#since I used the treadmills facing the window

[gatheryepens]

Another gym session 💪🏽

[featherandferns]

colour in the lines (fic)

jj maybank x fem!reader | enemies-to-lovers, tutor!reader concept set around season 1 era (no gold hunt) | not yet proofread so apologies!

content warning: dr*g use (weed, drinking); references to s3x; unique family dynamics

word count: 20k. (she's a slow-burner, but it's worth it)

blurb: When Mr Sunn hires you as JJ Maybank's tutor for the summer break, neither of you have high hopes for success. But as the lessons stretch on, maybe JJ isn't as much of an asshole as you thought, and maybe you aren't as much of a brown nose as he assumed.

The Arrangement 

“You ain’t serious.”

“As the plague,” Mr Sunn nods. 

JJ groans and tosses his head back. He’s lounging in the wooden chair as if it’s a comfortable Lay-Z-Boy. “Mr Sunn, can we just admit to each other right here and now that me getting a diploma ain’t ever gonna happen?”

Mr Sunn’s eyebrow quirks. He clasps his hands together atop of his desk. “You might be willing to give up on your education but I’m not. And until the day comes around that I am, you’re going to have tutoring.”

JJ stares begrudgingly at Mr Sunn like a sulking child. Tutoring? Come on, man. It felt as laughable and as useless as gifting a paralysed person a treadmill. 

“When’s this tutoring gonna be?” JJ reluctantly asks. 

“Every week on a Wednesday.”

“In September?”

“Starting next week.”

“Next week?” JJ gapes. Mr Sunn nods. “Mr Sunn, next week is the start of summer vacation. I ain’t gonna be educating myself during summer vacation. I think that’s actually against one of the human rights or something.”

“It isn’t. Maybe you’d know that if you actually attended class,” Mr Sunn remarks, almost smug. JJ rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath. 

“Summer vacation?”

“If you stop your moaning and bitching, you’d hear more about the conditions of it.”

“Oh, goody. Please do tell.”

There’s a warning in the look Mr Sunn shoots JJ that has him rolling his eyes again. Glancing off out the window, he sighs. The football field is devoid of life save for the birds pecking at the grass. There’s no bustling in the halls, no students in the classrooms. JJ was the lingering student on Friday after school, subject to the conversation with Mr Sunn per request at the end of class. It had been almost thirty minutes; the start of the discussion had been a delightful monologue delivered about JJ’s failing grades and concerning marks. That had followed into this downright hideous discussion of tutoring. 

“I’ve assigned a student who’s more than happy to give you tutoring. Like I said before, every Wednesday at one in the afternoon - unless exceptional circumstances occur.”

“Like me not wanting to get outta bed?”

“Like being in the hospital for a traumatic brain injury,” Mr Sunn corrects with a levelled look. JJ scoffs. Close enough, in his head. “She’ll tell me if you’ve attended the session, and if you stayed for the full time allocated–”

“--Wait, she? Who the hell–” Another pointed look that has JJ clearing his throat. “Who the heck is this tutor?”

Mr Sunn glances down at the papers laid out in front of him (many of which are evidence of JJ’s poor grades). “A Miss L/N.”

JJ’s brows furrow as he flicks through his mental rolodex of classmates at his school. The last name rattles around his brain until he finally finds a picture. His face falls. “Y/N?”

Mr Sunn nods. “She’s a stellar student.”

“She’s a brown-nosing bore.”

“Don’t think comments like that are very necessary, Maybank,” Mr Sunn warns. JJ doesn’t much care. 

JJ used to be in the same class as you last year but you had been in the background of JJ’s life since kindergarten. Kildare was a small county. Nearly every classmate traced back to the beginning of childhood. New students were rare and most seemingly went to Kook academy. He hadn’t interacted with you much, if at all, but he could place you pretty well. You always abided by the dress code; always attended class; always handed in your homework on time; always stuck up your hand in class; always got the answers right; and always aced the exams. You were on some of the nerd teams at school - chess and mathletes - and JJ was certain he’d seen you in the marching band at a football game he was dragged to a few years back. A textbook goody-two-shoe know-it-all: that’s what you were. The only defining story that JJ had of you was from Pope, who held a half-joking, half-serious grudge against you following a loss at a spelling bee in middle school. You’d won and JJ wondered if it was Pope’s villain origin story. The word ‘chromotosis’ was still a tender spot (and one JJ liked to poke from time to time). 

JJ laughs humourlessly, becoming increasingly annoyed with the situation. “Mr Sunn, you can’t be serious! I’d rather have you just tutor me instead!” 

“Well, I’m going to enjoy my summer vacation after spending the year teaching your classmates.”

JJ doesn’t let the omission of ‘you’ from his sentence bother him too much. It was valid. JJ was a failing student. He attended school fleetingly. Homework was nothing more than a theoretical concept in his world and tests were his mortal enemy. The letter ‘F’ had become a best friend, with ‘D’ and ‘C’ close companions. Learning didn’t come easy to him, not in the way it did for John B and Kiara, and especially not in the way it was for Pope. Everything took him longer. Reading, writing, equations, retaining information. It didn’t help that most of it didn’t interest him, either. Besides, JJ found it hard to sit still for long in the classroom. He got fidgety and restless. The outside world called to him through the window: the song of the waves, the tweeting in the trees. JJ was good with practical things like handiwork and mechanics. That was the profession he’d venture into more than likely, so what was the point in breaking his back over a pointless high school degree? 

Sighing, JJ rakes his fingers through his unruly hair. “Look, Mr Sunn, I’m gonna level with ya. I don’t think there’s much point in me getting a degree. I don’t give a crap about history or English or maths or any of that bullshit. And I don’t need it, a’right? I mean, you gotta know that, surely?” Before Mr Sunn can answer, JJ’s leaning in and digging through the papers. He retrieves one of his report cards and points at Mechanics. “Look! See! I’m pretty decent at stuff like that! Why can’t I just drop the rest and focus on that and be done with it?”

Mr Sunn sighs and smiles sympathetically at JJ. He takes the report card back and talks as he straightens out the papers. “I wish I could do that for you, JJ, but the state requires you to take all the core classes to graduate with a diploma. It might not mean much to you now, but trust me when I say that you’ll open so many more doors in your life if you apply yourself and finish school.”

There’s an unfamiliar sincerity in Mr Sunn’s words when he tells JJ, “You might not think you can do it, but I know you can. With some extra help, you can graduate, JJ.”

JJ holds Mr Sunn’s gaze for a long moment. Swallowing, JJ is disbelieving of the next words that leave his mouth in a resigned sigh. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

The First Lesson 

Your pencil taps rhythmically on the table as you glance at the clock on the wall for the eleventh time. Ten minutes late. Sighing, annoyed, you pick up your phone and text your best friend, Esme. 

Huffing out another breath, you return the phone to the table and busy yourself with reviewing the resources you’d brought. 

When Mr Sunn offered you the summer part-time job of tutoring, you thought - frankly -that it would be a piece of piss. Give some lessons to some snotty little stressed out middle schooler and earn fifteen bucks every Wednesday? Where do I sign? But that fantasy was soon broken. Instead of an innocent child struggling with algebra homework, it was JJ Maybank. JJ’s reputation preceded him like Jay Gatsby. He was a prolific class skipper. When he did attend, it was usually to disturb the lesson with childish jokes until he wound up in the principal’s office and, most likely, detention. He spent quizzes blowing raspberries, tapping his pencil and gazing out the window. Teachers stopped bothering to ask him if he finished his homework. Outside of that, you knew him to be a womanizer, a petty thief, and an adrenaline junky. The only notable interaction you had with JJ had left a bad taste in your mouth. You tried to forget about it, pushing it into the back of your mind, but the name always brought back the memory of that one day in class. That one passing remark that changed your opinion of JJ in a split-second. Following all of that, fifteen dollars - whilst still enough to have you agree to tutoring - did not feel like an even trade for dulling your brain cells for one hour in his company. 

Good news was that he wasn’t going to show, it seemed. Silver linings. Bad news? No JJ - no payout. 

As your eyes glance over the textbook photocopy to ensure it didn’t cut any information off, the door to Mr Sunn’s classroom swings open. You startle and look up, half expecting to see the security guard asking you what the hell you’re doing here. Instead, your eyes land on JJ Maybank. He’s talking as he walks over to the table you’ve claimed. 

“You would not believe how good the weather is out there today, holy shit,” he rambles as he pulls out the chair opposite you. “It’s fucking golden, Goddamn.”

You’re unsure what to say. Instead, you watch as JJ sighs and relaxes in his seat. One of his arms is tossed over the back of it; his legs manspread comfortably. Hair pressed under a beige cap, scruffy on the lip, his t-shirt and shorts are appropriate for the scorching weather outside. His combat boots that you’d noted when he walked over, not so much. 

Seemingly at your silence, he quirks a brow. “So? We gonna get started, or?”

“You’re late,” you say, annoyed at his urgency. “Ten minutes late. Actually-” A quick glance at the clock. “-eleven minutes late.”

JJ shrugs. “I was hungry. Had to stop by in-n-out.”

“You went to in-n-out?” 

His brows raise. “Did you want something from there? Didn’t peg you much as the, uh…fast food type.”

You’re not sure what he means by that but you imagine something unfriendly. Rolling your eyes, you level him with a glare. “You were eleven minutes late to our lesson because you stopped at an in-n-out?”

“Yep. So, what we starting with?” Before you can even formulate your next sentence, JJ’s interrupting you. “Actually, can I just– D’you mind if we wrap this up early today? Maybe do a half-session or something?”

“A half session?”

“Mhn,” he nods. JJ grins as he says, “the swells today at the beach are insane. It’s perfect surf weather. I gotta get a piece.”

Anger bubbles in your throat. Exhaling sharply through your nose, you grit your teeth. “Well, since you were eleven minutes late to the start of the lesson, we gotta make up for lost time. ‘Sides, Mr Sunn said that you had to attend the whole hour.”

“Yeah, but, like…He ain’t here, is he? So…” JJ leans forward on the table, closing down the space between the two of you. His biceps push against the sleeves of his short sleeve top when he rocks his weight forward and you’re quick to avert your eyes back to his face. There’s a boyish charm shining through his smirk. His eyes are half hooded as he scans your face and figure. You shift and square your shoulders, sitting back in your seat, trying to reclaim the gap. “What’d you say you do me a solid and tell a little white lie ‘bout it, huh? No harm in that, right?”

Oh. You see what’s happening. JJ thinks you’re just another one of the girls bewitched by his beauty. That all he has to do is bat his pretty eyes and flash you that gorgeous smile and you’ll fall at his feet and do as he asks. 

You try to bite back your smirk as best as possible when you lean forward. You leave the smallest gap between you, forearms almost touching, and you get a thrill at the flash of surprise in his eyes. 

“Listen, blue eyes. I get paid for the hour and, unlucky for you, I don’t enjoy lying to people. So here’s what gonna happen. We’re going to sit here and do the full one-hour session, making sure we don’t lose those lovely eleven minutes. Sound good?”

JJ’s smile falls quickly. He grits his teeth and clenches his jaw. You sweeten the deal with an overly sugary smile before returning to how you were sat before. 

“We’re starting with biology.”

JJ slowly unfurls himself to retain into his seat. You dig out one of the worksheets and slide it across the table to him. 

“What’d you remember from this semester?”

JJ sighs as if he’s bored and slowly raises his hands to count on his fingers. He takes his time as he recounts, in a dull tone of voice, “monkeys masturbate and…that’s about it.”

Rolling your eyes, irritated, you look down at your twinning worksheet. You push your glasses up the bridge of your nose when they slip down. “Right, okay, starting from square one then. If you look at the first paragraph, give it a quick read and then I’m gonna ask you some questions about it, ‘kay?”

JJ doesn’t say anything but grunts. It’s hard to restrain from rolling your eyes a third time. When a substantial amount of time has passed, you glance to see if he’s still reading. JJ sits, head rocked back, arms folded across his chest, eyes closed. You see red. 

“Done reading?” you manage out. He doesn’t open his eyes when he hums ‘yes’. “Okay then…” You look down at the questions you’d prepared and take a sigh before reading out the first one. “The powerhouse of the cell is called the…” 

JJ doesn’t say anything. Clearing your throat to prompt him, he cracks open an eye, observes you leisurely, and then closes it again. “Heart.”

“The Mitochondria.” 

“Right, yeah, that’s what I meant. Same thing.”

Your teeth grate against each other. Another cooling breath and you read the second, third, fourth questions. Each answer given by JJ raises your blood pressure by another degree. This is going to be a fucking pain in your ass. At the forty minute mark, you’re repeating the mantra ‘think of the money, think of the money, think of the money’ like a religious prayer in your mind. JJ has managed to make an almost impressive amount of crude jokes about cell anatomy, gave some brain-cell killing answers to pretty basic biology questions, and yawned enough times to have a doctor concerned for his well being. You’re relieved when your eyes find the clock reads that an hour has passed. 

“Right, well. That’s everything for today.”

“Oh, damn. I was just getting into it, too,” JJ sardonically says. You glare at him. He stands and stretches, his shirt riding up as he extends his arms above his head. He fixes his cap as he asks, “same time next week, then?”

“One in the afternoon.”

“Can’t wait,” he mutters. He wanders to the door, giving a fleeting ‘see ya’ as he slips out the classroom. You’re amazed the door doesn’t burst into flames with the heat of your stare. 

The First Complaint

The sun bathes JJ in blisteringly warm rays of daylight. He revels in it like a gecko in the desert. Arms tucked underneath his head, he lounges on the front of the boat. Sunglasses sit on his face, eyes closed behind them, and a toothpick sticks out from his lips. The water laps at the boat, rocking it gently from side to side. An old-school R&B song hums out the speaker near the cooler. 

“I’m telling y’all, the fishing out there is crazy. Worth the trip, for sure,” John B tells the Pogues. He’s probably where JJ last saw him; stood by the end of the boat, shirtless in his swim shorts like Pope and JJ, fishing. 

“I’m down. Could go next week,” Kiara says. She’s probably scrolling on her ipod to cue the next song. 

“My dad’s got me working shifts but I can do Wednesday,” Pope adds, likely reading. 

JJ blows a raspberry. “Wednesday is a no-go.”

“Why not?”

“I got class.”

He can hear the shared confusion in the silence. He props himself up on an elbow, jutting his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose enough to scan over his friends. They’re all exactly where he pictured them, staring at him blankly. 

“Class?” Pope finally asks. 

“Yeah. I’ve got tutoring.”

John B barks out a laugh and Kiara rolls her eyes, looking back to her ipod. “Yeah right,” she mutters. 

“Dude, I’m so serious right now,” JJ loudly defends, throwing his arm out. 

“The day you get tutoring is the day hell freezes over,” Pope declares. 

JJ shrugs. “Alright, then it’s frozen, cause I am.”

“How’d they get you to go? Gag and bind you?” John B sniggers, making the others laugh. 

“Hilarious. Thank you for caring about my education, assholes,” JJ grumbles. He isn’t actually offended. It tracks that the Pogues think he’s bullshitting. It isn’t as if JJ has valued books and pop quizzes at any stage in his life. Returning to his previous position, he grins as he says, “you’re not gonna guess who’s my tutor.”

“Mr Sunn?”

“Nope. He did allocate her, though.”

“Least we know it’s a she,” Kiara says. “Helps with the guessing.”

“Well, go on. Guess.”

“Just tell us,” Pope sighs, in no mood for games. JJ’s grin grows. 

“Your mortal enemy.”

John B and Kiara let out a gasp and snigger. JJ glances through his sunglasses to make out Pope’s face. In his disbelief, JJ nods. “Yep.”

“She still as brainy as she was then?”

“More,” JJ mutters. His memory flicks back to yesterday; the way your glasses slipped down your nose just slightly when you leant forward on the table. The shimmering of your eyes as they glared at him. The sneer on your lips. You clearly think rather highly of yourself. It had been pretty entertaining seeing how far he could push. He’s impressed that you didn’t lunge at him before the session was up; he was certain you’d come pretty close several times. Sighing, JJ sits back up on his arms and looks to his friends. “We’re going to that kegger tonight, right?”

“We could,” John B shrugs. “Not doing much else.”

“It’s Touron season,” JJ grins boyishly, making Kie roll her eyes. 

“You guys are gross.”

“Come on! Just trying to get little Pope’s dick wet for a change,” JJ lies, getting up and smacking a hand reassuringly on Pope’s shoulder. He’s shrugged off, making him snigger. 

“My dick is perfectly fine as it is, thank you,” Pope mutters, looking back down at his book. Rolling his eyes, JJ retrieves a beer from the cooler. 

“Whatever man. Lemme know when you want to learn how to get girls.”

“Yeah. JJ’s a scholar now, afterall,” John B jokes. At the heckling laughter of his friends, JJ rolls his eyes mirthfully and goes back to enjoying his summer break. 

The Second Lesson

You’re not sure why you’re surprised that JJ is late yet again to his lesson. This time you’ve found better ways to entertain yourself than clock watching. Sending memes back and forth with Esme and doomscrolling Instagram was working well to keep you from counting the minutes wasted in the empty classroom. You can hear people outside, playing in the fields, chattering on the streets as they walk to and from their summer day plans. There’s an itch under your skin to leave and make the most of the beautiful weather. It feels a shame to spend your time cooped up in a dusty classroom, making anagrams out of the history posters lining the walls. But the posters make you think of Mr Sunn, reminding you of the promise you’d made to him before the vacation started. 

“You’ll be paid for the tutoring and your trouble. But I’m trusting you to be honest. I don’t want to be paying out for an hour spent on Call of Duty or whatever it is you do in your spare time.”

“Definitely not Call of Duty.”

“Either way: if Maybank doesn’t show, then I need you to be honest with me. I’m trusting you.”

“I promise, Mr Sunn. You can put your faith in me.”

Your phone begins to ring. Picking up, you don’t have the chance to say ‘hi’ before Esme is talking. 

“What a fucking loser.”

“I mean, he has my number. He could at least message to say he’s running late,” you complain. 

“He could at least bother showing up on time,” Esme corrects, making you laugh. “He’s probably not even doing anything anyway.”

“I honestly don’t give a shit what he’s doing. Just wish I had a heads-up if he’s not going to show so I can actually do something with my day,” you sigh, rubbing at your forehead. “Mom’s got another night shift tonight and I hate leaving Leo alone all day.”

“I thought he was going to that summer day-camp thingy? The scholarship deal didn’t get cancelled, did it?” Esme worries. 

“He’s not going anymore. Not because of the scholarship - that’s still fine. Just…” Your voice trails off, heart tugging at the memory of his crestfallen face, muddled with confusion when you had to tell him he wasn’t going to be going back. 

“The usual stuff?” Esme guesses. She’d known you for almost six years now; she knew Leo for just as long. She shared that same protectiveness for him. 

“Yep.”

“Kids are shitheads.”

You bark out a laugh. “You can’t say that about children, Esme.”

The two of you laugh quietly. You sigh and fiddle with the corner of one of the worksheets. Just as you’re about to tell her that you’ll leave in the next five minutes, the door pushes open. “I gotta go, Esme.”

“Wait - did he actually show up?” 

“Yep.”

“Holy shit, someone call the media,” she mutters. You give a sheltered laugh, eyes scanning over a sunglass-donning JJ. “Alright, message me after. Love ya.”

“Talk soon,” you hum before the line clicks off. Placing your phone down on the table, you watch as JJ shuffles into the room lethargically. He’s dressed similarly to last week: combat boots, shorts, t-shirt. The cap this week is red, equally as well-worn as the beige. The sunglasses are new though. “You seem lively.”

“Not so loud, please,” JJ groans, bringing a hand up to his forehead as if nursing a headache. He collapses into the chair opposite you with a grunt. A silence lingers between the two of you. JJ is so still you half question if he’s passed out. Eventually, he shifts enough to tug his sunglasses down, revealing a slither of his eyeline. He’s looking at you. 

“You gonna start with the lesson, then?”

“You gonna stay awake for it?” you ask in return. He pushes the sunglasses back up. 

“No promises.”

“You’re hungover,” you observe. JJ makes a ding-ding-ding noise under breath. The momentary peacefulness that came from your quick phone call with Esme is soon dissipating. “You’re hungover despite knowing that we had tutoring today?”

“I don’t know what ‘despite’ means, a’right? Can we make a ban on big words when my brain feels like it’s gonna explode?”

“Might need you to define big words. Have a feeling most words qualify as that with you,” you mutter. JJ scoffs. 

“Get off your high horse, brown noser. Just cause you’ve read a few books don’t mean you know everything.”

“As opposed to you?” you quip back. 

JJ snuggles in his seat, folding his arms over his chest in an echo of his posture last week. “Just start with the schooling, huh? Thought you needed to report back to Daddy Sunn that you’ve done your duties.”

Your nose turns up at the nickname. Not bothering to argue, you dig through the worksheets and hesitate in passing one across the table to him. Your eyes scan over his figure. His carelessness in his appearance; his indifference to this generous opportunity he’s been given; his dismissiveness of your valuable donation of time. It irritates you. A lot. 

“You don’t realise how fortunate you are, do you?” you snap. 

JJ visibly stuns at your tone. He doesn’t hurry his movements as he sits straighter in his seat, turning to face you, sliding his sunglasses off his face. His eyebrows rise, bloodshot eyes zeroing in on you. “What was that, brown nose?”

“You have no idea how fortunate you are to be here right now,” you repeat, holding your ground. You clear your throat and correct your glasses on your nose. “Mr Sunn put a lot of effort into organising these sessions. Letting us have access to the building out of hours. Access to all these resources. He put a lot of faith into you. He genuinely believed that you’d give enough of a crap to at least try tutoring. But instead you stroll in her like the sun shines out of your ass and you’re God’s gift to earth and waste everybody’s time.”

JJ watches you after your outburst. His eyes flit over your face, taking in every inch of your disgruntled expression, and his lips twitch downwardly. Leaning forward on the table, he raises a finger to point in your face. 

“You don’t know shit about my fortune,” he remarks darkly, in a tone that you’ve never once heard from him. He’s unrecognisable as he warns you, “you stay in your lane and I’ll stay in mine, a’right? I ain’t needing you preaching on your soapbox about how good I got shit when you ain’t know anything about anything. So either get on with teaching, or I’ll get on up and out that door.”

It’s unnerving, JJ’s demeanour and tone. It’s unnerving but it isn’t enough to make you back down. Narrowing your eyes, you sit proud and tall, hands clasped politely atop of the table. 

“Be my guest. The door is behind you, in case you’re too drunk to find it.”

JJ’s chair pushes back from the force he gets up with. He mutters under breath curses and cusses as he makes his way to the door. Your voice is polite and cheery as you call, “One o’clock next Wednesday.”

The door slams closed. Another successful tutoring session. Another migraine to go home with. 

The First Check-In 

“JJ! Answer your damn phone!” John B hollers from the bathroom. 

JJ jogs through the Chateau in search of the cell. It’s the third call he’s missed. It isn’t on purpose: he can’t find where he put the damn thing. It’s as if it’s fallen into a pocket of the universe that ceases to exist. Digging through the couch cushions of the pull-out, JJ’s fingers finally make contact with the buzzing device. 

“Aha!” he cheers, pulling out. He swipes to answer, tumbling back on the sofa-bed. It must have fallen down there when he was fooling around with some Touron he met at the kegger last night. “Yo.”

“Maybank.”

JJ’s eyes press shut and his mood significantly drops. “Sup, Mr Sunn.”

“Not much, not much. Just calling to check in on how the tutoring is going?”

“How’s it going?”

