; he looked like he was in pain.

It’s killing me.

But that can’t be right, can it?

It’s killing me.

Why?

It’s killing me.

Becausemy Finnickwas already dead.

I staggered backwards and out of his, no, this imposter’s arms. He stared at me as blood streamed down his forehead, pouring over his eyelashes and down his cheeks. I was going to be sick. This had to be some sort of cruel joke, a newly invented punishment from Snow. But that wasn’t right either: Snow was dead too.

“F…Fi…” I tried saying his name, my top teeth prodding the inside of my bottom lip, but I couldn’t make a sound.

He took a step towards me, and I almost stumbled onto the floor. “Remember what I told you?” he asked, though it sounded more like an urge.

I frantically shook my head. No, I didn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember anything.

Something dark and mountainous appeared in my peripheral vision, and an odious smell singed my nostrils. My head snapped to the left. Stacks upon stacks of plates and bowls mounded the kitchen sink, each crawling with maggots that were falling to the floor in white, wriggling heaps.

Nausea boiled in my stomach; horror brimmed my eyes.

I quickly turned away, my eyes meeting green again. His face was no longer stained with blood, and his hair was dry, shiny, and golden with life. I was as speechless as my face was drained of blood.

He took one more step toward me, but this time I didn’t back away, either frozen with fear or desperation for one last experience of closeness with him. My heart thrummed as he reached out to cup my face. It isn’t him, it isn’t him, it isn’t him, I repeated madly in my head. Oh, but it felt so much like him when his warm hand met my skin.

“I told you I’m always with you, sweetheart,” he murmured. And I knew engaging with him, in whatever form he took, affirmed my mental unwellness, but I couldn’t stop from leaning into his touch anyway. “Remember that.”

My cheeks were wet with tears. “I love—”

A bolt of lightning flashed, and thunder boomed throughout the house.

I was back in my bed.

My eyelids were heavy with sleep as they fluttered open. I felt detached, destabilised, and unsure of my existence in the world for I wasn’t sure which of the twoI was currently in. Real or fake?

A few minutes went by before I managed to get a grip on reality, which, in fact, was the real one. The Somewhere Bad. I pinched the corners of my eyes, not only finding them damp with fresh tears but also realising that my right hand—previously tucked beneath my head—was numb.

None of it had been real…

The entire time, my body was trying to alert me, to save me from the inescapable heartache I would feel upon waking. He hadn’t held me in his arms. He hadn’t cupped my cheek nor helped me wash the dishes. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere (not even in his own marked grave because there was nothing left of him to be buried).

Even despite seeing the familiar tall outline standing in the doorway, his features illuminated with each flash of lightning, I knew it wasn’t really him.

Rain was pummelling the roof, almost loud enough to subdue the perpetual rumbling of thunder (apart from the one sky-splitting thunderclap that had woken me). In another time, I would’ve been scared—of the raging storm, of my phantom lover who was watching from the shadows of our bedroom. But not now.

In recent months, I had found that no emotion, not even fear, surpassed the soul-crushing realisation that you have irretrievably lost the one thing you lived for.

On a defeated whim, and for the first time since his death, I let the singular, weighted word breeze past my lips.

“Finnick.”

It was a trembling plea, a desperate beckon.

And he indulged.

His footsteps were silent as he walked towards the bed. I couldn’t see his legs from my position, prompting me to wonder if he even had legs at all. Or did he only have legs when I could see them? That would then insinuate that if I couldn’t see him at all, he didn’t exist.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? In my case, the answer was simple: no, it didn’t.

It wasn’t really Finnick. It wasn’t even his ghost. It was my mind.

He reached the bed’s edge, and I scooted over to my side of the mattress, allowing him enough space to lie down on his. His weight neither dipped nor shook the bed as he laid down and turned on his side to face me. His eyes were sad, and I’m sure mine were too. We stared at each other for a long, long time, long enough for my fatigued body to start playing tricks on me.

If I focused hard enough, I thought I could hear the sound of his breathing (the wind was picking up outside), feel the warmth of his skin spreading onto the sheets (the remnants of my own body heat were left behind each time I moved), and smell the musky scent of cologne and sea-salted hair (the sleeves of his sweater were tucked beneath my nose).

Maybe for a moment—just one sickly, self-indulgent moment—I could pretend it was really him.

I inhaled deeply through my nose. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you would haunt the next owner of this house,” I whispered as light-heartedly as I could, my voice obscured by the heavy rain pouring onto the roof.

He smiled, and it was one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful things I had ever seen. I think I might have given him one in return, though I couldn’t be too sure because the concept of smiling had become so foreign. The last time I was truly happy was… the last night we spent together. In each other’s arms, safe and warm and together.

And then he was gone. Just like that.

Cressida, whom I had only spoken to once in Thirteen when the war ended, was the one to tell me how it happened. Katniss was too personal, too close to him; Peeta’s instability rendered conversation futile. So, I had asked Cressida to tell me every detail—every expression on his face, every word he screamed. I don’t know why. Maybe it was so I could cling onto those last few minutes where he was still alive and breathing, despite dying and bleeding; or so I could replay the moment over and over in my head, as if somehow, someway, I could change his fate.

“He talked about you all the time,” she had told me. “Actually, I don’t think he ever spoke of anything but you. No one minded, though. While we were out there, no one ever really smiled, but every time your name was mentioned, Finnick would get this great big grin on his face, and it was impossible not to look at him and start smiling as well.

So, we all started asking questions about you: ‘What colour is her hair? Her eyes? Where did you meet? What are her hobbies?’—just to see him smile… A week passed, and it was like we all knew you inside out. It was all we could do to hang on to some shred of happiness, even if it meant talking about a girl who, to all of us, was a stranger.”

I was inconsolable after that.

She kept talking, but my sobs had drowned out most of her words, so much that I had asked her to retell me everything later in the day, despite inducing the same outcome. So, she told it to me again, just as she did the day after that and the day after that and so on until I returned home to District Four.

“He also spoke about how you never felt comfortable living in the Victors Village. He had this idea that the two of you would move somewhere far away, outside the borders of District Four­, though he emphasised remaining by the sea was very important—something about how you looked while swimming during sunset and the water was all sparkly around you.”

At this point, she had been holding my hand, knowing full well how debilitating it was for me to hear. Then she had spoken with a quiet incredulity and a facial expression to match, as though she’d never encountered a love like ours before. “He wanted to build a house for you…”

He wanted to build a house for you.

And now he never would. Our love was too ephemeral for that to happen; destined to remain history; to be a memory.

Finnick's eyes stared into mine, the green hue now a dark grey from the overshadowing dimness of the room.

“I would’ve gone anywhere with you,” I whispered to him, placing my hand on the sheets between us. “I would’ve travelled thousands of miles away from this place. Would’ve lived in solitary, just the two of us, for the rest of our lives.” A warm tear tickled the bridge of my nose. His eyebrows scrunched together in shared anguish. “God, Finn, I miss you,” my voice broke. “I miss you so much.”

I contemplated crying, sobbing, screaming, or begging for him to come back, but I was just too tired. All my energy had been spent on grievance throughout the following day, and my eyes were growing heavier by the second as my body was sinking further into a state of relaxation.

Between slow blinks, I watched Finnick’s large hand move to rest atop my own, and at that point, I knew sleep would soon catch me because I swear I could feel his warm touch.

Images flashed through my mind—incomprehensible and melting together, yet somehow still graspable.

Sky blue water rippling with calm waves, the surface glittering in the setting sun. A white stonewall cottage fronted by soft, white sand and tall palm trees. Two plates of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast. Three pairs of footprints in the sand, one larger, one smaller, and another between them so delicately tiny I could fit them into the palm of my hand.

Sea-green eyes above me. Golden hair tangled between my fingers. Finnick standing in the wooden doorway of our white stonewall cottage wearing a cream-white sweater and rolled-up slacks. Finnick grinning deeply and then throwing his head back with laughter. Finnick standing in front of our bed, taking my hand in his and guiding me towards him. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick.

Finnick holding our child.

I was between worlds now, both indistinguishable from the other. My eyelids were drooping, and I was quickly growing insensate. Just before my eyes closed completely, I saw Finnick’s—he who wasn’t really my Finnick—lips move. It wasn’t in my bleak reality in which I heard him speak, but rather in my mind, and God, did his words offer the sweetest relief.

“I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

[lostintransist]

Seamstress | Part 5

Check out part 1 here.

Every time John brought in a shirt, pair of pants, or suit coat to get fixed it got harder and harder to stop yourself from touching him. Touching him casually, obviously. You weren’t going to up and grope the man. But fuck you bet it would be as amazing as your dreams alluded it might be. He would probably, rightfully, hit you if you did. John seemed bashful around you and his body.

Watching him pull off a sweater in the colder weather became a fascinating trial of self-restraint. The man had a happy trail and a small bump of flesh pushing above the waist of his pants. You wanted to lick that happy trail until he gripped you by the hair and bite his stomach, just gnaw on it. Hair covered him, not an excessive amount but a light dusting that you want to pet.

The sweater he handed you had a hole in the cuff. After he graced you with a smile, that you returned by rote, he turned to the back room. Watching him slip beyond the door every time he came to visit made you want to follow him. Dammit, your new vibrator couldn’t arrive fast enough.

You lived life fine without sex or orgasms until one John Price looked so delectable you wanted nothing more than to sink your teeth into him and hold on like a bulldog. The vibrator would hopefully take the edge off the yearning and sand the edge of your annoyance with dealing with your mother.

She had been hounding you since you had left her house ‘in a huff’ about Christmas. You had managed to dodge her calls, replying via text that you were busy with work and couldn’t talk. Mid-November the damn nearly broke. She sent your father to the shop.

Looking up as the door bell dinged you smiled when you saw your father.

“Hi, Pops! Surprise to see you here.”

Finishing your current project to the point of being able to step away you joined him in front of the counter. After a quick hug, you gestured for him to sit down.

“What brings you by?” You look him over. He sits tall even with age dragging at his bones and color leeching from his hair.

“Your mother sent me,” he says in his quiet, firm voice.

That is all it took. Leaning back in the chair you cross your arms and your legs. The sour look on your communicates your displeasure. Feeling fifteen again sat uncomfortably in your grown body.

“I don’t have anything to say to my mother right now.”

Pops gave you a slow blink that told you so much. He didn’t want to be here, but for the sake of his marriage, he would. His wife bullied and nagged at him until he came to play peacemaker.

“She is upset that you are not talking to her, says you are avoiding calls about Christmas.”

“I am avoiding calls about Christmas. I already called Nana and I will be spending Christmas with her.”

Both Pops’ brows lifted, he spoke to his mother once a month when your mother went to visit her mother.

“If you don’t mind I’ll send her gift up with you then if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind that at all.”

“Why the distance with your mother?”

“She doesn’t listen to me, or like me. She is always siding with my brother in every disagreement and I’m done. I hate the way she treats me and unless she is willing to go therapy I don’t want to talk to her.” The words coated your mouth like vomit.

You had never said these things out loud outside of therapy. In therapy, you ranted that your mother hated you and regretted having you but that wasn’t something you were willing to dump on your father.

“She is upset about the silence,” Pops hedges.

“She makes me upset every time I see her so this feels fair.”

The look your father sends you sends you back to the age of seven as you hold out the broken porcelain doll you had been told repeatedly to not touch. Before either of you can pick the tug-of-war conversation back up the door bell dings. Looking up you can feel the weight of the chat with your father fall away.

John stands in the doorway, a wooden box tucked under one arm. He stomps his feet on the mat and lets the door fall shut behind him. Eager to escape the chat with your Pops you stand.

“John! I wasn’t expecting you today.” He had been yesterday and tended to keep anywhere from four days to three weeks between visits. If he would be gone longer he made sure to mention.

Smiling at nodding once at your father he set his box on the counter. Stepping around to your side of the space you examine the piece with your eyes like you do with clothing.

“I wanted to confirm you liked the design before I started to stain and line it.”

John turned the jewelry box around, watching your face as you examined each corner and the neat construction of it.

You glance up at him, the same look in your eye that you get before you start touching the clothing while he is in it.

“Can I touch?”

“Of course,” he nodded.

Damn if only he could get you to say that about him instead of objects. Any part of him. Really, even his pinky.

The man you had been having an intense chat with stood, drawing John’s attention away from you. The older man stepped around the counter, placing a hand on your back and a kiss to your hair. John’s stomach met the top of his boots.

“Goodbye sweetheart, I will call you later this week to finish this chat.”

“There isn’t anything else I have to say on the matter Pops. She can go to therapy or she can leave me alone.” You don’t look up from slowly rotating the piece in front of you.

“She’s still your mother.”

“And I’m still her daughter, not that that has ever gotten me a modicum of love from her.”

He hums in response, giving John a nod as he heads past him into the cold.

As the ding rings out in time with the blast of cold air you slump forward onto folded arms on the counter.

“John, would you lock the door please?”

Without question, he does as requested. Stepping back to the counter he looks you over.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He probes gently.

“No,” you bite the word out at the countertop.

“Can I show you more about your gift then?”

John knew how to push and when to pull away from the pain and try again later.

“There’s more?” Your head pops up, eyes filled with tears.

Pulling out each drawer he showed you the differences. Two drawers had inserts to increase the storage space. Three were empty and one had been left half filled with wood. Tipping that drawer to John you lifted a brow.

“I know you mentioned you don’t wear rings often but it felt odd to not give you any storage space for them. My mum had heirloom rings she held onto and hated having no good storage for them,” he explained.

Setting the drawer down gently you cover your mouth with one hand and hug yourself tight with the other. John is confused until you let out a small sob, and then he is terrified. What the fuck did he do?

“Sorry, ignore me,” you sob out.

Fuck off, that had no chance of happening. Stepping around the counter John doesn’t wait to ask you for permission, pulling you into his arms.

You cry until you can pull the reigns back on the overly large emotions and shove them back in the box meant for therapy. Leaning back you move away from John. His hands drop slowly, keeping contact with you until they hang at his sides.

“Better?”

You sniff as you tip your head back and forth.

“Meh?”

Looking away from his probing blue eyes you pull a tissue from your shelf. Carefully blowing your nose, because you’ve already cried on the man no need to make it worse by being loud now, you keep your eyes down.

“Why don’t you tell me about it as you finish looking it over? I have more to show you,” John picks up a drawer, rotating it between his hands.

Filling your lungs as deep as you can you try and think of a way out of this. Seeing none within easy reach you decide to get to know him better.

“How about a truth for a truth?”

He glances at you from below his beanie.

“I won’t be sharing any state secrets no matter how pretty you ask.”

His deadpan delivery shocks a laugh out of you.

“What would I do with state secrets other than give myself an ulcer?”

John has a big laugh. You love it instantly.

“Fair point that.”

You trade truths as he shows you how to access the portion of the box that holds necklaces. The top of the box shifts forward. The back wall can be lifted out if a necklace falls from the hooks he will install. You tell John of your rocky relationship with your mother, and he tells you of the distant but decent relationship he has with his siblings.

“You’ve really thought of everything haven’t you?” You start to slide the drawers back into place.

“I have a lot of time on my hands on missions,” he holds out another drawer.

“Can you tell me what this is?” You point at the joint of the drawer you had taken from his hand.

“The joint?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t look like most furniture I see nowadays. I’ve seen it once on my great grandmother’s dresser drawers,” you look to him.

Seeing the words form in his mind is fascinating.

“‘S called dovetailing. Bit more work but holds joints better than glue alone like most pieces are made with anymore.”

Brushing a finger over the joint you are amazed by the smoothness and dare you say softness of the wood.

“This is lovely John. Much better than I expected. You will tell me how much I owe you when this is all done?”

Watching his eyes crinkle is a treat, even if his expression says he thinks you’re being silly.

“Don’t owe me a thing. Let me use your shop for naps for the low price of a fix to the clothes I bring in? This is the least I can do. You don’t even badger me for state secrets,” he winked at you.

Your cheeks have to be blushing, thankfully you can’t feel the heat radiating off them. Focusing on putting everything away you start speaking again.

“I will be gone the week of Christmas. I am going to be up north with my Nana. Did you possibly want my number so we can coordinate a gift exchange?”

“Don’t need to get me a gift,” John eyes you with suspicion.

“And you don’t need to give me this well-crafted box for free but we find ourselves at an impasse.” You lift a brow at him, liking the drop in your stomach as he narrows his eyes at you. “Do you want my number?”

“Yes, give me your phone and I will text myself.” He shifts from foot to foot, eyes tracing your features.

You pass your phone, number pad ready. After he punches his number in he calls himself instead, the phone carrier-assigned tone ringing out from his pocket.

Taking your phone back you smile at the connection to him.

“There, now you can just text me if you need a nap instead of stealing your men’s clothes.” Glancing up at him you continue, “At this point, I’m almost wondering if you are causing more tears just to come see me.”

John felt the alarm bells go off in his brain. You were onto him somehow. Play it cool John, you can bluff a terrorist cell you can do it to one woman.

“And if I am?”

You have the cutest nose scrunch as if you don’t believe him.

“I don’t think you are but just in case you better knock it off before they start hiding their clothes from you.”

John laughs again, keenly aware that he hasn’t laughed this much since Roach got so tipsy trying to out-drink Gaz that he couldn’t stand right. Gaz had also promptly fallen over when trying to prove he wasn’t that drunk.

“I’ll text you. This,” he placed his hand on the box, “Will be done after Christmas. Want to get together for New Year maybe?”

Smiling at him you folded your arms and tugged the inside of your lip between your teeth.

“Yeah, that sounds good. Stay safe out there John.”

“Always do.” He left with a wave and a smile, unlocking the door on his way out.

Masterlist

[little-diable]

Run – Jasper Hale (smut)

This is dark, please be aware of the warnings! Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated. Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Jasper is up for a chase to finally claim (y/n); basically just pwp

Warnings: 18+, smut, outdoor piv, rough piv, heavy dubcon, dark!Jasper, chasing/being hunted, choking

Pairing: Jasper Hale x fem!reader (2k words)

The sound of leaves being crushed beneath her boots rang in (y/n)’s ears. She had her eyes focused on the trail, surrounded by trees, as she kept on walking. She had been desperate for a distraction — some time away from her home and the walls that kept closing in on her whenever her thoughts began to wander.

Soft rain was falling from the sky, slowly soaking through her sweater, barely managing to protect her from the cold creeping up her limbs like a snake slithering from Eden. (Y/n) tried to keep herself focused on the steps she took, careful not to trip over branches and stones as her surroundings grew darker. She wasn’t a stranger to this trail; she had walked it numerous times before, but today it felt different, darker, and more haunting than all those times she had walked it with a friend.

Her body jerked to a halt as the sound of a branch snapping apart rang in her ears. Goosebumps rose on her skin, just like the hairs at the nape of her neck. She could instantly tell she wasn’t alone. Even though her mind told her that it had probably just been a deer, her gut told her something different. 

“Hello?” (Y/n)’s soft voice echoed through the dark forest, carried by the rain that now fell heavier, as if Mother Nature was warning her, telling her child to return home before she could lose her shot at this life. A shaky exhale left (y/n) as she slowly turned back around, knowing that it was time to leave this forest for good. But she didn’t get far, once again forced to a halt as her eyes found a pair of golden ones. “Jasper?”

The man stared at her; he was standing a few feet away from her, studying (y/n) with a smirk glued to his pale lips. His smirk had something dangerous about him — something that made her heart beat faster, telling her to prepare for whatever was about to come upon her. 

“Jasper? Are you alright?” Her voice wavered as her eyes stayed glued to Jasper’s features. She had always been interested in him — the one who had always managed to draw her closer without many words shared between them, the one who had always piqued her interest as if her body and soul knew that he’d do her good. At least until this very moment. 

“Run.” The second the words had left Jasper, (y/n)’s body forced her to run, stumbling down the trail as she ran as fast as her legs managed to carry her. Tears welled up in her eyes as fear began to nibble on her soul, whispering to her that her end was near, telling her that whatever Jasper was about to do to her would leave her trembling and panting. 

“You’re fast; that’s admirable.” He was suddenly standing in front of her, catching (y/n)’s frame as she collided with his frame. She was shaking like a leaf in his grasp, staring up at the man who still wore that sinister smirk paired with the look that told her she wouldn’t manage to escape him. 

“What do you want from me?” One tear managed to drip from her eye — a tear he caught with his thumb, wiping away the salty drop. Jasper forced her to move with him, allowing him to press her against an old tree. She was trapped between Jasper’s front and the tree, telling her that there was no escaping, forced to follow his every command.

“You’ve always been a frightened little thing, haven’t you, darlin’?” Jasper’s voice dripped with something she couldn’t pinpoint, drawing another shaky exhale from her parted lips. “I always felt your eyes on me, wondering what you were thinking about. Tell me, darlin’, were you scared of me?”

(Y/n) could only shake her head, unable to reply with words. It was true – she hadn’t feared him back then, drawn closer by her curiosity and the crush on him she had always fostered. Jasper’s chuckles forced her to flinch, staring up at him as he dipped his head down, his lips almost ghosting over hers. 

“And now? Are you scared?” It took her a second to react. Even though her mind told her to speak up and tell Jasper that she wasn’t scared, her body whispered to her to close the gap between them. There was no use in running; she could only win if she managed to distract him. 

She shifted her weight onto her toes to close the gap, letting her lips press against his cold ones, a shared kiss she had always dreamt of as a teenager — wondering how it must feel to be kissed by the mysterious guy. Jasper instantly reacted to the touch, pushing her against the tree once again while cupping her cheek with his right hand, while the other found her waist.

He forced her lips apart, letting his tongue meet hers in a possessive manner – she was his at that very moment, the one to follow his every command, the one to chase, the one to hunt, the one to own. The soft moan clawing through (y/n) left Jasper chuckling in glee, parting from her to give her a few moments to catch her breath while he stared down at her. 

“How about a deal?” Jasper murmured his words, while (y/n) was heavily panting, struggling to wrap her head around the past moments. She stared up at him with confusion tugging on her features, waiting for him to keep on speaking to explain to her what he wanted to do to her. “I’ll give you another shot at running, but if I catch you, I’ll get to fuck you out here.” 

“What?” Her words were followed by a few chuckles, not believing the words he had just murmured. But the hand finding her throat, pinning her head against the old tree, cut off any sounds from leaving her, forcing her to quiet down. 

“I’m not in the mood for jokes, darlin’. Do we have a deal?” (Y/n) was all too aware that he hadn’t told her about what would happen should she manage to escape, but deep down she was well aware that she couldn’t outrun him – not after the chase that had happened only minutes ago. 

The second she slowly nodded, Jasper gave her a push, letting go of her throat. Her body was aching as (y/n) began running, not daring to look back to try and get as much distance between her and Jasper. Her heart was pounding, and her lungs were begging for some air, but she couldn’t give in and was solemnly focused on running. Whatever was happening left her torn between fear and excitement; she was not used to seeing Jasper like this. 

He seemed like a predator, as if he had done this chasing thing before, knowing exactly how it would play out. (Y/n) could only hope that he hadn’t done this with other women, not liking the thought of Jasper claiming other women. While her thoughts began to wander, the thick trees blurred by, past her running self that would give in way too soon, unable to fight against her exhaustion. 

But before (y/n) could even think about slowing down, she was ripped to the ground, her eyes forced to meet his darkening ones. Jasper was hovering over her, straddling her aching body to keep her trapped once again. 

“I won.” Those were the last words Jasper spoke before pulling her back onto her feet. Everything moved too fast; one second she was pressed against his front, and the next he had her back pressed against another tree. His tongue fought its way back into her mouth, not giving (y/n) a chance to protest as he undid the button of her jeans. “I can’t wait to claim your cunt; I bet you’re already needy for me, aren’t you?”

Something inside of her forced (y/n) to shake her head, momentarily overcome by fear as it began to dawn on her what would happen in the next moments. It was true, her body begged for him, wanting to feel him buried deep inside of her while he fucked her against the tree, but her mind forced her to snap out of her hazy thoughts. This wasn’t right. It shouldn’t be like this. But fuck, she wanted him — every part of him. 

“No? You aren’t? So my fingers won’t be coated in your arousal when I touch you?” He pushed his hand into her panties, groaning at the feeling of her arousal sticking to her folds. She had been dripping for him since their first kiss, overcome by her needs — the deep need to be claimed by Jasper in the most primal way imaginable. “You liar.”

She choked on her gasps as he pushed two fingers into her tightness, while his cold lips found her pulsepoint. (Y/n) heard him chuckling, a sound that sounded all too far away as she was sucked into a trance, solemnly focused on his touch. His cold thumb found her pulsing bundle, circling it with quick movements to leave her shuddering. 

“I should punish you for lying to me, but for tonight, I’ll let it pass. I’ve been dreaming of your tight cunt for too long.” And then everything began to spin, one second he had his fingers buried inside of her, and the next he had pulled away to force (y/n) to step out of her jeans. Within seconds, he had picked her up, only to force his cock into her tightness.

Both moaned in unison at the unfamiliar sensation, bodies being united for the first time, finally giving in to their longing. Jasper fucked her against the tree as if it was their only shot, the only moment they’d get together, a man on a mission, while (y/n) lost all grasp on reality. Tears dripped from her eyes, running down her cheeks as if every fear was leaving her body, slowly allowing her to relax. Whatever power Jasper held over her, it guided her like an invisible force, forgetting every darkening sensation.

“You’re even tighter than I thought; you’re perfect for me.” She gasped against his lips, tugging on her blonde curls to try and stop herself from giving in too fast. Jasper fucked her rougher than she had ever been fucked before; he didn’t care about bruising her or the air she needed to breathe, letting his hand rest on her throat all too carelessly. 

(Y/n) should have cared; she should have pushed him away, should have tried to leave him, but her body wasn’t ready to part with him. Every fiber of her body was aching for him, needing to be as close to him as possible — the man who had owned her heart for years, the one she’d think of in desperate moments. 

Today she didn’t care about her dignity; today she didn’t care about being treated right; she was only focused on her arising high. Her orgasm would claw through her way too quickly, urged closer by her shaking fingers, finding her clit, rubbing it fast enough to give herself the needed push.

Jasper watched her come undone with a smirk, grinning at (y/n) while he kept burying his cock inside of her. She stared up at him as if he was the devil, forcing her to realise that she was his from today on, a deal she couldn’t pull away from. He came with a groan, letting his forehead press against hers while their bodies stayed connected. 

“Don’t wander through this part of the forest if you don’t want to be chased; remember that, darlin’.”

[divinehedons]

call it fate, call it karma

next: hard to explain | masterlist

pairing: bd!joel miller x f!reader

word count: ~4.3k

summary: it’s summer. and on a weekend visit to your college beau, you meet a texan contractor with wandering eyes. what he sees is what he wants. what happens if he wants you?

warnings: this is a dark, explicit fic, minors DO NOT interact. big, girthy age gap (reader is in her early twenties, joel is in his late 40s to early 50s), masturbation, possible dubious consent, explicit p-in-v sex, fingering, cheating(? but it's mutual HAHAHA). please let me know if i missed anything!

reblogs and comments are much appreciated, please let me know what you think!

Finals, madness, nights of mindless regurgitating, and finally, peace. Emerging from your last exam and into the allure of summer break, you try and picture the weekend you had planned with Christopher: a weekend at his father's house, with the promise of a pool and actually, finally spending time together, and driving you home by Monday while he returns to his mother's place.

The two of you pull into Texas, discussing what to have for lunch, whether or not you should bring some for his father. "It'll be nice, no?" you tell him as you add the extra box of pizza. "And hey, if he doesn't want it, let's devour it over movies in your room." He smiles at you, and you ruffle his hair just as he parks in front of the familiar house.

When you're reintroduced to the older mister Miller, you see him at the tail-end of a phone call just as your presence is announced. "You've met before, we had her at Thanksgiving," Christopher reminds, carrying your bags in. 

