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eunoiaflow3r · 5 years ago

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Agree to No Promises

A/N: I absolutely loved writing this, thank you for requesting!

Warnings: mistakes, angst, fluff, mentions of kidnapping (nothing gory), and language. fem!reader.

Word Count: 4.5k

Requests:

i have a spence request!! you know that one scene where he says “this is calm, and it’s doctor”. i want a whole fic of that kind of aggressive spence in which he defends the readers honour to the rest of the BAU people, maybe she makes a call that’s risky for her own safety and the others are calling her out on it and spence gets defensive and morgan is like “calm down kid” or it can be whoever and THEN HE SAYS THAT LINE I WOULD DIE ❤️❤️

actually, some enemies to lovers with spencer would be great if they work at the bau together and for years they don’t get along and bicker and the reader knows she’s in love with spencer but doesn’t have a chance and he finds out while they’re arguing

~~~~~

You wanted to punch Spencer in the face. You wanted to shut him up, and you felt in that moment - punching him would be the perfect way to do so. But no. Your brain was not listening to what you wanted, and instead what your heart wanted, but you could not afford that right now.

When you think of Spencer Reid, you think tall, skinny, uncoordinated, annoying, rude and cocky. You can’t stand the way he looks at you, or the way his hair falls over his eyes, and even the fact that a grown-ass man never wears matching socks. You also don’t like the fact that he always seems to be right, even when you wish he wasn’t.

According to Spencer, you were no walk in the park either. He hates that you’re so dramatic, and that you’re so hell-bent on proving yourself right. He hates that you never listen to anything he tells you, and how you act like nothing can ever get to you no matter what it is.

When Spencer thinks of you, he thinks she’s self-righteous, and that you have this stupid hero complex that you need to get over.

“L/N.”

“Reid.” You greeted with just as much hostility.

Even on the plane, you both seemed to successfully make eachother mad. The team always noticed the rigidness between you two, and had even asked about the elephant in the room multiple times, but the only thing you two had seemed to come up with to explain your behavior - which you both had ironically subconsciously agreed on, was that, “It’s not my fault he/she is impossible.”

On countless random occasions, the team had tried to help fix whatever bad blood was spilled between you, but you two never caved in and instead insisted on the fact that, “nothing could be done,” to fix the unyielding tension if the other wasn’t going to change.

After they went over the ins and outs and asked the necessary questions of the case like usual, Hotch began to put the team into pairs to send them on their individual assignments.

“Prentiss, Morgan, I need you to go to the morgue and see if there’s anything significant other than the ligature marks.”

They nodded.

“JJ, Rossi, I need you to go visit the victim’s families and see if there’s anything you can find that ties these murders together. Like we said, probably not, but it doesn’t hurt to look.”

“Of course.” JJ answers.

“Y/N, and Reid I need you two to go to the most recent scene and tell us what you find there. I’ll meet you there after I check in with the locals.”

Both you and Spencer looked absolutely offended, and you both collectively tried to come up with any reason in the books so that you would not be paired together.

“But surely-” you tried to reason.

“No.” Hotch interrupted.

“But I should -” Reid began to bargain.

Hotch interrupted once again with a cold stare, and an even colder if not snarky, “No.”

Yours and Spencer’s eyes met for a brief moment before you both decided to give up defeatedly, and roll your eyes at one another.

The team had noticed the interaction between the two of you once more and they couldn’t decide if they wanted to laugh at your childish actions, or if they wanted to shake their heads in annoyance and say something about your behavior.

They chose the latter and ignored the both of you.

Once you had landed, and before the team all went their separate ways, Hotch told both you and Spencer to behave.

“No promises.” you replied opening the driver door to the black SUV that awaited the both of you to ride in.

Hotch gave you a harsh glare.

“I’m joking Hotch.” you smile. “It’s a joke.”

Nodding, he walks away and gets into a car of his own with the local police department. Spencer gets in the passenger seat and immediately if not frantically, puts on his seatbelt.

You chose to ignore his actions, turned on the ignition, and drove out of the parking lot.

“Uhm, are you sure you should be driving?” Spencer asks eyebrows furrowed.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean since -”

“You misogynistic prick!” you practically shout, now pissed.

“You’re wrist.” Spencer nods towards your hand. “You were complaining earlier about how it was cramped and all.”

“What do you care?”

“Well, ya’know. I wouldn’t want it going out, and I don’t know, kill the both of us because you weren’t careful.”

“You’re a jerk Spencer Reid.” you shake your head not taking your eyes off the road. “You ever shut up?”

“I could ask the same Y/N L/N.”

Your relationship with Spencer has been this way since the day you arrived.

“Everyone, meet agent L/N.” Hotch introduces you. “Y/N, meet Penelope Garcia, Jennifer Jareau, David Rossi, Emily Prentiss, and Spencer Reid.”

You waved at everyone and said a quick “hello,” before sitting in the empty seat right across from Spencer Reid.

Unbeknownst to you, Spencer had done a little back up check on you before you had even arrived. Your record was crystal clear, you had done nothing wrong, your parents were alive and well, and it seemed as though you had been through nothing traumatic and this shocked Spencer.

No one’s record was this clear, which meant you were hiding something. Because of this, he could not trust you.

Instead of asking you himself, he decided to just ignore you and act rude until he got the answers he wanted. Perhaps this was you’d feel the need to tell the truth - whatever that was.

“I’m sorry, did I do something to offend you?” You had asked once.

You had barely been at the Bureau a day and already you had seemingly made an enemy, which sucked because from what you’ve heard Spencer was the sweetest one there, and by the looks of it, definitely the cutest.

“No, you did nothing.”

“Okay.”

You don’t remember what he was talking about, but Spencer was ranting and that was one of your favorite things about him - just the way he could talk on and on and on about anything.

His voice itself made you want to swoon, but everytime he spoke to you, he always seemed disinterested, and you hated that

You got on Spencer’s last nerve. How did you seem so perfect? You were beautiful inside and out, and he didn’t understand it. There were days where he literally just wanted to talk to you to hear your voice, and he wanted to just ramble on and on and on to you about everything, but everytime he stopped himself.

He reminded himself that you were suspicious, and besides - with your beauty, who knew how many men you’ve been with.

He didn’t feel like getting his heart broken anytime soon.

You gave him a couple of weeks - a month and a half - to warm up to you, and still nothing.

His attitude had got nothing but worse towards you, which was confusing because when you saw him interact with anyone else, he was an absolute sweetheart.

“Why do you treat me this way?”

He ignored you.

“Fine.” You had grown impatient. “Don’t say I never tried Spencer.”

And you walked away.

You were no longer going to take the way he gave you the cold shoulder and the way he talked to you, so from that day forward you had done to him the same way he had done to you.

You gave him the cold shoulder, and acted annoyed whenever he spoke to you.

This had become routine for the both of you. So much of a routine, that you both had forgotten why you hated each other in the first place.

After awhile, all Spencer knew was that he couldn’t get your condescending voice out of his head, and even when he told himself that you weren’t, you were the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

Everyday was a struggle to get eachother out of your heads. It seemed as though no one but that small voice in your heads knew you were secretly pining for each other, and that “hatred,” was covering up something much, much bigger, but there’s doubt you’ll be uncovering anything any time soon.

There were nights where you laid in bed just thinking about him, and times you cried yourself to sleep because at some point you realized you were in love with him, but you knew he would never ever feel the same, and that’s what hurt you the most.

“Excellent work guys.” Hotch compliments. “We’ll pick this up in the morning.”

The team had come together, and gathered a significant amount of information about the unsub, but it was late, and everyone needed a good night’s sleep for fresh minds the next day.

Unfortunately, roommates were the team members you were paired with earlier that day, so you were stuck sharing a room with Reid.

You huffed and through your bag on the bed. The last person you wanted to share a room with was Spencer Reid. At least you didn’t have to share a bed.

Putting a fake smile on your face, you turned to him and asked, “So are you taking a shower first or am I?”

“I’ll take mine in the morning.” he answered shortly, seemingly unbothered.

“Okay, fine. Whatever.” you replied, kind of hurt.

A hot shower should do it for you. You brought your bag into the shower, and got ready to relax under the steaming water. You rubbed your hands across your face because honestly - you were stressed. Arguing with Spencer on a daily basis was just…tiring. Sometimes you wished you knew why he hated you so much, but you knew the man wouldn’t ever tell you.

You opened your eyes, and you looked around the shower for your shampoo, but on the wall right above it was a spider.

“Shit!! Oh my God!!” You jumped out of the shower as quickly as you could, wrapped a towel around your body, and just about flew out of the bathroom.

Spencer looked up hurriedly and jumped out of his seat, in fear that you were hurt.

“What the hell? Are you okay?”

“No!” you huffed. “There’s a spider in the shower!”

His face was now a serious Hotch-like face. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes!”

Spencer walked into the bathroom and checked for the spider. He was now just as confused as ever.

“This is just a wolf spider,” he sighed, bringing it into the room in a cup with a napkin covering it. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“What the fuck Spencer, what are you DOING?”

He looked at you, and then the towel around you and his nostrils flared. You were practically naked - as the only thing between the two of you was a flimsy hotel towel. He had to get out of there, so instead of answering you, he left the room and went to go free the arachnid.

Once he was outside, and had freed the spider, he took a few breaths. He was frustrated. Absolutely frustrated, and he wasn’t sure what to do. All he saw now was that towel wrapped around your wet body and he hated the way his stomach clenched everytime he thought about that stupid towel and how easily it could have fallen and how he would have been able to -

No. He must not think this way about you. Not only was it incredibly inappropriate considering you were his coworker, but he had to keep up his, “I can’t stand her,” persona.

When he got back to the room, you were, he assumed, finished showering, and you were sitting on your bed in a pair of shorts and a tight fitted tank top leaving little to nothing of your figure to the imagination.

Of course, he was now incredibly irritated because you were real, and this wasn’t just one of his many dreams starring you where you two were using your mouths for a little something other than argue.

You had watched Spencer go into the bathroom, and you audibly let out a breath. He had said nothing to you, yet the way he looked at you made your heart and lower stomach go into a fucking frenzy.

When he got out, he was dressed in just a regular t-shirt and basketball shorts. You practically swooned. You had never seen him in anything other than his usual work attire, and you regrettably loved this look on him.

You shouldn’t have been thinking this way about him.

He hated you. How could anything ever happen if he was furious with you for every little thing you did?

“You know what I don’t understand?” Spencer asked climbing into his bed and turning the light off on his side.

“What?”

You did the same so now you both were laying in the darkness.

“How do you face serial killers almost every single day, and you’re afraid of spiders?”

“Same way you’re afraid of elevator crashes I suppose.”

“But death by spiders are extremely rare - that spider was harmless.”

“I’m not afraid of getting killed by a spider, they’re just hideous.”

He laughed and said, “Yeah, well I’m sure they find you hideous as well.”

You both went to sleep with giddy smiles on your faces.

The next day went by pretty smoothly, and ever since the night in the hotel, Spencer had seemed a little less hostile towards you. You couldn’t help but wonder why. What changed?

Anyway, just like the day before, you were paired with Spencer, mostly indoors working on the board. Collectively you two had noticed some pretty interesting details, and you both realized you worked well together.

Soon after you gave a profile to the locals, Hotch told you and Spencer to follow a lead to a suspect’s home. You had knocked on the door, and nothing. You checked the front yard, backyard, and nothing.

It wasn’t until you checked inside a kids’ clubhouse, that you had found a secret trap door hidden underneath.

“Reid, call the team.”

He did, and once he was sure they were on their way, he helped you move the playhouse over so that you could open the door.

Once he opened it, all you two heard were sobs and the unsub yelling. You went down even after Spencer told you not to, and you saw the girl tied to a chair with a gun pointed to her head.

When the unsub saw you, a guy named Fred you believe, he changed directions, and held the gun out in front of him straight at your head.

“Fred? Hey. I’m Y/N L/N and I’ve come to help.”

“H-h-h-help? H-h-h-how can can y-you he-he-help?”

On your way over to this house, Garcia called and told you and Spencer that Fred had autism and, because of this he was like a child, he didn’t know what he was doing.

“Well Freddie,” you paused and looked him in his eyes, “May I call you Freddie?”

He nods quickly.

“Well the FBI is out there,” you heard the sirens a moment earlier, “and they’re upset that you took this girl. They might hurt you.”

“But I-I-I-I like h-h-her.”

You heard someone try to come down, and you yelled, “No!” which made all noises stop. “Do not come down here!”

Fred was scared, and confused, and he didn’t know what to do. All you could see was that the girl continued to cry, and he held his gin tighter.

You put up your hands dropping your gun, and this made him trust you a little bit more.

“Do you like me, Freddie?”

He nods enthusiastically.

“So, how about you let this girl go, and take me instead?”

“L-let her go?”

“Yes, Freddie, let her go and you can have me.” You were trying not to shake. “Can I untie her?”

“Yes.” he says and follows your movements with his gun. You walk slowly over to the girl, and untie her quickly. “When you go up there, tell them not to shoot. Tell them that the man is more unstable than we thought, okay?” She nods tears streaming down her face, and runs towards the latter.

Spencer was freaking out. He was pacing, and his heart was racing, and everytime he sat down his legs wouldn’t stop moving, and he didn’t know what to do with himself. He had cried, almost pulled out his hair, crumpled up papers in frustration and had yelled at almost every single one of his team members.

How could he have let this happen to you? He should have gone instead of you. He should have gone with you, he should have stopped you or something.

And on top of this, he always been an absolute prick to you, when deep down he felt the opposite and all he wanted to do was kiss you and tell you how he felt but now you were gone and he didn’t know if he was getting you back, and all he did know was that his heart hurt and all he wanted to do was just see you.

Just see you.

You had woken up tied to a chair in a child’s bedroom.

You tried to untie or loosen the ropes, but it was no use - they were way too tight.

Fred came into the room with a tray of food for you, and he looked at you almost sadly.

“Freddie, you know they’re looking for you, right?

“I-I-I know.”

“So what’s going to happen when they do find you? You’ll kill me?”

He gasped and covered his mouth. “I could never hurt you!”

“But you hurt those other girls, Freddie.”

“Th-th-those g-girls hurt me. You’re r-re-really n-nice to me. I wouldn’t hurt you.”

You tried to smile, but all that came out was tears. You were scared to death and you had no idea what made you make the decisions you made.

“Oh, no Y/N p-please do-don’t cry.”

“Freddie these ropes really hurt, can you take them off?”

“But you’ll leave m-me.”

“Freddie, I won’t leave you, I promise okay?

They had a location. They knew where you were. Spencer couldn’t have been happier.

Soon enough the team had found the house, and quietly came into the house. Morgan saw you first, relieved you were okay, and you silently told him that Fred was upstairs. He nodded and let the officers up there to make the arrest. You ran outside tears running down your face, and as soon as Spencer sees you, he runs up to you hugging you tightly. You wrap your arms around his neck and sob into his shoulder.

“Y/N are you okay? Are you hurt?” He says checking you as he pushes you away from him checking for any scratch or scar or anything.

“No, I’m - I’m alright.”

“Good.” he says, getting serious now. “Then explain to me why you would do something so incredibly stupid? We were all worried about you.”

“You were worried about me?”

He shakes his head and tries not to show how angry he was with you for leaving him. Instead of answering, he walks away.

He walks away because if he stayed, he would have kissed you, and he can’t -

He just can’t.

If he shows you that he cares, you just might hurt him and sometimes it’s easier to just shut you out, than get used to you being around and then leave him. He doesn’t want you to know how much you could hurt him if he let you in.

So he pushes you away.

After everyone greeted you, and asked if you were okay, and the doctors checked you out, you were all on the plane home.

You kind of just distanced yourself from everyone because all the team seemed to do was patronize you.

“That was a huge risk Y/N, did you even think about what you were doing?” Emily asked.

“Honestly, what if it didn’t work L/N? What about the girl?” Morgan said, shaking his head.

“You could have gotten severely injured Y/N, we’re just trying to look out for you.” JJ tried to reassure you.

Everytime you tried to explain yourself, you were bombarded with another stupid question, which caused silent tears to fall down you face. Spencer saw this, and he decided he had had enough with everyone.

“You guys act like you had never made a decision like this in your entire career. At the end of the day, everyone made it out alright, and I’m sure Y/N has learned her lesson, but you guys humiliating her doesn’t help at all. Think about what she’s just been through. Just for a second can you think about how she’s feeling right now?” He sighed. “This is the first time Y/N has dones something like this and you all are giving her the third degree. So just stop.”

“Hey, calm down Reid, It’s not that we -”

“This is calm Morgan, and it’s doctor.”

With that being said Spencer moved to the back of the plane, and sat across from you. You both said nothing, but you silently thanked him.

Once you were back at the BAU, Hotch told him he wanted you to take some time off, and you understood. The team left avoiding both you and Spencer, mostly because of what he said on the plane, and they weren’t sure what to do now.

“Reid, can I talk to you?” He was packing up to go home, you two were the only ones left on this floor.

“Yes?”

“Why did you do that - on the plane I mean. Why would you stick up for me?”

He shrugged, basically ignoring you. Just right where you thought you were getting through to him, he closes himself back up again, and goes back to being mean to you.

“Fine. Whatever. Just please don’t do that again. I don’t need your help.”

You were walking away, when he decided to argue back.

“Oh you don’t? So you'd just would have wanted them to keep patronizing you? Honestly, I don’t see what your problem is Y/N, goodnight.”

And he was walking towards the door. You ran out in front of him blocking him from leaving.

“My problem?” You scoff. “Oh I’ll tell you what my problem is. I don’t need your saving. I don’t need you to come in like a knight on his steed and prove that you’re smarter than me every single time. Because yes, you’re smarter, and yes, you’re a doctor, and yes, I know you dislike me for some reason, but don’t go switching up your attitude if something happens to me. Just leave me alone.

Obviously you don’t know what it feels like to be me, otherwise you would know that the worst pain there is, is being in love with someone who just hates you. So, just stop. Please, just stop.”

And once you said what you needed to, you walked off gathering your things so that you could go home too. You felt like crying, but you couldn’t. Not here. You couldn’t believe you just said what you did.

Despite what he wanted, he stood frozen in place. He was conflicted. He didn’t know what to do. His mind was telling him to do one thing, while his heart told him to do another.

He took quick strides over to your desk, and turned your body gently so that you were facing him, and you were basically trapped between him and your desk behind you.

“I couldn’t save you.” He began. “I was with you, and then I wasn’t and I couldn’t help you. You were doing that stupid heroic shit you tend to do, and I wasn’t there to help you. You were hurting, and it hurt me that I wasn’t there to heal you. And believe me, it keeps me awake at night when I think about the way I treat you, and I’m sorry, I am. I’m sorry if you felt like I hated you, because believe me, I don’t.

There is nothing to hate about you other than the fact that you’re just so goddamn perfect and I know I could never have you, and even if I did, I would give all of me to you, and that scares me. It scares me that I would be so willing to hand my heart over to you, and it scares me that you have all this power over me. It hurts that you have the power to torture me, so yes, I push you away, and I’m sorry I care about you, but I just, I just-”

And this was that moment.

That moment where your head told you to punch him, because God knows you wanted to, but your heart told you to just swallow all of that angst and just give yourself to him.

To tell him with your lips that you felt the same, and just leave all the arguing behind.

But something was -

You didn’t hate him. And he just confessed that he didn’t hate you, and now his face was under your fingertips, and your lips were on his. Tears were falling, you weren’t sure if they were yours or his, but he was kissing you back and his arms wrapped around your waist, and you felt like you were on fire. Your hands were now tangled in his hair, and his hands caressed your sides. He had brought you closer to him, and through this kiss you both felt all the so-called, “hatred,” and, “dislike,” evaporate into thin air.

He pulled away from you, and you wiped away his tears.

“I’m so sorry Y/N, you didn’t deserve what I did to you. None of it. If I could take it all back, I would. I’ll make it up to you, I promise I will.”

“You’re such a boy Spencer Reid.” You say.

“What?” He’s confused.

“Mother’s tell their little girls that when boys are mean to them, that they must like them, and that’s why they’re acting that way.”

“Well that’s not very healthy. That tells those little girls that when a man hits them, or is crude towards them, that that’s perfectly normal and that they should just take it because the man loves them.”

“Well true,” Spencer was still holding you, and you went on “but the point was that you must have really liked me since you were so mean to me.”

“I mean, sure. But I don’t see why a mother would -”

“Hey, agree to disagree, okay?”

A month or so passed, and the team noticed a huge shift. You and Spencer were no longer arguing constantly, well, of course there were disagreements and such, but you two didn’t act like you hated each other.

“Promise me you’ll stop trying to be the hero.” Spencer told you once.

“No promises.”

Because if you weren’t the hero, you wouldn’t have saved the girl, wouldn’t have gotten Fred help, wouldn’t have the arrogant prince turned good, and you wouldn’t have agreed to disagree.

~~~~~~

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bitsandbobsofwriting · 3 years ago

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Do you have any fic where Uther hits Arthur, in a cell Merlin applies salve to his bruise, really pissed, Morgana comes in and yells UTHER'S A BASTARD- I cant remember where I read it but I feel like it was one of your fics. On that note, would you write a fic abt Arthur's abuse? He surely has C-PTSD. Maybe 5+1 where Merlin notices signs- Arthur flinches when Uther claps his back/signs he was used to being locked up/has a flashback while training/gets triggered-hurts someone? +1 is breakdown :)

That sounds like Part 2 of Big Brother Merlin!! Arthur challenges Uther when he sentences someone to death for sorcery, and gets locked in his chambers (after Uther smacks him around a little). Merlin treats his injuries, Morgana storms in with Mordred and yells about Uther being an arsehole!

TW: LOTS OF CHILD ABUSE BELOW!!

AND YES!!! When I update The List, I'll definitely add a 5+1 of Merlin realising that Arthur's childhood wasn't all that cushy in the father-son relationship department, I love this idea. It'll be fairly angsty but with a happyish/hopeful ending me thinks :D

My head is literally filling with ideas, and I love yours as well, so far I'm thinking 1)Uther claps Arthur on the back and he flinches, Merlin is confused because Arthur is usually so desperate for The King's approval, but he can see how freaked out he is, how desperate he is to leave, makes up an excuse, but doesn't ask or push. 2)Arthur is claustrophobic, like severely claustrophobic, struggles to be in a room smaller than ten foot square, especially if the door is shut, and is probably similarly uncomfortable in the dark, Merlin always makes sure candles/fires are lit through the night, and never makes Arthur stay in the physician's chamber with the door/windows shut if he can help it because the place is so tiny. 3)Arthur rarely practices hand to hand combat, though makes the knights do it. Maybe he gets goaded, or maybe he just decides to be brave, but he practices with Lance and it's going fine for a while until all of a sudden all he can see is the short brown hair and the Camelot red and the fist swinging at him. Cue freezing and getting punched in the face and flashback-ing a little bit until Merlin can talk him out of his head. 4)Maybe some visiting arsehole says Arthur looks like his father?? Later that evening, Arthur spirals and starts worrying about turning into Uther, struggling to reconcile the fact that... he loved his father, being unable to admit that he was a bad father (he knows he was a bad man, but he can't seem to admit he was a bad father), with the fact that... he knows he would never treat any future kids the way Uther treated him, how he's desperate to NOT be Uther, in more ways than just the anti-magic shit. Merlin had noticed his growing panic over the day and makes a passing comment about how he looks way more like his mother, in fact, Merlin can't see any Uther in him at all. 5)Maybe Merlin says something that Uther used to say/does something that Uther used to do?? Arthur's already tired and not really concentrating so his brain takes those words/that action and runs away with them and he fully dissociates for like... a worrying amount of time. Merlin finally gets him present again and asks Gaius about it vaguely later. Finally puts it all together, he had suspected before but he wasn't 100% sure. +1)I'm thinking maybe Arthur sees another visiting Noble Arsehole hitting his kid? And he just freaks, absolutely goes off on one in the middle of a hallway and Merlin has to both talk him down from killing this guy right on the spot, and also magically compelling the noble to want to leave the kid in the care of Morgana and Gwen or something (because Merlin would NEVER leave a kid in an abusive family). Once everything's calmed down, and Merlin has erased the memory from everyone's mind, Arthur has a little breakdown in his chambers and Merlin is finally able to talk about it, because he didn't want to bring it up first/force it, he wanted Arthur to come to him.

WHEW.

Ok so I love this and I might just have to write it regardless of my list lol. THANK YOU⭐️!! I LOVE THIS AND I LOVE YOU!!

#asks #requests #send asks #send requests #potentials #tw: abuse #tw abuse #abuse #child abuse #tw: child abuse #tw child abuse

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wevegottogetaway · 4 years ago

Text

El Patrón

I’m so excited to finally be posting this piece. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and it’s been consuming my mind. If you like angst, smut, art student Harry, and great plot twists, this story is for you, so buckle up, cause you’ve got 13700 and then some waiting for you! And on that note, I don’t thing I have many words left in my brain... so, hope you enjoy xx

TW: smut, fool language

After her first day back to classes, Y/n is not surprised to see Harry Styles’ lanky frame standing behind the bar of Bottom’s Up. She hoped that he would bugger off to work some place else but alas, all her summer prayers were unanswered. For yet another semester, she would have to endure bartending by his sides, trying with all her might not to jab a corkscrew at his throat every time he opened his gob. Granted, she could have switched jobs herself, but the pay is too good to turn down and the bar sits literally right around the corner from her place; a match made in heaven if you ask her. Besides, she’s been mastering the art of tuning out the insufferable green-eyed prick for two years now, so what’s one more? Of course, knowing it is likely to be the last - having just kicked off the final year of her psychology major - makes the news easier to stomach. And with any luck, the fool did some sort of soul-searching over the break and came back a changed man.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her delightful presence again. Knew you couldn’t stand to live without me, y/l/n." Harry greets her with a smirk as he looks up from his phone.

Well, some much for change, but luck has never been on y/n’s side anyway; she knew it was wishful thinking to entertain the idea of a pleasant or even tolerable Harry. "Shut it, Styles. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit," she quips back and goes straight to the employee’s locker room to dispose of her stuff and swap her top for one bearing the bar’s logo. Once done, she takes a brief look in the tattered mirror still hanging by the door to readjust her ponytail, before joining her co-worker behind the counter. The bar is rather quiet for now, clock having not chimes 6pm yet, but y/n expects the place to be soon crawling with students drinking the classes’ return off their mind.

The next few minutes are spent in unexpected peaceful silence, y/n prepping for the upcoming rush while Harry idly sits by, not lifting a single finger to help her out. Admittedly, he’s completed all his pre-shift duties during the last hour, but y/n doesn’t think it warrants the smug look painted on his face as he watches her battle a jar of olives with an old opener and a concentrated frown. So peaceful silence was a bit of a stretch, maybe.

Then to make matters worse he decides to taunt her, "I see you’ve grown zero muscle strength over the break. Too busy vegetating on the beach?"

The surge of anger triggered by the provocation is enough impetus for her to crack the can open, but it doesn’t stop her from turning to face him, "I see you’ve grown zero neuron in that thick head of yours. Too busy making people miserable instead?" she counters with flaring nostrils and a look of disdain hardening her features.

"Ah, still got a feisty mouth on you. ‘Was worried you might turn soft on us." Harry sasses back, but y/n doesn’t bother telling him off this time. No matter how strong her comeback, he’ll just brush it off with that smile of his that irritates her to no end. That’s the thing with Harry, the bastard has the thickest skin of all, he’s downright unattainable. And believe it or not, bad-mouthing doesn’t come naturally to y/n, he just seems to draw it out of her, perhaps as the trigger of some kind of survival instinct. Time and time again she’s tried to come up with a quip that would leave him speechless, tail between his legs, but he always has a wittier reply to throw back at her. For so long they’ve been playing this debilitating game of ping pong and she has yet to claim a point to his countless wins.

It’d been the case since their first meeting on that dreadful Friday two years ago. Y/n was about to embark on her second year at uni and decided to get a job so she could afford her own place instead of the dreary dorms she’d gotten used to. Bottom’s Up had seemed to be the perfect choice, a 2 minutes walk from the sweet little apartment she’d just visited a few days prior. She’d been excited for her first shift that night, air still warm from the Indian summer sun drawing a plethora of eager students to come enjoy their last day of freedom. Her happy jitters had quickly dissolved once she’d made her way in the staff-only area located behind the bar though. There, she’d walked in on a very frustrated Harry vociferating at a lost-looking colleague, "how many times do you have to fuck up before doing your bloody job, Steve? Stop sitting on your lazy ass, or I swear I’ll-"

She’d come to this Steve guy’s defense then, furious at the tall curly hair jerk for bullying his way around, "stop it, you asshole. You can’t talk to people like trash, who do you think you are?" Granted, she didn’t know it at the time, but the lost look on Steve's face was in fact pretty standard for the amount of weed in his system; nor did she know that the lad could actually win the Olympics of lazy asses hands down, should such a discipline be appended. It was too late to call off the hostilities though. War had been declared, and aside maybe from that one time he had graciously accepted to cover for her when she’d had a trip to Brighton planned for one of her classes, no truce had ever been reached. Besides, she’s sure it was more so because he was low on cash rather than to fulfill the hidden desire to help her out for once in his life.

Now, as she finishes wiping her work surface with a wet cloth, y/n wishes more than ever to be teleported in a parallel universe where she doesn’t have to work with the bane of her existence, much less see his annoyingly handsome face four times a week. (Also, exams would only be optional in this alternate reality of hers, but that’s another fantasy for another day.) Mainly, she’s just glad she doesn’t see him around campus ever, the art building standing all the way across from the psychology department. At least she’s Harry-free the moment she steps out of the bar; she’d probably have a nervous breakdown if she had to put up with his antics outside of work.