Terrible. It’s awful. JJ has never known a bigger waste of time. He’s learnt a total of zero things from the hour and ten minutes spent in your company, apart from the fact that you’re the most aggravating girl he has ever met. You might be the first female that JJ hasn’t enjoyed spending time with. Rather impressive, actually. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s great,” JJ lies easily. He rubs at the sleep in his eyes as he continues, “learning a ton, feeling really smart. Gaining all that knowledge, y’know?”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“That’s interesting. Cause your tutor couldn’t agree less.”

JJ grits his teeth. Of course, you’re a rat as well as a shrew. You just seem to cover all areas of dislike in JJ’s books, it’s as if you’ve read all of JJ’s least favourite things. 

“Oh really? What’d she say?”

“That you’re not engaging with the work. The last session was cut short too, apparently,” Mr Sunn recalls, disapproval dripping from every word. 

“Yeah, well, you see, there was those exceptional circumstances you were talking about for that one, Mr S,” JJ half-arsedly defends. 

“Really? A traumatic brain injury?” Mr Sunn checks, unconvinced. 

“Yeah, yeah. A really brutal one, too,” JJ says, wincing at the memory of the banging headache he was awarded for going a bit too hard at the kegger the night before. 

Mr Sunn’s sigh cuts deep. It’s parental. That sentiment of ‘I’m not angry, just disappointed’ is translated through the exhale, and JJ hates how much of an effect it has on him. JJ liked Mr Sunn: all of the Pogues did. He was a good teacher and cool guy. As annoying as your preaching was, JJ was reluctant to admit there was some truth to some of the things you said. Mr Sunn did believe in JJ. God knows why or what for, but he had put all of this together to purely benefit the blonde haired boy. Maybe you were somewhat right in him taking that for granted. Maybe. 

“Look, JJ, if you’re not gonna take this seriously then we might as well call it off now,” Mr Sunn hedges.

“No, no, wait, look, Mr Sunn…I’m gonna level with you…” JJ takes a sigh and braces himself. “I haven’t been taking it seriously but I will now. I’ll start, y’know…Trying. Like, actually trying.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” JJ reassures. “Just gimme one more chance, yeah?”

Mr Sunn hesitates before sighing once more. “Alright. Fine. One more chance.”

“Thanks, Mr S,” JJ says. He’s surprised with himself for willingly signing on for more of your boring-ass lessons, but something in his gut tells him this is the right call. “I won’t let you down.”

“Alright, Maybank. You got one more chance. Wednesday, one o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t be,” JJ promises. As the phone call ends, JJ makes a secret deal with himself to give the tutoring a real chance. To give himself a real chance. 

The Third Lesson 

The feeling of your heart pounding in your throat is uncomfortable, to say the least. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on your forehead as you race around the house. In your head, you’re mentally juggling a million and one thoughts. Need to do this, need to do that. The checklist spans over several thoughts and derails every line of logic. It doesn’t help that it feels like Satan's asshole in the house right now. It is so hot. You think you might have seen something on Instagram claiming it was the hottest day of the year. Your family home is noisy with the sound of life: the washing machine and dryer are both on, rattling loudly in the utility room; the blender is going for your mom’s protein shake; the television and radio are both on and Leo refuses to turn either off. Overstimulating children’s cartoons bellow out into the stuffy living room. 

You’re standing in the bedroom, packing your bag frantically with school supplies for the tutoring session that’s near approaching. A holler of your name from downstairs has you groaning. At first, you try to ignore it, but it only gets louder and louder, until Leo is practically screeching for you. Your mom starts to call for you, too, beckoning you to go to him from her bedroom. With a frustrated huff, you ditch your mess of belongings on your bed and rush out of your room. 

“I’m going, mom!” you loudly tell her as you hurry down the stairs. 

Leo is sitting on the living room floor, a broken mechanical car in his hand. He holds it up to you, pouting, as he demands, “fix it, sissy! Fix it!”

“Leo, I really don’t have time to fix it,” you sigh tiredly, leaning down to take it from him. You inspect the damage and shake your head, “can’t you play with something else until I get home?”

“Fix it! Sissy! Fix it!” Leo continues to command. His eyes well with tears and his lip begins to tremble, and you know the signs of one of his episodes well. Overwhelmed, you sit down on the sofa and try your best to remedy the toy. It’s useless. It requires some sort of tool to get everything back together and functioning. Leo comes over and tugs on your t-shirt as you work, murmuring ‘sissy, fix it. Fix it, sissy,’ 

“I’m trying, Leo. Sissy is trying,” you mumble. You feel your own lip tremble and tears starting to form, and you internally curse yourself and will them away. You never cry in front of Leo. It’s your duty to keep him protected; to shelter him from the stresses that come along with your life. It isn’t his fault that things are different with him. But the more you try and fix the toy, and the louder the washing machine and dryer and blender become, and the hotter the room gets, and the more insistent Leo’s tugging and pulling becomes, the harder it is to hold back your brimming emotions. 

Leo begins to cry and you curse under breath. You place the toy on the coffee table and get down on your knees. 

“Leo, honey. Don’t cry. I will fix it, okay? Sissy will fix it. I just need a bit more time, m’kay?”

“Fix it, fix it, fix it,” he wails. His small hands ball into fists and he pummels the sides of his head, and your heart lurches. Your hands scramble to gently cup his own, ceasing the action as much as possible. 

“Don’t do that, baby. Please don’t do that.”

“Fix it, sissy,” he sobs.

“I will, I will,” you promise. Anything, you think. I’d do anything for you. You’re relieved when he lets you pull him into an embrace. You let him cry and smack his hands against your back. Emotions are big in his tiny body. They overwhelm him. It isn’t his fault. You press a kiss to his cheek, hoping you can somehow communicate that thought to him. When he’s settled, you give him one more squeeze before pulling away. Taking the toy from the coffee table, you tell him, “I’ll have it fixed by the time I get back home, m’kay?”

“Sissy fix it later,” Leo sniffles, nodding. Your smile is brimming and bright as you nod encouragingly. 

“Yes, yes. Sissy fix it later,” you reassure. Your eyes dart to the grandfather clock that stands in the hallway. Shit. “I really need to go, Leo. You need anything, you tell mom, yeah? Wake her up only if you need to, though.”

Leo nods. 

You jog through the house, scrambling up the stairs. The toy is shoved into your tote bag alongside the rest of the supplies, and then you’re racing down the stairs. The blender is finally finished; pouring it into a glass, you’re hurrying back to your mom’s room and leaving it on her bedside table. She’d finished a 32 hour shift at the hospital about two hours ago. Asleep, buried in the bedsheets, you lean down and press a kiss to her forehead. 

“See ya later, mom. Love ya,” you mumble softly. Closing the door gently behind you, you return downstairs to find Leo peacefully playing with a stuffed animal. Thank God. As you unlock the front door, you relay your usual farewell: “there’s carrot sticks and bell pepper sticks in the tub on the coffee table. Wake mom if it’s an emergency. Don’t touch the fireplace. Sissy will be back soon!”

Leo’s farewell is cut short by the closing front door. The pulsing heat slows you down as you speed walk to the high school. Children playing soccer and couples sharing picnics and surfer bros and girls loading up cars and vans and trucks blur into pictures of fantasies that you wish you could indulge in as you make your way down the streets. Finally, finally, you arrive at the high school. The air con is as relieving as heroin as you rush down the isolated corridors. JJ’s head whips to the opening door when you make it to the classroom. 

“Wow. You did show up.”

Your eyes squeeze shut with suppressed emotion as you bee-line to your chair. JJ doesn’t lose the opportunity to lecture, though. You suppose you have it coming from how much grief you’ve given him from being tardy. 

“I mean, you’d think that you’d at least practice what you preach. After all the shit you gave me for being late and you’re nearly twenty minutes over. Even I’m not that bad,” JJ goads. “Could at least take it seriously, y’know? Ain’t Mr Sunn putting all his hopes and dreams on you or some shit?”

Your hands freeze in your tote bag, midway through unpacking yourself. Tears rush to your eyes and you panic, pressing them shut, begging for them to go away. Crying in front of somebody was one thing. Crying in front of JJ Maybank was another. Your teeth sink into your lower lip to keep it still. The tightness in your throat keeps growing, with that horrible lump and scratchy dryness. Come on, get it together. 

“Hello?” JJ asks impatiently. “You gonna do something or…?”

That’s the breaking point. 

The tears fall in fat, ugly drops as a shaky sob rattles out of you. And then it’s as if the floodgates have opened. You can only imagine the horrified look on JJ’s face as you sit and cry in an empty history classroom. You cry, and cry, and cry. When you’re not crying, you’re gasping for air, sniffing back the snot, wiping aggressively at your nose and your eyes and your cheeks. Every attempt to slow the sorrow seems to bring about a new wave of waterworks. Until, finally, it seems to ease up. 

“God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you mutter, taking off your glasses and wiping furiously at your face. It’s red hot, mostly from embarrassment, and you blink up at the ceiling. “Shit, sorry. I don’t know why…Sorry.”

When you brave a look at JJ, you’re surprised to see no look of horror or humour. Instead, he’s frowning. He looks sympathetic, even. You can’t bare that expression. It feels as though people have looked at you like that for most of your life. Wiping at your wet cheeks, you take in a deep breath. With a violent sniffle, you return your glasses to your face, damp fingers trembling as they flick through the papers. 

“Where, uh…Where should we start?”

JJ mumbles your name. 

“Maybe Biology?”

He repeats it, slightly louder. You can’t stomach looking at him. 

“Or History?”

It’s with a stern voice, JJ has your attention. He holds your gaze unapologetically. Then, he’s glancing down at the papers in your hands, out the window to the spotless summer, and back at you. He nods, a decision apparently made, and gets to his feet. 

“A’right, come on,” he says. You blink at him. 

“Huh?”

“Come on, get up. We’re getting outta here.”

“What are you…JJ, no, you have a lesson. I need to teach you about…”

“Teach me it in the car,” JJ tells you, not waiting for you to finish your thought. He’s walking around the table into new territory. His extended hand is like an olive branch. You eye it as if it might be laced with arsenic. But when you look up at his face, the smile on his face is new. It’s friendly. Reassuring, even. Your still quivering hand out stretches to land in his. His palm is warm and slightly clammy. He helps you up from your seat. You shrug your tote bag up your shoulder and JJ releases your hand to gather up your papers. Holding them out, you return them to your bag, and then you’re blindly following JJ out of the classroom and down the corridors. 

His black shorts look like swim shorts. They end around the mid-thigh. His shirt is sticking to his back with a thin veil of sweat. It’s sweltering in Kildare County. You’re surprised by how attractive you find it. In your frantic fragility, you hadn’t realised JJ wasn’t wearing a cap. Instead, his blonde hair sat atop of his head, longer strands hanging slightly over his forehead. You think that’s the first time that you let yourself admit how attractive JJ Maybank is. 

“Where are we going?” you ask, picking up the pace to walk beside him. 

“The beach.”

“Why?” 

“Because,” JJ says, pushing open the door and holding it for you to step through, “it is officially the hottest day of summer,” the two of you make your way down the stairs, “you just had some weird, psycho freak-out,” you follow JJ to a brown, banged-up campervan, “and nature is the best healer.”

You can’t argue with much of anything he’s said, so you don’t. Instead, you walk around to the passenger side and climb into the van. It smells of seasalt, men’s cologne and remnants of cannabis. There’s empty beer cans at your feet that you kick out of the way. Crumpled up in-n-out paper stuffed into the wings of the door. JJ sighs as he drops into the driver’s seat. You watch as he brushes his hair from his face, fingers running easily through the locks. He turns the key in the ignition and his silver rings glint in the sunlight. The van rumbles to life, vibrating the seat, and JJ puts it in gear. 

“Wind down the window, would ya?” he asks, meeting your gaze. You nod and do as he asks. JJ does the same on his side, and then he’s putting the van into reverse, and soon enough you’re on an impromptu road trip with JJ Maybank. 

It’s difficult not to look at him. He’s so different from the guy you’ve been trying to tutor for the past two weeks. He’s also different from the image you’d built in your head of him. Some suave, ladykiller. Cruel, phony, dismissive. In the bright glow of sunlight, he’s rather gorgeous. His arm is propped on the window ledge. The wind brushes at his hair. His fingers tap on the steering wheel rhythmically with the beat of whatever song is playing from the stereo. Scared to get caught staring, you turn and watch the view out the window. JJ was right: you needed this. It’s hard to find excuses to relax and have fun when your mom and Leo need you so badly at home. Any time spent just for you without any benefit behind it feels selfish. But this was like a ‘get out of jail free’ card. An excuse dressed up in combat boots and dreamy muscles. 

There’s no conversation made as the two of you drive. It isn’t uncomfortable, though. It feels strangely natural, sitting side-by-side in shared silence. When the shoreline comes into view, you’re weirdly disappointed that the journey is over so soon. JJ parks and gets out with a ‘come on’ that has you following. You linger and look around as JJ digs about in the back of the van. He’s proud as punch when he emerges with two cans of seltzer and a towel (you don’t want to know the last time it was washed, if ever). The waves sound delicious in their susurrus against the sand as the two of you walk through the sand dunes. It was fairly busy: people surfing, others lounging with music playing from speakers, children playing volleyball. Girls lay on their fronts and backs, reading, tanning, relaxing. Guys bob their heads to the music and watch people dip in and out of the waves on their boards, nodding in approval. Seabirds call out afar and crickets chirp in the reeds. You feel like you’ve taken your first breath of fresh air in years. 

“Here seems good, huh?” JJ says, slowing near a more secluded patch of beach. You nod. He lays out the towel horizontally, leaving space for you to both sit side by side. JJ smells like sunscreen and cologne and a touch of sweat. The crisp cracking of cans opens the conversation. “Cheers.”

Your can tinks against his. You have a sip. It’s tangy and refreshing as you swallow. Toeing off your trainers and socks, you sink your feet into the hot grains of sand. JJ copies. The two of you lean back and lounge. 

“So,” JJ says. The two of you turn to look at one another. “You feeling okay?”

Laughing, you shake your head and have another sip of your drink. JJ grins. Looking out to the water, you sigh as you reply, “I was just overwhelmed. Sorry ‘bout the…y’know…”

“Snot?”

You laugh, facing him again. “Yeah. And the tears.”

“I was a little freaked out, I’m not gonna lie,” JJ tells you mirthfully, making you laugh more. 

“Mhm. Same here.” The two of you sit in a jovial lull for a moment until you feel the need to clarify, “I promise that isn’t a usual occurrence.”

Laughing, JJ nods. “Yeah, well, did seem out of character. Used to you giving me hell for…Well, shit, for anything.”

“You make it pretty easy to do that, in my defense,” you grin. JJ cringes, rocking his head as if to say ‘is that true?’ “Mr Sunn said something ‘bout you wanting to take the tutoring more seriously?”

“Damn, news travels fast here,” JJ mutters, making you smile. 

“For the record: you were right.”

“That’s rare.”

“I bet,” you snigger. JJ shoves your shoulder and you giggle. “But, you were. I didn’t have any right making any assumptions about your life. Your fortune, as you said.”

“Nah, don’t take it personally,” JJ says, dropping his head slightly. He swings his can between two fingers. “I’m a dick when I’m hungover.”

“You hungover all the time then or…?”

“Damn, mama! I’m tryn’a make amends here!”

The two of you share a laugh. It sinks away like footprints on sand. Nodding your head, you hold his gaze as you smile. 

“Well, we could start fresh.”

“I’m down.”

“Hey - to new beginnings,” you announce, holding up your can. JJ smiles at you, nods, and clinks his can against yours. The two of you have a drink. A kid races across the beach in front of you, chasing a stray soccer ball. “Can’t remember the last time I came to the beach.”

“Really? I go all the time,” JJ replies. 

“My parents used to take us on picnics here every Sunday,” you say, smiling to yourself. You watch the little boy return to his sister. She takes the ball from him and they continue their game. The smile changes. “We stopped going after my brother was born, though.”

“How come?”

You swallow. Remembering yourself, you blink out of your thoughts and flash JJ a smile. “Just new routines, I guess.”

Nodding, JJ digs about in his pocket as he talks, “me and my friends surf a lot so we’re at the beach most of the time, really. John B lives right near the marsh though so sometimes we just go out on the boat, y’know?”

You watch as he retrieves a small metal tin. He opens it to reveal a joint and lighter. Instinctively, your eyebrows raise slightly. His eyes flash to yours and he falters. “D’you mind?”

“No, no, uh…Go for it,” you say, gesturing lamely to his blunt. He doesn’t hesitate as he brings it to his lips, guarding the flame for the breeze with a cup of his hand. The smell is fruity and poignant when he takes a few starting drags. You watch the ash building on the end as if mesmerised by fire, like you’re some kind of cave person. Then you realise JJ’s offering it to you. “Oh, um…I’m good. Thanks, though.”

JJ takes another hit. “You smoke before?” You give him a look of ‘what do you think?’ JJ coughs out his vapour with a laugh. “You wanna try?”

“Um…” You hesitate, eyeing up the joint. “I don’t know. What’s it feel like?”

“Depends,” JJ replies. “Usually makes you feel relaxed. Less aware of yourself. Loosens up your shoulders, calms you down, that kind of thing. Can make you laugh too. Hungry. Talkative. Pope on weed - Jesus Christ - you should see him. It’s like he took speed or something. He won’t shut the hell up, for once.”

You smile, having a vague memory of Pope. You went head to head with him at a spelling bee back in Middle School. He always seemed like a nice guy. Intelligent, too; he definitely gave you a run for your money that day. 

“Can you have a bad trip?” you wonder, curious. JJ shrugs. 

“Sometimes. I’ve only had a couple. Mostly depends on what state of mind you’re in before you take it, or if it’s a bad batch. Smoking’s the best way to start, though. You stop smoking and it’s out of your system a faster than if you have an edible. With an edible, you’re in it for the ride, y’know?”

“Hm,” you hum in deliberation. 

“It’s safe. I mean, it’s legal in a bunch of places now,” JJ reassures. 

Snorting, you say, “that means nothing! Cigarettes are legal too, don’t stop them from giving you cancer.”

Rolling his eyes, amused, JJ replies, “can you just not overthink everything for one second? Look, I ain’t gonna pressure you into anything, but I think it could help. Especially if you’re feeling a bit overwhelmed, like you said.”

He doesn’t press it any further and you don’t ask more questions. The two of you sit for a couple minutes before you find yourself reaching out to take the joint. JJ’s happy to oblige. You bring it to your lips, heart beating nervously in your chest, and you hesitate. Looking at him, you ask, “how’d I do this, again?”

“Just bring it up and inhale,” he says, mimicking for you. “Try and hold it in for a bit and then exhale. Don’t freak if you cough. Most people do, first time.”

Murmuring an ‘okay’, you swallow your anxieties before following JJ’s instructions. The air gets caught in your lungs and throat and you splutter out a cough. JJ laughs lightly as you do and you flip him off, smiling despite your hacking. Once it’s passed, you take a few more drags, getting better with every attempt. 

“Now what?” You ask, handing it back. “Should I feel something?”

Laughing, JJ leans back on his elbows. “Relax. You’ll start to feel it in a minute. Might need a few more hits.”

“Alright,” you say. You shadow his posture. A thought occurs that has you giggling. JJ quirks a brow, curious. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just…I’ve only ever had, like, one glass of wine at Christmas and Thanksgiving. Just a bit new.”

“Aw, man, don’t say that,” JJ groans, tossing his head back. “That makes it sound like I corrupted your ass or some shit.”

Sniggering, you can’t help but glance at him and tease, “maybe you did.”

The look JJ returns hits somewhere new inside of you. 

Turning to your bag, you dig for your bottle of water. Leo’s toy car tumbles out onto the sand. “Shit,” you mutter, picking up and dusting off the grains. 

“What’s that?” JJ asks. 

You turn and show him the broken car. He takes it from you and studies it as you tell him, “it’s my little brother’s. He was asking me to fix it but I don’t even know where to start with that kind of thing. It’s meant to move, see?”

JJ nods, looking at the motor you point to. He turns it over in his hands, inspects some parts, before announcing, “I can fix this.”

“What?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s pretty simple, really. Just need to fix this part here,” he points at somewhere on the car, “and then change out the batteries, glue a few things, and should be good as new.”

“For real?”

“Sure,” JJ shrugs. He smiles at you. His eyes are blue, decorated with green flecks. You smile back. A fuzzy feeling builds in your chest. Your eyes dart down to his lips. They probably taste like seltzer and cannabis. He probably tastes like seltzer and cannabis. 

A scream has you both jumping, drawing your attention away from JJ. You look across the beach to find a kid screeching with laughter, screaming as their dad chases them through the wake of the water. You smile. In your peripheral, you see JJ smiling too. Maybe you had him wrong. Maybe the two of you can actually get along. Perhaps even be friends, of sorts. 

As the rest of the day stretches on, you and JJ pass stories and tell jokes. You churn up hilarious theories and stories about fellow beach goers as you smoke your way through his joint. The weed takes effect after a few minutes of smoking, like promised, and you get the giggles over something JJ says. You like his laugh. It’s bright and youthful, yet still somehow raspy. He gets rather philosophical when he’s high. Starts spewing ideas about the universe and fate and plans. That opens up a path to talk about daydreams and castles in the air. Fantasies of lives with high grossing jobs and Kook-sized homes and vacations every month. As the hours pass by and the topics come and go, you find yourself free from thoughts of studying and cleaning and cooking and caring for others outside of yourself. You find yourself present and in the moment for maybe the first time ever. That to say, when JJ eventually drives you home, the sun finally beginning to set, your heart deflates with the thought that the day is almost over. That you’re going to have to get out of the car and say goodbye to him, even if it’s for a week. 

The Sixth Lesson

JJ never thought that the day might come when he enjoys school. However, whenever Wednesday rolls around, this wave of energy washes over him, putting some pep in his steps like he’s in a Saturday special. Mr Sunn’s classroom had become this sanctuary; this garden of Eden that only you and JJ knew about. You had this way of explaining things that made it click for JJ. It was if you were a translator, taking complex terms and working them into analogies that fit into JJ’s head. You showed him tricks to keep notes which saved his paper from becoming a  stressful, confusing mess of scribbles. You recognised his need for taking breaks, splitting up sessions with stories, taking the chance to show him memes that your friend Esme had sent you. There was a sweetness to you, underneath the bossy, business-like exterior JJ was first met with. And with that sweetness came JJ’s sudden realisation that you’re really fucking beautiful. 

He’s not sure why he didn’t notice it at first. Maybe he did, but he didn’t want to acknowledge it. He was too busy cursing you for taking up his summer vacation. But now that’s noticed, he can’t unsee it. It’s like watching a movie and realising your favourite actor is in it; they take all the attention. And you took most of JJ’s, during your tutor sessions. He’d steal glances when he was reading through worksheets or filling pop quizzes. Snippets of your head bent forward, reading, your glasses slowly slipping down your nose until you push them back up. Glasses suited you. Framed your cherub face. Your laugh was melodic; tuneful like you were singing. But your lips might have been JJ’s favourite thing about you. You’d gnaw at them, chewing on them when you concentrated. You’d pamper them with lip gloss and balm, making them taste like strawberry or raspberry or cherry cola. A flavour JJ dreamt of licking off. On the downside, it made his already ADHD-ridden mind even harder to concentrate on the work. 

“You done?”

“Hm?”

“You finished with the quiz?” you ask, nodding down to his papers. You’d caught him looking at you and assumed he was finished. 

“Almost,” JJ says, glancing back at his answers to remind himself where he was. “Kinda stuck on this one though.”

“Which one?” you wonder, leaning across the table to have a look. JJ points at it and does his best to look at your face and not your cleavage as you read the question. But he has to steal a glance. Fuck. You smell fucking delectable. In a truly desperate and pathetic strain of thought, he considers asking what perfume you wear so he could spray his pillows with it. Jesus Christ, get a grip. It’s terrifying, the hold you have on him by doing so little. It’s like you have a voodoo doll stashed in your tote bag; potions that you drip into his water. It’s the only explanation. JJ Maybank has never been pussy whipped for a pussy that he hasn’t even seen. I guess you really do learn stuff at school. 