You hear a woman's voice, just slightly, from the phone (... mean it, no strange women…), mister Miller looking up with a rushed, "I got it, I got it…" before finally setting the phone down. He offers you a warm smile, nodding in recognition before welcoming his son with a shoulder squeeze. He says your name, and you try not to smile at the way he says it with that almost-indistinguishable drawl of his. "Still not tired of him, sweet pea?"

You remember that Thanksgiving. How you and mister Miller bonded over when you drove Chris's car back and panicked over a flat tire you caused while he was off with some buddies. You bonded because he taught you how to fix a tire that afternoon, him laughing at your small hands struggling with such big boy paraphernalia as you coined it.

You smile back at him and shake his hand. "Thanks for letting me stay over the weekend, sir," you say just as your partner disappears upstairs to set down your things. Just then, he tuts, taking a slice out of one of the pizza boxes, along with a newly opened bottle of beer.

"Told ya, doll. It's just Joel. Don't have too much fun, yeah?"

—

Joel didn't mean to stare when he last saw you. When you were kneeling over, lowering the jack after he taught you how to change a tire. You were in your colleague sweater, but your pants… dear God, your pants. Your pants that perfectly hugged the curve of your ass struck him dumb. He barely managed to shake himself out of it to tell you that youbdid a good job.

But since then, he had been imagining your ass. It's as if the sight of a college girl turned him right back to a drooling, horny teenager that never had enough. He did keep his hands to himself, never making a move. And he would've been happy to let you and Christopher be if he didn't start picturing you in those lonely nights when the house is quiet and he has his cock in his hand.

But it was impossible.

Just the thought of your ass cheeks red, bearing a handprint that perfectly fit the contours of his own hands, your curves, your flesh, the smell of your skin— such was the callings of his desire as he bursts, imagining that glass-eyed look on your face if you were taking his cock.

There was no shame in it, when he did finally give in to his desires. How could he not? You had fuck eyes for days, eyes that, if he was being completely honest, would damn God himself to the very gates of hell. There was no shame, too, when he realized just how much his own son wasn't taking care of you.

So seeing you again, now sprawled in a lovely little swimsuit as his own son holds you by your waist as you wade into the pool. He watches from the kitchen, knowing his looks would go unnoticed in the shade. It was burning outside, and it was still Friday. The street was quiet with everyone still away for school and work. He just couldn't stay away from you. When Christopher told him you were with him, he had cancelled plans, even work, on a Friday, under the pretense of bad health and multiple other excuses. He knows, for a fact, that he'd take every chance to see those fuck eyes of yours even if you never asked.

He knows, too, if he was getting you in his bed, he had to be creative about it.

Still, Christopher could be a little more discreet. Instead, there you were, nodding to him as he corners you in his own pool in his own house, reaching down to pull your bottoms aside to fuck up into you. He's gotten to know your quirks enough. How your creased brows indicate your frustration. Or how your shoulders tense from apprehension. And right there, where Christopher attempts to find his own orgasm without even a care in the world for your own, you're so frigid he would think you bathed in the Arctic.

The charade doesn't last long. Three minutes, by his count, until you're pulling away, swimming to the nearest floatie to lounge while Christopher tires himself out with a few laps. It's then that Joel pretends to swoop in, bringing out a few drinks in service of the two of you, slipping on some sunglasses so you wouldn't notice him ogling your willing body as you thank him.

"Got you that grape drink you liked last time, doll. Help yourself to more in the fridge if you want it."

"Thanks m-" he lowers his glasses to playfully raise his brow at you, "J-Joel. Thanks, Joel…" He flashes you a smirk, placing his glasses back on as he seats himself on the nearest spot, pretending to be in need of some sun.

"Chris, your mom's waiting for you to call," he reminds his son, leaning back as he sips from his beer. Just then, your beau sits up, wiping his mouth as he stood, beelining for the nearest door inside.

"Thanks for reminding, dad!"

Alone, with you, like this, Joel notices the way you rubbed your thighs together, the way you sighed after each sip. The hidden frustration as you floated about on his pool, displayed like a delectable centerpiece. It was clear as day: you didn’t get to cum and it’s bothering you. It took a few more minutes before he spoke.

"So why'd you fake it, sweet pea?"

The question comes to you out of nowhere. Your head shoots up and you look at him with those wide, bewildered doe eyes as you immediately stammer to try and find the right words. You try and play it off with a chuckle, but you feel your cheeks warm up. "What- wha…"

He chuckles himself, sipping from his bottle before leaning back with crossed arms. "It was three minutes of him wriggling, darlin'. No one was going to cum from that." He watches you sit up completely, every fiber at rest jumping into action.

"You saw that?" Your sweet voice, Joel noted, trembling from what he only assumes as embarrassment riddled with shame. "I… I-" You clear your throat momentarily, biting your lip gently before sighing, turning over. “You kind of answered your own question, Joel.” There is a beat of silence, palpable and tense as you feel his gaze wash over your vulnerable body.

The two of you hear Christopher, blundering his way back to the pool now that the phone call was out of his way. Joel sighs,getting up with a stretch as he passes by you again to disappear into the house.

“Our secret, doll. I’m nice that way.”

–

Over dinner, Joel speaks to you with a smile, perhaps he was feigning interest. Perhaps he truly was interested. Whatever it was, you feel the palpable weight in the air at the knowledge of what you shared with the older Miller. Christopher, clueless as he is, spends most of dinner with his hand on your thigh, chiming in every now and then between bites.

“So what was the exam you took before the two of you drove here?” Joel had been asking while you sipped through your drink, your brows raised as you smiled.

“It was some English Literature course," you said, meek as ever, managing a small smile up at him as he hums with interest.

"Ah. So that Shakesword guy or something? What did'ya like from him?"

"Shakespeare, actually… And I loved Macbeth."

"When we met, she was nose deep in Hamlet, if I remembered right." Christopher soothed his hand up and down your thigh, to which you nodded in agreement.

"Tell me about Macbeth."

You take a deep breath, feeling both eyes on you as you carefully swallowed down the lump in your throat. "It's the usual things. War, misery, curses, witches. But Lady Macbeth… that was where it was." He tilts his head to the side, nodding at you to continue. "She demanded divinity to transform her into a man. To take up the mantle from her weak husband. To take charge."

He chuckles softly, almost teasingly and knowingly, even. "Shit, doll, didn't think you had that many words in ya."

The rest of dinner goes by in relative ease, with Christopher letting you know he's meeting with some buddies tomorrow after he drops you off in the center of town. He promises, however, that he'll pick you up at three in the afternoon.

As you lay in bed that night, you glance haphazardly at your phone as it lights up in the late night silence. A message from Joel, a contact you saved under Mr. Miller back when you met over Thanksgiving. The message was simple enough.

Sweet dreams, Lady Macbeth.

—

Three in the afternoon on Saturday, you're seated where Christopher says he'll pick you up, bearing a bag for the sweater you bought him. You messaged him fifteen minutes earlier. On my way to the bench, bubba! Without a response, you think he's driving.

Above you, dark clouds seem to gather where once it was only bright summer sun. You quietly grip your bags tighter as you count in your head. He'll be here soon… I'll be out of the rain in no time.

You quietly count down the seconds. Six hundred. Five hundred ninety-nine. Five hundred ninety-eight…

Three P.M. turns to four, then four-thirty. You message Christopher two more times.

It might be raining soon, I have an umbrella!

Make sure you're not in the rain too much!

You stand under the umbrella, pacing every now and then, trying not to appear skittish, specially when the thunder and lightning began to roll across the sky, making the hair on your arms stand on edge. It was troubling, to be outside during a thunderstorm like this.

You count in increments of six hundreds. Ten minutes pass by again. Then twenty. Then thirty.

A particularly raucous lightning makes you jump out of your skin, and you swallow your pride, dialing the next person nearest you. The nearest person you'd think would answer.

And he does, in a record of two rings. He says your name and you audibly sigh in relief. "What's the matter, doll?"

"Joel, uhm… has Christopher answered your calls? We were supposed to meet at three-"

"Christ, doll, it's storming. He still hasn't gotten to you?"

You hesitate. You wonder if you were going to be too harsh on your beau if you admitted he wasn't. Just then, another strike of lightning has you confessing. "He… he wasn't answering my texts, I don't know where he is."

You hear him cuss at the other end, along with the sound of his keys and his heavy steps.

"Stay put for me, sweet pea. Where are you waiting?"

You tell him, and you don't even count to three hundred before he's pulling up in front of you, opening the passenger door and yelling at you to get in.

"Christ, doll, you're freezing! How long were you out there?" You feel his gaze on yours as you attempt to say your thanks, still visibly shaking from being out in the rain so long, combined with the fear of lightning. He immediately reaches back to retrieve the towels he had brought exactly for this scenario, covering you up in them as you finally manage. “Thanks, Joel. D-did… did Chris leave a word, or anything? I’ve been trying to reach him…”

You don’t miss the way he tries to hold back a smirk, buckling your seatbelt as he sighs. “He said he’s drinking with some buddies, doll. But I thought he already told you. He didn’t mention you’d be needin’ a ride or anythin’.” He pauses, as if for dramatic effect. “Actually, it sounded really loud when he called." You look right back at him, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you processed his words.

Oh. Oh.

“H-he probably just forgot. Or something,” you try to justify as Joel begins to steer the two of you through the storm and back to his house. “I just hope he doesn’t get sick from the weather or anything…”

“God, sweet pea, you’re just so goddamn sweet even if he’s an asshole, huh?”

It shuts you up for the rest of the ride. He escorts you inside, telling you he’ll hand you a set of clothes. That you should be rinsing off immediately. You do not see the way he stares at your soaked shirt, your skin so fucking close and yet so far. You obey, so quickly that it makes his cheeks hurt from smiling. It was so natural for you, and it makes him absolutely feral. Most of all, you’re so vulnerable right now. And it hatches a wretched plan in his head before he could stop it.

He takes a shirt and boxers from his own closet, under the guise of wanting to keep yours and Christopher's stuff private. And he opens the door, expecting to see you mostly naked. Oh, God, sweet pea, I'm so sorry! Feign innocence, caring and comforting.

What he didn't expect was you seated on the counter, a photo on the screen of your phone. One of his son, your beau, holding another woman that was so clearly not you, posted by some friend. He didn't expect to see you teary-eyed, cheeks bright red as you hiccup.

"I… I guess that's why… he wouldn't pick up…"

He sighs, tilts his head to the side. "Oh, sweetheart…" He rushes to you, embracing you gently, damp clothes and all, into his warm arms as he shushes you gently. You try to resist him when he begins to help you with your clothes. You try to resist him when he offers tenderness. But it's all so rare, so careful, with such gentleness that you find yourself agreeing with anything he asked. Let me draw you a bath, doll, meaning he'll watch you soak. Let me help you with that, meaning he wanted to be the one to strip you down.

"He never treated you like this, doll, did he?" The look on your face is enough to answer him. He clicks his tongue, leaning his ear close as he slips your unclasped bra down your shivering frame. "Oh, darlin'. Let me show you how a lady should be treated."

It's how you end up in the warm bath he had prepared, settled between his legs with his mouth on your neck, his hands running up and down your sides until you were shaking and giggling from the touch. "Pretty li'l thing like you shouldn't be neglected. He's a damn fool."

He begins to ask for things while he's already doing them. He drifts his hands to your breasts and whispers, "Okay if I touched ya like this?" He pinches your hardened nipples and says, "Feels good, doesn't it, darlin'?" You wriggle in his grasp, ticklish and alight, tethered in the receeding waves of emotion as he draws you into some semblance of relaxation, smoothing out each tense muscle as he speaks to you with such unabashed softness.

Your first moan escapes you before you could stop it. One hand flies to your mouth as you immediately attempt to pull away from Joel. And yet, he holds you, chuckling right against your ear that you feel the smirk on his face spreading against the curve of your ear.

"I bet he never made you feel that good, baby doll."

You try and argue, left stammering just as his left hand holds your left leg up against your torso, his right hand moving down to cup you by your cunt. You feel him hardening behind you, pressed against the small of your back, grinding against your skin there. He kisses the back of your ear, chuckling as you struggle to hold back the rest of your moans. "Come on, doll, make some noise for me… otherwise, we'll be here all night, because I'm not stoppin' 'til you use that fuckin' mouth of yours to prove I'm better than him.

He dreamt of this. Your willing frame whining and moaning from every touch he gives you. You could not even conceal the fact that you were on edge and you were wet. He spreads you with his fingers, pausing as he nibbles on your earlobe before finally, finally sinking his fingers right where you're pink and lovely and warm. The fact that you felt bursting from just two fingers had you shivering with excitement, a surprised squeal escaping your mouth.

"J-Joel… Joel…"

"You can take it, sweet pea, stay close to me…" His left arm relaxes its hold on your left leg, drifting closer to begin rubbing soft, languid circles right on your aching clit as you lean your head back and sigh dreamily, feeling that familiar ascent into almost-forgotten bliss. It was something you only felt when you fucked yourself. It was something that eluded you in your sex life. You feel Joel's eyes on your face; when your features contort with the pleasure, when your hands palm at his beard, pulling at him needily to plant a kiss to your wanton mouth.

It's almost too quickly that you're cresting, feeling your sides burn from want as you grind into his hands in an effort to cum faster. And just when it was three seconds away, he tears his hands off of you, revelling in the sounds of your protest, your whining as you looked up at him. Already, too, he's getting out of the tub, draining the water as he picks you up in his arms.

"I know, I know what you need…" Still, you whine, thighs rubbing together. "But if I'm making you cum, sweet pea, I'm doin' it right by making you cum all over my sheets. Got it?" You nod, wrapping your arms around him as he carries you, bath water dripping and all, taking you to his bedroom with his slept-in sheets and oscillating fan to the side. He lays you among the sheets, smirking as he trailed one hand down your front, against your skin with butterfly caresses. Like an observer in some strange gallery, the fount of art and beauty exhibited for his own decrepit sensual pleasure.

“Y’wanna tell me what’cha want, dollface?” You try. You try to look away from his fingertips running up and down your stomach, knowing the power beneath that skin. You feel the restraint on his face, along with that smirk you just can’t seem to wipe off of him. “Yeah… you’re just absolutely desperate for me, no?”

“Want you… please…”

“Where d’ya want me? Here?” He drifts his hand to your neck, giving the slightest squeeze. You whine, and he drifts his touch to your willing mouth. Two fingers, delving into the warm wetness of your tongue, the softness of the inside of your cheeks. “Certainly not here… you’re certainly not mouthy.” Then he drifts his touch to your stomach, drifting lower, lower, and lower… “That’s it. I’m getting warmer, yeah?” He chuckles, his free hand moving to turn your face towards him as he looks at those softened features, your willingness laid bare before him. “What do you want from me? My cock? My mouth?”

It’s so much attention, all-encompassing, and all at once. You wonder if his touch strikes like lightning. And if it didn’t, then why does he make you quake to your very bones? He continues his teasing, pushing and prodding at you so closely where you want him, but never close enough. The charade continues before you eventually find the courage, eventually pushed to the brink of such wanton need.

“Both.” You grit your teeth, feeling the warmth coating your cheeks as you whine. “Both, Joel, please.”

He chuckles darkly, rewarding you with a bruising kiss, beard digging into your cheek, your chin, your body spread eagle and willing. “That’s a good, fuckin’ girl…” He rewards you by settling between your legs, spreading you wide open, and fucking his tongue on your weeping cunt. His growls emanate against your willing flesh, making you tremble, the vibrations otherworldly as he pushes you right through your first orgasm that weekend. One, you hoped, that wouldn’t be the last. “You’re so fuckin’ easy and he can’t even make you cum? Fuck, doll…” You squeal, fingers tangling into his hair as your hips grind, chasing waves of that sweet release until your eyes roll back, your body surrenders, and you are left limp with from his minstrations.

“We’re not yet done, doll. Think y’can handle more of me?”

It’s when you see that dark look on his face, A shadow hard to miss once you saw it. He kisses his way up to your face, wrapping your legs around his waist. He does not waste time, immediately pinning you down so he can fuck his hard cock into you, letting your moans and whines echo into the empty house. The stretch is glorious, his cock hitting places you did not know could be reached before. And all the while, he’s watching your face and your body contorting to the sensations you could not explain. Body electric magnified, body electric divine. He thrusts once, twice– and already, you were reeling in another orgasm.

He calls you beautiful, and he makes you understand that you are– that the iniquity of others was not your doing. That you deserved to feel good and light and wonderful. All while he sinks his teeth against your shoulder, your arm, sucking hickeys throughout the expanse of your skins, marks you would not be able to explain. It would have continued that way, and it should have, had Joel not heard the crunching of gravel on his driveway.

He pauses, shushes you gently, cupping your face as you whined desperately, clawing against his bare chest as he clears your hair from your face. “You’re gonna have to keep quiet f’me, doll. Think ya can do that?” You nod desperately, taking one hand to press against your mouth, anything to make him move again and give you one more release. One you were so desperately close to. “You don’t want him to hear us, did’ya?”

It’s when you realize, when you recognize the familiar heavy footsteps of the man who abandoned you, the lover who should be doing this. You looked up at Joel with a panicked gaze, his palm pressing harder against your mouth when you began to make some noise.

“I don’t have the patience to tell ya again. Don’t make this harder for yourself, baby doll.”

It’s when he fucks you with abandon, barely concealing his own moans as you tremble in his hold, locking your legs around his waist as he thrusts. Despite only one or two light groans escaping him, you see how tense his jaw had become, clenching, grinding beneath the skin. You know he’s close, and yet he waits for you, reaching down to rub your aching little clit. He rubs you repeatedly until the riptide of pleasure swallows you whole. Your eyes gloss over, a singular, weak whimper escaping through your self-censorship, your warm breath absorbed by Joel’s palm.

Just a few moments more, and his cock buries deep into you, silencing himself by sinking his teeth into the curve of your shoulder. It is a way to silence himself, to relax, to completely surrender his orgasm to you. His warm spend fills your aching walls, his body falling against yours as he sighs.

Just then, you hear, right across the hall. You hear Christopher. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He steps out into the hallway. It’s followed with him raising his voice. (Hey dad! Have you heard from her?) Joel manages a soft chuckle into your ear. “Fucking asshole, no?” he whispers against you as he takes a deep breath.

“Thought’cha were meetin’ her at three?” he manages, and you’re shocked at how composed he was still was, and yet how possessive his hold on you had become.

If he gets to have you for five more minutes, he’ll take it. The truth was, it felt like you belonged right there in his bed, sheltering his cum within your warm walls as you demand affection, soft in aftercare. Call it fate, even if it’s such a loose term. Were you really fated for him when he took you for himself?

When Christopher leaves, he chuckles, collapsing against you again as his breath escapes him in ragged increments. You fall asleep almost immediately, as if you found home in his week-old sheets.

Call it fate, call it karma. He’d still fuck you again if he had the choice.

[hoshipills]

Sweater weather

Pairing: Jeonghan x fem!reader

Genre: pure fluff

Summary: Jeonghan wants to make it official with you.

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: corny as shit. a lyric is a bit suggestive but its barely anything. not at all proofread