***

A month in the new semester, the novelty of it all has finally worn off to make way for routines to settle in. Y/n’s weeks now consist in a well-practiced cycle of sleep, study, eat, work and occasionally go out with her best friend Mia. Her shifts at Bottom’s Up still prove to be challenging because of the company she’s forced to keep but things seem to have calmed down at the bar too. Students are now less inclined to party the week away, mainly indulging during the second half of the week, but more importantly, Harry appears to be less of a smug bastard and more of a sulky sod. For some reason, the lad has been stuck in a sullen mood, constant frown wrinkling his forehead. He has reverted to distant one-word answers as though he is saving a dictionary worth of words for whatever conundrum is going on in his brain. Y/n doesn’t mind though, and almost welcomes the transition if it means less digs taken at her expense.

Now y/n finds herself on her way to the campus library for a much needed paper-writing cramming session (the assignment is due the following day and she barely has two thirds of the work completed). After a quick stop by the coffee shop down the block, she finally strides in the lobby of the library, ready to dive nose first into the riveting matters of cognitive psychology. She’s already so focused mulling over concepts’ definition in her mind, that it takes her a minute to realize something is going on.

It’s nothing major really, no big fire rushing around the premises or fist-fight breaking the crowd into a frenzy. No, just everyone seemingly hushing and gasping, bewildered expressions etched upon their faces as they keep pointing towards the nearby study room. Truthfully, y/n might have been completely oblivious to it, it she weren’t a psychology major; but reading people’s feelings and interactions is kind of her thing, so she does notice the bubbly energy infiltrating the usually quiet space. What could possibly have them so intrigued, she wonders as more students come out of the room with the same looks of wonder.

Her confusion is finally quelled when she steps into the study room in question and her eyes fall on what has everyone so engaged. On the wall to her right, between two sets of shelves brimming with decades-old books, hangs a life size canvas of audacious shapes and bold colors. Not one seems to have been left out, the painting seemingly transporting the viewer in a psychedelic albeit appealing trance. It’s full of contrasts, an embodiment of serenity and boldness at the same time, and y/n can’t stop ogling the masterpiece for the life of her. The amount of passion is so obviously overwhelming, yet she can feel all of the artist’s emotions underneath each of the brushstrokes.

After another minute of wondrous observation, her thoughts are interrupted by a foreign voice. "El Patrón? I wonder who that could be," the stranger wonders aloud, and her eyes immediately drift off to the bottom right of the painting to catch the small but unmistakable signature: black cursive letter spelling the two words withholding the real artist’s identity. The mystery only adds up to the appeal of the work and y/n already feels a bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of ever finding out what beautiful soul is responsible for such mind-bending work. She hopes this won’t be last she sees of it.

***

It’s Friday night and unfortunately for y/n, she’s stuck at work with her least favorite person in the world. It’s all the more unfortunate that Harry seems to be back to his usual annoying self, his thoughts finally free from whatever trouble had plagued them, and eager to fall back into nuisance mode. Less unfortunate for y/n and much to Harry’s discontent, Mia decided to stop by and keep her company. Though she feels slightly sorry for her having the act as her buffer for the night, y/n figures she’s more than making up for it with every free cocktail she keeps sliding towards her friend. Their conversation is scattered at best since patrons keep interrupting them for a fresh pint of ale, but as the night slowly dies down they manage to talk longer than 20 seconds.

The manager of the bar has long clocked off and gone home, as per usual on Friday nights, leaving both her and Harry the pleasure to indulge in a few drinks of their own. They don’t do it every week and always keep it low-key of course; Mia’s tonight presence mostly accounting for y/n’s partaking while Harry just likes a nice glass of tequila when the week-end comes around and there’s nobody to tell him off about it. One thing they never do though, is drink together, like two friends celebrating yet another week they survived at uni. Come to think of it, the only thing they do share is a job position and their never-ending bickering. Cheers to that, y/n takes another sip of her gin martini in sarcasm.

She’s brought back to reality by Mia as the tipsy brunette lets out a loud gasp before she inquires in a slightly high-pitched voice, "y/n! totally forgot to tell you, went by the library today and you’ll never guess what was there!"

"Oh my god, you saw the painting too, didn’t you" y/n answers, excited at the idea of discussing the whole thing with her best friend. Truth be told, the majestic work of art hasn’t left her mind since she’d first seen it a few days before.

"Yes" Mia squeals in confirmation, "I mean, it’s kinda impossible to miss. I wonder how they got it there without anyone seeing."

Y/n has wondered the same thing and she came to one conclusion, "they probably sneaked in last Sunday after the library closed, it’s the only time the building is empty," Mia humming in agreement. The campus library is opened 24/7 all days except on Sundays, so realistically speaking it is the only window of time that would allow for such an experiment. Whether said experiment required an actual break-in or was conducted in full legality remains a mystery but that is just bygones in y/n’s eyes. She’s much to mesmerized by the work to give a damn about how it got there in the first place.

"Oi y/l/n! What are you two fawning over this time" Harry chirps in the conversation, uninvited as always, and y/n hates how condescending he just sounded.

"Not that you could ever understand something with substance, if your lack thereof is any indication, but it’s none of your damn business," y/n spats out dismissively but Mia’s Margarita-induced brain seems to have forgotten all about their concerted hatred for piss-taking bartenders.

"Harry, you’re an art major aren’t you? D’you know who’s behind that beautiful painting at the library?"

Y/n tilts her head back in a sigh at her friend’s behavior before turning to watch the puzzled look on Harry’s face. He seems to silently gauge the both of them; for what, y/n doesn’t know, and then his whole expression switched to a blasé look. He shrugs in disinterest, "who cares? ’s just one more Banksy wannabe who’s trying at it too hard ‘f you ask me."

Y/n takes it as a personal offense, her admiration for the painting outweighing any instinct she has of avoiding the brazen man taking a sip of his tequila on rocks across from her, "of course you’d say something like that. You’re just jealous you’ll never compete with his talent."

Harry raises a brow at her accusation, "and how would you know since you’ve never seen any of my work?"

It’s a valid point, but not enough to rebut her. "Doesn’t take a genius to know a shallow mind like yours could never create something as deep and transcending. That would require actual emotions from you Harry and we both know the only emotion you’re capable of spreading is irritation."

For once she’s confident she’s gonna have the last word, but in true Harry fashion he just gives her a bored look as if to say ‘is that all?’ towel thrown over his shoulder, "right, and here I thought talking to people like trash was a bad thing. You should really take a page out of your own book, y/n, wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re as big of a jerk as I am." Then he turns back to face the room full of customers, and tends to one disheveled looking guy slurring out an order.

Y/n barely registers the friendly "alright Joe, but ’s the last one," Harry rasps out to the guy, her ears are still ringing from the last words he’d said to her. More specifically, the little truth they held despite how much he deserved the backlash, and y/n absolutely loathes the way her throat seems to be closing in on itself. She’s afraid she’s turning like him, bitter words at the ready and always trying to outdo his own taunting spiels. Before anxiety can settle in her bones though, she swallows back the knot tightening in her airways and goes back to serving customers and conversing with her friend.

***

The next time it happens, she expects it even less. A couple weeks have passed since her gruesome interaction with Harry at the bar, and along with her doubts, all thoughts about art have seemed to vanish from her busy mind. She’s had a few tests occupying all her free time and now that they’ve been done and over with, all she can think about is calling Mia up to plan their next night out; she needs a few drinks that she didn’t make for once.

She’s about to take her phone out of her pocket to send her best friend a text, when she enters the lecture hall of her Monday experimental method and research design class. The déjà-vu feeling that creeps up her spine stops her from completing the action, and y/n frowns at how her fellow students seem to be all entranced in deep conversation, exchanging baffled looks with one another. Even the sleeping kid that sits at the back seems to be more alert than during their last fire evacuation procedure test.

It’s then y/n turns around to see what is hanging at the front of the room, covering the large board. This time, the colors were carefully handpicked by the artists, flashes of pink and yellow dancing along to a frenzied rhythm of salsa as their union creates powerful jets of oranges across the canvas. It vaguely reminds her of the pendant she wears on a daily basis, rose gold laurels wrapped around a delicate sunflower, an orange topaz incrusted in its center. The painting is of abstract nature much like the last one, but the movements of the brush still bring her mind back to the jewel presently nestled between her collarbones. How odd.

The piece is slightly smaller than the last but no less impressive, catching the attention of even the least artistic eye. The sensibility of the artist is so distinct, intentions clearer and more in touch than most people with their own. For a second, y/n thinks she’s glad the pieces have only been ones of unadulterated happiness and colorful bliss so far, because god knows how heart-wrenching the outcome would be if all this uncorrupted honesty was used to fill canvas with pain.

As the professor enters the room, everybody settles back on their seat, and wait for the chap’s reaction. "Well, that sure is something. It seems we have a bit of a mystery painter on our hands, don’t we; and a talented one at that," y/n’s professor smiles at the class as he pulls a computer out of his satchel and places it at top of the front desk. His words make her look back at the artwork, this time settling on the small signature reading El Patrón on its corner. And it’s all it takes for Y/n’s obsession with the anonymous artist to be back in full force.

***

That night she can’t stop raving about the painting as she starts closing the bar after a long and tiresome shift. She’s got a shoulder pressing her phone to her ear, Mia on the line, while she absentmindedly sweeps the floor. Normally the exertion of the job would have her stifling yawns and her bones aching but tonight her voice is perky as ever as she recollects the pinnacle of her day, "you shoulda been there Mia, it was gorgeous. And same as last time, like you’d be minding your business, doing your thing and then boom, it’s there. Damn, this guy is a genius."

As she comes back around the counter, Harry makes sure she notices the roll of his eyes. He’s been wiping and tidying the bar space after making sure everything is stocked up for the next day, all the while listening to her drone about El Patrón and his stroke of genius, praise after praise falling from her lips. She completely brushes off the patronizing gesture and that’s perhaps what irritates him the most. She’s barely acknowledging him or his stunts with all her attention placed on the mystery painter and well, Harry quite likes riling her up. Doesn’t do it out of spite, but merely because he likes the way it ignites a fire in her that he’s seldom seen in people. But now, all her fire is directed elsewhere and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

***

Over the next month, the rumors around El Patrón spread like wildfire as more and more of his works are found scattered around campus. Much to y/n’s delight, she always seems to fall upon them as though they’ve been placed specifically on her path. It didn’t start as obvious though; the first following pieces hung in common areas around campus such as the lunch hall or the student center but as time went by they tended to follow her whereabouts somehow. Y/n knows she’s probably fabulating but when she’d stumble across two absolutely stunning pieces in the lobby of her gym and at the entrance of the psychology building, she couldn’t help but feel deeply attached to them. And the possibility that this mystery artist might have the same attachment to her, only fuels her obsession further, sending her reeling with all but one nerve-wracking question: who is this guy?

And it’s not like she’s the only one pondering over their identity either. Hell, the genius has literally everyone on campus under their spell, trying to uncover the enigma of the year. Everyone seems to be determined to find clues, easter eggs hidden within the paintings that could lead them closer to the truth. El Patrón has effectively turned the whole uni into a large-scale game of Cluedo, people speculating left and right and swapping theories about who it can or cannot be, what year they are probably in, or whether they have an accomplice. Nobody has ever executed such a tour de force in the history of campus, and it has everyone one edge, y/n included, desperate to be in the loop.

The fact that each painting is more beautiful than the last and always seems to connect with her in personal ways doesn’t help her daydreaming either. Take the one she found at the gym for example, for a few second she’d sworn she was looking at a familiar piece of the English South Coast, dark hues of blue fighting dots of white, reminiscent of the way foam always seems to top even the most raging waves as they crash along shores. She’d only had to close her eyes to feel the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions and the sand engulfing her feet, making its way between her toes and every crevice of her skin. She was still in the middle of her gym when she reopened them though, her sport bag straddling her shoulder as she kept gaping at the painting in adoration.

Her suspicious keeps nagging at her head, the desire to unveil the identity of her beloved artist getting stronger by the day. The feeling is almost unbearable when she spots yet another work of his across from Bottom’s Up. The coincidences keep piling up and the more she mulls it over, the more she’s convinced this mystery guy is talking to her. Damn, is it possible to have a crush on someone because of their work? After months of this cryptic scavenger hunt, she’d dying to know if all her theories are right and the fact that she has no way to find out, is positively killer her.

That’s why when she stumbles across a flyer for a midterm exhibition gala hosted by the art department as she waits in line at her favorite coffee shop, she doesn’t think twice before jotting down all the info. In a week time, most of the uni’s art students would be gathered up in one place to present their term’s work. The chances are too high for y/n to pass up the opportunity, her guts telling her he’ll be there. It makes sense doesn’t it? Surely, this El Patrón ought to be an art student if not a teacher. How else would they have access to all the campus amenities most of the paintings were found in?

As she goes to pick up her coffee from the counter, y/n walks with a newfound spring in her steps; she really can’t wait for this gala to happen.

***

Y/n stands at the entrance of the art building, a black floor-length long-sleeves open-back dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Her heart speeds up at the nervous jitters crawling underneath her skin, and the million question swarming her frantic mind. What if he actually doesn’t know her and doesn’t give a damn about her thoughts on his work? What if it’s actually a woman and she’s been hiding a man’s pen-name to consolidate her deceit? Is she about to make the biggest fool out of herself by coming to this exhibition? She doesn’t know anyone here, nor has she ever been to this kind of event before but she’s decided this guessing game has run its course. Maybe this all thing has nothing to do with her and that’s okay. All she really wants is to have a chance to tell this exquisite mind how remarkable their work is; the rest be damned.

Y/n slowly makes her way inside, and after a quick stop at the coat room to dispose of the unnecessary garment, she is finally greeted by a room full of dressed-up people roaming and chatting around, champagne flutes in hands. How cliche, she thinks with humor, before picking up a glass of the bubbly beverage. It’ll help sooth the nerves, she reasons as she starts walking around the place to observe each of the displays. Despite not having had a glimpse of her number-one painter yet, she finds herself having a good time. Most of the work offered to her is engaging in one way or another; some pieces quite provocative is their depiction, others straight out pushing the limits of 2D, with structures coming out of the canvas as though they were about to grip at the viewer.

Turning at a corner, she comes across his art before she sees him, having almost forgotten art was supposedly his thing too, and she realizes she actually knew someone here apart from the mysterious painter. She takes a brief look at his tall frame, the baby blue suit over his crisp white shirt fitting him perfectly. A black tie is completing the look, and it makes y/n waver for a second. She’s never seen him dressed in anything other than jeans and the bar’s t-shirt every employee is supposed to wear on call. Granted, even that he can make work better than anyone else she can think of, but that suit is something else altogether.

Her eyes shifts back to his work, not wanting to waste too much time on his appearance; she is here on a mission after all. She can’t deny his painting is good as much as she wants too. It’s made of a perfectly executed optic illusion that has her pause for longer than she intended to. The colors are picked wisely only adding to the entrancing design, tempting the viewer to reach out to the painting to convince themselves that this is fact a pretty subterfuge and no reality; the frontier between both worlds much too hard to distinguish. Just like for the rest of the exhibition, a single plaque hangs underneath the canvas, introducing the title of the piece above the name of its artist: Fine Line by Harry Styles. Damn, the bastard had to be talented…

"Is it as depthless as you thought it would be?" A hoarse voice interrupts her inner thoughts. She knows it’s his at the first word and already she regrets ever thinking positive things about him.

"Funny, I would have shared a compliment but you just had to go and open your stupid mouth," she bites back as she fully turns around to face him. She can feel is eyes shamelessly scanning her body, sending her nerves on overdrive. She wants this exchange to be as curt as possible, she’s got important matters to tend to.

"Here for you mysterious bloke, I presume?" he inquires in a taunting voice.

"What’s it to you, anyway?" y/n dodges the question with another, hoping it’ll steer the conversation toward its end.

She’s answered by rosy pouting lips, a hand on his heart in faux vexation, "ouch, was just hopin’ you’d come to see me, and now you’ve just crushed my dreams, love."

The pet-name is not lost on her and Y/n has had enough. In own gulp she downs the rest of her champagne and forces the glass to his chest for him to hold as she makes her way past him, "just leave me alone and go be a pain in someone else’s ass, Harry." She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following her as she marches across the room in long and purposeful strides.

Something in the corner of her eyes catches her attention right then. Halting abruptly, almost making someone walk right into her, she turns her head to the side and that’s when she finally sees it. A whole part of the wall has been dedicated to his work, a shrine of his most outstanding pieces randomly hung against the white surface. Y/n recognizes each and every one of them, but then her eyes take in the extra work added for the exhibition: next to each of the pieces are displayed a bunch of photos capturing the students’ expressions as they first discovered the paintings. Dozens of faces lighting up in amazement, widening eyes and finger pointing at the unexpected intrusions; some show confusion and puzzlement while others simply behold laughter and animated conversation.

In the center of the wall, a video is projected. It’s a compilation of those same moments but this time captured on tape. The sound was removed, but as y/n takes in the faces of her fellow students she can almost hear the sound of their laughters; she’d been there for most of it after all. She thinks the idea is amazing, El Patrón has managed to make the viewer a permanent part of the art. The paintings are marvelous of course, full of emotions and passion, but the mysterious artist has gone one step further by also displaying how those emotions had reflected back on the audience. It is an ode to art, to the power of sharing, and proves art is limitless; not owned by museums, not bound between walls and certainly not restricted for trained-eyes only. Because art isn’t all about beauty, it speaks for the need for sharing that human have but often forget, and this is a perfect reminder of it.

The next tape playing has her eyes doubling over the video, a small gasp escaping her lips as she takes in her own figure. It was taken the day she found the painting at the gym and unlike all the other videos she’s alone. No group of students by her side elbowing her in disbelief, or sharing a puzzle look with her. Just her doe eyes gleaming at the painting, lips slightly parted in pure wonder, as she studies every inch of the canvas. And the feeling that this might mean just as much to him as it does to her comes back crashing on her. She’s not paranoid; this artist his using her as some kind of inspiration, she’s sure of it. Random cannot be this accurate, it would defy any laws of statistics.

After the slideshow finally moves on to the next video, y/n looks around in the hopes of finding the man that has wormed his way into her heart. She’s imagined it a thousand times over during the past week. A young man would be discretely standing on the side, watching the evening pan out and waiting for her to find his work. Then they would make eye contact and he’d make his way over to greet her and share more of his beautiful mind with her. That’s the happily ever after she’s hoped for since that first painting in the library, but alas everyone around her seems to be engrossed in conversation about this and that.

"I thought he would be there too," the unexpected voice makes her jump. She recognizes the student from that first day, she’d also be intrigued by the mysterious man.

"I know, all of his work is here, he has to somewhere around," y/n tries to convince herself. She hasn’t given up yet, she won’t let herself unless she goes home tonight empty-handed. Only after that will she stop searching, she promises herself. If he doesn’t show up tonight, then that’s because he doesn’t want to be found.

The girl next to her has the same disappointed tone when she explains, "you’d think so, but I’ve been asking everyone around and nobody has a clue still."

Before y/n can come up with her own rationalizations, someone starts speaking in a microphone, asking for everyone’s attention. It’s a man in his early fifties making a speech about the whole reason behind the exhibition so y/n pegs him as the head of the art department. "Thank you all for coming tonight, it is always a pleasure to see so many of you supporting our young talents. As you may know, tonight’s exhibition signs off our students’ final work for the semester, and will also see one of them receive a one-time collaboration with a renown art gallery in the city. Now, before the judges finish deliberating, let me tell you a bit about the topic of this exhibition which, by the way, serves as the main criteria for this contest. Our artists were asked to work around audience engagement and crowd reaction. The task was to produce art that would prompt an active response from the viewer and go beyond a passive experience. I hope this info helps this event take all its sense, I’ll let you all meander for a couple more minutes before we announce the winner. Thank you for your presence."

Since she has a couple more of minutes, y/n decides to take advantage of the fresh insight she was just given about the artwork and goes around the exhibition one more time. The whole thing does take on a new meaning, now that she knows what was going one in the students’ mind as they first got their assignment. But what has her in awe really, is El Patrón’s coup de maître in all of this, because unlike any other applicant here tonight, he’s had the strongest reactions from the public for months now and had even documented it. So really, in a way he’s already won, no bias to blame. The amount of work and planning behind such a tour de force surely has exceeded everyone’s expectations and secured the number-one position for the still-to-be-revealed artist. In the pocket, as they say.

"Alright everyone, without further ado we are going to announce the lucky talent selected by the judges tonight," the head of department speaks up again. "On behalf of the whole department, I would like to salute each and every one of the students that presented their work tonight. Skills are certainly not scarce among you all, and as always it gives me great pleasure to see you all grow into yourselves alongside your craft. As you know, there can only be one of you coming up to this stage tonight and I must say, this semester has proved to be full of surprises. Never in my 26 years working here have I ever seen something of the sort, so ladies, gentleman, I have no idea who is about to join me now, but please give a warm round of applause for El Patrón!"

The room explodes in loud cheers as people clap their hands in honor of the mysterious artist. Y/n probably the loudest amongst them all, is still craning her neck in every possible directions trying to catch sight of anyone moving towards the stage. The standing ovation quickly fades into silence as everyone realizes nobody is coming to claim their prize. The usual hushing following any of El Patrón’s stunts is once again spreading across the room to match people’s incredulity at the situation. It was one thing to keep their identity a secret, as it was clearly a crucial condition for the plan to work, but now that it is all over and done, prize ready for the taking, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Mister El Patrón? I think you more than deserve to drop your mask and receive your prize," the host reiterates in hopes that the much awaited artist comes out of his lair, but he’s met with the same result. Perhaps he’s not here after all, or perhaps y/n was right to think he might not want to be found, but regardless a strong feeling of disappointment takes over a body. He won’t be coming, she knows. No matter how many times the host calls for him, he won’t be coming.

She lets out a long sign in frustration then, she really thought tonight was the tonight. But now that the evening is coming to its end, tears pearl at the corner of her eyes and she just wants to go home and forget all about El Patrón. Aren’t artists supposed to be dark and twisted anyway? Maybe she just dodges a bullet, she tries to make herself feel better, but no amount of sarcasm can save her from the painful pinch at her heart. As she comes to term with the fact she won’t get any more answers by staying (and possible ever), she decides it’s her cue to go.

On her way to the exit, her eyes fall upon Harry’s slightly hunched figure. He seems deep in his thoughts, eyes fixed towards the floor though he’s not looking at anything in particular. For some unknown reason, y/n is not irked by his presence like she usually is. He’s just lost a great career opportunity so his preoccupied disposition is understandable. Feeling as though she needs to end the night on a different note - whether positive is yet to be determined - she approaches him slowly as not to startle him. "Your painting is really good. I’m sorry you didn’t win, but you should still be proud," she softly tells him to cheer him up. At least, one of them might get to go home in higher spirits.

He looks up at her then, curls bouncing on top of his head, as he aligns his two glistening emeralds to her own gems. He seems quite surprised to hear her voice, probably rightfully so since he can count on one hand (scratch that, one finger) the number of times she’s actively sought him out for conversation. She can tell he’s debating whether to say something or not, as they keep their eyes locked. It’s probably the longest and only civil exchange they’ve ever had, and somehow it manages to soothe some of her sorrows.

Y/n likes this reflective side of him, she realizes. Not that she wishes him any torments (at least not tonight) but his quietness makes him look vulnerable in that beautifully human way for once. That’s twice he’s proven her wrong about the assumptions she had on him, tonight: first his talent, now his character; she doesn’t know what to make of it. Silently, she accepts the timid smile and light nod he offers her in gratitude, before making her way to out at last.

***

Two days after the night of the exhibition, y/n still has a hard time to let her grievance go. Her mood has yet to upgrade from crappy at best, and the fact that all the artwork has been removed from their previous spots is not helping much. Of course she knew they had been put down for the big night, but her heart still missed a beat when she went to the gym only to find the walls of the lobby bare of any craft that would liven up their otherwise dull and colorless structure. Just like her state of mind, she’d joked. And y/n is not one to throw pity parties, especially to herself; but then again, she’d never fallen under the charms of a faceless virtuoso because his art brought to life parts of her that she’d believed otherwise dormant, only to be metaphorically stood up at the end of the process. So really, what does she know anymore?

Now that she’s back at work, she revels in the constant effort she has to provide. The ever-growing list of task to complete gives her mind reprieve and focus, but she still hasn’t budged from her unusually distant and withdrawn self. Even harry’s own standoffishness hasn’t caught her attention; a week ago, his awkward demeanor would have flashed red flags all over her radar. An unfiltered narcissistic prick he could be, but y/n has never known him to be anything even resembling reserve; apart maybe from that one fate-less night not even 72 hours ago when she found him on the outskirts of the attention even though she knew full well that he is more of center kind of guy.

As they’re about to start closing, the awkwardness becomes more palpable by the second. They’ve skirted around it during the whole shift, the steady solicitation of customers enough to ignore the growing tension; but as the last of the patrons finally make their way out of the bar, an eery silence settles in their wake, making them both want to crawl out of their skin. Even the heavy-served drinks they’ve indulged in, despite the absence of their respective motives, hasn’t help assuage the strain between them. Instead, they start their usual routine in overrated silence, y/n in charge of the floor while he tends to the bar. Then before long, Harry bursts the uncomfortable bubble they’ve locked themselves in, voice void of its usual teasing tone, "so, what’s got you so grumpy?" he inquires.

"Please don’t start, Harry. I really can’t be bothered tonight," y/n sighs in response, failing to recognize the note of concern in his question and thinking she wouldn’t survive another bickering session. It hasn’t been the lad’s intention though, so her false accusation has his thick skin itching against his will. To be honest, Harry’s never taken much offense from any of their past squabbles no matter how hard she’d come at him, but this one he can’t brush off. Not when for once, he’s trying to be decent, dropping the attitude he knows rubs her the wrong way and she responds by telling him to get lost.

"Fuck sake, I wasn’t tryin’ to start anythin’" he berates her for lashing out unjustifiably, "you need to take a chill pill." The hostile reaction as her pausing mid-swipe in the middle of the room. He was always so unbothered by everything she said, she hasn’t expected him to be so hard on the defensive (or even know what a defensive is in the first place).

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the same chastising tactic he’s used on her countless times, especially because given his serious temper, she knows he means it for real now. "Oh I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t know what sympathy actually sounds like coming from your mouth," she quips back in sarcasm.

The response makes him livid, "you tell me I’m a jerk every chance you got, but you sure know how to be a bitch, y/n" he spats before finishing wiping the counter. As his hand reaches the end of the surface, he finds his half-empty glass of tequila, most of the ice completely melted through the amber liquor by now. He takes one long sip in a vain attempt to calm his nerves but the alcohol merely tingles the back of his palate and warms its way down his stomach. His mind is still burden with frustrations he doesn’t know how to alleviate; the end of term, the exhibition, his career’s future, and y/n’s stubborn nature all wreaking havoc in his tired brain.

"Shut the fuck up, Harry. I didn’t ask for your attention," y/n retorts, trying not to expose how bruised her heart is. While he’d mocked her plenty during the past two years, he’d never resorted to calling her names, unlike her; so the insult does more damage than she’s willing to admit, even coming from Harry. And to think she’d thought of him as a half decent being not three days ago…

"Right, I forgot only anonymous bastards are worthy enough of your attention," he replies before checking the shelves behind the bar to make sure they’re stocked enough for the next shift. "And even when they turn out to be cowards, you still choose them over the people that are actually around you. You need to open your eyes and wake up, it’s pathetic."

Y/n has almost finished cleaning her area but at this point, she’s ready to call it quits and run as fast as she can, away from him. "Go fuck yourself, you don’t know anything you’re talking about," she manages to croak past her swelling throat and quivering lips. The man in front of her is breaking her heart even though he’s never had it in his calloused hands, and y/n doesn’t know why.

"Fuck this, ’m done," he quite literally throws in the towel, leaving it in a bowl on the counter before making his way back to his drink. In a swift movement, he grabs the bottle of tequila to pour himself a new one. "You keep blindly mopin’ about your precious painter, I don’t care, you’re probably right anyway," he says before chugging the bitter spirit in one go and slamming the bottle of tequila down on the counter in a loud bang that has y/n jump in fear. "I don’t anything about bloody anything," is all Harry says as he locks eyes with hers, before making his out of the bar, not bothering to put the bottle back to its rightful place.

Y/n is still trembling from the exchange, and it takes her a hot minute before she can finish what she was doing. As she resumes wiping the floor with shaky hands, she tries to even her breath out. Why had he been so hurtful? What could have possibly impelled him to utter such malicious words? The questions are still reeling in her mind as she twists water out of the mop for the last time. Once the floor is spotless and all the tables are no longer sticky with spilled alcohol, chairs stacked up onto them upside-down, she makes her way back behind the bar, checking that Harry didn’t leave any of his duties unattended before his theatrical exit. She spots the bottle of tequila sitting lonely on the counter but just as she goes to reach for it, she freezes.

It’s a cold shower pouring over her body all at once then, dots finally connected as her eyes read over the label of the fat bottle she’s seen him take out of the stack countless times before. Everything that happened for the last few months falls into place and suddenly there is no mystery left to be solved. ‘You’re probably right, I don’t know anything about bloody anything’ Harry’s final words keep playing on a maddening loop in her head.

Y/n takes in the small bee design printed under what is unmistakably the last piece of the puzzle she’s been craving to complete: one word that has her stomach churning in a myriad of emotions she can’t possibly untangle. Anger, relief, surprise, fear, curiosity, warmth and more, are all rushing through her in one colossal wave, because printed on that bottle in black capital letters is the brand of Harry’s favorite drink: Patrón.

***

The next day, y/n navigates through her classes purely on autopilot mode. She doesn’t quite remember picking the floral blouse nor the light-shade pair of jeans she’s wearing, and barely recalls the brief conversation she had with an old lady during her bus commute to campus. One thing she sure as hell hasn’t paid one iota of attention to, is the behavioral psychology class she’s just got out of. Two hours she spent pacing up and down every twist and turn of her mind only to come out more lost than she’d started. Add to that the fact she’s running on 4 hours of sleep, she’s quite simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately for y/n, she isn’t due at work tonight, having called sick this morning, because sleep-deprivation aside, she still has no idea how she’s supposed to face Harry.