“Okay, so,” you say, sitting back in your seat.  You push your glasses up your nose: it’s adorable. “You remember learning about adaptation, right? Like how animals change themselves–”

“--to fit in with their environment and survive, yeah,” JJ finishes, surprising himself with how easily he plucks that knowledge from his memory. Your smile is beautiful, full of pride. 

“Right. Exactly. So, if you think about a camel - like the question says, yeah? - and where they live, why would they need to store water in their humps?”

JJ looks down at the paper and reviews the picture of the camel. “They live in the desert,” he thinks aloud, watching you nod in her peripheral vision, “so there’s not much water. So they need to store water so they don’t become…thirsty?”

“Another word for thirsty?”

“Dehydrated?”

“Yes!” you grin. “Yes, that’s it.”

JJ laughs despite himself, shaking his head as he writes the answer down. “Never thought there’d be a day when I’m actually decent at school but here we are.”

“Well, never thought there’d be a day when I smoke a joint,” you counter teasingly. JJ flashes you his smile. “Alright, come on. We got ten more minutes. Finish the quiz.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it, brown nose,” JJ mutters, sniggering when you flip him off. He fills in another answer before stealing another glance. You’re reading. Focusing intently on the page, knees brought up near your chest, book resting on the back of your thighs. “How’s the book?”

You look at him, visibly debate telling him to focus on his work, before answering. “It’s good. It’s the third in the series.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s a fantasy. The usual stuff: witches and elves and stuff like that. Dragons, sometimes.”

“Fancy,” JJ mumbles, returning his attention to the paper. “Read something out-loud from it.”

You don’t say anything. Frowning, JJ’s eyes dart up to you. You’re staring at the page, clearly not reading. He starts to smirk, bemused. “What? Why don’t you read something?”

“It’s just, uh…Pretty boring, y’know?”

“Mhm,” JJ hums, unconvinced. He waits until you’re distracted before he quickly swipes the book from out of your hands. You shriek, jumping out of your seat. 

“Give it back, JJ! Give it!”

“Come on! Just wanna see what you’re reading!” 

“No!” you screech, chasing after him. The two of you perform some sort of dance around the tables of the classroom, white walls bright in the sunlight streaming through the wall of windows. JJ steps up onto one of the cabinets and holds the book high above his head, open on the page so he can read. You helplessly hop up and down below him, trying to swipe it from him. Through his laughter, it takes a moment to stop shaking and focus on the words. JJ begins to read. Then his eyebrows raise so high he’s surprised they don’t fly off his forehead. 

“Holy shit!” he sniggers. 

“JJ! Give me the book now, Goddamnit,” you demand, returning to the version he knew of you from week one. 

He loses control a little when he comes, his grunts deep and unusually rough, his grip viselike, and she feels his orgasm course through her as if it were her own. She sucks him gently through the end of it, and when she looks up at him she’s wet and swollen and she feels empty, trembling, a messy lump on the floor. 

“Open your mouth,” he rasps. 

She blinks up at him, confused. He cups her cheek. 

“I want you to open your mouth and show me.”

She complies, and the sound he makes, possessive and hungry and pleased at last, travels through her like a wave. He massages the back of her neck while she swallows, his thumb caressing her jaw, and when she smiles up–

The book is suddenly ripped from JJ’s hands. He’s in hysterics, doubling over, grabbing at his knees. 

“Holy shit! That’s insane, I had no idea people wrote shit like that,” he manages out through gasps of air. But when he looks at you, his humour quickly fizzles out. You’re closing the book, eyes downcast, visibly upset. “Hey, shit, I was just messing around, okay? I didn’t mean to–”

You turn and walk back to your bag, shoving the book inside of it. JJ jumps down and follows, grabbing your wrist to get your attention. You reluctantly look up at him. Tears tease your waterline. Shit. 

“Hey,” he says, voice soft, “I’m sorry. I was just messing ‘round. I just didn’t think books had stuff like that in them.”

“Yeah, well, they do,” you say, tugging your arm free and crossing them over your chest. “Didn’t have to be a douchebag ‘bout it.”

“That’s fair,” JJ hums, nodding. “M’sorry. Is it, uh…Is it good? Y’know? Book-porn?”

That has your lips quirking upwards. He smiles too. Rolling your eyes, you mumble, “it’s pretty good, yeah.”

“Yeah? I mean, seems pretty detailed,” JJ remarks, recalling the paragraph he read. You laugh quietly, shrugging. 

“It is. That’s what girls like ‘bout it, y’know? It’s more focused on the girl. About her…y’know, pleasure and stuff.”

JJ hums, thinking. It seems like more work to him than just putting on porn or even finding someone to hook up with, but considering what he’s learnt about you, it makes sense that you prefer it. As the two of you return to your respective seats, and JJ returns to his quiz, his mind can’t help but wander. Did you have a boyfriend? A girlfriend? Did you hook-up with people whenever you felt like it, like he did, or were you a one-person kind of girl? Were you a virgin? JJ warily lets his eyes wash over you. You’ve given up on reading and are now scribbling on some print-out, probably preparing next week’s class. Your head is propped up in one hand, the end of the pencil pressed against your lips. His eyes trail down your face, over your chest, lingering. It was hard to get a read on you. He felt like you were either one of two extremes: a virgin, perhaps never been kissed, or a hardcore freak. He wasn’t sure which he liked more. Probably both. Either. Any. If JJ had his chance with you though…Holy shit. He wouldn’t let you out of bed for hours. He’d show you things you didn’t know, make you feel things that you’d only ever read about and daydreamed in the darkness of your bedroom. He’d have you screaming, close to tears, desperate to come again and again and–

“That’s time.”

JJ quickly focuses on the page, reads the last question, and ticks a random box. Clearing his throat, washing his thoughts away down the gutter, he sits back in his seat. You take the test from him and read over it. JJ watches you nervously, teeth nibbling at his lips, as you start to mark. For the first time in his life, he cares about this quiz. It isn’t a mock exam, doesn’t hold any real weight, but he’d like some proof that maybe he’s worth a shit. Maybe his brain isn’t a complete waste of space in his skull. Maybe, just maybe, JJ might be smart. 

“Jury’s in,” you say, a mischievous glint in your eyes. You hold the paper back out to him, face down, and JJ eyes it nervously. “Go on.”

Sighing, he takes it and flips it over. His eyes quickly scan over the ticks and cross before honing in on the numbers outlined in a neat red circle. His lips part. “Eight out of ten?”

“Yep.”

“Eight out of ten?” he checks, meeting your eyes. 

“Well, if you want to be really harsh with yourself, it’s more like 7.5 because I gave you that hint with the adaptation-camel thing, but everything else was all you,” you smile, nodding. 

JJ can’t help but laugh in disbelief. He feels like he just passed his SATs. And if it wasn’t for you, he wouldn’t have gotten hardly one answer right. He wouldn’t have even tried. As if reading his mind, you gently remark, “you’re smarter than you think, JJ. Just gotta believe in yourself.”

“That’s the corniest shit you’ve ever said,” JJ snorts. But the look he gives you speaks volumes. Speaks of his thanks. You smile back, pretty like a magnolia in May, and JJ is petrified by the way his heart yearns. 

The First Warning 

“Whose turn is it?”

“Who’d you think?”

“Girl, she’s barely looked away from her phone.”

“Yo!”

Fingers snap in front of your face. You jump then frown at Esme. “The hell was that for?”

“It’s your turn, dipshit,” she playful replies, rolling her eyes. 

“Oh. Sorry,” you mutter, turning off your phone. You ditch it beside you on the sofa and lean forward, grabbing the dice. They clatter against the vinyl board, bouncing over colourful squares and claimed buildings. “Alright, seven.” 

As you move your counter around the Monopoly board, your phone buzzes with another message. Eyes drifting over to the screen, your lips instinctively twitch when you read JJ’s name. Esme narrows her eyes at you in suspicion and, quick as a cat, grabs for your phone. 

“Esme! Give it!”

“Who are you texting so much?” she wonders. Lily and Palma giggle, scooching in to gather around the screen. You roll your eyes. These were your closest friends, you didn’t much mind if they found out - which they were bound to, considering Esme knew your passcode. Her voice isn’t particularly happy when she asks, “JJ?”

Rolling your eyes, you take your phone back and scan over the messages. 

“Oh no.”

You look over the top of your phone and meet Esme’s eyes. You know that look. “Esme, it’s not like that.”

“You like him.”

“Esme–”

“You have a crush on JJ Maybank,” she announces. Lily and Palma gasp like they’re in a courtroom drama. 

Shaking your head, you laugh as you say, “can you not use the word ‘crush’? Makes us sound like we’re in junior high.”

“Girl, this is serious,” Esme warns, shifting on the sofa so she’s facing you head on. “This is JJ Maybank we’re talking about here. Need I remind you who he is?”

“Fuckboy?” Lily offers. 

“Asshole,” Palma chimes in. 

“How about surprisingly nice person who is also really freaking hot?” you give as a rebuttal. 

“Are we forgetting what he did to you?” Esme wonders, genuinely alarmed by your change of tune. “I mean, not more than a month ago he was enemy number one and now, what? You’re sending him cute little dad-jokes?”

“He’s not like what I thought, a’right? He’s actually pretty sweet,” you meekly reply. 

“Wait, what did he do to you?” Lily asks, frowning. 

You roll your eyes. “Literally nothing.”

“Nothing? You cried in the bathroom stalls for, like, twenty minutes!”

“It was ten minutes, and that was over a year ago,” you argue. “Jesus, you’re acting like he skinned my cat or something.”

“Hello!” Palma interrupts, throwing up her arms. Her cornrows sway off her shoulders as she asks, “are either of you going to tell me and Lily what he did?”

Sighing, you force yourself back to English class last year. 

“I’ve got to say, guys. Not your finest hour,” the teacher, Mrs Halls, remarks as she paces the aisles of the classroom. You chew nervously on your lower lip. You’d spent hours studying for this test; even pulled an all nighter just to cram in as much content as possible. You’ve read Romeo and Juliet enough times to recount almost every line. Recited the sonnets in your sleep as if you’d written them yourself. 

As she makes her way between the desks, your foot thrums against the vinyl flooring. To your left, she delivers a quiz paper onto a desk. JJ Maybank’s desk. He was hardly ever in class. Sometimes he’d get up and leave halfway through and not bother coming back. You’d never shared a word. 

“Poor work, Mr Maybank. I want you to see me after class,” Mrs Halls berates. JJ tugs off his cap and runs his fingers through his hair, huffing, rocking back in his seat. 

Then, your test sheet is returned to you. “Nice job. Top of the class - as always,” Mrs Halls tells you proudly, finishing with a wink. You smile, relieved, satisfied, and look back down at the neat A+ staring up at you. But your joy is short lived. JJ snorts, scoffs more like, and you glance over at him. 

“Fuckin’ virgin.”

The girl behind him overhears, as does the boy in front, and they both snigger underbreath. Your face burns hot and your eyes dart back down to your paper, head hanging with shame. Tears sting your eyes and you try desperately not to let them fall. And they don’t, at least not until you’re out of class and in the bathrooms with Esme. 

Lily and Palma’s sympathy is palpable. You roll your eyes. “Look, who cares? He was probably pissed with himself and took it out on someone else.”

“Oh, yeah, so I really want you to catch feelings for a guy like that - y’know, now that you’ve put it that way,” Esme sardonically replies. 

Sighing, you reach out and meddle with your game token. “I’m not stupid, okay? I don’t like JJ like that. There’s no point. So, you don’t gotta worry ‘bout anything.”

Guys like JJ Maybank did not go out with girls like you. It was as simple as the alphabet. The maths was easy: he was a commitment-phobe, heartthrob with a craving for adrenaline and adventure; and you were a rule-abiding, goody-two-shoes with an affinity for a good book and cup of tea. Hell, you’d smoked your first joint for the first time a few weeks ago and had your first casual drink outside of a holiday celebration. Skipping class was practically a religion to JJ whereas just the thought made you feel sick. The two of you were opposites, and whilst it might be true for magnets, the world of romance was quite a different story. It may attract, but that doesn’t mean it’s viable. 

But despite the logic, you knew you were lying. You had fallen for him, hard and fast. How could you not? He was funny and charming and attractive. He had a tenderness that he hid beneath the surface, like a tortoise cocooned in a shell. There was a sweetness to JJ, the kind that made the memory of his cruel remark feel false. But Esme’s disapproval and your own insecurity were poignant. You don’t text JJ back for the rest of the night. 

The Ninth Lesson

Since that day on the beach, you have never been late for another tutoring session. Now that JJ had made friends with you, if either of you were running late, you’d send a text message and the whole thing would be put to rest. That to say, when you were late to the session by an entire hour, JJ knew something must be wrong. You hadn’t replied to a single message he’d sent. Forgetting things was not your style, especially your tutoring sessions with JJ. He hadn’t outright asked, but something told the blonde haired boy that you enjoyed his company as much as he enjoyed yours. He wasn’t blind. He’d seen you taking peaks at him during the lessons the same way he did with you. As arrogant as he could be with his looks, JJ knew you weren’t like the others girls who fell at his feet. You were complex, contradicting, and chemical. 

The debate to go to your house is brief in JJ’s head. He’s given you several rides home after tutoring. The drive was always something he looked forward to, as well. You had a similar taste in music and the conversation flowed like a fresh water spring. It’s starting to feel second nature when JJ takes a left onto your street. You don’t live in Figure Eight but it’s a nicer area than where JJ resides. Somewhat of a middle ground, your neighbourhood is something of a suburban dreamscape. Children play in the streets and some front lawns even have sprinklers, when the drought isn’t around. 

JJ parks outside your door and sighs, checking his appearance in the rearview mirror. He fixes his hair under his cap and checks his teeth. God knows when that started becoming a habit. Then he’s hopping out the Twinkie and wandering up to your front door, hands in pockets. He raps gently on the red painted wood and waits patiently. He glances up and down the street and rocks on his heels. The door swings open and JJ turns, jumping into his introduction before he has a chance to see who it is. 

“Hey, I was wonderin’–” When he comes face to face with nothing, his head tilts down to find a little boy looking up at him. JJ’s breath catches in his throat. The child’s face is disfigured. It isn’t ugly and it isn’t horrifying in any way, but it is enough to notice. Enough to have a person take pause. JJ tries not to stare at the strange patching of skin and the protrusions of flesh. Instead, he ducks down so they’re more level at the eye. “Hey little buddy. Your sister home?”

He’s visibly nervous. “My sissy?”

“Yeah. Your sissy home?”

“Mhm,” he nods. He glances behind him, down the hallway, then back to JJ. “Are you her boyfriend?”

JJ eyes widen slightly. “Oh, uh, nah, little dude. Just someone she’s helping out.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, could you do me a solid, little man, and go get her for me?” JJ wonders. The little boy studies him for a moment. His eyes don’t seem to focus, one tracking a little slower than the other. JJ waits patiently. 

“Why aren’t you her boyfriend?”

“Well, that’s a pretty long story,” JJ chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Are you a surfer?” With that, the little boy points at JJ’s t-shirt. It’s one of his graphic tees from a local surf shop in town. Grinning, JJ nods. 

“Yeah, I sure am. Are you a surfer?”

“Sissy won’t let me,” he replies through mumbled words. He rubs at his arm, one hand still holding tight to the door handle. “Says it’s dangerous.”

“It can be,” JJ replies. “Pretty dope though. I bet you’d make a cool surfer.”

“Leo, I’ve told you before to pick up your toys when you’re finished playing!” Your voice comes from some far room in the house. JJ glances over (what must be) Leo’s shoulder to spot you walking into frame. You look pretty frazzled, clearly working through some sort of mental checklist. “Leo?”

“Here, sissy,” Leo calls back. Your head turns and you notice your brother first, then the open door, and then JJ. Visibly startled, your lips part. Hurrying over, you lay a protective hand on your brother’s head, taking the door in your hand. 

“JJ. What are you doing here?”

“You, uh, didn’t come to the school so I wanted to check you were a’right,” JJ explains, raising back to his full height. “Little dude here said you were home so…”

“Sissy,” Leo says, tugging on your t-shirt. You glance down at him and this smile comes over your face that reminds JJ of a warm blanket. “Is this your boyfriend?”

“Oh, uh,” you’re flustered, glancing quickly at JJ before returning your focus to your brother. “No, honey. This is just, uh, a friend that I’ve been tutoring.”

“Oh,” Leo says. He tugs at your shirt again. “Sissy?”

“Yes, Leo,” you say with undying patience. 

“You should ask him to be your boyfriend,” Leo tells you. The two of you manage to hold back your laughs. 

“Really? Why’s that?”

“He’s a surfer. Said I could be a surfer too,” Leo says. 

“Oh did he now?” you wonder, looking up at JJ. He smiles apologetically. Oops. Shaking your head, you recall what JJ said prior to Leo’s interruption. “Wait, what’d you mean I wasn’t at school? Class isn’t ‘til one.”

“Yeah…It’s nearly three in the afternoon, now.”

Alarmed, you grab at your phone and groan. It’s dead. JJ shows you his. Your horror is borderline hilarious. “Shit, I’m so sorry, I don’t even…God, I just lost track of time. Um…Come in, actually. Come in.”

You and Leo make space for JJ to walk through the doorway. He closes it behind him. Leo grabs quickly at JJ’s shirt and pulls him with surprising strength through the hallway and into the living room. 

“Look, look!” Leo exclaims, grabbing at any and all toys in sight. One is familiar to JJ when he takes it in his hand. It’s the toy car he fixed for him. His eyes drift to yours to find you watching everything unfold with a strange expression on your face. Something tells JJ that this is a little overwhelming for you. He’s amicable when he places the car back down on the floor. 

“Listen, little dude, those are some sick-ass toys. But I really need to start this lesson with your sister, huh? Maybe we could play some other time?”

“Teach me to surf,” Leo seemingly demands. Your face falls. 

“Leo, honey, we’re not learning to surf today,” you gently say. 

Leo looks between yourself and JJ and his face begins to contort. His lips tremble and your eyes slant with concern. His fists clench at his sides and he stamps his feet. 

“Teach me to surf! Teach me to surf! I want to surf!” Leo shouts. His hands begin to thump against the sides of his head and you rush over, dropping to your knees. 

“JJ, can you wait in the kitchen please?” 

JJ does as he’s asked, quickly leaving the room, overhearing your pleading with your little brother. Through the muffled door, he can follow some of the conversation despite his trying not to. He occupies himself by looking at pictures on the wall and on the fridge. A drawing that Leo must have done - of him on a surfboard - and a picture of you and him from Christmas. You look sweet like cinnamon in your reindeer pyjamas. There’s an impressive collection of report cards and certificates and rewards, all addressed to you. A framed photo on the wall has JJ taking pause. The man in the frame is striking in similarity to you. He’s dressed in army formals, staring stoically ahead before a grey background. The ones around it are more casual. A family vacation. You in the marching band (so he was right, you did used to do that). The infamous spelling bee victory. 

“How ‘bout this: tomorrow, me and you go to the beach together, huh? Sound fair?” your voice creeps through the walls. 

“Sissy take me to the beach tomorrow?” 

“Yes. Sissy take you to the beach tomorrow,” you say. The relief is evident in your voice. JJ cracks the kitchen door open, sensing an end to the conversation. “How ‘bout you tidy up your toys whilst I hang out with my friend, hm? Sound fair?”

“M’kay.”

“Gimme a hug.”

JJ catches your embrace through the crack of the half-closed door. He smiles to himself. He’s never seen this version of you. It’s like you’ve transformed into a different person. When you reappear in the hallway, closing the door behind you, it’s as if you struggle to meet JJ’s eyes. 

“Come on, we can study upstairs,” you say, leading the way. 

Your bedroom is not how JJ imagined it. Parts of it are - the Jellycats and the candles and the motivational quotes on the wall - but he’s startled by how little possessions you have. There’s not a lot of books, like he was expecting, and your bed is simple with a duvet and two pillows. Your desk is a mess: papers and pens and highlighters and sticky notes. JJ closes the door behind him as you clear some clothes off your bed. 

“Sorry I forgot,” you say as you clean. “I had to sort out Leo’s dinner and he’s decided that he doesn’t like pizza now, he only likes dinosaur nuggets. And they have to be dinosaur shaped, or else all hell breaks loose. And then the laundry needed doing cause my mom needs her scrubs and–”

You stand upright and sigh, bringing your hands to your face. If JJ wasn’t in your family home, he’d offer you a joint. Instead, he stands and waits, unsure whether he should hug you or not. You haven’t crossed that line yet, although somehow standing in your bedroom feels miles more intimate. Another steadying breath and you’re pulling your hands from your face, fixing your glasses. 

“Thanks, by the way.”

“For what?” JJ frowns. 

“Y’know. For being nice to Leo,” you reply, gesturing to your door. 

JJ’s frown deepens. “Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just sometimes people can be…” You shake your head, drop onto your bed, and sigh loudly. “Assholes. They can be real assholes. Kids especially. Which, fair enough, they’re kids, but come on.”

JJ chuckles quietly. He sits beside you on your bed, sinking into the plush comforter. “He’s a cool kid. And I honestly don’t mind teaching him to surf. Might be cool to have a little apprentice.”

You laugh at that, smiling at him. “A little protege?” 

“Sure,” JJ shrugs, not fully knowing what that word means. He wants to tell you how pretty you look right now, despite being a little flustered from rushing around. You’re clearly busy. Busy in a way JJ didn’t know about and could never relate to. The question catches in his throat. It doesn’t feel appropriate to ask but it’s hard to keep it at bay for long. “Can I ask…What…What is it?”

You take a small breath before replying, looking down at your hands. “It’s a few things, really. Doctors aren’t even sure they can give it one name. He’s neurodivergent, so he likes routine and familiarity. Emotions are pretty big for him. They can be hard to manage. He’s getting better at compromise, though, which is nice. Uh…There’s also something developmental there. He’s nine, but he acts more like he’s seven, and his language is more at that stage too. He’s smart though. Really bright. The kids at school aren’t always so nice so sometimes I give him lessons, to help, y’know, bridge those gaps.”

JJ listens intently, nodding. Rolling your shoulders back, you let out a relieved sigh. He wonders if you’ve ever spoken to someone about this stuff before. If you have someone to lean on, vent to. He imagines Esme might fill that role to some degree. 

“The physical stuff…That’s because of a gene. Well, two genes, that my mom and dad both had, and it was luck of the draw. In another life, in another world, I would look like him. He had a shitton of surgery when he was little so he could breathe better, talk better, look better. Some helped home with mobility too. His tongue, uh…was too big for his mouth? They had to sort of…reduce it? It was a rough few years. Mom had to pick up extra shifts to get better health insurance and help cover the bills. My dad was in the forces and he’s deployed a lot. He is right now, in fact. I guess I learnt how to grow up fast.”

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head, and meet JJ’s eyes. “I feel like I’m five different people. Sometimes more. I have to be the sister, and the daughter, and the mom, at times. I have to be the best friend and the star student. And then, I have to be the teenager. Even though most of the time I feel like a mini adult, trying to keep everything in order. I don’t know, maybe that’s why I’m so neurotic. Shit, I’m probably a psyche major’s dream case study.”

JJ laughs along with you but the words hang heavy in the air and in his heart. He could relate, though, to some of it. “I get it.”

“You don’t have to say that,” you solemnly reply, smiling sadly. 

JJ shakes his head. “No, I really get it. A bit, anyway. Having to grow up fast. Being different people.”