Note: I wrote this for pure fun, I don't know if it is good enough.

~~~

Jeonghan sat before the computer, tired after working since morning. He stretched his hands and yawned. His eyes caught yours, equally tired. You flashed a smile towards him, causing his face to light up. You grabbed a few files and walked towards the elevator. Seizing the moment, he quickly glanced towards Sana, your best friend, and slid his chair towards her, ready to interrogate.

"Sana," he called her name in a low whisper, which made her look back with a frown. "What do you want?" she asked, turning towards him completely.

"What is ___'s favourite song?" he asked quietly, only making her furrow her eyebrows more. "Why?" she asked, and he rolled his eyes in response. "Just tell me, I’m planning something," he said simply.

She opened her mouth to question more but stopped herself, realizing he was planning another date.

Jeonghan had asked you on a date almost a month ago. Since then, you had gone on three other dates, but it was never made official.

"When will you ask her to be your girlfriend?" Sana asked. Jeonghan smiled slyly, "Perhaps this time," he said, and Sana almost squealed loudly. "You better do," she muttered.

He just nodded. "Now tell me her favourite song."

She moved her chair closer to him. "She loves 'Sweater Weather' by The Neighbourhood," she said after thinking for a while.

Jeonghan nodded his head and moved back to his computer before you could return.

~~

You dolled up in a pretty light blue dress, throwing on a sweater since it was too cold outside. Smiling to yourself, you made your way towards Jeonghan's apartment. He had invited you over, and it was the best thing that happened all day. It had been a pretty tiring day, but you knew he would make things better.

You rang the bell of his door, waiting for him to open it. He did after a couple of seconds, and you sucked in a breath looking at him. He wore a simple black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, his hair messily brushed. He still managed to look effortlessly good

"Come in," he said, and you stepped inside. You let out a gasp at the sight. The living room was dimly lit, with a few scented candles on the table.

You immediately recognized the smell—those were the candles you gave him on your last date. The table also had a bouquet, which he took and handed to you as soon as you walked in. You gazed at them, your heart warmed by his gesture.

"Jeonghan, these are beautiful," you said, and he chuckled, his laugh ringing in your ears.

"I know," he said, pulling you by your hand to the couch. Just when you thought things couldn't get any better, he went near the table, tapped something on his phone, and a song started to play. Your eyes widened at the familiar sound.

And all I am is a man. I want the world in my hands : the song began.

He sat next to you. "Sana told me it's your favourite," he said.

You looked him in the eyes, and he raised his eyebrows. "What?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

Listening to this song was your most favourite thing, but listening to it with him was somehow better. You smiled softly, feeling a warmth spread through you. You shook your head, unable to speak.

You wanted to pull him into a tight hug, hold him close. "Do you wanna dance?" you asked out of nowhere.

"To this?" he asked, genuinely surprised.

"We can dance to anything if we want to," you said, forcing him to stand up and dragging him to the middle of the room.

Touch my neck and I'll touch yours

You put your hands around his neck, mimicking the lyrics of the song softly playing in the background. It made him let out another chuckle. "Following the song, are we?" he teased, and you playfully took back your hands. He caught your hands right back, settling them in their previous place.

" no backing away now.", he said and you rolled your eyes at his antics.

One love, two mouths One love, one house No shirt, no blouse Just us, you find out

The song continued to play, its melody filling the room as you swayed with him. You let the lyrics hit your ears, your eyes locked on his pretty eyes.

He suddenly turned you around, your back hitting his chest, one of his hands snaking around your waist, the other sliding onto your hand, interlocking his fingers with yours.

His mouth was near your ear when he whispered, "Be the luckiest person in the world by becoming my girlfriend." Your breath hitched. It was true; you would indeed be the luckiest person. But you couldn't help but hit him gently in the chest with your elbow at his cockiness.

"Could you be a bit nicer while asking?" you said.

"Ouch," he exclaimed dramatically, and you giggled, feeling like a high school student again.

"Is it a yes?" he asked hopefully.

You acted like you were in deep thought, though you perfectly knew the answer. "Ummm," you mused, drawing out the moment for a bit longer. "I need time to think," you said, wanting to tease him. He let out another chuckle right in your ear.

You turned around to face him, your hand still locked with his.

And if I may just take your breath away I don't mind if there's not much to say

You looked at the locks of his hair, the way a few strands fell over his forehead.

Sometimes the silence guides a mind To move to a place so far away

Your eyes moved to his pretty face, as if it was carved by the gods themselves to look so angelic.

The goosebumps start to raise The minute that my left hand meets your waist

The look in your eyes was enough to let him know the answer, but he waited for you to say it, feeling the way you gazed at him.

And then I watch your face Put my finger on your tongue 'cause you love to taste

You moved your face closer to his. "I would love to be your girlfriend," you whispered and then kissed him, your lips perfectly moulding with his. He smiled into the kiss, wrapping his hand around your waist to pull you closer.

These hearts adore, everyone the other beats hardest for

He traced his fingers on your warm sweater as he pulled back. "finally.", he whispered, more to himself than to you. You smiled, pulling him in for another kiss.

Inside this place is warm outside it starts to pour

[babybluebex]

venus pt.2 | angus tully x fem!reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: you and angus pilfer from the chapel on your first night alone together at barton, and, after angus gets hurts and drags you into his lie, you're reminded of the worst moment of your life. not to worry, though; angus manages to soothe your sorrows, while simultaneously confusing the hell out of you. PART 2 OF ? (14k words) 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: angus tully (the holdovers, 2023) x fem!reader 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: canon compliance (this is a complete rewrite of the film, just with the added reader insert), lots of swearing, 70s ideals about feminism (which YES is a warning), mentions of grief/loss, drug use and drinking, graphic descriptions of injuries, a tiny little morsel of fake dating yum yum, is anyone else familiar with the spider game grumps bit? spider punch! spider kick! spider...? 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: icymi, i'm splitting this fic up into several smaller parts, just bc i'm not sure tumblr will actually let me post one big chunk of text the way i wanted to (it might exceed the character limit eesh) ((also i didn't wanna make yall wait forever for another part of this hehe)) if i missed any warnings/tags, pls dm me and let me know if you think i should add something! other than that, thank u for ur patience and enjoy!

The first evening of just you and Angus alone felt like an extended stint in hell. He was still cold and bitter, hardly speaking at all at dinner, and it made your skin crawl. You hated the silence, the feeling like you had done something wrong, even though you knew that you hadn’t, and, after dinner, in the television room, you sat next to Mary as Angus sat away from everyone else, trying to pretend like he was reading. You knew better than that, though; every time you chanced a look at him, his eyes weren’t following the lines on the page and he looked… Tired. Staring off into space, obviously lost in thought. 

He only spoke when Hunham mentioned something about writing a monograph, inquiring why Hunham didn’t just write a full book, and Hunham laughed at him. “I’m not sure I have a whole book in me,” Hunham chuckled, and Mary gave you a forlorn look, reading your mind. 

“You can’t even dream a whole dream, can you?” Mary mumbled, and Hunham fixed his jaw firmly but said nothing in return. 

The room at night was cold and lonely. You put on a sweater and two pairs of sweatpants before you slid into bed, looking out the window at the inky black night. Every so often, you would hear the wind howl outside and see fat snowflakes pass by the window, and eventually your eyes slipped closed, and you drifted off into an uneasy, blank sleep. 

It felt like moments later that you heard a whispering shuffle, and a sudden hiss of your name roused you. You winced at the light that streamed through the ajar door from the hallway, and you squinted to see Angus’s silhouette. “What d’ya want?” you mumbled groggily. 

“Come on,” Angus said, jerking his head towards the hallway. His hair was messy, wearing his winter coat, and your sight drifted down to his hands to see him carrying a large, silver flashlight, and— 

“Are those— Why do you have Hunham’s keys?” you groaned. 

“Just come on!” Angus huffed. 

You reached over to the little table beside your bed and snatched up your wristwatch, and you squeezed the button on the side to turn the little light on to see the time. “Fuck, Angus, it’s like four in the morning!” you groaned. “Fuck off!” 

“C’mon, you won’t regret it,” Angus told you. “Put on your coat and shoes, let’s go.” 

For some reason, you did as he told you, lacing up your sneakers and shrugging on your jacket, and you followed Angus as he led you out of the infirmary, sneaking past Hunham’s open door. You heard his snoring from inside, but you didn’t stop, catching up with Angus’s long-legged stride. He shined the flashlight down the dark hallways of the school, not speaking a word to you as he led you to the kitchen. It was pitch-black in there, even with the flashlight, but Angus moved with certainty, taking you to the big freezer towards the back of the room. You almost wanted to question him, ask exactly what the fuck he thought he was doing, but you stayed quiet as he wrenched the freezer door open. 

“Go grab a spoon,” he told you as he winced in the fluorescent lights inside the freezer. 

“What for?” you asked. 

“You remember that ice cream they gave us at the start of the semester?” Angus asked. You nodded slowly, remembering how dinner on the first day of classes had included individual scoops of vanilla ice cream; it was unusual and special, but you remembered not having eaten it and turning it over to Teddy. You followed Angus’s gaze into the freezer, and you spotted the cardboard tub of vanilla ice cream, sitting and waiting. 

You furrowed your eyebrows, but you slinked back into the kitchen and used the light of the freezer to find a single spoon, an oversized serving spoon. “Won’t we get in trouble?” you asked, passing the spoon to Angus, and he pulled the tub of ice cream into his grip and wrestled the lid off. The carton itself was frosted over, freezer-burnt to all hell, but Angus still attacked the mound of ice cream with the spoon. He scooped it into his mouth, and he wrinkled his nose as he shook his head. 

“I doubt it,” he replied. “How will they ever know? And by the time they figured out someone’s eaten out of here, they’ll never be able to trace it back to us.” 

“Woah, us?” you repeated. “What ‘us’? You’re the one going to town on that right now.” 

Angus looked at you with those almond-shaped dark eyes of his, and you scoffed at the little white splotches of ice cream on the corner of his lips. “We can change that,” Angus said, offering you the spoon. 

You shook your head. “I don’t eat ice cream,” you told him. 

“So, that’s what your fuckin’ problem is,” Angus chuckled. “You’re not judgmental or anything like that; you’re just low on joy.” 

“Fuck off,” you said as you rolled your eyes. 

“C’mon,” Angus said. “Blood oath or whatever… Except it’s vanilla ice cream.”

Your chest roiled. It felt like a petty thing, not to eat ice cream anymore, but you couldn’t help it. It just felt too bad. The memories were too hard, and even the experience of eating what you had been in that dreadful moment was too much. You remembered it like it was yesterday; your dad had taken you to Dairy Queen, which wasn’t unusual in itself, but the fact that your sisters weren’t with you was odd. After all, you supposed with hindsight, he wasn’t their dad; just yours. He had his typical ice cream sandwich while you had a cone, and he had walked on eggshells as he explained to you what the word “draft” meant. It was hardly two years ago, you were old enough to know what it meant. You chose not to remember the rest of that night, but you stayed steadfast— you hadn’t eaten ice cream since. 

“What sorta blood oath?” you asked warily. 

Angus shrugged. “If you don’t kill me over the next two weeks, I won’t kill you,” he said. 

You quirked your mouth for a moment, trying to convey to him that you were considering it. “I told you, I don’t eat ice cream,” you said as you crossed your arms. 

“Is this some kinda girl thing I don’t get?” Angus asked. “Depriving yourself of dessert or whatever?” 

“I’m lactose intolerant, you dick,” you fibbed quickly. “Sorry if I don’t want an upset stomach at four in the morning.” 

“Suit yourself,” he said, going back for another bite. “It’s really mediocre.” That got a laugh out of you, and Angus smiled. 

He gave up on the ice cream soon after that, putting it back and washing off the spoon (“Getting rid of the evidence”, he said), and you dug your hands into the pocket of your coat. “Is that it?” you asked, and Angus laughed. 

“No, man,” he said. “I got more.” 

“Jesus,” you groaned, but, for some reason, you followed him out to the hall and down the corridors. It was still dark outside, and Angus fumbled with the keys and flashlight as you approached the door to the chapel. “Alright, whatever you’re planning to do in here, I’m nearly certain I don’t wanna be a part of it.” 

“You know they’ve got wine in here?” Angus asked, passing off the flashlight to you so he could find the correct key. 

“Duh,” you said. “Catholics really buzz off wine in communion.” 

“Didn’t your old church use wine?” Angus asked. He tried a key on the door, then frowned when it didn’t fit, and moved onto the next option. 

“No,” you said. “We didn’t go to church. Only when we visited my dad’s mom, which wasn’t often, but her church used Fanta Grape.” 

“What sorta church did your grandma go to?” Angus scoffed. “Church of the High Fructose Corn Syrup?” 

“It was mostly flat by the time it got to us, anyway,” you said. “Dad and I usually sat in the back, so he could slip out and smoke mid-service.” 

“Smart man,” Angus said. He tried another key, succeeding this time, and the heavy door swung open. It was dark inside the small room, a sort of storage room for the chapel, and the beam of the flashlight hit various pieces of junk scattered around, boxes or whatnot, before it landed on a small credenza pressed against the wall. There was some sort of ceremonial tapestry on the surface, a large ornate goblet on top with a dusty bottle of wine sitting next to it. “Bingo,” Angus mumbled, and he went to the lightswitch on the wall, flicking it on so he could turn off the flashlight. The overhead light crackled and buzzed as it came on, and Angus ushered you inside before shutting the door again. 

He was quick to fill the goblet partways with the wine, and he offered it to you silently. At first you hesitated— did you really feel like drinking wine with Angus?— and you quickly grabbed the goblet from his hand and took a sip. You held your face stony, not offering a reaction, and you passed it back to him. “Well?” he asked, and you shrugged. 

“It’s fine,” you replied. “Are there any of those Body of Christ crackers in here?” 

Angus gestured towards the heavy furniture against the wall, a sorta “Look for yourself” movement, and he went for the wine as you started through the cabinet. He gave a little shudder at the bitter sourness, then shrugged for himself and took another sip. “Not bad,” he mumbled. You quickly found the tub of little round wafers, and you worked the lid off as you sat down on the floor. You offered him one, which he shook his head at, and he took another sip of wine as he sat down next to you. He leaned up against the side of the credenza while you settled against the wall, and you put a wafer in your mouth, letting it melt a little against your tongue. “What would your body and blood be?” you asked. 

“Huh?” Angus grunted. 

“Like, Jesus’s body are these rice paper crackers, and his blood is cheap wine,” you explained. “So what would yours be?” 

Angus furrowed his eyebrows as he thought. “Well, blood is easy,” he said. “A beer.” You scoffed, and Angus quickly said, “No, no, listen, hear me out. You’ve had a beer before, right?” 

“Of course,” you replied. 

“Well then, you understand,” Angus sighed. “A nice beer on a hot day… The glass of the bottle is all cold and everything and it’s sweating a little and the weird foam label is tearing from the condensation… Isn’t that, like, a godly experience?” 

“Sure,” you giggled. “So, beer for the blood. And the body?” 

Angus screwed up his mouth as he considered it, and he finally said, “How about, like, a cheeseburger?” 

“Really?” you asked, popping another cracker in your mouth. “Why?” 

“It works good with the beer,” Angus said. He reached over to you and stole a cracker, and he chewed on it as he said, “Beer and a burger? What’s better than that? Brings you closer to God and shit like that, right?” 

“I mean…” you mumbled. “Yeah, that makes sense. So, taking communion, you do a shot of beer and… What? Take a bite of a burger?” 

“Sure,” Angus snickered. “Or a slider, like at a barbeque.” 

You laughed, and you reached out to grab at the glass of wine in Angus’s hands. He passed it to you, and you took a sip of it as Angus exchanged for another cracker. “What about you?” he asked. “What’s your body and blood?” 

“Hmm,” you murmured. Your body shuddered at the warm bitterness of the wine, and you coughed a little. “A hot coffee.” 

“Ew,” Angus sneered. “You drink coffee?”

“Not always,” you said. “Only when I need to warm up. It’s too bitter. But, like, the way your beer is relieving to you, a hot coffee is relieving to me. The same, but different, y’know?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Angus said. “Like, coming in from playing in the snow and your fingers are all stiff and cold or whatever… My mom always made us hot chocolate that was pretty much just heavy cream and cocoa powder and some sugar. We’d dip graham crackers in it and sit by the fire and listen to Christmas records…” He trailed off then, and you caught onto his train of thought— used to. Not this year. 

“Us?” you asked. “You got a sister or something?” 

“No,” Angus said. “My, um… My dad.” 

“Oh,” you mumbled. “Right. Sorry” 

“What do you mean ‘sorry’?” Angus said. 

“Well, a few days ago, when everyone left,” you started in confusion. “You said your dad died.” 

The room was quiet for a beat, and Angus shifted as he sat, pulling one of his legs underneath himself. “No,” he said carefully. “No, um… Dad’s still hanging out, but he’s… He’s in the hospital. For, like, the past four years. He’s as good as dead.” 

“Shit,” you mumbled. “What happened?” 

Angus shrugged, quirking his mouth. “He got sick,” he said simply. “And Mom thought it would be better to have professionals take care of him instead of us…”

“M’sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to pry or anything.” 

“You’re fine,” Angus said. “So, your dad…?”

You nodded solemnly. “His number came up,” you said softly. “He… Had something to prove, I guess, and no reason to try to get out of it. Told me he was gonna go and make me proud of him…” Your throat got thick then, and you trailed off for a moment. “January’s gonna be one year since…”  

“Jesus Christ,” Angus said under his breath. “Sorry.”

You quickly wiped at an escaped tear, trying to get rid of it before Angus could see it, and you choked down a cracker. “It’s whatever,” you said. “These things happen, y’know?” 

“Yeah, they happen,” Angus said. “But that doesn’t make them any less sad.” 

“I don’t care about sad,” you said. “Been too sad lately. All I want is to stop feeling sad.” 

Angus tilted his head at you, watching for a moment, and he started to dig into the pocket of his coat. Quietly, he extracted something, a sort-of crushed up cigarette that looked like it had fallen out of the pack and had been jostled in his pocket for months, and he held it out to you. You clocked it immediately, though— the paper too thin, the contents too packed in. You scoffed with a watery voice, twisting at a loose thread on your jacket. “Wow, you really are a Barton boy, huh?” you said. “Getting high and drinking holy wine in the chapel.” 

“If it makes you feel better, it’s not mine,” Angus said. 

“Whose is it, then?” you asked. “And how did you come to have it?” 

“Ah, well,” Angus shrugged. “Kountze the Cunt’s always had it coming for him. I steal his cigarettes, he steals my picture, I steal his last joint out of his bag before he leaves to go ski. What’s that called? Quid pro quo?” 

“That’s not really what quid pro quo is,” you laughed. “But I don’t have a lighter. And, furthermore, I don’t smoke weed. Especially not Kountze’s shit.” 

“I’ve got the lighter situation covered,” Angus said. He went back into his pocket and extracted a small matchbook, and he added, “And, yeah, you don’t smoke weed, but I’m not even sure this is weed. Knowing Kountze, it’s probably oregano or tea leaves or something. So, smoking this isn’t smoking weed, because there’s a fair chance it’s not weed.” 

You pursed your lips as you considered Angus’s offer, and you looked at the ornate goblet in your hands, still a little full. “Fine,” you decided. “But not here. We’re not gonna hotbox the chapel storage room.” 

“Aw, we’re not?” Angus whined jokingly. “I really think that’ll give us God points.” 

“Yeah, sure,” you chuckled. “Get enough of them, and you can redeem them for a free large soda at the check-out counter.” 

You helped each other drain the last of the wine out of the cup, and you pocketed a handful of crackers as you exited the room. Angus did well to lock up behind him, to make sure nothing seemed awry or unusual on the off-chance that Hunham checked the grounds, and Angus led you through the school to the main interior entrance to the chapel. It was as cold in there as it was outside, and still just as dark, and your eyes adjusted to the low light as Angus took a running leap at the raised stage, hopping up there with ease. You followed suit, though not as quickly or gracefully as Angus, and you settled on the piano bench next to him. His long, thin fingers worked to strike one of the matches on the edge of the matchbox, and he brought the flame to the joint nestled between his lips. 

You had never really noticed before (because when would you have ever noticed it before?) but Angus had a tiny scar on his upper lip, not really that raised or any different color than the rest of his lip, but it shifted as he puckered his lips around the joint. Come to think of it, Angus’s lips looked… Good? Wrapped around the joint, his lips looked plush and soft, just a hint pinker and darker than the golden-olive tones of his face. And the middle of his top lip poked out a little bit, a bit more pronounced because of his scar. Angus pulled at the joint for a moment before removing it from between his lips, and he offered it to you, and you fixed your expression from focusing on his lips to looking him in the eyes. “Well?” you asked. “Is it marijuana?”

“No,” Angus said. “Well, yes, but it’s Kountze’s ditch weed. So, technically yes, but you’d need to smoke a lot of it to get high.”

“Lemme see,” you said quickly, reaching out for the joint, and he passed it to you. You had only ever smoked once before, back when you went to Central, and you had gotten dizzy and sick, but, as you pulled a toke on this joint, you felt nothing of the sort. Sure, there was that weird herby taste in the back of your throat that made it unmistakingly weed, and you cringed as you blew out the smoke. “Oh, this is shitty,” you chuckled. “Like, super shitty. God, Teddy, where’d you buy this?” 

“He only has it to sell to eighth-graders,” Angus shrugged. “Make a quick buck to buy Playboys with.” 

“Ew,” you snickered. 

“What?” Angus said. “Not a fan of Playboy? Are you more of a Penthouse fan?” 

“No,” you said. “I mean, like, no, just… Thinking of Kountze doing that is… Just gross.” 

Angus took a drag on the joint, and he said “I guess you’ve kissed a guy before, huh?” 

“Excuse me?” you sputtered. 

“I mean, there’s not an elegant way to ask if you’ve had sex before,” Angus started quickly. “So, like, gotta build up to it, right?” 

You rolled your eyes. “Fucking hell,” you mumbled as Angus quickly muttered out a “Sorry, forget I said anything”, and you slowly added, “No. If that answers your wildly-invasive question.”

“‘No’, you’ve never had sex before?” Angus asked. “Or ‘no’, you’ve never kissed a guy before? Or a girl? Are you gay? I don’t really care if you are, but like—”

“Shut up,” you huffed. “Both.” 

“Oh,” Angus said. “Not even at your old school?” 

“Not even at my old school,” you echoed mirthlessly. “Guys just never really cared about me. There was always some girl who was prettier or funnier, smarter, richer, whatever. I’m nothin’ special.” 

“Hm,” Angus grunted. 

“What about you?” you asked, taking the joint and pulling at it. 

“Oh, I get it regularly,” Angus said. “Yeah, my girlfriend’s a Playboy model. I sneak her into the dorm once a week and— Be serious, of course not.” You laughed as Angus smiled at his own joke. “I’m the same. When I wasn’t going to all-boys schools, girls just never liked me. I’ve always been a weirdo.” 

You furrowed your eyebrows. “I thought you’ve always gone to Barton?” you asked. 

“No,” Angus said. “I’ve been kicked out of a ton of schools. S’why I’m still a junior and I’m about to turn 18, I’ve been moved around so much that I ended up falling behind.”

“Why?” you asked. 

Angus shrugged. “I’m what they call a ‘troubled youth’,” he said, reciting the title like he didn’t believe it but had been told it too often. “I cheat and steal and get in fights. In fact, Stanley says if I get kicked out of Barton, I’ll be going to Fork Union.” 

A shiver ran down your spine. You knew Fork Union; you hadn’t ever been or knew anyone who went there, but its reputation preceded itself. Whoever Stanley was really had it out for Angus. “Fuck,” you hissed. “That’s… Intense.” 

“Yeah,” Angus nodded in agreement. “So I gotta be on my best behavior.” 

“And smoking weed in the chapel is what you consider good behavior?” you asked. 

“Of course not,” Angus scoffed. “But it’s fun, and that’s what I care about.” 

You nodded slowly, and Angus pulled at the joint again before pressing down on one of the keys of the piano with his outstretched pinky finger, hearing a single little chime sound. He seemed to drift off then, going off in thought in silence as he absently passed you the joint. After a few moments, his eyes slid off to the side, and you followed his gaze over to see a small table set up just in front of the stage with a single picture frame on it. You knew the picture: Curtis Lamb. It was something that you and Mary could commiserate on, and you held the utmost respect for her and for the late Curtis. 

You declined the joint and got up to go sit in front of the picture. You had never chosen to sit in the front row of the chapel, always trying to be as close to the back door as possible, just like with your dad, and you had never seen that picture of Curtis that close up before. He was handsome, his uniform spotless without a wrinkle, the skin on his face smooth and shiny. He was young— 19. 

Angus slowly joined you on the pew, pressing his back against the arm and pulling his legs up to his chest, and he let out a gentle sigh as he too examined the picture of Curtis. “That’s why you like Mary so much,” Angus whispered eventually after a long and heavy bout of silence. “‘Cause you both…” 

You nodded. “You can say it,” you mumbled. “S’not the Boogeyman or anything. Saying it doesn’t make it more powerful.” 

“I know,” Angus murmured. “But thinking about it… Dying, being killed…” He shook his head, trailing off. “I used to think about it a lot. Back when Dad first got sick.” 

“Oh, yeah?” you asked gently. 

Angus hummed. “Then Dr. Gertler put me on some pills… They help a little, but sometimes I still… I dunno.” 

“Gertler?” you repeated. “That’s your psychologist or whatever it’s called?” 

“Yeah,” Angus said. “He used to be my dad’s doctor too, but then Dad went to the hospital, and they’re better for him there. Not that The Gert isn’t good, he is, just… Not what Dad needed.” 

You fell into silence then. The purples and blues of the morning began to bleed in through the chapel windows as you and Angus sat still, looking at the picture of Curtis but not seeing it. You were each lost in your own heads, and you found yourself sinking down to the thin, threadbare carpet and settling on your ass, and your head leaned back just so to touch Angus’s hip. You didn’t know him too well— you were clueless about what his favorite color was, but you knew the surface level of his worst trauma— and you wanted to comfort him, but something like holding his hand or hugging him seemed like a bridge too far. So, the slightest contact, a sort-of “I’m right here” seemed like the way to go. 

At long last, you heard the heavy creak of the chapel doors opening, and Angus turned to look. You couldn’t see from your vantage point, and the person nor Angus said anything, but you heard the groan of the old wooden pew in the very back row as someone sat down, and, based on the silence and the fact that Hunham was a staunchly non-Christian man, you could deduce that it was Curtis’s mother back there, coming in for her morning prayers. 

You all sat quietly, ruminating on your own thoughts, and finally you heard Mary’s smooth and smoky voice, not a yell but not a whisper: “You two better get back in your beds before Mr. Hunham decides to wake up.”  

You passed through the aisle towards the front doors of the chapel, and you and Mary locked eyes for a brief moment as you walked by. She gave you a small nod, then closed her eyes and went back to her prayers. 

Angus wasn’t a chatty guy to begin with, but the silence as you made your way back to the main building and the infirmary felt suffocating. It was cold as hell, somehow feeling even more biting than the 4AM chill you had felt before, and you nudged away a few slushy snowflakes as you walked up the steps to the doors. “Thanks,” you said finally. “That was, umm…” 

Angus shrugged, tugging the key ring out of his pocket carefully to keep the keys from jingling together. “Don’t mention it,” he said. “And now we know where they keep the good wine.” 

You managed a halfway-decent smile, and you dug into your jacket pocket and handed Angus a few Christ crackers. “Not a cheeseburger,” you said. “But it’s something.” 

-

You were sleepy throughout the entire day. Even though your excursion only lasted a few hours and didn’t give you any less sleep than a typical bout of insomnia did, you kept yawning throughout your library time and jog around the campus. Angus seemed to be in better shape than you were, his usual sullen self but not in any way looking tired, and you envied him. 

The day only brightened by a bit at lunch. You sat next to Angus as you quietly ate, chancing glances at him every so often, and he seemed… Normal. Drinking his Coke, looking past Mary and out the window to the snowy expanse outside. Not attempting any conversation or showing that you had shared a moment just a few hours earlier. Of course, you didn’t expect him to really do that, but the point held true that it was infuriating. When your eyes met, he could have at least smiled instead of averting his eyes like you were Medusa or something. 

The brightening came in the form of Hunham setting a large ceramic plate in front of him, covered by a napkin. “I have a surprise,” he announced. “These were a gift to me, and I would like to share them with all of you.” 

Quickly, Hunham tugged off the napkin, and you saw a plate of cookies. Sugar, with hard, shiny frosting decorating the different shapes with vibrant Christmas colors. “Look at them,” Hunham added. “Look at the… Festive shapes. Snowflakes… Gingerbread men… A tree… Oh, a little mitten!” He picked up the pastel blue mitten and bit off the thumb, and he contemplated the taste for a moment before looking back up at you and Angus. “And they’ve got frosting!” 

Angus’s eyes slid to you, unimpressed, then back at Hunham. “May I go to the bathroom, sir?” he said flatly, already getting out of his chair as Hunham excused him, less of a request and more of a “I’m leaving, here’s my sorry excuse as for a reason why”. You watched Angus stalk out of the dining room, his hands bouncing limply at his sides, and Mary sighed, taking a sip of her coffee. 

“Well, I’m trying,” Hunham mumbled half-heartedly, and Mary scoffed out a laugh. Obviously, this was a continuation of a conversation that you had not been privy to, and you kept your thoughts to yourself as you stuck a green bean in your mouth. 

The three of you sat in silence for a few moments, long enough for the tick of the second hand on your watch to bore under your skin, and Hunham looked back at the door, as if expecting Angus to come back in. “Where the hell is he…?” Hunham mumbled, and he scooted out his chair noisly. 

His shoes clicked across the polished hardwood, and you nudged a few French fries around with your fork. “You’re not eating,” Mary said as the door closed behind Hunham, and you tore your eyes up from your plate to look at her. Her cigarette clutched between her manicured nails, her dark mug of coffee in her palm, she looked every bit of a mother as she should, especially with the soft, sad look in her eyes. She wasn’t admonishing you; she was worried. 

