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ggukivrse · 3 months ago

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THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 01

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, angst, fluff, (eventual) explicit sexual content, swearing, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 4.9k

notes: the first chapter is here!!! i ended up cutting this into two parts so everything that’s going to be in chapter two was originally planned to be in this chapter loll. tysm to my bae @page-isa for beta reading and putting up with me :> as always, feedback, likes, comments, reblogs and asks are so so appreciated, like i love yapping on here loll. enjoy reading my angels <3

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⤷ chapter one — the way things go

and there’s too much on my mind that i don’t even want to try / guess it’s not far from the ordinary, they do say love is blind

The road stretches out ahead, long and quiet, humming under the tires. You lean into the car door, forehead pressed against the glass, fingers mindlessly tugging at the threads on the hem of your shorts.

Summer air seeps through the half-cracked open window, warm and heavy with the scent of trees and sun-baked asphalt.

You should be excited. Everyone else is.

A full week away — just your group, no classes, no work shifts, no group projects hanging over anyone’s head for the first time in four years. A final trip before the “real world” starts to pull everyone in different directions.

But your stomach’s been tight since the moment you packed your bag. And now, with every mile you put between yourself and home, it just gets worse.

“You’re really quiet,” Kiara says, glancing at you from the driver’s seat. She’s got one hand on the wheel, the other flipping the volume knob down on the music. “Like... unusually quiet. Do I need to be concerned?”

You shake your head without looking at her. “Nah. Just tired.”

Kiara makes a sound like she doesn’t believe you, but she doesn’t press, and you're grateful for it.

You glance over at her. She’s in an oversized T-shirt, dark brown hair falling in curls past her shoulders, sunglasses balanced on top of her head instead of over her eyes.

“I thought you’d be in full DJ mode by now,” you say, nodding toward her phone. “Where’s the summer playlist?”

She smirks. “I’m easing you into it. Jimin says my music tastes give him whiplash.”

“He has a point.”

She scoffs. “Please. Hoseok says my music’s amazing.”

“He says that about everything you do," you say with a smile.

She shrugs, casual. “He’s not wrong.”

It’s adorable how hopelessly smitten they are. Even after a year together, Hoseok still looks at Kiara like she hung the stars.

You remember when they finally got together, after years of dancing around it. Everyone in the friend group had seen it coming — everyone except them.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Kiara laughs, and you can’t help but join in. For a second, the knot in your chest loosens. Just a little.

"Speaking of Hoseok," you start, glancing over at her. “How come he's not coming with you?”

She sighs. “Shift at work. He tried to switch but his manager’s being a dick. He’ll drive up tomorrow morning.”

You nod. “That sucks.”

She hums in agreement, but you’re already half-lost in your thoughts.

As much as you feel bad for Hoseok, you're quietly grateful Kiara asked you to come with her. The idea of doing this drive alone — just you, a quiet car, and way too much time to sit with everything you haven’t let yourself feel — would’ve made the weight in your chest unbearable.

She hasn’t said much, but she’s always had good timing. Maybe she didn’t even realise how much you needed the company. Or maybe she did.

“Lucky me, I got upgraded,�� you say lightly.

She grins. “Damn right you did.”

The playlist switches songs, something soft and nostalgic. You stare out the window again, at the lazy sway of trees and the occasional flicker of a passing car.

“I can’t believe we actually pulled this trip off,” Kiara says, after a beat. “Twelve people committing to anything at the same time? Miracle.”

You nod. “Taehyung’s been talking about it since first year.”

“Yeah, and threatening to disown us if anyone bailed.”

You huff out a small laugh.

Back when this trip was just an idea tossed around during late-night study sessions and half-finished group projects, you'd been genuinely excited — borderline giddy, even. The promise of a full week at a fancy resort with your closest friends had felt like the perfect reward after years of deadlines, breakdowns, and pulling all-nighters on cheap coffee and instant noodles.

It was one of those plans that didn’t feel real at first — the kind of thing you talk about just to survive the semester — but then slowly, it started taking shape. Rooms were booked. Deposits paid. Group chats flooded with outfit ideas and packing lists.

You remember counting down the months, then the weeks. You’d imagined bonfires and inside jokes, sunsets by the water, slow mornings in a warm bed.

Back then, this trip had felt like the light at the end of a very long tunnel. Something to look forward to. Something certain.

Now, you can barely keep the dread from crawling up your throat.

“You sure you’re good?” Kiara asks again, gentler this time.

You blink, pulled back to the present. “Yeah. Just... a lot on my mind.”

Again, she doesn’t push. Just gives you a side glance and says, “Well, don’t overthink it. We’ve got a whole week of sun, overpriced cocktails, and probably at least one group fight. You’ll be fine.”

You offer a small smile. “Yeah, you're right. I’ll be fine.”

But your stomach’s still a mess, and the name you’ve been avoiding thinking about drags itself right back to the front of your mind.

Jungkook.

You haven’t seen him in a month.

Not since it ended.

And in about an hour, you’re going to be standing under the same roof as him — spending an entire week in the same space, breathing the same air, pretending it doesn’t feel like your insides are still bruised from the last time you spoke.

A small, irrational part of you hopes he won’t show. That something will come up. That he’ll decide it’s not worth it.

But you know him. He’ll be there.

Of course he will.

Kiara says something — probably teasing, probably meant to distract you — and you laugh on instinct. Keep the smile on your face, even as dread pools low in your gut.

This was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime.

You glance out the window again, the road narrowing in the distance.

Now, a part of you can't stop looking for the nearest exit.

You and Kiara are the first ones to arrive.

She pulls into the sandy lot just off the coastal road, the tires crunching softly over sunbaked gravel before the car settles into park. The air smells like salt and sunscreen, and the soft hiss of waves reaches you even before you open the door.

You step out slowly, blinking against the late afternoon sun. It’s warm but breezy, the kind of weather that clings just right to your skin.

The place looks exactly like the photos Namjoon sent in the group chat months ago — quiet, tropical, and beautiful.

Curved thatched-roof villas nestle into thick palm trees, wrapped around a smooth wooden deck that opens to a private pool. Soft lights glow under the railings, giving the whole place a warm, cosy feel. White umbrellas shade loungers facing the ocean, just a few steps off the deck and onto clean, untouched sand.

Seokjin had pulled a few strings to make it happen — his aunt owns the place, a family-run beachside resort tucked just far enough from the touristy areas that it still feels private. He managed to get the whole property reserved just for the twelve of you for the week. No strangers. No noise from other guests. Just your group, the ocean, and time that doesn’t need filling.

It's quiet. Calm.

You breathe in, hoping the calm will seep into you too. It doesn’t.

Kiara rounds the back of the car and stretches with a loud groan, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. “This is so cute,” she says, scanning the view. “God, I’m so glad we actually made it.”

You nod, eyes skimming the road. She leans against the car beside you, and for a while, neither of you say much.

The parking lot doesn’t stay quiet for long.

Taehyung and Yasmine roll in first, their white SUV kicking up dust as it slides into the spot next to Kiara’s. The engine barely cuts before Taehyung pushes open the door and steps out.

You’re already walking over but he gets to you first, greeting you with a wide boxy smile and outstretched arms. You let him pull you into a warm hug that's just dramatic enough to be on-brand.

Yasmine climbs out slower, adjusting her sunglasses with one hand while tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She beams at you, dimples on display.

"God, I haven't seen you in forever," Taehyung sighs as he steps back. "Thought I'd catch you at Ari's birthday but you weren't there."

"I've just been busy."

It's not quite a lie, but not the complete truth either.

"Quite being such a workaholic, yeah? You have all the time to do that once summer ends

Yasmine laughs softly under her breath. “You cannot be talking right now, babe."

You snort as he playfully rolls his eyes.

Yasmine steps forward and pulls you into a hug of her own — tighter, less showy than Taehyung’s, but no less sincere. “We did miss you though. Go MIA on us again and we will track you down,” she says simply.

“I missed you guys too,” you murmur. The smile on your face has started to hurt your cheeks, but you can't stop grinning. It's been too long since you've genuinely felt so content, and the trip hasn't even properly started yet.

A familiar hatchback glides into the lot just as Yasmine and Taehyung pull Kiara into matching hugs, loud and overlapping. You squint into the sunlight, shielding your eyes until you catch the unmistakable sight of Ari behind the wheel — one arm slung casually over the open window.

The sun glints off the gold hoops in her ears, the fine chain around her neck, the chipped red polish on her fingers tapping the side of the door. She parks smoothly with one hand, and a wide smile curls across her features the moment she spots you.

Namjoon climbs out of the passenger seat with a long, slow stretch, like he’s waking up from a nap.

“Finally,” you call out, grinning, arms already out.

Ari steps out and shuts the door with her hip. “Bro, we passed the same creepy fruit stand three times. I was ready to fight the GPS.”

She strides over, pulls you into a hug that’s tight and real. She smells like grapefruit body spray and road trip exhaustion. “God, you’re alive,” she mutters into your shoulder. “I was convinced you bailed.”

You laugh. “I thought you would. You hate driving longer than thirty minutes.”

“Don’t remind me. Namjoon promised vibes and delivered car sickness.”

“I heard that,” Namjoon says, pulling you into a side hug of his own. He’s warm and solid, and his smile is small but real. “Still made it before sunset. That’s what counts.”

“Barely,” you mutter. “Kiara drove.”

“I heard that,” Kiara calls from behind the SUV, dragging her bag out with one hand and an iced tea in the other. “And we didn’t even get lost.”

You’re about to fire back a reply when the loud, familiar hum of a motorbike engine reaches your ears.

The sound hits like muscle memory — instant recognition, not even a second of doubt.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

And still, your body goes tense. You keep your gaze low, focused on the faded scuff mark near the toe of your shoe, but your ears are tuned in with brutal clarity.

The engine cuts.

Then boots hit dirt.

“Hey,” a voice calls out — easy, warm, annoyingly smooth. “Sorry I’m late.”

You finally look up.

Jungkook pulls off his helmet, a lazy sort of grin spreading across his face as he scans the group. His hair’s slightly flattened from the helmet, but it somehow works — messy, effortless, and still irritatingly pretty. He adjusts his shirt with one hand, and the fabric clings to the lines of his chest like it has a personal vendetta against your peace of mind.

He looks… fine.

Normal.

Like nothing’s weird. Like there’s no history. Like he didn’t once hold your heart like it was breakable and then drop it like he didn’t even notice.

“Look who’s finally here,” Namjoon calls, smiling like Jungkook isn’t at all late. “Took you long enough.”

“My bad,” Jungkook says, laughing a little as he walks toward the group. “GPS had me driving everywhere but the correct place.”

He makes the rounds casually — daps up Taehyung, hugs Yasmine and Ari in turn, nods at Kiara with that friendly chin-tilt he always does. When he reaches Namjoon, they exchange one of those quiet, guy-coded, half-shoulder embraces.

And then his eyes flick to you.

For half a second, his smile doesn’t change. It just softens at the edges — subtle, like a reflex.

Your stomach tightens.

“Hey,” he says.

You manage something that feels like a nod. “Hey.”

That’s all. No hug. No small talk. Not even eye contact that lasts longer than it needs to.

He doesn’t push it.

You try to focus on the group again, on Ari saying something about which rooms have outlets, but the back of your neck is hot. You’re not sure if it’s the sun or him or both.

You think that’s it — that maybe you’ll be able to forget he’s even here for a bit — when suddenly, from just across you, his voice cuts in again.

“Oh— I brought that thing you left at my place, by the way.”

You blink. For a moment, you’re sure he’s talking to someone else — but when you look up, he’s already looking at you.

“What?”

“That thing,” he says again, like it should be obvious. “You left it last weekend. I figured you’d want it back.”

Your brain stutters.

Last weekend?

You haven’t been to his place in weeks. You’ve barely even texted since the breakup. You definitely didn’t leave anything there last weekend because you were nowhere near there.

He says it so casually. So matter-of-fact.

You look at him — really look — and for the first time since he arrived, you see something behind the relaxed exterior. It’s quick. Too fast to name. But it’s not nothing.

“What… what are you talking about?” you ask, quietly.

He just jerks his head toward the bike. “C’mere for a sec. I’ll show you.”

And just like that, he’s already turning, walking back toward the motorbike like this is completely normal.

You don’t move at first. You just stand there, frowning, trying to make sense of what he said.

You didn’t leave anything. You know you didn’t.

So what the hell is he doing?

You glance back at the others — still busy, still loud, still completely out of earshot. No one even seems to notice that Jungkook is beckoning you away like it’s just another part of the day.

You hesitate.

Then, against your better judgment, your feet move anyway.

The gravel crunches beneath your shoes as you follow him, the group's voices turning to background noise — laughter, zippers, the thunk of a cooler hitting the ground. Faint but fading.

He stops near the bike, facing away, like he’s waiting for you to say something first.

You take the bait.

“What the fuck are you on about?” you say, sharp, not bothering to soften it.

He turns then. Slowly. His face is tighter now — still calm, but the easy smile from earlier is long gone. There’s something clipped in the way he exhales.

“You didn’t tell them?”

You blink. “Tell who what?”

“The group,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You didn’t tell them we broke up.”

You stare at him.

A breeze cuts through the clearing, rustling the edge of your shirt. You feel it but don’t move. Your brain is still catching up.

“I thought you told them,” you say finally, frowning.

He huffs a short, disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “No. I didn’t. Clearly.”

Your stomach sinks.

You shift your weight, eyes flicking toward the group — still too far to hear, but not far enough to not feel it.

“So,” you say slowly, “you’re telling me… they all still think we’re together?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer immediately. He just gives you a look. A quiet, restrained yes.

You blink again, the weight of that landing hard and uneven in your chest. Your thoughts start tripping over each other.

“That’s fine,” you say quickly, stubborn. “I’ll just tell them. I’ll— we’ll clear it up.”

“No,” he says, almost before the words leave your mouth. His tone is firmer now, more certain.

You narrow your eyes. “Why not?”

He looks at you, and for a second, he seems like he’s debating whether to say anything at all.

Then he sighs and leans back slightly, arms crossed.

“Because I’m like eighty percent sure Seokjin’s planning to propose to Haeun at the end of this trip.”

You blink.

“What?”

“He asked me about ring sizes a month ago. And he’s been weirdly nervous in the group chat. You didn’t notice?”

You hadn’t. Or maybe you had and just didn’t register it. You're mind has been hazy for the past few weeks, and the person to blame is standing opposite you.

Jungkook shakes his head like it’s obvious, then gestures vaguely toward the resort. “He’s gonna do it. Probably by the beach. Probably with fireworks or some corny shit. It’s gonna be a big thing.”

You stare at him, arms crossed now too, trying to piece it all together.

“And if we drop this whole breakup bomb now,” he continues, “that’s all anyone’s gonna talk about. Not the proposal. Not the memories. Just… us. Ending.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because he’s not wrong. You know he’s not wrong.

You can already picture it — the weird silences, the whispered side conversations, the heavy tension whenever someone says “remember when—” and then catches themselves. All of it looping back to you two. To what used to be you two.

And Seokjin — the guy who makes toast like it’s a grand gesture, who once cried at a dog food commercial — he doesn’t deserve that. Not on his big moment.

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Fuck.”

Jungkook doesn’t say anything.

You look at him again.

And there’s a flicker of something you can’t name on his face. Not smugness, not satisfaction. Just… tired honesty.

Neither of you wanted this.

But here it is.

And now you have to deal with it.

You cross your arms tighter, trying to ground yourself with the weight of them. The sun’s lower now, casting long shadows behind the bike, and you can hear the faint sound of Kiara yelling something, probably about food or wine.

But none of it matters.

Not when your very existence here suddenly feels like a live wire.

You glance at Jungkook again, brows drawn. “Okay… so what are you planning to do?”

He hesitates — just a breath, but you catch it.

Then he gives you a look. One you know too well.

That don’t be mad look.

“...You’re gonna hate me for this,” he says, almost like he’s bracing for impact, “but I think we should just… pretend. For the week.”

Your head jerks back a little, eyebrows raised. “Pretend?”

“Yeah,” he says, quickly, like speeding through it might make it sound less insane. “Just for now. Just until the trip’s over.”

You stare at him like he’s grown another head.

“Jungkook.”

“You already said it — you were gonna tell them anyway, right?” he shrugs. “So you’re not lying, technically. You’re just… delaying.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “We broke up one month ago.”

“Yeah. I know. I was there.”

“And now you want us to pretend that we’re still dating.”

“For one week,” he says, holding up a finger like that somehow makes it reasonable. “We dated for four years. What’s one more week gonna do?”

You blink at him.

Hard.

A part of you still doesn't want to believe that you spent four years in a relationship that ended up leading to nothing. All of your college years spent focusing on you and Jungkook, just for everything to just end so abruptly.

“This is not the same as being together for four years.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You’re actually being serious.”

“I am serious,” he says, voice exasperated. “Look, the rooms are already organised. All the couples are paired up. If we tell them now, we'll have to crash someone else’s setup and that'll just ruin the trip more.”

You hate that he’s thought this through.

You hate even more that he’s not totally wrong.

You groan under your breath, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes. “God. This is so dumb.”

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t have come.”

“Yeah, well… you did.”

You drop your hands, exhaling hard. Your eyes meet his again. His face is calm, but there is a flicker of tension behind his eyes. Like he’s holding something in. Like this is costing him, too, but he’s choosing not to show it.

You want to fight it. You should fight it.

But then you think of Seokjin’s dumb soft smile, the way he talks about Haeun like she built the stars, and how excited everyone is to be here together.

You can’t ruin that. You won’t be the reason this trip turns into a bad memory.

So you sigh. Heavily. Like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the ground.

“Fine,” you mutter.

You don’t meet his eyes when you say it. You just brush past the stubborn knot in your chest and take a step forward.

Jungkook shifts his weight, then holds out his hand toward you like it’s nothing. Like this is casual. Normal.

“Okay,” he says, almost too breezy. “Hold my hand.”

You blink. “What?”

“C’mon,” he says, like you’re the one being weird. “We’re walking back. We’re gonna act like a couple, or someone’s gonna know something’s up.”

You stare at him.

Because it’s not that he’s wrong. It’s that he said it so simply. It annoys you how easy this seems to be for him — to just pretend to be in love with you again.

It makes you wonder if he had been putting up an act for the entirety of your relationship.

You open your mouth to argue, but then close it again. You guys were never lowkey when you were together. You didn’t do subtle. If you suddenly walk back ten feet apart and barely acknowledging each other, someone will notice. Probably Ari first. She always knows when something is up.

You exhale, slow and resigned.

“God, we were so annoying with the PDA,” you mutter, almost to yourself.

Jungkook snorts. “Yeah. That’s kinda on us.”

You eye his outstretched hand, hesitate for another second. And then — with every ounce of reluctance you can physically manifest — you slide your hand into his, fingers fitting between his like muscle memory.

He curls his fingers around yours automatically, warm and easy.

Too easy.

You stare at your joined hands for a second longer than you mean to.

It’s ridiculous how fast your body remembers this. How natural it feels — the shape of his hand, the calloused pads of his fingers, the way his thumb always rests along the side of yours without even thinking.

You look away quickly.

Your chest does something strange and quiet, and you shut the door on it before it can speak.

It’s not real. Not anymore.

The sound of tires on gravel cuts through your thoughts.

You glance up just as a car eases around the bend, pulling into the last open spot in the lot. It's Seokjin’s car — you recognise it immediately — and the moment it comes to a stop, the passenger doors swing open in near perfect unison.

Jimin hops out first, stretching like he’s just stepped off a ten-hour flight instead of a two-hour drive. He runs a hand through his blonde locks, a smile enveloping is features the moment he spots you all.

He’s dressed like he put thought into looking effortless — loose tee, chain glinting at his collar, a wrist stacked with bracelets that clink faintly when he moves to grab his bag from the seat.

Yoongi follows behind him, slower, more deliberate. He slings a canvas duffel over one shoulder and shuts the car door loudly.

You watch as they start walking toward the group — Jimin already waving, Yoongi just nodding at someone — and then the driver’s door creaks open.

Seokjin steps out with one hand braced on the roof, blinking against the sun. His shirt’s a little wrinkled from the drive, but his hair is neat, like he smoothed it down at the last gas station stop. He circles the car, pulls open the back door, and starts hauling out bags with a quiet sort of efficiency.