It feels empty to leave it at that, like faux empathy to defuse an awkward situation. Sighing, JJ’s fingers meddle with a stray thread on your duvet cover. “My dad’s in and out of trouble a lot. Jailtime and stuff, y’know? I learnt pretty fast that if I didn’t wanna go hungry, I gotta fend for myself more. Started working. Started stealing. Just had to survive, right?”

You nod sadly. ‘I’m sorry’ falls silently from your lips as you offer him a smile, and JJ’s heart drops down through his ribcage, into his stomach, because nobody has ever looked at him like that before. Looked at him as if they can see right through him. Through the facade and into his soul, into his mind. Look at him like they understand him. It’s terrifying. JJ’s throat feels tight and dry and his brain feels full. Butterflies tickle at his intestines as his eyes slowly, slowly, fall to your lips. It feels like a temptation when your tongue darts out to wet them, your teeth rolling over your lower lip, and he wonders what lip balm you’re wearing today. He wonders what you’ll taste like. 

JJ isn’t sure which one of you begins to move first, but soon enough, he can feel your breath on his lips. When his mouth presses to yours, his eyes sink shut and his heart nearly explodes from how fast it’s beating. Your fingers slip over the top of his hand as if holding him in place, keeping him close. JJ’s head tilts and so does yours, and you deepen the kiss. You taste like cherry cola. Cherry cola and lemonade. You sigh against him and one of JJ’s hands comes up to your cheek, fingers tracing the soft skin before cupping your jaw, guiding your movements with his. Your own hand creeps further up his hand, along his arm, until it’s looping over his shoulder, keeping him near. It’s sighs and hums and pure, simple pleasure as the two of you make-out. It’s never like this. Never this patient, exploring, wading through the waters, finding out what little move makes the other person react. The brush of teeth on lower lips, the shadow of tongues dancing against one another. JJ’s used to fast and fiery, rushing to get to the next part. This, right here, feels like JJ could kiss you forever and never once grow tired. 

The two of you are so consumed in one another that neither hears your mothers voice down the hall. It isn’t until a floorboard creaks just outside your door that you’re springing away from him, wide eyed. JJ’s still in a daze when the door swings open. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and JJ strategically sits so his crotch isn’t in view. 

“Honey have you–” Your mom’s words die on her tongue. JJ musters up some courage to look over to the doorway to find a blank expression on her face. “You’re not one of my kids.”

“No, uh, mom this is the guy I was telling you about. The guy that I’m tutoring, I mean,” you stumble through your words, gesturing to JJ. He gives a nod and tense smile. 

“Hiya, ma’am.”

“Ugh, don’t call me ma’am when I’m not on duty,” your mom groans, rubbing tiredly at her forehead. You chuckle and JJ realises it’s a joke, faking a laugh of his own. Then her eyes narrow as she looks between the two of you. “Tutoring, huh?”

“Yeah, uh, your daughter’s been helping me get my grades up over the summer. Mr Sunn hired her, actually. It’s all legit,” JJ reels off. Her eyebrows raise. 

“Okay, well…Sure. If you say so,” she says. She doesn’t sound particularly convinced. Her eyes train back onto you. “What I was gonna ask was, did you wash my scrubs?”

“Yeah. They’re in the dryer right now. Should be good to go in an hour.”

“Perfect,” she sighs, relieved. “Oh, and Leo?”

“He’s had his dinner. I had to run to the shops cause I thought he liked the unicorn shaped nuggets but it’s actually the dinosaur shaped ones, and we didn’t have any of those.”

“Nuggets? I thought he liked pizza. Thought he hated nuggets?”

“No, no, he’s done a complete one-eighty. Decided yesterday that nuggets are the new meaning of life; pizza is out,” you explain with a too-cheery laugh. 

“You said you bought some? How much were they?” Your mom worries, but you brush her off. She rubs at her head and laughs self-deprecating. “Jeez, some mom I am, huh? Can’t even remember what my own kids like to eat.”

Before you can say anything, she’s plastering on a smile and reaching for the door handle. It seems as though she just woke up from a nap. “Alright, well, I’m gonna get ready for work. You kids, uh, have fun…studying.”

“Thanks mom,” you smile, nodding. 

She begins to close the door, but lingers when it’s a crack open. “And use protection.”

“Mom!” The door slams shut. Groaning, mortified, you drop your head in your hands. “Sorry ‘bout her.”

“She seems nice,” JJ chuckles. Shaking your head, you look up at him. 

“Don’t indulge her,” you say jokingly. The smiles linger on your faces as you look at one another. JJ wants to kiss you again. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to be able to think about anything else now that he knows what you taste like. Those fantasies are back, the ones he shoved down in a box, and he wants to fulfill all of them. But you’re back to your usual ways: duty-focused. Getting to your feet, you slap your hands together. “Alright! Lesson time! Let’s start with…Romeo and Juliet.”

“Are you going to the kegger on Friday?” JJ asks out of the blue. 

You look over to him from your desk, where you’re flitting through the impressive stack of papers. “Kegger? What kegger?”

“This kegger on Friday. Meant to be a good one. Down at the boneyard.”

“I don’t know,” you mumble, turning back to the papers. “I’ve never been to one before. Wouldn’t even know what to do.”

“Come find me and I can show you,” is JJ’s suave reply. You snigger, rolling your eyes. “I mean it. It’d do you good to get to wear the ‘teenager’ hat or whatever you called it.”

Sighing, you venture back to him with the worksheets for the day in your hands. “Maybe. How’s that?”

“Good enough for now,” JJ relents. Before JJ can try and make a move, you’re thrusting papers into his hands. He groans, disappointed, and you only pretend not to care. 

“Okay, so: Romeo and Juliet. We all know what a shitshow that was…”

The First Kegger 

“I feel ridiculous.”

“You look it.” You toss a Jellycat at Esme’s head. “Hey!”

“That’s not very supportive of you,” you mutter, glancing at the mirror. You fiddle with the hem of the skirt and try to shimmy it further down your legs. It feels ridiculously short and revealing. God help you if you drop anything, there’s no way in hell you can bend over to pick it up. 

“Why’d I be supportive of this? You’re going to a kegger purely to appease the patriarchal nightmare that is JJ Maybank.”

“You don’t have to use his full name every time, y’know?” You reply, choosing to ignore her complaint. 

“Girl, this ain’t you.”

“It might be me. I can go to keggers.”

“Sure, okay, go to keggers - that don’t mean you have to cosplay as somebody else,” Esme sighs. She gets up from the bed and walks over to you. Her fingers meddle with the straps of the rather skimpy top you’re wearing. You’ll spend the whole night crossing your arms to try and cover your chest. Meeting your gaze, she sighs once more and takes a step back. “Look, if you really think this thing with JJ Maybank has legs then at least be yourself. I thought we agreed that as feminist women we wouldn’t conform to society’s brainwashing of what an attractive, ideal woman is.”

“You’re giving me a headache,” you mutter. But as you glance back in the mirror, you can’t help but agree. This isn’t you. The skirt, the top: it feels unnatural. Wordlessly, you walk over to your dresser and dig about through the drawers. The outfit that replaces the ‘hot-girl starter kit’ eases your anxiety in a second. An adorable skort and crochet style cropped sweater that sits pretty over a tank top. Yes, that’s more like it. Esme seems to agree, as she nods approvingly from the bed where she’s taken purchase once again. The reflection you’re met with smiles back at you. But then the thought of actually going to the kegger makes reality weigh heavy. “I don’t know…Maybe I shouldn’t go.”

“You look cute. It might be fun, you never know,” Esme shrugs. 

Sighing, you flop down on your bed beside her and stare up at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars you pasted there when you were thirteen have lost their shine, but they still have a dull illuminessence that feels like safety. “What if I’ve got this all wrong?”

“Didn’t you say he kissed you? How could you get that wrong?”

“I don’t know, I just…What if he’s doing it to mess with me?”

Esme thinks for a moment then groans. She sits up and huffs. “I can’t believe I’m actually going to defend this douchebag but,” she mutters, before meeting your eyes, “I think he might really be into you. And if you’re going to let some silly self-loathing stop you from being happy, then that’s pretty depressing. And sad. And pathetic.”

“Thank you,” you deadpan. She grins. You give a small smile back. “You’re right. But you know what would make this miles better?”

Realisation dawns upon her and her reaction would make it seem liek you asked her to go bungee jumping with you. Esme’s head begins to shake as yours begins to nod. “No. Nope. No way.”

“Yes! Come on, we can go together! Solidarity in numbers and all that!”

“I would do anything for you, but wingmanning you at a social event that reinforces incorrect assumptions that excessive alcohol consumption is synonymous with being cool is–”

You plaster a hand over her mouth. Glaring, you say, “shut up and get changed, will you?”

She stares at you as if challenging you to break, but you don’t. Rolling her eyes, Esme pushes your hand off her mouth and begrudgingly gets up and off the bed. Mutters and complaints fall from her mouth as she rifles through your clothes. ‘You’re lucky you’re my best friend’ is the most common. 

After the time spent debating whether or not to attend, changing outfits, and convincing Esme to join you, the two of you walk up to the kegger almost three hours in. It’s bustling and boisterous. Groups of friends are scattered across the beach and the dunes. People sit on the driftwood and chat animatedly. Boys wrestle and jeer at one another near a makeshift bonfire. Girls gossip and giggle amongst themselves as they catch eyes with classmates across the way. Tourons huddle nervously together and try their best to appear at ease and at home in the boneyard. The Kooks tend to keep their distance from the Pogues, a strange invisible divide drawn in the sand. Keggers and coolers are stacked up beside some speakers, with R&B and hip-hop music thumping out across the seashore. It’s nearly completely dark outside, save for a thin line of navy just above the shoreline. The bonfire works well in illuminating the sand with a warm, orange glow. 

“Holy shit,” Esme mutters. You snort. This was a first for the both of you. “This already blows.”

“The music’s pretty decent, at least,” you comment as the two of you weave through gaggles of teenagers. It seems you’re both naturally gravitating towards the keg to grab a drink. Red solo cups are stacked precariously beside the beverages and you grab one each. As Esme chatters and fills up your cups, your eyes scan the beach in search of a certain blonde haired boy. You’d texted JJ before leaving but had yet to get a response. Glancing down at your phone to double-check, you notice that the service is appalling, and sigh, pocketing the device again. 

“You found him yet?”

“Nope. Holy crap, can you believe how busy it is?”

“Look out!” someone shouts. With that, you and Esme stumble back as two guys tumble in front of you onto the sand, wrestling. Esme rolls her eyes and mutters into her cup, ‘imbeciles’ before taking a sip. Your fingers nervously press into the plastic over and over as you scan the beach over and over. It’s so busy and in the darkness, it’s hard to make out faces. Everybody looks the same (save for the Kooks, who are dressed in designer threads). You and Esme find yourselves in what feels like a safe spot on the beach. Sitting on an old tree trunk, you sip at your beers and people-watch whilst discussing the gossip you knew of your classmates. It’s nice to have her company; you’d have no idea how you would have coped if you had come on your own. Checking your phone once more, there’s still no text from JJ. Just as you’re about to recommend leaving - already an hour in - Esme is suggesting to get a refill and give it a bit more time. You’d made the journey and the effort, after all. 

Approaching the keg, you vaguely recognise the boy refilling his cup. Smiling, you call out, “Pope!” and watch as he startles and turns around. His smile is amicable.

“Hey! Uh…YN, right?”

“That’s the one,” you smile. The alcohol gives you a boost of social confidence, what with your tolerance so low. “You remember Esme, right?”

“How could I forget? Mathlete reigning champion,” Pope smiles at a rather smug Esme. 

“Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know where JJ is, would you?” Esme asks on your behalf. Your face burns hot at the directness of her question. 

Pope doesn’t seem to be phased, however. He looks around as he says, “he is here somewhere. I’ve been hanging with Kie though so I lost track of him. He’ll show up.”

Esme gives you a nudge and you roll your eyes, smiling into your cup to try and hide your glee. He’s here. 

“JJ says you’ve been tutoring him at Mr Sunn’s request?” Pope asks you. You nod. 

“Yep. Once a week for over a month now.”

“Honestly, you deserve a medal for that. I gave up trying a long time ago,” Pope remarks joshingly. 

“He’s actually doing pretty great. I think it’s making a difference.”

The rest of the conversation stretches on with Pope. You start to exchange stories from the chess team and Mathletes and Model UN and, eventually, the Spelling Bee tale comes up. Unaware of the secret vendetta Pope held against you following your victory, it’s fair to see you have a good laugh when it’s revealed. The three of you become more giddy and familiar as the conversation continues and you wonder why you and Pope had never hung over before, when you seemingly have so much in common. When Esme wanders off to go find somewhere to pee, you and Pope sit side-by-side on some driftwood and discuss the latest fantasy book you both happened to be reading. 

“I gotta say, I did not see Eldmore and Scarlett getting together,” Pope tells you. You scoff, gaping at him. 

“How could you not!? He was practically falling at her feet in the second book!” 

“I don’t know, I just thought he had more chemistry with Mistress Londar.”

You consider this as you take another sip of your drink. You’re three beers in now and can certainly feel its effects; probably best to quit while you’re ahead. “I guess. Mistress Londar is in too deep with the alliance, though. I think it would have been too much of a conflict.”

“Maybe. Still. That one chapter when Eldmore and Scarlett…y’know…do it,” Pope’s voice trails off and the memory has you laughing. Smiling brightly at him, you’re far too excited to have the opportunity to mention JJ. 

“That was the chapter I was reading when JJ stole the book from me. I think it might have scarred him for life,” you snigger. 

Pope laughs, shaking his head. “The stuff he gets up to? I doubt it.”

As the laughter dies down, Pope goes to take another drink only to find his cup empty. Smiling apologetically, he rises to his feet. “I’m gonna get a refill. It was nice talking to you though. See you ‘round?”

“Sure,” you smile, nodding. With that, Pope walks away. You stay put for a moment, considering what to do. The interaction with Pope had distracted you from your search for JJ. Upon checking your phone, you realise you’d been conversing for over an hour. Oops. Esme had also vanished. You better go look for her. Getting back up, you ditch your cup and walk around the boneyard. You thought it would have started to die down with how late it was getting but, if anything, it seems busier than ever. The alcohol has your head slightly fuzzy and you concentrate on not tripping over. You’re not drunk - not by a long shot - but it’s probably best not to have any more for the night. Pulling out your phone, you try texting Esme despite the poor cell service: Where are you? When you look back up and glance around the beach, your heart stutters. 

There’s JJ, as gorgeous as ever, stood talking to some random girl. He’s leaning against an abandoned, rusted watch tower, nursing a red solo cup, and staring at her as she talks. He seems to be listening rather intently to the story she’s telling, nodding his head, as her hands move as she speaks. When her fingers brush against his forearm, you suddenly feel very sick. And then, he laughs. 

The tears kick in with the embarrassment and disappointment. How could you be so stupid? Of course he doesn’t want to be with you. Of course he isn’t going to change. Of course he’d want somebody else. 

A hand on your back has you jumping and spinning around. Esme. You sigh in relief. She frowns at your expression, spotting the tears in your eyes. 

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

You shake your head and grab her hand. “Let’s just go. I wanna leave.”

“Hey, what–” Her voice trails off and you know she must have spotted JJ. You remain with your back to the interaction and try tugging on Esme’s arm to prompt her to move, but her feet are welded into the sand. “That filthy, slimy little toad of a man, I swear to God–”

“Esme, please,” you beg. Your voice cracks and gives you away. She meets your gaze. You shake your head desperately and a tear falls. “Please, I just want to leave.”

Huffing, she takes one last look at JJ talking to the girl before reluctantly appeasing you. The two of you walk down the beach, hands interlocked, and you sniffle pathetically as you try to wash the image from your mind. Why would he invite you just to get with somebody else? Why would he kiss you if he didn’t want anything? Why would he do this to you? Why? Why? Why? 

Your mind jumps back to that day in the classroom. The sneer in his voice when he muttered those two words. The sniggers from the classmates that felt like elephants trampling on your chest. The shame and the embarrassment that overcame you. You were so convinced that he was a different person. That you’d merely caught him on an off day and you didn’t know him, not truly. The day at your house was so special: it felt like finding gold in the attic. Nobody had ever seen your life up close apart from Esme. Not even Lily or Palma. Nobody had ever met your brother apart from Esme, either. Had heard your fears and anxieties and seen your exhaustion not once, but twice. You’d trusted him. You let him into your home and gave him a snapshot of your life and you thought he understood. But you must have thought wrong. 

Esme doesn’t try to spark a conversation as the two of you walk back to your house. She gives you a long, lingering hug at your front door before bidding you goodnight. Slipping into the house, you keep your footsteps light and your cries quiet as you make your way up the stairs. Your mom’s bedroom door is shut and you can hear her snoring through the walls. Leo’s bedroom door is open by a crack and you wipe your tears and sneak inside. He’s lying in his bed, bundled up in his dinosaur bed sheets, cuddling his stuffy. He looks so peaceful like this. So safe from other children’s whispers and other parent’s horrified stares. So safe from the world and its cruelty. The cruelty that you were exposed to tonight. Ducking down beside him, you brush your hand lightly over his hair and press a kiss to his forehead. Climbing into bed has never felt like such a relief before now. 

The Final Lesson 

You haven’t texted JJ since the kegger on Friday. His message he sent last night went without a response but JJ’s sure you read it. He was clarifying that the lesson was still on for today, in the usual spot in school. At your lack of response, JJ simply assumed that it was routine as always, and packed up his backpack for his lesson. He isn’t sure how to explain it, but when JJ passes through the threshold of the building, something feels off. It’s as if the air is thick like molasses, study and heavy, pushing against his throat. A bizarre feeling of unease washes over him with every step he takes. The classroom door is shut and JJ pushes it open, finding you sat at the desk. Your head is down and you’re reading something laid out in front of you. There’s less paperwork than usual stacked by your side. You don’t look up or smile at him as JJ walks in. You don’t even acknowledge that he’s there. JJ suddenly feels nauseous. What the hell is going on? 

“Hey,” he says, unsure, as he walks over to the table. The glance you give him is brief. 

“Hey,” you mumble. 

Frowning, JJ takes his seat. You’re focusing pretty hard on whatever it is before you. JJ takes a long inhale and waits. Eventually, you clear your throat and push over the paper. 

“This is, uh, your scoresheet from all our lessons. Y’know, so you have physical proof of what we covered and how you performed in the different quizzes.”

JJ’s frown deepens with your words. He slowly takes the paper from you and scans over it. 

“You can give it to Mr Sunn if you like, but I’ve already emailed him a copy so he has it. He’s aware that you’ve attended every session, save for the one in week two, but–”

“Wait, what the hell is going on?” JJ interrupts. His heart is starting to beat faster, his anxiety building, because this sounds an awful lot like goodbye. “Are the lessons done?”

When you meet JJ’s eyes, he hardly recognises you. You haven’t looked at him with that level of nonchalance since the early weeks. Pushing up your glasses, you say, “yes, the lessons are done.”

JJ blinks at you and waits for you to drop the act. He waits for you to make a joke and tease him like always. He waits to see your expression melt with that smile that he likes to think is saved just for him. But instead, you just look at him. It pisses him off. 

“The fuck d'you mean ‘the lessons are done’?”

“JJ–”

“You never told me that we were finishing the lessons. I mean, shit, I just walk in here and suddenly it’s over? I don’t understand!”

“We’ve covered all the content that you need to cover before the next semester starts–”

“--Bullshit we have!”

“JJ!”

“No, no, I don’t know what the hell is going on,” JJ argues loudly, “but you’re fucking with me.”

“JJ, please,” you plead. It’s the first crack in your icy exterior. Your lip quivers as you try and steady yourself. There’s little power behind your voice as you say, “please don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

JJ’s heart squeezes and he rubs at it through his t-shirt. He feels like you’ve just shoved him off a cliff and he’s falling and falling and falling, and you’re just standing there and watching it happen. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s as if you’ve both been reading the same book and then you’ve skipped ahead three chapters. He tries to calm himself down, taking a few slow, shaky breaths. His eyes press shut and in the darkness behind his lids, he sees your face, moments before he kissed you. Shaking his head, he opens his eyes and looks at you. 

“You could at least give me a reason.”

You’re visibly uncomfortable. Swallowing, you look down at the papers before you and meddle with the corner of one until it starts to split. JJ utters your name and you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut. 

“I don’t know why you’re making a big deal of this. It’s not like it means anything to you,” you tell him quietly. JJ’s brows furrow. 

“What're talking about?”

Sighing once more, you lift your head and meet JJ’s gaze. There’s a sadness behind your eyes that he’s never seen before. “I saw you at the kegger.”

JJ’s frown deepens as his brows tug closer together. “Huh?”

“The kegger, JJ, I saw you there,” you say, firmer. Shaking your head, you busy your hands with anything and everything as you ramble. “You have every right to get with whoever you want to get with and mack on any girl you like, but you could at least, y’know, clarify before doing it. I was just confused. It felt like a sick joke or somethin’ and I really hope that you wouldn’t be that cruel but…But it just confused me and I don’t think I can compartmentalise this dynamic if that's the case...”

JJ’s shaking his head frantically. He holds up his hands in mock surrender as if trying to ease traffic. “Woah, woah, slow down, you lost me. What d’you mean you ‘saw’ me?”

“With that girl, JJ.” Your voice is thick with despondency. “I saw you at the old watchtower talking to her and…I don’t know…”

Oh. 

JJ isn’t a genius at most things, romance being one of them, but he had a sense for when things were deeper than a fling. He knew his own emotionality enough to recognise when he liked someone, even if he was reluctant to admit it. It didn’t take a scientist or therapist and even a mere scholar to read you right now. The way you’re looking anywhere but him; the way your hands are practically tearing the paperwork, that seemed to follow you like a shadow, into shreds; the way you’re so desolate and so vulnerable in your words, strategically saying so much without saying anything at all. It’s like how you taught him during Romeo and Juliet: ‘you have to read between the lines’. 

“You’ve got it all wrong,” JJ says, suddenly calm. 

“JJ, you don’t have to–”

“I was looking for you all night,” he interrupts. You seem unwilling to accept this, sighing and shaking your head, refusing to meet his gaze. “I was. I swear it. I was looking for you the whole night and then, when I found you, you were talking to Pope.”

That has you taking pause. Your fingers finally cease their relentless vandalism. JJ sees your eyes flicker over to him warily. He takes the gap to continue. 

“You were talking for an hour. Maybe more. And you were laughing and…And I’m not an idiot, a’right? I know that you and Pope have a million more things in common, and that he’s actually got a hope in hell of making something out of himself. You’re both smart. It’s probably fucking fate. And I’m not gonna stand in the way of that, a’right? I ain’t gonna stop two people from being happy and shit just because I like you too. It ain’t fair. Pope’s a good guy. He’d be good to you.”

The hopeful part of JJ’s psyche is leaning heavily on your pure look of confusion. JJ’s face feels burning red from his clunky confession. But he perseveres and takes another quick breath, preparing himself to talk up his best friend, but as JJ’s lips part, you’re talking. 

“I don’t like Pope.” The two of you stare at one another. The table has never felt so wide. Shaking your head, you repeat, “I don’t like Pope. Not like that, anyway. We just have a few things in common and started talking about that book I was reading, and lost track of time and– I had no idea you even saw that.”

“Yeah, well…I did…so,” JJ mutters. 

“JJ, I was looking for you all night, too,” you tell him. The smile on your face is solemn when you say, “and when I found you, you were talking to that girl. And…she’s beautiful, JJ. She seemed really nice and, of course, you’re welcome to–”

“--Didn’t you hear what I said?” JJ can’t help but cut in. You frown slightly. JJ doesn’t mean to laugh when he repeats, “I like you. Like really like you. Like holy shit what the fuck am I supposed to do like you. Like you’re all I can think about sort of like you. It’s fucking terrifying and pathetic and I know that there isn’t a chance in hell but–”

“--You like me?” you whisper. JJ laughs softly, almost under breath, and shrugs. He feels stripped off his confidence; bare without his boyish façade. This was real, genuine, organic. This was honest. 