You shrugged. 

“Do you not want this?” Mary asked. “I’m sure I can find something else back there for you.”  

“No,” you said quickly. “I-I’m fine, Mary. Just… Tired, I guess.” 

“Mm-hm,” Mary hummed. “Which has nothing to do with your little excursion with that boy earlier, right?” 

You shook your head, closing your eyes. “That wasn’t…” you started. “We were just…” But you stopped yourself before you could tell her why. Why had Angus dragged you out of bed to galavant around the school? From what you could tell, he didn’t particularly like you. “Huh. Weird.” 

Mary ashed her cigarette. “All I’ll say is, I’m not your mom. Whatever you and him get up to isn’t my business and I don’t want it to be, but… Don’t let him do too much to ya.” 

“God, Mary, we don’t…” you started softly. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Mary said coldly. “I meant, don’t let that boy into your head too much. He’s a boy. And boys are, for the most part, dumb assholes. So, whatever he does, don’t let it affect you too much. After all, he’s just trying to—”

The hallway outside the dining room suddenly echoed with a cacophonous “Son of a bitch! That’s another detention!” and a sudden metallic crashing, and you nearly snapped your neck with the speed at which you turned to the door. Before you could even think not to, you got up out of your seat and made your way out the door, just in time to watch Hunham disappear down the corridor. Angus was already on the far side of the hall, the metal trash can tipped over with the lid rolling beside it, and you spotted Hunham’s pink detention pad sitting next to the payphone. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened, and you trailed after Hunham and Angus at a quick walk, staying a few steps behind Hunham. 

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Mr. Tully, but you are courting disaster!” Hunham called after Angus, and you watched Angus hook a corner, but peek back out at Hunham. 

“Without sufficient exercise, the body devours itself,” he said with a cheeky smile, and his gaze landed on you. The smile dropped from his face for just a moment before he disappeared around the corner once more, and Hunham turned to see you. He wasted little time with you, though, going back to his huffing-puffing pursuit of Angus. 

“You are careening towards suspension!” Hunham shouted, and you sped up your steps to overtake Hunham, but there was no way you could keep pace with Angus. He was standing in the middle of the doorway, waiting for Hunham to catch up, and you breathed heavily. 

“Angus!” you shouted after him, but he picked up the chase once more, allowing you to get within grabbing distance of him before he sped off. “Ang— What the fuck? You— Fork Union!” You couldn’t process your thoughts efficiently, let alone in a good enough way to express what you needed to, and you hoped that the mere mention of the military school would make Angus rethink his decision. 

But it didn’t. In fact, he seemed to pick up speed as he ran from you, and you skidded into the trophy room to watch Angus pull off a clumsy cartwheel. The fucker was enjoying himself. Your chest burned with agitation as Angus came to a stop at the open doorway, and an acid bile rose in your throat. The gym. 

Before he had fucked off to Haystack, Jason had mentioned how Senator Osgood had paid for a brand-new gym to allow his son Jordan to graduate from Barton, and that apparently Hunham was the one who had failed him and forced the gym to happen. You knew nothing of Jordan Osgood and even less about his right-wing Republican father, but you (along with everyone in Senator Osgood’s district) knew that they had money. And the money seemed to have gone a long way, a basketball court with bleach-white nets hanging from the goals, straight and even hardwood floors with the Barton lion mascot expertly painted on them, tall and high windows that let in a blinding amount of sunlight. But the gym was obviously unfinished, only half of the floor shiny and waxy with lacquer. 

You saw what Angus did, and you huffed out a breath. “Angus, please,” you said through labored breaths. “Don’t— You can’t—” 

Before you could say more, Hunham came up behind you, in a similar winded state as you. You watched Angus’s back straighten, and Hunham held out a warning finger to him. “Don’t even think about it, Mr. Tully,” he said. “You are a hair’s breadth from suspension. I’ll wash my hands of you. You hear me? Wash my hands!”

Angus took half a step forward, the toe of his shoe touching the gym floor, and Hunham said, “Stop right there. You know the gym is strictly off limits. This is your Rubicon. Do not cross the Rubicon!” 

Angus slowly turned to look at you and Hunham, a coy smile on his scarred lips. He gave a light, taunting shrug, then flicked his eyebrows, and said something in Latin. If you had been in a better mindset, you could have translated it in the moment, but you weren’t, and you watched Angus wink at you, then charge across the floor into the gym, towards that fucking gymnastics vault. 

You had never watched someone get seriously hurt before. You hated the idea of it— even watching a scary movie was a little too extreme. But time seemed to slow down as you watched Angus bounce off the springboard and go ass-over-head over the vault, landing with a thundering thud and a sickly sound of flesh against the thin mat. Not a snap, but definitely the sound of an injury. The air was still and stagnant for a long second, a second that felt like a lifetime, before a shrill scream cut through the air. 

“Oh, fuck! Mr. Hunham!” 

The next few minutes felt like a blur. You ran into the gym and helped Angus to his feet, holding down vomit at his limp left arm— not that it would have mattered; Angus had already taken care of that for you. You pawned him off to Hunham, then somehow, you mechanically went back to the infirmary and gathered your coat, Angus’s coat, and Hunham’s coat and keys. You felt numb, out of your body, listening to Hunham and Angus bicker back and forth the whole car ride to the nearest hospital. You were quiet, letting Angus lean into you and sniffle and cry at the pain, and you saw his eyes all red and glassy as he choked back his tears. He was scared. You grabbed his hand— the good one, not the one he had raised and trembling with the effort— and his sniffles quieted down to pathetic whimpers. 

“This is the end,” Hunham said, and you snapped back into your head in an instant. You don’t remember having gotten to the hospital, let alone maneuvering Angus inside and to the emergency room, but somehow you were there, Angus wedged between you and your teacher on the bench, his hand still clasped in yours. “They’ll inform the school, who’ll inform your parents, and then it’s curtains. You are gonna get me fired. You!”

Angus sniffled. “I’m the one who might lose an arm, and all you can think about is yourself.” 

You sighed. “That’s dramatic, Angus,” you mumbled. 

“When I get my arm chopped off, will you help me carry my books to class?” Angus asked. 

“I’m not helping you with shit,” you snapped. 

Before Angus could snark back at you, a nurse came, dressed in white, and she handed a clipboard and a plastic ballpoint pen to Hunham. Her eyes glazed you, then Angus, and she said, “If you could just fill this out, please. Admissions and insurance.” 

Insurance. Fuck. You hadn’t even thought about that. Hunham’s face went sour and pale, and he slowly started to fill out the first box, putting A-N-G in block letters, but Angus spoke in a clipped voice. “Excuse me,” he said, and the nurse turned back to him. “Is there any way we could skip this whole insurance thing?” 

The nurse sighed. You recognized that sigh; your mother did the same one with her customers at the diner. The ‘I don’t get paid enough for this’. “It’s just standard procedure,” she said. 

“I understand. But look…” Angus started. He chewed his lip at Hunham, then looked at you, then turned back to her with a breath. “We were over at Squantz Pond playing hockey… And I slipped on the ice.” 

“Angus,” Hunham said in a hushed tone. “What’re you doing?” 

“My mom told him not to take me, but I made him,” Angus continued, and Hunham looked past Angus to you, seeing if you had any idea what stunt Angus was pulling now. You were just as lost as him, though, and you watched Angus with a curious enrapturement as he spun his yarn. “My folks are divorced, and we don’t get to see each other very often. She’ll be mad as a hornet if she finds out.” 

“Okay, that’s your business,” the nurse said, sighing again. “But we just have certain protocols.” 

“Y-Yeah, protocols,” Hunham protested weakly, but Angus bulldozed right over him with more lies. 

“Please,” Angus said, his eyes going all glassy again. “I never get to see my dad, a-and I just wanted him to meet my girlfriend.” A hot shock ran down your skin, blazing in your cheeks, as you understood that you were the supposed girlfriend. God, you were going to strangle Angus Tully when this was all done. “It was my fault, all mine. I don’t want to get him in trouble.” He gave Hunham a pathetic little glance, his bottom lip wobbling, and his voice was all broken as he added, “I don’t want her dragging you to court again.” He sniffled and squeezed your hand, and you pulled his hand into your lap, stroking his soft skin with your thumb. “Can we skip the whole insurance thing? We can pay cash. Right, Dad?” 

Angus didn’t drop your hand the entire time. He held onto you as the three of you were led to an exam room, and he shied away from the nurse (she never told you her name) as she tried to take off his sweater. He mumbled something about his shoulder, how he couldn’t move it right, and you carefully nudged in front of where he sat on the exam table, flexing your hand to get him to let go. Quietly, you tugged Angus’s maroon sweater up as far as it would go before he groaned in pain, and you swallowed thickly. “I know, Ang,” you said gently. “It’s alright, baby.” 

His eyes got all big at you as you played the role he had assigned to you, and with gentle encouragement from his beloved “girlfriend”, you managed to get the sweater off his right arm and have it slide off his left arm. Next came his robin’s-egg-blue buttoned shirt, and you sighed as you focused on the small plastic buttons, not able to look Angus in the eye. As calm as you seemed on the surface, you were screaming and cursing and spitting like a possessed woman inside. You were so angry at him, for everything— for disobeying Hunham, for getting himself hurt, for roping you into his kinda-sorta insurance fraud. If you could have slapped him across the face, you would have. But you couldn’t, so you settled for a sweet kiss on his cheek and a whispered “There you go” as his shirt came off. That left him in his thin white undershirt, and you balked at his pale skin, but particularly the way his shoulder stuck out grotesquely. You could tell from a glance— dislocated. “Jesus…” you whispered, and the nurse moved you aside. 

“Yeah,” she said. “Sometimes the things you see here are a little sickening. But you’ve been more than enough help; thank you, sweetie.” 

“Guess you’re not going to nursing school, huh?” Angus chuckled, trying to lighten the heavy mood, and you folded his sweater and shirt over your arms. 

“You know how I get with blood, Ang,” you said softly. “Nursing school was never gonna be for me.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Angus hummed, as if he knew anything about you and was just being reminded of this fact. “Hey, remember back in August, at the football game against Choate, when Jason got flattened by that linebacker?” 

You had never gone to a single Barton football game, but obviously Angus had a point to why he brought this up, so you nodded. “Yeah,” you said carefully. “Umm, i-isn’t that the same day Kountze invited us to that bonfire?” 

“Yeah,” Angus nodded along with your addition. “I think you were somewhere else, bathroom or something, but Jason just got pummeled by this dude that was twice his size—”

“I was with his girlfriend when that happened,” you said. “She was hysterical.” 

“But he got up and went back to the sideline, and I went down to talk to him,” Angus said, wincing as the nurse worked his undershirt over his head. “And his mouth was all full of blood, but he was laughing ‘cause he said Jenny was gonna be doting all over him for the next week.” 

You nodded. “And she did,” you said. “That was��� Kinda gross to watch, actually.” 

Angus shrugged, but immediately regretted it, hissing in pain at the involuntary action. “That’ll be us,” he said in a tight voice. “I’m all injured and everything, and you get to take care of me.” 

“Get to?” you repeated. “You make that sound like a privilege.” 

“I took care of you when you got your wisdom teeth taken out last year,” Angus said, and your hand went lightly to your jaw. How in the fuck did he know you didn’t have your wisdom teeth? Had he seen it? When? “Now it’s your turn.” 

“I didn’t sign up for that,” you chuckled. 

“Sure you did,” Angus said. “That was in the fine print when I asked you to go steady.” 

You rolled your eyes. “I think the pain’s making you delirious,” you said. 

“We’ll get him some pain medication soon,” the nurse said. “First, we’re gonna have to X-ray your shoulder. Your dad and girlfriend are gonna be right here, we’re just going down the hall.” 

The silence in the exam room once Angus left was deafening, and Hunham stood opposite you. Every so often, he looked like he wanted to say something, then would change his mind, and he finally settled on “I can hold Mr. Tully’s things.” 

“I-I’ve got it,” you said softly. You held his clothes a little closer to your chest and chewed your lip nervously, and you mumbled, “I guess we’re lucky… It could be worse.”

“We don’t know how bad it is yet,” Hunham said, and you shrugged. 

“At least he’s not, like… Dead,” you offered. “His arm’s just a little messed up.” 

Hunham sighed but said nothing else, seemingly agreeing with you. You let yourself shift your weight as you waited, and your fingers itched in Angus’s sweater. It was soft, and still a little warm from his body, and you buried your cold hands in it. 

Angus returned soon after, and the air was prickly with silence until a doctor walked in. Dressed in a white lab coat, he carried a thin piece of plastic, and he smiled thinly at Hunham before he threw the plastic sheet onto the lightbox on the wall and flipped it on. There, as clear as day, was an X-ray of Angus’s fucked-up shoulder, the ball-and-socket joint clearly not ball-and-socket anymore. “The good news is nothing’s broken,” the doctor told you, and Hunham audibly sighed. 

“Thank God,” he said. 

“But you did dislocate your shoulder pretty badly,” the doctor added, eyeing Angus down. “That was quite a tumble you took, kid. What happened?” 

You saw Angus look at the nurse out of the corner of his eye, and, knowing that he had to stay with the fib he told, you chimed in quickly. “We were playing hockey,” you said. “Or, rather, Angus was playing hockey, and me and… His dad were watching. The ice was slippery, and Ang just… I don’t know, one second he was up, the next he was down.” 

“Was trying to impress you,” Angus mumbled, and you lovingly brushed down his messy curls. 

“I know,” you said. “It’s okay. Just don’t do it again.” 

“I take it you’re the girlfriend, then,” the doctor said.

“It would seem that way,” you said lightheartedly, but you gave a secret, harsh tug to the bottom of Angus’s hair as retribution. He winced and sucked in a tight breath, and the doctor nodded a bit. 

“What’s that mean?” Angus asked. “Like, I know what dislocating is, but what does that mean for me?” 

“That means your arm has popped out of the socket,” the doctor said. He moved away from the X-ray and went to join the nurse at the side of Angus’s exam bed, and they wordlessly began to move him onto his back. “And we just have to pop it back in.” 

“Is it gonna hurt?” Angus asked, and you watched panic fill his eyes as the nurse’s hand brushed the skin of his upper arm, and he winced in pain. 

“Not if you relax,” the doctor told him. He turned around to the small counter behind him, where the nurse had laid a bundled-up bedsheet, and he started to shake it out and loop it around Angus’s torso as he added, “The key is to relax. Deep breaths.”

You watched the doctor and the nurse expertly wind the bedsheet around Angus, and you furrowed your eyebrows at it. “What’re you doing?” you asked. 

“We are making a sort-of slipknot,” the doctor told you. “We’re going to pop his arm back in, and then he’ll be right as rain, with only a little discomfort afterwards, but the Percodan we’ll give him will take care of all of that.” 

Angus said your name, his voice a little shaky, and, even though you had never heard him talk like that before, you knew that he was scared. You stepped forward just a touch, close but not too close, but, as the medical professionals began to gently pull his arm back, readying it, Angus’s free hand shot out like lightning and gripped your fingers. His eyes were squeezed shut, holding his breath, his neck and ears red, and you looked at the doctor for a moment before you said, “Ang, baby, it’ll be okay. Just one second where it hurts really bad, then it’ll be over. Can you do it for one second?” 

“...Think I’m gonna puke again…” Angus mumbled. 

“That’s okay,” you said soothingly. 

“Don’t wanna puke on you,” Angus added, and you frowned. 

“I’ll just throw everything in the washer when we get back,” you said with a shrug. The doctor made eye contact with you from behind Angus, and he flicked his eyebrows at you in a way that told you to keep talking. Distract Angus, so he can’t see it coming. “How about, when we get back, we can watch TV?” you started, trying to find anything to blabber about for long enough. “I think a new episode of Bonanza comes on tonight. But, God, I missed the last few weeks, I have no idea what’s going on anymore. Is Hoss still courting that fancy lady? I thought maybe that was done, but I heard something about it on the radio the other day, so who knows—”

At that moment, the doctor and the nurse yanked the bedsheet in opposite directions, and Angus writhed and wormed as he let out a guttural gurgle and hiss, then a pathetic yelping scream as his shoulder went back right with a wet pop that made your neck hair stand on end. You heard Hunham behind you give a scoff of “Jesus!”, and then the ordeal was over. 

Angus moved his left arm slowly as the doctor rattled about the medication he was prescribing, something where Angus couldn’t drive while on it or drink alcohol or mix with other medication, and you nodded along as you listened. Angus worked himself into his undershirt and threw his buttoned shirt on, and you took over doing up his buttons. He frowned at the sight of his sweater, though, and you knew that lifting his arm to get it into the sleeve was maybe asking too much, so you held onto it as they fixed a sling around his neck and looped his left arm in it. 

“Take care, young man,” the doctor said. “And keep her around. Hard to find someone who cares about people like that nowadays.” 

The first significant thing Hunham said since arriving at the hospital was spoken as the three of you approached the pharmacy counter, prescription in hand. “Barton men don’t do that.” 

“Do what?” Angus asked. 

“Barton men don’t lie,” Hunham clarified. 

“Yeah, well,” Angus sighed. “I had momentum.” 

Hunham passed the paper prescription across the counter to the pharmacist, and he mumbled, “Hello, we have this, uh…” 

The pharmacist looked over his glasses at the paper, then up to Angus, then Hunham, and finally you. “Percodan, huh? Gimme a few minutes.” 

He went off in search of the requested medication, and Hunham paused for a moment before adding, “You too, Miss, you’re included in this.” 

“What, was I supposed to refute all of that?” you asked. “We were already committing insurance fraud, might as well play along as best we can.” 

“And you said that if Woodrup finds out, you’re screwed,” Angus interjected. “So now he won’t find out.” 

“What happens if your parents inquire?” Hunham asked, and Angus’s face darkened for a moment as he scoffed flatly.

“Never gonna happen,” he said. “Trust me.” 

Hunham looked obviously confused at the certainty of Angus’s words, but nevertheless said “Okay, then. This all remains entre nous. Got it? You know what entre nous means?” 

“Oui, monsieur,” Angus said, screwing up his face mockingly. Then, a coy smile crossed his lips, and he said, “Now you owe me.” 

“Owe you?” Hunham repeated, glaring at Angus. “Oh no, do not try to leverage me, Mr. Tully.” 

“All I’m looking for is a little thank you that I did something nice for you,” Angus said. “That’s all.” After a moment, he flashed Hunham a cheeky smile. 

You swallowed thickly. “You look real stupid with your hand dangling out of the sling like that,” you said quickly. You don’t know what possessed you to say that, and Angus scoffed.

“God, you’re mean,” Angus said. “What happened to the little kisses and the ‘baby’s and shit?” 

“You think I enjoyed doing that?” you asked. “Fuck, Angus, grow up. I’m gonna go to the bathroom.” You didn’t wait for a reply before you turned heel and made your way to the nearby bathroom, adorned with a silver plaque with a little stick woman on it, leaving the boys in a confused dust behind you. 

Lucky for you, it was a single stall situation, a big room able to accommodate a wheelchair or walker, and, once inside, you quickly flipped the lock on the door and sighed. Your heart was racing, your cheeks hot— in honesty, you did enjoy all of that. Something about it felt almost cathartic, pretending to have a healthy and loving relationship with someone, like you were acting out your greatest fantasy. Whether or not Angus was a part of that fantasy or just a placeholder until David Cassidy paid Barton a visit, you weren’t sure, but your heart ached and cried. You didn’t want to pretend— you wanted the real thing. And the fact that you’d never get the real thing, at least not anytime soon, made your eyes burn with tears. Just more evidence to the fact that your life was doomed from the start— nobody wanted you, plain and simple. 

You slammed at the tap, turning it on to run cold water over your hands, and you pressed your hands to your burning cheeks, trying to calm down. You took a deep breath, then another, and you shucked off your jacket and tugged Angus’s red sweater over your head. It smelled like him, clean but also a little sharp from the sheer boyishness of it all, and you slid your jacket back on.

By the time you left the bathroom, Angus had worked himself partially into his coat, a small paper baggie in hand that rattled with pills against the glass bottle. “We’re getting dinner,” Hunham told you, his tone indicating to you that he and Angus had had a battle while you were absent and he was the loser. His eyes swept your frame, obviously catching Angus’s sweater on your body, but he said nothing about that.“There’s a small place in town.” 

“I-I didn’t bring my pocketbook,” you started to protest, but Angus dug into the pocket of his corduroy pants and produced his own wallet. 

“I’ve got it,” he said simply, and gave you the same smile he had given Hunham. 

The chosen dinner spot, a small pub called the Winning Ticket, was surprisingly bustling with activity. Music played from the bar portion of the place, competing against Nixon on the television and the dinging of pinball machines, and the air felt warm but not thick, the way some restaurants could feel. You slid into the booth first, then Angus settled himself next to you, nudging your arm with his slinged elbow (he had shifted his arm backwards after your comment about his hand, so now only his fingers spilled over the edge), and Hunham sat across from you.

“I think I’ll start with a beer,” Angus said, and Hunham scoffed. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Tully,” Hunham told him. 

“We’ve had a hard day,” Angus continued. “We deserve to loosen up a little.” 

“You’ve had ten milligrams of Percodan,” Hunham said. “You’re plenty loose already.” 

He was right. Angus had swallowed down two of the pills in the backseat of Hunham’s Nova on the drive over, and already he was acting differently, just a little lighter and less reserved. It wasn’t a dramatic change, and you might not have noticed it, but Percodan Angus almost reminded you of Holy Wine and Joint Angus. 

“They’ve got Miller High Life!” Angus said, looking down at the laminated menu that lay waiting on the table. “‘The Champagne of Beers’!” 

“Oh, yeah?” you asked. “You and what identification, Mr. Seventeen Years Old?” 

“Hey, if you could have a beer, you would,” Angus told you.

“Oh, I can,” you told him. “If the bartender’s a guy, I just gotta flutter my eyelashes at him, and I’ll get whatever I want.” As soon as the words left your mouth, you became very aware of your teacher’s presence across the table from you, and you cleared your throat. “O-Or so I’ve heard.” 

Before anything else could be said, a waitress approached, and your face lit up. Dyed ginger hair, fun earrings, a soft face and kind eyes. 

“Miss Crane!” Hunham beat you to the punch, and your Secretarial Studies teacher glowed. “As I live and breathe! What are you doing here?” 

“Hi, guys!” Miss Crane laughed. “And our sweet Barton girl, how’re you, darling? Uh, yeah, I always pick up a little extra work over Thanksgiving and Christmas.” 

Hunham took a moment to respond, still smiling at Miss Crane, and he stammered out, “Oh, this is Mr. Tully—”

“Oh, sure, I know you,” Miss Crane said, and Angus gave her a smile.

“Angus Tully,” he introduced himself. “We met outside Dr. Woodrup’s office. I was wrongly accused of blowing up a toilet.”

Miss Crane gave you an amused smile, and you shared a laugh. “I didn’t know about the ‘wrongly’ part,” she said. 

“And, of course, Miss Y/N,” Hunham added. 

“It’s good to see you,” Miss Crane cooed. “I was worried I wasn’t going to see you before you moved back to Boston. Barton sure is gonna miss you.” 

“Oh, I’m…” you started. The real story was far too long and messy to get into right at that moment, so you swallowed down the truth in exchange for a grin. “I’m glad to see you too.” 

“Yes, well,” Hunham started. “He’ll have a cheeseburger.” 

“And a Miller High Life, please,” Angus butted in as Miss Crane began to write the order down, and Hunham grunted. 

“No, you will not.” 

“Where do you stand on Miller High Life, Miss Crane? Quality-wise, I mean,” Angus asked, and you groaned. 

“Christ, give it up,” you said. “He’s on pain meds, Miss Crane, don’t—” 

“Well, like they say,” Miss Crane started with a scrunch of her nose. “It’s the champagne of beers.” 

“And she’s a professional!” Angus said, looking at Hunham as he gestured to her, and Hunham rolled his eyes, unamused. 

“Okay, one cheeseburger,” Miss Crane started, and Angus sighed. 

“And a Coke,” he added reluctantly. 

“Umm, same for me,” you told her. “But, umm, if you can have them do no pickles, please?” 

“Sure, sweetie,” Miss Crane said softly. 

“I’ll have a cheeseburger as well,” Hunham told her. 

“Three cheeseburgers,” Miss Crane recited. “Hold the pickles on one—”

“And a Jim Beam,” Hunham added, and Angus gaped in awe, the audacity of Hunham to say no to a beer but yes to a drink for himself washing over him. “On the rocks. Please.” 

Miss Crane smiled and left the table, and you watched as Hunham watched her leave. You looked over at Angus with a smile of disbelief, and Angus grinned— Did Hunham have game after all? 

“Ouch,” Angus laughed, shaking his hand like he had gotten burned. “You two have chemistry.” 

“That’s the Percodan talking,” Hunham grumbled. 

“No shit, Mr. H,” you giggled. “That was something. Who knew you were such a Casanova?” 

“I don’t know, seeing her like this,” Angus started. “I think she’s pretty attractive.” 

You snorted so loud with a laugh that you almost missed Hunham saying “Listen, you hormonal vulgarians” as he leaned into the table. “That woman deserves your respect, not your erotic speculations.” 

Angus looked at you with a smile, and you tamped down more laughter. “May I at least go to the bathroom?” he asked. “Sir?” 

“You mean the payphone?” Hunham asked, and Angus’s face fell stony. You watched the staredown, seeing who would break first, and eventually Hunham bested Angus, because the younger peeled away from the tufted booth seat, and you rolled your eyes. 

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” you groaned, and you got up just as Miss Crane was coming back, her tray ladened with your drinks and Mr. Hunham’s Jim Beam. You tailed Angus towards the bathrooms, but paused at the corner of the bar, watching him disappear into the mens’ room. You stayed behind, looking around at the televisions mounted on the walls, and your mouth went sour at footage of the war being shown on the news. You looked away before you could even properly read the headline, and your fingers nervously went to fiddle with your necklace. 

The bartender gave you a look from down the way, expecting an order out of you, and you shook your head. He (of course it was a male bartender) tilted his head with a smile, a sorta “You know you wanna” look, and you pushed a small laugh out of your nose. Driving, you mouthed simply, making a little steering-wheel motion with your hands, and he nodded and smiled, then turned back to his marginal work. 

The door to the mens’ room swung open, and you watched Angus slink out. He didn’t look at you, or back in the direction of the table— he looked around the bar, and found his focus being pulled in by one of the pinball machines. You watched him approach and dig in his pocket for a moment, and he watched the guy play his game as he set his dime down on the edge of the machine. 

You foolishly almost thought that the night would pass without any more incident. You’d eat your dinner, get back to Barton, and go in your room and ignore everyone and everything until the sun crested the snow in a few hours. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. If you were back home, your mom would let you and Rachel and Anna open one present from underneath the tree, which was always a pair of pajamas that somehow coordinated with everyone else’s but never matched, then you’d fall asleep on the couch while your mom listened to her favorite Nat King Cole Christmas record. Well, that’s what had happened every year up until now. Up until Richard and his daughter (you still didn’t know her name). You wondered what their traditions were. You wondered how they were changing the fabric of your family. You wondered if your mom had bothered to keep up the picture of your dad that hung in the hallway, or if it had come down when Rich moved in. 

Yet, incident came. Over the din of the bar, you heard Angus’s whiny little voice say “‘Cause I don’t wanna shoot the other fuckin’ machine.” You looked over at him, and recognized his body language, tall and looming, as the guy playing pinball stepped back with a huff. 

“Thanks for fuckin’ up my mojo,” he said to Angus, and you started forward as he called, “Kenny! You’re up!”

“Bullshit,” Angus said as you came up behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I put my dime down, so I’m up next.” 

“Angus, let it go,” you told him firmly, but a voice stopped either of you from splitting the scene.

“What was that?” 

You turned to look at who spoke, presumably Kenny, he of the next round of pinball, and your heart sank. Young— older than you, but still young as hell— wearing a heavy jacke with jeans and a chain dogtag, and your throat closed up. A hook at the end of his right hand. There was no mistaking where he lost it, and a flash of fear and dread washed over you. It was too much— first the news, now this. You felt sick. 

“Ang, c’mon, let’s just go,” you mumbled, but Angus was too busy staring down the hook that swung at Kenny’s side. 

“Hey, sport,” Kenny said, his voice low. “My eyes are up here.” 

“Look at this kid,” the pinball wizard chortled. “Spoiled little fuckin’ Barton boy. And his bitch too, huh?” 

“Yeah, he’s a fancy little prick, isn’t he?” Kenny said, and he looked at you. “Why the long face, honey? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

“I-It’s fine,” Angus stammered, and his arm snaked around to you, pushing you back just a touch behind him. Something in your chest tightened, thinking that Angus thought he needed to protect you, but there was also a warmth— Angus was protecting you.“You can take my dime.” 

“Take it?” Kenny repeated. “You want me to take your dime? Like it’s charity?” 

“N-No,” Angus breathed. “What I meant is we can play together.” He lightly jostled his left arm in the sling, and he added, “You can be my left arm.” 

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Kenny asked, taking a step forward, nearly nose to nose with Angus, and you felt Angus freeze up. 

“Hey,” the pinball wizard started. “You. Prom Queen over here. You gonna let your little boyfriend talk like that?”

Your eyes darted from him to Kenny, then to Angus, then back to Pinball Wizard. You stammered for a moment, trying to find anything to say, and the only thing that came out of your mouth was “I-I—” 

“No wonder he’s got a big mouth,” Kenny chuckled. “She doesn’t have one at all.” 

You felt dizzy, and you tugged on Angus’s sleeve to leave as you examined Kenny for anything you recognized— a patch on his jacket, a logo on his t-shirt, anything would suffice to ground you. Finally, you saw it: a little appliqué of a purple ribbon with a heart at the end, looking just like the real thing that, last you knew of it, was stashed in the back of your mom’s closet. “My dad’s got one of those…” you mumbled. You couldn’t even think about self-preservation anymore; you were fixated on it now, saying everything you could about it to anchor you in your head and not the stratosphere. “...Got it during Green River…” 

“Oh, yeah?” Kenny asked. “And why hasn’t he knocked some fuckin’ respect into your boy here?” 

Your mouth felt stuffed with cotton. “He-He didn’t…” you started, and stared at Angus. “He’s an asshole… Socially inept or whatever. Didn’t mean anything by it.” 

You couldn’t add in anything more before Angus was peeling away from you, hot-stepping it back to the table, and Pinball Wizard and Kenny made chase as you took up the rear. “Angus!” you shouted, and Hunham and Miss Crane both looked in your direction as Angus walked up to the table. 