The revelation of the night prior is still something she has trouble wrapping her mind around, as it goes against every constructed opinion she’s made about her life. Harry is Patrón, she’s pretty sure. Harry, the allegedly conceited asshole she’s been bickering with since their first minute spent together, is the mind-blowing painter that had taken residence in y/n’s heart since the first time she set eyes on his art. The two characters have yet to fully merge into one in her mind, despite the fact it makes perfect sense to her.

The Brighton painting, the one inspiring her necklace, it was all true. And with that revelation comes two intimidating truths y/n is kind of scared to delve into: one, all this time she’s been right to think she is the muse behind this all scheme; two, if Harry is the mystery painter, that makes her Harry’s muse more specifically. And that’s the part of the equation she struggles the most with, because up until last night she was pretty positive that the twat despised her (the night in itself being prime evidence of that) but now she doesn’t know what to think.

It’s like there are two versions of Harry battling in her brain, splitting her heart in halves; the one that made her miserable at work for years and made her cry last night, and the one she’d gotten a glimpse of at the night of the exhibition. The one that hid a fully blossomed bouquet of emotions behind teasing banter to protect a diamond-rough talent that had the power to touch just about anyone’s sensibility. The one that had her wrapped around his finger in awe with that beautiful mind of his. The question is, can she or will she see this Harry the next time she’s facing him or will all their bad-blood history come crashing down on her instead? Y/n doesn’t think she’s ever fit more the definition of having mixed feelings about something.

On her way home, she makes sure she doesn’t fall asleep against the bus window, despite yawning every thirty-seconds. It feels like the trip is taking forever, she almost lets out a cry of relief when the automated voice finally announces her upcoming stop. Once she’s thanked the driver and stepped out of the bus, she’s met with a gust of brisk air, instantly blowing her hair all over her face. She draws the lapels of her coat tighter around her shivering body and starts making her way towards her apartment building.

It doesn’t take her long to complete the walking distance to her place and tread her way up the stairs, but the sight greeting her in the hallway of her floor almost sends her down on her ass. Because right across from her door, is Harry hanging yet another one of his chefs-d’oeuvre. He’s dressed casually in his usual jeans and t-shirt ensemble, with a thick grey hoodie covering his broad upper-half in a feeble attempt to combat to cold weather raging outside. As he reaches in the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sharpie - no doubt to apply his trademark signature - the movements of her feet on the laminated floor catch his attention. Spinning around in a jolt of surprise, he realizes too late that he’s been caught red-handed. There was no going back this time, but he doesn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing.

There is a short moment where they are both just standing in front of each other a few feet apart, as their eyes bounce back in silent conversation, before y/n softly breaths out, "so it is you." The weight of her words has him swallow in nervousness, "of course it’s me," he replies in a gentle tone. A smile pulls at his lips when he realizes she’s not running for the hills or bursting out in a furious rant.

"I just…how? why? I mean, you gotta help me understand Harry, cause I’m pretty fucking lost over here," she blurts out with wide doe-eyes begging him for answers. Her obvious jitters earn her a soft chuckle., and for a hot minute all he can bring himself to do is study her snuggled figure and the way she keeps fiddling with her keys. It’s so endearing to him, if they were at his place, he would have offered to make some tea. The thought has him hesitantly looking at the door across from them, "can we maybe talk inside?" he inquires, beckoning his head towards her place. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to let me in, but I promise I’ll explain everythin’," he feels the need to convince her, " after that, you can kick me out if you still want."

The last bit has her smile timidly, "yeah, let’s go inside. I wanna hear what you have to say," y/n admits as she steps to the door and unlocks it. She’s intrigued by how gentle and well-mannered the man following her to the living room seems to be, light years away from the rowdy lad she’s come to know.

For a second, y/n is worries about the state she’s left the apartment before she rushed to classes this morning, but her apprehensions quickly go away once she takes in the sight of her rather tidied living space. A velvety throw blanket is covering the couch in a makeshift comforter from the way she spent the night on the couch, and apart from a few class notes scattered across the coffee table, everything seems to be where it’s supposed to be.

They both discard their top layers on the armchair adjacent to the couch, Harry slipping his hoodie off above his head in one swift gesture, while y/n simply lets the sleeves of her coat slide down her arms. He brushes his hair back into submission with one swoop of his hand, before sitting down on the couch and directing his attention back at her. She decides to leave some distance between them, taking the other end of the sofa and the move desperately makes him wonder what thoughts are running through her head. The only way to uncover them however, is if he starts talking first; and so he does.

"So uhm," he starts clumsily, clearing his throat, "remember the first day we met, you walked in on me telling some stoner guy off," he watches closely as y/n nods. "It was our first ever conversation and we fought through the whole thing. I was pretty pissed when it happened, not gonna lie, but once I got home and slept it off, I thought it was really cool how you’d stand up for that random guy." The admission has her eyebrows raising but he keeps going, "and okay maybe, just maybe, I found it a lil hot, the way you tried to put me back in my place."

He stops to make sure he hasn’t offended her, "tried to?" she challenges instead, Harry laughing at her objection.

"Right, maybe you did. My poin’ is, no-one really calls me out on my bullshit, so it was kinda refreshing that you did. But then the next day, you were still mad at me, an’ we bickered that time too. It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So in a way, all I had left was doin’ this thing where I push your buttons and rile you up. Know it doesn’t make sense, but it was the only way you’d interact with me so I kept doin’ it, because being jerk-Harry was better than having nothin’."

He pauses for a minute and waits as y/n swallows all the information. All this time he’s been teasing her just to have some sort of connection, no matter how perverse, while she thought he just hated her guts. When she shares this thought with him, he shakes his head with a smile, "never hated you. If I ‘ad, I wouldn’t have bothered talking t’you."

Suddenly, her chest feels lighter, as though all this months of anguish had evaporated from her mind, now that she knew their rocky relationship was the result of miscommunication, "sound logic, Styles," she replies in good humor. Then she remembers the El Patrón’s fiasco so she urges him to go on.

"My final. Right. Well as you know, we were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, and I came up with the idea of creating this alter ego that would plant his work around campus. I thought by taking people’s by surprise I was guaranteed strong genuine reactions. People are always more opened when they don’t expect it. Like if I had just brought my paintings on the night of the exhibition, the same people wouldn’t have reacted that way, probably because they’d know they’d be observed so they would have adjusted their behavior accordingly." They both know he’s getting slightly off trail, but watching y/n so enthralled with his words makes it hard for him to stop. Fact is, for month she’s dreamed of meeting and picking at the brain of this mysterious painter, and now that he’s sitting on her couch, walking her through his thought process, she finally feels like she is.

"Anyway," he resumes the storytelling, "I started with that painting in the library and it worked so perfectly, I knew if I followed the plan I would have somethin’ really good. But then you just had to go on an’ rave about the paintings without knowing they were mine, and it was killin’ me inside. Because I knew if there was a real chance I could change your mind about me, I’d do anythin’. But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t jeopardize my final… so I tried to tell you through the art. I started painting stuff that made me think of you and placed the pieces in locations I knew you’d pass through. It was the only way I could tell you."

Harry’s confession had Y/n’s heart beating so hard in her chest, she can almost feel it thumping through her ears. Her next question is on the edge of her lips, but she takes her time tracing each of Harry’s graceful features until his eyes catch hers, "tell me what, Harry?" she asks barely above a whisper.

His response comes in three bashful steps: first his lips curve into a shy grin that has him look down with rosy cheeks; then his hand inches its way along the soft fabric of the couch to gently hold her fingers, thumb grazing over her knuckles; and as he looks up from their joined hands to connect their gaze once more, he finally spells it, loud and clear, "tell you that I like you, y/n."

The sentiment sends her own emotions reeling in a tornado of passion. This is it, this is what she’s been half-knowingly wishing for, and now that she knows the truth in full, she’s ready to embrace it. Her eyes twinkle in bliss, a growing smile illuminating her face as she squeezes his hand in a silent invitation to slide closer to her. Harry is much happy to oblige, and once he’s sitting directly next to her, knees grazing her own, he cups her face with one of his bear-paw hands. A few strands of hair are caught in the cuddling gesture, but none of them care. Harry just keeps smiling at her, waiting for her next move, and his beam grows two sizes wide when she mirrors his affection. "I like this side of you," she whispers fondly, as her thumb draws slow circles across the skin of his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes at her words, "this is the real me, I promise," he reassures in an almost pleading tone, vulnerability seeping through. And y/n feels like she’s lying down on cloud nine really, because dropping his fortress of pretentiousness is all she’s ever want from him. With a hushed ‘okay’, she finally brings her mouth to taste the rose-tinted flesh of his. It starts off chaste and slow, lips dovetailed in perfect symbioses like they are made to cohabit, but quickly the kiss heats up to a full on make out session. "Show me, then", y/n mutters out when they part for a breather.

Harry slowly nods his head, before helping her straddle his lap and y/n immediately brings both her hands to his neck once she settles her hips against his. The friction already had them deeply inhale, trying not to work themselves up too fast, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll have much self-control when it comes to y/n. Already he can feel his cock fattening up inside his brief, the tingling sensation making him roll his hips up into hers. Their lips are back in a sensual duel, tongues tentatively taking their turn to lick their way inside the other’s mouth. Every now and then, he teases her bottom lip with a graze of his teeth, and the move as her tugging the root of his hair at the back of his head every single time without a fail.

He loves discovering all the quirks and tells of her body, thinks he could spend hours on hand learning every single one of her curves and memorizing each of her special spots. The smell of her fragrance infiltrates his nostrils as he dips his head to her neck to plant open-month kisses along her skin. Head angled towards the ceiling to make room for his ministrations, y/n can’t do much but let her hands scout any expanse of skin accessible to her. She starts at his shoulder, squeezing the flesh to feel out the strong muscle laying underneath, before making her way down his tone arms, then to his hands currently holding onto to her waist. She gives them an affectionate pinch at the same time she presses down onto him with a deep moan, and Harry retaliates with a buck of his own.

As he starts kissing down the exposed skin of her cleavage, y/n finally drops her head to place a tender kiss to his hairline. One of her hand is back at his neck, holding him firmly to her chest as he licks at the valley of her breasts down her sternum. The other worms its way underneath his shirt from the neckline, nails grazing down his back in soft enough pressure not to leave any marks.

Harry’s descent is obstructed by the soft material of her blouse, so he takes the garment off of her in one swoop, and places his hands back on her newly exposed body, rubbing up and own the skin. As his mouth goes back to the supple flesh of her breasts, y/n increases the pace of her hips grinding on his cock. The sensations seem to be not enough and too much at the same time for her; the heavy material still covering their most sensitive parts in the way of her pleasure, while Harry’s work has her going into overdrive under his velveteen mouth and calloused fingers. She starts kissing her way up from his shoulder to the edge of his jaw, and Harry revels in the sound of her moans tickling his ear.

Done with the excess of fabric between them two, y/n grips at the top of his shirt and pulls it upwards, leaving him shirtless. "Fuck, I didn’t know you have so many tattoos," she babbles against his lips, while her hands smooth over the ink.

"Plenty you don’t know about me, love," Harry chirps as he bask in the praise and the feeling of her skin of his.

He then circles one arm around her waist to bring them chest to chest, and the contact has y/n once again intensify the friction between their crotches. "Wanna find out," she murmurs against his neck while she grinds on his clothed member, "Harry, please take me to bed."

He jolts at the quick bite she delivers to his neck, the impish gesture her way of saying ‘now’ but before she can make her way out of his lap to bring him to her room, he presses her back down with both hands on her waist. "Nuh uh, y’not goin’ anywhere. Want you to come once, b’fore I take you to bed, pet," he says, smoothing his hands over her ass to guide her rocking motions. The term of endearment sounds so innocent yet dirty all at once, it sends a chill down her spine. Nobody had called her that before.

"Can’t," she shakes her head, "can’t feel you through the jeans."

"Alright then, stand up," he calmly asserts and she doesn’t hesitate to comply, standing in between his spread legs, in her flimsy bra and jeans. "Take ‘em off then, ’s what you want no?" he sends her a tantalizing look and bites at his lips as he watches her peel the pants off her legs. He can’t help the light squeeze he gives himself through his own jeans, as y/n stands in front of him awaiting his next instructions. "Come sit on my thigh now, think should be enough to make this pretty pussy tingle in all the right places, no?"

Y/n’s insides are already twisting in a knot as she settles back on his lap and lets the rough material of his jeans against the softness of her cotton panties spread a prickling sensation through her pelvis area. Quickly, she resumes undulating her hips, gripping back at Harry’s neck to pull him in a languid kiss, pleasure vibrating against their lips. It is not long before her pace picks up, and her eyes shut at the intensity of her bliss. "That’s it, pet. Already makin’ a mess of me. You’re doin’ so well," he coaxes her with his words.

As promised, y/n feels the lips of her sensitivity start to throb at her impending release, the sensation making her clamp her thighs tighter around his meaty limb. As her knee now presses against his bulge, Harry cries his sudden pleasure out in her mouth, and that’s all it takes for her to let her orgasm consume her. She unravels on top of him, one of her hands shooting to cup at her pussy in an attempt to quell the overwhelming throb. Harry draws soothing caresses down her back as he look at the sticky mess she’s left in her panties, damp patch matching the one tainting the material of his jeans. "All ruined, just as they should be," he smirks at the sight before giving her a sweet kiss.

Flushed skin and blown pupils, she slowly regains her breath, "take off your pants and take me to bed now?" she requests.

"You’re quite demanding for someone who’s just gotten off," he keeps taunting her. After all, winding her up has always been one of his favorite thing to do, and dare he say in the past two years, he’s gotten quite good at pushing her buttons. Now he’s got new ones to figure out and play with, the thoughts has him pulsing in his jeans.

Y/n doesn’t relent in her advances, she’s never been one to bow at his mockery, "thought you like how bossy I could be. Something about the way I put you in your place, if my memory serves right."

"Anytime, anywhere, you’re the boss of me, love. But this," he cups at her cunt, adding pressure on her clit, "this is mine to have. Understood?"

Y/n’s about to combust from all the desire firing up every one of her nerve-endings. His words might be the strongest aphrodisiac she’s ever experienced, she can’t wait to see what more tricks in has up his sleeves. "Now get up and show me the way to your room, pet," he softly commands before leaving a peck on her cheek.

They both get up from the couch, and y/n guides them both down the hallway to her room, her hand wrapped in his tightly. Once they’re standing by the bed, Harry is surprised to face a patient y/n, biting her lips and awaiting his next directive. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life, "undress me, love" he murmurs against her skin after kissing her forehead.

His jeans are quickly discarded but before his boxer briefs follow suit, y/n can’t help but tease him in reprisal, "looks like I’m not the only one who made a mess in their panties."

He lets out a boisterous laugh while she smears open mouth kisses along his stretching jaw, "mmm, I’d rather make a mess somewhere else," his innuendo causing her to gasp while he works the strap of her bra. Once she’s gotten rid of his last piece of clothing, his cock springs up, free of it’s confines, dollop of pre-come already pearling at his tip, and sticking to the skin of his stomach.

With a gentle grip at her hair, he has y/n’s head tilted backward, to let his mouth make its way towards her already pebbled nipples. Since she can’t look down, y/n blindly reaches out to wrap her hand around Harry’s thick shaft and starts massaging him in languid strokes. "Your hand feels so fuckin’ good around me, pet, I wanna fuck you so badly," he hisses around her nipple, before kissing his way back up to her lips.

He starts backing her towards the bed in small steps, but she brings a hand to his chest at the feeling of the edge of the mattress brushing against the back of her knee, "wait, wait, wanna taste you first," she insists and Harry doesn’t think he could ever say no to that face, no matter how much he wants to just sink home inside of her in this moment.

"Fuck, you’re killin’ me, love," he pinches at her waist and lays his forehead against hers, "you want my cock in your pretty mouth, before I drive it home in your cunt, is that it?" She nods, eyes turning into two lustful fireballs. "Okay, love, but y’ can’t keep it on your tongue fo’ too long, cause I really need to fuck you, alright?"

Y/n hastens to lower herself when he bids her "right then, on your knees and open wide fo’ me," and her brows furrow in confusion as she watches him stray from her spot. Picking up a plush cushion from her bed, he places it on the ground for her to knee upon, "there love, want you to be comfortable," he runs his fingers through her hair, and her heart grows three sizes bigger at how tender he can be in amidst his filthy ways.

Sensually, y/n brings her lips around the crown of his cock, her tongue teasing its way across the salty skin. Once she’s licked up all the previous mess, she starts working her way down his cock, hand stroking at the base. After bopping up and down a few time, she removes her month from his swelling cock, and lets a string of spit fall down onto its head and make its way to his balls. "S’right, pet. Get me wet," Harry rasps in appreciation. Now that she’s got him properly slicked, she goes back to pumping his hardening cock and takes him into her warm inviting mouth, determined to have him all the way inside. She feels her throat expands to accommodate his thickness, and the pressure makes Harry tighten his hold in her hair, "fuck, that’s it, love. Take me good."

Muscles already tensing up in preparation for his climax, when y/n’s hand finds his full and swollen balls to roll them together like dice, he is quick to calm her zeal, "Christ pet, you gotta stop before I can’t help myself," but his tone hardens when she defies his demand, "come on now, s’enough."

Once she pulls off, the sight of her flushed face and puffy lips induces an animalistic groan to come out from his chest, as he thumbs through the wetness coating her chin. Taking the hand resting on his hip to guide her up, he captures her lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his arousal blending in their mouths.

His hands come down to knead at the flash of her ass, before he scoops her up and on the bed with a quick flex of his biceps. "Harry, please," she whines in impatience, hands gripping at his sides to pull him down against her. His rock hard cock slides against her clothed pussy, pins and needles cruising along their skin and only fueling their eagerness.

"Need me in your belly, pet?" Harry keeps working her up, as he slides her soiled panties down her legs, "need me to fuck you so good, you forget I was ever a jerk?"

She’s putty in his hold, legs wrapping around his waist to feel the pressure of his member on her bare lips , "yes, yes, I wan’ it," she pleads.

Harry would love to tease her further, have her writhing and proper begging underneath him, but at this point it would be self-torture to even consider. Instead he pumps at his shaft to give himself some relief, their sex so close his knuckles graze at her clit every time his fist comes at the top. "You ready?" Harry utters softly while spreading and skimming her cleft with the head of his cock. It has y/n gripping at his hair, a series of delirious ‘yes’ tumbling form her mouth, so he doesn’t wait a second more to push his tip past her threshold and begins his descent in her warmth. "Fuck, t’feels so good. So wet, and tight, and warm," he thinks out loud once he’s stuffer her full, balls pressing against her ass.

Y/n whimpers against his lips, urging him to start moving to quell the building pressure coiling in her belly. A slow roll of his hips finally gives her reprieve causing her to moan in gratitude. She’s already so close, it baffles her how this man could have her coming apart at the seams without doing much. His thrusts starts gaining zeal then, betraying his own yearning to take the final leap. "So tight, love. Can feel you squeezin’ me, are you close already? Is my girl gonna cum fo’ me again?" he grunts in her ear while he pounds into her dripping cunt. Y/n doesn’t offer a response, too caught up in a daze of bliss, but her clenching muscles is all the answer he needs to start nudging his thumb at her clit. A several flicks across the sensitive bud later, her orgasm is pulsing through every bone and fiber of her body, walls hugging Harry’s cock so tight, it has to pause his hammering.

Waiting for her to catch her breath, he peppers delicate kisses along her cheek, "was that good, love? Think you can give me another, uhm?" he asks when she’s regained some of her senses. The pressure at his groin is growing more and more the longer his cock remains unmoving entombed within her vice, and the luscious agony must be written all over his face, "yes, Harry, wanna be good for you" y/n cups his jaw tenderly.

He nods at her approval, "good girl," delivers a sweet earnest kiss to her pouty lips as he pulls out and spins her around to lay on her stomach. His hand brushes the hair off her skin so he can sew a string of kisses at her shoulder blades and neck. Painfully red, his cock is propped between her buttcheeks, "can I take you like that?" he punctuates his inquiry by rolling his hips backward, tip lingering at her soaked entrance. Y/n clutches the sheets firmly, as she murmurs a faint ‘please’, back arching at the thrills consuming her mind.

Harry plunges in her wet core in one smooth swing, hand digging at her hip to keep her steady as the other one interlaces with hers to lay on the mattress above her head. Unforgiving lunges have y/n cinch around him, face buried in the sheets and muffling salacious wails of pleasure, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to steer from his end for much longer. He slows his cadence to steady and firm strokes, slipping a hand around her waist to polish her swell.

A million tremors spark off the onset of Y/n’s climax as she shudders in a firework of ecstasy. Harry doesn’t relent until he’s worked her through completion and can no longer stop the coil in his loins from snapping. His release fills her in several spurts of wet warmth before he flops down next to her, positively fucked out.

They both lay unmoving in comfortable bliss for a few minutes, before y/n plops her head on his chest and an arm around his torso, her leg sneaking in between his. "Well, here goes two years of sexual tension," Harry says jokingly, fingers drawing abstracts design on the skin of her back. It might just be his favorite canvas to paint on from now, he muses before chastising himself at the onslaught of filthy thoughts tagging along. A playful slap on his abdomen takes his mind out of the gutter, "don’t ruin the moment," y/n says in fake admonition before placing a tender kiss on the spot she just abused.

"M’sorry, love. M’just really chuffed to be in your bed finally," the last word reminding her that while she’s struggled to come to term with her feelings for him, ransacking her mind for a possible change of heart, he’d only seen her in but one light. The revelation still has her floored and giddy, "can I ask you something?" she asks as there was still one question pacing back and forth the pathways of her mind. Harry hums in acquiescence, "anythin’ love, by brain is yours."

She feels his hand cradling her skull followed by a small peck to her forehead, and she smiles at the gesture, "why did you stay away that night at the exhibition when you got the prize? Why not coming forward?" It’s been bugging her brain since it happened. Although she didn’t have much insight on anything at the time, most of the pieces of the puzzle fell in place after the big reveal; but this, she still can’t make sense of.

Harry lets out a long breath, organizing his thoughts, "two reasons," he starts off tiredly. "One, I kinda like having this secret business going on, and like, as long as nobody knows, I am in control of how and when it happens, you know? And the moment I let go of that, I can’t go back." He searches her face for any hint of confusion but she’s just patiently listening. "Two, when we bumped into each other at the gala, I got convinced you’d never see me differently regardless of how good a painter I was; and that had become a big part of who El Patrón was."

It’s the first time she hears his alter ego’s name from his mouth and with how flowingly natural it sounded coming out of his lips, y/n suspects that it’d been a conscious decision on his part. She recalls their interaction that night, the way they fell in their usual ways of ping-ponging vindictive words until one of them has enough and leaves the premises (usually y/n). A lump starts forming in her throat at the recollection of all the other fights they’ve had and how they’d all been pointless wastes of time and energy, now that she knows she is meant to be in his arms. She wishes things could have been different but the warmth of his body around her overweighs her regrets. They’re here now, looking bright toward the future, and it’s all that matters.

"I’ll keep your secret if you want, be the Lilly to your Hannah Montana," she tells him lightly before they both laugh at the silly reference.

Happiness and glee has Harry tightening his hold around her shoulder, "nah, I don’t wanna play double-agents anymore. I wanna be the guy who gets the girl." He dips his head to catch her lips between his own, reveling in their newfound intimacy. Turning her face against his chest, Y/n impresses her bashful smile on his swallow-tattooed skin, before she lays a trail of pecks tickling the area underneath his armpits, "well, you got me now."

➪ Masterlist

#harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #Harry fic #enemies to lovers #angst #so much angst #smut #I didn't think I could be this filthy lol #uni au #artstudent!harry #art #harry fanfic #harry styles writing #reader insert #harry styles au

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rodeo-boots · 3 years ago

Note

hello my dear! i was hoping if i could request some charthur! in many fics i see arthur constantly being comforted by charles, but never the other way around... so many, you could write charles returning back to camp injured/tired, and arthur has to care for him for the night? 🥺 i would love to see some trans!charles as well, but i won't ask for too much... nsfw is welcome, and as always, feel free to let your wonderful brain work its magic with any other ideas you have <3

Thank you so much for your request hny, I hope I did your idea justice <3

Rating: Teen and Up

Words: 3122

Warnings: mild gore, angst

AO3

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Beaver Hollow was a shithole. The air was humid and dense, the mood at camp even lower than the temperatures could get during the nights. Arthur positively hated it, wished they had another choice but to take camp at such a spot. Breathing was getting harder for him by the day and some nights, he rode out only to take a deep breath of fresh air in the wide open meadows elsewhere.

He much preferred being anywhere but at camp, preferred to be far far away from Dutch and Micah, from those friends of his – whatever they might be called. These days, he couldn't even exchange a proper word with Javier or Bill anymore, met with stubborn phrases of loyalty whenever he dared to cross their paths.

The only reasonable people left were getting ready to pack up and leave, and Arthur wished they had done so earlier. He wished Molly had taken that chance while she still had it, wished that John and Abigail and Jack would be long gone by now. Not much longer, and he wouldn't be able to help them anymore, would succumb to the illness nesting within his chest and die the death that's always been destined for him.

He only saw one glimpse of hope and that was Charles, Charles who's loyalty had never solely belonged to Dutch but to a life of freedom. His only reason for being here was the younger man these days, the younger man who rightfully preferred to be anywhere but here himself. He had work on his hands, had assigned himself way too many tasks at once, trying to help out the Wapiti reservation while wanting to provide for the last folks at camp here.

Arthur wished he could help him, but just like Sadie, Charles treated him as though he was already standing in the grave.

Today, Arthur was solely here to catch up with Charles, like he was most of the time. He missed him, missed the times they had once spent together in a past that had been much better than what one might dream up now. All they could do was dream at this point, though Arthur's sleep was plagued by nightmares most of the time.

He had waited an entire day, had asked Sadie just before she could ride off to town. No one knew where Charles was, and by the time Micah saw him trail around camp like a lost puppy one time too many, he took it upon himself to finally give him an explanation.

"Your sweetheart's out huntin', got a little caught up it seems." The man grinned at him with his foul, yellow teeth, Arthur rewarding him with a grunt before he turned on his heel. If that was the case, and Charles had been out for days by now, something couldn't be right. The man was the best hunter they had, the best tracker left at camp. And no one seemed to care about the prospect of having lost him.

Arthur shook Micah off his tail, climbing into the saddle of his horse without missing a beat. Even though he wasn't as talented a tracker as Charles, the man had taught him a few tricks in the past, hopefully enough to come in handy now. He departed without looking back, spurring on his stallion with his heels firmly pressed into his flanks. Arthur snapped the reins, further on edge now than he had been all day. He had a bad feeling about all of this.

It took a while until he had picked up a trail of hooves, unsure if he even could identify them accordingly. His vision swam more regularly these days, his head feeling heavy as he peered down the side of his horse. He felt like he was getting sea-sick but he pushed on nonetheless, having only one goal in mind and that goal being Charles' safety.

All the time they had known each other, they had guarded one another's back better than their own. Arthur had no problem watching out for his friend, though Charles was way more than that to him.

They had ridden out together one too many times, had shared too many stories of the past and plans of the future to consider their relationship as professional and distant as it was meant to be. Often enough, they had kept each other warm at night, had shared their secrets and their doubts, and had listened to what the other had upon his heart.

Arthur's own now beat frantically in his chest. He hadn't noticed how tears had begun to cloud his vision the further he rode. It might be the wind stinging in his eyes, but the air was perfectly still. He brushed the back of his hand over his eyes, blinked, caught his breath and pushed onward. After all the time that had passed, he couldn't be sure how far Charles might've ridden, least of all with a fast horse like Taima beneath him.

He just hoped they were okay.

Day soon shifted into night, and without a trail to follow now that his eyes were no longer of use, Arthur decided to settle down. He didn't bother setting up his tent, didn't bother with much more than a small campfire to stay warm. His nose was running within the cold but he ignored that, too, staring down at his own two feet while his arms loosely hugged his knees to his chest.

A sound from aside tore him out of his thoughts, made his head snap up and his hand instinctively drop to his gun belt. "Who's there?" He asked, rasped more accurately, coughing against the scratchiness of his throat. Maybe he really shouldn't be out here, but it was much too late to turn back around.

He pushed himself up, his bicep quivering beneath his weight, the rustling within the bushes stopping, until a figure pushed through all the way. "Arthur?" He could identify Charles' voice well enough, would never be able to forget it, cursing under his breath as he stumbled to his legs to catch him. The man had to have found him with the last of his strength, had to have followed the smoke and the scent of the campfire until he'd eventually seen him.

Arthur couldn't tell what was wrong from one glance alone, pulling Charles closer to the campfire to examine him. It was dark by now, cold, the humidity making way for temperatures that were much too cruel for most humans to endure. But Arthur knew he was going to die anyways.

"Christ– what's happened t'you?" He muttered, not even daring to ask where Taima might be now. Charles' shirt was left in pieces, torn and bloodied, scratches and what appeared like bitemarks upon his skin. "A cougar?" Arthur asked, laying his friend's head down in his lap while peering down at him with concern in his eyes. The tears were back, but he didn't acknowledge them.

"Murfrees," Charles' voice came, little more than a gust of air, meeting Arthur's cheek as he spoke. The man tried to sit himself up, pushing at Arthur's upper arm to give him space. And while Arthur backed away enough to allow him to breathe, he didn't let him put any more strain on his wounds. He hadn't gotten much of a look at them until now. "What're you doing out here, Arthur? You shouldn't–"

Arthur softly shook his head, muffling a cough with the back of his hand. "Don't talk," he muttered, grabbing for the knife on his belt to help the other man out of his shirt. "S'this okay?" He asked quietly before bringing the blade to the hem of Charles' shirt, watching him swallow until he got a small nod in reply.