“Course. Why else would have I invited you to that damn kegger in the first place? I mean, shit, I full-on kissed you. Thought it was pretty obvious,” he says, his voice trailing off. 

“I…I just thought…” 

You’re in disbelief, it seems, and it makes JJ’s heart want to bleed. It’s as if you can’t fathom the fact that somebody might have an interest in you. Someone might want to care for you like you do for so many others; to be the one who helps look after your brother; who helps you study for your exams despite the fact that you’ll inevitably ace them either way; who helps you remember how to relax and let loose and just be. JJ wants to be that person. He wants to be the one that you can cry to and the one who makes you laugh. He wants to be the guy that you spend your mornings sleeping in with and your nights wide awake. He wants to make you smile and scream and moan and– All of it. JJ wants it all. 

“That girl was my cousin. Well, step-half-cousin– It’s get confusing, a’right? The point is:” He takes a sharp breath before laying his hands palm down on the table. He’s determined to hold your gaze when he says, “I don’t want anybody else - not one person - but you.”

JJ’s patience has never been more impressive as he waits for you to process what he’s said. He can practically see each word working its way through that beautiful brain of yours. As the meaning sinks in, your smile finally begins to show like the first sunrise after winter. Brilliant and full of promise and hope. No more dark days, no more cold nights, no more dull mornings. Just sunshine - through and through. 

“I want you too,” you confess. 

His heart feels like it’s about to bust out of his chest. JJ’s not sure he’s ever smiled so hard in his life. There’s a faint worry that his skin might split from how wide his grin is. But he can’t help it. This is better than any high he’s ever had. It’s euphoric because you want him too. Despite all his misgivings, all his stupidity, all his hopelessness: you want him. And not just the version that he might be able to become, but the version he is now.

“Come over here right now,” JJ demands in a breathlessly chuckle. 

The giggle that falls from your lips is adorable as you get up from your seat. JJ’s laughing too as he pushes his chair back to make space for you. You drop down onto his lap with a laugh and JJ tastes them on his tongue when he kisses you. It feels like coming home as your hands lace into his hair, pulling him nearer. The graze of your tongue against his, sensually tasting him the same way he does you, has him quietly moaning. The moment he takes your lip between his teeth, you’re whining, and it’s as sweet as syrup. His hands run down and along your thigh, fingers digging into the flesh just enough to remind himself that you’re real, this is real, and you want him too. 

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” JJ murmurs against your mouth. Your sheltered moan drives him on; JJ kisses you with new fever. The scratch of your nails against his scalp is orgasmic in itself. It’s never been like this: never has something so simple made JJ feel like he’s been brought to his knees. Pulling away, JJ stares up at you, panting lightly, and waits for you to open your eyes. Pupils blown wide, you look like an angel, the sun casting yellow behind your back. His fingers slowly lift until he’s taking the frame of your glasses in grip and easing them from your face. JJ’s never seen you without your glasses on; not up close. His lips quirk at the edges. “I think I like you more with them on.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, rolling your eyes, smiling despite your words. He makes sure not to be careless when he puts them on the table. His hands cup your face, fingers brushing over your soft skin, fuzzy like peach lining, and you lean into his touch, gazing into his eyes, and JJ thinks this. This is what true happiness is. 

“What?” you ask, voice barely louder than a whisper. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” JJ smiles, losing his nerve. Nobody’s ever looked at him like that. You look at JJ like he’s somebody. “Just happy s’all.”

Your lips are slightly damp when you tilt your head enough to press a kiss to the pad of his thumb. JJ’s breath catches in his throat from the tender action. He’s serious about this. Serious about you. He’s as serious as the plague. 

“Same here,” you murmur, leaning back down as if to meet his lips. Before they reunite, you let one last thing slip. “M’happy too, blue eyes.”

---

want more? read part two - paint by number - here!

taglist: @mayanneaa | @stevesstranger | @thisismysafeescape | @nooneshallfindme | @pastelbabygirl19 | @araunahj | @lmaowhatt | @raineshua | @darlingchronicles | @jjsfavgirl

[artsninspo]

003 | Richmond Inc.

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⇚ 002

♠ summary: The forced proximity of a Swiss work trip makes Lorence's attempts at evading Mr. Richmond more challenging. Their already tense dynamic becomes all the more challenging when she finds out when he thinks of her terms and requests.

♠ pairing: Terry Richmond (Aaron Pierre - Rebel Ridge) X Lorence Cole (Black Fem OC)

♠ word-count: ~2.7K

⌖ - St. Moritz, Switzerland

I check my watch noting my pulse is exactly where I need it to be. I can feel the blood rushing through my limbs as I dismount from my inversion looking at brave skiers taking on the slopes. I remove my mouth tape and take a deep breath. An integral of this position is being remarkable while not standing out too much physically. I need endurance and strength without looking like I train for a few hours a day in the gym. Morning yoga is my personal maintenance. I look out ahead and breathe deeply while admiring the serenity of the Swiss Alps. I could get used to this. I think to myself revelling in the privilege of the experience. Continuing my deep breathing I click off the noise cancellation on my headphones allowing the world back in and hear running. Frowning, I turn and find the Boss on the treadmill running with a large barbell over his shoulders evenly weighted with large black disks on either side. What the hell!? I think looking away before stealing a glance at him barrelling through his run in the mirror. He moves effortlessly with the deathtrap hitched on his shoulders like he’s carrying five pound dumbbells and not over a hundred pounds while running moderately. Of his own free will!

Maniac, I mutter snapping out of my thoughts. I manage to gather my things quickly, tossing them into my bag before disinfecting the mat I used. The cadence of his steps changes as he slows maintaining a slower speed and I wonder how he hast stopped yet. This tortuous exercise would have already murdered me. I feel self conscious in an instant when I remember my hair is in heat less rollers under a satin scarf and curse myself for leaving my room in this presentation.  Mr. Richmond provides a notable monthly stipend towards the maintenance and upkeep of his employees. My current appearance is a huge faux pas. Appearance is everything. Not in a homogenous and boring kind of way, but in an eclectic way we've got something for everyone, kind of way. I hardly look my part right now, I have never been in the presence of the boss without a face on. A bare face isn't something I’d usually be self-conscious about but around Mr. Perfect; I am.

The running stops and I’ve missed my window to leave without an interaction. He slows to a stop before putting down the weight. He’s barely sweating and not nearly exasperated enough to be fully human.

“Good morning” he calls over to me, his baritone reverberating through the empty gym.

“Good morning” I respond hoping he hasn’t put his contacts in since he isn’t wearing glasses but it’s a foolhardy wish for a man as prepared as him. My phone rings and I smile when I see my father has saved me from the beast.

“Hey Daddy” I smile, picking up. 

“Hi my love, I was just heading to bed I hoped you’d be up on time” Dad says.

“I am, thanks. I just finished yoga” I explain using the opportunity to get my bag on and slip out from under the Bosses nose. 

“What’s it like?” Dad asks and I wish he could see it for himself.

“Cold and gorgeous I’ll take lots of pictures when I get a chance.” I smile.

“Remember to take some time to see it, really see it and bring home fondue and chocolate for your mother and I” he adds.

“Chocolate, cheese and wine - got it. Mom won’t let me forget it. I’ll be through with her list” I tell him.

“Atta girl, well I’ll let you get ready. Call me if you need anything” daddy says as I pass the Boss.

“I will, thanks dad - see you soon” I tell him. He sends a kiss through the phone and I do the same making it out of the gym without having to make small talk with Mr. Richmond. Joel’s been on assignment and I haven’t heard a thing about my conditions. I move through the building heading back to my room to find the bed maid. I have a shower and spend more time than I should watching people ski down the mountain while doing my make up for the day. I spray perfume and then get dressed before packing a bag in case of any surprises. When I leave, people have already started breakfast. A chef is at work and names set out on serving cloches. I find mine and see a perfect breakfast respecting my dietary restrictions.

“Thank you chef” I smile, thanking the chef and he nods smiling back. I find a seat at the table in my own world as everyone partakes in conversation. I’m not a morning person and if I want my breakfast to settle I can’t be aggravated or anxious. The room is buzzing with good energy overall, everyone is excited to be in attendance. I’m anxious. Although I have no responsibilities this go round I like being in a conference room surrounded by computers being fed intel and finding a way through as opposed to being on the ground. We leave in groups, staggering our arrival times. Joel appears just as I’m about to get into my black truck. He smiles getting in with me.

“How are you?” You ask, getting on your seatbelt.

“This’ll take some adjusting to the timezone change & climate. I just finished a job in Australia - it’s summer there” he smiles.

“You know flying so much isn’t good for you.” I tell him.

“I know, I’m being rotated out for the next six months unless it’s eminent” Joel responds.

It’s great news. “I bet your kids will be happy”

“Not my wife though,” he mutters.

“I’m sure living with a hyper-vigilant, ex special forces nut isn’t easy” I tease and he chuckles.

“You’re supposed to be on my side” Joel remarks.

I give him a curt look. “I am on your side. You can’t do this forever. All your awards and accolades mean nothing without your family ensuring they’re celebrated and live on” I remind him.

Joel beams bright, “I forgot how much I missed you” he laughs, shaking his head dismissively at my sentimentality. I snap a few pictures of the mountains in genuine awe of their magnitude.

“This is the job, seeing the best the world has to offer” Joel says beside me.

“I know” I nod.

“The Boss didn’t agree,” Joel says, drawing my attention back to him. “Actually, he was pissed,” Joel says, shocking me. I give him a moment to tell me it's all a joke and when he doesnt my heart starts to race.

“Great” I sigh sarcastically.

“Offered you a $850k and an increased therapy stipend. You have until the end of the week to decide if the response is no, HR will terminate your employment.” Joel says looking guilty. Now, I’m really in shark infested waters.

“Joel!” I snap looking him over.

“Joel what, it’s practically a million dollars!” he shouts like he isn’t the one who secured my spot on the Bosses shit list.

“To be ripped into and harassed. You know he’s gonna make every penny worth his while” I snap. 

“You run things by me and I’ll do my best to catch any infractions. He really isn’t as bad as you think.” Joel says and I sigh near tears. I’m going to be out of a job. I think to myself with closed eyes. Maybe if I can manage it for a year then I can quit a million dollars richer? Maybe I can train for the verbal berating? My thoughts run wild and I take deep breaths.

“I’m sorry” Joel says finally. I open my eyes before cutting them over to him. “I’ll be home so I’ll have all the time in the world to be on call” he reminds.

“Whatever” I snap folding my arms. “I’m still not convinced,” I confess.

“It’s more money than the average person makes in their lifetime in a year. Think of all the good you can do with it. Think of all the potential investors and philanthropists you can meet?” Joel starts and his training is showing. He’s appealing to the things I value most.

The car stops and he gets the door. I put my game face on exiting behind him. We blend in with the understated upper echelon. In the field, what Richmond inc. is second to none, I spot my colleagues discreetly blending in amongst the crowd. Unlike the serious and burly security guards that are easy targets we blend in. Offering safety in numbers as well as increased observation. For the more curious attendees at these kinds of things our menial titles make us all the more visible. Consultants and special advisors are of little importance in most cases as they are far from where the money resides.

Joel and I separate as he schmoozes. His cover is that he’s an elite protection dog breeder. As a senior agent and not executive I don’t have that kind of story but no one pries when I tell them I’m his assistant. I’m a woman so it’s believable. I look the part and a few of them look at me like I’m a meal. It’s nothing I’m not used to in a sea of powerful men. They flirt and I giggle but that’s all it’ll ever be. I know better and this group works hard and plays harder. Not to kink shame but the shit they’re into turns my stomach. There are few novelties when you have as much money as they do. I tread lightly and make my rounds schmoozing and farming potential clients away from other security firms who are too busy eye fucking me to realize I may be why they’re out a job. When the keynote begins the rotunda leans out. The centre’s workers have their way with the decadent charcuterie boards and excess wine while myself and a few of my colleagues file out into our waiting cars.

They go skiing once we get back but I get out my notebook weighing my options with Mr Richmond’s counter offer heavy on my mind. The blank page stares back at me as I make the pros and cons list. I decide to try my hand at positivity first. The pay, the travel, the potential to meet incredible people. I pause from writing and look up at the ceiling to think. The amenities, the accommodations, the new experiences. I continue with my list until I begin to draw blanks. Are they really even pros when I currently make more than I need not by a longshot and can afford to put myself in the position to enjoy everything listed? I groan, tearing the page and tossing it into the modern black stoned fireplace. I know the cons intimately. Chronic stress from existing under a microscope, anxiety that would snowball into a skewed self-perception about my value and what I deserve. Verbal tirades that would also be intimidating and dramatic because of how big the brute is. Turning my head I watch the paper burn and try to find alternatives. Perhaps exposure therapy? Only being tougher and having thicker skin is not something I aspire to at this time in my life. I’ve faced about fear to tack on another one for the sake of greed and prestige.

Disappointed greenish blue-grey eyes find me in my thoughts where they are unwelcome. It would be easier if he wasn't so damn handsome, then everyone would hate him and we wouldn't have to pretend he’s this pleasant person to be around. Maybe then, he’d be nicer too - or just normal instead of so abrasive. 

What if I just ignore what Joel told me and continue in my current position? But that would only work until the Bosses patience runs out. All I’d need to do is stand my ground. I have half a decade of nearly perfect reviews to make being fired an unjust and unlawful termination. Unfortunately, being in a litigious battle with Mr. Richmond is a terrifying idea. 

I decide to stop worrying and make the most of the present. I put on my base layer before my thermals and a snowsuit for my solo adventure up and down the slopes. I make sure I have everything before heading out of my room with a slightly awkward waddle. Smiling, I take a photo for my girls back home. My hair is braided and put away under a fleece hat to keep it from freezing. The elevator dings and I walk in before looking up. Big mistake. Just the man I want to avoid is the one standing in there with me.

“Lobby?” he asks and I nod swallowing my smile. I see the lobby button is already illuminated.

“Sir” I force a polite smile.

“Miss Cole” he nods back. It’s the first time I’ve regretted our penthouse accommodations. It's a long way down. 

“Is Mr. Jameson back yet?” The Boss asks, referring to Joel.

“I believe he’s still at the convention,” I respond.

“Have you two had a chance to speak yet?” Mr. Richmond pries.

“About?” I ask as the elevator doors reopen.

“Well hello handsome” she says in full winter gear. Her husband shakes his head completely ignoring his wifes antics. Well, I assume he’s her husband. “Ooo wee, Earl don’t you think one of the girls would love him”  she says, elbowing her husband who is clearly ready to be outside. But Earl chuffs committed to not looking up at Mr. Richmond and it amuses me - Earl and I are on the same page.

“Cheryl quit” he says instead with a thick southern american accent.

I stifle a giggle and he looks up at me with an annoyed smirk. He makes a talking gesture with his hand before pointing to his wife, who is still admiring Mr. Richmond. He motions that his Wife's talking too much like a kid sneakingly mocking their teacher in class.

“Forty five years and she’s always got new material” he whispers, reminding me of my own parents. THeir irritation with each other is always second to their love.

“I bet that keeps things interesting” I respond and his eyes light.

“You bet,” he laughs, highly amused.

“Now Earl, nothing she says could be that funny” she chides him as the elevator sounds and the doors open. Earl throws his hands up in defeat heading out first and Cheyl gives Mr. Richmond a wave. I use the confusion to my advantage putting on my gloves and heading to the chalet where snowboards can be rented. The Boss will have to schedule a meeting with me where I can be prepared. This ordeal is hardly an ad hoc conversation. I live below my means and take care of my people so the money doesn’t seduce me. I like nice things but I have more of them than I have time for right now. The money I have been squirrelling away was for travel with my family. My priority is to smell the roses with the people I love. 

I’m modest with my ascend up the slopes and do a moderate slope instead of going all the way up the mountain. I snowboard down a few times before taking my daddy’s advice. I FaceTime him while enjoying swiss fondue. Momma makes sure I write down everything for her gastronomy blog and I take lots of photos. I return to the hotel with a box of goodies and the doorman rushes to help me with it. The common area has a sprinkle of people. We talk about the convention and the weather before turning in.

My nightly routine is still in place. Before winding down completely I do a final once over of my emails and make sure all is going well with my team while I am away. I’m about to close out of my emails when one comes in from the Boss. I swallow hard looking at the encrypted email and slam my laptop shut. I try decompressing by brushing my team only to check my work phone and see I have a 9:00 a.m meeting with the man himself tomorrow morning.

FUCK!

004 ⇛

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[igglemouse]

As sunlight streams through a few kitchen windows on an ordinary Tuesday morning, I find myself in my zone, right in front of a stove and preparing what hopes to be a delectable breakfast.

Today, my craving calls for a special oatmeal creation that only a chef's touch can perfect because I plan to fold in a generous amount of berries and a few swirls of cream, maybe even a sprinkle of cinnamon? Who knows, sometimes when it comes to cooking its more about a feel and a whim to create a symphony of flavors that will get my taste buds dancing and singing.

As for Pascal, he was busy working out. Always working out. That is one dedicated man but that is one of the main reasons I'm attracted to him. I do love a man that has a goal, that has something driving him and Pascal definitely fits that criteria.

After my breakfast and after his workout we meet up on the couch.

"I'm so happy that you've been staying over,” he starts. “You know, you can stay over as long as you like, right?”

"I think you've said that before,” I reply, but I do like hearing him say it again.

"Well, it's true! I don't mind you being over here. There are many pros and I can’t think of any cons but I guess there might be a few.”

"Oh? A few cons, really?" I challenge.

"Nah, just kidding, no cons at all now that I think of it."

"The pros then?"

"The food is always amazing and the company is somehow better than the food."

"And by company you mean?”  He gets just a little closer as I ask, close enough that our shoulders brush up against each other and he puts aside his patience and brings me in for a kiss... 

And he kissed until somehow some way my clothes were off...

After our little romp I was reminded that I'll be needing clean clothes for the week and for some reason the man doesn't have a washer or dryer. I think he mentioned that he relies on the equipment manager at the stadium or something? For a professional athlete, he sure does live modestly, I’m not sure if financially this is a good or a bad thing but lets go with bad since it leaves me here washing my own clothes in a bucket of water under the hot Oasis Springs sun. 

Being filthy rich was never my goal and I don't want to just tie myself to him in the hopes that his next contract will be the thing that makes him wealthy but...it wouldn't be so bad, would it?

At least there would be a washer and dryer.

Right after handling my laundry I receive a text from Irene. She's asking if she can come over to hang out. It is a good idea since I don't have much planned for today, so it would be great to catch up with her and spend some time together.

But that won't be till later as right now is about lunch.

The enticing aroma of tamales drags Pascal from presumably whatever workout he was in the middle of and right into the kitchen. A big goofy grin on his face contradicts the accusatory look of his eyes, directed right at me, or rather, past me and at the stove. "Actually, this is definitely one of the cons."

"Didn't you say earlier that my cooking was a pro,” I say, playfully desperate to defend myself but thankfully my tamales are ready to go to help in my defense.

"Yes, but your cooking will make me fat and slow. I'll be cut from the team in a few months!"

"Pascal! You told me you didn't want salads so-"

"Cut in a year, Frida, think about that..."

I just laugh because no way this guy is going to put on weight with how much time he spends on the treadmill and working out.

Right as I finish my lunch I’m pulled to the door by a gentle knock which I correctly assume is Irene. Seeing her does put a smile on my face and I hurry to wrap her into a hug because I feel like there is an instant connection between us.

Instead of inviting her inside I led her to the side of the house as the weather really was too perfect to stay inside. 

Irene was eager to talk about my food or more specifically, the tacos I had for sale.

"I absolutely adored them!" she tells me but I could tell just by the look in her eyes. “Just a very classic taste and texture to them and-”

"Some foods just don’t need much experimentation," I offer because its true. I don’t try to reinvent the wheel with my dishes I simply try to make the car go faster.

"You're right about that you know but I've been trying to spice things up, you know? Fusion tacos, trying to mix things up and create a signature dish."

"Oh, hows that been going? What about that man ummm...your boss?" Remember him, Martin Lucena? He tried to hire me and was very very upset when I told him no? 

"Yeaaaa, he's not much for experimentation," she says with a laugh and I think more about my run in with the man just last night. Hard to imagine ever working for him. "But you know, I do it on my own time. One day I'll be on my own, like you are, and having a signature dish or two will help me stand out."

"Hmmm," she has a point there. I could use a signature dish myself. After all, a flying car must be better than one that just goes faster, right?

It was nice to spend more time with Irene but the day grew late and left me with Pascal who was at this time making love to his treadmill once again. I decided to bother him and annoy him a little because why not? He was having none of it though and decided to use the art of telling corny jokes to fend me off. 

"Why did the striker bring string to the game?" he asked. I froze in pure fear of what the answer might be, pleading with a look for him to not continue. "He wanted to tie the game!"

I cringe, already throwing in the white flag. "Okay Pascal, I don't-”

"How does a player stay cool during the game?"

"Water?"

"No, they stand near the fans!" He said, jubilant, as if he had scored a championship winning goal.

"Why does-"

"Noope! You enjoy your workout!" I get out of there just in time. 

So yeah, I really am enjoying my time over here...

Frida Varela Index ~ Next 5.2

[3-2-whump]

HIT!

<prev next>

For those of you who celebrate it, happy Fourth. For conscientious objectors like me, happy free day! I can't believe I'm posting this chapter on (American) Independence Day, but honestly, there's nothing more American than random acts of gun violence.

NOTE: This is where shit gets real (more real, that is), and where the author may make some decisions that might not vibe with the readers. To those readers, all I will say is fanfiction is a thing, canon divergence is a thing, and I will honestly be more intrigued than mad if you end up scrapping this part and writing your own version! (Just lmk, like tag me or dm me so I can see?) But, um, yeah, onto the chapter!

TW/CW: guns, gunshot wounds, blood, emergency first aid, sort of medical whump, emotional angst

“Hell of a day, wasn’t it!” Thomas exclaimed as he pulled out of the gate.

Khaled only offered a noncommittal hum from the passenger seat.

“Least it’s over now,” the older man huffed. He picked up the speed as they entered one of the main roads, far away from the residential side of the city. He punched a few buttons on his dash, tossing the phone to his passenger. “Make sure my phone is connected.”

“It is,” Khaled answered. The sound of late nineties punk rock soon blared through the speakers and competed with the faint clicking sound of the blinker as they rolled to a stop at a red light. 

“So, you ready to go to the gym tonight and do our usual routines before we settle in?”

“Sorry, but I kind of just want to go home tonight, Master,” Khaled murmured. He’d been in a bit of an emotional slump all day, and the last thing he wanted to do that evening was to end the day with a run on the treadmill.

“What, are you sick or something?” Khaled didn’t respond. Inexplicably, Thomas changed his tone. “Fine, I’ll drop you off at home, then I’ll go by myself,” he sighed.

The light eventually turned green. The car rushed forward and gained speed as it merged onto the highway. Khaled zoned out, leaning his head against the window as he watched the other cars zip by. A motorcycle weaved in and out of traffic lanes. He felt a pang of nostalgia in his heart, though he wasn’t sure why. A brief murmur from the driver’s seat about how they needed to stop for gas barely scratched the surface of his consciousness. He was still hung up on that motorcycle.