Haeun steps out more carefully, eyes scanning the scenery, one hand smoothing the back of her hair. She adjusts her sleeves, then quietly shuts the door behind her. No big entrance — just a soft, polite smile as she approaches the group a few steps behind Seokjin.

"This isn't bad," Yoongi says, giving the area a once-over as he adjusts the strap on his shoulder.

Jimin grins, throwing a look back at him. “You sound almost impressed.”

Yoongi shrugs. “Just expected more bugs.”

“There will be bugs,” Kiara calls from the trunk of her car, holding up a bottle of bug spray like a threat. “But I brought protection.”

“Of course you did,” Jimin laughs.

Jungkook steps in, releasing your hand briefly to clap Jimin on the back before pulling him into a hug. “Good to see you, dude. You took your sweet time getting here,” he says.

Jimin just grins. “Fashionably late.”

Without looking, Jungkook reaches back for your hand and finds it on instinct, fingers sliding back between yours like he never let go in the first place.

Taehyung slings his hands around Yoongi dramatically, even to his standards. Yoongi lets it happen for about three seconds before grumbling, “You’re clinging.”

“You love it,” Taehyung says, squeezing tighter.

“I tolerate it,” Yoongi corrects, deadpan, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward.

Taehyung lets go with a satisfied grin, already reaching for his bag, and Yoongi just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he adjusts his duffel.

Jimin’s halfway through complimenting Haeun — something about how her top matches the sky, or the sea, or maybe both — and she just smiles, quiet and a little bashful, before mumbling a thank you and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Seokjin glances over at the exchange with a faint smile but doesn’t say anything, just lifts something from the trunk with a grunt.

It’s starting to annoy you how in love all your friends are. It feels like the universe mocking you — like every laugh, every shared glance, every easy touch is some private joke you’ve been left out of.

Yasmine resting her head on Taehyung’s shoulder, Namjoon glancing over at Ari every time he makes a joke just to watch her eyes crinkle into crescent moons, Jimin and Yoongi refusing to admit that they like each other despite the constant glances and smiles that everyone notices.

None of it is loud or showy, but it’s everywhere. Quiet affection humming underneath everything.

And the worst part? No one’s doing anything wrong. They're just happy. Which, somehow, makes it worse.

Namjoon scrolls through something on his phone nearby, then looks up just in time to catch Seokjin trying to drag three bags at once.

“You good?” he calls.

“I’m thriving,” Seokjin says, winded. “But I won’t be carrying anything else for the rest of the trip.”

A few laughs ripple through the group. The sun’s dropped just low enough to cast long, soft shadows across the lot, golden waves illuminating against everyone's skin.

“Alright,” Namjoon says, raising his voice just enough to cut through the chatter. “Let’s grab our stuff and head in. Hyung, you've got the keys, right?”

You all look over at Seokjin, who holds the keys up briefly.

Everyone moves back to their own cars, reaching for bags, slinging backpacks over shoulders, tugging at zippers and slapping closed trunks.

You slip your hand from Jungkook’s and head to Kiara’s trunk, digging out your backpack and slinging it over your shoulder. When you walk back, he subtly extends his hand toward you — a quiet invitation.

You don’t take it. You just keep walking.

You told yourself you'd only do what was necessary — the bare minimum to make it believable. Holding hands in front of others? Sure. Smiling for the occasional photo? Fine.

But extras, like this — when no one’s watching — felt like the kind of thing that could make you slip up without meaning to.

Ari falls in beside you, and without thinking, you hook your arm through hers, quickly falling into an easy conversation.

Behind you, you faintly hear him sigh.

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revelboo · 8 months ago

Note

Happy Late(?) Birthday!I noticed you do mass displacement and i absoluly adore it!Everybody prefers holoforms and i cant seem to find people who do mass displacement alot!Maybe something with Jazz with mass displacement?

I can write either, but I’ve always preferred mass displacement/shift 😁

Over It Now Pt 7

IDW Jazz x Reader

• Snagging an energon cube, he almost misses Blaster as the other mech falls into step beside him. “Haven’t seen you about in a while,” Blaster says, one corner of his mouth twisted up in a half smile that doesn’t dull the edge in his voice. Especially when Blaster very deliberately vents and he knows he should have hit the wash racks. Your scent where he’d handled you is clinging to him still, faint enough he’d felt safe not scrubbing it off. And truth be told, he hadn’t wanted to. Wanted to keep the little reminder of you. “If command figures out what you’re up to, your little pet’s going to be on lockdown like the rest. You know that, right?”

• Tension drawing him taut, his lazy smile doesn’t waver even as he knows he’s made a mistake. A dangerous one. Of course he knows about Optimus’s mandate, but he’s watching you. Knows you haven’t tried to betray his trust, yet. And he can’t just take away your freedom for his mistake. He’d never been great at following orders, anyway. “No idea what you’re on about, pal.”

• “Yeah, sure.” Blaster shakes his head as he walks away, leaving the unsaid liar hanging between them. “Didn’t figure you for the selfish type.” Tipping back the energon he almost laughs because Blaster has no idea how selfish he can be. That he likes your company. That you see right through him when he’s lying and call him out on it. That maybe you already have guessed the truth about his smile and that you wouldn’t judge him if he dropped the act. Didn’t need him to keep that smile firmly in place just so you feel better.

• Leaving the base, he knows exactly where he’s going as soon as he transforms, wheels hitting asphalt. Driven this road so many times it’s almost habit now. How long has it been since he spent an actual night in his own berth rather than cramped in his alt mode in your drive way? He should resent that, but he just needs to see you. Check that you’re okay and hear your voice. You’d gotten under his plating at some point, becoming a necessity in his routine.

• When had you started looking forward to seeing your liar? You’re not sure, but it had been so subtle a slide you hadn’t even noticed at first. Heart beating a little faster as you see him pull down your wooded driveway, a breathless sort of pleasure spilling through you that’s absolutely silly, because it feels suspiciously like a crush. Like you like him, a compulsively lying, too charming for his own good alien. And you freeze as he transforms, his lips in a thin line before he notices you and grins crookedly. Because you realize that’s exactly right. You like him.

• “Out here waiting on me, kitten?” Kneeling, he reaches out to brush the back of his servo against your cheek and you lean away, eyes wide. Avoiding his touch just like you’d done before you’d finally gotten used to him. Face reddening, your eyes drop to your hands folded in your lap. “Suddenly shy?” He teases to hide his own discomfort, because why now? Why avoid his touch? Reaching to touch your arm and his smile almost fails completely at how cold your skin is. How long have been sitting out here waiting for him?

• It’s not like you can just tell him why you’re so flustered. You’re definitely not in the mood to be laughed at, even if you don’t think he actually would laugh at your feelings. He’s staring at you, smile wavering and you have to say something. Anything but blurt out the truth. You inhale when he reaches for your cheek again and then just becomes smaller so fast your own stomach drops and you squeeze your eyes shut as motion sickness smacks you silly. And then a warm hand cups your cheek. When you open your eyes, he’s right there. Somehow much smaller as he moves his hand to press his fingers against your throat and you can’t move, can’t breathe. “You shouldn’t be out here, doll,” he says, the words almost a growl, sounding concerned now not teasing.

• You’re just staring up at him and it clicks. He’s shocked you with mass displacing and it’d be funny if he wasn’t so worried. You’re always colder than him, but never this chilled and you’d made it abundantly clear all the times you’d leaned into him that you like his body heat. So he slides his hands down to your sides and lifts you carefully from your chair, ignoring the little sound of protest as he sits down and pulls you into his lap, his chin on top of your head and his arms curled around you. Playing heater as your stiff body slowly relaxes in his grip. “Jazz, a little cold won’t kill me,” you mutter, shivering when he catches both of your little hands in one of his, rumbling at how icy those tiny fingers are.

• “Humor me,” he says, venting as he carefully rubs his servos over your hands and you relax further. Turn your little face into his neck until he can feel your cold cheek against his mesh, the warmth of your breath. And becomes very aware of the softness of you against him, the way your little form fits against his as he rubs his chin against the softness of your hair and his own tension eases. It’s the contact, spreading warm through him, because how long has it been since he’s held someone else? Been able to actually relax, not having to constantly play a part? You need his heat, but he needs this, his arms tightening around you. Your scent and touch soothing old wounds that had never quite healed.

#idw jazz #jazz x reader #transformers x reader

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onechicagolife · 3 months ago

Text

buzzkill

summary: prompts 8, 69, and 94—in which you decompress at molly's

requested? yes by @hajrakhan

word count: 1077

warnings: none

want to be tagged? link in bio <3

The familiar hum of the bullpen settles around you like a well-worn soundtrack—keyboards clacking, papers shuffling, and the occasional dry sarcasm tossed across desks. For once, the day isn't ending in sirens and chaos. The case is closed, the reports are filed, and no one's bleeding.

You perch on Adam’s desk, legs swinging idly as you grin at the memory playing back in your mind. “I swear to God, this guy actually thought he could outrun me.”

Adam looks up from his computer, already half-laughing. “What, the dude with the weed?”

You nod, hands animated, “Panicked and tried running full speed in Crocs. Took two steps and ate it.”

“He deserves time just for that decision,” he says, chuckling.

Kevin leans back in his chair, a grin spreading across his face. “Wait—were they in sport mode, though?”

“Nope,” you snort at the image of the young guy face-planting.

Antonio lets out a low whistle. “Rookie mistake. But still doesn’t beat fence guy last summer. Got his pants caught mid-jump, boxers and all on display. High school girls can be brutal.”

“That was legendary,” Adam laughs. “I still think about that poor bastard whenever I pass a chain link.”

You’re mid-laugh, the kind that warms your whole chest, when it hits—that prickling sensation on the back of your neck. Not danger. Not discomfort. Just… noticed. You glance across the bullpen and catch him instantly.

Jay. Leaning against his desk, arms folded across his chest, that signature calm intensity written all over his face. His eyes are on you—have been, apparently—and he doesn’t look away when you meet his gaze. There’s something behind it. Something steady. Something that makes the room, for a heartbeat, feel quieter than it actually is.

Your smile softens. You slide off the desk, feet landing lightly on the tile, and cross the room toward him. “Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, your voice low enough to keep the moment just between the two of you.

Jay blinks once, like he hadn’t realized he was staring. Then the corner of his mouth lifts, slow and easy, and he shrugs a lazy shoulder. “No reason.”

You raise a brow, skeptical. “Uh huh.”

Before you can call him on it—on whatever that look was—Adam claps his hands, cutting through the mood quickly. “Alright, enough case talk. Molly’s?”

A round of agreement sweeps through the room like muscle memory. Jackets are shrugged on, phones are pocketed, and the familiar post-case ritual clicks into place.

Jay steps up beside you as the group heads out, his shoulder brushing yours in that unintentional-but-not-really kind of way. He doesn’t say anything. But that look?

Yeah, it never really leaves.

Molly’s is buzzing with the end-of-shift crowd. The scent of beer and fried food clings to the air, the low murmur of conversation rising and falling like waves around you. Laughter bursts from a table near the bar, and someone cues up a familiar song on the jukebox.

You’re tucked into a high-top with Hailey and Kim, the three of you leaning in close, drinks in hand, laughter flowing a little too easily. There’s a comfortable burn in your chest, a fuzzy warmth curling through your limbs.

Hailey narrows her eyes at you, grinning. “Alright, be honest—how many drinks have you had?”

You squint, holding up fingers that don’t want to stay still no matter how hard you focus. "Three?”

“More like five,” Kim snorts.

You gasp, clutching your chest dramatically. “Rude. I am offended by your lack of faith in my ability to pace myself.”

“Yeah, no,” Hailey bites back a laugh. “You’re drunk.” When Kim laughs and points an accusatory finger, Hailey arches an eyebrow at her. “So are you.”

You wave her off, giggling with Kim, and reach for your drink again—but a shadow falls over the table before you can take another sip.

“Alright, that’s enough.”

You glance up, already grinning. Jay’s there, arms crossed, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. He looks like he’s been watching for a while.

Kim leans in, stage-whispering, “Buzzkill incoming.”

“Jay,” you say sweetly, dragging out his name as you rest your chin in your palm. Your eyebrows draw together, face scrunching in mock-anger, “You’re always so serious.”

He sighs, dramatic in his own right, but he is fighting back a smile. “You’re about one drink away from me carrying you out of here.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s a little dramatic.”

“Is it?” he counters, eyebrow raised in that classic, skeptical Halstead way.

You open your mouth to argue, but as soon as you shift in your seat, the room gives a gentle spin. You blink slowly. Huh. Okay… maybe he has a point. “Fine,” you grumble, pushing your drink away.

Jay smirks, victorious. “That’s what I thought.”

You slide off the stool, swaying slightly. Before you even register it, his hand finds your arm, firm and grounding. His touch makes your heart trip in a different kind of way. You glance up at him, vision a little fuzzy around the edges, but his expression is clear as day. Focused. Amused. Warm. He helps you slip on your jacket, tries not to laugh as you struggle to put your arms through one at a time. You pout, lips pushed forward in mock betrayal. “Why do you hate me?”

Jay chuckles, “Actually, I love you.”

You frown like that makes less sense than the spinning bar, and when you stumble, he catches you with an easy laugh, his arms strong around your waist.

“In fact,” he says softly, green eyes sparkling down at you, “I don’t think I could love you any more than I already do.”

Your breath catches, heart pounding against your ribs. It shouldn’t still make you feel like this. He says he loves you all the time. But it does still feel like this—like it’s the first time. And it’s the best feeling in the world. A lopsided smile pulls at your lips, and you lift a hand, grabbing his chin. “You’re the best,” you gush, voice featherlight.

Jay exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Come on,” he grins, pulling you gently into his side. “Let’s get you home.” His hand settles against your lower back, warm and sure, guiding you toward the door as the night wraps around you both.

#jay halstead #jay halstead imagine #jay halstead x reader #jay halstead fanfiction #chicago pd #chicago pd imagine #chicago pd fanfiction #gifs are not mine: ask if you would like yours removed

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claramelooo · 14 days ago

Text

CHECKMATE (14/20)

I did not post it at midnight cuz I was decorating my wall, I'm the worst at it, but I think I'm making this right...

And I wrote the chapter after I saw the interview Kathryn Hahn gave to Jimmy Fallon. Omg, the woman is so funny!

I can't!!

This chapter let me sooo: 😭😩🫶🏻🥹🥺🥺

Enjoy!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: +18, sex, smooth and angst

Pairing: Governor! Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: you go on your first date with Agatha.

MUSIC RECOMMENDATION:

Opening

noun

1. It can be characterized as a new open for a move within the game.

The ceiling was dark wood, with exposed beams and marks of time. You could see where the paint was starting to peel, where nature was creeping in despite the varnish.

Even here, in this silent room in the middle of nowhere, everything about her seemed flawless. Everything around her was like her: reserved, solid and effortlessly beautiful.

You were lying on her bed, wearing only the sweater that barely covered your bare legs breathing in the scent of the sheets—of her. Something spicy like sandalwood and woody like honeysuckle.

Dinner had ended a while ago, and the playful, easy mood had dissolved, giving way to silence and your insecurity. Would she send you away? Pretend nothing happened again?

But no.

She did none of that.

In fact, she had simply looked at you and said: "I need a shower."

She went upstairs, and now here you were.

In her bed.

Turning your face into the pillow and breathing in the fabric like it could calm you.

It didn’t.

Your body still pulsed. Not from adrenaline, but from a strange, low, warm hunger. The kind that starts in your stomach and ends in places no one dares to name aloud.

Sex still clung to your skin like old sweat, but it wasn’t just that. It was her! Agatha. That damn woman who touched you like she was disarming a bomb and always left you in the middle of the minefield, totally alone.

Honestly, you didn’t know what to do now. You’d never made it past this stage.

The bathroom door opened slowly and you turned your head quickly and tried to look relaxed, as if you hadn’t just been caught lost in dirty thoughts about her body.

Agatha appeared in a thick robe, her hair pinned up, still damp in places like she’d taken a bath. She didn’t look directly at you right away, just walked past the bed in silence, went to the dresser, picked up a hairbrush.

Only then did she turn.

"Are you okay?" The question was direct, and it made you rethink your whole life.

"Yeah, I..." you thought, and thought, and nothing came to mind except, "I’m really tired."

She nodded, brushing her hair. She looked away, then looked again.

She wanted to say something, but it was clear the weight in the air was heavy for her too.

"You can sleep here if you want."

The phrase was tossed with the same calm as "I need a shower." As if it meant nothing. As if you weren’t clenching your thighs under her sweater, already wet again just from looking at the curve of her collarbone peeking out of the robe.

You wanted to ask what it meant, but you knew if you did, you'd ruin everything. Agatha was the kind of woman who offered a bed the same way someone offers an abyss: you jump if you want to.

The choice is yours, the fall too.

You just nodded.

"Okay." Your voice came out soft, almost like an obedient child.

She went back to brushing her hair, and silence settled in the room like a third presence—uncomfortable, intimate and loaded.

You shifted slightly in the bed, crossing your legs to relieve the hot pressure building between them. But the sheet slipped, revealing your bare thigh. By the time you noticed, the fabric was already on the floor.

You held your breath.

Agatha stopped too.

Her eyes landed on the space between the edge of the sweater and the beginning of your skin. She didn’t smile or look away. But she didn’t move closer either, just stood there, watching.

Slow and controlled, almost cruel.

"Are you cold?" The question came as a whisper, and you didn’t even know what to say.

"A little." You lied.

It was hot, too hot. It was her.

Always her.

Agatha walked to the edge of the bed, calmly picked up the sheet, and placed it back over your legs, like someone tucking in a child.

The touch was light, but her fingers brushed your thigh a second longer than needed and she knew it.

You looked at her. Up close, her skin looked even softer. The scent of honeysuckle and sandalwood returned, now with something more intimate.

You couldn’t resist.

"Agatha..."

"Huh?" She murmured, looking at you, but not quite focused.

"Are you going to keep doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Leaving me like this." Your voice trembled, so, did your breath.

She came closer, sitting on the edge of the bed, the sheet now between you. Her hand rested on it, but didn’t touch you.

"Like what?" Still that venomous calm. But her eyes... they were different.

You held your breath.

"Like it was just another night."

She smiled, just one corner of her mouth, and it seemed almost sad.

"I don’t know... this all feels so unexpected. I can’t..."

"Control it." You said, finishing her sentence with precision.

She froze. The smile died slowly on her lips, as if you’d touched a tender and deep nerve.

"Yeah," she quietly admitted, like she was confessing it to herself too. "Control it."

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable anymore, it was full, tense, but also... intimate. A space where neither of you quite knew what to do and still, you stayed.

You raised your hand, hesitant, and touched her face. Her skin was warm, maybe from the bath, or maybe something else.

She didn’t pull away, just closed her eyes. And that simple gesture, of trust or surrender, completely disarmed you.

"I keep trying to understand what this is," you whispered, brushing your thumb along her cheek. "And at the same time... I just want to feel."

Agatha opened her eyes and there was something there you’d never seen before. Not during the debate, not at dinner, not even when she looked at you with desire.

It was fear, and want, and a deep—ancient exhaustion from pretending she needed nothing.

"You’re so young," she said, almost in lament. "And yet... you see me so clearly."

"Maybe because of that."

She went quiet. Her face still close to yours. Your breaths touching again, searching like lost hands.

You slid slightly on the bed, offering space. She hesitated for a second, then lay down. This time there was no sheet between you. Just two bodies, under shared warmth.

She pulled you gently, like drawing in a good memory and you fit.

Her hand on your waist. Yours on her chest, feeling the rhythm of her heart.

"I’m so scared of liking this." She confessed, voice almost inaudible against you.

You shut your eyes, feeling a knot rise in your throat.

"I know. Me too." You whispered back, your faces almost touching.

She exhaled into your mouth. "God. What the hell are you doing to me?"

Your bodies rubbed together with longing, like you hadn’t had each other just hours before.

The first brush of lips was like lighting a fuse—slow, calculated, a flame growing between shared breaths. Agatha hesitated for a fraction of a second, like she was still fighting herself, before surrendering to the kiss.

Her lips were softer than you remembered, yielding under yours with a vulnerability she never allowed during the day. Her taste filled your mouth as your tongue ventured forward, timidly and hungrily.