His lungs rattled when he exhaled, leaning further above his friend to cut through what was left of his shirt, his breath catching at the gruesome sight of his torso. "How bad's it hurt?" he murmured, catching onto the sweat upon Charles' forehead and the strain in his eyes. He knew he had to act fast if he wanted to help him, able to see that his wounds already had started to swell and shape bruises. When his friend only hummed, his eyelids fluttering in a way that made Arthur's chest constrict painfully, he reached for his satchel right away, pulling out the last bit of alcohol he carried.

Arthur didn't wish to do anything that might make his friend uncomfortable, but he couldn't exactly ignore the deep gashes on his chest, mumbling an apology while ripping fabric off his shirt and drenching it in alcohol. "Hold still," he advised, biting down on his lower lip as he started to clean up the wounds, applying minimal pressure and stopping every time Charles stirred beneath him.

He had never seen the other man in so much pain, had never seen him as vulnerable to begin with, cursing under his breath when he didn't find a set of bandages where he had thought they'd be. "Hang on–" Arthur got to his legs, cushioning Charles' head on his rolled-up bedroll before stumbling over to his horse, his vision clouded by black and white specks.

These days, he couldn't move as swiftly as he was used to anymore, grabbing the saddle for support and gritting his teeth, his free hand slipping into his saddlebag to blindly feel around for the bandages he hoped he carried. He returned to Charles' side right away, falling to his knees in front of him, not caring for the mud that smeared his shins and knees, hands shaking as he unraveled the bandages.

"You'll be alright– jus' hold on," he kept on muttering, even though Charles' eyes had long since fallen shut, his breaths much too shallow for him to see. "It's okay, please…" he wrapped the bandages around his torso, covering all the open gashes he could find, his muscles quivering when he lifted Charles' body ever so slightly. The man was deadweight in his arms, Arthur's lip trembling while his throat grew tighter, swallowing down a sob when he laid the other man down again.

Arthur took off his jacket, covering Charles as well as he could before taking his hands off of him entirely. "Charles? Charles… are you with me?" He couldn't stop himself from reaching out, cupping the man's cheek in his hand, his features peaceful, though that wouldn't calm Arthur just now. His skin looked much too pale, what he could see of it through the illumination of the campfire light at least, running his thumb over his chin as his eyes stayed on the other man.

"Don't you give up on me now," he whispered, his eyes glazing over further. "I– I need you, Charles." And while he knew that the other man was unable to hear him, Arthur couldn't stop talking, the panic within his chest spiking the longer he didn't get a response. "I promised you I'd get you out of here– that we'll run away, make a life for ourselves out West." His breath rattled, a sob leaving his chest after all. Arthur dropped his head to Charles' shoulder, his hands holding onto the man's upper arms.

He tried to calm his breathing, hot tears streaming down his cheeks to seep into the jacket he had covered the other man with. "You can do it– you have to," he mumbled, his voice barely audible through the tightness of his throat. "I still— I still haven't told you I love you." His shoulders shook, keeping his face buried within Charles' shoulder as he stayed hunched over, not caring for how hard it was to breathe like this.

The night had grown darker and colder around them, merely sounds of nature audible after Arthur had passed out from exhaustion. His hand held Charles' in a loose grasp, body curled up by the other man's side to offer him more warmth. The tears had left salty traces upon Arthur's cheeks, his lashes sticking together though he had no strength to open his eyes either way.

Maybe he'd die out here, with Charles by his side, wishing and praying the man hadn't passed away already. Arthur couldn't bear the thought that he might still be breathing while his friend wasn't, the worth of his own life much less than what Charles had amounted to by now. He had only ever wished for his friends and family to be safe, for his loved ones to escape this cruel and harsh life, but it seemed there was no escape. For even when Dutch wasn't involved, people got hurt.

Arthur didn't feel how the other man's fingers moved within his grasp, how Charles squeezed his hand tighter and stirred by his side. He was far gone by now, captured by a deep sleep he hasn't had any way to fight.

It only was with a tightening hold on his shoulder that he eventually woke, turning his head away as he rasped out one cough after another into the crook of his elbow. "Arthur." Charles' voice sounded faint, like it came from far away, even if the man laid right by his side. Arthur turned again, heaving his breaths as he rolled onto his back, his gaze meeting that of the man next to him.

He swallowed thickly, knowing that his eyes had to be reddened and puffy, not only from his illness but because of the crying he had done previously. "You look… horrible," Charles whispered, letting go of his shoulder to reach down and take his hand again. His fingers were clammy, but undeniably alive where they held onto Arthur's.

"I was always ugly," Arthur responded, wheezing out a laugh that turned into another cough before he knew it. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, relief encompassing his expression, though he knew that there was no reason to believe that the worst was overcome just now. "Let's get you home," he muttered, weakly whistling for his horse that had to be somewhere nearby. They had to leave this place, get Charles back to camp to try and stitch him up, hoping that they still had the supplies to do so.

Charles held onto him, not letting go even as Arthur tried to stand, softly shaking his head when he turned to look back down at him. "Leave me," he said. "I'll only be baggage to carry–"

But Arthur wouldn't hear that. "I ain't rode out here to abandon you," he grunted, gathering Charles in his arms as well as he could, his horse already waiting by their side. "We'll get you to camp, get you back on your feet and fix this." It was hard to maneuver Charles onto his horse, the man barely able to keep himself on his own two legs. He managed, anyhow, stubbornly bringing his own body into the saddle behind the man to make sure he wouldn't fall.

"We– we don't got supplies at camp. Don't make it hard on yourself, you can't… safe everyone." Charles' head lolled back against his chest, Arthur dearly trying not to listen to the words he had spoken in an attempt to stay composed.

"Then I'll bring you to the reservation, Rains Fall will—"

"I'm not gonna take anythin' away from them." Arthur snapped the reins, pushing his heels against the flanks of his horse to get the stallion going.

He stayed quiet, brows furrowed while he concentrated on the path ahead, leading his horse through the trees as fast as he could. "I'll get you to a doctor then… just hold on." Charles didn't raise his voice again, so Arthur focused on riding for now, unwilling to face the thought of leaving his friend anywhere to die.

They arrived in Annesburg before the sun had crept too high up in the sky, Arthur stopping a man on the streets to ask for directions to the nearest doctor's office. He had slung an arm around Charles' middle to try and keep him from falling off his horse, the man seemingly passed out once again.

Urgently, Arthur followed the directions he had been given, yelling for someone to come help him once he had found the building that had been pointed out to him. From there on out, everything happened much too fast. There were hands helping him off the horse, hands that pulled Charles from his grasp before he could do or say anything. He only saw how the other man was led away from him before he collapsed on the wooden porch to the building, waving people away that tried to pull him back to his feet.

Arthur woke in a bed with clean white sheets. The room was lit by sunlight, smelling of disinfectant and cleanliness. He stirred, his head pounding nastily when he tried to sit up upon the mattress. His first thoughts belonged to Charles, though he didn't need to search for long until he saw the other occupied bed within the room, grunting as he swung his legs over the edge to stand.

With uncertain steps, he made his way over to the other man, his clothes different from before, white and clean, feeling like nothing he had ever worn in his life. Arthur sat himself down on the chair by Charles' side, able to see that his clothes had been changed, too, the visible bandages around him clean.

He reached over, taking one of the hands the man had rested upon his stomach. His motion seemed enough to rouse him, Charles' eyes blinking open slowly, the dark orbs meeting Arthur's own soon enough.

"You okay?" Charles asked, his voice heavy from disuse.

Arthur stared down at him, shaking his head in disbelief before bringing the man's hand to his lips to kiss his knuckles. "You's the one who nearly died, and you're askin' me if I'm fine." The corners of Charles' mouth lifted ever so slightly, Arthur releasing a light sigh. It was a relieved sound, fueled by his belief that now everything would turn out to be okay.

"What you said to me before, in the forest. Did you mean that?"

Arthur had to think for a moment, not having expected Charles to have heard any of his words at the time, nor for him to remember now. He nodded, kissing the back of Charles' hand once again. "Every word," he whispered, not embarrassed on behalf of what had left his mouth in a moment of desperation.

"Good." Another brief smile passed over Charles' features. "Because I do, too. And I want to keep living." He disentangled his fingers from Arthur's, reaching up to gently grasp his jaw. "With you."

#charthur #charles smith #arthur morgan #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfiction #angst #tw mild gore #my writing #requests #long post

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detectivereyes · 3 years ago

Text

Even If You Stumble A Step, You’re Still Moving Forward

Summary: TK and Carlos move into their new home post-finale and TK doesn't exactly make the best first impression on their new neighbors...

Notes: this was like a fever dream i had a few months ago and then i stopped writing but decided to revive it last night so... here we are. also title creds (and emotional support creds) to jillian @marjansmarwani because this fic wouldn’t exist without her. and also s/o to brit @moviegeek03 for being extra supportive of yet another fic where [spoiler] tk falls down the stairs again :/

read on ao3

TK shuffles through the maze of boxes stacked several feet high throughout their new home. The scene shouldn’t surprise him considering it was only a few months ago he was moving his own boxes into their old home. However it feels different knowing that most of this stuff isn’t actually theirs.

Well, it is theirs now he figures. But the fact remains that most of the stuff filling the space was either given to them by various members of the extended 126 family, or was recently purchased by TK or Carlos on one of their many trips to Bed Bath and Beyond.

They had taken their time searching for a new place to live. Owen had made it clear that they were both welcome to stay with him (and Mateo) for as long as they needed, but TK had known it was time.

So when a townhome popped up on Zillow that met all their criteria, they wasted no time booking an appointment with the realtor. They both had instantly fallen in love with the open floor plan and deck out back. Plus they knew the extra bedrooms upstairs may come in handy someday.

While they knew the vertical layout of the home itself wasn’t the best, having more stairs than either of them were used to, it checked every other box and was right in their price range so they had wasted no time signing the lease.

A few days had passed since settlement and now most of their days were spent trying to unpack and make this new house into a home. It would never replace the one they had lost, but it had been exciting to build this new home together.

Though on this particular day, TK found himself alone in trying to get settled in since Carlos had a shift. With the 126 still out of commission, possibly forever, and the department not having any openings for paramedics, most of the unpacking was left for TK.

After getting a good chunk of the living room done, he checks the time and decides to go out and see if the mail has come yet. Not that he’s expecting anything with their address still being so new, and not getting much physical mail anyway to begin with. But it still provided a good excuse to take a break.

TK opens the front door and starts to make his way down the set of stairs leading down.

He makes it about halfway before his attention is caught by one of his new next door neighbors, Mr. Martin- if he remembers correctly, exiting at the same time. Mr. Martin gives a friendly wave and TK goes to return the gesture.

Except, he’s not paying attention when he takes the next step, and he misses, his heel just barely hitting the edge of the step before he starts to go down. He tumbles until he comes to a hard stop at the bottom, with most of his weight coming down on his right knee, sending shooting pains up and down his leg.

The rest of his body is sore, and by the time his ears stop ringing, he can just barely make out a new female voice asking “Sir, are you okay?”

He opens his eyes, which he had not even realized he had squeezed shut at some point, to see his neighbor, Mrs. Bailey- his brain supplies, from across the street making her way over to check on him, worried lines painting across her forehead.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m fine,” he grimaces while pushing himself up to a seated position. He tries to hide the blush forming on his cheeks. Not the best way to make a good first impression on his neighbors.

“Are you sure, son? We can call for help if you need it. Someone you know, or 9-1-1?” Mr. Martin joins in the conversation.

“No!” TK interjects too quickly, startling both neighbors. He panics for a moment when the weight of the predicament settles in. He meets the gaze of both figures still staring at him, clearly concerned and waiting for him to say something. “I mean, I’m a paramedic. I’m fine. Or I will be fine. Thank you,” he flashes them both a quick smile before pushing himself up off the ground, ignoring the sharp pains that radiate from his knee when he tries to put any weight on it.

Getting back up the stairs is no easy feat, and he doesn’t have to turn around to know that both Mr. Martin and Mrs. Bailey are still watching him, concerned. Fortunately, they don’t know him well enough to try and follow or help. He’s not sure he would feel comfortable enough receiving help from some strangers. Half the time he doesn’t even feel comfortable receiving help from the people he does know.

He leans heavily on the railing, refusing to turn around out of fear of further mortification. Once he’s inside the home, he collapses right inside the hall, unable to go any further since his knee decided to stop cooperating.

A few tears pool in his eyes, and he’s unsure if that’s due to the pain or embarrassment. Not knowing what else to do, he takes out his phone and shoots a quick text to Carlos.

TK: we have to move

It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for the three dots to pop up before being replaced by Carlos’ response.

Carlos: ???

TK sighs and rubs his face, trying to figure out the best way to explain the situation.

TK: i feel down the stairs out front and all the neighbors saw

Carlos: Holy shit, are you okay??

He lets out a puff of air at that.

TK: you mean besides my bruised ego?

TK: no, i hurt my knee but i’m fine. that’s not the issue here.

Carlos: Okay, I’ll be home in an hour and you can let me be the judge of that. If I see any swelling, we’re going to the doctor.”

He rolls his eyes at Carlos’ worry. At worst, it’s a bad sprain, nothing that can’t be fixed with some icing and wrapping. But there are other things they need to worry about.

TK: you’re missing the point, carlos. the entire neighborhood thinks i’m an idiot. we can’t live here anymore.

TK knows he’s being dramatic, but the more he thinks about it, the more embarrassed he gets. The idea that these are people he’s going to have to continue to face everyday for the foreseeable future. And that now all they’ll be able to think about when they do see him. Now he’ll just be known as the guy who can’t walk down stairs.

Carlos: Relax, TK. I’ll be home soon.

TK: you mean our temporary place of residence which we will soon be moving out of

He doesn’t get a response after that.

His mind continues to spiral while he waits for Carlos to arrive. He knows the other man is likely climbing the walls trying to leave his shift early but it would still be awhile before he could be allowed to leave.

Left alone with his thoughts, his mind keeps playing out the series of events that happened minutes ago. He can't help but beat himself up over embarrassing himself like that. Ironically enough, it’s not even the first time he’s fallen down stairs, having taken a tumble down the stairs in Carlos’ place a few months back. And of course he would manage to injure himself that time, and this time as well.

He should at least try to get up so he can find an ice pack to lessen the swelling. Sitting on the floor up against the wall can’t be doing his knee any favors. Yet he can’t bring himself to move, instead resting his head back against the wall and sighing.

TK pulls out his phone again, cycling through the apps until he hears the tell-tale keys jingling in the already unlocked door.

As soon as Carlos steps through the door, he nearly trips over TK in the doorway. “Woah, hey! TK, are you okay?” he crouches down to TK’s level.

TK shrugs. Now that he’s face to face with Carlos, he can’t help but feel suffocated by another person judging him, even if Carlos’ worry comes from a place of concern.

“Can I take a look at your knee?”

TK nods, allowing Carlos to gently inspect his swollen joint. He winces as Carlos traces his hand around his kneecap.

“This doesn’t look good, babe. I think we need to go to the hospital.”

“No, it’s fine,” he quickly shakes his head. The worried look in Carlos’ eyes only makes his heart ache, and he can only try to find ways to make it go away. “Just help me up and we can ice it. It will look better once the swelling goes down a bit.”

Carlos gives him a look that screams I don’t believe you but sighs. “Fine, but if it doesn’t…”

“I know, I know. You’ll drag my ass to the emergency room,” TK gives him a reassuring smile.

Carlos returns the smile, and extends a hand to help TK up. TK accepts, and allows Carlos to take on most of his weight once he’s standing. They slowly make their way over to the living room, with Carlos softly depositing TK onto the sofa. He then disappears into the kitchen before returning with an ice pack in hand.

“Thanks,” TK smiles, trying to mask the wince as Carlos places the pack onto his knee.

“Do you want to watch an episode of The Office?” Carlos asks, picking up the remote and settling in the spot next to TK.

TK shrugs, knowing that Carlos is just trying to appeal to him by offering to put on his favorite show. The other man doesn’t even like the show that much, often finding the humor dry and tasteless, but TK thinks he just doesn’t get it.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

There it is.

“I just can’t believe I did that in front of our new neighbors. They probably think I’m an idiot.”

“I’m sure no one thinks you’re an idiot, TK,” Carlos gently reassures him.

“Yeah all the neighbors saw me make an idiot of myself,” TK sighs exasperatedly. “God, how am I supposed to face these people everyday now?”

“Hate to break it to you babe, but this is not a valid reason for us to move.”

“I know,” he sighs again.

“Besides,” Carlos continues. “If your track record has proven anything, it’s that this won’t be the last medical emergency at our new home. It’s good that the neighbors are getting used to it now.”

TK gives him a pointed look.

“I’m pretty sure this is the second time you’ve fallen down the stairs since we’ve started dating,” Carlos says with a light chuckle.

“Whatever,” TK scoffs. “At least the other time it wasn’t in front of total strangers.”

Carlos softens. “That’s true. But I’m sure the neighbors just care about you. I don’t think this is that big of a deal, TK.”

“You weren’t there though. It was mortifying.”

“What did they say, exactly?”

TK nervously looks down. “They asked if I was okay. And if I needed any help.”

Carlos raises his eyebrow, waiting to see if TK continues.

“They offered to call for help but I said no and went back inside.”

“See? They just care about you TK. I haven’t really talked to anyone yet but they seem like nice people.”

“I guess,” TK shrugs.

“I know, you’re still embarrassed. But if nothing else, they’ll probably forget about it by the next time we see them.”

“You don’t think I’ll be known as the ‘clumsy neighbor who can’t walk down stairs’?”

“Maybe the ‘cute clumsy neighbor that can’t walk down stairs,’” Carlos says with a smirk. “But we could always change that.”

TK cocks his head to the side.

“You think our new neighbors might enjoy some peach scones when we go over and have a proper introduction?”

“You really plan to charm our new neighbors with your baking?”

“You think it will work?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then yes, I do,” Carlos grins proudly. He then leans over and gently removes the ice pack from TK’s knee, grimacing at what he sees. “This still looks pretty swollen, babe. I think we need to go to the hospital.”

TK gives him a pained smile. “You sure I can’t talk my way out of this?”

“Nope,” Carlos says, popping the p. He stands up before extending his hand to help TK do the same.

TK accepts, shifting his weight and leaning into Carlos once he’s fully upright.

“You know, I think you may have a paramedic blindspot when it comes to your own health.”

TK lets out a light laugh. “Yeah, I’ve been told.”

A week later, Carlos softly knocks on the door of Mrs. Bailey’s home across the street with one hand and a plate of peach scones in the other. TK had offered to hold the scones but when they went over to Mr. Martin's home earlier in the day, it was quickly discovered it was too difficult for him to manage getting up the stairs and holding the plate.

So he settles for letting Carlos do most of the work while he awkwardly limps up the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing to keep some pressure off his knee.

After their quick trip to the emergency room, it had been determined that TK’s initial assessment was right and it was just a bad sprain. He was given a brace to help reduce the pain and a pair of crutches, which (much to Carlos’ dismay) he abandoned after only two days, citing that they only made it harder to get around their home which he can now say for certain has too many damn stairs.

A problem which seems to follow him as he also has to get up the stairs to greet his neighbors.

“Maybe we should have moved to a neighborhood of single level homes,” he states with a wince as he joins Carlos at the front door.

Carlos snorts. “We can take it into consideration if we ever have to move again.”

“God, please don’t say that. I don’t want to think about moving ever again.”

“Good,” Carlos gives him a soft smile. “Because I’m planning on staying here for the long run.”

“Me too,” TK returns the smile just as Mrs. Bailey opens the door.

“What a lovely surprise!” she exclaims taking in the sight of the two men.

“Hello ma’am,” Carlos says with a polite smile.

“We brought you some scones,” TK adds, gesturing to the plate in Carlos’ hands.

“Oh how thoughtful of you. Please come in. How are you doing?” she asks, turning to TK. “I’ve been worried.”

He exchanges a look with Carlos, the other man's face clearly saying I told you she cares, before turning back to Mrs. Bailey.

“I’m fine, ma’am. Thank you for asking. It’s just a bad sprain. But I do appreciate your concern, especially the other week.”

“Oh, of course dear,” she says with a warm smile. “Now, you boys aren’t going to make me eat these scones all by myself are you?”

They both let out a light chuckle and exchange another glance before following their new neighbor, and friend inside.

#i've posted too much today #but i need share before i end up deleting it #but actually if it flops i may just delete anyway #whatever at this point #911 lone star #911lonestarfic #tarlosfic #my fic #usersaaya #userbones #reyeslonestartag #pragmaticoptimist34 #tuserpaige

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jonahlovescoffee · 4 years ago

Text

“look at me” | J.M.

a/n: ok guys i wrote smut in honor of the release of wdw’s new album that includes a smutty song D: so first i would like to clarify that i’m still a 15-year-old virgin so i have absolutely no idea in how sex goes and i don’t read a lot of smut in general so i apologize if any mistakes are made in my writing :) anyways happy reading!!!

summary: you and your boyfriend sneak off to have some fun. (this is probably the worst summary i’ve ever written)

warnings: oral, blood kink, dirty talk, making out, unprotected sex (but on a serious note, wrap it before u tap it guys!) so read at your own risk luvs <3

word count: 5022

“do what you want to me nobody gotta know”

You felt Jonah’s lingering stare on you all the way through dinner at his house. His alert eyes followed your every move and he didn’t even bother to be more discreet about it. He and his band had just returned from tour and usually, you both would spend the first few weeks constantly exploring each other’s bodies as you released all the lust that was bottled up inside you for far too long but this time was different. After your recent promotion in your department at work, your workload had gotten twice as heavier and you soon found yourself being too busy to indulge in any form of entertainment, including spending time with him in the bedroom as he desired. As expected, he was now extremely close to his breaking point and was perfectly capable of ruining you once both of you were alone.

Yet being the mischievous person you were, you decided to tease him a little and test his limits. With an innocent smile plastered on your face the whole time, you let out an exaggerated moan of pleasure when you tasted Christina’s cooking and pulled your bottom lip between your teeth on purpose for more times than you could count, not forgetting to make sure that he was at the perfect angle to see what you were doing.

He had his meal silently, not speaking unless he was spoken to and when he did, the evident strain in his voice did not go unnoticed by you, so did his clenched jaw and his knuckles that had gone slightly white from clutching onto the cutlery a little too hard. No one else noticed the sexual tension between you both despite it being so thick that one could cut it with a knife, which made this silent exchange between you and your boyfriend many times more exciting.

Once dinner was over and all the dirty dishes were taken to the kitchen, Jonah caught your wrist in a tight hold when you were about to enter the living room. “You’d better stop what you’re doing, sweetheart,” he warned once the others were out of earshot, already in front of the TV having an argument about which movie they should watch. “It isn’t funny at all.”

“I never said it was,” you gave him a toothy grin which agitated him more. You used your free hand to cup his cheek, tracing it softly with your thumb as he closed his eyes and leaned into your touch, exhaling a shallow breath. You stood up on your tiptoes and leaned your face closer to his, your lips barely inches apart. “You’re always so needy for me, love, I’m terribly flattered,” you said, your lips brushing his with every word. “And I want nothing more than for you to take me now,” you continued and you felt his entire body stiffen.

“However,” you let your hand trail down from his face, over his muscled torso, then allowed your fingers to play with the waistband of his black ripped jeans. His eyelids fluttered open as his breathing turned ragged for your fingers were so close—so dangerously close to his member that was growing harder and harder by the second. And you weren’t even doing anything. “I don’t want to do that with your friends around,” you gave him a quick kiss on the lips before pulling away and wiggling your wrist out of his grasp, leaving him wanting for more.

“You’re gonna be the death of me y/n,” he growled furiously at you, earning an extremely sweet smile from you.

“I know,” you chirped happily and proceeded to skip to the living room. “Oh and Jonah? Try to hide your excited buddy would ya’? He’s being too obvious,” you tisked with displeasure, gesturing to his southern region.

“I wonder why,” he muttered sarcastically to himself as he adjusted his pants to make the bulge in them less obvious as best as he could.

“Come on guys, the movie’s starting!” Corbyn hollered from where he sat on the couch with his girlfriend by his side, to which you replied with a simple “coming” before grabbing the bowl of popcorn off the coffee table and plopping down onto the other end of the couch.

“I’m here, I’m here, jeez,” Jonah hopped over the back of the couch and landed beside you shortly afterwards, the impact sending few popcorns flying out of the bowl. You shot a death glare at him as he rested his arms over your shoulders and opened his mouth, a silent request for you to pop a popcorn into his mouth (which you obliged), his eyes fixed on the wide tv screen, acting like you both didn’t have the conversation just seconds ago.

Because of how sexually frustrated you were, it was impossible for you to concentrate on the movie when his finger was idly tracing random patterns on your upper arm from where his hand rested, turning your mind into a fuzzy mess and blurring all your senses together until all you could focus on was his touch that had somehow travelled to your neck, stopping at the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

“Wanna suck this part so bad,” His whispered into your ear, his warm breath making your skin tingle with pleasure as his finger circled the spot with his finger several times, causing your breathing to hitch, momentarily stunned by his words. Before you could say anything though, he pulled away completely with a chuckle, choosing to place his hand on your thigh instead.

This bastard. He knew the effect his simple gesture had on you and he was shamelessly wielding it to his power.

Without a word, you placed your left hand lightly on the front his black ripped jeans as you planted a kiss on his collarbone, frowning when he didn’t offer you any reaction at all, pretending to be too fixated with the movie to even notice what you were doing. Fine. Two can play this game.

You glided your hand ever so lightly like the soft caress of the cool night’s breeze over his crotch at first, subsequently picking up the pace and pressure as you went, palming him discreetly with your clueless friends sitting merely several feet away from you. Beneath your palm, you could feel his member pushing against the material of his jeans almost immediately as he emitted a soft groan from his lips.

“Fuck,” he breathed, tightening his grip on the back of the couch as he bit back another groan when your lips came into contact with his jaw and slowly made their way down his neck, leaving faint red marks on certain spots where you had nipped softly along the trail of kisses. “What are you doing?” He seethed through his gritted teeth, a sign that he was annoyed at you for driving him to the brink of losing every last bit of his self control but he made no move to stop your actions.

“What’s wrong with expressing my love for my boyfriend?” You teased which made his frown deepen, grabbing your moving hand in his, abruptly stopping your movements.

“Expressing your love, huh?” He grabbed your chin and forcefully tilted your face so you were looking at him straight in the eyes. Even through the darkness of the dimly lit living room, you could make out every defined details of his attractive face—his chiseled jawline, the perfect arc of his slightly furrowed brows, his elegantly straight nose and most importantly the flame of lust that was burning like wildfire in his eyes. “Why don’t we take this elsewhere if you really wanna do so, sweetheart?” He asked but his dark tone made it sound more like an order instead of a question, your previous playfulness dissipating instantly.

You wanted to retort, reminding him that you had told him that you weren’t inclined of doing that in the presence of his friends but you weren’t stupid. You knew very well that if you continued to push anymore buttons, he would not let you get away with it easily.

“Good,” he said and let his hand drop from your chin. “Let’s go then.”

Without a word, Jonah dragged you off by the hand towards his room, brushing off the prying questions from your friends with a simple “she’s not feeling well”. You didn’t say anything as you followed after his fast-paced footsteps, almost tripping over your own feet because of the giddy excitement that you felt at the moment.

He kicked the door shut behind him once both of you entered his room, his hands already all over you and your lips connected with each other’s in a heated kiss with his tongue in your mouth, exploring every corner of it, asserting utter dominance before you had a chance to react, making you gasp and habitually let your hands drift to the front of his lavender hoodie to pull him closer as you tilted your head so that he could kiss you deeper. He blindly spun you both around so your back collided against the door and pinned you against it before breaking the kiss, biting your bottom lip slightly as he pulled away to your dismay. You wanted to taste more of him so you tried to tug him down once more to collide his lips with yours but he stopped your actions with a low growl.

“What do you want from me, sweetheart? Teasing me all day like that,” he asked sternly, staring down at your petite figure that was trapped between his arms. Under his intense gaze of his once vibrant hazel eyes that were now nearly consumed by the black of his dilated pupils, your brain shut down all of a sudden, subsequently taking away your ability to form words in your head, let alone speak. He inched closer until your breath mingled with each other’s. “Fine, since you’re not going to speak, we’ll do this my way then,” he finally said when you remained speechless. You felt a tingling feeling between your thighs at the anticipation of what he had in store for you.

“Get on your knees, now,” he ordered and you obliged right away without a second thought. You didn’t need any further instructions to know what he wanted you to do next for his intentions were already clearly written on his face. In a blink of an eye, you already had his belt undone and his jeans unbuttoned and unzipped, shuffling them down his legs along with his boxers, just low enough to reveal his considerable length standing proud and tall in its full glory. The sight of it never failed to make your eyes go wide in amazement and your mouth go dry no matter how many times you had seen it. “You want to express your love, babygirl, now’s your time to do it. Go on,” he urged, making you groan softly at his forwardness. “Show me how much you fucking love me.”

You did not wait another second to wrap your hands snugly around his member to give him several good long strokes before taking it in your awaiting opened mouth, flicking your tongue just over his sensitive head and sucking it a little to taste some of the salty precum. He let out a soft groan, one hand still keeping a firm grip on the counter as the other pulled your long hair back to give you more room. You proceeded to leave open-mouthed kisses down his length, your warm exhales across his aching dick teasingly torturous, not forgetting to lower your head to lick his balls before moving your mouth back up his length again. You felt his hand on your hair tighten as you purposely took your sweet time of savouring every inch of him ever so slowly instead of going hard and fast just like he wanted.

“Tease me more, baby, and you will regret it later,” he said with all seriousness and you knew that he wasn’t joking. You spit on the tip a little before fitting him into your mouth once again, then sliding down while your hands were kept snug around the base of him to help jerk off the rest of him that couldn’t fit in your mouth. You gradually picked up speed, your hands meeting your lips in steady movements as you started to bob your head quicker up and down his shaft, his breathing turning rhythmic and heavy, small moans let out with every exhale as you worked him.