They pulled into a gas station just outside the downtown area. Khaled felt the car parking and heard the door opening as his master stepped out to fuel up the car. He’d been dissociating a lot more since The Incident, taking refuge in his own mind and hiding from the world. His master had been keeping his distance since then, too. In those few times where he didn’t visit a whorehouse since The Incident, he would take his time with Khaled and fuck him much slower and more carefully than what either of them were used to. Whether it be out of guilt or genuine penitence remained to be seen, but this time, he knew better than to ask. This was just the new normal, now.

The unmistakable sound of a shot ripped through his inner thoughts. A heavy thump onto the ground soon followed. Khaled’s head whipped around; his master was not outside the car. He unbuckled the seatbelt and opened the car door with a shaky hand as he let himself out. “Sir?” He slowly made his way around the car, heart pounding in his ears and dread coiling in his stomach as he looked down between the car and the gas pump.

Khaled would never forget that sight as long as he lived. There lay his master, face up on the ground, with a telltale bullet hole in his chest that steadily seeped blood around the entry wound. Khaled’s tall foreboding owner, the man who once seemed impossibly invincible, now lay wounded (dying?) in front of a gas station pump.

“K-Khaled?” a voice weakly called from below.

The young man stood frozen, staring down at the man below him.

“Get my phone…call the ambulance…” Thomas huffed through ragged breaths.

He thought he could hear other voices –a crowd forming. Though, honestly, he could barely hear anything above the pounding of his heart and the mess of thoughts and feelings within his head.

“Khaled!”

It’s finally happening, he thought with delight in his mind before immediately switching to guilt and horror that he was cheering over someone’s demise. He’s finally –but wait, if he dies, then …I’ll be free, he realized.

“Can you hear me, boy?”

A bystander rushed over, kneeling next to the mob boss to check on him, but he stubbornly waved them away, pushing himself up from where he fell, wincing as he left behind a puddle of blood on the ground.

I’ll be… free, Khaled realized. Freedom hadn’t felt this attainable for him since he was a child on his third or fourth escape attempt, with every running footfall charged with hope that maybe this time it would work.

Hope. He’d forgotten how good it felt. I’ll be free …

…but, then what?

“Get my phone –now!” Thomas slipped, losing balance on the arm he had propped himself up on to fall back into his pool of blood. He swatted away the helping hand of the stranger who had come to check on him.

He’s given me everything, Khaled remembered. The roof over my head, the clothes on my back, the food in my belly. And if he dies, would all of that just be…taken away…? The weight of that realization combined with the increasing attention they were getting from an ever-growing crowd to exert a pressure on Khaled like he’d never felt before.

“Khaled! For Christ’s sakes,” Thomas yelled, gasping in pain. “Phone! Now!”

His body moved before the rest of his thoughts could catch up, opening the car door and retrieving the boss’ cellphone. He gripped it with a shaking hand and a sweaty palm as he crouched down next to his master and handed him the phone. The man took it between bloodied fingers and punched in his passcode with great difficulty as he huffed in annoyance and pain. There was no need for him to be calling 911 on himself, because at least three other people in the crowd had their phones out and up to their ears, presumably doing the same thing.

Before Khaled could ask what to do next, the good Samaritan next to them said, “Sit him up, and check his back for an exit wound!” Thomas groaned as they hauled him up into a sitting position.  “If it came out the other end, that’s good. If it didn’t then-” A hole about the size of a table grape gaped through the back of the expensive suit jacket, dripping with blood and raw flesh from within.

A wave of nausea hit Khaled as he propped his master up against the gas pump. “It-It’s out, ma’am,” he confirmed.

“Great, okay, yeah. Now, get his handkerchief out of his pocket, and use it to stem the bleeding,” the bystander instructed. “Don’t be afraid to stick it in there.”

The boss' face writhed in discomfort as Khaled dabbed around the bullet wound. Tortured groans escaped clenched teeth as Khaled packed the blood-wicking cloth into the wound, but the stranger patted his back and cradled his master’s head against her chest as she whispered reassurances into his ear. “Just like that, you’re doing great, kid!” The peal of sirens was coming closer, which meant help was on the way soon. Khaled meanwhile, sat back on his heels, nervously chewing his lip as he tried to make sense of why he was helping his abuser. When the EMTs finally loaded the man into the back of the ambulance to take them to the hospital, he was no closer to finding an answer.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unexpected 29

Sequel to Unsolicited

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, car sex, Lloyd being the worst, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

“Marion Lloyd Hansen,” Dottie stops before her son, “I can’t believe you. You leave for darn near a month and you come back looking like a hog’s ass.”

“Ma, I’m sorry, I had to work–”

“Had to work, you got a wife and a baby on the way. You got her all alone here, doing all the work by herself,” she wags her finger at him, nearly scratching his nose with her acrylic, “You ain’t leavin’ again, me and your father got a life to go back to. Marcia said she’s done chasin’ around chickens.”

“Ma, I know and I really am sorry.”

“Don’t apologise to me, you keep apologisin’ to that lady,” she flicks her finger in your direction, “she matters the most right now. And the little one.”

“Ma,” Lloyd slides forward, hugging his ribs as he grunts and stands, leaning to his left, “I’m gonna do everything I can to take care of my daughter, alright?”

“You bet– daughter?” She chokes on her anger, “daughter? Since when did we know this? A girl?”

“Yeah, ma, a girl,” Lloyd grins, “I thought she would’ve broke the news to you.”

“I…I’m sorry,” you add guiltily, balance a bowl of ice cream on your belly as you eat lazily, “I guess I didn’t know how.”

“I’m having a granddaughter!” Dotty grabs Lloyd’s face between her hands and forces him to bend, “by golly!” She kisses him on the mouth with a loud pop, “oh, I better get to knitting then– oh and your daddy and I are already packed. Have been for days, you silly boy.”

She taps his cheek and turns to you, “congratulations, puddin’, I just–” she claps her hands together, “I’m so happy for y’all. Oh, Harlan is gonna lose his mind.”

She titters out as you carve out a bite of mint chip and Lloyd falls back beside you, a loud groan as he holds his shoulder. He whimpers and leans on you, “what flavour?”

“None of your concern, you can’t have none.”

“Is that… pistachio?” He curls his lip.

“Uh, no, gross.”

“Mint chip?” He guesses.

“My fave.”

“That can’t be your favourite.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s… boring.”

“Well, Marion, you knew I was boring from the start.”

“No, your life was boring,” he winks, “I saved you from that.”

“Pfft, saved,” you shove the spoon in your mouth and roll your eyes. Is that really what he believes?

💎

The house is quiet. It has been of late, even when Dottie and Harlan were still around. You suppose you notice because of him. Because usually when Lloyd is there, it’s anything but.

After a struggle, you’ve migrated to the bed. You hadn’t intended on sticking with him but you’re too tired to go back downstairs and do your usual hour on the treadmill. Even on the lowest setting.

You unstrap the belt and get in next to him as he lays on his back. He grazes his fingers along his stubble and growls. You sit and grab your tablet, thinking of beating your high score. You lean against the headboard as he keeps his eyes shut, slow breaths in and out.

When was it ever this peaceful with the jackass in the house? You don’t trust it. You don’t like the calm because you know it will eventually break.

There’s a tickle on your thigh. His knuckles brush along your skin and his fingertips catch on the loose fabric of your shorts. You click your tongue and focus on the tablet. You’re almost at number one in the tournament.

He pinches the cotton and tugs. You peer over as the victory window pops up with confetti. He watches you with a dimple in his cheek. You squint at him as you feel the heat crawl up the back of your neck.

“Peaches, do you realise, if I wasn’t beat to hell, I’d fuck the life out of you?”

You can’t help but snort. He is the least romantic idiot you know, but still the biggest idiot. You sigh and put the tablet on the night table. You catch his hand and pull it away from your shorts.

“Really?” He gripes.

“Lloyd, we’re both not in the shape for this–”

“You are exactly the shape I want,” he wrestles his hand away from you and puts it on your belly, “I know you like having control, baby, and it’s your perfect opportunity to inflict a bit of pain on daddy. Just like you always wanted.”

You consider him, the tickle that lingers in your leg, the warmth of his palm against your stomach, how he rubs you through your shirt, fingers circling along the fabric. You can never tell if he’s lying but you hardly care now. Don’t think.

You move his hand off your stomach. He watches, an air of disappointment as you rest his hand beside him. You sit forward and tug the back of your shirt up over your head. You swipe it away and turn your legs over the edge. You bounce yourself up to your feet and turn to face the bed.

As you slide your thumbs beneath the elastic, you look at him. He has that dumb, smug expression. You pause.

“Don’t smirk at me like that.”

“I can’t help it,” he tries to straighten his lips, “I… want you so bad.”

You take a breath and push your shorts down. You tear your eyes away. Exposed, naked, swollen. You don’t know how to feel. He says he wants you and there you are, breasts heavy and low, stomach round and rippled with stretch marks.

“Come here, peaches,” he lifts his hand over his crotch, “I’m fucking hurting more than ever.”

You push your knee onto the bed, then the other. You crawl over to him as he struggles to push down his loose pajamas. You help guide them down far enough to free him. He dick bobs up in anticipation. He might not be lying, it sure looks like he wants you.

“Sweet peach, let me warm you up first,” he purrs as he caresses your arm and you look up as he wets his lips, “have a seat.”

“No, I don’t need it,” you wrap your fingers around him, stroking his length as you bring yourself over him.

You straddle him, rubbing his tip along your folds, your arousal spreading with the friction. You drag him back to your entrance and ease down onto him, inch by inch. You hang your head back and let your voice drone out of your lungs.

You bottom out and drop your head forward, planting your hands on his chest. He grunt and lets out a measly whimper. You tilt your hips and let a moan roll up your throat. Fuck. You missed this. Missed the chance to not think. To not feel more than your body.

He whines, a mixture of pain and pleasure, his hand shaking against your thigh. His other feels along your cunt and he finds your clit, swirling over it as you rock against him. You heave as your thighs burn, muscles aching, arm trembling as you build your motion.

“Ah, peaches,” he hisses and clenches his jaw, “fuck that hurts so good.”

You slam your ass down as your legs give out. You move your hips as you drag your nails down his stomach and lean back. You grab onto your calves, supporting yourself as you move your pelvis steadily. He runs his hand over your belly and stretches it along your side, flicking your bud with each thrust.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you puff as you chase the peak, “fuck.

“Yeah, that good baby, that good? You been waiting for this? I know the fuck I have,” he groans, “go on and give daddy a choke, baby.”

You huff and shake your head. He purrs and grabs your hand, leading it up to his neck, urging you on as he keeps his fingers working on your clit. You cry out as the pressure blooms, pulsing deeper and deeper, as you squeeze his throat.

“Just like that,” Lloyd gurgles, “fuck, peaches, you still got it.”

[sideroachblog]

Leg Day

Crossposted from my Ao3 since I finally made a blog for mature fic--been up for a while, you might have read it already!

~5.5k words of 09 soaproach

Summary:

Roach was frustrated--he'd kill for a little privacy at the barracks gym, but his captain didn't seem to be going anywhere anytime soon. At least they were the only two around so late at night.

NSFW 18+ MDNI: handjobs, dry humping, blowjobs, face fucking, exhibitionism. Captain Soap gets a little mean with his poor Sergeant <3

~~

It was late in the evening as Roach rounded the corner to the barracks gym. Usually the double fire doors at the end of the hall had pitch black windows this time of night, devoid of activity, not a single soldier crazy enough to bust their ass after sweltering day shifts and PT. If you asked Roach, this was the optimal time—with no one nearby to see, he felt free to work out without his gaiter. It was easier to breathe without the fabric, without the eyes of other gym-goers.

Today, however, yellow fluorescent lights revealed movement through the glass. As the sergeant approached, cursing the inconvenience, he got a better idea of what was happening inside. There was one silhouette at a station, currently bench pressing an impressive amount of plates along the center aisle. Towel and canteen in hand, Roach leaned his hip into the door’s push bar and slipped through to join them. The room was on the smaller side, square and somewhere around fifty paces each way. A high drop ceiling was put in with acoustic tiles to absorb the clangs and bangs of obnoxious meatheads, although it never seemed to work.

Of course, Captain Soap was the mysterious soldier putting in the overtime; how else would he have acquired biceps big enough to hide a gallon jug behind when he flexed? At least it was a fellow member of the 141 and not some other rookie, or worse: a captain Roach didn’t recognize. Ever observant, Soap noticed him despite his earbuds blasting unintelligible sound, greeting him with a nod and a smile. Cursing more, Roach realized he forgot his own headphones.

But he returned the gesture, stretched, and decided to start with cardio. He loathed cardio, usually running last so he could immediately shower and sleep, but he wanted to put distance between the captain and himself, meaning he had to use whatever equipment was jammed in the furthest corner. Unfortunately, these were the treadmills. At least they were blocked from Soap’s line-of-sight by a mirrored wall.

After fifteen minutes of that torture to get his heart pumping, Roach moved on to arm-curls in the corner behind his captain. He’d only wanted to work his legs that day, but the coveted leg press was catty-corner across the aisle from Soap, who seemed determined to work every damn muscle in his arms. Once sufficiently jellied, Roach’s own arms needed a rest. Anything working his chest would also work them, so that left two options: legs or abs.

Abs it was.

After that, Roach had no choice but to work his chest, as Soap still commandeered the same bench nearly thirty minutes later. Who knew there were so many different exercises a man could do on a single machine? How many fucking reps was the maniac doing?

Roach was ready to give up at this point. He guzzled his water behind the mirrored wall, grabbed a wipe to clean his machine, then prepared to turn in for the night, sore and upset that he hadn’t accomplished his goal. But, as luck would have it, there echoed the telltale sound of weights being racked. Then the captain peaked around the wall to nick a sanitizing wipe, disappeared for a minute, reappeared to trash it, and left the gym entirely. The boom of the massive fire door reverberated off the cinderblock walls. Fucking finally, Roach could use the leg press. He settled in, set the pin in the weights, and started his exercise, happily unmasked all by his lonesome.

He was so in-the-zone that he nearly missed when the door slammed again, if it weren’t for movement in the corner of his eye.

It was none other than that motherfucker MacTavish. Maybe it would have been better if the silhouette was a rookie; Roach had the authority to tell them to pound sand. Was this anger unwarranted? Absolutely. The gym was a communal space. But on base it so frequently felt like privacy was a luxury he’d never taste again, and now he had to put his gaiter back on—not before taking another swig of water.

Surely the captain would busy himself on farther equipment, no? Surely he wouldn’t lie down at that same goddamn bench?

No, of course he wouldn’t. Instead, Soap secured plates onto another barbell and sat down in front of a bench parallel to the aisle, directly across from the sergeant. They faced each other. His knees bent at a forty-five into the air, holding the bar in place across his lap, broad shoulders resting against the bench as he reclined. Soap made eye contact and gave a friendly wave, reminding Roach that his desires were completely unreasonable.

Roach checked the clock. It was only midnight and his next shift was night duty nearly eighteen hours later. There was no rush, nor was his leg day anywhere close to when he would normally call it quits. He briefly wondered what Soap was doing up so late, then decided to fall back into his routine.

He tried to zone out. That’s what Soap busied himself with, staring at the ceiling over Roach’s head as his music rumbled in his ears, planting his feet and thrusting the barbell into the air with his hips.

Bloody hell; how much weight was that? From that distance it looked like a fifty-five, a thirty-five, and a ten plate on each side, two-hundred total. About Roach’s size, and Soap did it with ease.

As the end of Roach’s set crept up his cheeks flushed with exertion. He huffed with every leg press trying to reach ‘twenty,’ having already lost count after ten and restarted.

Soap paused, popped out an earbud, then got back to it. “You can take it off, ye know.” His voice echoed like everything else, sounding Scottish from all directions.

It was an excuse to rest on eighteen reps. Roach signed, ‘What?’

“The mask. You and that damn LT, you’re both crazy; sounds like you’re struggling to breathe in that fookin’ thing. I won’t look if you do. Pinkie swear.”

He shook his head ‘no’ and watched his superior work, who grunted under his breath as he powered through a set. The captain was a man in the prime of his life: a force to be reckoned with, trained to make good, physical use of his body, and god did he use it. Took care of it, too—ate as well as he could considering what the cafeteria provided, gave his all during PT, and, apparently, stayed late to put in extra hours at the gym. In everything Soap did he gave 110 percent, and that passion earned him the merciless power, the unapologetic vitality, the sheer sculpted bulk that aided his prowess on the battlefield.

Roach was in awe of him in his element. Soap’s toned calves tensed with each hip thrust, well defined as their muscles swelled then quickly tapered towards his knees. They were covered in dark hair that thinned before disappearing below loose, red athletic shorts. The polyester left little to Roach’s imagination, draped overtop his thighs, outlining their firm muscles that arced gently to his V-line. His thighs were thick as they connected to his pelvis, sturdy, a single one easily wider than Roach’s head. Above the elastic of Soap’s shorts his fuzz returned fiercely, trailing to his bellybutton where the barbell pushed up his sweaty, grey t-shirt. Under the healthy cushion of pudge on his tummy tensed mighty abdominals, flexing and exerting their will on the iron bar without remorse. His arms were taught holding it in place, narrowing down to his wrists before his hand interrupted its smooth line with the square jut of its thumb; veins webbed over the back of his hand, sinking into the flesh before reaching his knuckles. A thin layer of sweat coated his skin, reflecting light when it wasn’t absorbed by damp body hair.

Roach was still winded from his set and embarrassed about it. Luckily, the footrest of the leg press machine angled up enough for him to hide behind—enough to hide the half-hard cock in his own boxers that his skivvies did little to conceal.

Soap huffed as he exerted himself, saying, “Suit yourself. Maybe I’ll stare, then, since you don’t seem to have a problem doing it.”

By the way he laughed it was obviously a joke, but Roach’s eyes shot open wide and his ears flushed pink. The captain caught him ogling and didn’t even know, sitting there with dimples framing his stupid grin and crinkly crow’s feet.

Soap stopped and relaxed to the floor the way he had before his set. His wide ribcage flared with every inhale; one of his hands ventured under his shirt to scratch an itch. The cloth caught on his wrist, pulling it up and exposing more of his empyreal chest until Roach nearly saw the crease underlining his pectorals.

Roach felt faint. ‘Just watching your form,’ he rushed, lying, ‘Whenever I do that exercise it hurts. I think I do it wrong.’

“Woah, slow down! I can’t understand a word you’re sayin’ tae me. I’m not as good at reading sign as you are at rambling it.”

Right. Roach’s signs got sloppy when he was embarrassed.

‘Never mind.’

Soap asked, “Naw, don't be like that. Something about form, was it? Was that the sign for ‘hurt?’ Did ye need some help over there?”

Roach shook his head and cut his fingers flat through the air in front of his neck to stress how little he wanted that. With the way his brows shot in the air he wished he had his goggles, but at least everything below was hidden.

Soap was already up. He racked the barbell and crossed the room, steps squeaking on waxed linoleum. “A good captain has to help his crew, aye? I can’t leave you hanging!”

Roach snatched his canteen off the floor to hold in his lap, suddenly glaring at his trainers on the footrest.

Soap approached his left side, boxing him into the machine since the weight rack blocked his right. He exclaimed, “Jesus, you’re really getting into it over here. Go on, then; show me whatcha got.”

It made Roach flush even harder. Hesitantly, he dropped the canteen and got into position, starting another set of presses.

“I can’t see much wrong with your form. What’s hurting?”

His dick in his pants as the fabric rubbed it. Roach replied, ‘my back.’

The captain looked puzzled. Humid heat radiated from his body, carrying the masculine scent of power. “Hm. Maybe its your shoulders? Quit hunching ‘em,” he ordered, planting his strong hands on either side of Roach’s head and forcing him back against the chair.

Holy fuck, was that the only time Roach ever felt glad to have lost his voice. A pulse of energy bolted down through his abdomen, eliciting a moan from his throat; luckily, the actual noise was light and airy without the vibration of his vocal chords, easily mistaken for normal exercise-induced sounds.

“Oh, sorry, did I hurt ya?” Soap asked, leaning over him.

Roach shook his head no, only looking him in the eye to distract him from the prominent tent now rising in his pants.

“Feel good, then?”

He nodded.

“Try a set like that,” the captain commanded. He backed off to examine Roach in his entirety.

Did he try to cover his boner with his hands? Or would that draw attention? He’d usually relax his arms at his sides. Maybe Soap wouldn’t notice, or, if he did, he’d write it off as a consequence of how hard weight lifting worked up the body. Roach left his arms at his sides and got to exercising.

“Beautiful,” Soap admired. “Good lad.”

Fuck.

“How much weight have you got on there? Two-fifty? Yer a big boy, add that next weight! Let me see what you can do.”

To add it, Roach would have to twist to the side. Would that draw attention to his… growing problem?

Soap smiled. His canines were sharp, off-white, a little crooked. He patted Roach on the shoulder, saying, “Don’t be shy, now. Show off for me. Take some pride in yourself!”

Roach’s cock throbbed. Weight added, he started another set. It was harder—his legs shook from the extra effort required. Glancing down, he saw a wet spot where pre-cum soaked through the cotton of his skivvies.

“Lovely, look how great you’re doing.”

Roach faltered, stopping dead in his tracks. The praising tone in Soap’s voice struck him as most certainly un-captainlike.

“Ah, come on, sergeant, don’t stop! You’re killin’ me! Keep those shoulders back.” His hot, rough hands forced Roach back against the chair, lingering firmly, pinning him there. “You can do more for me. More than ten leg presses.”

That stupid smile still plastered across his face, but his dimples disappeared as it failed to reach his eyes. His head tilted down, staring at Roach’s face, then glancing down into the gap between their chests.

Roach pressed his thighs together in an effort to hide his arousal. He was panting at this point. His heart pounded in his throat, body stunned stock-still from being overpowered.

Soap thinned his lips. “I think I know your problem. Take that fookin’ mask off, Sergeant, before ye overheat. That’s an order.”

Roach couldn’t move for fear Soap would realize what he did to him.

Soap noticed the look in his eye. “Here, let me get it for you,” he said. It was a warning that it would happen, not a request for permission as two of his thick fingers hooked the edge of Roach’s gaiter and rested against the sergeant’s cheek; yet he bluffed. Soap asked nonverbally, waiting for Roach to call it, waiting for him to nod his head ‘yes’ before ripping it down.

“Good lad. Look at you—all stubbly. You’ve been wearin’ this tae hide when you skip a trim.” He chuckled and dragged the middle knuckle of his fingers along Roach’s jawline towards his ear. “I could write you up.”

Roach fidgeted under the attention. His face was cold now, and he felt dirty—Soap didn’t know what he was doing. He accused, ‘You’re bitching just to bitch. You don’t shave.’

They both knew it. None of the 141 followed that regulation—they were too valuable to replace.

“Yeah? And what are you gonna do? Write up your captain?”

‘Hypocrite.’

“Mhm. Never said I wasn’t.”

‘Gaz has a goatee,’ Roach protested.

Soap smirked and looked coolly to his left and right, showcasing the luxurious beard that grew scruffy since its last cut. “Is Gaz here?”

Roach shook his head.

“How do you expect me tae bitch at a man who’s not here?”

‘You can’t.’

“Mm. You’re the only one I can discipline ‘cause you’re the only one around.”

Discipline. Roach’s cock throbbed again and his whole body shivered, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling, but he snapped them open. Soap still loomed over him; he wasn’t dreaming.

“Add another plate. You can do it, Roach. Quit holdin’ out on me. One more.”

Realizing his mouth was slack, Roach grinned. ‘Say please,’ he signed, trying to joke and distract himself from the heat in his belly.

Soap leaned in, breath hot on Roach’s skin, making his stomach flip as he wondered if the man had ulterior motives.

No. Surely not. Roach was horny and reading into things.

“Now, sergeant,” he commanded.

‘Say it.’