You felt the exact moment she lost control.

A husky moan escaped her throat when your hands found her hips, pulling her fluidly on top of you. Agatha broke the kiss for a moment, her dark eyes dilated, heavy breath filling the space between you.

“Slow.” She ordered, though her voice wavered. More plea than command.

You obeyed, letting your hands glide down her thighs as the two of you settled into a perfect hold. Your legs entwined like ancient roots, your humid warmth meeting at a single, scorching pressure point.

Your first movement was almost accidental but the electric impact rattled her. Agatha gasped, her fingertips dug into your shoulders as you repeated the motion, this time with purpose.

“Like this?” You whispered, feeling her body tremble above you.

She didn’t answer in words. Instead, she captured your lips again in a kiss more hungry. Your tongues met in sync with your bodies, an erotic waltz with each movement prolonging the electric tension growing between you.

You felt the second she began to unravel—the slight tremors in her thighs, the weight of her breasts pressing down with each move, the muted moans slipping between kisses.

“I see…” you murmured against her lips, your hands finding hers and weaving your fingers together. “I see all of you.”

That confession broke Agatha entirely. Her body arched over yours in a perfect curve, her lips parting in a silent cry as wave after wave of pleasure shattered her. You held her safe through every tremor, every spasm, every intense piece of ecstasy.

When she collapsed onto you, exhausted, her eyelids fluttering as she let herself sink, you simply wrapped her in your arms, feeling her rapid heartbeat against your chest.

What followed wasn’t tense—it was peaceful, like a promise.

And when she finally opened her eyes to look at you, you knew: you were fucked.

Agatha rested her head on your chest. Your skin touched, warm. The smell—not perfume, but skin—so comforting, and suddenly… you didn’t want to leave.

“I never really loved him.” She said, breaking the reverie.

You frowned, the single thought surfacing.

“Thanos?”

She nodded with eyes still closed, serene, relaxed.

“He was kind,” she said, nostalgic. “Held the car door, flowers on birthdays… made coffee before you woke.”

You waited for the but. You knew it had to come.

“But he always made sure I knew I was the better half. That I should be grateful for having him.” She let out a quiet laugh, a self-conscious one.

Her head was still on you.

“He hated when I talked about running. Said I’d humiliate myself, turn into a caricature. That people would laugh, dig up dirt.”

You swallowed, unsure what to say. You wanted to hold her, but also... to understand.

“For a while, I believed him,” she continued. “Thought he was just worried. Protecting me.”

She turned her face into your skin, silent for a long moment. You wondered if she’d cried, but when you looked... her eyes were dry.

She wasn't crying.

She was remembering.

And something inside you tightened—a quiet anger, a protective instinct—even though she was older, more powerful, colder.

Or maybe she wasn’t any of this, and now you could see her cracks.

“He wasn’t violent,” she said softly. “But... he had a way of making you feel so small I sometimes believed I was shrinking for real.”

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, meaning it, thinking of all she’d endured. Years of silence, of submission.

“I thought something was wrong with me. It was so… painful,” her tone was nostalgic. Agatha lifted her head, looking at you with ocean eyes and furrowed brow. “But it’s so good when I’m with you.”

She looked truly confused and you understood perfectly.

“I really am irresistible, babe. Not your fault.”

She laughed and it shattered something in the air. A crack in the current moment between memory and desire. Your heart surged at that laugh—not sarcastic, not polished—real. Something she felt now, not just defending from the past.

Agatha dropped her gaze, bit her lip. A teenage gesture, so out of character that it broke you.

“You don’t need to understand it all at once,” you whispered as softly as her, voice shaking with tenderness you could no longer hide. “Just… stay.”

And she stayed.

She lay down on you again, but now the touch was different. Less strained, more rooted. Her hand rested on your stomach, fingers tracing slow, imaginary lines—like learning the map your skin was.

And there, in that damp hush of wood and night and entwined breath, an inevitable idea formed.

She deserved to know the truth.

Thanos might have been murdered.

Agatha had believed those three years it was a quiet tragedy.

You looked at her, chest rising under your hand, her face serene, her fingers still drawing patterns across your skin.

She deserved to know.

Deserved to know that maybe the man she thought erased her had been erased first.

You knew it was confidential info. You didn’t even know why Natasha leaked it.

She deserved to know.

But how to tell her? How to break it to her without unraveling this fragile thread you’d woven fingertip-by-fingertip, breath-by-breath?

Her hand stilled on your stomach.

“You’re thinking too loud.” She murmured, eyes still closed.

You forced a smile.

“Sorry.”

Agatha lifted her head. She studied you, as if reading the silence between your words.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” She asked, looking at you.

You could see the sparkle in those eyes, as if she was coming back to life little by little.

You opened your mouth.

But nothing came out.

Air passed your throat, but your tongue didn’t move. Neither jaw nor courage. Because you didn’t yet know who, or why. Didn’t know if you should say it at all, and worst of all: you weren’t sure what Agatha would become once she knew.

You closed your mouth slowly.

She lifted her head again, searching you. But this time, she didn’t ask again.

“It’s okay,” she finally said, as if deciding not to force someone teetering on a tightrope.

She lay back down, face up to the ceiling.

“When you’re ready.”

And she stayed like that.

The silence wasn’t heavy, it was just too full, like a breath that hasn’t quite released or a question you know you need to ask but aren’t sure you can live with the answer.

Agatha moved slowly, seeking comfort. Her body slid against yours again, more to the side this time, cozier. Her leg found yours and her arm came to rest across your abdomen naturally, like it belonged there.

You were still for a moment. Your heart racing, your stomach twisting with nerves. Her breath steadied, tickling your ear, and you stayed wide-eyed, refusing to sleep. You wanted to look at her, see her face, so serene and softened by sleep.

In the warm rustic bed, between sheets that still smelled of honeysuckle, sandalwood—and something of her you now recognized without name—you finally drifted off.

And you don’t know who fell asleep first.

You just know that when sunlight streamed through the curtain, soft and honey-golden, your bodies were so intertwined you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Her arm tightened around your waist. Your knee between her thighs.

Your cheek was so close to hers that your breath warmed the nape of her neck, and the scent of bare skin—no perfume, just skin—made you never want to leave.

The first movement was slight. One hip shifting. A touch by accident. Then another. Rubbing, sliding slowly, a soft sigh. You felt her skin tremble at the contact.

Then you opened your eyes and so did she.

Her irises were nearly gray in the sunlight.

You realized neither of you wanted it to stop, maybe you didn’t even know how.

The kiss came like the sun. So warm and inevitable. Just mouths, tongues, the taste of sleep mixed with desire.

She pressed her body to yours, and you moaned against her lips, a whispered secret.

There was no yesterday anymore.

No more doubt.

Only now.

And now was hot, wet and full.

You simply couldn’t hold back. Maybe it was the kiss, or the warmth between your thighs, or how her hip pressed so naturally against yours that it felt right.

Her hand rose along your waist, firm yet reverent and it nearly unraveled you. She touched you like she was starving, and terrified of breaking you.

And you wanted her to break everything.

When she slid between your legs, you moaned into her mouth—low and urgent. She captured the sound with her lips, her teeth, her tongue.

She moved.

Her first hip slide was slow, just feeling. Still, you arched into her, breathlessly hungry.

She smiled against your neck.

“Slow…” she murmured in that rough, half-awake voice. “I want it gentle.”

But you didn’t want gentle. You wanted to devour her, to trap her so that she could never escape from you again.

Your pussies rubbed together with such ease, such desire

Her hand slid between your bodies and touched you without asking. You were hot, dripping, bare, and she moaned, not surprised but desired, like she’d been holding it back.

She touched you with two fingers while her hip moved in rhythm.

You clutched the sheet. Then her shoulders. Then the life rising between you. Her touch was slow, but precise. She knew your body, as if she’d memorized every reaction.

“Look at me,” she said and you did. Her eyes were misty of sleep, pleasure and feeling. “I love it when you obey.” She said and you melted.

She was here. With you.

The orgasm hit you both in waves. You bit her shoulder to stifle your cry.

But she didn’t stop. She kept touching you until you collapsed, until your body gave in, until you couldn’t tell air from moan anymore.

She kissed you afterward. Tasting like victory and sweetness, like home.

And then, when your eyes were still half-open, your breathing erratic, your heart racing back to normal...

Agatha smiled against your lips.

“Good morning.” She whispered without breath.

And she looked stunning—with clavicles glistening with sweat, her face framed by sun backlighting—she seemed angelic.

Fuck. You felt lost.

L.O.S.T

You blinked, grounding yourself.

“You’ve got stamina for a woman your age.” You teased, even though your chest felt heavy.

Agatha laughed in disbelief, tilting her head back.

“For your information, I was the biggest club hopper at Yale.”

She leaned back into the pillow, still laughing as her fingers traced lazy patterns on your bare stomach.

“Club hopper?” You raised an eyebrow, barely holding back a smile.

“Every weekend. Friday in New Haven, Saturday in Hartford. My friends and I danced until our knees gave out.”

“You?!”

“Yes, me,” she feigned indignance. “What’s so hard to believe about that?”

You turned on your side, your arm sliding onto her hip. “You seem so… elegant. So contained.”

“I am,” she nodded, leaning her face toward yours. “But before I became… this, ”she gestured vaguely to herself. “I was just another insufferable youth with existential crises and terrible taste in cheap wine.”

“That’s unbelievable!” You laughed freely.

“Believe it,” Agatha said with an annoying, beautiful confidence. “I held the debate team presidency and was the dance-floor assassin.”

“Assassin?” You teased against her lips, catching the scent of her again.

“I took it very seriously.” She squeezed your bare ass and chuckled.

“Prove yourself.”

“I doubt you can handle it.”

“Oh yeah?” You growled, straddling her as your bodies pressed together like you’d never parted.

She squeezed your waist.

“You don’t know what you’re asking, honey.”

“Prove it.”

She sighed, either tired or amused by your persistence.

“It’s in my yearbook. Last line of the profile.”

“You’re lying.”

“‘Poetry writing, club hopping, and art,’” she quoted. “‘Like I was fucking Virginia Woolf dancing reggaeton.’”

You laughed louder, leaning your forehead against her sweaty shoulder.

“That’s so specific.”

“I am very specific.” She sighed, dramatic.

You pulled back just enough to look at her face. “And what about poetry writing?”

“Okay, that was bullshit! Every poem had the word hollow at least three times.”

“Wait. You were a goth?”

“I was intense,” she answered, feigning offense. “And the hollow was… metaphorical.”

“Ah, right. How could I forget second year’s existential chasms?”

“And third. And fourth. And there's the grad school too…”

You both laughed, and your chest felt light—full of something warm growing each time she poked fun at her past.

It was rare to see Agatha like this: stripped of everything but herself.

You traced her sweaty clavicle with your finger, still beautiful, still here.

“Take me to dance, Governor.” You whispered to her skin, so low only she would hear it.

Agatha opened her eyes, surprised, still lazy like someone waking from a sweet dream.

“Dancing… like, tonight?”

“Yes,” you said, your smile blooming with challenge. “I want to see what those hips can still do.”

She raised an eyebrow, her lips curling with mischief. “I thought I already proved that last night.”

Her hand slid down boldly, cupping your mound with surgical precision and you moaned, open and deep, not bothering to hide it.

“Bitch.” You muttered, already laughing against the pillow.

“I’m older. Doesn’t mean I don’t know how to dance.” She said, teasing like she was making a promise.

And before things could escalate again—the heat still pulsing between your legs, her touch still lingering—you were already on your feet, energized by what felt like your first official date.

“Where are you going?” Agatha asked, her voice already sounding… needy, like she didn’t want you too far.

“Making breakfast!” You announced like it was a grand mission. Not even bothering to dress, you wrapped her floral robe over your naked body and walked barefoot across the wooden floor. “Coffee, no sugar, right?”

You were already at the door when you heard:

“Actually…” you turned. Agatha was propped up against the pillows, her hair tousled like dark silk, eyes half-lidded but alive—already dancing. “Today, I want to try new things…” she said, with a deliberate pause. “Sweeter things.”

You smiled and it wasn’t just about the coffee.

The day passed like a lazy dream. The coffee was sweet, lunch was some improvised pasta because Agatha hadn’t gone shopping.

Time felt suspended between stolen kisses, gentle touches, and small discoveries about each other’s tastes.

You never imagined how soft the future governor could be.

And now that you know, you can’t afford to lose it. Maybe… maybe you shouldn’t tell her about Thanos. Not because it’s not your place—though it isn’t, really—but because you don’t want to lose this.

Her smile.

For you.

That night, reality knocked like a damn sledgehammer. Holy shit. It was really happening.

You and Agatha.

Going out.

Together.

You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting your earrings. The black dress left your arms bare, your clavicles prominent.

When you turned around, she was there.

Leaning against the closet doorway, her hair in perfectly undone waves. A dark blue satin dress hugged her waist just right. Long legs. Elegant neckline. And her lips… tinted a soft baby pink that made her look alive.

She looked… young.

Not in appearance, in spirit.

You forgot how to breathe.

She didn’t notice at first. She seemed nervous, uncomfortable in her own skin, like she was revealing too much.

“What?” She asked. “Too much lipstick? Is the dress too shor—”

“Agatha.”

You cut her off, your voice firmer than you expected from yourself.

She looked at you, startled.

“You look beautiful.”

And then you saw it, something in her broke, like an invisible wall, built with years of control and self-defense, finally cracked down the middle.

Her shoulders dropped half a centimeter. Her eyes softened. Her mouth opened just a little, as if to thank you, but no sound came.

She looked… vulnerable.

And stunning.

And yours.

For a second, she wasn’t the political witch, the calculated mother, the untouchable woman.

She was just Agatha. Undone by a compliment. By you.

The club in Oregon was smaller than the ones in the city, but pulsed with raw, young, sweaty energy. Neon lights painted the crowd in lilac and electric blue while the bass made the floor vibrate.

You walked in hand-in-hand with Agatha, slipping through the dancing bodies like you were home.

But she hesitated.

Stopped just at the edge of the dance floor, eyes scanning the crowd with an unreadable expression.

It wasn’t the noise or the heat, it was deeper, like she was observing a planet she hadn’t lived on in decades.

“You okay?” You asked, leaning close, your mouth brushing her earlobe to be heard over the music.

She nodded, forcing a smile.

“It’s been a while… since I was in a place like this. A long while.”

You squeezed her hand. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. Being here with you is already everything.”

You smiled so hard your jaw hurt.

Agatha looked at you. You swore she saw something, because her brow furrowed, her jaw tensed.

“What is it? Did I say something wrong?”

She cupped the back of your neck and held you there.

“You’re so good to me, aren’t you?”

She sounded enchanted, like she was touching something she’d been denied for too long.

You didn’t know what to say. The way she said it… Like a confession. Or an apology. Or the first time she let herself believe.

The music shifted—something sensual and magnetic—and snapped you both out of it.

Agatha blinked slowly. Something changed in her face. Her shoulders relaxed and a smile bloomed.

“I used to dance to this in the back of campus, you know? Drinking cheap wine and wearing a blue eyeliner.”

Your mind raced, picturing a younger Agatha—intense, wild, no pressure from the world—dancing with no pressures.

A life taken from her, a life stolen by a patriarchal society.

But before you could respond, she pulled you in.

No asking.

Words like violence

Break the silence

Come crashing in

Into my little world

Her hands gripped your hips, and your bodies molded into each other like they belonged.

The sultry melody wrapped around you both, but all you could hear was her breathing.

Agatha danced like she remembered.

Who she was. What she wanted. What she could do with her hips.

And she did.

Painful to me

Pierce right through me

Can't you understand?

Oh, my little girl

Her body moved with dangerous grace. Slow and precise. She leaned back against you, head on your shoulder, hand clasping yours.

You tried to breathe.

Failed.

She turned again, pressed her forehead to yours.

“You make me forget everything.” She murmured, eyes burning with something unspoken.

Then her lips captured yours, fierce and desperate.

The kiss grew, heated, your bodies rubbing together in the middle of that sweltering crowd.

When she pulled your head back, you saw it, wildness. The hunger of a lioness.

She dragged you off the dance floor. The music still pounded under your feet.

All I ever wanted

All I ever needed is here in my arms

Words are very unnecessary

They can only do harm

The club’s bathroom was a tiny white-tiled box lit by blacklight, smelling of disinfectant and her expensive perfume.

She shoved you against the door with a thud, eyes smudged and burning like coals.

“You have no idea what you do to me.” She whispered, trembling hands cradling your face.

The kiss was fire.

Teeth biting, tongue claiming every inch. Your hands found her hips under that tight skirt, fingers sinking into her soft flesh as she ground against your thigh with a low groan.

Vows are spoken

To be broken

Feelings are intense

Words are trivial

“I want to feel you,” she panted, bunching your dress up to your waist. “All of you. Now.”

Her skirt slid up in one smooth motion, revealing the tiniest lace underwear.

You laughed against her lips, breathless from shock.

Pleasures remain

So does the pain

Words are meaningless

And forgettable

"Planning this, Mommy?"

She answered with a bite to your neck and a roll of her hips that stole your breath. "Good old Agatha was crazy for this."

Your hands trembled as you tugged down the straps of her dark blue dress, exposing her perfect breasts—full, rosy, nipples already hard.

When your mouth captured them, she cried out, her fingers digging into your hair with near-painful force.

"Yes, just like that, fuck," she growled, guiding your hand between her legs. "You suck Mommy so well."

The wetness you found there made you moan. She was soaked, pulsing against your fingers like a wild heart. When you pushed two fingers inside at once, her legs shook violently.

"Slower," Agatha ordered, but her body betrayed her words, her hips rising to take more. "I want it to last... want to feel every second..."

Your foreheads touched, breaths mingling, bodies moving in a rhythm that was less a dance and more an ancient ritual.

All I ever wanted

All I ever needed is here in my arms

Words are very unnecessary

They can only do harm

You saw the exact moment when she lost herself. Eyes rolling back, mouth open in silent moans, fingers leaving marks on your skin as if afraid she’d disappear.

When her orgasm hit, it came with a muffled scream against your shoulder, her body writhing like a live wire.

All I ever wanted

All I ever needed is here in my arms

Words are very unnecessary

They can only do harm

You held her through every wave, kissing her closed eyelids, her damp cheeks, the corners of her mouth that kept curling into a smile.

"Look at me." You asked when she came back to herself.

Her eyes were two black oceans. No longer stormy, but free. She kissed you then with a sweetness that ached, her trembling hands cradling your face.

"Thank you." She whispered against your lips, and you knew it wasn’t for the orgasm.

It was for reminding her who she was.

For letting her be.

When you left the bathroom hand in hand, the music was still playing. And Agatha—your wild, free Agatha—pulled you into another dance, this time without fear.

All I ever wanted

All I ever needed is here in my arms

Words are very unnecessary

They can only do harm

The door clicked softly behind you. The muffled sounds of the night city faded in the hallway as Agatha dropped the keys on the table with a quiet sigh.

You could still feel the heat of her body on yours—her hands, her taste, the mingled scent of expensive perfume and unrestrained desire.

Agatha moved past you, removing her earrings, her heels, slowly unzipping her dress as if shedding a role that had constricted her more than the fabric itself.

"I haven’t had fun like this in… years," she murmured, not looking at you, her voice caught between exhaustion and joy. "I’m going to take a shower."

And she disappeared down the hall.

You stood there alone in the dim bedroom. Sat on the edge of the bed, still in your crumpled satin dress, grinning like an idiot.

Then you realized.

You were lost.

Not in fear.

In the fall.

In the passion.

You thought of Thanos. Of Barkley. Of her son. Thought maybe you’d crossed a line you shouldn’t have.

But when she gripped the back of your neck, when she told you how good you were for her… that felt truer than anything you’d ever known.

You pressed your hands to your face, trying to steady your breath. This wasn’t the time to drown in the feeling.

Not yet.

The phone buzzed.

On the dresser, Agatha’s iPhone lit up, the screen casting a glow in the dark room.

Maybe it was Barkley. Or Nicky.

You hesitated, but instinct won out. Better to check, make sure it wasn’t urgent.

You picked up the phone and swallowed hard at the notification.

Tony Stark

Confirmed our dinner for Friday?

Your body turned to ice.