Jonah was in pure ecstasy as he watched you take his dick so well on your knees, saliva dribbling down your chin as you licked and swirled your tongue over all the right spots, earning involuntary groans after groans of pleasure and making him instinctively push his hips forward into your mouth, consequently making you gag lightly as you neared your limit.

“Fuck, baby, that’s it, you’re doing so good,” he managed to say between ragged breaths, “but is that all you’ve got?” His grip tightened on your hair immediately and before you knew it he was pushing you back down quickly and then tugging at your hair to pull you off over and over again just as you were about to pull back to breathe. Your hand fell from the base to the back of his thigh to keep yourself steady as he thrusted into your mouth nonstop, focussing on keeping your jaw lax despite the protests of your gagging reflexes.

“Deeper,” he instructed strongly as you gagged, your tongue pulling back last. Tears stared to prickle at the edges of your eyes and you glanced up at him, subtly shaking your head to tell him that you couldn’t go any further but he wasn’t taking “no” for an answer. He had spent more than enough time in the bedroom with you to know your body better than you do and he was sure that you hadn’t reached your limit yet despite your denial to his request.

“Come on, I know you can do this, sweetheart,” he drawled, your hesitation had his hand pushing your mouth down his length by your hair until it reached the very back of your throat as your nose touched his stomach, making you wince at the discomfort. Yet you continued to bob your head, taking almost his entire length in your mouth. You pulled back a little and brought your hand back to the base to give him quick hard tugs as your tongue glided across his tip until he was biting down on his bottom lip with his eyes close as you felt him twitch inside your mouth, almost reaching his high. His erotic groan that followed sent heat pooling at your core and was starting to ache for touch.

So you silently slid a hand into your panties, your dress making it terribly easy to access the sensitive part between your thighs and you soon enough found yourself touching yourself while your other hand continued to jerk him off in your fist. You fully removed your mouth from around his tip to give him kitten licks, also partly because you found it incredibly hard for your moans to escape with his member in your mouth without gagging.

Your discreet movements did not go unnoticed by him and he pulled you up by the collar of your button-up dress all of a sudden, taking you by surprise. His other hand moved to pull up his jeans and boxers. “I didn’t say you could touch yourself, did I?” Jonah growled in your face when you reached his eye level. “Such a desperate little whore,” he tisked disapprovingly while shaking his head at you. His tone was condescending, as you were some sort of trash that was greatly frowned upon by everyone. “Fucking answer me when I’m talking to you.”

“I just want to relief the ache,” you whined as he dragged you towards the bed forcefully, taking you by surprise, causing you to stumble over your own two feet and crash into him when he suddenly stopped walking and turned around to face you. “I want you to make me feel good, please,” you begged him with pleading eyes but it was no use.

“Naughty little girls like you don’t deserve to get want they want, do they?” He asked and you nodded in response, earning a warning snarl from him. “Don’t you understand what I say, slut? I said open your filthy mouth and use your fucking words.”

“Yes, Jonah.”

“So prove to me why I should forgive you.”

“Gladly,” sike.

You placed your hands on his chest and leaned your entire weight onto him, making both of you fall backwards against the floor, before you were taking off his hoodie. Your hands were already roaming his muscled torso while your lips connected to his neck, giving him sloppy kisses all over his neck, sucking and nipping just enough to leave faint marks that were barely considered as hickeys at all the wrong places, having engraved the exact places of all his sweet spots in your mind but avoiding them all on purpose just to spite him and forcing him to give you what you wanted.

You knew that if you had complied to his wishes, it would do you no good at all. It would’ve taken you longer to get what you wanted and you didn’t have the patience to wait. Just like how he knew dirty talk was capable of driving you insane, you also knew that your disobedience would make his mind go completely haywire, especially when you were doing everything wrongly.

That’s why you were honestly surprised when he actually waited a full moment until you started kissing down his chest before grabbing your shoulders to flip you over so he was hovering over you.

“You just can’t stop being a shitty brat, can you?” He licked his lips quickly before attaching them to your neck, right at the spot where he traced with his fingers earlier, and sucked hard, making you moan and cling onto him tightly with your hands tugging on his soft brown hair, keeping him close as he repeated the same actions on different spots, turning you into a moaning mess. “This is how you pleasure someone,” he demonstrated by ripping your dress apart and unhooking your bra in one swift motion before he started to massage your breast as his lips worked wonders on your neck, fully hoisting himself up with only one hand. You instinctively grinded against him, the soaked thin fabric of your panties and his jeans being the only barriers separating his length from your entrance.

“But this is how you mark someone up,” without a warning, he sank his teeth deep into the flesh near your collarbone, hard enough to draw blood, forcing a gasp out of you due to the pleasurable pain that shot through your entire body at the mere action. He wasn’t even nipping anymore — he was biting you, exactly like how a vampire would bite its prey before sucking the life out of it. He sank his teeth deeper causing more blood to ooze out of your body, which he, in turn, sucked and swallowed every single drop of it. With a final swirl of his tongue around the prominent bite mark, he pulled away far enough for his entire face to be in your field of vision, his teasing grin showing off all his teeth that was stained in red with some of your blood.

You pressed your thighs against each other in hopes of generate some kind, any kind of friction to soothe your aching core that was pulsing so furiously as soon as you beheld his sharp canines that was stained the reddest.

And he slowly let his tongue glide over all his teeth, wiping them clean as you watched intently, mumbling a soft “fuck” while staring wide-eyed at him in disbelief.

He moved the hand from your breast to the sensitive area between your legs and dragged his fingers over your entrance, to find you completely drenched with arousal.

“Never expected you to have a blood kink,” he smirked with satisfaction at his discovery, “but I guess you do now, huh?” He ripped your panties off without a second thought like it was the most natural thing to do in the world.

“Jonah, what—”

“Your flimsy little underthings always get in the way of things,” he cut you off mid-sentence before you could protest further.

“But—Fuck,” words failed you when he started to rub painfully slow circles around your fluttering core with his thumb while he dragged his middle finger up and down your slick folds, teasing at your entrance. You rock against his hand to get that friction you craved yet he kept the moving pace of his hand so damn slowly that whimpers fell from your lips, much to his delight.

“For someone who was reluctant to fuck with my friends around, you sure are goddamn needy for me right now,” He attached his lips to yours once again to drown out your noise, your lips moving in perfect sync with each other’s as he licked his way into your mouth. A wave of warmth washed over you as your tongues entwined, making your toes curl, unfurling all your senses as the taste of his lips and his touch silenced all thoughts.

Except one.

“It’s no fair that you still get to keep your pants on when I’m already naked,” you said, breathless once you detached your lips from his after the heated kiss, placing your hands on his toned chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, his hot exhales fanning your face. He let out a light laugh but it sounded far from amused.

“When can you learn how to fucking behave, baby?” He lowered onto you, his lips falling to meet the bite mark he left on your skin, kissing it softly once. Then twice. “Or do you need me to remind you who you belong to?”

You didn’t expect him to choose that moment to slip a finger inside you without any warning, pumping it in and out of you as his thumb continued to rub your bundle of nerves. You slid your arms around his neck, pulling him as close as possible to you. Pitchy moans escaped you, ringing across the room as he gradually picked up speed.

“I said we’re doing this my way, understood?” He asked sternly, which you replied with a breathy “yes”.

“And I can do whatever the fuck I want, no questions asked,” he added another finger into you, making you arch your back towards him, your mouth hanging open in bliss as your moaning continued. He drank in the wonderful sight of your body reacting so beautifully to his actions. “Got it?”

“Yes...yes, Jonah,” you could barely get the words out of your mouth when his fingers sped up and you habitually spread your legs open wider, your eyes shut as his fingers worked their magic. Your eyes were screwed shut as your brows furrowed, concentrating on the immense pleasure that consumed you at that moment, your mind barely able to function at all. Sooner than you expected, your legs started to tremble with desire for release. “Jonah, I’m close, I’m really really close,” you whispered shakily and he exerted more pleasure on your clit.

But just as you were about to finally reach your high, he pulled his fingers out of you rapidly, leaving you empty and begging desperately for him to put them back inside you.

“Should’ve thought about this when you disobeyed me so many times today, sweetheart,” he said with an evil grin, “and bad girls don’t get to cum.”

“Nor do they get to pick the positions too but,” he sat back and looped one arm around your knees and another around your shoulders to pick you off the ground before laying you on his plush, comfortable white bed that felt like heaven in contrast to the cold hard ground you were laying on just now. “I’m going to let the latter slide this once.”

“So tell me what you want to do, baby, the choice is all yours,” he nibbled your earlobe from where he laid beside you, his arms tucked securely around your waist, keeping your body pressed flush against him. You could feel the tent in his pants that was pressing against your backside and the words left your mouth before you yourself could even process them properly.

“I want to ride you.”

He untangled his arms from around your waist and sat up so he was leaning against the headboard. “Show me what you’ve got, love,” he said, nodding his head at you, urging you to do whatever you wanted.

You quickly slid down his jeans and boxers to let his now completely hard and throbbing cock free, already. With his hands tucked behind his head, he licked his lips as he watched you pumped his member a few times before positioning yourself over him and lining yourself up. You gripped his shoulders again, looking back up into to meet his lust-ridden gaze before leaning in to give him a light kiss, which he instantly responded back with more passion. You pulled back to make sure you were lined up before you slowly sank down on to him, making both of you let out a few curses when you were fully down to his base.

“You’re so fucking tight,” He groaned as you waited until you adjusted to his size, leaning your head against his shoulder for comfort.

You slowly lifted yourself up, almost pulling away from his dick completely before you let yourself sink back down, clenching around him again as his fingernails dug into the side of your hips. You started to pick up pace, switching between grinding and moving up and down on him, his grunts encouraging you even more. “Jonah....fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you shrieked, a string of obscene profanities that you never knew that you knew proceeded to escape your mouth as you bottomed out each and every time, slamming yourself right down onto the hilt.

“You like my dick buried in your tight little hole huh? My dirty fucking girl,” He asked, watching intently as your breasts bounced with each movement, your head thrown back in pleasure as you let soft moans escape, a sight he thought was both hot and beautiful at the same time. He moved his hands back up to your waist, keeping you steady as you continued to grind and moan against him.

“Yes, oh fuck, yes, Jonah, I love it so damn much,” you managed to reply before your lips were captured in a passionate kiss with his once again, one of his hands cradling your face as you continued to ride him quicker, shifting your position a little to find a better angle so that he could hit deeper. When you finally succeeded in finding it, you held on tighter onto him, clinging to whatever that could keep you grounded to this world as you felt like you were falling off the edge of it when he sped up some more. You soon felt your insides clench around him. “Jonah I think—” you were cut short by a gasp of your own when his other hand collided with your butt, the sharp sound echoing throughout the room.

“No,” he said through the kiss without any hesitation. “You can only cum when I say so, dear,” he bit your bottom lip tauntingly and you heard the silent challenge for you to fight back against his orders as clear as day.

So you slowed down your pace, trying your very best to restrict yourself from cumming all over his dick. And he didn’t like what you were doing. “Did i say you could slow down?”

“No, but at this rate I—”

“You shitty brat never run out of excuses,” he growled before gripping your shoulders to flip you over so you were laying on your back on the bed.

“Guess I’ll have to take matters into my own hands,” he said as he pounded mercilessly into you, your eyes screwed shut and your brows furrowed as you concentrated on holding your cum in. The bliss you felt at the moment was so immense that you couldn’t help but shriek his name over and over again although the effort of not approaching your high was painful at the same time.

By the time you had become aware of your hands, they were already dragging down his back, your nails piercing his skin, drawing pretty red lines along his back. “Tell me whose cunt is this, baby,” he was hitting your g-spot now and your hand moved to grip the sheets.

Prick.

“Fucking look at me when I’m talking,” he ordered sternly and of course, your eyelids flew open immediately at his words.

“Yours, all fucking yours, Jonah.”

“Good. Now, do you wanna cum now, babygirl?” He asked, picking up his pace as he chased after his own high as well.

“Yes, please please please,” you whimpered, tears already welling up in your eyes.

“Yeah, cum all over me now, baby,” he pressed a soft kiss on your lips as white ribbons of pleasure poured out of you almost immediately, just as his warm liquid was released inside you and you moaned as it filled up your insides.

“I love you,” he said when he pulled out of you and laid down beside you, leaving you empty and sore as heck.

“Love you more,” you replied, kissing the tip of his nose. “But you were too harsh on me just now,” you pouted and he smiled.

“I thought you love me putting you in your place,” he teased and you hit his arm playfully. “You gotta admit, you were turned on by my actions.”

“Shut up,” you said and he leaned in once more to kiss your pout away.

#corbyn besson #daniel seavey #jack avery #jonah marais #wdw #why dont we #why don’t we #zach herron #wdw imagines #jonah marais imagines #wdw smut #jonah marais smut

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funnyexel · 4 years ago

Text

Quiet Tsundere x Reader

A/n: This is a drabble. If you like it don’t be shy, leave a request. In the requests on my page. Enjoy <3333

Masterlist Mega List

Yawning, your locker slams shut. You jump at the sudden action, drowsiness present in your form. He towered over you. Looking down at you as if you’re a lesser being than him. You stared back at him. Silently having a staring contest until you gave in. Yawning once again, you lean against the locker. “Yes?” You grip onto your books as they slowly slip out of your hands. He only looks you up and down. Hitting your books with little effort nearly knocking them out your hand and poking you with minimal force. “I’m tired. I was up all night.” You rub your watery eyes. He walked away from you. Maybe onto his next class but it was beyond you as the bell rang to continue your tiring school day.

You sat in your usual choice of seats. In the back, you’ve been doing this since the first few weeks of school. The words coming out of the teachers mouth was equivalent to gibberish. You didn’t understand and didn’t want to understand. Sleep was taking over your body as your head met the comfortable school desk. And just like that you were back into dream world. How you ended up sleeping in class was an interesting reason. To think it’d be because of studying or something like that but no. It was because of dumb, never gonna happen fantasies. And with the last person you thought would be in your head in this type of way. How in the world did this happen? Funny story...

“You’re telling me. You have no feelings whatsoever. If he’s not sexually harassing you, they say it’s a sign he likes you.” You roll your eyes at her ridiculous accusations. In your mind, the day he likes you is the day pigs fly. “Mhm. That’s exactly what I’m telling you. He doesn’t utter a word to me. What makes you think he likes me.” You chuckle, hearing how crazy it sounds coming from your mouth. This goes on for days and days on end. Until you’re up at night, thinking if he really does like you. Making scenes and scenarios in your head about confessions, dates and other things.

And most unexpectedly fantasies about his voice, if it would be deep and smooth or high and premature. It really stumped you. You heard rumors around the school about how his voice is deep and gravely like concrete. Whatever that means, but then again it’s just rumors. Could be true, could be false but only the one the rumor is about will know. On the flip side, his “friends” were noticing his actions towards you as well. It was sudden nonetheless but it was frequently that they would see him around you. He had one true friend. One he knew since the crayon stage.

He’s the only one that he got comfortable enough around to speak and use his voice. Why is this? He was insecure about his voice. It wasn’t bad or anything but he thought it was super deep, so one day after puberty hit him he decided to stop talking and only talk around those he’s comfortable around. He wanted you to be one of those people. Oh, how it would overjoy him for you to be one of those people. He could talk for hours and hours on end if he had the right person. And in the back of his mind, you were his right person. Corny? Yes and he knew this so he kept to himself. Keeping it well hidden at that.

The girls that hung around his “friends” hung around him too and he disliked it. These wasn’t his kind of people, they were cool and whatever but not his type of crowd. They started to pick at you while he turned a blind eye. Saying small remarks like “such a pick me girl” and “she came outside wearing that?” It was subtle at first but became more and more obvious. Even though he wouldn’t talk, his body language spoke volumes. With a stare he stopped them from picking at you but it only stopped momentarily. Given they saw how it riled him up and they thought it was hot in a way. Very weird I know.

“Y/n.” What’s that noise? You thought. “Y/n L/n!” A pair of hands slam on your desk causing you to jump up. They could visibly see the tiredness in your face. “Y/n, go to I.S.S.” They demand. The class inserts cartoon like noises, while you pack up your belongs and make your way to the classroom. You huff as you close the door to your classroom. Sleepily walking to the I.S.S. classroom which is turning into a jog as the hall monitor cracks down on you. They follow you to I.S.S. and close the door behind you. You look at the basically empty classroom with barely anyone in it.

Sitting down at one of the back desks, you take out a notebook and doodle. A few minutes pass by and a piece of paper slides its way onto your desk. You didn’t see where it came from so you opened it. “how’d a goodie two shoes end up in here?” You lip sync to yourself, now knowing who its from. There lay, the way too familiar bookbag. You sigh and crumple the paper in your hand, putting it in your backpack. Now going back to your doodling activities. This time a paper ball hit your head and landed in front of you. “stop crumpling up my note, idoit.” You roll your eyes and write under his words.

“you spelled that wrong and I’ll keep crumpling it up if I want to.” You throw it into his lap. He sat at the desk, in front of you to the left. “I know I did, you autocorrect junkie. did you break a pencil or better yet fold a paper wrong.” He was messing with you. “shut up and stop throwing this back, you’re gonna get me in trouble.” You finally go back to your doodling. You feel a minor yet hard kick in your leg. You jerk up ready to place your fury upon the poor soul. He puts his hand up for you to stop then points to the teacher, she was pregnant and out cold. He throws the paper at your chest and turns back.

Frustratingly, you open and read it. “she’s not even paying attention. and you have nothing better to do.” The temptation to crumple this paper is unbearable. “LEAVE ME ALONE!!” You throw the paper at his head, turning your body to the right and continue your doodling. Now in peace, you realize what you’re doodling. It was a mini comic about confessing. Alertly looking around, you rip out the page and shove it into your bookbag. ‘I hope no one saw that.’ You breath out at the thought. You felt little hits at your head, again and again and again. It was slowly getting to you.

‘can’t this be over already.’ You bury your head into your arms. A soft tap is placed upon your right shoulder. Lifting up your head, an unbothered female rests the note on your desk. You’ve seen her before around the school, she was pretty antisocial as far as you knew. “Those group of girls in the front are staring at you.” At the last word, you lift up the note a bit to get the girls in your eye range. Placing the note on your desk, you reply. “nice to know...you wouldn’t happen to know why. would you?” You drop it on her desk. He stopped throwing paper at you.

Unfolding her note. “because of your friend. watch out for them, they’re not so...friendly.” You glance at the women again, this time they notice you. “he’s not my friend. but thanks for the heads up. I’m y/n. what’s your name? I’ve seen you around before.” As you pass her the note, he gently places a note on your desk. “This is alot of note passing.” You mutter to yourself. “look at the door, stupid.” Rolling your eyes, you look and see your best friend. A smile creeps it’s way onto your face. “What are you doing?” You lip sync to her. “Class is over come on it’s lunch.” She motions you to come out.

Shaking your head, you receive the note from the girl. “Vera.” You put the note in your pocket and look back to your best friend having a silent squabble with him. You motion for her to stop. The sound of the bell echoes in the class, awaking the teacher. Looking to the ground, a puddle of papers engulf your feet. Thinking fast, you move your backpack closer to the papers and shove them all in your bag. “Ok. I don’t feel like filling in a report so this time, I’ll cut you all lose. Out.” She motions to the door and she didn’t have to tell you twice. You dashed to the door, almost knocking your best friend out.

Taking her wrist, you pull her to the cafeteria. Sitting her outside at your usual table, she sighs. “He’s annoying....” You slowly nod to her observation. “Just right for you.” She adds to her unfinished statement with a devilish smile. You slap your hand to your forehead and shake your head. She chuckles, leaving to get lunch for you and her. You pull out the papers from your bag. All were blank except for one.

“This note is for the Idiot who finds it. You Lack In the brain department. Just so you Know. It Even hurts mY brain to talk tO yoU. Even though I don’t talk.”

This note made no since what so ever, some letters were written over as if he made a mistake. You put the confusing note in your pocket for later. Feeling the breeze, you close your eyes and relax. “What do you want with Arthur?” A girl in close contact, spits with a noticeable cruel attitude. You open your eyes and they land on the same girls that were in I.S.S. They stare at you intensely. Causing you to answer. “Nothing.” You awkwardly say, playing with a piece of paper. She snatches the piece of paper from you. “Like hell! You’re ugly. He doesn’t like you and would never like you.”

They encourage her hateful words. “Honestly, she’s the bottom of the barrel.” They begin to cackle at the ‘not so insulting’ insult. It was insulting but not so much for you to go crying to your mommy. Taking their leave. “And him being with you would be the top of the barrel. Wouldn’t it?” A snarky remark leaving your mouth, loud enough for them to hear. “What did you just say?” She turns her head, doll like. Reminding you of Annabelle. “I said, And him being with you would be the top of the barrel. Wouldn’t it?” You repeat yourself but speak slower so it can sink in.

“Can we help you?” Quinn says, placing the food on the table and standing by you with her knee on the seat. “Listen here, skank. He doesn’t want you.” You roll your eyes at her. “Yeah, I can tell. I’m not interested in him. You can knock yourself out. Metaphorically.” You sigh and take a water from the tray. She gets visibly more frustrated and mad at your unbothered state. Scoffing loudly, she leaves you alone. Glancing at the surroundings, people were gathering around you. They soon realized it was just a disagreement and go back to their business. Quinn was very surprised at how you handled the situation.

Surprised that you even responded to her. “I’ll beat her up.” You chuckle at your best friend. “Words can’t hurt me.” You breathy huff and lean your head in your palm. Secretly staring at her approaching him, smothering him. ‘He looks so uncomfortable.’ You stop staring at her and look at him. He catches your eye and you revert your eyes back to Quinn. She was staring at you the whole time. “I’m not interested in him, she says.” She mocks you, even adding her own commentary. The end of the day came pretty quickly. The halls were practically empty as you went to your locker for the rest of your stuff.

“I just had to get held back by that teacher. Wasn’t I.S.S enough for them?” You say to yourself as you put your stuff in your backpack. The click of your lock, set about some rapid footsteps coming towards you. You looked and two people grabbed you by the arms. “Let go of me!” You yelled in her face. She laughs wickedly as you get dragged into the bathroom. They striped you of your bookbag and threw you into the stall doors. Your back hit harder than it sounded. As they started to beat you up, you reached into your pocket and pull out your taser, tasing someone in the ankle.

They dropped down to the ground and this was your chance. Hurriedly crawling to the bathroom door, you push it open. At that moment, you got away. A tight grip is placed upon your ankles with all your might you hold onto the door frame and scream to the top of your lungs. All the while, one of them were pulling your ankles with all their might. Your hands gave in as soon as another pair of palms gripped onto your ankles. Your screams echoed from the bathroom for a moment until an inhuman slam came across the door. Silence filled the restroom, you laid on the floor bruised up and lightly bloody as they stopped their movements to the new person.

Hearing yelps of surprise, soon enough you were being lift up bridal style in strong arms. Your left eye refusing to open, you stared at him with your right. A heavy sigh of relief, left your lips as you leaned into him a little closer than before. The far too familiar sound of cheap paper crumping fills your ears as he sets you down on the nurses table. The nurse wasn’t there but the door was unlocked. He got some band-aids and alcohol. Sitting on a chair next to the table, he patched you up best he could. You avoided eye contact with him at all costs. “This is awkward.” His voice shook you to your core. Though you were already shaking from the recent events.

“y-yeah.” Voice low and sore from screaming. He finished, putting all the stuff back, placing a ice pack to a huge bruise on your leg and giving you another for your eye. You stayed quiet for the most part, but you reached into your pocket and held out the crumbled note to him. He looked to you and took it. Leaving the ice pack on your leg, he unfolded it and immediately saw your writing on the bottom. “I like you too.” He lip synced your neatly written words. Shoving the note into his pocket, he gazed into your eyes with hopefulness. “can we leave?” You state, feeling like someone is watching you. He offered you a ride home which you gladly took, having already missed the public bus.

You both talked the whole ride. Getting used to his voice. He took you to get some food. Throughout the ride, you both established that you’ll keep this relationship on the down low. Arriving at your home, you invited him in but he politely declined. “I’ll see you in the morning?” You leaned in the window and nodded with a smile. “Bye.” You flash one last smile before turning and walking to your front door. Putting in the passcode and entering the house. Walking into the kitchen you but your fast food bag on the island and took a sip of your drink as you dialed a frequent number. “Quinn. You will not believe what just happened.”

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 4 years ago

Text

Blighted

For my precious Sunshine, @5-secondsofcolor's birthday!! Which is technically now, because it is 1 AM on the 20th of May and I am a mad woman. Love you and I hope you have an amazing day, when you see this of course.

Here is your fic, FBI/Behavior Analyst!Calum. Female OC.

Ivy says she's cursed after taking the same career path that took her father's life. Calum's new on the team, a liaison and media specialist, but he's looking to get his toes wet.

AKA your regular old jaded pessimist veteran and bright eyed rookie buddy cop story. Please enjoy!

CW: In depth descriptions of death/crime scenes. Depictions of violence, gore, and blood.

Enjoy my masterlist (on a haitus)

Search for more writing in the h writes tag

________________________

The whiteboard never leaves. It glows behind her closed eyelids. When staring down at the neck of a bottle, she sees it floating just as the bottom of her drink. She’s cursed. But she knew that the moment she tried out for the academy. The second the thought floated across her mind, she would be doomed just like her father. Ivy tried her best to reroute herself--she got into the arts, was first chair flute in her highschool’s orchestra. She was president of the Homecoming committees her junior and senior year, and worked during the summers at her church's camp.

And yet when she went into school for her degree, she gravitated towards psychology and criminal justice. She saw her mother’s fear. The closer it came to graduation and the more the two of them talked about what she would do after graduating, the more the thought lingered, I want to get into the Bureau like Dad. But she couldn’t utter that. She couldn’t say those words without tears welling up in her mother’s eyes.

Ivy suspected her mother always knew about the desires. Ivy didn’t remember all the nights clearly, but sometimes she’d peek out her bedroom door and see the glow of the light downstairs. Ivy followed it, side stepping the creaky fourth step from the top and from between the banister’s she’d find her dad sitting at the dining room table. The kitchen light glowed from behind him and his tie would barely hang on around his neck.

“Boo,” he’d say quietly, knowing the slight shuffle of Ivy’s feet.

“How’d you know I was there, Daddy?” she’d ask, carrying herself the rest of the way down the stairs and make her way through the living room to climb into his lap.

“I can hear your feet above me,” he’d respond, pointing above them.

And they’d spend an hour, sitting at the dining room table. Ivy asked about her dad’s latest trip. He only ever told her when she was young that they were helping save people, putting bad people away. Ivy wonders if this is where it started. If this was where her father casted the spell, leaving Ivy somehow starry eyed about what it really was he did. Ivy would always look at this job with a little bit of that hope that her younger self had, and she’d always be fucked to never be able to walk away from this line of work.

It would kill her--much like it had killed her dad. But unlike him, she’d see the bullet spiral out of the barrel. Her dad had her and her mother to get back too. It wasn’t a weakness. Ivy admired her father for sticking with his dreams and also making the hard calls to make sure his family knew he cared too. But the need to decide would always be a slight hindrance, would always be the key to living or dying in this line of work.

All that’s left of her father, besides the memories and a few of his old t-shirts that got remade into pillows, is the whiteboard she keeps at her desk. There’s a whiteboard for the entire team to use of course. But this whiteboard is the one that her father used in his office. The one where he made his notes, scribbles. The one she’d write notes to him in the bottom left corner that never disappeared until she wanted to replace the note with something new.

“Thomas, look alive, and enjoy.” The manilla folder hits her desk with a quiet thwack. Ivy blinks from the whiteboard up to her senior officer. Kennedy carries on, dropping folders on every desk and each one of them stands without needing any further prompting.

Kennedy’s been in the field for years. It was all over his face with the deep frown lines. His brow seemed permanently furrowed, as if he questioned every waking second. Ivy liked to tease he worried even about sleep. But no one could sink a decade and a half into this line of work and not come out on the other side with a healthy amount of suspicion.

��And where’s this new guy?” Kennedy asks, glancing over the office.

Ivy looks up from her copy of the file. She heard rumors of someone else coming by the office, assisting them occasionally on cases. But those rumors floated around weeks ago, long enough that she chalked it up to just that--rumors. It doesn’t shock her though. Things start at rumors often, and sometimes they come to fruition and sometimes they don’t. Ivy follows Kennedy’s eyeline and doesn’t spy any new faces.

“Want me to keep an eye out for any lost souls?” Ivy offers, glancing back up to Kennedy.

“Nah, I need your eyes on this one. Head up to the conference room and I’ll be there once he shows up.”

With a nod, Ivy closes the file. She swipes the whiteboard from her desk with a couple markers and heads up to the conference room. The rest of the team sat flipping through their files too, Jenkins sitting right near the front but moved down one seat. They’re not new, having been around for a couple years. But Ivy can tell their type--getting in chummy with the boss, trying too hard. They’re a good addition, but Ivy’s waiting for the day they take a hunch and it doesn’t lead to the results they want. A loss will show their true colors, how well they can handle being wrong sometimes. No one on the team is perfect, they’re all hedging bets. Ivy’s taken her lumps of hunches being made too late, or the wrong bets placed. They’re not often. No one likes them. But they happen.

Diaz, Russell, and Burke and scattered throughout the rest of the table. The three of them have been there longer than Ivy. But they all accepted her with open arms. Diaz and Burke were more muscular. They had the brains to match, but they came up the pipeline from their local PD departments and aren’t afraid to get into a tussle. More often than not, Ivy winds up pulling Burke from fights than she’d care to admit. Diaz’s much too big for Ivy to attempt physically restraining, so she referee’s those fights that he gets into.