The captain’s face dropped to a serious glare. He growled, “I think you’re confused on how things work around here. You listen to me.” Then he reached across Roach's midsection to move the weight pin down another notch.

His forearm brushed the tip of Roach’s dick.

The sergeant moaned softly again, still trying to conceal it, hands shooting up to cover his face. His heart dropped in his chest at the anticipated fallout and he hunched to make himself smaller. He longed to feel his captain pressed against him, grabbing his waist and using him mercilessly like that fucking barbell, not satisfied until Soap’s fingertips pushed purple bruises into the skin on his hipbones.

And now the cat was out of the bag.

But instead of deescalating, pulling away and awkwardly running out of the gym, Soap grabbed ahold of one of Roach’s wrists. His grasp was strong enough to dominate the sergeant physically yet gentle enough for Roach to escape if he wanted to, waiting for the sergeant to reveal himself rather than forcing his hands down. Then, Soap… chuckled? His voice rolled dark and low.

Roach peeked between his fingers. Soap towered over him, one corner of his mouth raised in a slight smile like the Mona Lisa, pupils dilated like a shark tracing blood.

“Don’t hide from your superior. This isn’t the first time I've caught you staring.”

Roach didn’t reply. He couldn’t reply without exposing his humiliated face.

Soap waited a moment before releasing his grip, pulling away from his subordinate. His left forearm rested alongside Roach’s head on the headrest, fingers tugging softly his hair. “Don’t worry, lad. I like the attention.”

Roach peeked upward.

“It’s quite flattering, if I’m honest. I can tell what you’re thinkin’ when the tips of your ears go all pink.”

Holy fuck. Roach had to be dreaming. Any second now he’d wake up on the ground after falling off the treadmill.

He built up the courage to scan the man’s face.

It had relaxed, Soap now watching his fingers toy with his sergeant’s dark curls. He said, “I can leave you be, if you want. If I’m seein’ signs that aren’t there and I’m comin’ on too strong. Say no and I’m out of here, no-questions-asked, no hard feelings on my part.”

Roach considered moving his hands to sign all the carnal things he desired from his captain, paralyzed by shyness.

Then the captain went to stand up, removing his forearm from where he leaned which left a cold, empty void. An apology had only half-escaped his lips when Roach snatched the collar of his shirt to halt him from leaving

“Oh? You want me tae keep goin,’ then?”

Roach nodded and turned his head to the side so he couldn’t see Soap seeing him.

“Just bashful, aye?”

He nodded once more.

“Say it. Tell me you want me to stay.”

Releasing the man’s crumpled collar, Roach signed, ‘Stay.’

Soap cursed and reinvaded his personal space. “Tell me what else you want.”

Roach considered all the various ways he imagined Soap fucking him senseless until he was a shaking, drooling mess. It was too much. ‘You.’

“Say please.”

Without the use of his vocal chords Roach was able to whisper, “Please, sir.”

And that was all it took. In a flash Soap mounted the leg press, straddling Roach with a knee on either side of his thighs. Leaning forward, he grabbed the sergeant by the jaw; however, he did not force his head to turn. No, Soap held him there looking away, held his neck exposed.

He shivered when the captain’s lips found his clavicle, kissing him softly while the man’s other hand gripped the top of the headrest, bearing down onto a forearm like before. Soap contained Roach with his hulking frame, its shadow eclipsing the fluorescent lights. The kisses ramped up in intensity as Soap sucked a hickey into his flesh, then graduated to licks and love-bites, hunting for the types of touch that made him squirm most. At first, Roach held onto Soap's upper arms for dear life, then eased into the attention, trailing fingertips down the captain’s firm lats once he felt comfortable enough to give more.

Soap’s mouth took a meandering path across Roach’s throat, pausing to focus on his Adam’s apple; doubling back into the crook of his neck, pulling his shirt collar aside to reach it; then following one of the muscles that made a ‘V’ with his sternum up until it connected behind his jawbone. Careful not to leave any visible marks, Soap planted kisses just below Roach’s ear, moaning when the sergeant dragged nails down his sides.

Roach breathed another needy whisper and gripped Soap’s mohawk to lock his head in place.

Soap shivered at the touch, turning over like an engine. Between hickeys he breathed, “Fuck, I love to hear you. I’ve needed to hear you like this for so long.”

Needed.

Roach bucked his hips up to grind on his captain. It was everything he ever wanted, feeling his cock rub Soap’s abdomen, pressing into soft chub that yielded before those hard abs beneath it resisted his force. The captain's dick was also hard—sliding against the side of his own through thin layers of athletic wear, yearning for the same sensation from Roach’s body. As they fused, the movement rocked the seat of the machine on its rails.

Moaning, Soap removed the hand from Roach’s jaw to push the man's pelvis back onto the cushion with the heel of his palm, thrusting downward to continue the friction. “God, you’re bein’ so good for me.”

Roach threw his elbow over his eyes, high enough to peek under it and see the man rocking into him. Soap’s face was pink, mouth agape, watching the way Roach fought his hand to buck his hips in pursuit of stimulation. Soap’s powerful grinding made the effort futile, yet still he persisted. The man glanced up to meet his gaze, only for Roach to lower his elbow and block it.

“I’ve wanted this ever since I heard you whisper my name in the showers,” Soap growled.

Oh, fuck.

That had been another night similar to this one: Roach worked out at the gym, frustrated, alone in the wee hours of the morning before a night shift. No one was in the showers, either; he saw no harm in releasing his pent-up tensions in the warm, steamy stall. As he palmed himself his thoughts inevitably wandered to his superior, bringing him closer and closer to the edge until his legs buckled as he finished, nearly falling to his knees at the thought of being throat-fucked.

“I don’t think you heard me come in ‘cause of the water; unless you wanted tae show off for someone, you naughty whore.”

Roach’s breath hitched.

Soap pulled aside Roach’s collar again to suck a hickey into his skin, flesh tingling as it bruised like a peach. The gym air was cool where the cloth no longer covered, and the sergeant whined as each excited breath he took pressed his pectoral up into his captain’s warm lips. Once satisfied with his work Soap released his collar, tucking their little secret away.

“I’d never heard ye before. Didn’t know who was whispering at first ‘til I saw your bag oan the hook. Know how hard it was to hear your sweet self when the water was loud enough tae hide my noisy ass? But I hung off every word ye said, beggin’ me tae use you like a fucktoy,” Soap said. Then he receded, sitting back on his haunches to take in the sight of the sergeant he pinned. Roach wanted to reach after him, to yank him back, but he hid behind his hands. The captain dismounted entirely, grabbing Roach by the wrist again to pull him up straight.

“Flip around,” he commanded. “Put your back oan the footrest. I’ll give you what you want. I’ll use you as I see fit. I own you, sergeant.”

“Yes, sir!” Roach whispered. Then he did as he was told, after donning the gaiter to regain use of his hands. He shook with excitement knowing the arousal was mutual, still not fully convinced he wasn’t concussed and hallucinating on the floor behind a treadmill.

Ass now resting on the stopper at the end of the rail, his legs spread off to either side of the machine, eagerly awaiting MacTavish’s next move.

“Good boy,” Soap said, running his fingers through Roach’s hair. He sent tingling shivers down Roach’s spine as he dug in with his nails. His other hand cupped Roach’s cheek.

‘What next?’ The sergeant signed, leaning into the touch. He felt miniscule on the ground, waiting patiently for directions despite how eager he was to touch.

“Aw, listen to ye. Always ready to follow your captain’s command; what a good boy!”

Roach melted, all that heat sinking right to his cock.

Suddenly, Soap’s hand shifted to his throat, tightening around it and jostling him. He said, “Next, I take that goddamn mask back off you, ‘cause good soldiers don’t disobey and hide from me. I should tie your—” He shut his mouth when Roach stared up in terrific fear, then gasped, “Fuck, you’re hot when you’re pathetic. Better breathe while you still can, bitch!”

Roach held Soap’s wrist on instinct, dizzy as he pondered what the threat meant. He didn’t wonder long—the captain removed his hand from Roach’s neck, shoved it into his shorts, and pulled his dick over the elastic band. It was a pleasant length, uncircumcised, and thick enough to make Roach second-guess his life choices as he stared down the barrel of a loaded gun. Pre-cum beaded at the tip ready to drizzle like honey, the sight of which already tied his stomach in knots. The shaft of Soap’s cock was a few shades darker than the rest of his skin, as hard as it could ever be yet heavy enough to curve downward under its own mass. Its base disappeared into thick waves of brown fluff. The sergeant barely had time to see anything in detail before Soap took a fistful of his hair to force his skull back against the footrest, the other hand swiping his gaiter down—he cursed in frustration, releasing Roach’s head just long enough to grab on either side of the garment’s seam and rip it apart.

Roach shielded his eyes in his elbow as Soap resumed pinning his head back. It was hot, having someone want him so badly they'd do anything to see him, but he was too damn shy. The blush crept down his neck.

His superior growled, “One of these days you'll let me watch that beautiful face while I destroy you. I want to see what you look like when you’re so over-fucked it makes you cry.”

His rough words elicited a gasp from Roach, an opportunity to shove his dick in the sergeant’s mouth, taking him by surprise. Soap eased into it, groaning as the tip pressed against Roach’s tongue, rocking his hips. To keep from choking Roach braced himself on Soap’s thigh.

Once his length was slick with spit the captain stopped being so conservative in the force behind his thrusts, fucking further into his toy, reaching halfway, then three-quarters, then finally balls-deep as he tilted Roach’s chin up to make him take it all. His heavy balls hit the sergeant’s chin as he used his mouth, and he hooked one arm over the footrest in order to buck harder into his prey.

Roach moaned around the dick wrenching his jaw open, swirling the tip with his tongue. It tasted of salt and skin and sweat, filling his mouth with a mixture of drool and pre-cum that spilled from his lips, dangling down in sticky ropes that soaked into his shirt. His face flushed as he struggled to get enough oxygen.

Between his own desperate breaths, Soap showered him with praise. “Where’d you learn to take it like this, m’eudail? Holy fuck, you feel so good. And you haven’t even choked—so well trained, like a goddamn dog. Is that what you are? Your captain's little bitch?”

Roach was enamored with the attention, enraptured by the man’s words, yet found it unfamiliar to the point it nearly became too much.

Soap so-graciously pulled out to give him a break. He made the most of it, panting, knowing that the mercy was short-lived. He was correct; barely ten seconds passed by the time Soap couldn’t contain himself any longer, burying his cock to the hilt in one thrust as he resumed fucking Roach’s throat, pinning the sergeant’s head between his abdominals and the machine.

Soap moaned between labored sighs as he neared climax. “Take it, baby! Oh, fuck, take it all.”

It wasn’t long until Soap let go of the machine to sink both hands into Roach’s hair, gripping the locks for dear life as he held the man’s head down as far as possible. His cock throbbed as it spilled cum down Roach’s throat, pulling out halfway as the sergeant struggled to take it. The rest filled Roach’s mouth, flowing across his tongue in hot bursts he had no choice but to swallow. Soap rocked his hips gently, riding out each wave of the orgasm as his legs quaked and his body doubled over around his fucktoy. He was silent, holding his breath, holding in noises they both knew would echo out the gym and far down the hall.

After about thirty seconds he pulled out completely, finally separating with a wet pop! as Roach sucked on the sensitive tip. His dick already began to soften, still dripping as it twitched from aftershocks. Roach caught his breath with pink cheeks and closed eyes, letting them open briefly as Soap put himself away and collapsed back onto the seat of the machine.

“Good boy,” Soap said. One of his large hands cupped Roach’s cheek, stuffing a thumb in his open mouth. “Wow, you swallowed all of that, huh? You’re such a slut for me.”

Roach hid his face in his hands again, throwing whatever dignity he had left out the window as he nodded in agreement. “Yes, sir,” he whispered. “Anything for you, sir.”

“Now, a good Captain never leaves his crew behind, does he?’

Roach shook his head, so excited he peered between fingers.

“What to do about you…” Soap mused.

His hands swooped up under the sergeant’s shirt, cupping his chest before sliding down his midsection. They slowed as they reached Roach’s V-line, teasingly, agonizingly inching down until Soap’s fingertips dipped below the waistband of his skivvies. His own dick still stood hard, covered in its own pre-cum. Soap toyed with its head, then curled his palm over the shaft so Roach could buck against the friction and fuck between his thumb and forefinger into his fist.

“You like that?” Soap asked.

Roach leaned forward to hide in the crook of Soap’s neck. The captain smelled of deodorant and his own natural scent. “Yes, sir.”

“Aye, of course you do. Look what a pathetic mess I make you.”

He shivered as Soap met him in the middle, stroking him off and wrapping an arm around his midsection to hold him tight. The captain’s triceps slotted in above his hipbone, forearm spanning wide across his back to where a rough hand rubbed a smooth, soothing arc. Under Soap's praise, under the urgent panting that puffed softly from Roach’s lungs, came the wet sounds of his own thrusts.

Into Soap’s ear he whispered, “Close, I’m close!”

His superior pulled back to catch him in a kiss, their parted lips alternating between locked together and an inch apart while they shared the same air, Soap doing his damnedest to hold Roach’s attention and watch his face as he finished. It was no use—after a parting love-bite, Roach rested his forehead back on Soap’s shoulder as his thrusts grew sloppy and disorganized until he finally came, shooting thick ropes onto the hem of his captain’s t-shirt. He bit back moans.

“You’re so goddamn hot,” Soap growled. “And you’re all mine. Don’t you forget it.”

“Yes, sir!” Roach moaned, the final tides of ecstasy retreating.

Suddenly, he became aware of how unbearably warm the room had become. Soap kissed him one last time, then peeled them apart. They were sweaty, sticky, and exhausted, supporting each other like two cards in a tower. Roach tucked himself back into his boxers, then wiped his spit-covered face on a dry part of Soap’s shirt. It made the man laugh. Roach would have used his own, were it not striped with sopping drool stains like a Jackson Pollock painting.

“Hit the shower, sergeant,” Soap commanded, pulling away, although adoration filled his voice.

Roach gave him a tired salute. He’d have the entire night shift to agonize over what this meant. For now, he needed to clean up, eat some protein, and head to bed.

[jordancallowayswife]

Khalil X Reader

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Summary: Based on the black lightning series. In short, you and khalil are bestfriends and attend high school together. One day, Khail makes a risky decision by asking you out. (Contains kiss scenes but nothing too explicit😭)

Requested: no

Imagine type: A y/n Story, oneshot

Characters: Y/n( insert your name), Keisha, Khalil a.ka Jordan Calloway, Jennifer,

Y/n pov:

As I checked my phone, I noticed the time was 7:30am and school starts at 8:00am. I got up and did my morning routine and quickly got dressed. I texted khalil and asked him to pick me up because I'd have no time to drive myself to school. I grabbed a granola bar along with my backpack and headed out of the door.

Text between y/n and khalil:

Khalil: y/n im here, come outside

Y/n: ok, on my way out now

I quickly responded to the message and walked to the car. "Yo wassup y/n" khail spoke. "Hey khalil how are you?" Y/n asked. "I'm doing good now that you're here" khalil responded flashing his beautiful smile at me. Trying to hide my smile, I turned away facing the window. I had been crushing on Khalil for some time now but I could never bring myself to tell him. After about 15 minutes, the car came to a complete stop. "We're here y/n" khalil said calmly. I grabbed my backpack from the backseat and prepared to get out of the car. "Thanks khalil" I told him. "No problem" he responded. We both got out of the car and gave each other a side hug and parted ways to go to our classes. As I was walking, I met up with my friends Keisha and Jennifer who snickered and gave me looks.

Jen pov: Me and Keisha watched as y/n got out of the car with khalil. "You think they like each other?" I asked Keisha smirking. "Most likely, y/n always blushes and acts shy around khalil" she responded. "I wouldn't be suprised if he was giving her that-" I cut Keisha off. "Heyyy now i think we've heard enough". Y/n came over to us and we greeted her with hugs. "Girl we seen you getting out of the car with khalil" Keisha said smiling. "You like him don't you?" I asked. "No... well maybe." Y/n said looking off to the side smiling. Just as I was about to speak, the bell rang for us to go to class. "Ooh come on before we be late" Keisha said pulling us both with her.

*time skip to after school*

Time: 3:30pm

Khalil pov: As i made my way to the gym, all I could think of was y/n. Her smile and beautiful eyes were the only thing on my mind. We became bestfriends as kids and are both 16 years old. I've had a crush on her for the longest but I never told her. Today will be the day I finally confess my love to her. I was the only one in the gym at the moment so, I took off my shirt and changed into my gym shorts and began to work on the treadmill.

Y/n pov: 30 minutes passed by as I walked to the gym to try and find khalil. I mean after all he was my ride home. As I walked through the gym doors I spotted khalil shirtless with sweat glistening on his body. "Hey y/n my bad I got a little caught up in my workout" khalil said. "You're fine khalil" i respondes. "Wait you think I'm fine?" Khalil said smirking. "I didn't mean like that" I said smiling. Who am I kidding I do think he's fine and sexy but he doesn't have to know that. "Can I talk to you about something?" Khalil asked nervously. "Yeah sure" I told him. We stood across from each other as I listened to him talk. "We've been bestfriends since we were six and over time I started having different feelings for you. Honestly I like everything about you and I'd love to have the opportunity to call you mine. So, with that being said will you be my girlfriend?" Khalil asked. "Yeah I'd like that" I said blushing and looking to the side. All of a sudden khalil came closer to me and moved my face back towards him so that we both made eye contact. As he held my face, he leaned in closer pecking my lips. I leaned closer and began to slowly kiss his lips. We both pulled away and headed to the car.

(Imagine its you and khalil at the top)

*timeskip*

"Thanks for dropping me off at home Khalil" I said. "No problem my princess" he responded. When I got in the house, I prepared for dinner and talked to khalil afterwards. We talked on the phone until we both decided to go to sleep.

-A/N( authors note) this is my first imagine I've written and I honestly enjoyed writing this 🥰if you want me to make a part two of this let me know in the comments. Excuse any errors and Thank you for reading!

[lovesick-chronicles]

I've been going to the gym for over a month now. I'd almost always see this one guy there while I jogged on the treadmill (there are three) and I never got a good look at his face because it would be weird if I just stared at him. Plus he'd probably be able to see me in his peripheral vision.

Anyway we both talked for the first time today, I actually got a good look at his face lol. He seems nice. Also he's really cute but I'm not gonna jinx it.

I remember one of the first times I saw him he was lifting weights and I must confess that I was kinda sorta maybe checking him out in the window reflection but like I said I never got a proper look till today and idk. It felt...nice.

Usually for some reason I'd feel weird about someone being in the same room as me when I work out, since I used to do that at home mostly until I got proper access to a gym. But with this guy I didn't even feel anything we were both in our own world with our headphones. Anyway, I forgot what it was like to yearn for someone pathetically.

[nickhembery]

Six month update on the Decision Time plan

Boy, things were going okay, right up until things fell off the rails.

I actually got four of the six things done.

I bought a food liquidiser. It’s a motor with three attachments, a whisk, a hand-held blender and a bowl for blending. They all go brrr. I successfully made soup and liquidised it for eating.

I bought a set of hair clippers, so I can cut my own hair. It takes a while and I actually need to use three different clippers to get it all even, so I don’t cut it very often. But I can do it myself and it looks okay.

I bought a treadmill. It was very Chinese. The instruction manual was in English but mentioned pairing the treadmill with WeChat, which you can’t get in the UK. At least I don’t think you can. Unfortunately, the treadmill didn’t work out. Being a cheap model, it wasn’t really designed to be used a lot (or maybe at all). To stop from falling apart very quickly, it switched itself off after 40 minutes of use. That’s a bit annoying when you want to walk for an hour straight so you know exactly how far you walked. So I sent it back. The 40-minute limit wasn’t mentioned in its listing or the manual, so at least I got a refund by calling it defective. I have not yet purchased a replacement.

Therapy was completed successfully. Sort of. How does one ‘complete’ therapy? By going to the therapist with only one problem and seeking to solve it. And I got half an answer. Basically, when people at work are stupid, I have to remind myself that I can’t force them to change, my job is to advise them and they are allowed to ignore me. Which is technically correct but also infuriating in its own way. That was accomplished in two sessions with the therapist. I have not spoken to them since.

Next up, certification. I found a well-respected course to do, looked through their website, did a practice piece and then priced up the course. £700. At least. The course is split over three modules, and each has two prices. One with membership to the site and one without. Naturally, the without membership is more expensive, and the cost of being a member is high. It works out cheaper to buy membership and do all three courses. And only marginally to try one course, buy membership then do the other two at a discount. All for a certificate, a line on my CV. I decided it wasn’t worth it.

So that leaves us with writing the book. That’s where things went properly sideways. At the start of the year, I had work at my house done that needed scaffolding. The work was done in a day. The scaffolding was up for a month and a half. I couldn’t open two of my windows, it blocked access around my house, it was an eyesore. It took many phone calls and emails to a) get someone to tell me what the problem was and b) get people out to actually take it away. But it was taken away, and I felt the stress leaving me and I was better, for a few hours. The same day, work announced that there were going to be redundancies, and was going to be one of them.

Getting told your company doesn’t want you around anymore is tough to take. That night I bought myself so comfort food, a box of grease in the form of a pizza. Then started a very long process. Because of the amount of people being made redundant, 40 from a pool of 80, from a company of ~200, they split up those facing redundancy into teams and asked for volunteers to represent each team. Because I’m a bit of a control freak, I volunteered. So for a month, twice a week, there would be meetings, questions, responses, write ups and spreading the news to my team. A lot of people were stressing out due to the selection process. When six people had the same job title and only two were being asked to go, you couldn’t just arbitrarily pick someone. There was a formal scoring process that had to be proposed, approved and carried out with plenty of oversight to ensure fairness. They were being stack racked by another name. I, meanwhile, wasn’t subject to scoring. I was a 1 of 1. The only proofreader in the company, so the only proofreader up for redundancy. Their plan was that at the end of the month, I would be gone... unless I came up with an alternative. So I wrote up a pitch and gave it to the HR. It was, basically, “you need me, here’s a list of crap that was written and everyone but me didn’t notice”. HR agreed that I was needed. Though, my utilisation was down. I spent a lot of time being paid to wait in case I was given something to do. So it was agreed that my hours would be reduced, I was going part time until things picked up again. Contract amendments were signed and I still had a job. Half a job, at least. At the end of the month, a lot of people were gone. Many of the 1 of 1s like me volunteered quick so they could look for a new job. In the two of six pools, various people volunteered, enough that no more people with those job titles needed to go, so that very little scoring needed to happen. In the end, only eight people had to be told to go. That’s the best thing you can say about it.

What happens when you’re switched to half-time hours? Well, you do two things. First, you try advertising yourself as a freelancer to fill the time (did you see my An Ad For Myself post?) The second is panic. The company had just been through a massive turmoil, everyone was feeling bad and I was now needing to get enough actual work in my part-time hours so as not to be made fully redundant. Yes, that was still an option. Which meant I was reliant on others in the company who were historically very bad at organising to be organised enough to give me things to do. I was freaking out. It took a few weeks, but things started picking up and things are looking up. I’m on a trajectory to get back to full-time hours in a little bit of time, another month or two.

But, all that was incredibly stressful. So stressful I haven’t done any writing for ages. I think I’m getting to the stage where I can again, soon. There’s still six months in the year. I could get the book done.

We’ll see.

[disasterghaster-moved]

Oscar Meyer has a first name.

I don’t bother to use the bench press anymore. The ghaster matter can move whatever weight it pleases–any weight I please. It’s not made of muscle fiber, tendons, and bone. It’s made of will and whatever it manages–what ever I manage–to put together.

I try not to think about it.