“Mr. Hunham, can we go, please?” Angus asked urgently. 

“Why?” Hunham asked, looking back at the two men and you. 

“I’ve just been called a fancy little prick,” Angus said as Kenny called after him. “We should go,” Angus added, and you passed Pinball Wizard and Kenny to get to the booth, once again taking up your assigned place behind Angus. 

“Why’d you run off?” Kenny asked with a fake smile. “We were just talking to you. Don’t they teach you manners at that school?” Kenny closed in on Angus, and he brought his hook up to his chest, poking Angus in the sternum with it, and Miss Crane jumped as Hunham jostled in his seat. 

“No, no, no, Kenneth!” Miss Crane pleaded. “Leave him alone, they just came in for some food!”

Kenny seethed at Angus, and you squeezed your eyes shut. You could tell that mayhem was a moment away, but then Hunham began to speak.

“Kenneth! Is that right?” he started, holding up his hands placatingly. “I don’t doubt that he did something to offend you, it’s his specialty. Perhaps I could purchase you gentleman something to imbibe, and we could let whatever this unfortunate incident is go the way of the dodo.” 

“The what?” Pinball Wizard sneered. 

“The dodo, it’s an extinct bird,” Angus grumbled, and Kenny put force behind his hook again, causing Miss Crane to butt in once more. 

“What he’s saying is he wants to buy you guys a beer!” She exclaimed, hoping that her explanation would ease the situation as quickly as possible. 

Kenny stared Angus down, then looked at you, cowering and scared. Maybe he took pity on you, the poor little Purple Heart’s daughter, or maybe he realized that what you had said about Angus’s social ineptitude was right, because he finally stepped back, lowering his hook. “Yeah, okay,” he nodded. 

“Same here,” Pinball Wizard said. “I’ll have a Miller.” 

It’s almost like he couldn’t help himself: “Champagne of beers!” Angus chuckled, and your arm shot out, smacking him across the stomach. You glared at him, and the smile fell off of his face.

You couldn’t even enjoy your food. Not that you were worried about Kenny or Pinball Wizard coming back for round two, but you couldn’t keep your mind off of your dad. Seeing everything had affected you for some reason, and you kept your mouth shut the whole time as you ruminated on it; the images of the newscast swirled in your head, and your least favorite but most common nightmare stayed in your mind— the Army claimed they couldn’t locate enough of your father’s remains to even send back a body, and you could only see remnants of your father in some field. Mostly, you saw his tattoo, big on his chest, the same one he had had since you were a baby, needled in as an homage to you— your father always called you his miracle, and he had a starburst right over his heart. You could only envision the starburst, charred and detached, laying in the grass somewhere in Vietnam, never to return home to you.

 You saw Hunham looking at you every so often, maybe checking if you were alright, but nobody said anything until you were gone and out the door. The energy had turned prickly and stiff, and even Angus’s voice cutting through was enough to make you jump.

“Why’d you buy those guys beer?” Angus asked. “They’re assholes.” 

“That’s one way to look at it,” Hunham grumbled, digging in his pocket for his car keys. “Here— catch.” He tossed his keys over to Angus, and his right hand raised and caught them deftly, almost reflexively. “How many boys do you know who have had their hands blown off?” He paused to give Angus a moment to respond, despite it being obvious that there was no answer, and he continued, “No, Barton boys don’t go to Vietnam! They go to Yale or Dartmouth or Cornell, whether they deserve to or not.”

“Except for Curtis Lamb,” Angus mumbled. 

“Except for Curtis Lamb!” Hunham exclaimed. It wasn’t hard to figure out the implication, and Angus swallowed thickly at you. 

“Were you ever in the military?” He asked Hunham, obviously looking to somehow change the subject.

“I tried to enlist in ‘41, but was rejected,” Hunham began, pointing at his eye, then tugging at his door handle, consequently mumbling something about “I have to get in over there”.

“They made me an air raid warden,” Hunham continued, breezing by you and Angus to slide into the passenger side door of the Nova, and both you and Angus wrinkled your noses at the sour smell that followed Hunham. “Gave me a whistle and everything… Helmet, arm band…” Hunham slid into the car, scooting over to his seat, and Angus sorta shook his head. 

“Before we get going, can I be candid with you?” Angus asked, leaning down to peer at Hunham through the open car door. You settled into the backseat, slightly thankful that you wouldn’t have to share space with Angus again (not that you minded on the ride up here), and Hunham grunted out an affirmative. “You smell.”

“Angus,” you frowned admonishingly. You were struck by the sheer and blatant rudeness, and you saw Hunham’s face fall sadly in the rearview mirror.

“Like fish,” Angus continued, getting in his own seat and shutting the car door. He wasn’t wrong, of course, but you never would have outright said anything like that. “And it’s really noticeable towards the end of the day; I can even smell it on your coat… Mind if I crack the window?”

Hunham sighed as Angus worked to turn the window crank, and Hunham said, “Trimethylaminuria.”

“Huh?” Angus grunted. 

“Trimethylaminuria,” Hunham repeated himself. “Means my body can’t break down trimethylamine. That’s the smell…” He paused for a moment to uncomfortably wipe his nose, and he added, “And, uh, yes, more towards the end of the day.” 

“Wow…” Angus said. “Your whole life?” Hunham nodded, and Angus perked up for just a moment. “No wonder you’re afraid of women!” 

“I am not…!” Hunham began, shaking his head. “Afraid of women!” 

“Sorry,” Angus mumbled as Hunham continued with an under-the-breath, “Jesus H. Christ.” 

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Angus added. “Dr. Gertler says I don’t always give consideration to my audience.” 

“Ah,” Hunham began. “And who is Dr. Gertler?” 

Angus looked back at you silently for just a moment, the tiniest acknowledgement of the fact that you were privy to this information, and he snapped at Hunham, “My shrink.”

“Has Dr. Gertler ever tried a good, swift kick in the ass?” Hunham asked, and you couldn’t help the scoffing giggle that left your mouth. 

“Okay, all right,” Angus chuckled mirthlessly. “Now your turn. Go ahead, tell me something about me. Something negative.” 

“Something negative about you?” Hunham asked in fake-shock. 

“Sure,” Angus shrugged. “Just one thing.” 

Hunham rolled his eyes. “Just one?” He paused for a moment, thinking about his answer, and he turned to look at you. “Anything to add, Miss?” 

You kept your mouth shut and shook your head quickly. “Nothing nice, anyway,” you said softly.

“I concur,” Hunham said, and he cranked up the Nova.

The rest of the ride back to Barton was quiet, listening to the wind whistling through the open window as nothing was said, and words were only finally exchanged as you and Angus parted at the doorway to your separate infirmary rooms. Hunham’s room was off down an adjacent hallway, and you had already heard the door shut by the time you spoke. 

“Oh,” you started, tugging at the bottom of the maroon sweater. “Here, sorry, I forgot—” 

“S’fine,” Angus said. “Don’t worry about it.” 

You nodded slowly. “I’ll run it through the wash and get it back to you,” you said, and Angus shook his head. 

“Keep it,” he said. “Looks better on you than it does on me.” 

“O-Oh,” you stuttered. “I mean, i-it looks pretty, um, expensive, are you sure you don’t—” 

“I’m sure,” Angus nodded. He looked down at his feet for a moment, and he softly added, “Thanks for taking care of me today.” 

You shrugged. “No big,” you said. 

“Big to me,” Angus mumbled. “I’ve never had a girl— or anyone, really— um… Make me feel like that.”

“Like what?” you asked. 

“Cared for,” Angus said. “Cared about. I was, umm, so nervous in there that I thought I was gonna shit and die. But you… You were so gentle, and so nice, it really helped me.” 

“S’what I’m here for,” you said. “See you tomorrow, Ang.” 

“Wait!” Angus said quickly as you put your hand on the doorknob to your room. “Can I, umm… Can I give you a hug?” 

You wrinkled your eyebrows in confusion but nodded all the same, and you stepped closer to him. His good arm wrapped around your middle, a little slow and stiff, like he had never even touched a girl before, let alone hugged one, and your arms went around his neck, holding him tight. He took a deep breath and settled his cheek against your temple, letting himself enjoy it, and your heartbeat picked up. 

You weren’t sure why, but you had a sneaky feeling that Angus had motives behind the embrace. Was he going to try to kiss you? A kiss was just a kiss, it didn’t mean that much in the grand scheme of things, but it would be your first kiss ever. Did you want Angus to be that for you? For the rest of your life, your first kiss would be with Angus Tully, some kid you went to boarding school with who was an asshole ninety-eight percent of the time and a genuine sweetheart the other two percent. Was two percent nice and caring enough, though? 

“Ang,” you whispered, stepping just a touch away from him to see his face. The lights in the hallway were half-turned off, only every other fluorescent bulb lit, and it left you and Angus in a slightly darker alcove of the hallway, and the dim light made shadows play on Angus’s thin face. His eyes looked half-lidded, like he was sleepy, but you could feel his heartbeat and heavy pulse— he was wide awake. “How’d you get that scar?” you asked softly, letting your fingers go to his lips and lightly trace his scarred and puffy upper lip. 

“Got beat up a few years ago,” Angus told you. “Busted my lip.”

“Ang,” you sighed in a hushed tone. “You’ve gotta stop giving people reasons to beat your ass.” 

Angus chuckled. “I can’t really help it…” he said, and trailed off for a moment, then added, “B-Babe.” 

“Are you nervous?” you whispered. “There’s no reason to be.”

“V’just…” Angus started. “I’ve never…” 

“Me neither,” you reminded him. “But I want it to be you.” 

Silently, Angus shifted forwards, pressing his body fully against yours again, his arm going tight around your waist, and he helped you rise up on your toes to fully reach him. Then, before you could even think about what you were doing, you leaned into him and, your eyes slipping closed, touched your lips to his. His lips were warm and soft, and his fingers itched in the back of your shirt. You really had no idea what you were doing, but it felt right, and you tilted your head a bit as Angus put force behind his kiss and held you even tighter. 

You felt lightheaded as you slowly pulled out of the kiss, touching your forehead against Angus’s and sighing. A smile slowly slipped across your lips, and a laugh escaped while your fingers tangled in the curls at the very bottom of his neck. “Um, thanks,” you whispered. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that all day… Since this morning, y’know…” Angus admitted. “I just, um, didn’t wanna do it in front of Hunham.” 

“I understand,” you told him. “Thanks, Ang.” 

“Are you okay, by the way?” Angus asked. “You got really… I don’t know. Upset. Back with those guys.” 

“Oh,” you mumbled. “Y-Yeah, just, um… That guy was in Nam, and after the stress of the rest of the day, kinda just seeing that and remembering was…” 

“Fuck,” Angus sighed. “I’m really sorry. I should’ve stood up for you.” 

You shook your head. “That’s not your job,” you told him. 

“Well, yeah, it’s not,” Angus started. “But that doesn’t mean that I can’t stop it.” 

You bit your bottom lip as you thought, and you mumbled, “Sure. Alright. Umm, I’ll see you in the morning, Ang.” 

“One more for the road?” Angus asked, and you rolled your eyes at his little cocky smile. 

“I’m not even ten feet away from you for the rest of the night,” you chuckled. “Some road there.” 

“But there’s a wall,” Angus whined softly. “I’m also trying to act cool here, and ask for another kiss without asking—”

You leaned up and gave him one more kiss, quicker and less emotional than the first time, but Angus still locked eyes with you and badly contained a smile when you parted, just like before. “I’m trying to not, umm…” he started, looking back down at your feet. “Not get ahead of myself here, but um… No, we can-we can talk about that tomorrow.”

“Talk about what?” you asked, but Angus shook his head. 

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “We’ll... Tomorrow. Get some sleep, okay?” 

Even though you were confused by his trepidation, you agreed anyway. “You too,” you told him. “If your shoulder starts to hurt, just… Let me know. I’ll see if I can help.” 

“Sure,” Angus nodded. He hesitated to step away into his own room for a moment, and he leaned in and kissed your forehead before scurrying away, like he was afraid of the consequences. 

You went into your own room and closed the door, taking a deep breath. You had kissed Angus. You weren’t sure if you were more excited about it being Angus or just the kiss itself happening, but you felt giddy and you bit your cheek as you smiled. Carefully, you went about undressing from the day, slipping into pajama pants and doubling up on socks, and your fingers brushed down the front of the sweater. It was soft, wool, and the stitching on the cuffs and around the bottom and neck proved it to be more expensive than anything you could ever dream of. 

Angus told you to keep it. Were you like those girls who wore their boyfriend’s jackets now? The girls at Central wore their boyfriends’ varsity jackets when it got cold, the ones with their names across the backs, showing everyone who they were dating. You had never really cared too much about the varsity jackets, but, then again, there had never really been anyone that you would have considered even trying to wear their jacket. First, you’d have to figure out if Angus was even your boyfriend before you started to get all giddy about having one. 

Was that what he wanted to ask, but held off for tomorrow? Did he want to ask you to be his girlfriend? It was exciting, but you understood why he had chickened out of asking you then and there. You would be his first girlfriend, and that was intimidating. Maybe he didn’t want to be your boyfriend, and just wanted to be able to hug you and kiss you whenever he wanted. 

Your mind began to race. Angus wanted to kiss you, but what else did he want? Did he want to have sex? Did he even care about that? Had he even thought that far out yet? Certainly, he had. He was a boy after all— boys’ brains are made up of 50% sex and 50% violence. Maybe you were just overthinking it. It was entirely possible that Angus didn’t even want to be your boyfriend, and just got caught up in the moment and kissed you. 

Your head hurt from being too analytical, and you slipped into bed and pulled the blankets to your chest. Tomorrow, Christmas Eve, you and Angus could talk about everything you wanted. Maybe, you thought with a sleepy smile. Your Christmas present would be a boyfriend. 

[dark-mnjiro]

[the devil is] in the mirror :: sano shinichiro

author’s note: kinktober 2023 week three is finally here. I apologize for the wait as I got a little under the weather and then did something to my neck that made it nearly impossible to write for a couple days because I could hardly turn my neck one direction.

content warnings: sano shinichiro x afab!reader, noncon, dubcon, dark content, mirror maze/mirror sex, hair pulling, choking, explicit sexual content, explicit language, yandere!shin, stalking, dacryphillia, semi/public sex, stalking, degradation, forceful/rough sex, doggystyle, manhandling, implied kidnapping, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, this was heavily inspired by the mirror maze scene in Haunting Adeline

Panting, your sense of direction was skewed as you looked around. Surrounded by mirrors, only your terrified expression greeted you. You cursed yourself for coming to this haunted attraction and walking through the mirror maze. But your friends had assured you everything would be fine. They would be at your side no matter what. 

You should’ve known he would be here. 

His boots thumped against the floor, seemingly closer to you as your heart jumped into your chest. Your head darted in any direction, but you were only greeted by your reflection. Where was he?

It had started innocently enough. He had repaired your car after an accident and weekly you would see him at the counter, make your weekly payment, and get your updates, before leaving. 

But soon, the seemingly innocent mechanic took on another personality. 

Once you had paid off the repairs and returned your car, he still found reasons to call your phone, claiming it was “just standard policy”. But the daily calls grew too much and you began ignoring them. 

Until one day, he called and was standing outside of your home with what seemed to be your sweater. 

“You forgot this,” he had said. 

How had he even found your address? Why didn’t he leave a voicemail? You took back your sweater, thanking him but quickly shut and locked the door. 

He had remained outside for an hour longer after the interaction. 

The volume of calls increased to the point you had placed complaints with law enforcement. They claimed they would “speak” with him but it seemed, nothing was done. 

He would continue to show up at your address, but smart enough to remain on the public sidewalk so that you couldn’t make a valid complaint. You blocked his number, the mechanic’s number, and just declined any unknown callers that came through. You believed you had some control over the situation, which is why your friends had insisted you go out with them…

You would be safe with them.

“Fuck,” you hissed before your eyes darting from mirror to mirror. 

“Come out come out,” you heard his voice. “Wherever you are~”

The sing-song tone of his voice made nausea bubble in the pit of your stomach. You wanted to snap back but worried that if you did that he would find you easier. You swallowed thickly before putting up your hands to help you distinguish which mirrors were real and where the pathway was. 

“Just a bit more,” you told yourself.

“I see you.”

You froze in place. Terror filled your eyes as you looked around. You couldn’t see him, just hear him. How could he possibly see you and you could not?

“Leave me alone!”

A hand moved to move your hair causing you to whip around and check behind you. No one was there. Tears brimmed at the corners of your eyes. This was becoming torture. Why wouldn’t he leave you alone?

“Stop it! I’m not interested! Just leave me alone!” you shouted. 

A hand shot out in the darkness, gripping your throat before throwing you back against one of the mirrored walls. A yelp of pain moved past your lips while you struggled. A low chuckle hits your ears. You felt fear filling your body as your gaze met his. 

“Shinichiro…”

His cold, dark eyes remained fixated on your face. You managed to push yourself up against the mirror as far as you could just to get even the smallest distance between you and Shinichiro. His hand left your throat before his hands were placed on either side of your head and used his arms to cage you in. 

“You can’t keep ignoring me forever.”

His voice was sickly sweet. 

It made you want to vomit. 

You looked away, shutting your eyes tightly together. 

“Let me go.”

Shinichiro tilted his head.

“Let me go.”

Your voice was louder this time. This game had to stop. 

“You’re scaring me… let me go.”

Shinichiro chuckled before leaning in close to your face. “Open those pretty eyes,” he cooed. 

Shaking your head, you tightly kept your eyes shut. 

His hand shot out, encircling your throat. A strangled noise moved past your lips before your eyes shot open. The tears at the corner of your eyes slipped down your face. His eyes darkened as he leaned in with a smirk tugging on his lips. His tongue parted his lips before running the tip of it along the tearstains.

You felt your entire body shudder. “Stop…”

“Never.”

His free hand moved to undo your jeans before pushing them forcefully off of your hips. His grip around your neck tightened as a gasp fell from your lips and the feeling of his hand pushing into your underwear. A calloused finger pressed against your clit.

His dark eyes darted up to meet your tearful gaze.

“That’s right… Keep those pretty eyes on me.”

You tried to speak, tried to scream, but the grip on your neck would only allow you to cough and struggle. His pace against the bundle of nerves quickened and you swore your knees were beginning to give out. 

“You’re wet…” he hissed into your ear. 

Disgust filled your gut at your body’s betrayal.

“You want this…”

“N-No.”

His fingers pressed harder against your clit forcing you to gasp. “Oh yes you do,” he whispered before forcing two digits into you. You cried out as the pace was unrelenting. “You’re soaking my hand…”

Panting, you brought up your hands and attempted to shove him off of you. His grip only tightened, causing your hands to shoot back to your neck, trying to loosen his grasp. 

“I-I-“

Shinichiro tilted his head. “Y-you what?”

He was mocking you now.

Letting go of your neck, air fills your lungs. But the freedom was short-lived as Shinichiro flipped you around to face the mirrored wall. He pushed your face against it as his hand went up into your hair, gripping the tresses tightly. You cried out in pain as he tugged your head back. 

“You’re mine,” he said gently before planting a kiss against your temple. 

His free hand tugged down your underwear to your knees before you heard the metal of his belt undo and his jeans fall to his ankles. He used his hips to keep you caged against the wall as you felt the tip of his cock press against your core. 

“Let me go!”

Shinichiro tutted you as he managed to push the tip into you. “Scream much louder and everyone in the maze will see what a dirty girl you are…” he cooed. 

A cold fear infiltrated your senses at the thought of someone… anyone, catching you like this. How would you even begin to explain? Tears worked their way into your eyes again as the embarrassment washed over your body. Why wouldn’t this stop?

“You’re so pretty when you cry…”

You cried out again as his full length was forced into you. He leaned his head against your shoulder, groaning as he pulled nearly out before slamming back into you. 

“Better keep your voice down,” he teased as the playful cries of children with their parents were heard in the distance.

You bit down on your lip to try and silence your cries as the pace of his cock quickened. Cursing yourself, you hated your body in that instance as a jolt of pleasure electrified your body as the tip of his cock kissed your cervix.

“That’s it,” he teased before offering you a smack on your bare ass. “You’re clenching around me, sweet girl…”

Your eyes opened just enough to scowl at him over your shoulder. “I-I fucking hate you!”

Shinichiro merely moaned in response before smirking at you. “I love your filthy mouth,” he merely teased. “You’re about to cum. You love it when I do this…” His grip on your hair tightened before jerking your head back again. His pace was becoming erratic. “You’re about to cum… panting like a dog.”

He was right.

You couldn’t catch your breath as you tried to fight off your body’s natural response but with each thrust, you were losing the battle. 

“Cum for me…”

His voice sent shivers down your spine as you couldn’t stop yourself. Pleasure washed over your body before panting… you braced yourself against the mirror before catching Shinichiro’s dark gaze from behind you. 

His grunts were louder as he worked you through your orgasm. Your eyes narrowed, glaring at him. Hating him. It only seemed to fuel him more. 

“Ready for me?” He teased into your ear before leaning down and biting your neck. 

“Fuck you.”

He let go of your hair but used the leverage of his hand on the back of your head to push you further against the mirror to keep you from struggling too much. His thrusts were becoming sloppy, indicating he was near his limit. He groaned your name before offering you a couple of rough thrusts and releasing inside of you. 

Your body shuddered again, not prepared to feel this full. And just as quickly as it happened, it was over. He pulled out, letting you go… he adjusted his pants as you slid to the floor… 

Shinichiro leered over you, taking in the mess he had made of you. Another smirk tugged on his lips before your eyes caught a glimpse of his cock hardening again. 

Fear filled your eyes as you tried to muster enough energy to get away before he grabbed you by the hair again. Yelping, you scratched at his arm, praying he would release you. 

“On second thought,” he commented, yanking you up to your knees. “Perhaps… I’m not done with you yet…”

“N-not here. Please.”

The idea of the incoming children being traumatized by this image only made you feel nauseous. They were growing closer, the giggles becoming louder. 

“Oh no,” Shinichiro tutted before jerking you up again. “Not here…”

You managed to steady yourself on your feet and scrambled to adjust your clothes to appear somewhat decent. “You’re a fucking lunatic…”

He leaned into your ear. “Let’s go home,” he whispered. “I want to watch those pretty eyes cry when you choke on my cock.”

His hand encircled around your upper arm as he tugged you through the rest of the maze as if he had memorized the layout.

“My friends-!”

“Oh no,” he said before pointing to your group of friends lost in conversation, giggling and seemingly flirting with a couple of men. “I’ve already rid ourselves of those distractions.”

“You’re friends… aren’t they?”

“All mine now.”

[psychesalcove]

Hiii, can you do a Leo Valdez blurb with the prompt(s) (idk if you'll accept two) "I can't get over how just a few months ago I wanted to learn your name, and now you're having breakfast with me in my sweater," and, if you can mix them "I wanted to say 'I love you' for the first time without stuttering, but that failed." 2nd prompt is optional, but I feel like they'd be cute mixed, yet both would be cute for Leo <3 tyyyyyy

✧.* leo valdez x gn reader

part of psyches, 'in memory of those who chose the sea' event !

-> want to participate in the event?

a soft orange hue took over the living room and kitchen area of yours and leos shared apartment. it was almost 8 in the morning; and, by some miracle, both of you had woken up and not fallen back asleep.

leo was still in the bathroom when you walked into the kitchen to locate a glass and fill it with water. as you poured ice cold water into a glass, leo came stumbling into the room; hands aggressively rubbing at his eyes. you smiled softly and walked over to him, grabbing his hands and gently prying them away from his face.

"hon, remeber that's how you get your eyes to hurt?" you asked gently as you carresed his hands. he simply hummed in response, still to tired to formulate a verbal answer. he took his hands out of yours and wrapped his arms around your neck, brining you into an embrace.

you breathed through your nose softly as you brought your arms around his waist; leo in return holding you even more tight. he gently swayed both of you back in fourth, the two of you finding solace in each other. after a moment, he let go and quickly kissed your cheek before walking over to the refrigerator to grab himself something to drink.

you hopped up on the counter and grabbed your water, sipping it as you watched leo grab a gatorade from the fridge. as he turned around, a soft grin appeared on his face as he looked at you.

he walked over to stand beside your sitting form. "y'know?" he started in his sleepy voice that always made you weak. "i can't get over how just a few months ago i wanted to learn your name, and now you're having breakfast with me in my sweater," he said breathlessly, hand coming up to your face to trace along your jawline.

you smiled softly at him. "when was gatorade considered breakfast?" you mused, leaning into his touch. you continued before he could speak. "it's not my fault that your sweaters are so comfy, and, you refuse to tell me where you got them from," you said jokingly (although, he had never told you were he got his sweaters from).

"that's because if you buy your own you'd stop wearing mine," he laughed, moving his body so it was closer to yours.

you hummed in agreement. "that would be no good, now would it?" you brought leo more into your side; the two of you now basically cuddling in the kitchen.

"i love you," you muttered softly as leo gently shoved his face into your shoulder.

leo chuckled through his nose, face still smushed into your shoulder. "i wanted to say i love you for the first time without stuttering, but, that failed," he hummed, reminding both of you about your first i love you to eachother.

you laughed lightly in response, head coming to rest atop of his. "but you still managed to whoo me somehow, leo valdez."

"that, i did." he mumbled as he pressed a—very loud—smooch to your shoulder, causing you to groan in mock annoyance and lovingly shove him off of you.

[unofficial-writing]

She Calls me Freddie (Pt. 1)

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Gryffindor!Reader

Warnings: Fluff, angst, topics of pain and injuries (mostly burns)

Summary: The twins managed to buy another ticket to the world cup for you but after the Death eater attack, your trip was cut short

Word Count: 5k

Author’s Note: This series was originally from years ago and i’m so so excited to finally write and put it out. it’s so special to me and I hope you enjoy it! Welcome to part one of many <3

༺═────────────═༻

You were woken up that morning by Ginny shaking you. “Y/n.” She repeated your name a few times before she got a response. You groaned and rolled over onto your other side.

“We let you sleep as long as we could,” Hermione told you. You opened your eyes to see her sitting in front of Ginny’s mirror, doing her hair for the day. “But you won’t have any time to get ready if you don’t get up now.”

“And you will be left behind.” Ginny added with a laugh, taking her pillow and throwing it at you.

“Fine,” You said groggily, throwing the pillow back at her which unfortunately she caught. You sat up and stood quickly to avoid being tempted into lying back down again. If there was one thing you weren’t, it was a morning person. And that particular morning was the morning of the Quidditch world cup, which meant a long walk before the sun was even up.

Satisfied, Ginny returned to her mirror, standing behind Hermione to use the space above her. You walked over to your trunk, digging through it to find an outfit. Unlike the other two, you hadn’t had one planned the night before. You ended up pulling out a sweater and a pair of jeans.

“Are the boys up yet?” You asked as you got dressed, sleep still masking your voice even though you were starting to wake up. Ginny shook her head.

“We haven’t checked yet but I doubt it.” She replied, not bothering to pull her attention away from what she was doing. “I don’t think they’ll get up until they’re forced.” It didn’t take long for the three of you to be ready and leave your room. You split up to go wake the others, Ginny and Hermione heading to Ron’s room and you to the twins’.

You climbed a couple flights of stairs and strode down the hall to Fred and George’s room, giving a swift knock to the door. “Boys!” You called, waiting for a response. After a second knock and nothing, you sighed and opened the door. Both the twins were sound asleep, Fred covered with at least three blankets and George snoring.

“Fred, George, do you realize what time it is?” You asked and with a quick swish of your wand, the lamps in the room were lit. The sun was only just starting to rise, therefore it was still dark in the house.

George responded by covering his eyes, even though the lamps weren’t all that bright. “God, y/n.” he complained. Fred on the other hand was too buried in his blankets to notice.

You sighed and walked over to his bed, removing the first layer of blanket. “Fred, get up.” You told him, hearing only him mumble something inaudible as a response.

“Hm?” You responded. The boy grabbed onto your arms in an attempt to pull you down with him. He failed however, giving up since he was still half asleep. You were able to plant your feet and get out of his grasp. “Poor choice of timing to try and get me in your bed.” You huffed, pulling off the last blanket which got him up quickly. “If I have to be up right now, so do you.”

“Good morning to you too.” Fred yawned, resting his head in his hands.

Once they were both sitting up and looked like they weren’t about to fall back to sleep, you walked out their door, turning back around before closing it. “After breakfast, we’re leaving. And nobody is safe from being left behind.” You announced to them what Ginny had said with a hint of teasing in your voice, hoping it would be enough incentive to keep them awake.

─────────────────────────

Downstairs you greeted Molly, who was still working on breakfast. Since you were the first one down, you helped her finish. “Oh thank you, dear!” She said, giving you a warm smile.

Ginny and Hermione were next to come down, followed by Arthur, Harry, and Ron. It was only after you were all seated that the twins came down too. George was first and looked like he was still asleep. “Glad you decided to join us after all.” You said as he sat down across from you.

“Don’t you start, y/n” he groaned, leaning his head back in his chair.

When Fred came down he was wide awake, his long legs taking him out of the stairs and into the kitchen. He ruffled your hair and sat down beside you, close enough that you could smell the faintest scent of gunpowder off of him.

“So last night we were working on these fireworks.” He started to explain, confirming the smell. “We’ll have to show you.”

“Ohhh, is that why you wouldn’t get up?” You inquired with a smile. He rolled his eyes playfully.

“Oh please, like Hermione and Ginny didn’t have a hard time waking you.” He returned. As you talked, you pointed briefly to his food, reminding him to start eating it before he got too distracted by talking. “Once you’re asleep— thanks— nothing can get you up without someone ending up injured.”