You didn’t know what hurt more. The fact that he was still around, or the casual, intimate use of our.

Our dinner.

Friday.

You glanced toward the bathroom door. The shower was still running, the sound muffled. You could hear her humming a song.

And then it hit you. No matter how much Agatha had freed herself tonight, no matter how much she was with you, there were still locked doors inside her.

Doors where Tony Stark still had a key.

And you… you didn’t know if you were just a guest or if you were building a home.

You read it again.

And again.

The smile still lingering on your face slowly faded, like snow touching hot iron.

Your chest tightened in a strange way. Not fear, not sadness. It was…

Jealousy.

A hot, acidic and stupid jealousy.

You hated feeling it.

But you hated even more that he could send a message like that, in the middle of the night.

With that kind of freedom.

And the cruelest part? Maybe he could. Maybe he still had that space. Maybe he’d never left it.

You locked the phone again with an automatic flick, as if the glow of the screen could burn your skin.

From the bathroom, Agatha’s voice escaped between the shower’s spray. She sang softly, perfectly in tune, as if the world wasn’t shaking beneath her feet.

You fell back onto the bed, the fabric riding up your thighs, irritating your skin.

Your mouth still tasted like her, your body still burned from her touch. But now… now your heart was pounding out of rhythm.

You turned your face into the pillow and whispered to yourself, so quiet no one would hear:

"It’s just dinner."

But you didn’t believe it, not even a little.

And when you heard the bathroom door open, steam spilling into the bedroom, you pretended to be asleep.

Because if she looked at you now, she’d see.

She’d see you were already boiling inside. She’d see that, of all the dangerous things she’d awakened in you…

You were jealous.

And completely, hopelessly in love with her.

~*~

urghhh, the bad vibes... sorry. And don't judge our girl about not tell about thanos bc it should hard to be in her place too :/

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher @reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good @imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqlz @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp @lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01 @aboutcustardcreams @upsidedowndanvers @starbucks-06 @absolute-memegarbage @trinity2k @greyella @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @whitelotus00 @dandelions4us @creaturesaphique @warpdrive-witch @sweetmidnights @dingdongthetail @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @milfovers4 @jaylie-bee @holystrangersalad @chlondykebar @natashashill @harknessshi @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @ahintofchaos @lowlyjelly @xblinkx2 @rmaximoff @loveshineslikethesky

#Spotify #agatha all along #wlw post #checkmate #agatha harkness x fem reader #agatha x reader #agatha harkness #domme mommy #mommy k!nk #lgbtq #lgbtqia #agatha harkness x reader #mommy knows best #dom mommy #bdsmkink #bdsmdominant #older woman younger girl

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ducksido · 1 month ago

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Hi there! I love your writing could I pls get headcanons for ruggie, leona, jamil with a reader that's been cursed with lycanthropy so for the last few years, she experiences painful involuntary shifts (into a giant wolf not the freaky anthropomorphic ones) once a month and of course this doesn't change when she enrolls at nrc. maybe she also isn't fully herself when she shifts so she can be a bit dangerous around others.

Ruggie Bucchi

At first, Ruggie thinks you’re pulling his leg when you mention being cursed with lycanthropy. Like, ha ha, sure, you totally become a giant, teeth-baring wolf once a month. Funny joke.

But when he hears the howling from the far end of campus and sees the destruction near the Ramshackle area—splintered trees, claw marks, and scorch marks from the defensive spells the staff uses to hold you back—he believes you.

He’s freaked out, not gonna lie. He grew up in the slums—he knows danger, and he knows how to respect it. That includes knowing not to mess with a cursed girl mid-shift.

Ruggie is surprisingly good at managing it, though. Once he knows your schedule, he’ll stock you up with food, medical supplies, and things to calm your nerves before the shift hits. He’s careful not to get too close when you’re transformed, but he does leave scent-marked objects near your usual containment area so you’ll associate him with safety when you’re half-feral.

He jokes about it to cope: “You go beast mode once a month, huh? Lucky for you, I’m an expert at dealin’ with wild animals. I mean, Leona’s basically a lion with a bedtime.”

You worry about hurting him, but Ruggie just shrugs. “Tch. I’m fast. You’re scary. We’re a perfect match.”

Leona Kingscholar

When he first finds out, he’s... annoyed. Not at you, but at the fact that something as ancient and barbaric as a lycanthropic curse hasn’t been broken yet. In his eyes, that’s just unacceptable. Magic’s supposed to serve you, not ruin your life.

The first time you warn him, he lazily waves it off. “You think a wolf’s gonna scare me? I’m a lion, herbivore.”

Cue a scene where Leona comes face to face with your transformed self—snarling, fur bristled, fangs bared—and has to actually fight you off long enough to get you to retreat into the forest before you hurt someone.

He doesn’t mock it anymore after that. Instead, he starts researching. Quietly, in the library. Asking Professor Crewel suspiciously specific questions about curses. He won’t admit he’s trying to help, but you catch him falling asleep on curse-breaking tomes more than once.

He never treats you like you’re fragile—but he does get more possessive. During your shift nights, he’ll use his magic to knock you out temporarily if things get too dangerous. And if anyone dares to make fun of your condition? They’re going to be face-first in the sandpit behind the dorm.

Secretly leaves enchanted earplugs and sleep potions on your desk during full moon week. Won’t say it’s from him, but he expects you to use them.

“Next full moon, I’m staying with you. Try biting me and see how well that goes.”

Jamil Viper

Jamil’s reaction is the most complex of the three. As someone constantly forced to live under control—of himself, of others, of expectations—he’s both sympathetic and deeply unsettled by your curse.

He understands too well the feeling of being a threat to others when you don’t want to be.

His first instinct is to contain the situation. He starts building routines, rituals, and containment spells specifically designed to keep you (and others) safe during the full moon. He’s meticulous about it.

You might find it stifling at first, but Jamil does it because he's terrified of losing you—or seeing you lose yourself.

When you tell him you sometimes remember flashes from your wolf form—moments of pain, of rage, of hunger—he listens in silence, and then quietly, solemnly tells you: “You are not what the curse turns you into.”

If anyone speaks of you like a monster, Jamil shuts it down immediately. And if anyone tries to provoke you during a shift (maybe out of morbid curiosity), they find themselves mysteriously hexed with a week of sleepless nights and an inexplicable fear of barking.

He's the most proactive in researching a cure. He scours old Scarabian legends, even sneaks into the Headmaster’s restricted collection when you’re at your lowest, just to see if there’s anything he can do.

“I don’t care how ancient or difficult the magic is. I’ll break it. One way or another.”

#twst #twst x reader #twst wonderland #twst yuu

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angelickks · 2 months ago

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𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 ۶ৎ bf!dean winchester x rich!bimbo!gf!reader (𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝟏𝟖+)

RICH!BIMBO!READER is chaos in lip gloss, all legs and luxury, and dean winchester is absolutely gone for you. you strut into his life in designer heels and never leave, wrecking his world with pink nails, sweet perfume, and a smile that could disarm a demon. you don’t know latin, but you do know how to charm a crossroads demon and shoplift from cursed boutiques like it’s a sport. dean calls you princess, worship and all—and you call him deany bear just to watch him grit his teeth and blush. you're glitter and gumption wrapped in an expensive sundress and manolo blahniks, and dean? he’d burn the world down just to buy you another one.

coconut body oil, sugar cookies, chanel, and vanilla flavored lip gloss. your scent lingers on dean’s flannel, in the impala, in the air after you leave a room - sweet, warm, impossible to ignore.

looks like an oversized designer sunglasses, bubblegum pink mini skirts, perfectly curled hair, and heart-shaped everything - necklaces, purses, prada sunnies, your damn mood ring you swear is “lowkey psychic.”

early 2000s pop icons, sultry lounge jazz on rainy days, and the occasional rock ballad - only because dean sings it under his breath when he thinks you're asleep.

always have a bejeweled lighter (even if you don't smoke), strawberry lip gloss in your expensive bra, and your phone full of selfies with dean scowling in the background.

chrome powder finished nails, soft blankets, romantic comedies with dramatic kissing scenes, and dean’s rough hands in your hair.

you're all glitter and girlhood, wrapped in curated chaos, with a heart so big it sneaks up on people. And dean? dean keeps catching himself thinking maybe heaven looks like her.

he totally didn't think he'd fall for you - at first, dean thought you were just another pretty face. high heels too high for salt and burns, nails too perfect for grave digging, and a wardrobe that looked more vogue than victim protection. but then you patched him up with the gentlest hands and bought him a limited edition vintage zepp vinyl “because it looked like something you'd like,” and he was gone.

he lives to ruin your expensive lingerie. you show up in matching sets — lace, silk, bows in the back — and every time he swears he’s gonna be gentle. but 15 minutes later, the panties are shredded, the bra's hanging off the lamp, and he’s got your lip gloss smeared across his jaw. “told you not to wear that if you wanted it back, sweetheart.”

motel sex with you is feral. you in your little pink mini dress on those grimy motel sheets? instant brain shutdown. he bends you over cheap bathroom sinks, lifts you up against creaky doors, pulls your heels off with his teeth. the man has zero chill when you're in “dumb little doll” mode, batting your lashes and giggling when he growls.

you love to tease him in public. sitting in his lap at a bar, whispering filthy things in his ear with a perfect princess pout. sliding your hand up his thigh under the table at a diner, playing dumb while he shifts in his seat and mutters, “you’re gonna get it later.” (you always do.)

the sight of you sucking on a lollipop? ends. him. he can’t function. Doesn’t matter where you are — car, bunker, goddamn library. you twirl that thing around with your lips glossed up and all innocent, and he’s 30 seconds from pulling over or bending you over a bookshelf.

he’s obsessed with your thighs. calls them his “favorite seat.” you could crush his head between them and he’d die happy. he’ll drop to his knees in the middle of a fight if it means tasting you — “hold still, baby, lemme take care of you real quick.” and when you ride him? hands locked around your hips, watching you bounce with that dumb pretty girl giggle — he’s done for.

he loves when you beg. big eyes, pouty lips, nails digging into his shoulders — when you whine for his cock in that sweet, breathy voice? he makes you wait just to hear you beg louder. “what was that, princess? didn’t hear you. gonna have to use your words fʻme.”

you love to leave scratches.his back, his arms, his ass — you mark him up like a crime scene. and he loves it. wears them like badges. dean’s favorite mornings are when he rolls out of your luxurious bed sore, covered in hickeys, and you’re lying there in nothing but his flannel shirt asking if he wants round two.

car sex. duh. backseat of the Impala. windows fogged. skirt bunched around your waist. dean with one hand on your throat and the other under your thigh, whispering, “whinin' already, princess?”

aftercare king, actually. for all his filthy talk and rough handling, he treats you like gold when it’s over. cleans you up, gets you water, rubs your thighs where he left bruises, kisses your forehead and murmurs, “you okay, doll? i didn’t go too far, did i?” then he wraps you up in his arms and says you’re the best damn thing that ever happened to him.

you're the only person allowed to call baby cute. you once referred to the Impala as “such a cutie lil car” and dean almost had a stroke — but then you pulled a diamond studded tire pressure gauge out of your designer bag and asked if she needed her fluids checked. now he won’t let anyone else touch her but you.

you always insist he moisturizes. “dean, baby, if you don't use this hyaluronic acid serum, your skin’s gonna look like leather before you're 40.” he grumbles, rolls his eyes, mutters something about “witchcraft,” but lets you do your little nighttime routine on him while pretending to hate it.

you’re fiercely protective — in your own sparkly way. the one time someone called dean “trailer trash” at a high-society event you dragged him to, you didn’t even blink just dumped an expensive cocktail on their head and said, “oops.” dean laughed so hard he nearly dropped his beer.

you spoil the hell out of him. real leather jackets. ridiculously expensive watches to, “match his outfits”. rare cassette tapes. a stupidly expensive gold lighter engraved with “Don’t Die, Dumbass.” he acts like he doesn’t care, but he keeps every single gift. And that lighter? Never leaves his pocket.

he secretly loves how soft you make him. you bring out a side of dean he doesn't let anyone else see. he finds himself saying “I love you, princess” more, letting his guard down, smiling more often. he even lets you paint one of his pinky nails sometimes “for fun.” (only the pinky though. he’s got a reputation.)

sam is baffled but supportive. he doesn’t get it. at all. but you bring dean back in one piece and make the bunker smell like vanilla and chanel instead of gunpowder and regret, so… he’s not complaining.

you love him so much. you don’t care about monsters or magic. you just know that dean winchester is the kindest, most broken, most beautiful man you’ve ever met, and you’d walk through hell in heels for him.

supernatural mlist!

𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐒: y’all ask, therefore u shall receive. the poll everyone voted for some bf!dean headcanons and im sorry this is one of my fave tropes ngl im gonna also be posting some pedro ones soon lovies!!

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leezlelatch · 8 months ago

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I love your writing and style. It's been a hard week and it's made me happy after discovering it. Just wondering if you, if you had the time, could write a slightly smutty drabble. I love your take on protective doll baby Copia. He's perfect.

With the last few months I'd love to read a ficlette where he discovers the reader almost in tears after being torn down by people, told that she's worthless, and now doubting herself because of the complete lack of self esteem which is even worse after this. Copia goes into DarkCopia mode while loving her like the badass he is. He doesn't like it when people hurt his gal. And he makes sure she knows how much worth he sees in her.

Truly though, even if you don't have time...your stuff has made me happy. <3

Hello, my friend. I'm so sorry this week has been hard. I hope it has improved, and I am so happy that my writing has made a difference! Here is a little something for you from me, and Copia. <3

Copia x Reader - hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive, a little smutty, protective Copia, suggestively Dark!Copia.

The old key slipping into the lock rouses you from your light doze, and your eyes feel heavy as you turn over, watching as Copia steps into his quarters, his gaze lowered as he shifts his takeout bag from one hand to the other, depositing the key back into his pocket. He raises his head, and you make eye contact. Two things happen in that moment that makes the hair raise on your arms, and your heart warm with affection at the same time. Copia takes in the sight of you, curled up like a burrito in his blanket, your nose tucked into the fabric, eyes red. He knows it’s because you’re trying to find comfort in his scent. He knows you, in and out. His expression freezes in a ghastly stare, his eyes narrowed, lips set in a deep frown which accentuates the wrinkles around his mouth. His brows are pulled down, and he appears paler than he usually does. In short, he looks ready to hurt someone.

But then it falls away. Cold fury melting into concern, and he drops his bag at the door, uncaring as the takeout boxes tumble and rest on their sides in his haste to reach you. Gloved hands pull you from the blankets, settling you across his lap, his arms cradling you. His face grows very close to yours, searching your eyes with a certain desperation. Copia is another person when it comes to you. The endearing, funny Papa is gone and replaced by someone who is calculating, smart, one step ahead. The real him. The one he hides, the clergy unaware that the puppet is actually the puppet master. You’re precious to him, and there is nothing this man would not do to keep you happy and safe.

“Baby,” he says very softly, his accent curling around the endearment. “Tell Papa what happened, eh?” His thumb rubs beneath your eye. “What are the tears for?”

“I had a hard day,” you respond, your voice a little hoarse. His brow furrows, and one of his hands slides its way down your body, feeling, prodding gently, as if he were checking for some external injury. “I’m okay, Copia.”

“Okay is not finding il mio amore all wrapped up and crying.” He works at removing a glove, slipping each finger out of the leather. He flexes his hand once it’s removed, and it makes you smile, even if just a little. Copia said to you before that he was used to it, but you know the constricting leather became a little much after a long day.

“Somebody said something to me today,” you murmur, taking his hand and holding it to your face. His fingers cradle your jaw, the warmth of his skin encouraging you to speak. “And I feel like I just…can’t do right. That I’m not right. I can’t even face myself in the mirror because I’m afraid of what I’ll see.” You pause, gathering your thoughts. “I’m afraid to see that they’re right.”

Copia sucks in a shaky breath when you finish, and you can already see his mind working. “My love, I don’t want you going after anyone,” you say, reaching to grasp his chin, squeezing it gently. “I’m not telling you this to make you angry.”

He stares down at you, and then he nods slowly. Copia shifts back onto the bed so his back is against the wall and he adjusts his hold on you, looking thoughtful as his fingers pick up a soothing rhythm against your cheek. “There are a few things I need to be correcting, amore. And I need you to be good for your Papa, and listen. I will never allow a single soul in this building or elsewhere to hurt you. That goes for all our Siblings, but you are not just a Sibling, sì? You are my amore. Also,” he clicks his tongue. “The peoples are wrong. They will learn that they are wrong. And you, vita mia, also need to be corrected.”

You’re listening intently, your eyes trained on his features, adoring how expressive his features are when he speaks, but his last words make you pause. “I have to be corrected?” That was the last thing you expected to hear.

“Yes,” Copia says, drawing out the word, his expression set. You’re bewildered when he doesn’t elaborate, letting out a sound of surprise as he firmly guides you up and out of the bed.

“Copia, no-,” you begin to protest as he approaches the full length mirror near his dresser, your hand tightly wrapped in his grip. Copia pins you with a look that shuts your mouth, and he takes you by the shoulders, setting you directly in the reflection of the mirror.

“We shall start here,” he says, his fingers tapping beneath your chin. “You will watch, and listen.” Copia circles you like a vulture, his hands clasped behind his back. “When you smile, I want to smile too.” His voice has lowered, tender and affectionate. “I am not so proud of my teeth, but I would smile ear to ear just to match your joy. That is healing for me, amore. You do that.”

Fingers brush your cheek. “You blush at the sight of me. At the sight of me. So beautiful and sweet, and I am sure that I have seen the depths of paradise. And the way your eyes light up when you’re excited, oh…,” he laughs softly to himself, his voice almost a coo. “Do you realize how lucky I am to know your eyes? To watch your brow furrow or rise. To see emotion pass over your face. To read the story of your life through every blemish and line.”

Your breath is stolen from your lungs, and you’re already crying. Copia’s hands shake as they grasp your hips, standing now close behind you, his voice a gentle whisper in your ear. His breath makes you shiver, and you feel his hips shift against your backside. “You’re biased,” you whisper, and he laughs.

“I am very proud of this, amore. It is a gift to be biased,” he murmurs, his eyes catching yours in the mirror. “It is a gift to have you.” His hands slip beneath your shirt, grasping and kneading at soft skin. You make a breathless noise, leaning back against him, and Copia almost purrs. “Hmm, you are liking your Papa’s touches?”

They slip higher, fingers grazing your nipples, and he pauses there. You whimper, caught between your emotions and your arousal, and Copia knows how to play you like the finest instrument. When to touch, and when to pause, letting it all wash over you, giving you the time you need to feel safe in his arms. “Your body,” he says, pressing his hips firmly into the curve of your ass. “Ignites a fire inside of me, you know? I am incomplete when I am not joined with you.” He’s almost growling now, a rough edge to his voice.

You’re spun around in his arms and he captures your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue thoroughly plundering your mouth and rendering you incapable of any thought. Copia has a talent at making you forget, and suddenly the cruel words from today have all but vanished from your mind. “I love you,” he hisses, nipping at your bottom lip. His hand grasps your chin, raising your eyes to his, and his tone softens. “I love you.”

He kisses you softly now, his lips curling into a smile. “You are worth everything. You don’t need to look into the mirror, amore, just look into my eyes. I see you. I see the glory in you. And you will always have a home with me. You are safe with me.”

Another tear falls down your cheek and he kisses it away. “I love you, too,” you whisper, leaning your forehead against his. Your hand slips beneath the waistband of his trousers, and he gasps, arching into your touch.

“Do not think,” he murmurs, his voice a little strained as he pushes you toward the bed. “That this does not mean they will be…removed. Papa protects what is his.”

#the band ghost #the band ghost fanfiction #papa emeritus iv #copia emeritus #papa copia #papa iv #cardinal copia #papa emeritus 4 #copia #papa emeritus iv x reader #cardinal copia x reader #mildly suggestive

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leahsgf · 2 years ago

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omg could u write adult lottie x reader?? maybe w lottie js comforting reader or something? theres such a lack in lottie fics its heartbreaking :((

an instant cure

pairings. adult!lottie x reader

i actually wrote two different versions of this! the other is a little more heavy so i’ll post this one first, thank you so much for the req! and i agree i wish there was more fics out there for lottie :(

“honey are you coming?” lottie’s voice sounded from the other side of the bathroom door, so soft and full of love that you could almost melt.