Russell’s their man behind the screen. He was good at getting through the internet loops, figuring out how to sort databases for the information they need without so much red tape and delay. He preferred to stay behind the lines, but could handle a tussle. Ivy doesn’t count herself as the brains. But her gut had some sort of true north needle that, more often than not, was right. She could see patterns faster than most, could sniff the air after someone and assess how much she could and wanted to trust. Kennedy consulted her often. Whenever she felt like she had something, he’d hush the crowd for her to formulate the full thought. Kennedy didn’t always agree with her assessment, but had to listen to it. He needed to listen to it.

“Nope,” Russell huffs, shutting the folder. “Fucking hell. Kennedy told me it was rough, but I didn’t--I didn’t think it was this rough.”

Ivy settles in next to him sliding him a marker. She draws roughly a tic-tac-toe board. “It not getting easier for you is a good sign.”

Russell makes his first move, the marker squeaking just a little. Ivy follows up with hers. She knows if she makes it too obvious, too easy, Russell will forfeit the game. So she tries to play along, like she’s vying to win.

Russell places his second X though his hands shake just a hair. “Yeah, but compared to you guys, I feel like if someone took a gnarly enough shit it would make me queasy.”

“A bad enough shit could do that to anyone,” Diaz pipes in, his own folder still open but his forearms pressed down over the photographs. Russell’s been around the block, definitely seem some rough things, but has always had a softer view of the world. Still wants it to be good despite all the bad he’s seen.

Ivy places down her second O, noticing the pretty obvious wide open spot she left Russell but looks up to Diaz. “I think I heard through the grapevine you were on the losing end of one of those shits yesterday,” she teases.

Diaz reclines into his seat, his chest bouncing with his laughter. “All because of your cooking Thomas.”

“My cooking is not that bad,” she defends, the cap of her black marker pointing him out.

Burke snickers too with a shake of her head and opens her mouth to speak but the room fills with the voice of Kennedy. “Aren’t y’all old enough to be left alone not to talk about shit for five minutes?”

“Never too old to talk shit, sir,” Diaz returns, his smile lifting only half his face up. He’s a charmer, whenever they go out to bars out manage to get a moment’s peace not hounded by work, he never seems to be at a lack of folks coming up to him. He’s already got a girl, but with the hair that cascades always neatly placed and the dazzling bright grin, anyone could fall for it.

Kennedy huffs his laughter quickly and then shuffles deeper into the room. “We’ve got a new friend, so let’s play nice.” As Kennedy makes head way, Ivy notices the man behind him. He’s tall. The black dress pants and black dress shirt don’t hide everything beneath them, but Ivy’s not too shocked to see people who work in the field like that with some sort of muscular physique. There’s something about his face though--something about the way his brown eyes dart around the room and his smile never shows any teeth that something familiar tugs at her.

Kennedy goes around the table introducing Ivy first, then going to Russell, coming down to Jenkins, Diaz, and then Burke. Each one of them lifts a hand or nods at their name. “This here is Hood, Calum Hood. Joining us as a new liaison.”

Ivy’s no good with faces sometimes. But names she hardly ever forgets. Hood, she met him once a few years back at a lecture. Not that she did them often, but Kennedy got more face time. But he made sure to spread the love between the team. He asked her to tag along. Calum must’ve been in the crowd, had to be, and had to have asked a question because Kennedy told her to remember that name. And she had.

Kennedy continues on with something. Ivy suspects he’s warning Diaz to keep any hazy tactics to a minimum considering how much of a mess they’re walking into. Ivy nods once more at him, and then faces back to the whiteboard, the tap on her arm prompting her too. I’m a scaredy cat sure, but not dumb, it reads in Russell’s handwriting. She spies his X in the bottom corner, opposite of where he would’ve won.

“Pull up a seat, Hood. We’ll have more time for pleasantries once we’re up in the air. But I want everyone to at least be familiar with this case.”

“Yes, sir.” His voice is smooth, Ivy notes. A soft volume and accented but smoother than she would’ve pegged.

The team breaks down the file, recapping mostly what they’ve already read but Kennedy’s old fashioned this way, needing to make sure people have done their homework. It’s an extra step than completely necessary, but having the quick meetings has always made this team feel more like a second family. There’s always a common goal in mind for them and they’re always reminded of it. No matter what happens out in the field, they all want the same thing.

“We soar in forty-five minutes. So let’s hope wheels can turn in the air. Hood, I need you to keep in mind the local PD’s been taking a lot of heat for the last couple of months. So we don’t want to take too much star power, we’re only here to assist and whatever we can do to put the local’s good grace back onto that PD we need to.”

Not quite what she expected, though with his demeanor and looks, he’s sure to work a crowd or newsroom well. She’s sure he’ll be on the ground with them too.

“Understood,” he replies and with that, all of them push away from the table. “Agent Thomas,” Hood says, reaching out almost as if to touch her elbow but never actually do it. He continues to speak once she looks over to him. “I-I don’t know if you remember. But we met at a lecture a couple years back that you held with Agent Kennedy. And I just wanted to say that I’m excited to be here, working with you all.”

“Thomas, here, does not respond well to flattery. Trust, we’ve all tried,” Diaz laughs, clamping down on Hood’s shoulders.

“I appreciate it,” Ivy responds. “Glad to have a fresh mind on the team.” There’s no smile, at least, not one she’d give Russell, Burke, Diaz, or even Jenkins. But Calum watches her give another curt nod with a quick quirk of her lips, and then leave, stacking her file on top of the whiteboard.

“Don’t sweat it. She’s in work mode,” Diaz assures. “We get off the clock and she’s a hoot. But on the clock, it’s strictly business. I will warn you, Thomas will burn you.”

Calum’s left, watching Diaz, Burke, and Russell leave. Jenkins turned tail the second Kennedy got done. It’s not that he wants to mix business with pleasure. He’s just been studying Thomas, attending as many lectures that she gives as he can. She didn’t always go directly by the book, there was something about her method that used the evidence, used science, but also had some sort of intuition. Thomas just knew things and when attempting to quantify it, she didn’t always have the words for it. Calum just wants to see that in action, understand what it is about knowing that isn’t always present in the facts.

The plane ride is comfortable. Plenty of seats even though they squeak just a little. Calum watches Thomas sit and everyone seems to sit spread out from there, keeping her at some sort of center. “Mobile. They don’t mind the hustle,” Ivy starts.

“Crossing state lines is risky, especially after the escalation,” Burke interjects.

“But wouldn’t that be a reason for it? If all the crimes look different, enough crossing state lines might make the unsub feel confident, like they’re getting away with something.” The entire plane turns to look at him. Calum freezes for a moment. He knows better. He knows so much better than that. Fuck.

“Valid. But we shouldn’t settle. Travel might be part of their job. We’ve got a good cluster to possibly estimate a home base. Get comfortable, perfect the craft here and then spread out. But why come back? Local PD's hadn't quite connected anything, until the return. More families, found exactly the same. Even when they cross state lines, all points wind back to a specific geographical location,” Burke returns.

“Hood, you got the inside of the media. What does it look like?”

Thirty minutes of his forty five was making sure that he could at least nail down this run through. And it’s easy, even with the squeak of Ivy’s dry erase marker, to run down the media reports, what information has been released and what hasn’t been released. He makes note of what the team doesn’t want to get out and what they do want to keep available to the public.

All the while, Calum watches the way Ivy writes over her board, the squeak over and over on specific strokes. He wonders for a moment what she’s writing, what it is that she needs to keep written track of. But he doesn’t get a chance to fully flesh out that thought before he finishes his spill and Diaz cuts in. They’re fast, not quite settling on any one theory. More like compiling the possibilities, not wanting to eliminate things but ranking how plausible they all could be until the pieces click.

The first thing after the flight lands, they head for the precinct. The lead investigator greets them, and there’s no pause. They’re pulled into the frenzy, looking at boards. Calum tries to keep his head in the game, but he is watching Ivy. The way she settles in her chair, her marker always moving. He’s not even sure it’s words anymore, just a constant circular movement. Sure he’s here to help regulate media outlets, and he can do that in his sleep if local PD and media follow his instructions to a T.

But he needs an in, to show he’s more than just the new meat on the chopping block. He’s worth something. “Is the last crime scene still available?” Calum asks.

The room turns to him, well most of the room does. Ivy keeps circling, but she speaks. “The plan’s to go in ten minutes. Whatever’s got you preoccupied, leave it in your go bag.”

Kennedy chuckles, tapping at her foot. “Give the kid a break. He was buried in news coverage the second we got into the door. But Hood, shake the cobwebs. This isn’t your small town’s rodeo anymore. If you need to be caught up, ask. But if you’re going to be in the room, keep those ears open.”

A task easier said than done, but he nods, resting his elbows on his knees. God, they’re going to think I’m an idiot. The room goes back to its normal buzz, but Calum keeps his head buried in his hands.

“Talk to me. What are your theories?”

Calum lifts his head. Ivy’s closer now. He can see the black marks on her hand from where she’s held it up against the swirls and lettering. “Clearly I’m barely treading water here.”

“First day nerves, but you can shake it. You wanted to see the crime scene. Why?”

“Why there? We have indications that the unsub spent a lot of time there, even with the interruptions they've seemed to caused. They're still meticulous. I want to follow their steps. What did they do first? And why? What do they need from a crime scene before it’s done?”

“Good. But what else?”

“What-what do you mean what else?”

She smiles, much different than the first one. It shows her teeth, a bit of a twinkle in her eyes. “What else?”

He goes quiet, reclines back into the seat and closes his eyes for a second. What else? There’s a lot else. “I mean, the next obvious thing is why these victims? But besides that, how comfortable is this person? Do they feel a need to be rushed, fast, get-in-get-out or can they blend in? I have a hunch they can blend in. Maybe people even trust them. They are perfectly ordinary and in essence, they have to be in order for the fantasy to work. Detection means they have to get sloppy. Being sloppy’s not an option, so blending in it is.”

“Bring that to the crime scene.” Something taps his knee and Calum cracks open his eyes to see her, standing. Her whiteboard still gently rests against his knee. She’s not looking at him though. Her gaze is locked onto the board next to him, displaying the crime scene photos.

“What’s your secret?” Calum asks. He’s almost positive she didn’t hear him due to Ivy’s lack of prompt response. But then she turns to him.

“Secret?”

“Thomas, Hood, you comin’ or what?” Kennedy calls. “I can deal without Diaz, but I need you, Thomas.”

“I’ll remember that,” Diaz laughs as they walk through the glass doors of the precinct.

It’s not Calum’s first time at a crime scene. But the second Calum steps through the door a chill runs through him. The carpet and walls are still bloodstained. Everything about it the scene just feels wrong, makes Calum want to immediately step back out of the house.

“You feel that?” Burke asks. She continues on deeper into the house, slipping into her gloves.

“This is when Thomas says she’s too Black for all this and gets the hell out of dodge,” Diaz barks. He squats down to the blood on the carpet. Ivy’s already deep into the house, seemingly guided by a force unwillingly to let her go. She doesn’t respond verbally, just lifts her hand, the middle finger extended out in the general direction of Diaz.

And Calum is standing near the threshold of the door, trying to pinpoint why it feels so cold in a house in Texas in the middle of the summer. His hands feel sticky even inside the latex gloves. His first step is shaky but he stops next to Diaz. “There are drag marks from the blood,” Calum notes. “This isn’t where they were killed, just staged.”

“The unsub staged all the victims here in the living room. We know that. Pictures show the parents at the ends of the sofa, children in the middle, dog on the floor.”

“But there’s blood on the walls. We know the Dad’s 6’1,” Calum returns.

“And we don’t have forced entry. So, whoever is wreaking havoc isn’t threatening enough for someone not to answer the door.”

Calum turns to the sofa where the family was found. “It’s picturesque, poetic even. You’ve got a whole family right here, at your will. They knock on the door. It’s dusk, sun’s just starting to set.”

“They have a ruse that gets them inside. We already know they have to blend in with the community. So what can you use to get into a house? Who gets into a house without a problem?”

Diaz goes into the kitchen where in the case file it mentions when the family was finally discovered food was still out on the table. “The window doesn’t have to last long. But it has to be just right. All three families were either eating dinner, or just done with dinner. So why dinner time?” Diaz turns from the stove to face Calum.

“It’s when everyone is together. They’re not just going after a family, but very specific family dynamics. Which means both parents need to present, two kids seems to be a minimum.”

“What’s the average dinner time you’d say? With this job, I eat whenever I fucking can. But before this, excluding people like us, when is the average person sitting down to eat?”

“6, 6:30 I’d guess. That’s assuming the average person is working a job that calls it at 5PM. A town like this is either on the verge of collapsing or being bought out. So I assume a lot of people are traveling outside to the city for work, so the commute might be even later. But I wouldn’t hazard any guesses that our unsub’s just haphazardly picking houses.”

“No, no, you’re right, Hood,” Diaz states, walking over to the table. “I guess what I’m saying is the timing. No one hears anything. But our unsub’s using a gun. That’s not quiet. And there’s not a lot of city noise this far out. They’re spending hours in the house and somehow getting out undetected. But striking at dinner time, with the setting sun, means this person’s around outside the house. But no one’s noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

“Hunting seasons,” Calum returns. “No one really flinches at the sound of a gun shot because people are hunting year ‘round here.”

“And it seems like humans are on the menu.”

“An appetizing thought.”

******

Ivy’s not sure when the chill finally left over the course of the day but it returns when she walks into the precinct and sees the entire room in a frenzy. Kennedy spies her and it’s just a look. Not much different than his resting face, but somehow she knows with that slight arch in his eyebrow. Another family--while they were proding over photos the killer was already moving on, already in the midst of their attack.

And it shouldn’t shock her. Well, to be more accurate, it doesn’t shock her and maybe that’s the thing that scares her. “I’ve been doing this too damned long,” she mutters to herself. “Hood, you’re with me. Get the address and let’s see what that gut of yours cooks up.”

“How’d--Is Kennedy going to be okay with that? The call just came in a few minutes ago.”

“Get the address and tell me how you like your coffee,” Ivy says. Kennedy’s going to come to the scene anyway, but she doesn’t tell Calum that.

There’s not another word before Calum passes in front of her. “Cream and two sugars,” he answers as he goes.

“So Black, got it.”

Paused at the desk of a detective, he looks over his shoulder. “Cream and two sugars,” he re-emphasizes with a tiny smile and holding up two fingers. Police station coffee’s never the best, but it’s better than nothing. When on a case, time is also imperative and they take what they can. Ivy fixes Calum’s cup first, slipping a lid on and keeping the stirrer through the hole. She pours her cup with no additions.

“Not even creamer? Not one?” Calum questions.

“Takes too much time,” she returns. “Burke, you staying?”

“Yeah, Russell got those files over just before the call came in. Besides that crime scene’s bound to be crowded as all hell and I swear if I walk into another house and catch a chill after seven years of doing this job, I just might quit.”

The two ladies laugh. Ivy recovering first to respond, “I need you to keep me sane even though you’re just as much trouble as Diaz.”

“Which is why I’m going to say here, work with Russell. We’re going to need Hood back before the 5’oclock news. Whatever you find at the scene will help solidify our profile and we need it soon. We need the hands on this clock, because it’s ticking ahead of us.”

Ivy nods. It’s no fun being behind. “Kennedy, we’re moving or we’re dying.”

“I trust you. There’s something off about that last one that I want to walk through again.”

“Let’s rock and roll,” she says to Calum, handing him his cup of coffee. “Mr. Cream-and-Two-Sugars.”

The drive is relatively short, all thanks to Ivy’s lead foot. But they need to get there fast, while things are still fresh.

“Did you always want to do this?” Calum asks in the silence of their drive. The radio doesn’t even play. Ivy knew he had questions. He wore them on his face, brows furrowing anytime he was the slightest bit hesitant about something.

“I don’t think I had a choice.”

“What do you mean you didn’t have a choice? We’ve all got choices.”

“My dad worked with the FBI until it killed him. And I think about how he used to tell me it was his job to help put bad people in jail. And I believed him.”

“The bug bit you before you even had a fighting chance.”

Ivy nods, taking a quick glance to Calum. “But if I had a prettier face, I’d stick with liaison too.”

Calum huffs out his laughter. “I went the journalism route first, sue me. Besides, that’s you admitting you think I have a pretty face.”

“I forget faces—so don’t think too highly of it. And I’m probably old enough to be your mother. You attended some lectures, I remembered your name. How’d you convert?”

It’s silent for a moment and Calum contemplates her statement, old enough to be his mother. “Given that my mother has shared her fountain of youth with my sister and I, you might be shocked to know I’m nearing 30. And I converted because of you and your work under Kennedy and his old superior Rogers.”

“All the greats,” Ivy teases, but she doesn't sound impressed. More like tired, used to it.

“But you’re different.”

“Yeah, because somehow the Bureau hasn’t realized their mistake.”

“Mistake?” Calum asks around his sip of coffee.

“Kennedy’s going to retire soon. He's done 15 with our unit. Another ten prior to that climbing through the ranks. Then they’re going to have to find a replacement.”

“You say that like it won’t be you.”

“Because it won’t.”

“You’ve been with Kennedy for so long. He’s obviously going to recommend you, Ivy.”

“He can recommend but people higher up get the final word.”

The truck stops just in front of the house, and Calum knows the most logical thing to do is just focus on the case, walk the scene. Do his job. But he reaches across the console and wraps his fingers around hers for a second with a squeeze. “You’ll get it. They’d be dumb not to bring you to the head of this team.”

“There’s an altar or a shrine. It’s small.”

Calum pauses with his hand on the door. Ivy continues beside him. “Go to the eldest child’s bedroom. In a corner you’ll see the small shrine. Our unsub left one at the last house. And the house before, I’d bet. And this house too. That’s what Kennedy missed. What other cops missed too. Make sure you get it photographed. Besides, I’ve been doing this job too long and don’t know if I’d even want the added responsibility if they promoted me.”

“How’d we miss that?”

“We didn’t miss shit. We saw it when we needed to see it. We see things when we need them.” It's the way she says it, like she has to believe that makes Calum believe too.

The sight rocks Calum--he knew it wouldn’t be easy. But he didn’t know it’d hit him like this. The room spins, just a little. And his heart racing. Mostly because he can’t stand the thought that this could be someone he knows. These people weren’t anticipating their would be like this. And what does that even mean for him? What does his end look like?

“Hey, whoa. Whoa.” An arm comes around his waist and he follows the lead of whomever’s grabbed him.

“I’m okay,” he breathes out. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah, I’m a fudge brownie. It’s okay to not be alright in there.”

Calum rests against the side of the house and squats down just a little. His elbows hit his knees. His breath is heavy, falls from his open mouth almost like he’s going to vomit. But his stomach’s not churning anymore. Not with the fresh morning air hitting his lungs. “Fuck,” he breathes out again, eyes blurring just a little.

“But you’re okay. Take a breather.” Ivy’s shoes turn up in the dirt. "Get him a water, will ya? Hood, take a minute. It's alright. I'll be inside when you're ready." Calum just watches her go. It takes a moment for him to lift his head. It has to get easier. Or least he hopes it does. It takes him a minute, inhaling deeply before he stands up straight.

The rest of them processing the scene goes by in relative silence. Occasionally, Calum pipes in with an addition to their theory. Ivy hums in agreement. And it’s not until they step out and slip out of their gloves that Ivy says anything. “This is why I drink my coffee black.”

“I’m sorry. I really--I don’t know why this one got me.”

“It’s the kids. Kids are the worst.”

Calum looks up to the sky. There’s a few clouds, but not many. “The photos are bad, but in person is way different.”

Ivy watches Calum, the way it takes him a second to come back to earth it seems. “Don’t ask yourself if it gets easier.” When his gaze lands hers, she can see the furrowed brow again. The question drips off his face. “You’ll only disappoint yourself. And this job’s not for the weak of heart. For the people that can’t take some losses with the wins.”

“You said it yourself. You wanted to put the bad people away.”

“Eight year old me wants to believe it’s as easy as putting the monsters away. Thirty-one year old me knows for a fact what the losses are, who gets caught in the cross-fire. It’s not easy, not in the slightest.”

“Innocent lives do add up.”

“Which is why I try not to do math on the job. They all slip up. They all reach a point where their methods don’t satiate the need. They all make a fatal flaw and counting the unfortunate lives on the way to that will have you walking from the Bureau faster than you can blink.”

“So what makes you stay? If it’s all so fucking bad, what keeps you going?”

Ivy nods to the car, pulling the keys from her pocket. “We need to solidify our profile and you need to run press ASAP. But to answer your question, the thing that keeps me going is that fact that they do get caught eventually.”

******

Eventually seems to come up faster than Calum anticipates. He was sure it would take weeks. After getting back to the precinct more information in Russell’s digging found a connection between all the families, a Venn diagram that overlapped to their X on the map. Another couple of days and it all unravelled. It’s a blur, when he tries to think back to it, on the plane. The only grounding thing is when one of the children, a little girl about 6, pointed out the tattoos on his hands. In all this time, he was sure the tattoos would be a barrier to entry--they’d somehow put him in a place that others would think he was nothing but trouble. But somehow, despite the terror she had done through, that little girl liked his tattoos, found some sort of comfort in them.

When he told her they were for his parents, she smiled at him. She said she wanted one for her parents too and then asked if he had anymore and how old he was when he got them. All of which Calum was more than happy to answer while the medic checked over her. Her older brother came soon after, asking a few questions, but overall he was much quieter than his sister. Understandable for what was endured. In the end, Calum’s just glad he didn’t see them staged on a couch, bleeding out onto the cushions.

There’s a small bit of turbulence and the shakes cause Calum to open his eyes for a moment. Ivy’s seated across from him, whiteboard on her lap, headphones in her ears. A tic-tac-toe grid drawn across it in the middle, but in the corners are some swirls, a crude drawing of the shrine from the case. Calum leans forward and tugs on the board just a little. She lets it go without a fight and hands over the marker.

Calum makes an ‘X’ in the top left. “You said this job doesn’t get easier.” He looks up to see if Ivy can hear him and is relieved when she pops out one her headphones. She raises her brows like she wants him to continue with the thought. And Calum’s not even sure he should. Instead, he hands over the board back to her. If seeing death doesn’t get easier, then maybe it just means he gets better at it. Maybe it means that not being okay with death is a good motivator to keep down this path.

“The job doesn’t get easier. You’re still human. You still want a spouse and a kid. You might want two dogs and a cat. You might want that white picket fence one day. You’ll want to close your eyes and not see death. You’ll want to walk down the street and see humans as humans again. You’ll have nightmares. Don’t hide from it. Nothing’s wrong with you for wanting that. But we’re in a world now where we see the horrors--what’s on the other side of everything you wanted. It’s a liminal space and it’s heavy to wade through.”

“I just want to not freak like I did the other day. It’s not easy. But sometimes I fear that maybe I bit off more than I could chew.”

Their game of tic-tac-toe has been forgotten, placed in the seat next to Ivy as she leans forward in her seat. “You said you were converted because of me. What exactly about me was it?”

“You just know things. When you walk onto a scene, you have an air of knowing. How can you just pick up on it in a snap?”

“Well,” Ivy laughs, “if that’s the only reason you want in, I warn you to get out.”

“I want to help. I want to save people,” Calum adds on. But then it hits him. Maybe this wasn’t the business of saving people as much as it was stopping people. Sure, they prevent future murders, but that didn’t always negate for all the lives lost. But they did save that family today. He saved that little girl that wants tattoos like his. “I want to save people and I want to stop people as well,” he finally adds on.

“There will always be monsters in this world,” Ivy warns.

“And there will always be heroes.”

“Make no mistake, Calum. We don’t have capes. We don’t swoop in all the time at just the right moment. Sometimes we are late. Sometimes we’re reacting more than we are being proactive. Sometimes we fuck up.”

His heart stops for just a moment at the mention of his first name. He’s always Hood, or at least has always been Hood. Just like she’s always Thomas to the team. But she said his first name. Unmistakably so. “Did-did you just use my first name?”

“You used my first name, first.”

When had he done that? He didn’t recall, but he couldn’t combat it either.

“Look,” Ivy continues, “the fact remains. We will fail. We will make the wrong call, or the right call just by the skin of our teeth. We will walk down the wrong direction only to figure out, we know it’s the wrong one. We get it right. A lot more often, we get it right and we minimize the death count. But we’re human--you don’t have to take it on if you don’t want. You don’t have to suffer.”

“If I don’t suffer and win, then that little girl suffers and loses. Then the next person loses. And the next. Their suffering or mine--the choice is clear.”

Ivy studies Calum for a moment. She sees the resolve on his face. Just how much sacrificing himself is a no brainer for him. It was a no brainer for her too. But admittedly, she was cursed. Maybe Calum wasn’t. Maybe she could save him, even if she couldn’t save herself. But she wasn’t in the business of saving people, only stopping them.

“I can’t stop you, can I?” she asks.

“Stop me from what?”

“Stop you from killing yourself with this job.”

“If it’s killing you, then why don’t you leave?” His head cocks to the side, now intrigued by her honesty.

“It’s like you said, I got bit before I could escape. I’m cursed. Are you?”

The little girl flashes through his vision again, and his chest tightens for a second before the relief kicks in. He could chase that feeling, the knowledge that he saved someone, one person. And that he helped put away one more person causing harm. “I am now. Ruined--because even though I can’t save them all. I can save some. I can help keep some people safe. I don’t think there’s a better reward than that.”

With a nod, Ivy looks back to their game on the whiteboard. They would’ve tied, she can see it after where she placed her ‘O’. But she hands it back over to Calum. “Kennedy’s going to shit himself when he realizes he’s got too hard heads on his team.”

“You’ll shit yourself when you realize you’re inheriting the second hard-head on the team after Kennedy leaves.”

Ivy scoffs. Of course, Calum still believes in the shiny idea that hard work yields rewards. “And this is where I can still tell you’re new to this--the dreams are still shiny and ideal.”

“All the work you’ve invested, they’d be--”

Ivy interrupts him. “I know, they’d be dumb not to.”

“Then why do you keep saying it won’t happen?”

“I’d call my pessimism a curse. But at this point, I think it’s a personality trait and the truth.”

“And let me guess, this is why you take your coffee black too.”

Ivy winks at him before her smile takes over her face. “You know it.”

#calum hood #calum hood fanfic #calum hood imagine #calum hood fic #calum hood 5sos #calum 5sos #5sos #5sos fanfic #5sos fic #5sos imaagine #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer fanfic #5 seconds of summer fic #fbi!calum #behavior analyst!calum #h writes #calum hood blurb #calum hood x oc

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lovers-in-japan-reign-of-love · 5 years ago

Text

Request: Is it ok if I stay anonymous when/if you post it ⚠️trigger warning⚠️ can do a request where the teen Reader is part of the marvel cast and they notice that the reader has been acting different until one day they find a letter from the reader wishing she was dead but they save her life and talk to her about her problems. Thanks —(anonymous)

Notes: I’d like to thank (anonymous) for the request!! I hope you like it. Please read the warning too, my friends, it’s important.

I mean no disrespect by writing or posting this, and in no way do I take the themes and topics discussed in this story lightly. So if you’re triggered by any of this, I suggest not reading it.

I don’t own any of the gifs/pictures used.

⚠️⚠️Warnings: Suicidal reader, suicidal thoughts, reader considers suicide, worried co-stars/friends, bad writing ⚠️⚠️

Word Count: 756

Masterlist: Click Here & Here

You’ve been dealing with depression for a while now

It started around the summer you were entering high school

You’d been bullied horribly throughout middle school, and you did your best to not let your negative thoughts/emotions overwhelm you

You wanted to be the bigger person

You figured you could handle it on your own, so you didn’t tell your parents, not wanting them to worry

But the summer going into your freshman year was when those emotions and thoughts consumed you

Your parents suddenly divorced, your best friend no longer wanted to be associated with you, your father left without so much as a goodbye once the divorce was finalized, and it felt like your entire world was caving in on you

You spent a great deal of time crying, alone either in your bedroom or the bathroom

God, if anyone saw you crying it would make you feel even worse

You stayed composed around people; you let your thoughts and emotions consume you even more when you were alone

By the time you graduated high school, you were an emotional and psychological wreck

Emotionally, you were numb

Happiness, anger, fear — you couldn’t feel it

It’s like your brain just... shut down in that department

You mimicked other people’s reactions, just to come off as normal

That wore you down even more

Not long after graduating high school, you managed to get into acting, which seemed to be a perfect fit for you

People pretending to be other people? You do that nearly every day!

At 19 y/o, you land your first gig at Marvel, and you have to say the cast is amazing

Not only are they incredibly talented, but they’re funny, supportive, and reliable

They’re also very perceptive

They noticed almost immediately that something was a bit off about you

They noticed it gradually getting worse the more you worked with them

They assumed it was something personal, something you’d tell when you’re ready

What they didn’t know was that your depression was at its worse, and it was making you believe the only way to feel happiness/relief was through suicide

You never mentioned your depression to anyone, not wanting to burden those around you with something you deemed trivial, insignificant

But filming the latest Marvel movie weighed heavily on your mental health

You felt like everything you did was wrong, even when you received positive feedback, to you it seemed fake, like you were being lied to or they were attempting to make fun of you

You started to slowly distance yourself, not wanting to associate with the people who seemed to be belittling you in your eyes

Their kindness stung, their affection was suffocating, their support was overwhelming, their compliments made you feel ashamed

It wasn’t until one night you came to a sudden conclusion: the only way to escape your pain, to escape the intensity of your depression, would be to kill yourself

You spent the next couple hours writing lengthy suicide notes to your costars, planning on giving them out the day before you did the deed

You decided to keep the notes in your trailer so you’d have them ready, so you brought them with you when you came to set the next morning

You left the notes out, without even thinking

You’d gone to hair and make-up to get ready, and Sebastian went into your trailer to ask you about something, unaware that you weren’t there

He saw the notes

He couldn’t help but read them

He freaked out

He made a group chat — excluding you — and brought it to everyone’s attention

They all freak out

By the time you leave hair and make-up you’re surrounded by your costars

Scarlett: “Y/N, why didn’t you tell us?”