“No, that’s only when you wake me up.” You corrected. “And George.” The both of you glanced in his direction, only to see him sound asleep in his chair. Ron beside him slapped his arm, waking him up with a jolt. He sighed and sat back up, returning to his breakfast.

─────────────────────────

You left most of your belongings at home, bringing only what you needed for the game that night. The world cup was one of, if not the most important quidditch event in the world. You watch it remotely every year, but this year the twins surprised you with a ticket.

To get there you all would travel by portkey, but it was a hike to get to it. Now on that hike, you found yourself following Arthur Weasley on a wide trail through the woods. He was in an extremely good mood. Everyone was today. Even those who weren’t a fan of quidditch were excited for the event today.

“We’ll be meeting Amos Diggory.” Arthur announced. “And his son, Cedric, which you boys have met.” He gestured to Fred and George. You had met him once a few years ago as well, but you were in a different house and you didn’t get the chance to interact much.

The group reached a large tree where the two waited. “Arthur!” Amos greeted him, he carried a large pack and hiking stick. “It’s about time, son!” Cedric walked up beside him, sporting a smile. He was rather handsome, with friendly eyes and brown curls atop his head. You noticed that he glanced at you first.

“Sorry Amos! Some of us had a bit of a sleepy start.” He replied, turning to look back at his son’s. On cue, Ron let out a yawn.

“You’ve met my boys,” Arthur started and then introduced the rest of you.” This is my daughter Ginny and here is Harry, Hermione and y/n. This is Amos Diggory, everyone. He works with me at the ministry.” The man lifted his head in a friendly way. Arthur then turned to Cedric.

“And this strapping young man must be Credric, am I right?” He asked, shaking the boys hand.

“Yes, sir.” Was his response, that smile glued to his face. After introductions were finished, the group proceeded again down the trail. But Cedric stayed back to greet you.

“Y/n.” Cedric spoke in a charming tone, giving a polite kiss to the back of your hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again.”

“You as well, Cedric.” You responded with a chuckle, wearing kind expression on your face. He mimicked it and walked back up to the front of the group. Hermione beside you nudged you with her elbow and gave you a smirk. Behind you, Fred and George exchanged a look, subtle enough to go unnoticed by you. But you hear one of them huff.

“I think he fancies you,” Ginny whispered in a playful voice, leaning in close to be unheard by the rest.

“Oh no, Gin. Y/n only has eyes for your brother.” Hermione added quickly, immediately receiving a glare from you. Laughter erupted from the two girls.

“Shush, both of you!” You told her, glancing back to see if anyone heard. The twins looked occupied with whatever they were talking about. “And I don’t like Fred any more than usual.” Which would normally be true. But there was a different dynamic between you recently. Nothing about your friendship had changed but you had certainly grown closer recently. But the topic wasn’t something you wanted to dive into at that moment, on your hike to the portkey.

─────────────────────────

After around an hour more of walking, you came out into a huge field of yellowish-green grass. You had felt the uphill climb for a while now and that was confirmed upon seeing a cliff that dropped downward a little ways off. Beyond it lay the sea, its blue surface darker with the overcast weather that morning. As you worked your way closer, you could taste the air develop a hint of salt and feel the wind pick up.

“It’s just up here!” Arthur called, pointing up the hill where an old leather boot sat. It stood up among the grass as if it was planted there, which it likely had been. As your neared it you were instructed to spread out so that everyone had a spot around it.

“Why are we all gathered around that manky old boot?” Harry asked. You imagined he’d never seen a portkey before before, given that he was raised outside the wizarding community.

“That’s not just any manky old boot, mate.” Fred started, settling into a spot next to you.

“It’s a portkey.” George finished, readjusting the bag he carried over his shoulder. Harry followed to find a spot around the boot.

“Time to go!” Amos announced and began counting. “Three..” you shared a look with Fred, placing your hand on the boot with everyone else. You knew what a portkey was, but you’d never actually traveled by one before “Two..”

“Harry!” Arthur called. The boy didn’t have a hold on the boot. He quickly grabbed it before Amos finished counting.

“One!” As he spoke the portkey lifted off the ground, taking us with it. It began to spin, fast enough that you closed your eyes to avoid dizziness. The spinning lasted somewhere around thirty seconds and once it stopped, you were dropped onto the ground. You groaned at the impact, opening your eyes to see the portkey had gone but the rest of the group was down around you. Arthur, Amos, and Cedric, however, had landed gracefully and now walked past you. Arthur beckoned you to follow.

“Come on, this way!” He called. You sat up, rubbing the back of your head. It had a dull ache, but it faded quickly.

“Plan on sleeping here?” Fred asked, making his way to you and offering his hand.

“Oh shove off, Freddie.” you replied, taking it. He pulled you to your feet easily and walked with you to the rest of the group. You climbed up a slope and when you reached the top, the game grounds came into view.

“Bloody hell.” Ron got out, taken by the sight. There were rows and rows of tents in the outer edge, all with different festive decorations. As you moved inward there were tents selling everything from flags to fireworks, which there were no shortage of.

As you walked through the tents, a few were set off right next to you. They stretch up and burst into colorful sparks, raining back down and forming different shapes and figures.

“Those are brilliant!” George exclaimed, lifting his head to watch as we walked. Smiled and laughter filled the group as you made your way through the maze of festivities. That’s when you parted from the Diggorys.

“See you later, Cedric,” George called out to him as Arthur led the rest in the opposite direction, eventually bringing you to a small tent.

“Don’t worry, it’s much bigger on the inside.” You elbowed Harry playfully after seeing his puzzled expression. You ducked into the tent, which opened into a huge space with multiple different rooms off the main.

“Ok, Girls on the left and boys on the right!” Arthur called out. On your side, there were three beds where each of you dropped your bags. You took out a small paint bag out and brought it into the main room.

“I have face paints for us,” You started, pulling the colors out and setting them on the table. “But I imagine we’ll want some other stuff too. Like hats and flags.”

“We can go get some then,” Fred suggested, stepping down into the room. “They have all the tents just a few down from us.”

“Yeah, let’s go now before it gets too busy.” You responded, abandoning the table and standing to head for the tent’s exit. George came into the room, crossing his arms.

“Be back in time to paint my face, y/n!” George yelled as you left the tent, followed quickly by Fred. You two navigated the area, starting to make your way to the shops. There was a tent for everything you could think of.

“Fred, let’s get a firework!” You exclaimed, taking his arm and bringing him to a vendor. Little sparks fluttered around his tent in all different colors and shapes. “Which is a good one?”

Fred looked about the explosives, eventually landing on a large circular one, with a long stick out the bottom. “This one.” He handed the man a galleon, taking the firework in one hand and your hand in the other.

“Careful where you light that thing!” The vendor called as you were led through the crowd and into a small clearing.

“This looks like barely enough room.” You told him, helping him set the rocket into the ground.

“As long as it’s pointed up,” He started, positioning it correctly. He held a hand out for your wand, which you offered to him. “It won’t bother anyone down here.”

He flicked your wand to summon a spark, which started to move up the little wick toward the firework. As soon as it was lit, Fred stood and pulled you back with him. It went off with a whistle, reaching a little ways above the tents before bursting into a huge explosion. Sparks danced above you before raining back down and eventually fading into nothing. Fred cheered and gave you a high five.

“Now that’s a firework.” He said with both hands still on your shoulders, flashing you a smile. It warmed your chest and gave you an almost giddy feeling.

Fred slipping your wand back into your pocket for you and then you were off again. You went down the aisle of tents, stopping here and there to pick up things like flags, hats, and scarves. You even stopped briefly at a jewelry tent after it had caught your eye.

“Oh, I love this one.” You said pointing to a woven bracelet containing small stone beads.

“Really? You’ve never been much of a jewelry person.” He responded, which was correct. You didn’t really have anything against jewelry, you just never wore anything except for earrings and the occasional bracelet.

“Bracelets are an exception.” You explained. “Maybe I can come back and get it after the game.” You moved on from the stand, continuing down the aisle. You now approached the stadium.

“We probably have everything we need.” You started. “Do you—” You turned around to find that Fred had fallen behind and was now walking to catch up. Once he reached you, you asked again.

“Do you want to go back to the tent?” You asked. He nodded in response.

“Yeah, you still need to paint my face.” The boy reminded you, pointing to his cheek. You chuckled and led him back in the other direction.

─────────────────────────

Once you were back at the tent, you broke out the paints. Ginny offered to help so you showed her the basics of it. She ended up doing Ron and Hermione as well as herself. You started with Harry

“Ok, which team?” You asked, prepping one of your brushes.

“I’ll go with Bulgaria.” He requested. “Just one flag though.” You painted the red and black onto his cheeks which he thanked you for. After that you did George, who wanted the same but with the Irish colors and a flag on both cheeks. Once he was done, Fred sat down in front of you with his legs crossed.

“Ok, I’m thinking a huge clover. Covering my entire face.” He gestured to his face, picking up the brush and handing it to you. You laughed, putting a hand onto the side of his face to hold him straight and painting with the other.

“I hope you’re not kidding when you say your entire face.” You said, focusing on what you were doing, which was difficult because the boy kept making faces at you. You had made his entire face white and the clover quite literally covered nearly every inch of it.

“I’m not.” Fred responded. He had given up on making faces and now just gazed at your eyes, which you would argue was even more distracting. Once you were finished, you handed him a small mirror.

“Exactly what I was imagining!” He said, taking your brush from you. “Now it’s your turn.”

“I can probably do it myself, Fred.” You replied, raising an eyebrow. If you knew Fred Weasley, you knew it was safer not to hand him face paint. He gave you a look.

“What? Worried I’ll put a giant clover on your face?” He asked sarcastically. You shook your head, absolutely horrible at saying no to him.

“Fine, just do a flag for me.” You instructed, handing him your paints, but you interrupted him before he could start. “But If you mess up my face, Fredrick Weasley, I’ll never let you touch it again.”

“I won’t! God, woman.” Fred laughed as he spoke. He put a hand under your chin, holding your jaw to keep your head still while he painted. To get back at him, you made direct eye contact with him, chuckling as he struggled to keep his eyes from drifting to yours.

After he finished one cheek he moved onto the next, but the brush strokes were definitely not making a flag. “Freddie?”

“Hm?”

“What are you putting on my face?”

“Just trust me, love.” He assured, glancing down to your eyes for a moment before continuing. You sighed and Fred tilted your chin gently to the side so he could see it better. Once he was done he leaned back to examine his work, taking a little too long before he said anything.

George across the room looked at Ron and started fake gagging, both of them laughing shamelessly. Fred rolled his eyes and handed you your little mirror. He had put the Irish flag on one side and three small clovers on the other. When you looked back up at him he had a smile, knowing you liked it.

“I’m impressed.” You said. “You’re gonna take my job if I’m not careful.”

“Told you, I’m a natural.” He replied, leaning back on the couch. You chuckled, setting the mirror back down on the table.

─────────────────────────

Once the sun went down, you and the rest of the group made your way to the stadium. Your seats were at the top level so it required climbing several flights of stairs that sprouted up just beyond the entrance. About one flight up you were stopped by the Malfoys, the father and son pair. You hadn’t really spoken to either of them personally but they had always seemed like prats from the interactions you heard about.

“Blimey dad, how high up are we?” Ron asked, leaning over the railing to try and see down into the stadium.

“Well let’s put it this way.” Lucius started, leaning into his cane. “If it rains, you’ll be the first to know.” Most of us ignored them and continued walking but Harry and Hermione stopped when Draco chimed in.

“Father and I are in the minister’s box.” He added, giving Harry a smug look. “By personal invitation of Cornelius Fudge himself.”

“Don’t boast, Draco.” His father scolded, jabbing him with his cane. “There’s no need with these people.” Harry grabbed Hermione’s arm, turning her away from the Malfoys. Before he lifted his other hand from the rail, Lucius used the snake end of his can to trap it. Harry jumped at the sudden pain.

“Do enjoy yourself, won’t you? Lucius said. “While you can.” He released his hand and you reached down to put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, turning him away from them again. This time they continued going their own way and you were able to make it up to your seats.

This was the first time you could get a good look into the stadium. Below you were an ungodly number of levels, stretching down to the bottom where the field resided. On either side of the green, three posts grew upward, the hoops at the top almost as high up as you were.

Cheers and whoops came from every direction, filling your ears with the sound. “When does the game start?” You called out over the applause. Fred leaned down to answer but was interrupted by the formation of brooms speeding by above, seeming to just barely miss the top of your heads. White and green clouds trailed behind the players as the flew toward the center of the stadium, creating a firework display there.

Then the Bulgarian team entered, crashing directly through their show and throwing off the display. They flew in a triangle formation, sporting their red and black colors. At the front, the team’s seeker led the group, showing off as he passed through the audience.

“Who’s that?” Ginny asked.

“That sis, is the greatest seeker in the world!” George answered. His voice nearly drowned out by the crowd. Somehow the applause managed to grow lauded than it was before the seeker, Viktor Krum, had made his entrance.

The game lasted for a long time, only coming to an end when Krum caught the snitch. His catch handed the win over to the Irish, who ended up with around twenty more points in total.

─────────────────────────

Back in the tent you all celebrated, giddy on the excitement of earlier in the day. You found yourself wrapped in the Irish flag that Fred had picked out, watching them goof around. A loud explosion went off outside, sounding like one of the larger fireworks you had seen.

“There’s no one like Krum.” Ron started, standing up on the table. “He’s like a bird the way he rides the wind.” Fred threw another flag at him, which he caught and balled up in front of him.

“He’s more than an athlete, he’s an artist.” Ron continued, clearly infatuated with the quidditch player.

“I think you’re in love, Ron.” You said, earning a look from him.

“Viktor, I love you!” George sang, taking his brother’s arm.

“Viktor, I do!” Fred added, taking his other one.

“When we’re apart my heart beats only for you!” Everyone finished, being cut off by another big firework going off, followed by shouting from a ways away.

“Sounds like the Irish have got their pride on.” Fred stated, smoothing his hair out of his face. Arthur, who had been gone for a few minutes, entered the tent again, grabbing his son’s shoulder.

“It’s not the Irish.” He said in a tone that made your smile drop. He crossed the tent to reach Ginny. “We’ve got to get out of here, now.”

The scene outside was completely different from what you thought you had heard. The fireworks really had been big explosions. Tents were on fire and people fled screaming.

“Get back to the portkey everyone, and stick together!” Arthur commanded, turning to the twins. “Ginny is your responsibility, do not lose her!” He handed her off, George taking her arm and keeping ahold of her.

The chaos had delayed your reaction time while you tried to process the sudden terror. It took another explosion and more screams to break you out of it. George began running with Ginny in tow and you watched them weave through the mess.

“Y/n!” Fred yelled, taking your hand and gripping it tightly. He dragged you through the tents, following quickly behind George. He hadn’t accounted for the height difference and that you would be slightly slower than him because he continued to lead you through until you started to trip.

“Fred,” you managed to get out, the smell of smoke and burning fabric climbing into your throat. He slowed down a little, probably just considering picking you up at that point. As you passed a larger tent, you suddenly tripped over a pile of debris and Fred quickly turned to grab you. Another explosion hit, sending the tent up in flames and you two to the side. Burns tore at your leg.

The flag, which you didn’t even realize you still carried, caught fire and pain seared through your shoulder as you tried to rip the slip of fabric off. Fred hauled you to your feet, yanking the flag away and tossing it to the side.

“Are you ok?” He yelled above the chaos, his eye darting to your arm and then your leg. You winced but nodded and continued moving. Finally both of you came out onto the hill again. It was dark, but you made it to the bottom where the portkey was.

You had to stop there, gritting your teeth from the untreated burns. Fred slipped an arm around your waist to help support you. After looking around, you saw that only George, Ginny, and Arthur had made it back. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were nowhere in sight.

“Where are the others?” You asked. Arthur looked around the incomplete group.

“Stay here!” He ordered, heading back up the hill. “Whatever you do, do not go back in there!” He disappeared back into the chaos.

“Are you ok?” Fred asked his siblings, who seemed shaken but unharmed.

“A couple scratches but nothing severe.” George replied. You patted Fred’s arm so he’d let you sink to the ground. He took your hand to help you get there, unintentionally letting out a wince. You let go to see a nasty burn where he had grabbed the flag.

“Fred, your hand.” You pointed out, but he shook his head and pulled it away.

“Don’t worry about me.” He replied quickly. Then Hermione and Ron came running down the slope. But Harry wasn’t with them. Hermione landed beside you, setting down her smaller bag which she had managed to save.

“Y/n, what happened?” She asked. the burns were painful but the adrenaline hadn’t worn off so they weren’t yet unbearable.

“Where’s Harry?” You asked her, ignoring her question. She looked around, finding that Harry wasn’t there. She then frantically dug through her bag, pulling out a roll of bandages and some sort of cream. They were muggle supplies, which you had some knowledge on since one of your parents was a muggle.

“Ginny!” Hermione called to the girl, who was looking much younger now. “Wrap her burns, like I showed you!” She turned back around and headed up the hill with Ron, despite George’s protests.

“I’ll show you, Gin.” You said, gritting your teeth. She came over, kneeling down beside you. “Rip the pant leg.” Ginny was able to tear it easily since it was mostly singed anyway. Fred and George grimaced at the burns it revealed.

“Put the cream on and then wrap it.” You instructed, trying to speak calmly through the quickly growing pain. You held your burned arm in your uninjured, the whole side of your body now stinging. She did as you said, the cream bringing some relief to your leg.

Under your instruction, she took of your jacket, decently wrapped your shoulder and arm, and then got your jacket back on to shield the injuries.

“Thank you, Ginny. That was perfect.” You assured her, the stinging was now muted but still very much so present. You heard her sigh in relief at your words.

With your burns covered for now, you took Fred’s hand and wrapped it carefully, apologizing with every sound he made. After a while the screams and explosions had died out, leaving the black, smoky remains of the festival grounds. It wasn’t until about an hour after Arthur had left that he retuned, Hermione, Ron, and Harry now following behind him.

“Is everyone ok?” He asked, making his way through the group. Fred and George helped you onto your feet.

“Y/n got the worst of it,” George explained, leaving you with Fred. “The rest of us are ok.”

“Ginny bandaged everything.” You said, heaving a sigh. “I’ll be alright.”

“Well done, Ginny.” Arthur praised, putting a hand on her shoulder. After a final headcount, you all grabbed ahold of the portkey and took it back home. The walk back was brutal, but both Fred and George helped you and once you were there you received better medical attention. By the next morning you were nearly back to normal.

“How are you feeling?” Fred asked as you walked into their bedroom, noting that you were no longer limping. You expected George to be sitting there too but he wasn’t in the room.

“Better now,” you told him, sitting down on his bed with your back against the wall. “Your mother fixed me right up. But I’ll probably have those scars for a while.”

He chuckled, coming to sit down beside you. Fred pulled you into a big hug, sighing. “Sorry you tripped, I was just trying to get you out of there.” He apologized, releasing you from his embrace. You sat back against the wall again, wanting him to hold you for longer.

“I know, Freddie. Don’t worry about it.” You assured, giving him a soft smile. He returned it. His green eyes gave you that same look they did while you were painting his face.

You sighed. School hadn’t even started yet and you could tell this wasn’t going to be a quiet year. But not even those burns could make you trade it for anything else.

─────────────────────────

Click here for part 2!

[mochiwrites]

I would also like to see you put scarian in situations:

51. Meet ugly/awkward first meetings please?

51. Meet ugly/awkward first meetings (put that guy in situations!)

reblogs do more than likes!

“You tricked me!” Grian’s voice lifts in pitch as he yells. He’s spent all day hunting for that scarred merchant who sold him that ‘wooden cutting board.’ Grian’s not the sort to get so easily scammed, but the merchant had been… very nice looking. He managed to find him after practically running through the Hypixel hub all day.

For his part, the man looks startled by Grian’s arrival, green eyes nervously flicking around their surroundings. No one bats an eye at them. He looks at Grian, “Ah! You’re the red sweater guy from a few days ago! How’s that cutting board treating you?” He smiles, all smooth and polite.

It makes Grian growl with frustration. “You said it was wooden, but the second I went to use it, the whole thing crumbled to dust!” The scarred man blinks at him, feigning some kind of concern. It makes Grian want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him around. “You scammed me out of my diamonds.”

“Why I’d never scam! Everything I have to sell,” he gestures to the large pouch at his feet, “is completely authentic! If you want another cutting board I could—”

“I want my diamonds back,” Grian interrupts him, not even giving him another chance to smooth talk his way into Grian’s wallet. Not again. He’s not letting this handsome guy have his way with him again!

The merchant winces in return, quickly covering it up with a smile, “I’m afraid it was non-refundable! I’d be happy to give you another product in exchange?” He tilts his head before his eyes light up. “How about a couple of rare magic crystals? Or an enchanted book? I have a one of a kind fishing rod with so much luck, a fisherman once found Atlantis because of it!”

Grian’s eyebrow twitches in annoyance, “How in Void’s name did I let you talk your way into making me buy anything from you, dude. It’s so obvious you’re a scam.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re so blunt it hurts?” the scarred man quips, the smile never leaving his face. “Does that scare off the ladies?”

Grian snorts, “It’s sent plenty of men running.”

He pretends not to notice how the man’s eyes light up. “You sure have a sharp wit about you. I like that.” The smile on his face softens into something a bit more real, and Grian sees the way it reaches his eyes. It makes his heart skip a beat.

“You’re not smooth talking your way out of repaying me.” He crosses his arms, squinting at the man. “I’m expecting to be repaid — I gave you ten diamonds for a piece of junk!”

The man laughs, and oh if isn’t the nicest sound Grian has ever heard. “May I interest you in a different deal instead, my good sir?” he inquires, taking a step closer.

“Depends on if it involves getting my diamonds back or not.” Grian lifts a brow.

“While I can’t make your diamonds magically reappear, I can make it up to you. If you’ll allow me too.” That stupidly soft smile is still on his face.

Grian’s nose scrunches up and he scoffs. “Thanks but no thanks. I have rent to pay so if you can’t pay me back, I have to go find a different way.” He knew it was a bad idea to begin with! What the heck did he need a cutting board for anyway?! He doesn’t even cook for crying out loud! The man really had just… charmed him with words alone. Well, his looks certainly had something to do with it. It’s not Grian’s fault he’s weak for a guy with fluffy brown hair and nice green eyes!

He frowns and steps back, turning around. He starts walking away with hurried steps.

“W-Wait!” the man cries out, hurrying after him. Grian’s pace doesn’t slow, determined. They fall into step together, walking side by side. “Just hear me out!”

“No thanks!” Grian starts walking faster, hoping to shake him.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t.

“I promise it’ll be worth your time! Your while even! I’ll knock your socks off!”

“Not interested!”

“Please! Let me take you out to dinner!”

Grian stops short, eyes going wide. His cheeks go red, and he whirls on the merchant to look at him. “What?!”

“Let me take you out to dinner!” he repeats, and Grian continues to stare at him, jaw dropping. “While I can’t give you back your diamonds, I can at least treat you to some Goodtimes.” He winks, and oh Void is he flirting right now?!

“I— you— what—” Grian stammers out, heart thundering in his chest. The man’s smile is doing terrible things to his critical thinking skills.

“You won’t have to pay for a thing! I can talk our way into the best restaurant of your choosing,” he continues on.

Now that… is a curious thing. And Grian feels like he’s about to make another bad decision.

“…if it’s a date, you should at least tell me your name.”

“It’s Scar! Scar Goodtimes,” Scar replies, green eyes bright and pleased. There’s a little smirk on his face. “And you are?”

“Grian.” Is he really doing this? “So… where and when am I meeting you, Scar?” He’s really doing this.

“Let’s say… tomorrow afternoon? Meet me here?” Scar questions, and Grian takes in a breath.

“I expect my socks to be blown off,” he teases.

(It turns out to be the best decision he’s ever made. Even if the first choice was a bad financial investment.)

[ghostofhyuck]

Gang AU Series 6

Gang leader! Zhong Chenle x Gang member’s younger sister! Reader

Summary: "Why can't you resent me?"

cw: mentions of death, and blood. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Yn Lee.” 

You turned around and saw him. You freezed, hands tight on the hem of your apron. You knew him and how you two are the same-age. But the way he’s all roughed-up with his leather jacket in contrast to your plain sweater and apron, shows how your lives are different from each other. 

“You know me,” you mumbled. 

“You’re Mark Lee’s only sister,” he answered. “I’m Zhong Chenle.” 

“What do you want?” you asked, trying to look calm, knowing that you two are in a public place. 

“Can I have a spare of your time?” he asked. “I need to talk to you about your brother.” 

You only pursed your lips, it’s been a week since your brother’s burial and as much as you want to cope with his death, the ghost of his past keeps on haunting you. 

And that ghost is none other than Zhong Chenle. 

“Is it important?” you asked, looking around the place. “It’s a busy hour for us —”

“Don’t worry about it yn,” your manager interrupted. “He already asked for my permission, go on.” 

That’s how you found yourself at a table in front of Zhong Chenle. You watched as he took a sip of the iced coffee that he ordered, glancing at the window beside as if he’s admiring the view of the outside. 

“Before Mark-hyung died, he asked if we could look after you,” Chenle started. “And I promised him that. That’s why I’m telling you this right now, moved in with —”

“What are you talking about!?” you asked, confused. 

“Mark-hyung wanted you to leave that shitty place of your aunts’ house,” he explained. “He’s much more comfortable if you stay with us.”

“And how can I be so sure that you’re not fooling me?” 

Chenle became quiet. A scene played in his mind. 

Blood. Lots of blood. Lots of Mark’s blood. Mark smiles at him, who's crying hopelessly, trying to keep his friend alive by holding him tightly. Mark continued to talk, stuttering at his own words in an attempt to make out of your name. 

“Get her out of that place, please…” Mark whispers at Chenle, who could only nod. And as if it was the answer that he needs, Mark closes his eyes slowly. 

“It’s a promise before he joined the gang,” Chenle lied. “We look for each other’s family, especially when someone dies.” 

You stared at him. He seems more distant than what you assumed, as if he was hiding something from you. But you tried to look on the other side. He wants you to leave your aunts’ place. Something that you and your brother have been dying to do. 

It was the reason why your brother even joined the gang. Both of you were orphaned at a young age. Your parents died due to a car accident, leaving you two under the care of your aunt and her husband. 

It was a living hell. They would tell you everyday that both you siblings should be grateful that she took you in or else you two will end up in an orphanage. She treats you like a maid and for years, you and your brother endured it. They were greedy for money too, they couldn’t even spare money on you two, saying that you two should be grateful that you have a place to live. At a young age, you are forced to find part-time jobs so that you have money for yourself. 

So did Mark. When your brother turned nineteen, he ended up joining a gang. It was dangerous, but it gave him a huge sum of money enough to buy both your needs. But in return, he would go home wounded and blooded. You hold your tears, as you mend your brother’s wounds. Trying to convince him to stop it and just live a normal life. 

“Soon, just a little bit more, we’ll get there. We can now move out of this shitty place and have a place of our own, you can study at one of the best universities here in Korea without worrying about the expenses.” he told you, smiling. You have your lips tight, trying your best to trust your brother.

But a few weeks later, Mark died. Your world crumbled when you received the news that your brother died in a gang fight. It was said that he was just an innocent passerby who happened to witness the illegal activities, that’s why he got involved. But you knew that he wasn’t as innocent as they tried to paint him. Whoever decided to change the statement, must be trying to protect Mark too. 

And you wonder if it was Chenle’s doings. You glanced at him, and he was nothing but staring at you. You let out a sigh. 

“How can I be sure that I should trust you?” you asked.

“Don’t trust me,” Chenle answered quickly. “I’m just fulfilling what Mark-hyung wanted. It’s just a temporary stay, soon, you can stay at the apartment flat Mark wanted to buy.” 

“Okay,” you let out a sigh. “I’ll come with you.” 

It was a risk. But it was better than staying in your aunts’ place. You knew the gang your brother joined. Mark keeps talking about them whenever you mend his wounds. He seems to love his gang, even considering them as friends. If Mark trusts them enough to look after you, then you’re convinced that there’s nothing for you to worry about. 

“Alright,” Chenle muttered. “Here’s my phone number, just contact me when we pick you up.” He leaves a card in front of you, and before you could mutter a word, he bids his goodbye to you and leaves. 

You stared at the paper. There’s not much to see except his name and number. That’s how discreet Chenle was, and now, you were even more curious about the gang your brother joined. 

-

As expected, your aunt was more happy for you to leave their place. She didn’t have an ounce of care about you and kept on insisting that it was time for you to be mature and live on your own. 

“Maybe even try to follow your brother’s footsteps, how about that?” she taunted. You froze for a second, but as much as you wanted to stop and slap the hell out of her, you couldn’t do anything but to continue packing your things. You tried to brush it off. At least you’re leaving the place. You’re free now and you’re on your own now. 