“yeah, yeah. just a second!” you shook off the threatening tears as you glanced over your appearance in the mirror. it’d been one of those days that had just been off. nothing particularly out of the ordinary had happened, just the usual jobs and classes around the compound, but since you had woken up you had felt like you had a brick sat on your chest, refusing to shift.

you were desperately clinging to the logical side of your brain, trying to convince yourself that it was all in your head and to not let your thoughts completely overwhelm you. however nothing could quite quell the crummy feeling lingering in your gut.

you’d been delaying leaving the bathroom and joining your wife in bed because you didn’t want to dampen her mood. she was a constant beam of light, and spent her days helping people navigate their feelings purely out of the goodness of her own heart, and the last thing you wanted to do was to taint her high spirit and put her back into work mode when she should be relaxing. maybe, you thought, spending a second longer getting ready would be able to shake that off you - but, you were mistaken. so with a deep breath you opened the door, heading towards your shared bedroom.

your entrance instantly caught lottie’s attention, her eyes softening as she saw you, instantly plastering a smile across your features. “come on.” she demaned lightheartedly, holding up the sheets. “get over here.” you laughed and waltzed over, snuggling down next to her, inhaling her scent and instantly feeling comforted, and lighter.

the fuzzy feeling surrounding you reminded you of the first time you’d had the pleasure of being taken out on a date by her, decades ago, before the thought of nationals, before the crash, before switzerland, before everything. the pair of you had genuinely been through it all, and had always had each-other.

you’d met lottie when you were six. you were the terrified, shy new kid, and had refused to speak to anybody for the entirety of your first day. until she had toddled over, plonking herself down next to you and wordlessly started braiding your hair, beaming at you with her gappy smile.

her playing with your hair had always been a huge comfort to you - from the playground decades ago, to now, wrapped in her embrace from as she pressed kisses to the crook of your neck every now and again.

alongside her ability to love beyond belief, one of the things you loved the most about lottie was how observant she was, the little things that would fall unnoticed to most being the things that she would notice the most. she quite literally knew you inside and out, and was in touch with your emotions just as much, if not more than her own.

her fingers branched out from your hair, feathering over your cheeks ever so slightly, pulling you back into reality.

“what’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours?” she quizzed, her eyes studying your expression.

“just thinking about you.” you replied, so softly it was barely audible. “about the first day we met.”

“oh yeah?” she raised an eyebrow, the very same smile from that day spread across her cheeks. “you were so cute. i think i knew i loved you from the second my eyes set on you that day.” your eyes glazed over once more as your cheeks heated in response to her words.

after a moment of silence that fell between you, she nudged you slightly, an expectant look across her features, sighing softly as you met it with confusion.

“i don’t help people navigate their feelings everyday for nothing you know. what’s actually going on?”

“nothing,” you mumbled, “honestly, it was just a weird day.”

“weird?” her eyebrows furrowed as she scolded herself internally for busying herself today to the point of missing that you weren’t a hundred percent.

“yeah. just off. you know those days that just feel wrong, even though you don’t really know why?”

“absolutely baby.” she assured. “please always tell me or just give me a signal when you’re feeling like this. you are my top priority, always.” she pulled you into her arms further, caressing your back as she pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“thank you lot. i’m honestly feeling much better now. it’s quietened down a lot.”

“you sure? i don’t want you feeling icky before bed. i know it can take a while for it to let you relax sometimes. i could make you a smoothie? one of the ones you really like? o-or i could run us a bubble bath? or give you-“ she rambled, her brain scrambling for every possible way to comfort you, not realising that she is comfort enough.

“hey, hey.” you stopped her, a small chuckle slipping past your lips. “all i need is you, right here with me. i promise.”

lottie grinned over at you, pausing her train of very enticing ideas. “as long as you’re sure. i can very much do that. i’m not going anywhere.” she shifted your position so your head lay on her chest, her arms securely around your frame, almost cradling you. butterflies erupted within you, like they always had done at the slightest touch from her. she had had this effect on you for as long as you had known her.

“i love you so much.” you whispered, sleep now fully prepared to overcome you.

“i love you more sweetheart. don’t hesitate to wake me if you need me.” she soothed, gently squeezing you as your lips met hers to say goodnight.

lottie had always been like an instant cure to every negative emotion you had ever experienced. it seemed to again of worked effectively, as you drifted off to sleep happier than you’d been all day, knowing that you could get through anything as long as you had your love.

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #lottie x reader #lottie yellowjackets #lottie matthews #lottie matthews x reader #comfort

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after-witch · 9 months ago

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just a smiling man thought

We're actually getting fall weather now and I can't tell you how much my brain just automatically shifts into smiling man daydream mode when the air is cool and the leaves are falling and crisp and there's vague fall scents--cool air, burning leaves, the scent of wet leaves being stepped on--all around.

Every time I take little walks by the woods or down the wood trails, it's just--

Wouldn't it be lovely, if he were to come walking out? If he were to offer you the thing you want the most? If he were to smile at your shock at seeing him, and your gut knows he needs no introduction because he's this ancient creature who knows you without a word?

And his smile can be so kind and warm and so awful at the same time, like he knows a secret that you don't, like he's hearing jokes that don't reach your ears.

And by the time he convinces you to make his deal and you're shaking his hand--it's just an ordinary hand--his smile is wide enough to split his face because oh yes, he knows something you don't, but you'll find out soon enough...

#smiling man #katherine arden #I'm obsessed lord help me

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blackjackkent · 1 year ago

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Sleep

(Send me a pairing and a prompt)

Send me a "Sleep" and I'll write a drabble about one character watching the other sleep.

((TY for the prompt! :D You didn't specify a pairing, so I'm going with BG3 of course, and originally I was just going to default back to Hector/Karlach fluff since I'm such a sucker for writing that lately. But I decided to go off in a bit more random direction this time instead. XD Def welcome to request a more specific pair if you wanted one though!))

------

The camp is cold and full of strangers. Boo is fluffed up against the chill, and his small beady eyes peer out from the haze of golden fur into the darkness.

The Rashemaar is asleep, and Boo's vantage point subtly shifts up and down with each rise and fall of the man's chest. Is the hamster relieved to be back in his company, after their separation by the doppelgangers? Is there comfort in the warmth of his human flesh, steadier and more solid than any nest of shredded paper and straw?

Who can say? Boo keeps his own counsel.

Sometimes the Rashemaar shifts, rolls over in his sleep. Boo is quick to adjust, walking along the man's shoulder and side and coming to rest again on his back. He does not fear being crushed; he is nimble and quick and alert, and they have traveled many long years together. Perhaps Boo has come to learn the subtle shifts of breath that precede a shift in position; perhaps the hamster's very life is tuned to the rhythm of the man's heartbeat.

Or perhaps not. He is only a beast, after all.

A soft skittering sound breaks the silence. Boo's head twitches, his eyes piercing the dark and identifying the scuttling shadow of a rat crawling up from the dockways. A danger, maybe. An interloper certainly. Slowly Boo uncurls himself on Minsc's body, digging his claws into the human's shirt for leverage. The fluffed out silhouette of his fur compresses into sleek lines.

The rat draws nearer. It casts a long shadow in the lowering moonlight, a twitchy and unstable shape. It has scented the food in Minsc's pack, and it suspects no danger. It is a city creature that knows the meaning of a sleeping human.

It believes it is safe. And it is... from Minsc. But not from Boo.

The hamster leaps, without warning, without a sound. Though Boo has been known to echo his companion's battle cries with a loud squeak, his natural mode of attack requires no announcement. His claws sink into the rat's back and the rat squeals in sudden terror and pain. Its body lashes sideways; Boo holds on tightly at first, then deliberately releases his grip, allowing himself to be launched a foot or so away and land lightly on the cobblestones.

As the pain eases, the rat calms; it turns and glares at Boo with a hatred that, rodent to rodent, needs no translation. Boo stares back unblinking. The message is clear. The rat has stumbled into a territory not its own. If it knows what is good for it, it will leave.

The rat's long, muscular tail lashes as it briefly considers attack. But, despite having no tail, Boo's force of presence is much the stronger, and eventually the rat's head dips in submission. It turns and scuttles off into the darkness, back down the wall that leads to the wharf.

Boo squeaks softly, satisfied, triumphant. He kicks off from the stone floor to land on the mountainous bulk of his companion's body. Minsc stirs, mumbles something indistinct, but does not wake; with a soft grunt he rolls again and Boo makes another leap to avoid being pushed back to the ground, landing this time on the human's bald head. He is careful with his claws now, adjusting his weight so the points do not sink into the skin.

He settles down in this new position, his fur fluffing up around him again. And his eyes once again fix out in the dark, like a guard dog resuming its post.

Is it a gesture of protective loyalty to the man sleeping beneath him? A knowledge of kinship and camaraderie and the battles that lie ahead and behind, and the need for rest while the hour allows? Perhaps. Or perhaps it is merely the territorial instinct of a dumb beast to watch for threats when the sun is hidden.

Who can say? Boo keeps his own counsel.

#my writing #bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #boo bg3 #minsc and boo #minsc bg3 #minsc #drabble #kaldurcalm #ty for the prompt! i hope you enjoy :)#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 fanfic #bg3 drabble #baldur's gate 3 drabble #baldur's gate 3 fanfic #i enjoyed writing this haha

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revelboo · 2 months ago

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I just wanna say that I love you and love your page and what you write for us. literally I can't finish my day without checking your page for updates.

be safe and keep writing because you are the best👏🏻❤️‍🔥.

Awww! Thank you! I’m glad you like my nonsense! 🔞 🌶️

Scenario- Dirty Thoughts

TFP Smokescreen

• He’s going to offline here and now. So much of your soft skin on display as you bend right in front of him, his engine revving despite himself. And you’re straightening with a soapy rag in your hands, arms damp to your elbows as you lean against him to wash his hood. Imagines you running that cloth over him in bot mode. That soapy cloth sliding down to wrap around his spike.

• He can’t release his spike in alt mode. Right? He’s not sure, but he’s aching to release it when you drape yourself against him, all soft, warm skin stretched against him to reach his windshield and he’s going to overload from just you rubbing up against him. Why had he agreed to let you wash him? That’s right, he’d wanted to feel your hands on him and you’d offered. Planning to save the experience to revisit lying on his berth later, to touch himself to the memory and imagine it’s your hands on his spike not his own. But he’s trembling at your touch, at the wet, soapy slide of the cloth against him. Fantasizing about touching you in return.

TFP Bumblebee

• Door wings flicking guiltily as he makes sure no one’s around, he’s kneeling to dig through the little bin of spare clothes you’ve brought over hunting for one particular item. That soft sweater you’d come over wearing on top of a tank top and pulled off after deciding it was too hot. Warbling as he finds it, he lifts it and vents, pulling the scent of you deep into himself and it’s so soft. Surely you won’t miss it if it goes missing.

• Subspacing it, he sneaks back to his habsuite, feeling like he’s going to get caught any klik. That everyone will know. Securing the door behind himself, he sits on his berth and pulls out the sweater. Holding it to his face and venting against it. Hating himself and feeling guilty even as he mass shifts and his servos flex against that soft material. Freeing his spike and wrapping it around his length, shuddering at the feel of that softness against him. Imagining its you wrapped around his spike as he fists himself with a warbling groan.

TFP Bulkhead

• Denta gritted, he’s looking to see if anyone’s around and knowing he’s got to stop doing this. But you talk to him, look up at him with those eyes, lay a hand on his leg and smile. And his spike becomes so hard it hurts. Having to sneak off to take care of himself because he can’t get up the nerve to actually talk to you. To just tell you he’s interested. That he wants you.

• Finding a shadowy corner, he’s freeing his spike and gripping himself. Picturing how you’d look sprawled, naked under him. Wondering what you look like under those coverings. The sounds you’d make if he touched you with his servos, his mouth, buried his spike inside you. Groaning, he works himself, servos rough with need. But you’d be soft inside, wouldn’t you? Slick and soft as you took him deep. Head falling back against the wall, his hips flex as he strokes. Fantasizing about you.

#transformers x reader #tfp smokescreen #tfp bumblebee #tfp bulkhead #bulkhead x reader #bumblebee x reader #smokescreen x reader #valveplug

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screenmobile · 3 months ago

Text

DIY Lighting Ideas for a Cozy 3-Season Room

There’s something magical about a 3-season room. It’s that perfect in-between space—not quite indoors, not quite outdoors, but just right for sipping morning coffee, reading a book on a rainy afternoon, or enjoying a crisp fall evening without bundling up like you’re heading to the Arctic. But let’s be real—your 3-season room can feel a little…meh without the right lighting.

Ever walked into a space and immediately felt the vibe shift because of the lighting? Warm, soft lights make a room feel inviting and comfortable, while harsh, bright ones can make it feel like a dentist's office. And who wants that? So, if you add charm, warmth, and functionality to your 3-season room, I’ve got you covered.

String Lights

Okay, let’s start with the obvious: string lights. But not just string lights—2025 is all about smart, energy-efficient lighting. Solar-powered string lights are huge right now because they’re easy on the electric bill and don’t require you to run a million extension cords.

Drape them along the ceiling for a dreamy, starry-night effect or wrap them around wooden beams for that rustic, Pinterest-worthy look. You can even get smart string lights that change color with an app—so whether you’re in the mood for warm amber, soft white, or full-on party mode, you’ve got options.

If your 3-season room doesn’t get enough sun for solar lights, plug-in LED string lights with dimmable features. That way, you control the brightness depending on your mood.

Lanterns for That Vintage Touch

There’s something about lanterns that scream cozy. Whether you go for hanging lanterns, tabletop ones, or even floor lanterns, they instantly add character. Currently, oversized Moroccan-style lanterns are trending—they cast beautiful patterns when lit and make your space feel straight out of a travel magazine.

If you like the rustic farmhouse look, vintage-inspired metal lanterns with Edison bulbs are perfect. For a softer, boho vibe, try paper lanterns in neutral tones. Bonus: Some lanterns now come with rechargeable LED candles that flicker like the real thing, minus the fire hazard.

DIY Mason Jar Lights

Do you know those empty mason jars sitting in your cabinets? Time to put them to good use. Mason jar lights are an easy (and cheap) way to add a personal touch to your 3-season room.

All you need:

Mason jars

Battery-operated fairy lights (or LED tea lights)

A little creativity

Just pop the fairy lights inside, and boom—instant cozy vibes. You can hang them from hooks, line them up on shelves, or cluster them on a table for a soft glow. Want to take it up a notch? Wrap some twine around the top for a rustic feel.

Wall Sconces for a Sleek Look

Wall sconces are a great alternative if you're not into the whole “string lights everywhere” aesthetic. And the best part? You don’t need to hardwire anything if you go for battery-operated or plug-in options.

Right now, minimalist LED sconces with warm-toned light are all the rage. They add a clean, modern touch without being too overpowering. If your 3-season room leans more traditional, go for vintage brass or matte black finishes—they never go out of style.

Candles

We all love the warm glow of candles, but open flames in a 3-season room? Not the safest idea. That’s where flameless LED candles come in. These things have come a long way—they flicker realistically and have timers and remote controls.

For an extra cozy feel, arrange a mix of different heights on a tray or inside lanterns. If you want actual scent, pair them with a good essential oil diffuser for that full sensory experience.

Under-the-Table LED Strips

This might sound weird, but hear me out. Adding LED strips under tables, benches, or shelves creates a soft, indirect glow that instantly makes your space feel high-end. And because these lights aren’t directly in your line of sight, they add warmth without being too harsh.

You can go with a simple warm white strip or choose color-changing LEDs to match the season (cool blues for summer, warm ambers for fall—endless possibilities).

Get the ones with a remote or smart app control so you can adjust the brightness and color without getting up. Because who wants to get up when you’re all cozy?

Overhead Pendant Lights for a Statement Look

If your 3-season room has a proper ceiling, why not go all in with a statement pendant light? Rattan and woven pendants are super trendy in 2025, giving off that natural, earthy feel that blends beautifully with indoor-outdoor spaces.

For a more industrial vibe, black metal or geometric pendants with Edison bulbs look stunning. And if you’re going for a coastal aesthetic, capiz shell chandeliers add a light, breezy touch.

Fire Pit Table for That Extra Glow

This isn’t technically a lighting fixture, but a fire pit table can completely transform your 3-season room. Newer models are designed to be smokeless, making them safe for enclosed spaces with proper ventilation. They add that perfect warm glow and make chilly nights more enjoyable.

Go for a propane or gel-fueled fire pit table if you’re using it in an enclosed space—no one wants to deal with excessive smoke.

Final Thoughts

The best lighting for your 3-season room is the kind that makes you want to spend more time there. Whether it’s the soft twinkle of string lights, the warm flicker of LED candles, or the inviting glow of a fire pit, it’s all about layering different light sources to create the perfect atmosphere.

So, which of these ideas are you excited to try? Drop a comment below and let me know! And if you’re thinking about upgrading your 3-season room with better screens, enclosures, or sunroom features, Screenmobile of South Bend has got you covered. They specialize in screen enclosures, sunrooms, and custom solutions to make your indoor-outdoor space as cozy as possible.

#screenmobile #3 season room #south bend

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toomanytookas · 11 months ago

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Sickfics are such a weakness for my soft little heart and this absolutely hit all of the right buttons for me. I just want to print it out and crawl into bed and hold it close to my chest and cry a little with happiness because it’s so wonderfully tender and soft.

My favourite parts of this series are the where we see how familiar and fond of one another Dieter & PA are (be it in a silly or more serious context) and this felt like such a lovely deep dive into that facet of their bond.

I adored those moments where even in their misery (which you captured so well), PA notices how much effort Dieter is putting in to caring for them. I'm sure they have a sense of how much they mean to him, but there really is something about someone looking after you when you're sick that can make you feel so extra vulnerable and loved...

I particularly am obsessed with this:

His iPad, loaded up with movies and TV shows that you're not sure were always on here, or if he downloaded them just for you.

Something about the idea of him curating a catalogue of entertainment for them feels like especially lovely and Dieter-y gesture.

That final beat of Dieter shifting from his slightly manic mother-hen-with-an-umbrella’s-length-distance-between-us-because-germs mode to that soft, cuddly comedown-from-the-stress-of-seeing-someone-so-dear-to-you-be-ill-and-just-needing-to-be-near-them phase just made my heart feel so, so full.

I am falling at your feet in adoration for his comment about their scent. It just screams of their closeness and and gives me little hearts in my eyes as someone who is very scent preoccupied.

I hope you start to feel better soon! And in the meantime are able to get lots of rest and not feel too awful when you're out and about (especially at the concert!).

any other week

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Dieter Bravo & gn!reader rating: Teen (18+ only blog!) warnings: sickfic. no smut or nudity (shocking, I know). sickness (no vomitting) and associated gross feelings and metaphors. fluff. word count: 2.3k summary: You're sick. That much is obvious. Even if the fact is you can't be sick. Not now. Not this week. Not when the only one around to look after you is the very person who pays you to look after him - Mr. Dieter Bravo.

A/N: if you hadn't heard, I have (had? I still feel shit but I'm technically negative and going to see Taylor Swift tomorrow, wish me luck lol) covid, and it's kicked my ass, so I wrote the least appropriate man in the universe looking after someone. enjoy 💛

follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future fics

"D-!"

You barely get out the first syllable of his name before you're hacking a cough, pressing your palms to your knees as you splutter, bent over in a silent prayer to whatever virus has your esophagus in a chokehold, willing it to please let go.

It's feeling benevolent today, you think, when the clenching grip around your throat gives way a moment later, letting you take in a few blissfully sharp, painful gasps of air again.

Not that the cough has really stopped. That's been a niggling tickle for days now, growing and growing into something bigger as your body has gradually lost the fight with whatever asshole thing has set up shop inside your sinuses. Still, it's eased off enough now for you to raise yourself on wobbly legs, chest heaving and your head too fuzzy to really take in the foyer of Dieter's home, or the man himself as he tentatively creeps down the stairs.

It was going to be a bitch of a week. The last week before Dieter head's off to shoot always was. Full of last minute meetings and prep, and Dieter being all too much of an asshole for you to want to deal with, and you being entirely too much of a cunt to him in return. The last thing you needed was to be sick.