Chris (Evans): “You know we’re here for you, you don’t have to keep anything from us.”

RDJ: “We love you kid, you mean the world to us. Please, we just want you to talk to us.”

Anthony Mackie: “You’re our best friend, Y/N. Your life is precious, we can’t imagine a world without you in it.”

It’s too much

You start crying

You try to tell them what’s been going on, but your sobs are making your words incomprehensible

It’ll take time for you to recover, for you to feel even a little normal

You know you’ve got your costars to talk to, but that won’t be enough

You’ll need professional help, but at least you know the cast truly cares about you

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

@treasure-that-is-what-you-are

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picnokinesis · 3 years ago

Note

your profile on ao3 mentions you like Pacific Rim have you ever considered a series 12 cast (so 13 + fam + master) pacrim au? bc weirdly enough i feel like spydoc would actually be drift compatible

OH MY DAYS ok I had to write this out on a note on my phone because I have so many thoughts, pacrim aus come like BREATHING to me, but consider:

Koschei Oakdown (he/him), teenage heir of some kind of rich and powerful business man who moved his family inland when the Kaiju attacks began. His father is essentially grooming Koschei to be his successor, but Koschei has zero interest - all he wants is to go back to the coastal city of Vancouver where he grew up, so he can stay with his best friend Theta Lungbarrow (they/them) and study things he's actually interested, like xenobiology, since he's certain that the only way to defeat the kaiju is to understand them. It only takes a few weeks for him to get sick of the whole thing and run away, heading back to Vancouver - but the day he arrives, the kaiju Karloff attacks. He survives, and finds Theta, who also survived - but their parents were not so lucky. Koschei's parents believe that he's dead, and Koschei has no intention of correcting them on that, and so him and Theta end up in the care of the state, and he begins to start studying xenobiolology. Theta, on the other hand, has become somewhat obsessed with the idea of jaegers, after watching Brawler Yuhkon fight against Karloff - the first jaeger to ever fight a kaiju - and win. They want to build jaegers and be a pilot, and even Koschei won't deny that there's no way the two of them aren't drift compatible.

Fast forward a few years - Theta and Koschei are two young but brilliant scientists working for the PPDC, Theta in J-Tech and Koschei in K-Science. Theta is working on a new technological approach to building jaegers and also messing with the Drift interface, to see if the synchronisation between pilots can be increased, whilst Koschei is looking for weaknesses in the kaiju's biology. However, they're both entirely invested in each other's research and tend to argue quite intensely in order to brainstorm and have breakthroughs - much to the despair of everyone in the j-tech and k-science departments. But one thing Theta wants more than anything is to pilot a jaeger - even though on paper they have no chance, having not been to Jaeger academy or anything. But Caitlin Lightcap (the pilot of Brawler Yuhkon and inventor of the drift interface) also didn't go to jaeger academy. She just put herself in the position where they HAD to let her in a jaeger by completing the first drift with D'onofrio and saving his life. And so, because Theta entirely lacks self preservation, they persuade Koschei that it's a good idea to test out their new drift technology on themselves. Because the other issue is funding - no one wants to support an experimental rig or jaeger design until Theta can prove that it works. So they will.

And that's EXACTLY what they do, and they're extremely lucky it doesn't kill them but they get it to work and it's fantastic. The Drift is stronger than any before it. And so (after the pair of them get pulled out of an experimental rig and get into a LOT of trouble), they manage to persuade the PPDC to 1) let them build a new jaeger and 2) be the two who pilot it, since they've alread forged a drift bond in the new interface.

And so the jaeger Gallifrey Ember is born.

BUT THEN. They have several extremely successful deployments, until one fateful night where it all goes very wrong. I'm not sure exactly what happens because this is all off the top of my head this morning and I'm currently walking to work HAHA but I'm gonna say that maybe Koschei thought there was some xenobiology knowledge that they could use to fight against this specific kaiju (which is something he's done before and it's partly why their missions are so successful) but as he goes to dig for it, he accidentally pulls up the memory of the Karloff attack, and ends up chasing the rabbit. Only, because the new interface has their minds so intertwined, it knocks the pair of them out of alignment even worse than it would have otherwise (especially since their trauma memories are from the same event) and their drift just goes completely. As you can imagine, it all goes very badly a la Gispy Danger vs Knifehead, only the city they're trying to protect gets hit pretty bad and there are a LOT of casulaties - more than ever since the jaeger programme started deploying. I think in the end it's Theta who, mostly bearing the neural load alone, has to do something drastic to stop the kaiju - maybe killing it in a way that spills Kaiju Blue everywhere and just poisons the land/water. Anyway after that Theta is EXTREMELY ANGRY at Koschei, and he's mad at HER for being mad at him because sorry for having trauma memories and accidentally triggering them?? But she's like I KNOW I also have those memories and you left me to basically pilot alone??? But anyway it's all a mess, Gallifrey Ember is basically destroyed and the pair of them are injured, traumatised, and unreconcilable, and so they decide that they're never drifting again and basically go separate ways. No one ever uses Theta's drift or jaeger tech again because it's considered too dangerous or volatile.

FAST FORWARD SEVERAL YEARS AGAIN. Enter Ryan Sinclair - young j-tech engineer who looks at the original Gallifrey Ember specs and is like "hey, no, this WORKED but it's just it went wrong one time and now no one will touch it, but maybe I can fix this old beat up jaeger and make it work again?". And so he rebuilds the jaeger - and names it Gallifrey Inferno instead. But, of course, no one wants to pilot it because of it's history, and also it really needs two pilots who are used to this sort of interface, rather than trying to train two new pilots (also, what new pilots?? The funding for the jaeger programme is getting cut by the day, and the jaeger pilot academies are all getting shut down). So, in short - they need Theta and Koschei back.

Yaz and Graham are there too - Yaz was in jaeger academy, but then the funding got pulled so her cohort got dropped, and now she's a security guard for the Shatterdome, but she still desperately wants to be at the heart of the action and actually making a difference. Graham is one of the guys who drives the carts across the Shatterdome deployment floor HAHA but he's great, he talks to EVERYONE in the Shatterdome and knows exactly what's going on underneath all the bureaucracy. He's also Ryan's granddad - they're somewhat at odds, but they're also both still grieving over the death of Grace, Ryan's nan, who died during a kaiju attack.

And then I have no idea - the three of them team up to drag Koschei and Theta back? Although to be honest I bet if Theta found out they were rebuilding their jaeger, they would be breaking into the Shatterdome IMMEDIATELY, so maybe Yaz catches them sneaking in hahaha. But obviously, even when Theta and Koschei are back together they are very reluctant to drift. I imagine that they both also have a lot of problems with ghost drifitng and stuff because their drift was so strong. And then...I want there to be s12 parallels, but I'm not quite sure what happens but I feel like Theta ended up being made to work on some weird slightly unethical drift project by the people who control the funding of the PPDC because they want to know more of the impact of the drift on the human brain, especially such a strong drift (I'm thinking like...ok so in one of my favourite pacrim fanfics, Newt gets forced to work in a drift project after his kaiju drift, but he keeps the fact that Hermann also drifted secret to protect him - but it ends up being pretty rough for Newt) but then obviously they're forced to keep the whole thing secret so they don't even tell Koschei. But eventually when the pair of them drift again, Koschei finds out (which then is the equivalent of him finding stuff in the Matrix). But he doesn't find out everything because it's all a mess and maybe the drift is off kilter because of it? Not sure. But yeah! This is all extremely rough so...y'know. Could probably develop it further. My only other thought is that the other jaeger pilots are alternate versions of thoschei or doctor-companion team ups.

#taka replies #anon #doctor who #pacific rim #pac rim au #SKSKSKSKS CAN YOU TELL #I LOVE PACIFIC RIM #i am actually at work now which is why it's taken me ages to actually finish typing this #i am not writing this as a fic #just putting that out there now #HAHAHA #long post

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tae-cup · 4 years ago

Text

Have a Merry Christmas :) - Yoongi

For: @yoongi-sugaglider, Eommaaaaaaa

From: Marria

Pairing: Musician!Yoongi x Author!Reader

Summary: The littlest of gestures have the biggest impact <3

Genre: Neighbors to Lovers, Strangers to Lovers, Fluff, It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

Warnings: Your heart may burst from the fluff, like a little language here and there.

Rating: PG

Word Count: 3.8k Words

A/N: I am not Christian, but I have a lot of holiday spirit, okay? Also, Eomma I loved writing this for you. Honestly, it’s so cute and I love you and everything you do. You’re doing great and I hope this is what you were hoping for! Alexa, play All I Want For Christmas is You by Mariah Carey

Other: Masterlist

Moving was a long and laborious task. Your arms felt like jelly as you clutched the heavy box of dishes. You kicked open the door of your new apartment as it began to close behind the line of movers going in and out.

“Need some help?” A low voice grumbled. Assuming it was your father, you just groaned and nodded.

“God, I didn’t even know I had so many dishes! I’m pretty sure I just use the same ones. I should give some back to you and mom.” You complained.

“That’s great, but I’m not your dad.” Ah, shit.

In your defense, the box blocked a majority of your line of sight and you were a bit preoccupied. What you didn’t expect was to see a handsome man staring at you through narrowed eyes. A small smile tugged at his lips.

He wordlessly held open the door for you to get into the apartment and you didn’t say anything out of embarrassment. You set down the box and when you turned around to say thank you and apologize, he was already gone. The door next to yours clicked shut.

Great. It wasn’t the first impression you had wanted out of your next door neighbor. You pulled your hair into a ponytail and swiped at the building sweat. You needed to do something to get on better terms with your neighbor. Or maybe you were overthinking things way too much. You began to unpack the dishes while the movers brought in the couch.

After the dishes were put away, you went back out to help the movers. On your way out, you glanced at the heavy oak door that was close beside yours. You bit at your lip and turned back to head downstairs. You had wanted to knock, to apologize or just say something.

Something something something. You were always doing something. They called you quite the ‘fixer’ in your house. Being an author was not usually a great career choice, but one thing did stand out about you; when something was wrong, you fixed it.

Min Yoongi ended up being quite the enigma, as you were soon to find out. Ever since your first meeting, he had been cordial with you. In all honesty, though, he rarely left his apartment. You did figure out that he was a musician and studying in the music department at the local college. How did you find out? Well, you weren’t a stalker, okay, but you did overhear conversations from time to time. The walls were thin.

You had noticed how he rarely had any visitors, even during holidays, and a few times you had wanted to ask if he wished to join you for celebrations like New Years or Christmas, but you never did. You found out why he was alone about a year into living in the building. You didn’t speak to him, but there was some attraction to the unknown.

It had been Christmas. You were packing and preparing to leave your monotonous life to spend time with your family. It was your favorite time of the year. Warm fairy lights were hung all around your apartment and the smell of cinnamon candles was in the air.

You shoved the last of your clothing into the bag. You were decked out with ugly Christmas sweaters, beanies, and boots. Just as you were about to leave, you heard the shouting of muffled voices from next door.

Neither of those were Yoongi. You knew because, well, he just never seemed like the type to yell in an argument. In all your interactions with him, leaving in the morning, riding the elevator, you knew him to be a quiet and introverted man.

The shouting grew louder and you wondered if you should go knock on the door and check in. You exited your apartment and walked the few steps to stand in front of his door. Hesitation filled your mind and you bit at your lip. After a few more moments, you decided against it. You turned and started walking down the hall to the elevator.

Suddenly, the door to his apartment opened and closed with a loud slam. You felt yourself jump at the loud noise and you twisted your head to look at the door. Yoongi, with his faded blonde hair, you had noticed he was into dyeing his hair a different color every month, was exiting his room. He took brisk steps, mumbling something about getting some fresh air.

You glanced at him as he strode into the elevator with you. He was running his hands madly through his hair in a constant rhythm. Then he took in a deep breath. The elevator already held winter’s frigid air and you could see the lightest of breaths puffing out from his mouth.

“My parents.” He said simply. You nodded in understanding, connecting the dots.

“I’m sorry about that.” You said softly. He finally looked at you. You remained still, watching as the numbers ticked downward.

After a few moments of his eyes roaming your face, he turned back to look at the metal doors.

“It can’t be helped. Most parents wouldn’t want their child throwing away their life on trivial pursuits.”

“Trivial pursuits, hm?” Your heart thumped quietly in your chest. You remembered the look your parents gave you when you told them about your wishes to pursue writing.

“I want to be in the music industry. You know, like those kpop producers?”

“I see.” You hummed in acknowledgement.

The elevator slowed to a stop and the doors slowly creaked open. You hurried out, shouldering your duffle bag. The lobby was cold, the doors opening and letting a cold breeze in every time a resident entered or exited. Yoongi stepped out with you. This was the longest conversation you’d had with him for a year, it was oddly calming.

Yoongi was a listener and he took his time with his words. You reflected this in a way, but your support system was stronger. When you looked at his tired face, the way his lips pulled into a natural frown, you felt concerned. How was he holding up?

“I think you should do what you want, Yoongi.” You said, walking to the entrance for the underground parking. He watched you go.

“Don’t worry, Y/N, I am.” He said simply and turned on his heel, leaving for the regular entrance.

A few years passed like seconds. Your life was just flashing by your eyes. Schoolwork, your job, everything was the same. Each year you led a comfortable lifestyle, you even managed to get your book into the editing phase. More and more, your life and fascination with your neighbor had intertwined.

The words you wrote in your book became based on the intrigue of your mysterious neighbor. Who was he really? What did he do besides schoolwork? To you, it seemed he just sat inside and played piano until the early morning hours, just like he was doing now.

Christmas Eve was around once again and you were packing, once more, to go see your family. You wanted to leave extra early in order to spend more time with your grandma, whose health had been shaky lately.

The sweet melody of silent night echoed through the quiet building. You glanced to your far left wall, trying to imagine him sitting at his piano, playing such a melancholic song such a happy day.

That’s when it really began; the notes. It started with a simple message scrawled messily on a sticky note.

Have a Merry Christmas, yoongi. :) - Y/N

You kept at it. Notes upon notes, everyday, 365 days. It gave you something to do and it was always a nice routine. You were sure he threw away each note and he never mentioned them when you stood in the elevator together either. It wasn’t anything bad.

They always just said simple things like Hope you had a good day today. Or Are you alright? Or, your personal favorite, Have you had anything to eat? The questions always ranged based on how you heard him enter his apartment. You tried your best to plan ahead, so you kept at least two in your pocket in case you forgot sticky notes.

You often thought over your feelings for him. He was nice, sweet, and on top of it, extremely handsome. You lazily wrote I like you one day on a sticky note and then crumpled it up, stuffing it into one of your pockets. Someday, someday. You told yourself.

“Whatcha got there?” You asked, eyeing the white grocery bag in his hand.

He stood next to you, as per usual, on the elevator. The elevator itself was old and slow.

“Just some dried squid.” He said.

You were quiet, which prompted him to continue.

“They’re taking them out of stock this week and I don’t know how long until I can get them again. I don’t have time to go anywhere else. So I guess I’ve just got to stock up.” He explained quickly. You nodded, logging the information away into your brain.

“Personally, I like Kyoho Jelly.” You said.

“Ah, that’s good too.”

The next week, you went to another grocery store, and even though you weren’t a particularly big fan of dried squid, you bought several packages. For the next few weeks, you delivered your notes with a bag of dried squid.

Both you and Yoongi had rather...solitary ways of life. He spent his time holed up playing piano and you spent your time hiding in your room writing. In fact, you mostly had the same schedule as each other. It felt nice to have a companion on your short trips to and from school. Even if you didn’t say much, it was enough.

You ran into him on the elevator once more. He gave you a nod of acknowledgement and even managed a smile. You felt your cheeks heat up slightly. Who wouldn’t be flustered to speak to him?

Yeah, he had that nerdy, introvert, kind of look to him, but he had this mystery in his eyes, a coldness that could only be found through years of immense strength and resilience. You knew him to be dedicated. Your way of supporting him was by not knocking on his door when it was 1 A.M. and he was practicing the same piece for the hundredth time.

Yoongi held a folder of sheet music in his arms and you held your manuscript. The blonde looked at your arms.

“You’re a writer?” He asked.

“You could say that.” You shrugged and hit your floor number. You stayed still as he stepped in after you.

“That’s...really cool.” He said awkwardly.

You were a bit surprised. You had expected him to be cool as a cucumber, very put together, but he seemed almost nervous as he stood beside you. He fidgeted quite a bit and averted his eyes away from you.

“I guess.” You said softly, a warm feeling growing in your stomach. Then you bit your lip to keep from smiling.

“I wanted to apologize about uh, the way we met.” You chuckled. “I didn’t know you weren’t, achem, my father.”

He looked away and you saw his shoulders shake with a silent laugh. Then he turned back to you. You saw a ghost of a smile left on his lips and he slowly let his face fall back into a neutral position.

“It’s no problem.” He said stoically, then he broke character, “I found it quite...humorous and you’re cute so it’s no big deal.”

Then he flushed bright red and stumbled over his next words.

“I mean, I-nevermind, this is awkward.” He rushed and took a deep breath. He released a sigh and you smiled at him.

“Thanks.” You said gently.

The elevator dinged and you stepped out, waiting for him. Did he know about the notes? Why hadn’t he said anything? You glanced at his flustered face and decided against questioning him. He stepped out and began to walk with you in silence to your door.

You finally made your move.

“Hey, I know I usually leave these on your door, but since you’re right here...I’ll just give it to you, okay?” You reached into your pocket and picked up the first crumpled piece you found. You handed it to him sheepishly and he took it, holding it carefully in his soft hands.

“Thank you.”

“It’s no problem.”

He opened his door. “See you around.”

“See you-” the door shut. “-around.” You finished quietly.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out the other piece of paper. How’s your day? It read. Your face paled. Oh god, no. The only other paper in your pocket had been...I like you.

Your book had been slipping away from you. The editing process was tedious and time felt like it was getting away from you. Yoongi didn’t know about your book, he didn’t know how you wondered if he was alright, like some weird infatuation. It was normal to be worried about your neighbor, right?

On the subject of notes, you had gotten a rather harsh wake up call from your publisher. He had explained, in simple terms, that your book wouldn’t be successful.

“The writing is okay, I guess, but what happened halfway through? I was sure the main character was going to end up with Brandon, so why does it so suddenly change? I think this will throw off readers looking for a cute romance novel.” He said, as if reading off a script.

“But it’s realistic. You can’t fall in love and expect to be with the first man you lay eyes on.” You argued.

“Look, Y/N, this is just supposed to be a ditzy romance novel. Don’t get into your head with metaphors and realism. That’s not what you’re good at and not what we signed up for. Thanks.”

And the call had ended just like that. Distressed was an understatement. You set your phone down on the counter and collapsed on the couch that lay next to the wall that connected Yoongi and your apartment.

He was playing Nuvole Bianche, a rather sad song, and it pushed you to the edge. Everything was going wrong. Yoongi hadn’t even looked at you since you got the notes mixed up and you were sure he was purposefully avoiding you.

The tears began to stream down your face, painting your cheeks. The piano rose in intensity and a sob tore out. Years of work, and for what?

The disappointed looks on your parents’ faces, the raised eyebrows of your professors, all the words they had said to you in subtle jabs at your character, your career choice...were they true? Were they right? You curled in on yourself, sobbing loudly. You didn’t even notice the piano music halt.

The only sound were your sobs, the hopelessness that settled in your bones. Maybe you should just stop. Then, there was a melody. A soft tune that had waited for a quiet moment. You’ve got a friend in me.

The joyful piano contrasted that of your own despair. You lifted your head. Had he heard? Did he know? You swiped at your eyes as the tune grew louder.

You got troubles, and I got 'em too. There isn't anything I wouldn't do for you. We stick together and we see it through. 'Cause you've got a friend in me. You've got a friend in me. The melody swept you up and carried you away.

You could breathe again.

The TV was turned up loud, blaring the message that had you sitting on the couch this Christmas instead of with your parents.

“A large avalanche occurred late last night, blocking a major roadway from Seoul to Busan. Officials say no one was injured in this disaster, however this will prevent hundreds of people from returning home this Christmas.” The reporter said.

You watched the screen, mind blank and eyes open. The screen itself was blurred to your vision and you were currently pushing away the harsh reality that threw a wrench in the happiest day of the year for you. You had no one. Still, in your misery, you blinked and stood. You had to do the one thing you knew how to do; write.

So you wrote. You wrote well into the afternoon. You wrote until your fingers cramped and your stomach growled with hunger. You wrote until you could hear Yoongi slamming his apartment door at the end of the day.

Your misery was on display on this blank white page. Wasn’t this supposed to be a good day? You bit your lip and looked to the far wall. Yoongi was silent. No piano music was heard.

In a split second decision, before your inspiration vanished and your mind became numb from writing all day, you jotted a few words down onto a sticky note. You surveyed the yellow paper. It was such a small square, but the words on it meant something. It was weird how words can mean so much.

You left your apartment, stretching out your back which had been hunched over your computer. You swallowed thickly and stuck the note down on the ground. You knocked and waited. No response.

You sighed and left, opening your door and slamming it shut behind you. You felt angry tears pricking at your eyes. It was stupid, trying to understand your handsome neighbor, trying to connect to such an obviously closed off person.

The sound of his door opening softly and closing made you stop. You checked the time. You had three hours to midnight, three hours to Christmas.

Yoongi hesitated, staring down at the little note. Have a Merry Christmas :) - Y/N

He bent down and picked it up, the note reminding him of the first note last year. Of course he noticed the notes everyday, of course he felt grateful, happy that someone cared. It had been a long time since that happened. He flipped over the note. Nothing on the backside, yet the simple words seemed to taunt him.

The notes had made him feel...funny inside. Yoongi wasn’t all too great at figuring out what was going on in his head, he just plowed through life as fast as possible. He spent his time lost in work, piano, or sleeping.

Your notes felt like a time when he could calm down and stop for a bit. How are you? I hope your day was good. Little things that made the biggest of impacts on his world.

He needed to do something. The blonde, now mint haired, couldn’t understand how he felt about you. All he knew was that he very desperately wanted to make you happy. He had gone radio silent for a while, unsure of what to do when he discovered your note; I like you. What was he supposed to do with that information?

Maybe you like her back? His conscience said.

He thought of the crumpled notes in his desk, the replies never sent. He knew what he needed to do next.

30 minutes to midnight. You were sprawled on your bed like you were making a snow angel. A soft rapping on your door made you sit up. You glanced at the time and then you stood. You made your way to your closet in an attempt to throw on something other than your pajamas.

In the end, you just chose leggings and a random christmas sweater in your half packed bag. Looking at the open bag made you frown and your mood dampened. The knocking sounded again.

“Coming!” You shouted, pulling on socks and walking to your door.

Upon opening the heavy wood, you saw no one. Then, on the ground, was a sticky note.

Have a merry Christmas :) - Yoongi.

You picked up the note, heart thumping wildly. You turned to look at his door. It creaked open slightly and All I Want For Christmas is You began its lilting melody.

You folded the paper up and stepped towards his door. You gripped the note tightly, hope blooming in your chest. He sees you. The little voice in your head pushed you to continue you into the apartment.

“Yoongi?” You called. The piano continued playing. Your heart thudded in your ears and you glanced down the short hall.

A board was propped up at the end, illuminated by hazy yellow Christmas lights. You stepped quietly and quickly towards it. You noted the similar layouts of your apartments.

It was like all the pieces of an apartment (a hallway, a room, a bathroom, etc) but in a different order with the same dimensions. As you walked closer to the board, you could finally make out what was on it. Your breath caught in your throat.

Notes. Little sticky notes were pressed all over the board. You leaned closer and the familiar scrawl of your handwriting came into focus. All of your notes. Every. Single. Note. You had ever sent him, was on this board.

You felt tears spring to your eyes. He had kept them. You managed to hold back the flood as you read over each note with fascination, because beside every note, was another note in Yoongi’s handwriting.

How are you? I’m okay, how are you?

Did you eat today? Yes, there’s no need to worry.

They were in various conditions. Notes, you realized, that he had intended to respond to you with. Each one was crumpled slightly, as if he’d thrown them out and then decided against it.

A bag of dried squid sat next to a bag of Kyoho Jelly. You smiled a little, remembering your gesture of goodwill. In the very middle, however, you caught the note you were sure he had thrown away.

I like you. I like you too.

Time froze. The tears were down your cheeks in an instant, the overwhelming emotions flooding you. The note’s words played over in your brain, like his soft breath in your ear.

I like you. I like you too. The music came to a stop and you were pulled from your thoughts, twisting around to face the mint haired man. His eyes were soft, a gummy smile on his face.

“You didn’t think I would let you spend Christmas alone after all of this, hm?” He teased.

You let out a little chuckle and walked towards him. He stood from his piano and met you in the middle of the room. He took your hands in his and squeezed softly.

“Thank you, Yoongi.”

“No, I should thank you.” He glanced at the board of notes. “You didn’t need to do all of this.”

“It was just a silly infatuation.”

“There’s nothing silly about it, Y/N.” He pulled you closer ever so slightly. Then he looked up pointedly and you followed his line of sight. Mistletoe.

Without a second thought, without a doubt, which was a surprise since you had many, you tilted your head and met his lips with yours.

He pressed into you, wrapping an arm around your waist and moving his lips in time to yours. Yoongi had an aloof and cold demeanor oftentimes, but he found he was only ever warm when he was with you.

You pulled away, breathing a little harder than before. His cheeks were tinged pink and yours were as well. You were flustered, captivated by his chocolate eyes. The clock on the wall chimed midnight.

“Merry Christmas, Yoongi.” You breathed.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.” Then he leaned in once more and gave you a soft kiss on the lips.

#bts #bts x reader #Min Yoongi #Castlebangtan #castlebangtan friends #ily eomma #yoongi x reader #Secret Santa #fluff #strangers to lovers #stl #neighbors to lovers #bangtanuniversity #bangtanarmynet #kpopuniversenet #PG #Marria is in the holiday spirit

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hatterstan-shameblog · 4 years ago

Text

The One With The Room Reassignment

Aguni needs a new room. For, well, reasons. Embarrassing reasons. Reasons that he’s trying not to disclose to anyone, least of all Takeru, who...well, you know how he is.

But it’ll all be okay.

Right?

(Because I simply could not have read this post by @missdrake without writing the Aguni prompt. I mean, come on, the opportunity for banter was just too good!)

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

Rating: ‼️18+‼️ Do Not Interact If You Are Underage

Warnings: descriptions of sexual situations, referenced drug use, alcohol, threats of violence

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

Of all the places Aguni could be right now, this has to be one of the worst.

It’s not that he dislikes Takeru’s room, per se. On the contrary, he actually enjoys the subtle opulence of the space, spelled out in caramel-colored woods and blue-green drapes.

It’s fancy, yes, but approachable. Comfortable, even.

But, in this moment, Aguni feels anything but comfortable. He feels antsy, he feels jumpy—he feels the angry little teeth of embarrassment nibbling at the ends of his nerves, and its making his palms sweat.

Are the lights in here extra hot, or is that just him?

...It’s probably just him.

It doesn’t help that Takeru is staring at him, those deep-dark eyes filled with their usual mix of subtle scrutiny mixed with glittering amusement and finished off with a dash of smug confidence—like a flourish of whipped cream atop a hot fudge sundae, if the whipped cream had the uncanny ability to see into a person’s soul and the hot fudge sundae was a lovable bastard whose modus operandi involved creating as much drama as possible.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” Takeru says—and he is so very feline, stretched into a graceful sprawl along the black leather sofa, his lips curled into a serene, sleepy smile around the lip of a champagne flute.

Aguni doesn’t even like champagne, but he’s been taking small, nervous sips from his own glass all the same because that is infinitely more manageable than talking. Except, well...because he’s not talking, the situation is getting more and more awkward by the minute.

“Didn’t expect you to be alone.”

“I’ve decided to take the night off,” Takeru says, rolling his shoulders back in a slow stretch of spine, “The games, the meetings, the endless parade of unfortunates looking for guidance and reassurance? It wears on you, Mori-chan.”

As if to illustrate the point, Takeru heaves a dramatic sigh.

“There’s something wearing on you, too, isn’t there? You look...pained?”

“I, uh,” Aguni swallows nervously. This is the part he’s been dreading for the last hour, and now that it’s here...well. All he has to do is stick to the plan and everything will be okay.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

“I...” Aguni gulps, “need a new room.”

Although his delivery leaves something to be desired in the “calm and collected” department, Aguni is quite pleased with himself for having managing to get the words out without blushing.

...Okay, he’s probably blushing a little bit, but Takeru hasn’t teased him about it yet, so it can’t be that bad.

“Oh? Why?”

Aguni’s jaw tightens. The problem with Takeru (one of the many, if he’s being honest) is that the man can be particularly difficult to read. Even after thirty-plus years of friendship, Aguni can’t tell what he’s thinking half of the time, which has left him in quite a few...situations. Difficult situations. Confusing situations. Awkward situations.

Situations like these, where Aguni’s brain is spinning like a high-powered carousel on a pottery wheel inside of a giant blender and someone keeps pressing the ‘pulse’ button with a giant hammer and it’s all very loud and very unpleasant.

“The bed,” he answers slowly, “uh, the bed is...broken.”

“Broken?”

Aguni takes another gulp of alcohol—too much for one swallow, and his throat spasms around the popping fizz of carbonation. He coughs slightly.

“Yes,” Aguni clarifies, “Broken.”

Takeru rolls his eyes.

“Always the brilliant conversationalist,” Takeru says, dripping with sarcasm and waving his champagne with a dismissive gesture, “We’ve established that the bed is broken, but you’ve failed to mention how it is broken, and since I do not know the extend of the breakage, I am unable to determine if you do, in fact, need to be moved to a different room. Space is limited, Mori-chan. I can’t afford to be frivolous about such things.”

Had he not been so focused on maintaining some semblance of composure, Aguni might have teased his friend for lecturing him about frivolity—but now is not the time for chit-chat. He is a man on a mission, and the success of said mission is dependent on his ability to, as they say, ‘get in and get out.’