It took a while before Chenle arrived. A slick black car stops in front of you and from the driver’s seat, Chenle exits. He helped you load your things on the trunk, and even opened the passenger seat for you. You glanced at the apartment building, not noticing that Chenle had entered the car. 

“Is there something wrong?” he asked, you glanced at him and shook your head as answer. 

“Did your aunt say something?”

You became quiet, wondering how he was able to read your mind. 

“Mark-hyung talks about her all the time,” he answered, “That’s for another time, let’s go.” 

The drive to their place was quiet. You only stared at the view from the window. Chenle was a skilled driver, but he didn’t say a thing to you during the duration of the drive. You found it weird, he was far different from your brother’s stories. 

You knew them and their personality. You know that they’re just lost kids like your brother, trying to fight their way to survive the harsh world. The gang was small, but it’s enough. Chenle was their leader due to the fact that he founded and funded the gang, he did it in order to rebel against his parents. But slowly, Chenle realised that this is the family that he’s been yearning for. 

That’s why he was so protective of not only his members, but their member’s families too. 

Your thoughts started to trail off when you found Chenle turning right to a secluded road. It was down a narrow alley that seemed abandoned, barely visible from the highway you two just drove through. 

From the outskirts, you found yourself in a more hidden alley, filled with abandoned buildings and ruined roads. Chenle parks the car outside of a decent-looking building. And as you glanced at him, he only gave you a go signal to leave the car. 

“It looks abandoned but that’s the purpose of it,” Chenle commented. Grabbing your bag, not even letting you touch it. “Come on.” you only followed him quietly, entering the building. It was dimmed with lights, the walls weren't painted with any colours, and you felt its eerie presence as Chenle's footsteps echoed through the empty hallways. 

As you two reached the second floor, Chenle stopped in front of the only door in there. He types on the passcode and enters. “We’re here!” He shouts, and you only follow suit. 

You stepped backward when you were greeted by a bunch of boys — and girls. You were surprised, given that your brother didn’t mention any girls in the gang. 

“Like I told you, we protect each other’s families,” Chenle said. You only nod, as they introduce themselves one by one. Only a few of them are the member’s sisters, mostly their girlfriends. You gave them a warm smile, trying your best to be acquainted with them. 

“Jaemin-hyung, bring yn to her room, I’ve got to do something,” Chenle ordered, disrupting the talk. 

“Uhm, sure…where are you going?” Jaemin asked. 

“Meeting someone,” he said casually before leaving the place without any words to you. 

You stood there frozen, clueless as to what to do when Jaemin tapped your shoulder. 

“You’ll get used to it, that’s just how Chenle is,” the older one assured you. 

You tried to brush it off. That’s just Chenle’s personality. They say. It was weird given how your brother talks about him like a younger brother. 

“He may be younger than me but he’s smart, also calculated. But he still has a childish side of him. If you met him, you'd definitely like his smile.” 

Two weeks into your stay and you never saw Chenle smile. He seems reserved, as if he’s trying to hide something from you. You became curious, especially when the rest ignored it. Was your brother’s stories a lie? You wanted to approach him, and talk to him about your stay. You feel agitated, doing nothing and spending most of your time on your part-time job. But he seems busy, doing something, and completely shutting himself from the world. He couldn’t even look you in the eye.

You wonder if it was because of your brother, and yet, as much as you want to find the answer, you couldn’t find it especially when Chenle’s been avoiding you. 

It’s not like you want to leave the place, living with your brother’s former gang was much better than staying in your aunt's place. They were welcoming and still acted like a bunch of teenagers. They seem like a close-knitted family, and now you understand why your brother thinks highly about them. But of course, he mentioned that this is just a temporary stay, so you were also half-eager to not stay any longer. 

“We don’t know either,” Jeno answered when you opened up your concern. “It’s best for you to corner him.”

That was the only answer that you got. You only nodded and didn’t push them furthermore. Jeno noticed the way your expression faltered, he only smiles as he gently ruffles your hair. 

“He’ll be back here around two am, if you really want to talk to him.”

So you stayed up late. You’re used to it. Back then, you would wait for your brother’s return. It comforts you that he would go home late but alive. It assured you that he’s fine. 

Just like what Jeno had mentioned, it was almost two in the morning when the door opened. You stood up from your seat. You heard Chenle’s harsh breathing, as if he was struggling. You immediately went to him, surprising both of you. 

Your eyes widened to see him ruined. Open cuts and wounds in his face, blood-stained shirt and jacket, he was limping too. 

“Why are you still awake?” he asked, struggling to finish his sentence. 

“I was waiting for you,” you said, making him quiet. “You should sit, let me tend your wounds —“

“No thanks, I can manage —“

“Please,” you pleaded. “I do this to Mark too, I know what I am doing.” 

As if the magic word was your brother’s name that he agreed to. You helped him sit on the sofa, while you left to find the first aid kit found in the bathroom. Minutes later, you returned and began mending his wounds. You noticed how he’s looking sideways, not even batting an eye at you. 

“I was going to ask,” you started. “Until when can I stay here?” 

“Why?”

“I just don’t want to burden everyone,” you timidly said.

“You’re not a burden,” Chenle answers. 

“Really? Then why can’t you even look me in the eyes?” you asked. 

Chenle didn’t answer. He couldn’t help but remember Mark’s funeral — where you two first met. 

It was at a decent funeral parlour. The six of them went there together, and from the outside, Chenle noticed that there’s only a few visitors. You were Mark’s main mourner. Only sitting at the corner, holding the frame of your dead brother. Your head lay low, not even noticing their arrival. They all stood there quietly, trying to sink into their mind that Mark is dead. 

In the midst of the ceremony, Chenle’s eyes never left yours. He can see the resemblance of Mark to you, and he couldn’t help but feel guilty. 

Yet he was intrigued at your calm demeanour. When it was time for them to bid goodbye, you personally sent them away, bowing at them as a sign of gratitude, and as you come face to face with Chenle, he couldn’t help but noticed the dead look in your eyes, and yet you seem to not shed a single tear for your brother. 

He doesn’t know what to feel about you. Intrigued? Curious? Guilty? All he knows is that he killed the only family member that you had. And as much as he tries to help you, he knows that he couldn’t do anything about Mark’s death. 

“Why can’t you resent me?” he asked. You stopped your tracks, looking at him. Chenle was devastated. He was wondering why you didn’t even try to push them away, scream or even call the police at them. 

But you only let out a small chuckle, “I don’t know, why would I?”

“I killed your brother,” he confessed. 

“You didn’t Chenle, I know the truth,” you told him. “You weren’t able to save him, that’s all.”

“See!? I was useless! How can you still mend my wounds after what I did!?”

You let out a sigh, “How can I resent the people who my brother considered as family?”

Silence. Chenle wasn’t able to say anything. You only gave him a bitter smile as you grabbed another alcohol pad and gently tapped it on his cheeks. That’s when he noticed how your eyes felt hollow, as if you’re dead inside. 

“My brother talks about you all the time, you’re like his younger brother,” you answered. “He thinks highly of you. He respects you, so how can I resent the person my brother loves?” 

“Why should I blame you for my brother’s death? When it was my fault that he joined the gang in the first place —“ and tears began to flow. Your hands drop as you hold onto the pad tightly. You couldn’t help but to sob, remembering that all your brother’s doing was for you.

All Mark wanted was for you to live a comfortable life, away from the shithole of your aunts’ house. And the only thing he can do as quickly as possible is join an underground gang. An easy access for money, but a risk. 

As much as you tried to stop him, it was useless. In the end, Mark was gone, and you don’t know if you can survive in this world alone. You felt helpless, that’s when you realised that you’ve also been dependent on Mark throughout your life. 

Your tears wouldn’t stop even when Chenle pulled you closer to his arms, you couldn’t help but cry louder. After weeks of being alone, this was the first time you found comfort.

“It’s not your fault,” Chenle muttered. “We never wanted this to happen,” he told you. 

And he was right. No one wants this, and the only thing that you two can do is assure each other. Both lost someone who’s very important to each other. Blaming and living with guilt was useless. 

Chenle thinks that it’s useless for him to let the guilt swallow him. He only lets out a deep sigh as he pulls you even closer to him. He was determined to never let you cry again. 

“I’m here, I’m not going to let you be alone again,” he swore to you.

[ghostfacd]

the sun to my moon. QH43

au masterlist

warnings: mention of underage drinking + peer pressuring, cursing, a tiny tiny hint of angst, not proofread so there might be mistakes, someone’s mean to sunny </3

It wasn’t a shocker that Quinn Hughes was a very grumpy person. He was fairly quiet, eyes calculating as they scan every corner of the room.

If you didn’t know him well, you’d probably think Quinn was just plain mean. He wasn’t, or maybe, not that mean, he just didn’t like talking to people—or people at all, for the matter.

It was pretty cold that December in New Jersey, but the lake house was warm and the waters were a fairly nice dark blue. He had gone home to visit his parents, as well as Jack and Luke. It was nice to be back in America, a change from Vancouver.

“Hi Quinn sweetie!” Ellen greets her son happily, engulfing him in a hug that he returns with a small smile. He had only really smiled to his mom, appreciating her constant support and encouragement. “Oh! Jack brought home his girlfriend! You should meet her,”

Quinn raises his eyebrows at this, never hearing Jack mention a girlfriend in any of their family calls. Was the boy finally settling down?

He walked into the living room, surprised to see two brunette girls along with Jack. Brunette? Now this got Quinn’s attention. He’d always thought his brother would go for.. blondes.

“Hi! I’m Jack’s girlfriend, you must be his older brother!” The girl smiles brightly, making Quinn almost grimace. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Jack has told me so much!”

“I’m sure he has,” Quinn chuckles awkwardly, shaking the hand she had extended to him earlier.

Jack smiles at his favorite people interacting with another. “This is my girl’s best friend, Sunny Damount.” He points to the other brunette girl who almost takes Quinn’s breath away.

Jesus, was she an angel in disguise?

“Sunny?” Quinn questions. He’s never met anyone named Sunny, so his voice almost sounds confused.

“I’m Y/N, but everyone just calls me Sunny because they say I remind them of a ray of sunshine!” Her face converts into the most beautiful smile Quinn’s ever seen in his life—aside from his mom—and he can’t help but feel his knees grow weak.

“Nice to meet you Sunny,” Quinn smiles, and Jack and Luke throw a glance at each other in amusement.

“Hey Q, why don’t you show her around?” Jack suggests. “I mean, you know the lake house like the back of your hand.”

Quinn rolls his eyes slightly, noticing what his brother was trying to do. “So do you and Luke.”

“Yeah but cmon Quinn! Don’t be rude to our guest!”

Quinn finally agrees, not like he didn’t want to tour the cute girl anyways. He slides open the backyard door, signaling Sunny to go out first. When Sunny’s back is turned, Quinn slides out his tongue at both Jack and Luke, to which they responded with a mischievous grin on their faces.

“So you go to Umich?” Quinn asks as he closes the sliding door. He noticed her sweater from earlier, the dark blue fabric with a M stitched to its front.

“I do!” The girl giggles, even though there’s nothing funny. If it had been anyone else, Quinn would’ve cringed internally. But he doesn’t. “I’m a junior this year, crazy how time flies.”

“Yeah, really crazy.”

The two are silent for a while, Quinn’s nervousness and overthinking causes him to just go mute while Sunny smiles at practically everything that catches her eyes.

“You’ll be staying here until Jack’s girlfriend leaves?” He questions.

“Yeah! She invited me here because she said I needed to get out the dorm more now that it’s Christmas break. I guess she’s right,”

Quinn looks down at the ground, smiling to himself. Even though he barely knew Sunny, he was glad she was staying at the lake house.

A few days pass by without much interaction from the two, Jack’s girlfriend always managing to take Sunny away before Quinn could even utter out a word. He was slightly annoyed, but he knew he couldn’t tell Jack or Luke. They’d tease them endlessly.

That night, Jack had brought home some beers, all of them, minus Luke, went outside and sat on the dock, bringing the cans out with them.

“Do you want one?” Quinn whispers to Sunny.

Jack and his girlfriend were in another world, busy cuddling up to one another and taking slow sips from their cans.

“Oh no—it’s okay. I don’t drink, I’d rather wait till I’m 21,”

Quinn had almost forgotten Sunny was only 20. It was a surprise to him that she’d actually wait that long; everybody he knew had started drinking in high school, not caring about the legal age.

“That’s alright, you can have fun while being sober too.” Quinn almost cringes at his words, but luckily, Sunny nods with a bright smile on her face.

“You really are a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” Quinn whispers.

“What was that Quinn?”

“Oh,” Quinn smiles sheepishly, not expecting Sunny to have heard him. “Nothing.”

The next weekend, Jack once again came up with another one of his crazy ideas—this one being throwing a party since Jim and Ellen were going away for a few days to stay at a fancy resort.

Quinn didn’t like social outings, in fact, he wants desperately to sneak away into his room and blast music in his airpods. But he decides to stay downstairs, sitting right next to Sunny who only has fruit punch in her cup.

“Hey, is that Sunny Damount?!” A random guy comes up to them, getting a bit too close to Sunny for Quinn’s liking. “Sunnyyyyy!”

He’s clearly drunk, and Quinn wants to rip him away from the girl.

“Have a drink Sun! It’s so good!” The guy almost spills his cup of alcohol on Sunny, making the girl’s smile falter. It was the first time Quinn didn’t see such a bright smile on her face.

“I’m okay Kyle, I don’t drink,”

The guy, who Quinn can only guess is named Kyle, gets even closer to Sunny, making her slowly back up into the kitchen island.

“You don’t drink? You’re like twenty Sunny, it’s a party. You have to drink.”

Quinn pushes Kyle slightly off Sunny, throwing the boy a glare. “Sunny says she doesn’t drink, Kyle. So why don’t you turn around and leave?”

Kyle scoffs, throwing a glare towards Quinn’s way. “Whatever, I was going to leave anyway!”

Sunny sighs in relief when she sees the boy leave. “Thank you Quinn,” she shyly mumbles.

“It’s alright Sunny,” he reassures her. “No guy should be pressuring you to drink when you clearly don’t want to.”

And by the end of the party, Quinn realizes he’s fucked.

He’s inlove with Sunny Damount.

And he’s never been inlove. Well not seriously. He has had a few girlfriends then and there, but it was silly and it surely wasn’t love.

So what does Quinn Hughes do when he’s in such a dilemma? He pivots. He does what most considers a fucked up and idiotic thing to do. He ignores her.

What better way to dig his feelings in a hole and bury them than ignoring the girl he was inlove with?

Sunny is clearly confused when Quinn gives her one worded answers, and she almost wants to cry when he barely even acknowledges her presence.

What did she do wrong? Everybody loved her, so why was Quinn ignoring her?

It didn’t make her feel any better when she went to the market and bumped into a really mean girl she knew who said some not so nice things about her.

That, along with Quinn not talking to her, leads Sunny to have a breakdown on the dock, knees against her chest as she buries her face into them.

Even though Quinn tries to put away his worries, he can’t help but feel bugged that he hadn’t seen Sunny the entire afternoon. He spots the familiar brunette sitting on the dock, and even though his head tells him no, his heart begged him to say yes.

Quinn Hughes listened to his heart.

He walks up to Sunny, sitting beside her close enough that lets her know he’s there but not so close that she’s uncomfortable.

“Are you okay Suns?”

Sunny sniffles, lifting her head to see Quinn. Suddenly, her cries intensify, making the poor boy panic in worry.

“Shh, it’s okay Sunny.” He mumbles, patting her back.

“It’s not!” She sobs, “first, the boy I like ignores me for no reason, and then this really really mean girl says that I put on this fake nice act and that I’m just some loser who doesn’t drink!”

Quinn’s heart skips a beat when Sunny practically confesses her feelings to him. He can’t help but feel incredibly guilty at ignoring her for so long.

“I’m sorry Suns, I never meant to hurt you.” Quinn pulls her body into his chest, placing his chin on head. “The truth was, I’m inlove with you and I didn’t know how to handle that so I figured ignoring you would make my feelings away?”

Sunny stops crying for a second, slightly giggling at Quinn’s words. “Are you stupid Quintin?!”

Quinn grimaces. “I know, I know. But I was just scared. You made my heart beat faster, and before I knew it, I felt butterflies in my stomach. I never felt so inlove with anyone before—and I felt like I couldn’t breathe with you not near me. You’re like the sun to my moon, Sunny. You brighten up my day with the most prettiest smile I’ve ever seen, and your giggles bring me the most happiness I’ve ever experienced in my life. I just… I just didn’t know how to express that to you without scaring you off.”

Sunny wipes away her tears, placing a small tender kiss on Quinn’s jaw. “You could’ve just said so, Quinn. I’m inlove with you as much as you are inlove with me.”

Quinn finally decides to push away all his nervousness and lean down to give Sunny a kiss, one that he’s been dying to do since the day he met her at the lake house.

And just like that, Sunny Damount had became the sun in Quinn Hughes’ life.

[tacitoru]

sunday overcast - eren yeager

pairing: eren jaeger x reader

summary: After ruining your potential dream relationship - and spring break plans - with Jean, you retreat to your hometown over break for the first time in years to lick your wounds. But you can mope around for only so long when you're strapped for cash. Luckily, the manager at your usual summer gig has an unconventional shift you can fill on short notice. The only issue - the guy you hooked up with and ghosted last winter is scheduled to work the same shift. Even worse, he's your only ride home.

rating: explicit

wc: 7.8k

read on ao3 | series nav

the chili's au/scummy line cook eren saga continues

“Hey,” you murmur, low and warm in your throat, just barely heard above the rain. “You wanna cheer me up?”

Eren really isn’t sure how the both of you ended up in this situation. 

Don’t get him wrong - he had been imagining your return since the day you left. Or rather, the day he found out you left, through Sasha, who had unceremoniously handed the sweater he loaned you over to him by the next dinner shift they worked together. By then, the winter holidays had passed and you were well on your way back to your university.

At first, he figured that in time, you would text him. Your last encounter was intense, and you could hardly look in his direction the whole drive to your apartment. He couldn’t bring himself to reach out first - something told him it’d make things worse before it made anything better. He couldn’t be the only one stuck on that night. Something had to be said, right?

But right now, somehow, you’re reclining in his backseat, studying him with that alluring, low-lidded gaze that pierces through the darkness of his car. And despite all the steps it took to get to this moment, nothing between the two of you has really been properly addressed yet.  

It’s this gnawing thought that causes Eren to hesitate at your invitation. Frustration burns through him at the sight of you. Wet hair pasted to the sides of your flush cheeks. Soaked polo rucked up your stomach, the bare skin shining with rainwater what little light gleans inside from the streetlights. The two of you, alone in Eren’s worn-out sedan, camped out in the middle of Pepper’s vacant parking lot, sporting matching red eyes. He observes you, observing him pretending to mull over your question. Silently pleading with him to blur the lines of whatever this was quickly devolving into just a little bit more. Just one more time. 

He wonders if you’ll back down, chicken out, if he’s quiet for long enough.

“Eren,” you call for him again and he swallows, throat feeling dry and thick. There it is again. That lofty tone you often use when he fucks up an order or moves a little too slow. Sweet, pitiful, and disdainful all at once. 

A joint smolders in his fingers, long forgotten after dodging to avoid the flailing mass of limbs and appendages that was your poor attempt at wiggling into the back from the passenger seat. A pleasant, lethargic fog creeps at the edges of his consciousness. Your next words seem to float through the car to bless his ears, rolling around in his mind with a warm buzz that has him leaning out of his seat before you’re even finished speaking. 

“Come make me feel good.”

--

New Year’s Day came and went, and Eren figured you’d at least reach out before you left your humble hometown for the start of your last spring semester in the big city. His phone would vibrate, and he would flip it, hoping he was masking his anticipation - and then later, disappointment - well enough at the possibility of you calling. His fingers would idle on your chat messages, frowning when he had to scroll farther and farther as he accumulated others—hoping one day to catch even just those three torturous, winking dots. Any sign that you were thinking of him as much as his thoughts turned to you.

This newfound hobby, waiting for you to return, was a nuisance in every sense of the word. You had left like you had every spring, and you would return like you had every summer. This careful, meticulous dance around your academic schedule that dictated your time back home - when you would work, how long you would stay, and who you would come to see. It was the way it had always been, for the past handful of years at least. Even if you were graduating this year, you had to come back - it was the natural order of things, in Eren’s world. 

What Eren hadn’t been anticipating was that you would break that routine.

He wouldn’t really consider himself a creature of habit beyond smoking, but there were people who he considered had specific roles in his everyday life. Connie was his work partner-in-crime and designated smoke buddy. Armin was his rock and moral compass. Levi was a hardass dictator moonlighting as a shift supervisor. And you were the uptight waitress girl from work who liked to boss him around and get on his ass just because you had a college degree and he didn’t.

Realistically, nothing had really shifted too far from the norm in his day-to-day. You had always been just coworkers. Now you were just a coworker whom he had eaten out from the back one time.

Eren had been working at Pepper’s for a long time. It wasn’t like it was the first time he had fucked around with one of his coworkers - that was part of the inevitable circle of life in the restaurant service industry. Work a double shift? Check. Train a newbie? Check. Fuck that one coworker who laughs a little too hard at your jokes? Check.

But then he had practically corned you at Sasha’s ugly sweater party last year, and suddenly that reality had been forced to shift.

It was the worst at work. He would receive an order he found stupid - who the fuck puts ranch on their spaghetti? - and itch to somehow poke fun at you about it. Connie would introduce the dinner crew to new music when the restaurant was closed, Levi had retired into the office for the night, and Eren would catch himself considering which tracks you would find funny and which ones you’d probably look up and save for yourself. 

Standing over the hot grill, his thoughts would drift, and Eren would imagine you marching through the swinging double doors into the kitchen, busybodied and frazzled as usual, sticking your neck out under the heat lamps like Erwin hasn't already admonished you for doing before, all so Eren can more clearly hear you chide him for half-assing an appetizer. It’s not hard to envision you -  tense,  jaw clenched, out of breath, flush, and slightly sweaty. Top buttons of your uniform’s polo are undone so he can glimpse the expanse of your collarbones and a bit of your chest when you lean over the counter to glare at him like you could kill him with your thoughts alone. Like you hadn’t ghosted him for months.

And then Connie would hip check him, wordlessly jarring Eren back into focus as another medium-well steak overcooked beneath his spatula.

--

Never in his right mind, no matter how often he replayed that fateful night with you in his head, no matter how frequently his thoughts drifted back to that cramped bathroom, the unrestrained feeling of your hands in his hair, the rough material of your knit sweater scrunched between his fingers as he fit himself between your thighs, the taste - 

Never in his right mind would he have imagined you sitting in his car, smoothing your splayed hands over the expanse of his leather backseat, drenched to the bone yet offering him a small mirthful, inviting smile despite the chill still in the air as you lean back and make yourself comfortable enough to request, “Come make me feel good.”

Fortunately for Eren, when it came to you, his train of thought had been anything but sound of mind in recent weeks.

Now, his hands are full of you. Large palms slip and slide under your wet top as he explores your back, your waist, and your arms,  crushing his mouth to yours.

His hand cups your cheek, a gentle guide in contrast to the hungry exploration of his mouth against yours. Urgent fingers slide into your hair as you rake back his own from his face, a strand getting caught in the corner of his lip when you kiss him once, twice. His slides across your lower lip invitingly, and you sigh into the kiss. Let him pry your mouth open with his own. He tastes like smoke and mints. The smell of deep fryer grease clings to his hair.

When Eren turns to pepper kisses down the soft skin of your neck and collarbones, he thinks he tastes salt. Time melts away, the only constant is the frantic rhythm of your breaths and the soft moans that escape your lips. You clutch the loose knot of his hair, guide him back towards you. Your foreheads rest against each other, chests heaving.

Eren’s gaze is low and warm as he takes in your bruised lips, and the ruddiness of your cheeks. HIs fingers dig into the soft skin of your hips.  You shift in his lap under the intensity of his stare, causing you both to groan, quickly reminded of your position. Eren had stepped out into the rain only to shove his way into the backseat and situate you onto his lap. Despite your layers of damp denim and cotton, you can feel him growing warm and solid beneath you.

“Is that for me?” you grind down against his hips. Grinning, teasing. He stutters upwards, gripping your waist like a lifeline. 

You think he looks so pretty like this, flustered, frowning, and breathless beneath you, like you’re moving quicker than he can catch up. He wraps one arm around your waist, using his free hand to wrench the collar of your polo aside and sink his teeth into the soft juncture of your neck in retaliation. You jolt and wriggle in his hold but Eren keeps you pressed against him, vengeful.

“So full of yourself,” he mutters, pressing a wet kiss where there is surely now a bruise. “Gotta get you full of me instead.”

You sputter and tell him to shut up, but let him take off your shirt anyway.

--

The thunderstorm that rolled through your small town this morning was relentless. Eren had figured the day would be wet and dreary when it began drizzling on his way to the restaurant, the headlights on his hooptie struggling to penetrate through the early morning fog. But throughout the morning, whenever Eren got a chance to glance out of the to-go order window, it was evident that it would only grow worse. 

He had already been dreading this shift all month. He had been slotted to come in on a Sunday - the one day of the week Pepper’s was closed - to deep clean the kitchen and take inventory of the walk-in fridge. This particular shift was only scheduled once a month, always on a Sunday morning, and rotated between him and Connie. The whole ordeal was a long-winded chore but thanks to Levi, the staff hierarchy was a pretty balanced ecosystem. Typically, one other waitress or front-of-house staff would be assigned randomly to help them. That way, none of the kitchen staff could claim they carried the brunt of the work.

(Even if they did.)

However, this Sunday morning was different. As he peered through the to-go order window, the storm's persistence mirrored the internal tempest he felt. The reason? Your return to staff is scheduled for this very shift. 

Eren’s heart nearly fell out of his ass upon first glance at the schedule. He asked Levi if it was a typo. 

“It’s spring break,” his manager deadpanned, as though this weren’t the first time you were picking up a shift in the middle of the semester. The linecook could only nod, tight-lipped. Historically, you had only worked over the summers and winters, reserving the few days of spring break for actual vacation time. Eren had figured he would have at least another month or two before you would have to confront each other, once he concluded that you wouldn’t reach out on your own.

Deep cleaning duty was always a menial and tedious task, but Eren working in enjoyed the silence of the usually chaotic kitchen. Any other Sunday, he would tie back his hair, don his apron, and steal Connie’s Bluetooth speaker from above the dishwashing sink. He’d blast his music over the chunky gurgle of the draining deep fryers, over the spray of boiling sink water. Rock, maybe R&B - stuff that wasn’t typical “family-friendly dining hours” approved. Maybe smoke a little before he came in, if he had been smart enough to think to roll something the night before.

 It was easy to lose himself in the busy work. Sometimes he would exchange pleasantries with accompanying wait staff if they actually decided not to call out at the last minute. Sasha, a night shift waitress and repeat offender, was never a morning person.

You were never much of a morning person either. It’s why he had been waiting all week for you to call out. He’d like to pretend like he wasn’t anticipating your return; like he hadn’t been taking extra time to pour over the schedule for weeks once winter turned to spring, noting where your name was absent among the list of people set to clock in after 4 pm. Like he hasn’t been bugging Sasha to share the barest hint about when you might be coming back. Or stalking your Twitter to see if you’ll post your graduation photos. But that wouldn’t be entirely true. 

Still, the shock of seeing you scheduled so soon before he’s prepared had haunted Eren throughout the week.

He insisted to himself he wasn’t nervous…Maybe a little anxious. The last time he had seen you, he had you bent over the toilet seat and crying into your arms at Sasha’s Christmas party before escorting you out in his garish holiday sweater. Blessedly - or dreadfully - he hadn’t heard from you since. 

When you had unloaded the sweater onto Sasha, she didn’t even bother to ask why you were in possession of it in the first place - practically the whole night crew played an incredulous audience to your walk of shame. Connie wouldn’t let him hear the end of it; Jean wouldn’t look him in the eyes at their last all-staff meeting.

 Eren can’t shake the feeling of expectation as he moves mechanically through the deep cleaning tasks, hoping you won’t call out and that the morning wouldn't be tainted by awkwardness. Hoping that you will call out and the both of you could remain in this silent, anxious limbo. He had been scheduled to clock in an hour before you. It crept by agonizingly slow. The memory of the holiday party, the garish holiday sweater, and the abrupt departure echo in his mind as he scrubs down the skillet of a grill.

--

You like that Eren never lets you think for too long. 

You’ll slow down when you kiss him, and he’ll stuff his fingers in your mouth instead. You’ll get too quiet for his liking, and he’ll seal his lips around your nipple. Suck bruises into the undersides of your breasts. Man handle you out of your uniform. Strip out of his own when you tug on his shirt.

You grind listlessly in his lap, trying to diminish as much space between you as possible, pressed up against his chest so that his arms are forced to wrap around you.  Eren’s hands brace your newly bare legs instead, sliding up your limbs with eager fingers.

You bite his ear and his fingers flex over your ass, pressing just very nearly where you want him most. “What do you want? Hm?” He’s so high, he doesn’t care that he’s whining. 