Whatever plague had befallen you didn't seem to give a shit you were assistant to the Dieter Bravo, or that sorry, we're busy this week, can I pencil you in for September? You'd just have to deal, and suck it up, and hope to the end of the earth that you could stay far enough away from Dieter than you didn't get him sick too.

"You look like shit."

You almost jump out of your skin, a muffled voice echoing down at you from the top of the stairs as your eyes strain to focus and find the source of the voice. It sure sounds like Dieter, but you can't tell if it's the cotton wool stuffed inside your own head, or some weird voice he's putting on in preparation for his next role that's making him sound entirely off.

He's there, you're sure of it, your heart pounding in your chest as you wheeze and stare up at a Dieter shaped blur you're certain is wearing a balklava.

You cough again before you speak, your voice a weak rasp of what it usually is, razor blades slicing up your throat as you force the words out.

"Dee? I've got your mail, and those clothes from the designer, and -"

He's coming closer, taking the steps slowly, coming in to focus then wobbling back out of it as you blink rapidly at him and heave in another pained breath.

"You're sick."

Usually you'd argue with him. You take just about any opportunity to talk back to him, just like he does with you. It's how you work so well together. Even now, your head is indignantly saying no. You are not sick. You are perfectly fine and if he could just get off your ass, that'd be wonderful.

But, you are sick. That much is obvious. Even if the fact was, you couldn't be sick. Not now. Not this week.

"- your laundry -"

"You're sick."

Any argument is lost in your throat as another cough drags itself out of you, kicking and screaming, forcing you to hinge over again just to stop the force of it all from knocking you flat on your ass. Dieter is retreating up the stairs a little as you watch stars dance across your eyes with each forceful hack of air from your lungs, and even through the pain and lack of oxygen you can sense he feels uneasy about this, about you, and for the first time you think you may have made a mistake.

You shouldn't have come here.

You should have called, or sent a text, and worked from home where you could stay in bed, keeping your germs to yourself and away from him.

When your cough finally eases off again, your head pounding now and your throat burning more than it has in days, you lift yourself up, and admit defeat.

"Okay," you wheeze. "I'll go. I'm - fuck, sorry - I'll call you later. Let me know if you need anything."

Your head spins as you turn, and Dieter thunders down a few more steps before abruptly stopping as you hobble back to the door.

"No!" he shouts down the stairs the moment your hand touches the handle.

You look back at him confused, as he stands there, still keeping his distance, but reaching for you as if force of will alone could stop you in your tracks. And, in a way, it does. You turn to him, propping yourself up on the door, watching him as he tries not to recoil from you, especially now that he can see you up close.

You'd been pallid when you left the house. Now, you felt positively gray. Though you felt cold to the touch, your insides felt like you were roasting alive. No doubt, a few steps closer as he is, he can see the sweat beading on your forehead simply from the effort of keeping yourself standing there and not sliding down the door into a heap on the floor.

"You can't fuckin' drive in this state," he says, flapping his hands at you as his mind kicks into overdrive. "You're sick. You'll crash your fuckin' car. You need rest, and soup, and drugs - the good kind - and a doctor, I should call a doctor, you need to get better, you can't be sick, I can't - because I nee - lo- no!- care - " he stops himself, his mouth flapping as he stares and gesticulates in your general direction before letting his arms flop at his sides.

"I am not getting a new assistant," he settles with, hugging his arms tight around his body.

Before you can tell him he's stuck with you as his assistant whether he likes you or not, another cough beats its way out of your chest, and you slump against the door. Dieter is on you in a second, his balaklava'd face coming into view as he holds you gently by the shoulders as you splutter.

"You - you gotta get in bed. Now."

He's panicking, you know that much. He's never so much as seen you with a hangover, let alone seen you sick. So, you let him guide you upstairs, watching you with wild eyes through the balaklava as you wheeze at the stop of the staircase.

You let him pull you down the hallway, and push you into a spare room. You barely register his hands helping you peel away sweaty layer after sweaty layer of clothing until you're being guided into a soft bed, the sheets being pulled gently over you until you sink into the plush pillows and fall alseep before he's even left the room.

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

When you wake, some minutes or some hours later, you're not sure, it's to shuffling in the corner of the room. The handle of the door clicks before it slowly swings inward - that horror movie creak only playing in your head though fitting perfectly with the scene you're watching in front of you. When the door is half open, a shaggy head pokes around the frame, before shuffling in on croc covered feet, cardigan wrapped tightly around itself and mask replacing the balaklava he'd so hastily thrown on earlier.

"Dee?" you croak from the bed, failing to sit up as the weight of the blankets holds you down.

"Stay back," comes his muffled voice from beneath the mask as he shuffles in further. He walks to a dresser kept by the wall. There's nothing in it. There's nothing in this entire room except for empty furniture and blank walls. The only time it sees any action is after some of Dieter's more frivoulous parties, when one too many people can't make it home and need a place to crash. In essence, it's the spare room to the spare rooms spare room - not the guest room, or his room, or the room he'd designated as yours some years ago, that's down the hall next to his own, but the last of three rooms that sit empty nearly year round.

Dieter tugs on the dresser, his crocs gripping to the floor as he yanks it away from the wall and pushes it with a squeak all the way across the floor toward the side of the bed you're trapped in.

"Stay there," is all he says before he leaves you again, the giant piece of furniture slotted right up against the bedside. You couldn't move even if you wanted to, and now he's all but blocked in your easiest way of escape. You weren't going anywhere.

A moment later he's shuffling back in, a tray in his hands and what you think is an umbrella under his arm. He's staring carefully down at the tray - balance and dexterity having never been his strong suit - before placing it gently onto the dresser.

"Tea," he grunts, pointing to the tray, "that lemon ginger shit. Some other stuff too."

It's at the end of the dresser, beyond your feet, and not really of any use to you right now, but the sentiment is nice, especially coming from Dieter.

"Thanks, Dee."

He grunts again, shrugging his cardigan covered shoulders before taking the umbrella from under his arm and gently pushing the tray along the top of the dresser until it's within arms reach of you. When he's done, he nods to himself before backing out of the room, and closing the door. You hear the faint sounds of jesus fucking christ being muttered from the other side of the door as he walks away, no doubt to have a shower and rid himself of as many of your germs as he can before he goes about practicing lines and keeping himself busy.

That lemon ginger shit is smelling divine as you lay there, slowly peeling your arms out from the sweaty confines of the sheets. The soothing heat of it is just what you need - if you hadn't forced the stuff on him so many times in the past, you'd be stunned that he even thought of it himself.

Sitting up, an ache in your hips like no other, you groan and reach for the tea, taking a small burning mouthful, and swallowing it down with a gasp before taking another, then another, then another. The burn soothes the raw feeling in your throat, and when you can finally swallow a little more freely, if only for a second, you take a chance to look at the tray Dieter left with you.

Some other stuff, is an understatement.

There's bottled water, snacks undoubtedly taken directly from the stash you keep in his kitchen, plus a few of his own that he knows you steal when he's not looking. Then, there's what can only be described as a miniature pharmacy. Tissues, nasal sprays, throat lozenges, tylenol, cough syrup, and little packets of Liquid IV lined up on the tray for you to take your pick of.

It's exactly the kind of thing you've done for him countless times before when he's been holed up in bed, too sick or too hungover to deal with the world. Now, here he was doing it for you just as dutifuly as you ever had for him. He'd even gone as far to get dressed and leave the house, driving to a pharmacy just for you. You knew for a fact he didn't keep half of this stuff in the house, and neither did you.

Before you know it, your throat is constricting and your lip is wobbling, but another burst of pain rips its way through your chest as you cough again, and again, and again. Your eyes water, the tears forgotten, until the cough subsides. You'll cry later, when your throat hurts a little less and you have the energy. For now, you throw back some tylenol, finish your tea, and flop back down into the sheets, ready for sleep to take you once more.

Over the course of a few days, though you barely see his face again, you know he's been in to check on you by what he's left for you on the tray. A hot bowl of soup and soft bread. More tea. A bowl of yogurt and fruit when sunlight creeps through the cracks in the blinds. A stack of books. His iPad, loaded up with movies and TV shows that you're not sure were always on here, or if he downloaded them just for you. Fresh towels so you can take the most exhausting shower of your life, only to come back out to find underwear and one of Dieter's old worn movie tees waiting for you. Then there's more tea. More food.

He cares for you from a distance, day in day out, until your cough turns to a splutter, and you can breath a little deeper. And so can he.

Around the third day, when you're no longer coughing and feeling far more like yourself, but still too exhausted to do much of anything, you finally see Dieter's face again. He silently herds you into the room he calls yours, shuttering the windows as you crawl under the sheets, and curls into bed behind you.

"You smell different when you're sick," he mumbles into your neck. "Fuckin' hate it."

"Sorry," you whisper back to him in the dark. "I showered, but I -"

"No. You smell different. Sick different. Not gross different. Didn't smell like you."

Smiling into the dark, you let him snuggle into you as you drift off into the most restful sleep either of you have had in days.

tagging my Dieter beloveds: @schnarfer @missredherring @whatsnewalycat @sp00kymulderr @ozarkthedog

@ghotifishreads @rebel-held @amanitacowboy @readingiskeepingmegoing

#the bubble #oneshot #series #read #author: covetyou

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luveline · 3 years ago

Text

𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫? | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary steve finds out that falling in love can be really, really easy. you find out what it’s like when somebody wants to take care of you [10.5k]

warnings fem!reader, fluff, mutual pining, getting together, dustins next-door neighbour!reader, sick fic, hurt/comfort, reader is implied to weigh more than nancy, you’re upset one time and steve goes overboard, small s4 spoilers no major plot details, post s3 pre s4, feat. the lunch club, karaoke, rollerblading, sunbathing

𓆩❤︎𓆪

A vast green jungle, so damp the forest floor bathes your ankles in rainwater runoff. The air is thick with humidity and smells green. Earthy, the sweet scent of petrichor tickles your nose, and-

A shadow distends over the yellow pages of your paperback, dark, eating up the image of the amazon and replacing it with reality – a normal summer's day in Hawkins.

Steve Harrington stands in front of you, his body blocking the sun and its warm glow. The light throws a halo around his head and turns the ends of his brown hair golden.

"Watcha reading?" he asks in lieu of ‘hello’.

"Ever read Journey to the Center of the Earth?" you ask him, leaning towards him invitingly.

You love to mess with him like this, watch his cheeks slowly pink as you bend towards your knees with a demure smile playing on your lips.

"Yeah, I did. In middle school," he says, trying his best to play it cool, hands pushing deep into the pockets of his pants.

"Well, it's nothing like that."

The grin he gets when he realises you're messing with him is adorable. He chuckles warmly and pulls a hand through his hair, looking down at the ground and then up at you again with a bashful pinch to his thick eyebrows.

"You're looking for Dustin?" you ask. You haven't seen your young neighbour since this morning. "He ran off earlier with his huge radio thing."

Steve rolls his eyes. "Typical. I paid him fifteen dollars," he says, his frustration clear, "fifteen dollars, Y/N, to fix my Walkman like three weeks ago. Every time I come by he's out. Little shit probably hasn't even looked at it."

You like Steve. He's a great looking guy who's more than nice when he sees you even though you're always pushing his buttons, and his poorly hidden fondness for Dustin is something you find heart-squeezingly attractive. You don't think twice about your next move.

You stand up from your lounger and have to shield your eyes from the sun, tucking your book under your naked arm. "If you want… I have a cassette player I'm not using. I got a Walkman for my birthday." You don't give him an opportunity to say no as you start for the front door.

"Are you sure?" Steve asks. You hold the door open for him, standing at the threshold with a grin.

"Positive. It's collecting dust, at this point."

"I mean, sure, if that's cool. Just until Dustin gets his act together," he says, pushing past you. His hand brushes your hip.

"That's cool," you confirm, walking behind him through your open kitchen and living room. "It's on the left."

Steve pushes into your bedroom. The window's open, breezing around the smell of fresh linens and the hydrangeas in the planter on your sill, shifting the gauzy white curtains.

The suncatcher hanging from the window sprays rainbow kisses over your walls and posters, your laundry basket full of summer dresses and discarded night shirts. The carpet is freshly vacuumed and plush underfoot as you beeline for your desk. Steve hovers by the door before leaning his weight against your bookshelf, eyes taking it in curiously.

"Cyndi Lauper," Steve says, eyes on a big poster of said singer with her iconic orange hair and hat. You raise your eyebrows at him, pleased, and he shrugs. "She's famous."

"You like her?"

"Nah," he says. "But I'll listen to anything. Except Depeche Mode; sharing a player with Robin all summer has sailed that boat."

"Yeah?" you ask, kneeling down in front of your desk to dig through the cabinet underneath. You frown, up to your elbow in bric a brac and forgotten trinkets. "It's in here somewhere."

"Yeah. I mean, maybe not anything. I don't think I have the palate for some of those rock and roll bands. Dustin made me listen to Black Scabbard in the car last week and…"

"Black Sabbath," you correct lightly, pulling out of your cupboard with a relieved huff.

"Right," he says.

You look over your shoulder to find him perusing your bookshelf, his hand running lightly over the shiny glass paper weight you use as a book end. He teases the spine of a hardback book curiously but must feel your gaze, turning to you with a sheepish smile.

"Do you like to read?" you ask.

Steve wrings his hands held at his hip. "Sure, I don't mind it. Bigger fan of movies."

"Right, Family Video must get pretty distracting," you say, walking towards him on light footing to offer the dinged-up cassette player. "She's well loved but she works, I swear."

He takes it from you, fingers brushing the backs of yours. "Thank you."

You shift from one foot to the other — because oh my god there's a boy in my room — before smiling with teeth. You stop. "You're welcome. Want a drink?"

"Uh…"

"I've got pink lemonade."

"Oh, then definitely."

You lead him into the kitchen and install him at the kitchen table with two empty glasses. The carafe of lemonade is beautifully cold from the refrigerator with slices of lemon and strawberry bouncing around the top as you pour it. The condensation wets your fingers.

Steve looks handsome and maybe slightly silly behind your homely oak table, all clean cut and well dressed. You feel bare beside him in your tank top and flowy midi skirt, too much skin.

"Are you hungry? I make a mean BLT," you say, bringing your feet up onto the chair, knees digging into the table.

"I'm good, thanks," he says.

"Are you having a good time of it at FV? They denied my application, but that's 'cos Keith has a vendetta against me for wiping out his score on the Palace's Tempest."

"You're a Tempest girl?"

"Everybody plays Tempest," you say.

Steve gives you a look. "Nerds play Tempest."

"Fine, every nerd plays Tempest," you allow, rolling your eyes. "Lemme guess, you're a Centipede guy. No, worse! You play Pac-Man. I can tell."

His silence is enough to make you giggle in triumph, elated to have sussed him out so quickly.

"How did you know that?" he asks finally.

"You called Black Sabbath 'Black Scabbard'. You're not a nerd."

"I could be."

"But you're not."

You share a steady look over the table. His eyes are bright with mirth, a sleek brown like fresh brewed coffee. You love the shape of them, deepest with the round under eye blanketed in straight black lashes. A red polo stretches across his chest. You find your eyes drawn down the length of his arm to his hand where he's drawing circles around the rim of his glass. He takes it into his hand and you watch his wrist bend, his arm flex as he brings the cup to his lips and a drop of condensation drips onto the table mat.

"I don't look the type?" he asks after a rough swallow. He sounds almost incensed.

"No, of course you don't. King Steve," you croon.

He crosses his arms across his chest and leans back, looking you up and down showfully. "Neither do you."

He's all charming smiles as he raises his chin and shakes his head, lips stretched up in an open-mouthed smile.

"Tempest," he mutters in bemusement.

You burst into laughter, quick to defend yourself when there's a pounding knock at the door. You're still laughing as you stand, calling to Steve as you walk to the door, "Tempest isn't even that nerdy! It's the Dragon's Lair dorks you need to watch out for. Oh, hi baby. What's wrong?"

"You haven't seen Steve, have you? His cars outside," Dustin announces, standing under the porch with his wild curls stuffed under a hat, his pulley cart ditched halfway between your yard and his.

"He's in the kitchen. You want some lemonade? You look frazzled," you offer, brushing your hand over his sunburned shoulder lightly as he scoots right past you.

"Thanks, Y/N." Dustin strides into the kitchen with purpose, glaring at Steve pretty heavily as he takes your seat at the table. "Why are you here?"

"Fucking charming. I came to see you, Henderson, but you're never home. Too busy finding secluded knolls to radio your girlfriend and play karaoke."

"Dick," Dustin says, though he defrosts as you fill a glass for him.

"What do you want?" Steve asks him.

"Why do you assume I want something?"

"Don’t be coy, you're not Madonna. It's tacky."

"Dick," Dustin says again, glaring.

"Dustin, do you want something to eat? You shouldn't go out in the sun all day by yourself, you know? What if you get heat stroke?" you ask.

Steve gives you a strange look like he's puzzled with you. You smile back at him, hand coming down on the back of Dustin's chair easily.

"Steve, I need a ride to Mike's," Dustin says, completely ignoring you.

Steve kicks him under the table. "Manners."

"Can I please have a ride-"

"To her, dipshit. Jeez, what's wrong with you? She asked if you're hungry."

Dustin beams at you innocently, soft cheeks rounding. "No thank you Y/N you're a godsend and I appreciate you very much," he says all in a rush, turning back to Steve, the act entirely dropped. "Now can we go?"

"Christ, fine. I'm gonna get you one of those rewards cards for being a shithead. This incident would be a double stamp, by the way."

"Uh-huh," Dustin says.

The younger teen chugs his glass of lemonade and spins off, calling a thank you over his shoulder. Steve gets up to follow him, your old cassette player held carefully in his hands.

"I'm sorry about him."

"Don't be. I've known him his entire life. He's in a phase," you inform him with a small grin, shrugging as if to say, what you gonna do?

"Long phase. Thank you. For the player and the lemonade."

"You're welcome," you say warmly, walking him to the door.

Dustin's already in the passenger seat, having taken his pulley cart back inside. He makes a hurry up motion from behind his window and Steve mutters expletives to himself, giving you one last smile before he trudges off.

The two boys wave at you through the windshield. You wave back.

When Steve's car has winked from view you take your lemonade and paperback outside again to lie under what's left of the sun. You try your best to fall back into the jungle and conjure its sights and sounds, only you keep finding your thoughts wrapped up around a certain boy's laugh and the face he makes as he does, that startled grin, a fist half raised to his mouth.

"Y/N!" A familiar teen voice accompanied by battering knocking at your front door.

You pull it open, still in your pajamas, hair a mess. His knocking had woken you up. You'd had about ten seconds to check you hadn't drooled too violently in your sleep before he was calling your name, and so you hadn't bothered getting dressed.

You wish you had. Dustin stood at the door with Steve Harrington behind him, a happy smile on both their faces.

You try not to flinch as you throw an arm across your chest subconsciously. "Hi?" you ask. "Is everything okay?"

Dustin's dressed for the beautiful weather in shorts and a shirt with sleeves so short it may as well be a tank top, a hat perched familiarly over his cute curls. Steve is dressed in a tormenting pair of jeans paired with a denim jacket. Double denim. He looks hot, physically and figuratively.

"Do you wanna come skating?" Dustin asks urgently.

You blink at him, pulling the edges of your strappy vest down to cover your navel, plaid bottoms low on your hips – you're a mess.

"Skating? I don't have one."

"A skateboard?" Dustin asks, shrugging. "Bring your rollerblades."

You err at the door, leaning your weight against it as you think. "When?"

"Now!" he says.

"I don't want to hold you up," you say, aimed more towards Steve than Dustin.

Steve smiles, hooking cheeks pink with the heat, and is about to talk when Dustin says, "He made me come ask you, he's fine to wait."

You bite back a smirk at Steve's deer-in-the-headlights expression and nod happily. "Alright. Twenty minutes and I'll be ready. If that's okay?"

"Totally," Steve says.

You close the door most of the way and catch a look over his shoulder, finding his pretty friend Robin in one seat and a gaggle of Dustin's friends in the back.