“The frame. It, uh...snapped off of the headboard,”Aguni answers carefully, “It’s...I can’t sleep on it.”

Takeru’s eyes narrow.

“Ah. I see.”

Silence settles between them once more—only for a moment, but it’s enough to make Aguni shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“I can fix it,” Aguni adds, “I just...need a place to stay tonight.”

There is a flash of silver—Takeru is one of the only people Aguni knows under the age of sixty who uses a cigarette case, which is both charming and frequently inconvenient— and it’s only a second before the scent of smoke and nicotine fills the air.

“I suppose that’s reasonable,” he concludes—and it’s a weight off of Aguni’s mind and heart that Takeru hasn’t decided to ask him a million questions regarding the “why’s” and “how’s” of his current predicament.

Perhaps there’s a chance he can make it out of here (relatively) unscathed.

So, when Takeru offers Aguni a drag on his cigarette, Aguni doesn’t much read into the gesture and gladly accepts.

“Hm,” Takeru says.

“What?”

“That is...so interesting.”

Aguni hands the cigarette back to his friend.

“Not sure what you mean.”

“I’m just reminiscing, I suppose,” Takeru says airily, “about the last time we shared a cigarette. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Something blooms in Aguni—something bad and uncertain.

“I don’t—“

“Oh, it’s been years. Three, actually. And a half. Tell me, Mori-chan,” Takeru furrows his brow, “can you remember where we were three-and-a-half years ago?”

Remember the ‘something’ that bloomed inside Aguni just a moment ago? Well, it has a name, and that name is ‘intense discomfort.’ He knows where this is going. He knows he’s powerless to stop it.

“Don’t worry, my dear friend—I remember,” he says, closing his eyes and smiling to himself, “Halloween. Osaka. 2018. I was Freddie Mercury. You were Elton John. It took me ages to get all those sequins sewn on...”

Takeru takes one final hit from the cigarette before stubbing it out into a (decidedly lovely) teacup that happened to be conveniently placed on the coffee table in front of him.

“Isn’t that the year you threw the statue of Colonel Sanders into the river?”

Takeru sneers.

“You mean the year I threw Colonel Sanders into the river alone because...somebody ran off with the mascot from that mediocre takoyaki stand,” he snips, “and then had the audacity to show up two hours later asking for a cigarette. Do you know why you asked for a cigarette, Mori-chan?”

“Oh no.”

“It’s because you didn’t have any on you. Because you don’t usually smoke. Unless,” and Takeru positively relishes his dramatic pause, “it’s after sex.”

Aguni doesn’t say anything.

“You thought you could come into my house,” Takeru shouts, “after having mind-blowing, soul-shattering sex—the kind of sex that snaps bed frames clean in half—and I wouldn’t know about it?”

“But how did you—?”

“I heard you,” Takeru spits, “howling like...like some kind of demonic wolf in the light of a full moon!”

“I couldn’t have been that loud...”

“Loud enough to hear from down the hall,” Takeru adds, “frankly, I’m impressed. And a little jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“Of your lover. Nobody’s broken a bed fucking me lately, which is a goddamn shame,” Takeru sips from his glass, “Don’t suppose you’ll tell me who it was, hm?”

“No,” Aguni snaps, perhaps a bit too quickly, “making fun of me is one thing, but I won’t you have you making fun of my...uh, my...”

“Paramour?”

“...Sure,” Aguni says, “Look, the point is, it’s important that I—“

“Yes, yes, you’re about to lecture me about ‘privacy’ and ‘boundaries’ and all the things decent people like you are oh-so-interested in preserving,” Takeru says, rolling his eyes, “Believe it or not, I am capable of discretion.”

“You are?”

“When the situation calls for it,” Takeru muses, “or if it’s simply more fun to keep my mouth shut and watch the drama unfold. You having a secret lover ticks both boxes.”

Takeru jumps up from his seat and claps his hands together.

“So! I have decided,” he announces with great panache, “that I shall, in fact, give you a new room. A nice one, too. Maybe even nicer than the one you’re in currently.”

Aguni huffs a relieved breath.

“Thank you.”

“But!” Takeru flops down on the couch next to Aguni with all the grace of a fleshly-flipped pancake, “You have to do something for me.”

“I don’t—“

“You have to answer three,” and Takeru holds up three fingers in front of Aguni’s face, “of my questions. Truthfully. No skips, no take-backs.”

This is...well. This is not ideal.

Aguni considers his options. On one hand, he’s entirely justified in slapping Takeru across the face and shouting ‘absolutely not!’—and, honestly, Takeru would probably understand because, while he is an asshole, he is a self-aware asshole.

On the other hand, it’s only three questions. Maybe, if he’s able to keep Takeru on topic (a Herculean effort to be sure), Aguni can make quick work of getting a new room and, more importantly, getting the hell out of here.

“Fine,” he mumbles, “but make it quick. I’m tired.”

“Yeah, I bet you are,” Takeru says, “nothing wears you out quite like an evening of dirty, nasty, animalistic—“

“Takeru!”

“—Depraved, disgusting fucking,” and he makes a very disgusted ugh-ing sound when he notices Aguni shooting him a pointed glare, “Fine. Lovemaking. Whatever. The point is that you got it in real good and that’s enough to make anyone tired.”

“Dealing with you is making me tired. Please, just...ask your questions so I can get a room and go to bed.”

“Fine, fine,” Takeru says, and he makes a great show of thinking the matter over, mouth puckering into a pouty little frown before snapping into a mischievous smirk, “Question one: did you shower before coming here?”

Aguni sighs and looks down at his shoes.

“No.”

“Oh, that is gross,” Takeru shouts, clapping him on the back, “I’m so proud of you!”

Aguni rolls his eyes, trying his hardest to look unaffected by his friend’s prying. But he can’t hide the blush from blooming on his face, because this is all very mortifying and he doesn’t particularly enjoy the way Takeru is looking at him with a devious little smile.

“It’s like looking in a mirror,” Takeru says, running a hand through his hair, “a less-handsome—but taller—mirror!”

“Got a good two inches on you,” Aguni says, and he relishes the way his companion winces. Although he is not a short man by any means, Takeru has always been just a bit shorter than him—which has led to quite a few jabs over the years.

“Maybe in height,” Takeru quips, “but certainly not everywhere else, hm?”

It’s odd, but somehow, Aguni has not yet gotten used to feeling his soul leave his body. He doesn’t hide the fact that he’s dying inside, letting the pain shine out directly from his face and hopes it slaps Takeru across the mouth so he doesn’t have to.

“I couldn’t resist,” Takeru says between chuckles, “You know how I am!”

“Unfortunately.”

But Takeru is too busy staring at him now to give one of his classically witty retorts. To the untrained eye, it would appear that he is carefully considering something. Because Aguni knows that the words ‘careful’ and ‘consideration’ are not part of Takeru’s vocabulary, he steels himself for whatever batshit-insane bullshit is going to come flying at him next.

“Now, I know the identity of your new squeeze is off-limits. Which I am sympathetic towards, because I am a sensitive and caring man—which, by the way, is something you should mention to any and all available singles you should happen upon throughout your travels...”

There’s just something about the way Takeru talks—and talks, and talks—that sets Aguni’s blood to boil.

“You know why it took me three years to get laid? Because you,” Aguni snaps, “wouldn’t stop fucking talking long enough for me to get away and meet someone.”

“Ooh, so bitchy! Seems like you could use a little more of whatever you just had,” Takeru runs a finger along the rim of his glass, smiling to himself when the friction creates a high-pitched hum, “if that’s a possibility, of course.”

Aguni feels a headache coming on. He runs at his temples in a (futile) attempt to stave it off.

“I don’t have time for your games, Takeru. If you want to ask me if this was a one-night stand, then ask me if it was a one-night stand.”

“Fine, then. Mori-chan,” Takeru places his glass on the table and turns to face Aguni. He pulls his legs up and hugs his shins close to himself, chin resting on his knobby knees—like a high school girl at a sleepover, “Did you give that mystery individual the fuck of a lifetime because you knew it was going to be a one-time thing...or because this is the start of something more?”

“I...” Aguni pauses, “I don’t know.”

Takeru’s brow furrows.

“Don’t look at me like that! I was, uh,” Aguni rubs the back of his neck uncertainly, “I thought we’d maybe have that conversation when I got back.”

Takeru tilts his head slightly to the left.

“Got back from where?”

“Here.”

“Mori-chan. Darling. Dearest,” Takeru places a hand on his shoulder, fingers gripping into the skin a little more with each passing moment, “do you mean to tell me that you...left your lover alone on a broken bed...to come talk to me?”

“No,” Aguni answers, “Left ‘em in the bath.”

“Oh my God...”

“What? I thought it was a nice gesture.”

“You are so cute and hopeless.”

Takeru scoots close enough to Aguni that their hips are touching, the arm that had been gripping his shoulder now slung around his mid-back.

“Picture it,” he says, reaching his other arm out in front of them as if grasping at a ghost of a dream, “your paramour—whoever they may be—sitting alone in a bathtub. Naked. Glistening.”

“...Glistening?”

“Sparkling, even.”

That is...oh dear. Aguni hadn’t thought of it like that. And now he can’t stop thinking about it. His mind’s eye is conjuring up a most hypnotic display, involving skin and steam and a crystalline droplets rolling down the length of a neck and—

“I put bubbles in,” he admits, voice soft and unfocused as he drifts in his daydream, “Lavender-scented.”

“That’s. Wow,” Takeru sighs, patting Aguni’s knee, “You’re a stronger man than I am, that’s for sure. I simply wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation. I mean, you could be in there right now, but...you’re here with me instead.”

Something breaks in Aguni. Something he hadn’t been aware of before now, but was apparently a very important piece of whatever was keeping him from grabbing Takeru by the lapels and shaking him with all the strength and rage that has been building up for the past twenty minutes.

Because that’s what he’s doing right now. He’s grabbing Takeru by the lapels of his weird robe thing and shaking him within an inch of his life. He’s also yelling, something like ‘give me the goddamn room’ but it’s hard to hear over the deafening rush of blood in his ears.

“Not...the...silk,” Takeru begs—well, as much as a man being maliciously jostled can beg—while his hands attempt to loosen Aguni’s own from his outfit, “She didn’t...do anything...wrong!”

Aguni stops shaking him, but not because he wants to—no, he very much wants to continue shaking this annoying man until his head snaps off and flies out the window—but because Takeru has started to take on a bit of a sickly greenish tinge and Aguni is not in the mood to deal with that on top of everything else.

“I will tear that tacky thing to shreds if you don’t give me a new room,” he seethes, releasing his grip on Takeru altogether and enjoying the way the other man falls back slightly as he’s let go, “I snapped a fucking bed frame an hour ago; I could tear that and you in half without even trying.”

“Okay, but,” and Takeru winces, “I just...there’s a bit of a problem. Not...a ‘problem’ problem, but...I’m very worried about how you’ll react after that little outburst you just had.”

Great. Of course there’s a catch. There’s always a catch with Takeru—but Aguni had been naive enough to think that his frustrating questionnaire had been it.

“There’s only one room available,” Takeru continues, as if he’s trying to calm a very angry horse or convince a toddler to do literally anything, “and it’s...well, it’s...the one next door.”

“You mean,” Aguni says very flatly, “the room next to this one?”

“Yes.”

“With the adjoining door?”

“Hit me if you want,” Takeru says, pressing himself against the arm of the couch and, therefore, as far away from Aguni’s anger as possible, “just...please don’t shake me again. My delicate constitution couldn’t possible take it.”

Aguni is reminded of a poem—the Robert Frost one about two roads in a wood or something like that. The way he figures, he’s got two roads in front of him right now: the ‘scream at Takeru and maybe shake him a little more and also refuse the room’ road versus the ‘it’s only one night and things couldn’t possibly get worse than they already are so take the room and maybe try to salvage the evening’ road.

Both are tempting.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said it was nicer than your current room. Good view, spacious, well-decorated,” he says, “Except for the credenza under the TV, that’s hideous. Wouldn’t be mad if you, y’know, decided to break that in the heat of the moment...”

Aguni must look positively murderous, because Takeru immediately switches into grovel mode, which includes various assorted platitudes and exclamations of ‘it was just a joke!’ and ‘please don’t kill me!’

It’s kind of funny, actually.

“Listen,” Takeru half-pleads, “I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet. You won’t even know I’m over here. Hell, if I smoke enough weed, I won’t know I’m here, which will work out just great! I slip into a light coma, you slip into a comfortable bed with your sweetheart, and everybody’s happy.”

“You just want an excuse to get high.”

“No,” he answers confidently, “I want you to be happy and I want to get high. Use my mind-altering substances for good, not evil. You know, like a superhero. Or maybe even Jesus.”

Aguni decides not to bring Takeru’s half-joking-but-not-really God-complex into question, because that would launch him into an hour-long tirade about the importance of self-love and how he would be an excellent choice for the next mayor of Tokyo. And maybe he wouldn’t be the worst mayor Tokyo has ever had, but...well. He might not be very good at it, either.

And maybe it’s because he’s incapable of staying too horribly angry at his best friend for very long, but Aguni concludes that it’s best just to take the room and let the situation go. He’s had enough drama for one night.

“Fine,” Aguni finally says, “I’ll take it.”

And he moves to stand before Takeru can suck him in to another conversation.

“You know,” Takeru calls casually as Aguni begins to walk towards the door, “I still haven’t asked my third question...”

“You have got to be kidding—“

“But,” Takeru quickly interjects, “I don’t have to ask, because I already know that the answer is ‘yes.’”

“Hm?”

“Yes,” Takeru concludes with a wry smile, “you are happy. Even when you were about to about to slap me, I could see it written all over your face.”

Aguni feels...embarrassed. Again. He’s truly been on an emotional rollercoaster since stepping foot into Takeru’s room, and it’s almost poetic that he has managed to start and end his journey with a begrudging blush.

“Now, go,” Takeru says, shooing him off with a roll of his wrist, “get out of my sight and into bed with that sexy little secret you insist upon hiding from the rest of us!”

Aguni doesn’t need to be told twice. He swiftly makes his way towards the exit, his legs taking slightly-larger-than-normal strides as he attempts not to appear too giddy at the thought of returning to his lover. Maybe they can test out the bathtub in the new room. Or the shower. Or maybe just hang out in bathrobes and talk?

Honestly, he’s just excited to see them again. A nice, soothing presence. Something to help him decompress after...whatever the hell that just was with Takeru. There’s a seventy-five-percent chance that he’ll stay true to his word and be stoned out of his mind by the time they switch rooms, and a twenty-percent chance that he’ll spend the night pressed up against the door trying to listen in. The other five percent? That’s what Aguni likes to call the ‘wild card allotment’ because Takeru is...well, he’s just the kind of guy to do something completely unpredictable, and he likes to plan for that.

“Remember,” Takeru calls out just as Aguni is stepping out, “Break the credenza!”

And Aguni has never been happier to shut a door in his life.

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

PS: the thing with throwing the statue of Colonel Sanders in the river is a thing that actually happened and I think it’s really funny so that’s why I put it in here. Plus, like. Takeru totally would.

#alice in borderland #danma takeru #hatter #spicy boy #alice in borderland netflix #aguni morizono #writings and such #this took so long omg but it’s DONE wow what a time what an adventure #listen. I just. we need more of them being actual buddies.#like. just guys being dudes.

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sabraeal · 3 years ago

Text

And Spring Became the Summer

[Read on AO3]

The very last of my follower fics for the 700 Followers gifts! This one was the bonus for making it to 750 before December, and I’m so glad I’ve FINALLY gotten this done...so I can do it all over again this year 🤣

The last term paper Mitsuhide writes for his undergraduate career he slips into a glossy plastic portfolio-- double-spaced and double-sided, graphs printed in full color-- and turns in personally.

It’s a wide-eyed TA that takes it, seated behind a desk that’s far too big for her. Or well, she’s not wide-eyed at first; instead she’s bent over her work, only glancing up absently to make sure she has it in hand. But a second one turns absence to alarm, eyes fixing to where he grips the plastic, and suddenly he’s all-too aware how easily how just one of his hands could swallow both of hers.

So is she; her eyes pulse wide, and then she’s tracing the line of his arm up and up doggedly, like as long as she just keeps going, she might hit the end of him. When she finally does, he offers her a sheepish smile, shoulders hunched lessen the blow.

She shrinks back, a mousey brown head peeking above an oversized university sweatshirt. So much for that.

“You could have emailed this,” she squeaks, plucking the plastic sleeve from his grip. “I mean, not that you can’t hand it in. It’s just, er...”

“No one does,” another adds, rolling across the floor with a level of curiosity that he’s pretty sure an in-person paper doesn’t warrant. When she measures him with her gaze, she enjoys every inch. “Pretty old fashioned, if you ask me.”

He recognizes both of them; their names had been on the syllabus at the beginning of the semester. He’d found them both on the department website, Amanda wearing the same Clarines sweatshirt she had on today, and Holly’s clearly from some beach vacation, cropped from the shoulders up.

(“Wouldn’t have pegged you for a stalker,” Obi says, hanging upside down from the armchair.

“I’m-- I’m not!” Mitsuhide sputters, heat creeping up his neck. One day, Obi would slip up and say these things in front of someone who mattered, someone with a much more rigid sense of humor than Professor Gazelt, or didn’t know to take every word of his with an ocean of salt like Dean Haruka, and then it would be him that got seated in front of a disciplinary committee. The last thing he needed to do before even finishing law school applications was explain his brother’s poor taste in jokes on the record. “It’s just...”

“That you’re compelled to look at cute girls on the university website?” he offers, so casual. “I could think of hotter majors, if you wanted. Psych seems like it’s the sort of place real tens might hand out, right? Maybe, uh, Education? Kindergarten teachers always are cute--”

“It’s polite,” Mitsuhide grits out, shoulders hunched up by his ears. “You should know everyone on staff in your department, just the way you should know everyone you work with. It’s the proper way to network.”

Obi watches him with wide eyes, like he’s some kind of zoo animal or-- or one of those really bad cooks on TV, the kind who tries to pan fry a chicken whole. “God, you don’t actually do that, do you?”

“It’s the secret to good business.” At least, that’s what his parents always told him.

“You must be...” Obi savors the moment, looking positively euphoric as he says, “Really fucking creepy at the department Christmas party.”)

“No one did,” says the first-- Amanda, graduate summa cum laude from Columbia-- tone aimed to shush. “I’m, uh, happy to take that, though.”

He gives her his most gracious smile. “Thank you.”

“No,” Holly-- Penn State, no honors-- mutters, casting him a speculative glance from the corner of her eyes. Hers go up and up too, but seem to come to a much more amicable conclusion. “Thank you.”

“Stop.” Amanda’s hands flex on the thin plastic; she has soft hands, a callus only on the knuckle of her middle finger, where a pen might rest. Like Shirayuki, only without the thousand nicks and cuts that dot her fingers, battle wounds from wrangling recalcitrant plants.

Her chin pulls up, set in a determined line as she says, “Congratulations on graduating.”

“Ah...” It’s a kind thought, and meant well, but knowing he’s about to spend the next three years earning the degree that counts softens the blow. “Thank you. I hope you have a nice, um, summer?”

“Definitely will be nicer not to grade papers,” Holly offers, immune to Amanda’s shushing. “Do you have pl--?”

“We should get back to grading,” Amanda says, just to the left of too loud. “Have a nice summer.”

Never repeat yourself, Mama always told him, it weakens your position.

You can never be too polite. That’s what Papa would say, when he thanked the cashier for a third time.

Mitsuhide winces; he’s always hated this, being stuck between his parents. It’s clearly time to leave. “Right. Bon été, Amanda.”

“Was that French,” he hears hissed the moment he’s stepped out the door; the same moment another voice says, “Did I tell him my name?”

He should have just emailed it. Mitsuhide can make any number of excuses about the joys of collating and color printing, about face-time and networking, but at the end of the day, he has to call a spade a spade: this has all been an excuse. A thin one too, to keep him out of the house. To put off what he knows need doing.

Mitsuhide steps into the cool air of the foyer, shivering as it catches the sweat that beaded at his hairline on the walk. His courage peaks as he stands there, right next to the shoe mat, grand stair stretching up before him, still in his oxfords--

And immediately effervesces when he catches sight of smooth, bare legs on the coffee table, fuzzy slippers worth more than his phone perched up on the mahogany. This is it, the moment of truth, fight or flight, and he-- he doesn’t know which way to run.

So he doesn’t. He’s drawn there with inexorable motion, a magnet to a lodestone, the hard soles of his shoes clacking against the wood the only thing keeping him grounded. It takes only a few steps before long, tanned legs lead up to sleep shorts; not the clingy kind that curve and cup, but the ones that hang like boxers around the tops of her thighs, rucking up as she moves. After that it’s a hoodie, worn loose and baggy, like it’s supposed to fit someone twice her size, its hood drawn tight against her face. Nothing...sexy, not the way Obi might say, with far too much eyebrows involved. But still, his mouth runs dry, tongue heavy behind his teeth.

How on earth is he going to do this?

“Kiki.” He speaks before he thinks, sinking down on the table. It creaks beneath him, ominous. “I owe you a date.”

“Oh shit.” Obi flops over on the recliner, wide gold eyes peeking over the arm. “Check out the balls on this kid.”

This is a terrible idea. He should have known not to do this in a-- a common room, one where other brothers might be hiding.

“Sorry,” he creaks, levering himself up. “I didn’t realize-- you’re clearly busy--”

“No.” Kiki’s lays her feet right on his thighs, pushing him down with a thump. “You were saying something important.”

He darts a glance to the shadow squirming obnoxiously on soft leather. “But Obi--”

“Obi,” she informs him, as imperious as any C-suite member, “can leave.”

Obi doesn’t so much bark out a laugh as honks it. “Not unless I got time to make popcorn.”

Her head doesn’t move an inch from where she’s got it, chin tilted up to meet his own gaze. Her eyes though, those slide pointedly away, fixed at their corners, radiating malice. Kiki is slow to speak, deliberate when she does, but her eyes-- well, there’s a wealth of words in every look, and right now they’re reading Obi the riot act.

It would have worked better if Obi wasn’t already so used hearing it.

“Ignore him,” Kiki decides, attention snapping back to him. “He’s furniture.”

“Oh, Ms Kiki,” Obi drawls, barreling towards a mistake, “you could sit on me any--”

“You were saying?” she says, every word iron. Obi takes the hint, for once.

“I, uh...well, you paid for a date,” Mitsuhide manages lamely, darting a worried look to where Obi lounges on the chair. “I mean, you paid a lot for a date. And I understand that you may have just wanted to donate to the frat, but if you wanted to--”

“I told you,” Kiki says, dry, toes flexing firmly on his knee. “I expect you to make it worth my while.”

“Ah, y-yeah.” Her saying that while looking at him like she did-- well, his brain had that queued up every time he blinks his eyes. Sometimes it changed venues, and there were some, uh, costume changes at times, but if he shut his eyes right now it’d spool up with perfect fidelity. “I thought it might, um, d-distract you if we tried before finals, but since you’ve finished-- we’ve finished--”

“As of twenty minutes ago,” Obi adds, so helpful.

“--I thought it might be a fun way to relax.” He’s honestly never felt less relaxed in his life just sitting here, contemplating it. Half of it he can chalk up to Obi, curled over the recliner like a gremlin, waiting to wreak his version of chaos the second he can weasel his fingers in, but the other--

Well, it’s hard to ask someone on a date when you know they’ve already got someone in mind for the position. Even if it’s just-- this. As friends.

His heart’s in his throat. At least, that’s what he thinks until Kiki’s mouth curves; then he knows it’s never been in his possession at all, but always utterly hers. “Sounds like fun.”

Tension rushes out of him on a sigh. “Ah, great. I though we might, er, go to Boston? You know,” he hurries to spit out, before any words can fall from her parted lips, “since there’s not much out here we haven’t seen.”

She hesitates. Of course she does. Boston’s practically her hometown, and he’s sitting here, thinking it’ll impress her. Like she hasn’t seen everything that’s worth seeing there twice over and in private. That she hasn’t just told him no outright is a testament to how well Mr Seiran’s raise her, and--

“Let’s make a day of it.”

Mitsuhide startles, nearly tipping off the table’s edge before he glances up, right into her row of perfectly straight teeth. Her mom’s smile, she always told him, but he’s only ever seen it on her. “I-- yes. That’s..good.”

Her lips curl, hiding her teeth. “Let me handle the accommodations.”

“Ah, no.” His head sweeps through big, nervous back-and-forths. “I couldn’t possibly ask you to--”

“You’re not,” Kiki informs him. “I’m telling you. I’ll handle accommodations. You’re seeing to the rest of the weekend, correct?”

“Y-yes.” He tries to fold his arms across his lap, but with her feet right on his thighs, it ends up with his hands covering her ankles. He expects her to move them, but instead her legs still, tendons relaxing under his palms. “That’s the plan, but, really--”

“It’s the least I can do.” She shifts her macbook off the couch’s arm, fingers already flying across the keyboard. “One night?”

“I...” He should decline. He should tell her that if she can drop a whole K on a date with him, he can shell out for one night at a hotel with a higher rating than a Holiday Inn.

But this is Kiki Seiran, heir to Seiran International. She’s not just used to five stars but the penthouse suite. He could book four star cheap on Hotwire, but imagining her in one of those suites, the sheets starched and thread count insufficient--

“Yeah,” he grunts, “one night’s fine.”

“Perfect.” Her teeth snap around the word. “Leave it to me.”

“So,” Obi starts before Mitsuhide’s even hit the last step. “We have a bet going on.”

He grimaces, shifting the duffel over his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.”

‘Pretty sure’ turns to ‘certain’ once he catches Obi’s grin. “It’s about whether you’ll get your dick wet.”

“Sorry, not interested.” He heaves the bag beside the front door, brushing off his shorts. “Isn’t it too early for you to be up? I thought you didn’t know about the hours before ten.”

“I had motivation,” Obi assures him, slinking up beside him with a grin a mile wide. “You know, Shiira says that you won’t on the grounds that you’re a gentleman.”

More like the lady isn’t interested. “I already said I wasn’t--”

“Kai says you will,” he continues blithely, “and you’ll come back on time. Shuuka agrees, except that he thinks you’ll miss check out with all the boning down and won’t make it back until evening.”

“Isn’t this breaking the bylaws?” Mitsuhide grunts, slipping on his sneakers. “Don’t we have something about betting...?”

“For money,” Obi agrees. “Zen still wouldn’t put a bet down though.”

That’s assuring at least. “Of course n--”

“Shiira already took his.” Obi shakes his head. “And we wouldn’t allow him to say the same thing except that he thinks it’s because you’re and idiot.”

Well, that’s a little rich, coming from Zen. Mitsuhide was loath to remind anyone that besides Obi, he is the most experienced, but-- some people should be taking that into account. Even if nothing is going to happen.

“Don’t worry, Big Guy.” Obi claps him on the shoulder, smile somehow drifting towards kindly. “I gave you until Monday.”

“Obi--”

“And Kiki will walk in with a limp.”

“Obi, you know that’s not...” His breath hisses between his teeth. “That’s not what me and Kiki are like.”

“You keep thinking that, Big Guy, but--” he leans in, cupping a hand around his mouth-- “my original bet was gonna be Tuesday. Too bad Kiki had already taken it.”

Mitsuhide stares at him, slack-jawed. “W-what did you just--?”

“I should have known, you’re already here.”

His head jerks up, right to the top of the grand stair, the beginning of a quick glance-- but it’s no use. There’s no possible way he could make his eyes focus anywhere but on Kiki, not when she’s wearing-- when she’s--

“Ooh.” Obi’s mouth curls, matching Kiki’s knowing smirk. “Is that a skirt?”

It is. And not-- not her field hockey kit, mid-thigh with shorts beneath, but and actual skirt, one that floats just above her knees, gauzy and floral. A single flash of leg tells him there’s nothing else beneath. Ah, well, besides the obvious. Mitsuhide swallows hard, mouth dry.

She raises a brow, hand trailing sinuously down the banister beside her. “It is a date, isn’t it?”

Her heels clack when she takes the last step into the foyer, clack because it’s the cork of her wedges that hits the floor first, because-- nom de Dieu-- she’s wearing shoes that tilt her a few inches close to him. Close enough that he could just bend at the neck and--

“Ah,” he coughs, fingers clenching in his shirt. “You might be a little overdressed. At least for this first part.”

Both her brows raise now. “Am I?”

“God,” Obi mutters at his shoulder, head buried in his hands. “You could at least say she looks nice.”

Well, when he’s right, he’s right.

“You look, ah, great though,” Mitsuhide hurries to add. “Beautiful.”

Kiki, to his surprise, beams. “Well, I brought a few outfits. I’ll change at the hotel.”

“Ah, sure.” He scoops up his duffel, holding out a hand for her bag as she passes. “You’re ready to go?”

Her mouth quirks at a corner. “As I’ll ever be.”

He hums, uncertain, suddenly left-footed with her so close. They should leave, but that involves a number a movements he’s suddenly stymied by.

Thankfully, Obi opens the door, practically shoving him onto the porch. “All right kids, be safe now.”

“Obi...”

“Don’t worry,” Kiki drawls, sashaying over the threshold. “I packed plenty of condoms.”

The door cuts off Obi’s laugh, but Mitsuhide can’t escape the pounding of his heart.

“You know,” he sighs, trailing after her, “you’re only encouraging him when you say things like that.”

“Oh that’s too bad,” she hums, floating past. “I was trying to encourage you.”

#mitsukiki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #The Wide Florida Bay #my fic #ans #THESE ARE FINALLY FINISHED #and this little side jaunt is barely started 🤣#i wanted to do the whole date...then convinced myself half...#and now i just have the lead up #but lbr #it's better this way #since we get more chaos agent Obi #which only makes Obi's sensitive feelings about his OWN date funnier #buddy you bought and paid for the shit you're getting #and NOW you don't want it? no wonder Kiki gives you crap

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