You suspect that he likes that you’re bossy if the glazed look in his eyes is anything to go by. He moves to kiss you and you duck with a grimace, jerking him back by the top knot of his hair. 

Your mouth is starting to feel like chalk, cotton mouth having set in. You’re afraid that you’ll croak if you try to speak.

--

As the first hour drags by, Eren’s unease grows. He’s starting to get antsy. Hadn’t even sparked up before starting to take inventory. Yet, when you finally enter the restaurant - rain-soaked, windswept, marching towards the cash register to clock in with a miserable look - the relief he feels is immediate. 

So you’re not avoiding him. At least, not completely. Not enough to turn down a paycheck.

You haven’t quite spotted him yet from outside the kitchen, where he’s braced over the grill, elbow-deep in grease and fry oil grime as he scrubs the insides with a sorry excuse for a sponge, but there’s no way you don’t hear his music. The sound of something like country rock leaks from behind the squeaky metal swinging doors that separate the kitchen - so lovingly tokened “the Heart of the House” - from the front. He feels rather than hears you tentatively push through those very same doors, following the source of the noise.  

Looking up to greet you, Eren falters at first. His mouth dries at the sight of you, all damp and disgruntled, shifting uncomfortably at the way your uniform polo sticks to your skin. How you managed to look pretty even in the drab waitressing attire and tacky, pepper-printed apron was beyond him.

When your eyes finally do meet his, there’s an unbearable pause as you gape at one another, both seemingly grappling for the right words. Eren waits for you to speak first  - it’s only fair, after months of radio silence, but he’s mostly just afraid of scaring you off.

You look as tense as he feels, shoulder locked up to your ears as you round the corner to face him.  Your lips part and Eren prays the next words that pass through them will ease the confusing ache in his chest.

“Since when’re you a Luke Bryan fan?”

Oh. Okay.

The disbelief on his face must be more blatant than he thinks because you begin to chuckle behind pursed lips, the corners of your eyes crinkled with mirth and mild embarrassment.

Deflecting. Okay. He can play along.

“Whaddya mean?” He offers an easy grin, leaning back from where he was bent over the lip of the deconstructed grill. Mentally imploring that stupid part of his brain that gets gooey when you’re around to shut the hell up. “You’re telling me this doesn’t make you wanna shake it for me, country girl?”

“Whatever,” you dismiss him not unkindly, but excuse yourself from him, all the same, to slip past him into the kitchen, grumbling something about “accidentally” placing his phone in this dishwasher if he doesn’t change the music to something else soon.

--

The way his hands look stretching out the back of your panties as he wets his digits along your soaked slit to finger you drives Eren a little insane. From where he’s got his head perched over your shoulder as you tuck into his own to hide little, shuddering sobs, he’s entranced by the sight of the fabric straining to make room for his knuckles as he dips inside where you’re molten and wanting. 

He wonders if you’ll let him keep this pair, if he asks. He’ll try not to think of it like a reward.

You sigh at the welcome intrusion, one arm slung around his neck, the other hand fisting the damp hemp of his jeans. Slowly, indulgently, he presses in. And out. 

“Yeah? Like that?”

He asks like he genuinely wants to know, not like he’s being cocky about how easily you’re falling apart for him, and it makes you clench a little harder around his fingers. Cry into his shoulder a little louder. You couldn’t even answer if you wanted to.

Eren refuses to be rushed. Takes his time to learn what makes you twitch and moan like you’re not camped out in the middle of a very public parking lot. You’ll have to ask him about his exhibitionist tendencies later.  He picks up the pace, cranes his neck to kiss you and you struggle to kiss him back. You’re sloppy, dragging your tongue across the edge of his chin. Spit bubbles at the corner of your lip, and he bites you there.

Distantly, you hear the rain pick up.

--

Despite your seemingly easygoing demeanor and non-confrontation, the weight of your last encounter and the unspoken acknowledgment of your absence is tangible for the entire shift. 

It hovers between the two of you like a dark cloud as you dance around each other throughout the morning, never offering more than a few words between tasks and weak smiles.

It shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. It should be enough that you even bothered to show up today, despite everything.

But Eren hates how polite you’re being with him. You give a little, cracking a joke here, offering a laugh there. But there’s none of your usual bite. Something passive in your gaze. Distant in an unsettling way he can’t comprehend. 

You ask him where the cleaning solution is and he directs you to a recently reorganized (courtesy of Levi) storage closet instead of asking why you’ve never texted him after all that transpired. You seek out his help breaking down empty bulk-order shipping boxes and he spends the better part of an hour snapping cardboard in half instead of interrogating you about Jean, if you told him about what happened as he suspects. If you regret it, like he’s assuming.

You don’t seem to not want to be around him. Rather the opposite -  you don’t want to leave him alone for too long. Asking him for help with things he knows you know - you’ve worked here nearly as long as he has. Purposefully keeping him at arm's length, but orbiting him all the same. He waits patiently for you to take that jump you seem to be building up to.

The morning wears on, the two of you working in relative silence. You pay Eren little mind, dutifully going about your tasks yet always hovering within eyesight, occasionally disappearing into the bathroom. You didn’t even reprimand him for the volume of his music like you normally would, or hound him for eating on the job when he makes a sandwich mid-shift. 

In his periphery, he watches as you fuss about the kitchen, flitting between tasks, and wonders if you were waiting for him to get angry with you first before broaching the subject. 

Eren takes his smoke break standing at the back door. When you notice his absence, he waits for you to admonish him for letting the draft in. Instead, you merely glower in disdain at the rainwater splattered on the tile floor, never meeting his eyes, before turning the corner with a dismissive, “ ‘S’long as you know you’re cleaning that up.”

The storm rages outside. An uneasy feeling festers inside Eren. It eats at his stomach as the end of his shift creeps near. Grits his teeth when you both clock out with little more than a half-assed, “See you later.”

Eren’s ears ring as he hangs his apron and collects his things from the back office. A notable lack of an umbrella, he fits a worn Yankees cap over his hair and fits what he can of his bun through the back, like it’ll do anything against the downpour standing between him and his car. 

Say something. He should say something.

He remembers how bold he was that fateful night; teasing you on the couch, ruining your sweater, and rushing to your aid in the bathroom. 

“What the hell is with you?” You had muttered, and Eren had wanted to gather your face in his palms and press his forehead to yours hard like it would make you feel all of the years’ worth of want and frustration he couldn’t put into words.

He had pressed his mouth to yours instead, intent on devouring you at the first warm, breathless sound you made. He had always been better at communicating like this.

Say something.

Eren meanders back towards the front of the restaurant, ready to lock up. To his surprise, you haven’t rushed out to greet your ride. Your lack of car ownership had been an amazing feat to watch you work around in your early days of working at Pepper’s. You had long since established a carpooling repertoire with the other wait staff. He can’t remember who usually takes you home. It’s not a parent, that much is for sure. Sasha had totted you around this past winter break due to most of your shifts lining up. And before that - his mind fogs.

The line cook spots you leaning against the glass double doors at the front, tapping idly away at your phone, and sucks his teeth - Levi was definitely going to make him go back and wipe them down tomorrow.

“You’re getting prints on my glass.”

You glance at him pointedly before breathing on the glass and smudging a heart with your thumb where the foggy imprint begins to fade. 

Eren wrinkles his nose. “Amazing.”

“You’re welcome.”

Rain fills the silence as you take each other in. It's late afternoon, but from where Eren stands, the sunless weather casts the impression that it is well into the night. You look at him full-on for the first since the start of your shift, eyes unabashedly raking over his form. Save for the emergency lamps, all of the lights in the building have been shut off. The dim light casts shadows beneath your eyes - you look tired. 

Eren twirls the keychain in his hands, quizzical. “You…got a ride home?”

He tries not to feel offended at the way your brows spike, unable to hide your surprise. Your reaction is quick, reflexive. Your answering “Yeah!” comes out wince-like and strangled. The forced pitch in your voice makes you both cringe. Clearing your throat to try again, softer this time. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Eren stares at you. The teeth of the key bite into the skin of his fingers in the tightness of his grip. 

“Thank you for asking.” You add, a little more sincerely. 

“Yeah.” He tugs the hat over his eyes. Tosses the key in your direction and tries not to take too much delight in watching you drop your cool composure to scramble and catch the metal piece. “Lock up when you’re out.”

--

You don’t know how many times you’ve come. Consciousness comes and goes in waves. Dozed off in his lap with your face tucked into his shoulder after your third orgasm to the thrum of rain and the steady rise and fall of his chest. Eren had fumbled for a condom out of his wallet and sunk into you at your first insistence.  What started off as a frenzied, frustrated tangle of limbs somewhere along the way devolved into something much softer. Where you’re still rooted on his thick length becomes a slow, sloppy rut as you come down from your high.

Where you are sleepy, Eren is determined, dead set on accomplishing the task you set before him. 

" Hm? Feel good?” He presses his lips to your forehead, presses his thumb to your clit in a slow grind. Grins when you twitch his hold. You gave up trying to maintain any semblance of control a long time ago, boneless and relenting when Eren strongarms you into his embrace. 

“This what you wanted?” he pants, gruff and a little desperate, and you have enough energy left to nod, murmuring his name. He scoots down a little in his seat, bracing his legs in a wide stance before pistoning his hips into your warm, wet center. Any other time you would cringe at the way the skin of your bare thighs stick to the tops of his, Eren's work-issued black jeans shoved mid-way down his legs. All he can offer is a breathless moan in response when you wail and wriggle in his hold, hips reflexively jumping away.

“So hot like this,” he breathes into the space behind your ear. “So good, fuck.”

You reach one hand up to brace against the back windshield, palm slipping across the condensation. The playlist Eren put on loops again. 

--

At the end of his Sunday shift, Eren finds himself sitting in his car in the back parking lot at Pepper’s, unearthing a joint from his dash drawer and digging around for his lighter, silently cursing himself.

Parked beneath the restaurant sign - Pepper’s in brilliant white script, a caricatured bell pepper hugging the ‘P’ - the neon red mascot hovers far above the hood of Eren’s hooptie. Seemingly glowering at him through his windshield with a knowing smile. He can spot the cartoonishly wide eyes from where he sits, even through the downpour of rain.

Of course, you found him fucking appalling. The last time he had seen you, he’d practically dropped to his knees at the chance to distract you from the guy you actually liked. 

The ringing sound gets a little louder behind his ears. Can I really keep going like nothing happened?

From the start of your career at the restaurant Pepper’s - if you could call it that - you had made it very evident that you and Eren were of two separate worlds.

You were a college student. You had shiny friends and extravagant stories from a bigger city, a vastly different lifestyle than the quiet bubble and hum of suburbia you called home. Eren had seen the Instagram pictures. You had goals. You had ambition. Pepper’s was a pit stop for you. Although you never outright mocked him for it, he could see it in the sneer on your lip sometimes when you interrupted a smoke break or in the aggravated glint in your eye when you had to address him about a dish. 

You considered him beneath you. 

A gentle rap at his window pulls Eren from his thoughts, and he practically jumps out of his skin at the sight of you standing in the pouring rain, crouched over his window. Face pressed pleadingly into the cold glass. Eren freezes, and then jumps into action, fumbling his newly retrieved lighter and nearly dropping his joint in the process. 

“Holy shit?”

He places his things in his pocket and rolls down the window just a crack, the wind already whipping water into the interior of his car. “You good?”

It’s a stupid question - one he expects you to reproach him for. Instead, a rare look crosses your face - you look meek, and nervous, in a way you haven’t since your first day on the job. Arms crossed, lips pursed. Like you’re about to do something you don’t normally do.  The rain pelts your flimsy excuse for a rain jacket.

“Could I - Can I get a ride?” He can pick out your agitation even over the rumble of the thunderstorm. “I’ll give you gas money, I just-,”

“Money? What-,” He unlocks his car door, incredulous. “Can you just get in the fucking car please?”

You grimace at his tone when he rolls his window back up, but Eren watches you skirt around the front of his car nonetheless. You plop into the passenger seat, a puddle of rainwater. He can hear your socks squish in your shoes when you shift in your seat.

“What the hell?”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, looking at your hands. Your jeans feel ten pounds heavier, the denim soaked all the way through. “My ride didn’t-,”

You stop and then start again, and Eren moves to interrupt you. You speak over one another.

“- No, it’s no -,”

“-I wouldn’t have bothered you if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. Eren steals a glance at you, seeing what he hopes is just the rain streaking down the sides of your face. He fiddles with his phone and puts on a random playlist to fill the silence.

 He notices the tremble in your hands, the way your usually self-assured posture has shrunk into itself. You look small in his passenger seat. At once, all of his annoyance melts away, replaced by a surge of concern.

"Hey," he starts softly, "It’s whatever. Don’t sweat it, seriously." Eren notices you shiver and reaches over to blast the heat in his dinky sedan.

“Fuck, you’re freezing, hold on.”

You watch, pressed against the passenger door to make room as your coworker reaches behind his seat, long limbs momentarily invading your space as he dregs up a dark green hoodie from the depths of his car floor with a flourish. A bright red pepper patch the size of your hand is sewn across the chest. The cartoonish mascot of your place of work smiles mockingly back at you in the dim lighting of Eren’s car with wide, unseeing eyes. 

It’s your turn to wrinkle your nose at him, skeptical. “It’s clean I swear, grabbed it on my way here this morning.”

Despite your skepticism, you take it from him anyway, between two pinched fingers for dramatic effect, moaning and groaning as you pull it over your head.

“We can’t let this be a regular thing.”

It’s said so casually, but the jolt of rage and disbelief Eren feels at your reference to last December is tremendous. He scoffs, avoiding your gaze as he reveals the joint and lighter from his pockets once more.

“Oh, so we can joke about it but not talk about it?” It comes out more scathing than he intends to be.

He registers your obvious shock beside him at his words but only pauses to balance the filter of his forgotten joint between his lips, already poised to burn the rolled end with a steady hand as he flicks the lighter on. “Do you mind?”

You shake your head, sinking into his hoodie and wordlessly watching as he inhales, deeply, then exhales, indulgent. A sweet, earthly smell fills the car. “Alright.”

“What’s there to talk about?”

Eren studies you a little too hard, more clarity in his gaze than you would prefer. You don’t refuse when he passes you the roll, gently pinched between two fingers. He waits until you’ve inhaled to voice his suggestion, taking a little amusement in how you choke on the smoke. “We could talk about Jean. I think there’s definitely a lot to cover there.”

Eren waits for you to back down from the obvious challenge. He doesn’t miss the way you grimace at the sound of the dayshift manager’s name. “Is that what this is about? Is that who usually picks you up?”

“You never noticed?” You don’t sound mad, just surprised, so Eren figures it's okay to be honest.

“You…no.” He shakes his head and takes a hit.  “I could give less of a fuck about what Jean gets up to in his free time, sorry.”

“Ah.”

You’re silent for a little bit after that. When he glances at you again, you’re already handing him the joint and turned to face the passenger window, gazing out at the rain. The size of Eren’s hoodie seems to swallow you.

He doesn’t press you to elaborate, but you do anyway, feeling guilty for your matter-of-fact attitude earlier, when he’s been nothing but accommodating for you so far. You decide to give a little. “We’ve been carpooling together every shift. Every year. He dropped me off today…”

“Said it would be the last time.” You peter off. "We had vacation plans together."

You had planned to go to the beach with mutual friends - Jean's parents owned a beach house on the coast. You were going to meet his parents. You can remember how light you had felt the day after the plans had been made, last summer, practically dancing into work the next shift, and then with a little more clarity, the awful pit that had formed in your stomach when he had broken the news to you on the drive to work this morning.

Eren shifts in his seat, and clears his throat, trying to quell the urge to punch Jean in his. He ashes into a little dish in his cupholder. “Figured somethin’ had happened. Been in such a shitty mood all day.”

“Me? Okay, Mr. I’m gonna mope in the kitchen until somebody notices and takes pity on me. Didn’t you ever go through a goth phase as a kid? I think know a couple of artists you could get into.”

“Tsk,” Eren brushes off your laughter with another hit of his joint, halfway smoldering between his fingertips. “You wouldn’t know a goth phase if it smacked you between the eyes.”

“Mm, no I figured you’d be an expert, with hair like that.”

“Like what?”

You dissolve into a fit of giggles behind your hand, high catching up to you, a balmy and pleasant buzz in your head. The image of Eren rocking an early 2010s-grunge fringe cut clear as day in your mind’s eye. You blame the weed for making you brave enough to lean over and reach across the console to brush the sable fringe that escapes from his bun and spills from under his baseball cap out over his eyes. 

Until recently, your relationship had been largely surface-level. This prim and proper versus anything goes repertoire you had both built over the years, banter that exclusively involved work lingo and work references and work friends. You’d come back from college, and Eren was there. You’d leave for another semester, and Eren was still there.

As permanent as a fixture in your mind as the walk-in fridge or the soda dispenser. Always prepared to give you hell on a slow moving shift or crack jokes at your expense. Always there to keep your plates in order or set aside a pasta entree for you during a dinner rush despite his strict “customer-orders-before-employees” edict because he knows you won’t eat otherwise. Always there to cover for you when your bathroom breaks went a little too long.

He’ll tap dance on your last nerve all day, but you care for each other, through that vague sense of solidarity that coworkers share.

Eren blinks back at you, low and slow, eyes caught on your easy smile. The first genuine one you’ve given him all day. He’s entranced, savoring the feeling of your fingers drifting across his brow bone, tracing his jawline, and then sliding back along the nape of his neck to tuck under the strap of his hat.

For a moment, it’s all a little too much for Eren. The gentleness of your touch and tone, your full, undivided attention as you undo the strap. He quietly marvels at the ease with which you do it with one hand, slipping the knot of his hair free. The loose strands freefall over his eyes once more, but you’re quick to push them back. You shift forward further out of your seat to use both hands, and he lets you, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of your finger raking gently across his scalp. Distantly, he admonishes himself for somehow ending up allowing you to let you pet him like a dog in his own car. 

He’s supposed to be driving you home.

“Did you-,” Eren’s voice cracks, and you don’t bother hiding your laugh. “Would you feel better if you like, talked about it with someone?”

The joint is simmering down to it’s last dregs between Eren’s knuckles. He offers it to you, and you twist his wrist to direct the filter towards your mouth, inhaling with your lips pressed to his fingers.

Eren would blame the heat crawling up his chest on the AC, but it’s at that moment he notices the heater never kicked in. He frowns, turning away from you to restart the car, stomping on the break.

The vehicle lurches and makes an odd shuddering sound before hot, stale air blasts through the vents. You lean away from the one closest to you, fumbling the shutter closed. “The fuck is with your car?”

“‘S old as shit. Whole thing is on its last leg.” Eren gripes, waving off a cloud of dust that seemed to halo around his head. He tries to roll his eyes when he clocks your “no, duh” expression, but the motion feels slow and clunky behind his eyelids. “Doesn’t matter. Fixing up a new one anyway.”

It only stings a little when your brows nearly shoot up to your hairline in surprise, inhibitions lowered, no longer able to hide your indifference to him as well as usual. 

“You build cars?” Your lips feel like rubber under the haze of marijuana. The words feel stupid the moment you utter them, but Eren catches what he dares to believe is a hint of awe in your tone. He ribs you for it, preening a little under your attention.

“Yeah, me build cars,” the line cook laughs and mocks you, caveman-like. “Car go fast.”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

You pout, ignoring his raspy, rumbling laughter and the warm feeling blossoming in your chest. The memory of him smiling up at you, all teeth and impish in Sasha’s bathroom winks across your mind’s eye.  Arms crossed, you whip around to face the window again, withdrawing before he can catch the deep color crawling across your cheeks. In all your years of working together, you’d never really considered what Eren did outside of work and hanging out with your circle of colleagues. You feel like you’ve unveiled something vast and unknown.

“That’s cool.” You offer in a whisper, awe poorly hidden in your voice, and it’s Eren’s turn to hide his face.

“Didn’t know you had a hobby.”

“Yeah, well, I do exist outside of all this, y’know,” he gestures vaguely in the direction of the restaurant and you hum, nodding. Feeling silly that this is a realization you’re only just now coming to.

A strange new calm had settled between you. The rain outside continues its relentless assault, but within the car, you feel a fragile connection form. You peek at Eren from the corner of your eye, his expression unreadable in the dim light, yet somehow comforting. Equally lax and low-lidded. He reaches for his glove box to reveal a second preroll and gets to work lighting it as you observe his side profile in silence.

 You’re not too prideful to admit he looks handsome like this, hair undone and falling over his shoulders, work polo unbuttoned at the top, features lit up by the dim glow of the lighter in his fist against the overcast gloom of the afternoon.

Then he squints, face twisted like something has been bothering him. “I thought you didn’t smoke.” Or at least, he had assumed so, by how often you got on his ass about lighting up while on the clock.

“At work, dumbass.” Eren exhales, and the car gets hazy again, even with air running through the vents. He sees you twist your fingers into the hem of his hoodie and wishes they were in his hair again. “I am a college student.”

“That doesn’t mean shit.”

You reluctantly turn to face him again, if only to implore him to continue. “You can be so…I dunno.” He scrambles for the right words through the drug-induced fog in his brain, faltering a little under your scrutiny. “Uptight? Straight-edged? Can’t imagine you reaching for a blunt to wind down.”

“It’s not my first choice of coping mechanism,” you joke, plucking the newly lit roll from his grasp between careful fingers, laughing through your nose when you miss on the first try. You take the opportunity to throw his words back at him, childishly. “I do have a life outside of here, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Silence descends again, still comfortable in the haze of the car. It’s getting a little harder to breathe. You steal another glance at your colleague, noticing the way his gaze tracks the motion of the joint being brought to your lips, strands of his dark hair plastered to his forehead by the rain. That unexpected warmth grows in your chest, a feeling you can’t bring yourself to name. Not after this morning.

Eren leans closer, over the console that separates you with lidded eyes that flicker between your gaze and your mouth as you slowly expel the smoke from between your lips. Eyes set on you with an unfamiliar softness that makes your heart ache. The distance between your faces shrinks agonizingly slowly. He whispers your name, and suddenly you’re lurching backward, struggling up out of your seat to slip into the crevice that separates the front of the car from the backseat. The moment is broken.

Eren yelps, ducking in time to just nearly miss being clipped by your sneakers as you shimmy into the back seat. You peel his hoodie over your head with exasperated finality.

He twists in his seat to face you, bewildered, but you’re already settling into his back seat with a smile, still trying to keep two steps ahead of him even when you’re stoned.

Eren’s not really sure what he’s trying to prove to himself - prove to you. But that little ache in his chest gets a little gentler when you look at him like that, the confusion about whateverthisis becomes a little less profound, a little quieter.

 “Come make me feel good.”

He recognizes the undertone in your voice. He doesn’t need to be told twice. The young man moves on autopilot, stepping out of the driver’s seat to slide into the backseat beside you, ignoring your indignant shriek with a grin when the rain lashes the car’s interior. Eren is dripping wet when he reaches for you, lips slips slotting against yours with an eager certainty that makes you moan.

He wouldn’t call it a crush, but if anyone could have heard the way his heart kicked up when you beckoned him into his own backseat - they might argue otherwise.

--

Once again, Eren is dropping you off while you wear something of his. He watches you fiddle with the hem of the Pepper’s hoodie as he pulls into your parents’ driveway, behind one of their cars. 

The line cook thinks back to what you revealed to him earlier, how Jean had been your usual carpool to work, and gets angry all over again. “You thinking of getting one of your own?”

He means a car, but you’re too busy avoiding his eyes again, studying his hoodie a little too closely. “Yeah, do you think Erwin has any more? I think this merch is from before even I started, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the pepper drawn like this.”

You pick at the outdated mascot embroidered across the chest of the piece, the cartoon eyes glaring back at him unblinkingly, as if daring him to correct you. 

The rain had subsided on the drive to your neighborhood. You look less gaunt in the sunlight. Eren remembers how you let him hold you after your spontaneous round of marathon sex. Sticky and sweaty and damp for a whole new reason. Remembers how you pressed a kiss to his forehead after the fact, how it made him feel warm with a different kind of buzz entirely independent of the bud you had smoked.

 He stops you when you move to take off the hoodie again and give it back to him, halfway out of the car.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says with a lopsided smile. “You can keep this one.”

[parkerdoeswriting]

I’m in Love With How You Feel

(TASM!Peter x PregTeen!Reader)

category: fluff oneshot

summary: preggo teen!reader and peter discuss baby and living situations

warnings: (teen) pregnancy, reader is written to be afab but is referred in neutral terms

word count: 0.8k

A/N: im lowkey tempted to make this like a just teeny tiny series with two or three more parts so if that’s something at least one person wants to see I will write it

pt 2 to Anyone Else But You, but you don’t gotta read it to understand this

“Hello goober” Peter coos into your bump, pressing small kisses to the surface of it.

“Goober?” you laugh, ruffling his hair.

He smiles dorkishly at you, his hands caressing your bump.

You’ve been pregnant for around 5 months, and ever since then, Peter could not keep his hands off your stomach. He tried not to touch it during school, so as to not drag attention to it, but you were getting to the point where your bump showed against your baggy sweaters.

You managed to somehow inform your parents of the news, and thankfully they didn’t kill you on the spot. They were upset at you and Peter of course, but they noticed how happy you two were and so they supported you both, and were excited to meet their future grandchild.

Then next was May, Aunt May. Peter felt better telling her about the baby then you were telling your parents. You can still see her expression when you both told her of the situation, a mix of shock and pure joy. Her arms wrapping around you both to give you a soul crushing bear hug.

“Are you staying the night?” you ask him, your hands resting on your bump gently.

“Mhm, never gonna leave you” he mumbles against your belly.

You chuckle softly at his words, petting his hair as he practically clings to you.

“You’re gonna have to go home eventually” you remark, making little ponytails in his hair.

“Nope, gonna bring you with me” he smirks cheekily at you, sitting up so he can wrap you up in his arms.

“That reminds me actually, when I do give birth, are you gonna visit a lot?” you ask, rubbing your bump.

“Well.. I was hoping we could live together so I can help at night” he says, pressing small kisses to your cheek.

“Like- get an apartment?!” you tilt your head in confusion.

“Mhm, I’m starting a job soon so I’ll start getting some sort of income” he plays with your hair.

“I don’t know if we can even rent- cause we aren’t eighteen yet..” you sigh, frowning softly.

He sighs as well as he looks up at you, his lower lip jutting out. It’s been hard figuring out what you should both do after the birth of the baby, Peter doesn’t want to leave you to be the carer the majority of the time, and you don’t want him to miss out on his education, which has caused a small strain in your relationship.

“Well, we could either do like a week here and a week at my place, or I could spend all my nights here? I’m sure May would understand” he offers sweetly, reaching for your hand.

“I kinda like the idea of a week there and a week here, we could do that after a couple weeks after this demon is born” You giggle at my joke, putting his hands back on your bump.

As if on cue, the baby kicks against your stomach. Peter’s eyes widen as he looks at you in shock, laughing softly.

“Our little demon” he leans in to kiss you, his thumbs rubbing circles on your bump.

“We still gotta figure out names” you whisper to him, looking down at your bump.

“Stinker if it’s a boy, stinkerette if it’s a girl” he chuckles.

“Stop fooling around” you laugh back, messing his hair up.

“Fine, what do you think we should name ‘em?” he reaches for your hair in return, giving it a quick mess up.

“Dunno, was thinking maybe Juno for a girl?” you giggle mischievously.

“We are not naming our child after that movie” he laughs, planting his face back into your bump.

“Oh come on.. it’s a very beautiful name” you pout.

He shakes his head, his nose brushing against your belly. You scoff playfully at him, shifting your body so you’re lying on your back.

“Noo.. don’t move” he mumbles, trying to hold you in place.

“Just laying down Pete” you stretch out, yawning.

“You sleepy?” his head pops up.

“Always” you chuckle at your little joke.

He moves his face from your bump up to your face as he lays next to you, paying attention to you. He cups your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. It was all like some sort of routine of his, he’d spend time making sure the baby felt loved and cared for, and then made sure his baby felt loved and cared for as well.

“Love you” he mumbles assuringly, staring deep into your eyes.

You blush, leaning into his touch, cupping his hands with yours.

“Love you too” you smile, yawning again.

He moves on his side, his body pressing against your sides as he lays his leg over yours, snuggling his head into the crook of your neck. You know he won’t fall asleep until you do, but it doesn’t matter. You slowly feel yourself fade into dreamland, the stress from the pregnancy dripping away with each second you let yourself succumb.