You hear a sharp thwarping sound as you spin away followed by a "What the fuck, dude?" from Dustin and hope that he hasn't tripped over one of your flower pots. You get ready and spend at least ten minutes worrying after your appearance in the mirror before grabbing the skates and jetting into the kitchen. You gather as many impromptu snacks you can find and shove them into a grocery bag, struggling to lock the door behind you in want of a free hand.

Steve jumps out of the driver's side to open the side door for you. You smile gratefully and dump the snacks and your skates in the footwell before climbing in, an empty seat between you and Dustin’s redheaded friend.

You're saved from the awkwardness of seeing people you've met but don't quite know by their ongoing debate, something about which Bruce Springsteen song is best.

“It’s obviously Dancing in the Dark. I don’t really know why we’re still talking about this,” Robin says from the passenger seat.

“You’re just saying that because it’s his most popular,” the girl next to you says.

“Things are popular for a reason.” Robin shrugs.

“Yeah, Max. Plus, popular or not, it’s his best.”

Max scrunches up her entire face. “Better than I’m on Fire?”

There’s a long pause where each child deliberates. Dustin and Mike dissolve into fierce looks.

“Nobodies talking about Born in the USA,” Steve says into the quiet, eyes on the road but head tilted back.

“Shut up, Steve,” Mike says, looking as exhausted as he usually does when you’ve seen him coming in and out of Dustin’s. Though it's been a while, he hasn't changed. Perpetually done with people's shit.

“Disrespectful,” Steve murmurs. His eyes flash to the rear view, catching you red-handed as you stare at him. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“About Springsteen."

You consider him, his smile, his gaggle of cruel children. “I like Born in the USA,” you say nonchalantly.

“That’s two points,” Steve says triumphantly.

The skatepark is pretty busy because of the good weather. You and Steve end up unpacking your snacks onto a blanket Robin lays out whilst the boys go look for their friend Lucas, who's supposedly already here.

Max doesn't seem pleased with this revelation, sitting down heavily by Steve's picnic basket. Steve offers her a PB&J from the basket and a cold caprisun and she perks up, but not a lot. You want to spend time with Steve, you're not disillusioned into thinking you're anything but a flower under his attention, blooming and wanting, but Max's sad eyes get the better of you.

Too late for introductions, you dive straight in. “What’s in the Walkman?” you ask, nodding at the player sticking out of her jacket pocket, the foam padded headphones around her neck.

“Wild Things Run Fast, Joni Mitchell.” It sounds like a question.

You’ve struck gold immediately. “I love Joni Mitchell! Have you heard her new stuff?”

Max seems alarmed and happy at once, red messy braids swaying as she lifts her chin. “I mean, only what they’ve played on the radio.”

“Her album came out this October, Dog Eat Dog? I have the cassette if you wanna borrow it. It’s amazing.”

“Really?” she asks. She’s peeling the crusts off of her sandwich, one side at a time, dropping them into the small pile of discarded Saran Wrap.

“For sure. You’ve heard Shiny Toys?” Max nods. “It’s all as good as that one. Seriously.”

“Awesome,” she says, taking a huge bite of her sandwhich.

You realise you might’ve come on a little strong and try to backtrack into cool territory again, hand brushing Steve’s ankles as you lean away from the poor girl, smiling sheepishly.

“My mom loves Joni Mitchell,” Robin says.

“Robin," Steve chides lightly.

“What?”

You and Steve share a look that’s so familiar it gives you pins and needles in your hands, something small between the two of you clicking into place. Or at least that’s how you feel.

Max has almost finished her sandwich by the time Mike returns. “Are you ready?” he asks her.

She clambers onto her feet and grabs her skateboard from behind Steve. The two walk away, a distance from Dustin and Lucas, who both seem to have acquired a pair of skates each. Dustin in knee pads and a helmet, Lucas without.

“Why would you say Max listens to mom music?” Steve asks incredulously once they’re out of hearing distance.

Robin shakes her head, similarly incensed. “I didn’t say that.”

“There were so many other things you could’ve said, Robs.” He sounds less mad and more pitying.

"I didn't say that! I said my mom listens to her. She does!"

"Don't take offense. Robin got dropped as a baby," Steve says to you offhandedly.

You know the best course of action here and you take it – in what world would you make an enemy of a boy you might like's best friend who is a girl? Not this one. Plus, Robin seems super nice.

"I'm not offended. My mom loves Joni too," you say cheerily, smiling at Robin, unabashed.

You're slightly disappointed when she looks away towards her lap, until she says, "Projections a bad look on you, Harrington. He has, like, a flat head," she tells you.

Steve starts yammering loudly. "Shut up! My head's perfect, you're being ridiculous. Perfectly round and ordinary, thank you."

"Yeah, I'd definitely say your head's perfectly round," you agree through giggles, reaching for your skates.

You have a funny feeling that a silent conversation is happening as you slide off your shoes and into the skates, lacing up tight, but when you look up Robin's sifting through the accumulated snack pile and Steve's looking the opposite way, towards the kids.

You clear your throat. "Are you guys gonna skate too?"

"Steve is."

"I didn't bring-"

"He's borrowing mine. It's too hot, I can't skate. And I don't have the coordination, anyway."

Steve looks at Robin, at you, Robin again. "I'm not good," he says. You take it for yes.

Steve gets on his skates and straps out of his denim jacket, exposing the distracting lengths of his arms. He's better than he gives himself credit for, steady on his feet. He knows how to stop and start, and you smile to yourself when the two of you skate off towards Dustin and Lucas, following their journey around the skate park, careful to stay clear of the bowls and rails.

"You're good! You said you weren't good!" you say to him.

"I'm not good."

"You're doing great!"

He smiles gratefully, the expression at home over his warm features. He's not really a very smiley guy, you've realised, his lips often pulled up into a grimace or a cruel approximation of a smile, sarcastic. It suits him. You go to say as much, eyes eating up every little detail of him.

"Hey Steve? You should-" and your foot pops over a rock.

You shriek and throw your arm out towards him. Steve catches you with impressive strength and speed as your leg buckles. You've quickly righted yourself and he brings you to a slow but not quite stop. Stopping on skates is easier said than done, especially old skates with the front guards already worn down.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

You've taken his hand without thinking, the two of you widening apart and then coming together like the eclipse of a blinking eye.

You pull your hand away apologetically, the warmth of his palm lingering.

"I'm sorry!" you say.

"Don’t be. Last thing I wanna do is have you crack your head open on my watch. I’m glad you didn’t wipe out."

"Thanks to you."

You slow and stop. Steve does the same, the two of you clumsy for different reasons. He watches as you calm your racing heart.

"Shit, I really thought I was gonna fall. You're a lifesaver." You stare straight into his eyes, their sunlight honey brown, smiling with complete genuineness. He's more than pretty. "Thank you."

Steve swallows and his smile is warmer, somehow, impossibly warmer. Maybe it's the beautiful weather, maybe it's the beautiful boy. You suddenly feel very, very hot.

"I think I might need to sit down."

"Oh, shit," he says, reaching for your arm. You're about to correct his touching – you're not dizzy, just a little nauseous. Only, his hand. His fingers clasped around your elbow, his face fiercely protective.

You let him guide you back to the picnic blanket. One hand around your elbow, the other behind your sun-warmed back, and somehow his hand is the hottest spot.

"Are you okay?" Robin asks, shielding her eyes from the sun. The book in her lap slips shut as she straightens.

"She's okay," Steve says. “Too hot. Budge up."

Robin moves over on the blanket and throws the basket open. Steve reaches in for a capri sun and passes it to you. It's lukewarm, though the day is so hot it's a relief to drink it.

"Steve's really good," you tell her after a noisy suck, the orange plastic straw stabbing your lip. You frown down at it.

"I saw you guys whizzing around. Public menaces, both of you," Robin says, though she smiles as she does. You know she's joking. You don't want to think it in case it's not true, but you feel like maybe she wants to be friends.

"We prefer speed demons," Steve says easily, still kneeling at your side.

"They should lock you up."

You snort and almost squirt juice from your nose, spluttering and coughing as you bend at the waist. Steve pats your back less than gently and then more so as you move your hand towards him.

"I'm okay," you cough, embarrassed at how you must look hacking your lungs out.

Steve's hand, again on your back, rubs a stern line. "Chill out, Y/N. You can't die before dinner."

"We're getting McDonald's," Robin supplies.

"Don't tell the kids," he says, smirking.

He's still rubbing your back. You suspect you might agree to anything while he's this close.

"You sound like such a dad when you say shit like that."

Steve scowls at Robin's words and pulls his hands away, crossing them over his chest. "Don't say that. Babysitter is more than enough, don't you think? Y/N?"

"An older brother?" you suggest to Robin's extreme delight.

She laughs. Steve scrubs at his face with both hands until his eyes are red.

Robin's sick and Steve's going crazy by himself, manning the desk at FV with almost no energy and even less enthusiasm. A week since he'd held your hand and he can't seem to stop thinking about it.

He catches himself staring at his own empty palm and clenches his fist, bringing his eyes back to the door in case someone walks in and he has to pull off the headphones of your borrowed cassette player.

Steve had discovered a forgotten cassette inside, listening to it out of curiosity the night you'd given him the player and then every night since then. He felt guilty about keeping it without saying anything but he was only borrowing it, he reasoned. He'd give it back when Dustin fixed his skipping Walkman.

The tape was Van Halen II. And Steve's not stupid, he knows who Van Halen are, but he's never sat and listened through any of their full albums. Now he can't stop, constantly rewinding back to the same song, over and over.

He does so now, fingers clumsy and too big over small buttons until the first line kicks in, powerful and high energy like a burst of fresh air.

Have you seen her?

So fine and pretty.

He grins as it plays, thinking of you instantly. Your smile and your legs, the wind whipping at your skirt and exposing stretches of skin he can't stop remembering. You on your rollerblades, the second time after an emergency PB&J, skating in front of him without looking behind you.

"Don't let me crash into someone, okay?" you'd asked, swaying from one side to the other as you shifted your weight.

"It'll be too late to stop you if I see someone! Turn around!" he'd demanded, though his fondness had peeked through.

You'd thrown your hands out. "You'll have to steer me!"

And so he'd grabbed your hands and you'd laughed like a fool as you skated together, squealing through close calls and bumpy ground.

He thinks of your hands in his, their weight and size, the magnetic pulse he'd felt between them, how happy you'd seemed to be with him.

He was harbouring a crush on you. Too old to deny what it feels like to want a pretty girl, Steve wonders if this is entirely a good idea – letting himself like you when the possibility of rejection feels high. You are, as Dustin had promised him, out of Steve's league. "Don't try your luck, dude."

Steve thought for a second that his thinking about you had summoned your image, your easy walk and the elegant way about your hands and how you held them, in a blue dress with matching strappy mary-jane's, white socks with the ruffle tops. He blinks. No way he could think up anything as pretty.

You push open the door and grin from across the room, a large tupperware of some type in your hands. His eyes move up from your fingers where they clutch plastic, your wrist, your arms. The puff sleeves of your dress are short and cuffed, similar to the matching ruched neckline that shows enough to make him swallow. A necklace lays in the valley of your chest, a silver chain with a blue flower at the end, small but thick. Five round petals, a cutout missing that shows a circle of your chest beneath.

"Steve," you say, like you'd been in mid conversation. "Please tell me you have a sweet tooth."

He pulls the headphones from his head and leaves them around his neck, fixing his hair as casually as he can when he says, "Sure, I like candy."

You set your container down on the counter and crack it open, the rich, buttery smells of its contents quickly filling the room.

"I made penuche for Dustin's mom's birthday, but I made so-" you drag the word out, lips a gloss-sticky 'o', "much of it. I can't eat it all. And she said I wasn't allowed to give it to Dustin 'cos he keeps using the f-word."

His laugh is startled but genuine. "Not the f-word."

The fudge is a light brown, almost pink in the neon tinted lighting. It smells divine, and he's saved from an internal debate about what's cool when you push the tub towards him. "Do you like fudge?" you ask him.

He takes one and you take one, and he tries not to look at you as you eat, or when you scratch gloss and a crumb from the corner of your mouth.

"You’re a modern Martha Stewart," Steve says happily.

"Only on special occasions. Where's Robin?" you ask, elbows braced on the counter and leaning in.

"Sick. Apparently."

"Apparently," you repeat, grinning. "What, she didn't look sick?"

"She talked to me on the phone. She sounded sick," he concedes. "Good things it's Thursday."

You look around the completely empty store. "This is what it usually looks like on a Thursday?"

"It's Hawkins. Half the people here get their VHS from the library, the others drive out to Blockbuster. We get about as much foot traffic as an ice cream stand in September."

"It's 'cos you take too long to get the new ones,'' you say. "No offense."

"The tone of someone personally victimised by a Family Video wait list."

"You got me. I've been trying to get the Breakfast Club for two months!" you complain, scratching your chest lazily.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest until his hands are hidden, rolling his eyes. "Oh, so this is bribery penuche."

You blink at him and then your lips part in horror, pretty eyes widening. "No!"

"It totally is. You're trying to butter me up," he says, suave tone disrupted by the need to giggle at his own pun. "Y/N, how could you? Here I thought we were starting to be friends and you're using me for my video store?"

His mock horror puts you eat ease when you realise he's joking. "I really wanna see that movie," you say dejectedly. You reach for another piece of fudge and bite it in half, your chewing morose. "It feels like everybody saw it at the movies but me."

"Of course they did. Why didn't you?"

You glare at him. "I was busy!"

"For the month it was in theatres?"

"Yes!" you defend yourself from his teasing. "I have things to do!"

"Like what?"

"Like school!"

"Everybody has school."

"You're picking on me after I brought you candy. This is so cruel." You don't sound like you've suffered any cruelty. Steve might say you're really enjoying yourself.

"Sorry, sweetheart."

You glare at his insincere pet name. "Whatever. Oh, hey, how's she treating you?" you ask, eyes on the cassette player. "Steve, you have my Van Halen tape! Thank god, I thought I lost it."

"Right. Sorry, I meant to give it back," he lies.

You shrug your shoulders. "Keep it however long you want to. It's good, right? Which one's your favourite?"

He pulls the headphones out and rewinds back before setting the player in front of you. You raise your eyebrows at him but click play, and the audio starts abruptly, loud and mid quality.

Yes, it's love in the third degree.

You grin, head bobbing, eyes flitting to his with approval written all over your face. You don't seem to hesitate before you sing along under your breath, high pitched but quiet.

"Ooh, baby baby. Won't-cha turn your head my way?"

He feels a little enchanted by you, that same magnetism he'd felt between his hands, can't believe how pretty you are and how sweetly you move. You laugh at yourself as you sing the next line, an intense, almost theatrical look upon your face. Like you're swooning.

"Ooh, baby baby. Ah come on! Take a chance, you're old enough to-" You flare your eyes at him and nod, mouth open encouragingly.

He won't join in, no matter how electric he finds you. You roll your eyes and your shoulders roll in a half-dance as you hum along to the chorus.

Dance the night away.

"You're no fun, Steve," you complain, giggling.

"You're enough for the two of us."

You peer over the counter, still moving with the music as you ask, "What were you doing? Before I came in?"

"Looking through the computer at what's late being returned. Riveting, extremely hard work."

"Do you get, like, secret intel on what new movies are coming in?"

"Sure we do. Wanna see?" he asks.

You creep around the counter and stand by his side. He scrolls through the system and translates acronyms for you. "This is the coming in," he says, drawing a line down a list of movie names. "These are what's being moved back to the headquarters."

"Headquarters," you repeat, leaning in to see the screen more clearly. You browse the new titles idly, slipping closer and closer to the computer.

"You'll burn your retinas."

"Invaders from Mars, Youngblood, Black Moon Rising," you list thoughtfully. You turn on your heel. "I don't know any of those. You got a chic-flicks section?"

You're really close. Steve looks at you, this close, this pretty, his hands itching to touch you. He leans in and your arms fall to your sides, the space between you growing ever smaller.

"We do," he says slowly, eye to eye, almost daring you to look at his mouth instead. He wants you to. He wants to look at yours.

You're steadfast, not impassive but certainly unreadable as you say, "Show me?"

Steve reaches for the mouse behind you like he was always intending to, hiding any smugness he feels when you exhale noticeably. You turn back around, his arm brushing over yours as he sorts through the tag system to show you "ROM-COM INCO".

"These are all the ones we have coming in. You know any of those?"

"Hannah and Her Sisters. I saw that one."

"Finally had some free time?" he asks wryly.

"Shut up, Steve."

"You know… I can keep the Breakfast Club for you. Next time it comes in."

The smile you give him is blinding. "Thanks, Steve."

"Yeah, no problem." He hopes the sudden increase in temperature is mutual.

Your backyard is a field of flowers. Maybe dramatic, but Steve's never seen so many, a heavy green spotted in chartreuse, vermillion, bright oranges and pink-white. You lay on a towel in the grass surrounded by them, the sun lighting you up, your skin glowing and perfect.

You're in black, spandex type shorts and a bikini top. Steve feels like a perv for looking, so he clears his throat. You don't budge.

He creeps closer. You're in headphones listening to your Walkman. He can hear the music from where he stands at your backdoor, so it must be loud. He stands over you and hopes his shadow will wake you up. When it still doesn't he gets concerned, kneeling down carefully with his knees digging into your towel.

"Y/N. Hey," he says.

Still nothing.

He pulls your headphones off gently, looking over your face in worry. You must be sleeping.

"Y/N, you shouldn't sleep out here. You'll get sun stroke," he says. He strokes your arm though he shouldn't. He can't help himself, his fingers pressing into the crook of your elbow.

You blink awake and then slam your eyes closed. Steve adjusts himself to block the sun from your face and you manage to pry your eyes open, confused.

"Hello."

"Hey," he says. He can't help the fondness that plays over his smile.

"Shit." Your eyes go wide and you cover your chest with your arm. "I'm naked."

"You're not naked," he says.

"I'm naked. Stop looking at me."

Steve turns away obligingly.

"Stop laughing at me, Harrington."

"Is there anything I'm allowed to do?" he asks, though he does stop laughing.

"I'm so embarrassed. I was sunbathing and I must've fallen asleep."

Steve lets his eyes stray to your naked thigh. He stares at your skin, follows a stretch mark upwards and then swiftly peels his gaze away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be a total perv. I can go wait in my car."

"You're not a perv. I'm being a priss. Sorry. I know I'm not, like, a model and I wasn't expecting to have this much skin on show. I don't look like Nancy Wheeler."

You sound more nervous than Steve has ever heard you. Worse, you sound dejected, though you've tried for nonchalance. Steve stares at you until you raise your chin, your fingers pinching meanly at your thighs.

"You're messing with me," he says.

"What?" you ask, incredulous. "I'm not messing with you."

"You gotta know you're beautiful. That's, like, a stone cold fact. A hard truth. You're beautiful. Who cares if you don't look like Nance?"

You sigh, though it's not very believable when you're smiling so much. "She's really pretty."

"So are you."

"You know what I mean, Steve. She's… small."

"She's a small woman," he agrees. "That doesn't make her prettier than you."

"You're sure?" you ask quietly.

Steve means it a hundred percent when he says, "I'm sure."

The two of you sit there for a few seconds. He can hear your breathing and he's wondering if you can hear his.

"What are you doing here?" you ask.

Your hand is still held across your stomach but you're thankfully looking more relaxed. Steve meant what he said, you're beautiful, he couldn't care less that you're taller or that you weigh more than his ex. You're fucking pretty, and seeing you all laid out and sun kissed has made him kind of crazy.

"Steve?" you ask.

"Oh. I brought you The Breakfast Club. Just got it back in this morning," he rushes to say, grabbing the VHS tape from where he'd left it on the ground. The Family Video spine is glaringly ugly compared to you and your flowers.

"Woah, thank you!"

"You're welcome. It's under my name though, so don't keep it late. Can't disprespect the FV name. I'm going for employee of the month."

You giggle. "You are? Are you the top contender?"

"Nope."

You laugh some more, the sound delicate and sweet as spun sugar, in Steve's humble opinion.

"Not that my fellow employees try any harder, but Keith just picks himself every month for the free credits."

You rub your fingers across the front of the box. "I won't be late. I mean, I'll watch it today, I've been so excited to see it."

Steve stands up. "Sorry to disturb your idyllic sunbathing."

"Idyllic," you murmur, smiling. "You're good, Steve. Thank you for the movie."

"You're welcome. I'll see you later?" he asks, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, slowly backing away.

"No," you say. He raises his eyebrows and you look sheepish but not shy when you continue, "Do you wanna stay? Watch the movie with me? I have stovetop popcorn and soda and everything."

"What about the great weather? You don't wanna waste it."

You force your hands between your thighs and hunch forward slightly. "I do wanna waste it. I mean, I've had enough for today, don't you think? I'm a half hour from heat stroke."

"You're looking pretty warm," he says. Anything to take you up on your offer without sounding too interested.

You're trying not to give Steve the side eye. Trying, but he's very attractive and very close, and he keeps making funny jokes. It's annoying how hot he is.

Steve has slouched back and his jeans have slowly edged down, exposing the flesh of his hip. Not that you've noticed, or anything.

You cram a big handful of popcorn into your mouth and flick your eyes back to the screen. You'd really wanted to see this movie but Steve keeps capturing your attention, again and again, over and over. You can't believe you'd asked him to stay and he had, can't believe he brought the VHS for you in the first place.

That's a dedicated employee right there.

You shuffle closer to him under the guise of sharing your popcorn. Your shoulders touch.

"Thanks," he says. His thigh hits your thigh as he takes a handful.

"Steve," you say softly.

"What?"

"I don't feel well. I think the sun killed me."

He throws his arm around the back of the couch and twists, careful not to upend the popcorn bowl as he looks over you searchingly. You've seen Steve play caretaker before, but being under his watch is different. He's almost a different person as he checks you over.

"You feel sick?" he asks. He holds his hand out between you, his knuckles at your eye level. "Can I?"

You tilt your head back and close your eyes. Steve presses the back of his hand to your forehead and pets down softly, feeling for your temperature.

"You're still really warm. Let's get you cooled down."

Steve springs up and knocks the bowl. You blink, slightly disoriented as he disappears into the kitchen, picking up spilled popcorn off of the couch and eating it with slow chews. Now you think of it, your arms hurt, too.

Steve returns and sits on the edge of the sofa, a bag of peas in his hand. "I raided your freezer. Lean your head back."

"I'm fine," you say, but tilt your head back anyways, gasping when the cold hits you.

"You might actually get heatstroke. Do you know how dangerous heat stroke is? You need to cool down. Where's the A/C?"

"It's on."

Steve feels along your cheek gingerly. "I can't believe you fell asleep outside. What's that about?" He pauses. "Are you sleeping okay?"

"I'm sleeping fine."

"Are you sure?"

His wrist turns and you feel the pad of his fingers rather than the back, the palm of his hand as he cups your face.

You peek through your lashes at him. His eyebrows are pinched and his bottom lip juts out in a concerned pout.

"You can tell me."

The way he says it – well, you imagine you could tell him anything. He sounds warm and worried. This close you can smell his cologne, something heavy with sage, a little bit of lilac hidden under unmistakable bergamot. It's all so comforting and the sun has loosened your tongue.

"Maybe not so much. It's… it's hot. You know? And…"

"What?" he murmurs. Your heart skips as his thumb rubs over your cheek.

You close your eyes like your confession might take form. "I'm kind of lonely, lately," it sounds like a question, "and it's- it keeps me up sometimes. I don't know, it sounds stupid when I say it out loud."

"It doesn't sound stupid."

"No?"

"No, I get it." He pulls away but doesn't move too far, his hand still holding the freezing peas to your forehead, the other brushing against your arm as he drops it in his lap. "These days Dustin doesn't leave me alone. I don't want him to, either. The same with Robs."

You let your head loll to the side. Steve doesn't look shy or scared to tell you, talking almost matter of fact. "But my parents were never home when I was in high school. They still aren't. I felt it more back then."

"Yeah. I don't know. I never see anybody. Besides Dustin," you say. "We have him in common."

"You see me."

"When I'm annoying you at work."

"You don't annoy me." He's stern though he abruptly turns into a conspirator whispering secrets. "Robin's fuse gets shorter with me everyday."

"How come?" you ask, co-conspirator.

"I can't stop watching the door."

You lift your head. Steve takes back his bag of peas and feels along your forehead, now cold enough to ache.

"Here, hold these to your chest. I'd do it for you, but…"

You take the peas and hide a terrible smile, heart racing between your ears. Your nausea has flipped completely into butterflies and they're rabid, knocking at your abdomen insistently.

You're trying to think of a way to make him say nice things again when there's a knock at the door.

"Dustin," you both say.

"Jinx, buy me a soda," Steve says.

You glare at him and he laughs all the way to the door.

"Why are you always here? Where's Y/N?"

"She's got heat stroke."

"I don't!" you call hoarsely.

"You sound like you do," Dustin says. "Can one of you give me a ride?"

"She has heat stroke."

You climb onto the back of the sofa to look down the hallway. Dustin stands at the front door with a huge piece of engineering in his arms that you don't understand, wires and ciricuits and things.

"Remeber when you used to bike everywhere? What happened to that?" Steve asks, sounding majorly pissed. You can't work out why he's so frustrated but it makes you laugh again.

The two boys turn to you with twin looks of confusion.

"I can't bike there, genius. This won't fit in the basket."

You laugh again, twice as loud.

"What's wrong with her?" Dustin asks, shaking his head.

"What don't you understand about heat stroke?

"Potential heat stroke," you interject.

"She fell asleep in the sun. I don't know how long she was out there her brain might be totally jellified, dude."

"You should take her to the hospital."

You clamber onto aching limbs and walk until your behind Steve, reaching for his elbow automatically. "I'm fine, babe. What's your doohickey?"

Dustin smirks and pulls the weight closer to his chest. "Prototype."

"For what?"

"Top secret."

You giggle some more, wobbling with the force of it. Steve sighs and wraps his arm around your back, his hand under your arm to grip you at the ribs.

Dustin gets wide eyes like a looney tunes character. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing," Steve hisses. "Look, let me set Y/N up with the works and I'll drive you where you want to go, you brat."

Dustin drops his suspicion, having got what he wants. "I'll wait in the car. Feel better!"

"That's three stamps on the shithead card, shithead!" Steve calls after him. The two of you watch his retreating figure and then Steve is manhandling you (not too roughly) down the hallway and back onto the sofa.

"I'm not dying, Steve."

Steve puts your popcorn bowl in your lap and the frozen peas back on your chest. He fills your glass either the warming carafe on the coffee table and then bends down to talk to you, entirely too intense.

"Are you good?" he asks.

"Perfect. I don't even feel hot anymore."

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Listen, I'm gonna go drop Dustin off, and then I'm gonna call you to make sure you're not dead."

"You don't have to do that, Steve," you say, moving down into the couch, a cushion falling over as you do. He straightens it out, cups your face in his hand so fast you think you've imagined it and then squints at you.

"Don't die of heat stroke."

He starts to walk away and you're startled. Unfairly, you don't want him to go, and you call, "Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"What about The Breakfast Club?"

He grins at you, a lazy, King Steve kind of smile. "I was always gonna leave that here. So you can come 'annoy' me at work when you return it." He pulls a hand through his hair and gives you a once over and then spins on his heel. "Make sure you answer when I call!"

You lose sight of him as he leaves, the couch backing too tall. He shuts the door kindly and you can just about hear the crunch of gravel as his car pulls away.

"He was definitely flirting with me," you say to yourself, pouring a sweet handful of popcorn into your mouth. You're smiling so wide it's hard to chew.

Dustin bursts into Family Video with his small entourage, Mike and Lucas, and an urgent look on his face. Steve quickly stops his facade of being busy when he clocks them.

"What? Need to borrow ten dollars?" he asks, rolling his eyes.

"Actually, it's about Y/N," Dustin says.

Steve stretches across the desk on his elbows.

"What about her?" he asks, suspecting a waste of time.

"She was crying her eyes out in her backyard last night."

Steve blinks, feeling a pit open up in his chest. "What? Why?"

"Well…" Dustin says. "I didn't ask."

Steve pictures your pretty face crinkled with tears, sitting on the paving stones outside your house. He wonders what would make you cry, sob, whatever it was. You'd confessed to being lonely though he sort of hopes that the feeling has ebbed now that he's calling you every day. At first, under the guise of checking up on you, but, I don't think I'm at risk of heat stroke anymore Steve. It's been a week and a half.

Better safe than sorry.

"Nancy said she saw her outside outside Bradley's Big Buy last night looking miserable," Mike adds, in one of his worst outfits, a mismatch of colours and long socks, a visor that Steve once tried to bribe Dustin to destroy on a hot day with his magnifying glass. The small burned spot perseveres at the caps edge.

Steve feels weirdly proud at their concern and better, their detective skills. The three of them look like they could solve crimes, a mystery gang. Lucas is the only one dressed well in Steve's opinion, though that might be because he's in similar fashion, a nice polo and blue jeans.

"You don't know what's wrong with her?" Lucas asks.

His pride wanes. "Oh, you guys are here for gossip?" he asks scathingly.

"No!"

"You're her boyfriend, right?"

"Not-" Steve swallows, "exactly."

Robin, who had been listening from her stool a few feet back, strides over and falls into place by his side, braced by her elbows.

"If Steve were her boyfriend, we'd know why she was crying," she says, earning a round of boyish chuckles.

Steve nods and then understands her meaning, feeling stupid for assuming Robin would say something that wasn't mean while at work. "Fuck off, I'm a good boyfriend."

Four sets of eyebrows raise.

"I am! I'm romantic."

"You smashed our trellis and dislodged a drain pipe," Mike says.

Steve pins the dark haired boy with a smarted look.

"Sorry, is that not romantic? Sneaking out to see a girl?"

"Sneaking in to a young woman's bedroom," Robin says dryly.

"Pervert style," Dustin agrees sagely.

"Jesus Christ." Steve turns away from his band of adopted heathens and takes the phone into his hand. "I'm gonna call her."

"And what? Tell her we were spying?" Dustin says.

Steve holds the cold plastic to his neck. "Were you?"

"Girls lie about their feelings, anyway. You're never gonna get a straight answer," Lucas says morosely. "Trust me."

He slams the phone down. "What am I supposed to do?"

They stand in a heavy silence. Steve can feel a headache clipping his heels, approaching fast, stress and a sharp worry for you. He really doesn't see why he can't call you and check in.

"Something nice?" Robin suggests, picking at her nails.

"Like what?" he asks. Though, as soon as he says it, he already has the beginnings of an idea. Whether its a good one or not is anyones guess.

Somebody knocks the door and all you can think is, oh god why me?

You're in a bad approximation of pajamas - your comfiest and yet your sloppiest, old and worn and unattractive. Fresh out of a stress-cry shower, you've only just managed to catch your breath.

It's like you told Steve, everything lately feels so lonely. You'd gone grocery shopping by yourself and had known without a doubt that you were moving unseen through the world. Something about deciding between TV dinners. Nobody knew where you were, what you were doing, or where you were going. The only people seeing you were the storegoers of Bradley's Big Buy and your disgruntled cashier. You doubt you'd made a good impression.

It was maybe a silly thing to feel overwhelmed by, but you felt it anyways. Sick with loneliness and then panic. A thousand what ifs had filled your head; you couldn't stop thinking, what if it's like this forever?

What if I feel this lonely forever?

You'd finished grocery shopping with a peculiar numbness weighing you down and then you'd gone home to cry in the garden, comforted and horrified by your flowers. They were pretty and you'd planted them and it didn't matter, you were still alone. A ladybug had crawled over the nearest planter and you'd watched it until you calmed down, knees crossed and elbows digging into your thighs, pins and needles in your hands.

Another insistent knock. You consider ignoring it and curling up into a ball. Something hooks you out of it. What if it's Steve?

If it's Steve, you're gonna feel very embarrassed about your appearance. You check your reflection in the sheen of a photo frame and sigh, rubbing your face with one hand as you open the door.

Steve stands a few feet away, leaning against the side of his car with a pair of shades slipping down his nose. He takes them off.

You're so happy to see him you forget your rumpled outfit.

"Hi," you say, half-shouting to cover the distance.

"Hey beautiful!" Steve shouts, properly, loud and unabashed.

The door digs into your tummy. You don't know what to say. His compliment flusters you from the get go.

"Hi," you say again, laughing under your breath.

"Hey."

"What are you doing here?"

"Somebody told me you weren't feeling well!"

You frown, thoughts racing, and suddenly summon the image of your nosey young neighbour. You take a step back instinctively and Steve must see it because his face goes stony.

"I'm sorry, I know you probably didn't want me to know. But- when I found out you were upset, I couldn't ignore that. You'll have to forgive me."

You try pushing the smile off your face with your hand and stand there scratching your top lip. "No. No, it's okay."

He raises his eyebrows and takes a few big steps towards your house. You step out onto the porch and he closes the space between you, holding his hands out. You take them and he envelopes you, warm hands pulling you along and up the path.

He walks backwards. "Don't let me crash into someone, okay?"

A memory. The two of you hand in hand, ground flashing under your skates.

"Okay," you say weakly.

He squeezes your hands and drops them, a foot from the car. "Stay," and he doesn't finish, turning away from you. He opens the passenger door, the door behind and then the trunk.

The smell is beautiful. A floral wave.

The sight is something else. A carpet of bunches, bell-shaped freesias and carnations, roses in darkest red, chrysanthemums, dahlias, tiny orchids and irises; gorgeous purple irises with white centred petals buffeted by frilly sweetpeas.

"They didn't want to give me the buckets but I told them I had a really pretty girl waiting for me, and if they suffocated in the heat then I was gonna drive right back and complain loudly." He stands by your side and nudges you. "Break out in tears."

"That's a lot of flowers," you mumble.

"Half the store. The other half's on standby."

"Standby?"

"I worried you might not have the space."

"I won't."

Your gaze flits over soft petals and light green stems, thorns and leaves and greenery, baby breath tucked in by plastic wrapping.

"Why did you do this?"

"You…" he laughs at himself. "Okay, so. The day you had heat stroke-"

"I didn't have heat stroke. I had heat exhaustion."

"Semantics. You were lying in the backyard. Just… sleeping. I was waiting for you to look up and see me, and I couldn't- I still can't get the image out of my head. You looked unreal."

You feel hot all over as he searches for words. He's smiling wide as he talks, like he can't believe how happy he is. It's infectious.

He shakes his head. "Anyway, I know you like flowers. Obviously. So."

"So you got me a florists?"

"Half."

You hug your torso. The idea that somebody would do this for you, that Steve would do this for you, is so alien you can't comprehend it.

"They're for me?" you whisper.

"For you. All of them."

You look at him, the flowers, him again, and start to laugh. You throw your hands up to your cheeks and giggle like a little kid.

"Why are you laughing?" he asks, an undeniable affection in his curiosity.

"Why would you do this for me?" you ask in a similar tone.

He purses his lips and shrugs. "You could've called me. I want you to know that."

You scrub your hot cheeks and shift from foot to foot. "I was being silly."

"It's not silly. It's not stupid. And even if it was, I still want you to call me. These are 'call me' flowers. Call me first."

You wrap your hand around the top of the door and lean in for a look at the sea of flowers. Pollen sticks sweet in your nose.

"Do you like them?"

The smallest hint of insecurity. You can't stop laughing, joy warping every word. "Yeah, I love them," you say over your shoulder, feeling as though you've become nothing but a vestibule of breathless wonder.

"I didn't know which one was your favourite."

All of them, you think. Not sure you could pick one, your eyes bump from bouquet to bouquet.

You try to blink them away but tears form quickly, lashes heavy with them as you stand up straight and wipe under your eyes with the back of your index finger.

"Thank you, Steve."

"You're welcome." Steve comes up behind you and takes your shoulder into his hand, thumb rubbing roughly over your shirt. "C'mon, don't cry. I got you all those flowers because I don't want you to cry, not to make it worse."

"They're really pretty," you say, strained, pushing the bottoms of your palms into your eyes to stop from sobbing. That would be dramatic, you argue with yourself, so dramatic, but this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for you.

"Shit," he mutters.

You tense up as his hand moves across your back to grip your other shoulder and he hugs you to his chest, left hand stroking the length of your upper arm, encouraging your hands from your face.

"You're okay, baby," he says.

You sniffle as his right hand climbs your shoulder to cup your neck. He pulls your face to his mouth and presses a kiss into your temple, warm and tingling, firecrackers under the skin. You turn your face to look at him and he pulls back, his chin jutting down.

The shape of his lips lingers on your forehead, a burn. White hot.

Steve wipes the tear tracks from your face with the side of his hand.

"I know what'll cheer you up," he says.

You miss his touch as soon as he's gone. He leans over the passenger seat, the chair and its footwell both bursting with flowers, and turns on the radio. You watch him click to the cassette player. He turns the volume up high and then pulls out.

Slowly, the song builds into a zinging guitar.

"Oh my god."

"Have you seen her? So fine and so pretty," Steve sings with no hesitation. You're startled by his confidence.

"Fooled me with her style and ease," he continues, holding out his hand.

You take it, listening to him fight his way to the right pitch, his voice cracking.

"And I feel her from across the room-" He takes your second hand, gaze electric. "Yes, it's love in the third degree."

He tugs at your hand, nodding until you join in.

"Ooh, baby, baby," you sing weakly, searching for footing.

"Won't-cha turn your head my way?" he begs.

"Ooh, baby, baby," you both sing, Steve with more passion, pulling your arm one way and another in an awkward dance.

"Come on, take a chance, you're old enough to," and here's where you both go weak and high and enthused all at once, glad the stereo's up so high you can't really hear it when you both shout, "dance the night away!"

It's not quite night yet. You've a lot of dancing to do if you're gonna listen to Van Halen's instructions, the sun a half-disk of gold on the horizon, the sky raspberry pink bleeding up into darkening indigo.

Steve grins at your growing enthusiasm and twirls you around. You only allow him this, too afraid to step on his toes as you come to a stop.

He hums along and you clutch his hand. You covet the other where it's held to his chest, pushing your fingers through his. They fit together perfectly.

"Am I ever gonna get that tape back?" you ask.

"No," he says, laughing loudly. "No way. I love this song."

"I love this song too. That's why I bought the album."

"You said however long I wanted!"

"I didn't think you'd stick around this long," you confess.

"I did," he says. He leans down, stops. "Can I kiss you?"

You nod and beat him to it, hand at his collar as you step on your toes and press your mouth to his. You're both smiling, your eyes closed tight and your lips tight together until he pulls back, pulling his hand from your brushing grip to stroke the side of your face, rough in his rush.

When you come back together it's slower, your lips parted mid-giggle as he moves in. You sigh, a high-pitched and embarrassing sound from the back of your throat that's quickly swallowed by his ardency.

"Stop laughing at me," he admonishes playfully.

"I'm not! I'm not, I'm really happy," you defend yourself, setting back on your heels.

You've forgotten all about your pajamas and the icky feeling in your chest. With Steve's palms to your cheeks like this – like you're something worth being cradled in careful hands – you can't feel anything but happy.

"I don't have enough vases for your flowers," you apologise as he chases you down, dropping kisses over the corner of your mouth and the apple of your cheek.

"Good thing I begged for all those buckets," he says, brown eyes squinting with the force of his cherubic smile. His pert nose flares with a silent laugh.

"Good thing," you agree.

He holds you by the shoulders. "Good thing," he says again.

You descend into another round of laughter that leaves you panting for air, your head dropping into his chest. "A really good thing."

"I didn't go overboard, did I?" he asks, petting the nape of your neck.

"You did."

"Sorry, I-"

You wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze him as hard as you can. He groans lightly as he encircles your shoulders, the tip of his nose a butterfly's wing against your forehead, impossibly light and skipping, back and forth and back again.

"I'm gonna make you flower shortbread," you say eventually, soaking in his warmth, his closeness.

"Yeah?"

"I swear. And more penuche. What's your favourite? I'll make you whatever you want. What do you have a sweet tooth for?"

"Could I get another kiss?" he asks quietly.

You tilt your head back and wait. Steve isn't quite smiling though his eyes boast an emotion you're afraid to name, unbearably fond.

"Are you gonna kiss me again?" you ask into the gap.

"In a sec, just… let me look at you," he says, hand cupping your cheek.

You blink back a stinging wave of tears and smile, tracing over his features greedily.

"You're beautiful," he says.

It’s funny. You were thinking the same thing about him.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

thanks for reading!

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