Instead, I focus on other parts of me. The parts still made of meat. Curls and squats and lunges and whatever else I can pressure myself into doing before the whole matter seems overwhelming when I feel constantly empty.

I manage a full set of excercises today. Something of an achievement. Usually I miss one or two sets. Or all of them.

I make it this time, though. Closing out on the specially designed treadmill. I don’t go as fast as I can. I’m not qualifying for the supernatural track and sprint or anything. I’m merely confident that I’m good at a full sustained run of 110 for twenty minutes before I start to sweat too much. Breathing too hard, too. An improper dismount jars my knees when I hop off to the side and come to such a sudden stop.

I end up sititng on the ground as the muscles in my legs burn. Maybe I really pushed it just then. Or I haven’t been drinking enough water. I rub my thumbs and palms along hamstring and calfs until they’re intermittently barking about the strain I put them through and my lungs no longer burn.

I take my time standing up and getting a towerl off the rail of the mil and due a little swipe of my face and back of my neck. Since I’m in the privacy of my gym in the expanded basement, I give the girls a quick dry off under my A-shirt.

Towel goes into a hamper when I pass it on my way back up the stairs to the main level of the house. By then, the juice the work-out soaks my brain with during fades out. The world goes back to feeling slightly sideways. Like everything is one of those crooked photo frames that never seems quite straight or level with the rest of the wall. Every day feels like that anymore.

I ignore the bit of jello feeling in my legs as I travel up the next flight to the second floor. Getting to my bedroom and ajoining bath before long. Something in my neck and shoulders droops as I pass into the sanctity of that space. It’s quiet there. Black out curtains are a bit ajar so the room is brighter than usual, but that’s alright. Cool fresh air breezes in through the open window and makes it feel less like a self-imposed tomb.

I leave the bathroom door open and flick the light on in there. It’s harsh in comparison to the rest of the lightning I keep in the house. I don’t always use it, usually just go by a nightlight plug into the socket next to the mirror and sink. But I need the light today. I want to cut my hair.

I got caught up looking at my reflection instead. I’m reminded of days where metal chafes at my throat and my wrists. I was thin then, too. With piano wire muscles strung tight along bones. I didn’t have so many lines on my face back then. Or much hair. Inky fingers, off black and almost gray, scratch through the couple inches growth on much of my damp scalp until they wander higher into much longer and darker hair at the top. Pulling tie out and tossing it into nearby basket that held the others I used.

That hair is long and reaches an inch or two past my shoulders. Tying it all the time makes it crimped in some places. I know it’s wavey even if it weren’t. I notice there’s more streaks of white there than there used to be, too. I already knew about the thick banded streaks above my ears in the shorter hair. I think the color seeps into other places due to stress more than age. Could be age. I don’t know how long someone like me is supposed to live if they make it to a ripe age.

About then, I remember to pull off the eye-patch. It doesn’t hide a dulled eye. They're the same anymore. Same matter my hands are with dots of ambiently glowing purple. It’s a comfort to wear the patch. Like a reminder of who I am. It helps me mentally control how much I see or don’t see. The world is so many layers of information if I don’t. Much of the time, it’s too much. I don’t need to see every little creature peaking through the mirror or what type of rock the nickle backing was refined out of. Takes a few seconds to tune it back out without the patch helping my psyche retain a muscle memory for it.

I pick comb out of a seperate basket and take to working knots out to one side of my head. Then the other. Then back so I can tie it up neatly again. A thick bristled boar brush and a bit of water, and touch of comb, helps me seperate the long and the short with great accuracy.

Then it’s time for clippers. I debate a few comb length attachments before, as usual, I decide to do it with a naked blade. It would grow back. Would also leave a fine centimeter of fuzz until it did. After fetching a black plastic trash bag I use for just such an ocassion from under the sink and lay it over the sink, I set to work. The buzz of the clippers is medatitave after a few moments of hair falling onto the plastic under my head. The buzz is comforting in my hand and against scalp. I have to switch hands at times and can feel the vibration in my fingers still.

I work it around the sides and back quickly with a few reruns to make sure it ends up all the same length. Feeling with fingers to ensure what I couldn’t see.

The fine work of lining the sides and back of the longer patch take the most time. Don’t want to fuck it up. I have some practice, though. It doesn’t take too long.

When it’s done, I keep over the plastic filmed sink and take boar brush to it just to work out as much of the smaller clippings as I can. Off my scalp and shoulders and back of my neck. Satisfied, clean the blade and oil it, then return it under the sink. Clippings are wrapped up and put in the nearby bin. It’s a bit wasteful, but it makes it so I don’t have to clean the sink. I can sweep the floor later. 

Off peels my shirt and the sweatpants. Those go flying out into my room for now.

On comes the hot water in my shower. I wisely sit out the first cold minutes on the closed, chilled, lip of the toilet. Head in hand.

All of these things are a practice of not thinking too hard as I watch the water patter on the shower wall in silence. A practice in functioning when it’s the last thing I want to do with myself. There is nothing else I can do. Semi-retirment allows me much more idle time than I allowed myself before.

Into the shower I go. Closing curtain and taking a spin under water to rinse off loose hairs before having a seat on shower stool with back to the water. The heat soothes out my back nicely. It’s a while before I pull over toothbrush and paste.

Taking a shower is a whole ordeal when I’m not in a rush. Starts with teeth.

Takes a tough and big brush to handle my teeth the further back you go. Doesn’t hurt to be resilient against the roughtness of my tongue, either. I realize, with some dismay, that I’m out of orange toothpaste. Might have to suffer mint if I can’t find another supply. Bleck.

I don’t know if it helps to do this, but I leave the suds in my mouth while I wash my face with vigour and some good cleansing face wash. I do this with everything that suds. Just leave it for a bit while I do the rest. Hair, next with shampoo and one of those scalp massagers. Same with the soap, I use a loofah to suds up from neck to toe. Just feels like it does more if it’s not on for two seconds and gone the next.

Rinsing is the same pattern as sudsing. 

And, yes, before anyone asks, I get the bits. I like to do that last and seperate. Those parts require getting up and spreading things out, alright. It’s work. I save it for last.

At some point, I remember my tail. After everything else. Almost bleatedly. It’s attached to me. I don’t know why I forget sometimes. Bit of shampoo for that does the trick.

Then the water comes off and I let water dip off me for a bit. While I squeeze the fur on the tail out several times. The fur there is dense and likes to hold onto water. Drying it takes time. I imagine my head would too if I had more than that little bit of hair. Of which I still take a moment to squeeze and ring, too.

By then I can step out without dripping everywhere onto a bath mat. And grap towel to dry off with. Special attention, again, to hair and tail. Then privates. No one likes to smell funky there. Towel is hung up and I leave the bathroom with a small bottle of oil for my hair and a comb.

Deaftly working light bit of pleasent lavander smelling oil into my hair with fingers and comb before it has a chance to dry. Both are discarded onto dresser afterward.

Then I flip face first into my bed. Naked and slightly damp. Energy gone. I’ve done abosolutely all the self-care I can. I don’t care that my stomach is growling or my throat is dry despite all that time, and maybe even more so, due to the shower. 

Thoughts threaten to filter in. I refuse their entry as I pull a pillow to myself and tuck it under my head, shifting onto my side where I can curl with it. It doesn’t stop a few tears burning across my nose onto the pillow. I can’t stop them as skillfully as I used to. They often come too fast and hard for me to stop. Out of the blue or over some sappy ending to a movie I wasn’t even closely paying attention to or just emotional comercials. It’s very stupid and very annoying.

I’m so tired. Always.

Even when I wake up after the sun’s no longer falling through the bedroom window. Mn. Time lost.

I sit up and rub crust off my eyelashes for a while. Coughing a few times as I make it up to my feet and over to the window. Closing the curtains. Not worried about getting peeped my neighbors so much as just wanting to be alone.

I left a half-finished bottle of water by the absurdly large beanbag under the same window that I now pick up and finish in a couple of chugs. A brief crush and tightning of cap compacts it one empty. Making it easy to pitch into trash can near the door.

I don’t feel any better. The water tasted stale.

Somehow, I still drag on some clothing. Cotton sleep pants and loose fitted gray t-shirt that said ‘show me your kitties’ with a gray tabby peering over a flat horizontal line on it. I feel a pang of guilt as I think of Tiggs. They were with someone else, I knew I couldn’t take care of Tiggs like they needed right now. Still, I missed them.

Finally, I leave my room and go downstairs to the kitchen. None of the floorboards creak. I don’t need physical strength to remember how to walk like a ghost. Or open a cabinent silently. I stare at the box of cheerio’s for a while. I know I am hungry. I feel a bit sick and my lower stomach hurts. But it doens’t look appealing. The memory of it on my tongue recalls like grit and sawdust.

My shoulders slump with a huffed sigh. Leaning forhead into the cabinent door’s edge that I still hold open.

Maybe I should hire a chef. Trick my brain into just eating things put in front of me. I weakly ponder this for a moment until it’s dashed away. I can’t trust anyone to feed me that isn’t explicitly trustworthy to me. Hire a chef? Sure. Let an assassin right in. Great idea. If they don’t filet your throat, they’ll slip some sort of poison into a chicken dinner.

The corners of my eyes prick with fustration. I just want to eat.

I close the door with more of a thud than I normally would and go to the firdge. My eyes immediately end their scan by lingeirng on the bottle of whiskey down low on the door. I take it out and set it on the counter, then look back into the firdge.

God, fuck. Everything has to be cooked in some way. Same for shit in the fridge. Even hotpockets got to go in a mircowave. Back to looking in the fridge. There’s a package of balogne and a bottle of ketchup.

I take both out and get a paper plate and a red solo cup. All get tucked into hands and arms including the whiskey bottle before I make the walk out the back door.

It’s dark out, but I can see fine in the enclosed and screened off back patio. I tick the light on anyway and sit at the table there. Nudge a couple of electronics out of the way to the otherside of the small table. A pile of sleeping things, that is. Tablet, phone, bluetooth keyboard, and a e-reader. Space is replaced with plate and accouterments in short order.

Oscar Meyer bologna gets peeled out of packet and red wax ring. Sorted out in a four-by-two formation on plate and then their centers get a squirt of ketchup. I leave that a moment to pour half a cup of whiskey. There’s a plan here. A bad one, but it’s a plan.

I roll up a slice of ketchup filled bologna and take a bite. It’s fucking disgusting in that way in which desperate and depressive food is–but ultimately tastey enough to get addicted to. It’s salty and a bit sweet. And, anyway, there’s whiskey to mask the taste with when I swish down a mouthful.

This pattern quickly leads me to being able to eat the following slices in peace. Being drunk takes away most of my taste and leaves just the salty and the sweet. Two things alcoholic brains love. It’s less of a slog then. I eat slower due to groginess is all.

I don’t stop until the package of quesitonably labeled deli meat is empty. It’s better than nothing.

By then I’ve had three half cups of alcohol and my face feels close to numb. I’m sweaty and too warm. Thankful for the chilly breeze that comes through the screens from the outside.

I’m struck with the dreaded curse of actual thoughts. Thankfully, the ones that make it are sloshy and breakup on rocks before they fully form.

Still, every so often, they linger. None of them are good. My next breath is deep, but it shudders due to my lungs having shifted down into very shallow breaths to then. I toss plate ontop of the pile of devices and lay my head down on the cool glass of the table top.

The thoughts keep looping back on a common thread and theme which forms one repeating coheasive concept; I’m not good enough.

It’s not always that sentance. Today it is.

I admit that it’s a frequent one. One that rides off the back of my lack of self-worth. One that points out that I can’t think right or talk right or love right or cry right or–well, there’s so many things. All the things that matter when every bit of your worth is tied into keeping people ‘safe’ and ‘happy’.

All I know is gaurding something that I imagine is black and ashy in my chest and lashing out in feeble attempts to protect other people.

Often, I admit while gulping down the fourth half a glass, missing the mark and lashing out at the same people that I love so deeply it hurts just to look at them

There’s other things. But it comes down to that. All roads lead to Rome.

Heh, so why can’t I get off them? I want to go somewhere else.

I don’t notice that eventually my vision blacks out along with my thoughts and my memories. I wouldn’t come to until late in the morning from the depth of my beanbag with an urgency to get to the bathroom for a good wake-up vomit.

No wonder I’m alone.

[somethinginmybones]

im in a snowy city, hmu if your have further questions!!

- there are different types of snows! Sticky (to make snowballs and snowmen), powdered (like it says, a bit powdery, you can't make anything with it, but it's really soft), slushy (when it rains after, or in springtime when it melts)

- the first snow usually doesn't stay. It covers the ground for a few days, for a week or two sometimes, but it usually melts until the real cold as arrived. when it's cold outside for real (under 0 °C almost every day ) the snow builds up and stays all winter long

- the first snow is always really pretty and.fun and makes me giddy (even if I know it probably won't stay). The first layer can be pretty thin, so not a winter wonderland but still very pretty!!

- when it's cold, sometimes it doesn't snow, but it does frost! So the grass, the cars, the roads: everything gets whiter and really cold (and sometimes, slippery!)

- sledding: it's been a while since my last sled with an actual sled! There are these things called crazy carpets (or roll-up sled) that you can sled with sitting down or face first. When you go face first, there are always risks (once I ended up with a bloody nose because I slid off the sled face first into ice)! Other then that, depending on the slipe, it's a crazy adrenaline rush that makes you want to laugh, and then you use up all you energy to climb up the mountain again (or, sometimes when its a place you paid for, there are treadmills that take you to the top)

- important to note that if you use you car, you always need to defrost and wipe down the snow from the windows. If you take the bus, it's never on time and you freeze your ass up waiting for it. A really good snowstorm can be very dangerous, but that's a whoooole other experience

- obviously, downsides of the cold: being fucking cold The wind can bite at every ounce of skin that is exposed and also, toes freeze up really fucking fast. For me, it's usually the reason I need to stop doing a winter activity (skating, sledding, skiing though that shit is expensive)

- another downside: snow gets EVERYWHERE. Oh, you wanted to walk in a snow bank in your cutesy little winter boots? Guess what? Snow in your boots. Snow in your socks. Snow in your jeans. Someone threw a snowball at the back of your head? Snow in your collar, snow in the back of your shirt. And the worse part? It melts and leaves you fucking wet and cold

- BUT. If you're having a good enough time? None of that will matter for a moment. Wanted make a snow angel even though you weren't dressed for it? The cold will feel like an embrace. It's refreshing. Makes you feel alive

I put all the things I could think of on the spot that could be interesting! Hope it helps!!

OMG I ALMOST WAS ASLEEP AND REALIZED I NEED ACTUALLY SO MUCH INFO ABOUT SNOW

Plz y’all I’ve seen snow like twice in my entire life I need the lore. How long until it sticks to the ground? How quickly does it turn into a winter wonderland? Sledding, what’s the tea? What are the downsides? Etc etc tell me anything else I should know

Please give me all the info so I do right by y’all 🥹🥹

[fraddit]

This is a new post in my series of three four about Eddie’s house on 9-1-1.

part one, part two, part three | Buck’s loft

Since 5b blessed us with lots of looks at Eddie’s room (finally!!), I wanted to do an update to my model of Eddie's house.  Rather than alter my original post, I’m just making a new one to tack on.  So, let’s get started.

Here’s the floor plan view.  They changed the door into the room from both the S2 House and from what we saw a glimpse of in S3.  So the door now swings inward.  They also removed a window and moved the closet from right by the door into the room to over on the other side of Chris’s closet, which makes the room bigger (And also leaves a weird empty space hiding in the walls, but it's fine. I'm fine.).

And Eddie has used his new bigger room to fit his new treadmill.

More views and details under the cut!

The furniture is all pretty similar to what we saw in S2 but not exactly the same.  He’s got a contemporary, metal bed frame that’s either a queen or a full.  There’s a very low headboard.  The bedspread is blue and white plaid.  The two matching end tables are wood with similar metal frames to the bed.  There’s two matching lamps with sort of beige ceramic bases and kind of dark muted mauve lampshades.  On the table next to Eddie’s side of the bed, closest to the door, is an analogue alarm clock and a tray to hold what I’m guessing are his pocket items like keys and wallet.

Under the bed is a large woven rug in a muted green color. And above the bed is a ceiling fan.

Across from the bed, between the door into the room and the closet door is a mid century style wood dresser.  Sitting on top of this dresser is another ceramic lamp, this time in a blue color with white or beige shade.  Next to that is the only visible photo in the room.  It’s of Eddie and Chris hugging Shannon on Christmas in S2.  In front of that is Eddie’s Silver Star.  And next to that is a low profile decorative wooden box.

There’s a piece of art hanging on the wall above this dresser, but the only glimpse of it I could get was enough to know that there’s a white matte and the lower right corner is some shade of brownish.  So, I’ve taken the liberty of choosing a desert art print to match the other desert art in his room.  I’m pretty confident that it is actually some sort of nature art, because all of the art in Eddie’s house is nature art.  The living room is tree/forest stuff with one water fall.  The dining room and hallway are ocean and water.  Chris has his own stuff, but there’s also the Redwood poster and he has a lot of animals.  And Eddie’s room seems to be desert themed, which is why I stuck with desert for this mystery art.

Along the far wall is the treadmill.  It faces the closet door.  We never got to see this wall pre destruction, so I don’t know if the destroyed frame we see in the aftermath was on this wall or was the piece from over the dresser I just discussed.  So, this wall could be blank or not.  There’s no telling.

Behind the treadmill, in the corner, is another taller and narrower wood dresser. It’s got a nice bonsai tree sitting on it that looks to be a jade tree.

In shots of Eddie’s destroyed room when Buck breaks down the door, there’s a floor lamp next to this dresser that is not visible in any of the shots from 5x11, so I didn’t add it here.  My take is that that lamp was added specifically in that scene for lighting and effect.  There’s also a wicker basket that I assume is for laundry next to Eddie when he’s crying with the bat, but I’m not sure where in the room it normally lives.

Next to the dresser is the only window in the room, which is centered on the wall.  There are some light brown/beige blackout curtains and also mini blinds for window treatment. There's vegetation visible outside the window.

On the other side of the window is a small piece of art.  It’s a pretty desert scene in blues and pinks with saguaro cacti at either sunrise or sunset.

And there you have it.  Eddie’s room!

If you got this far, thanks for reading all of this.  I hope this is helpful or at least interesting. 💕

[3rensgf]

stupid/annoying, but endearing, things they do in a relationship eren, armin, jean, connie, erwin, levi, reiner, bertholdt, porco, zeke, colt, hanji, mikasa, sasha, annie, pieck

word count: 2.3k

warnings: one mention of sex in erens, reader uses makeup in jeans, mentions of injuries and dilf!reiner in reiners

notes: this is a gn!reader. there are mentions of makeup being used, but i feel like any gender can use makeup. it's not even anything serious like a beat face. just some lip gloss n mascara. chapstick too but thats not makeup. it's just one line, so you can skip over it if you would like to!

✩ eren bites you. its not even in a sexual way, he just likes to bite. they’re like a second form of kissing to him. you could be chilling together on the couch watching a movie, and he’ll just chomp on your shoulder. even when you were trying to focus on something, he swings by, bites then leaves. eren has no shame, so he does it in front of your friends too. you could be having a normal conversation with mikasa and he’ll just bite you, then the two of you carry on as if it was normal. it’s not normal. but you love it. sometimes you bite him back too. but only in private.

✩ armin gives you random things he finds. armin likes to go out and explore, with or without you. when he comes back after an adventure you opted out of, he always has something for you he found. a rock, a seashell or a cool flower are just some of the things he gets for you. if he can’t find something, he finds a gift shop to get you something instead, saying, “well, (y/n), i did find it in the gift shop.” he always looks so proud giving it to you, rambling about the story of how he found your gift. you have a small box tucked away with all the treasures he gives you.

✩ jean steals your things. whenever he comes over, he likes to mooch off your possessions. if he’s spending the night at your place and needs a shower, he’s using your shampoo, conditioner and body wash. if his lips are chapped, he swipes your lip balm to use on himself. one time you even walked in on him trying your mascara and lip gloss. another time he had your clothes on his giant frame. but he always replaces whatever he uses, venmoing you within the next few days with some cash and a sorry note. “sorry for using ur lip balm baby, buy some more <3” with $20 attached to it. you tell him that lip balm doesn’t even cost that much, but he tells you to treat yourself to lunch with the extra money.

✩ connie makes plans without letting you know beforehand. at 3am, you are woken up by an influx of messages and calls from your boyfriend. in your sleepy state you go to answer him, only to be told to get dressed and come out. he’s right outside of your house and hungry. you remind him it’s very early in the morning and you both have class. “but i’m hungry and craving burgers,” he repeats. you have no choice to get in the car with him. this can happen throughout the day, not just early in the morning. one time he whisked you away in the middle of your online class because he didn’t tell you he bought tickets to a movie showing in 30 minutes. the memories you share on these spontaneous dates are always your favorite ones with him.

✩ erwin buys you whatever you like in bulk. it’s not even an exaggeration when you say bulk. you mention one thing to him, and the next day there are boxes upon boxes sitting on your kitchen counter. “these oranges taste pretty good,” you mumble to yourself as you peel your 2nd one. erwins sharp ears hear this, and first thing in the morning he’s off to buy multiple bags of your supposed favorite oranges. it takes you days, sometimes weeks, to finish whatever he decided to buy you. you always tell him he doesn’t need to buy so much, but he never listens. though, you always appreciate how attentive he is to your likes and dislikes.

✩ levi cleans up for you and ruins your organization. it’s always a blessing when someone else decides to take on the burden of cleaning for you, and you thought you hit the jackpot with a boyfriend who loved to clean, clean, clean. but it could get annoying when you suddenly couldn’t find anything you placed anywhere. if you’re anything like me, you’re messy but organized. you know where things are. when levi comes to clean, he places things where he thinks they should go. you’re sent on a wild goose chase looking for your pencil case, only for it to be in a completely different drawer than the one you usually kept it in. despite this behavior, it’s always nice to come home from a long day from school to see your desk organized. what was once a mess of papers and other supplies have been filed into their correct places, the table wiped down from any lingering coffee stains and your supplies being organized in a way so you knew where everything was. sometimes there’d be a plate of fruit with the note, “good luck on your exams,” written in your boyfriends neat writing beside it.

✩ reiner coddles you too much. whenever you express any sort of discomfort, reiner is always rushing to your side. “are you hurt? do you need medical attention? how many fingers am i holding up?” he asks, checking you for any cuts or bruises. thank you, honey, but i’m fine. just bumped into the counter. despite that, he’s dragging you over to the bathroom to fix up your imaginary injuries. you always find it a bit much when you’re fine. it’s during the times where you’re actually hurt where you learn to appreciate it. he’s so gentle cleaning your cuts, kissing them softly once they’re dressed. you wonder if he’d be like that with your future children.

✩ bertholdt is too nervous around you. it’s been years since the two of you got together, and he still refuses to make eye contact with you. his hands get sweaty and shake when you attempt to hold his hand. he always stumbles over his words when speaking to you as he tries to find the right words to say. he even blushes when he introduces you to other people as his significant other! you remind bertholdt over and over again that he doesn’t need to be so shy around you. but you cant help but coo over him showing up for your date, flustered mess and thrusting flowers into your hand. “they reminded me of you,” he said quietly, refusing to meet your eyes. you giggle and press a kiss to his hot cheeks.

✩ porco is too cocky for his own good. he’s always parading around the house, boasting about his latest achievements. he beat colt in a video game colt was a supposed god in. he can throw a baseball farther than zeke. he can run faster than pieck. if he’s taller than you, he's always making fun of you for being shorter than him. if you’re taller, you’re not exempt from his wrath either. he’s boasting about how he’s perfect height to not hit his head on doorways. he never goes as far as to hurt your feelings, always knowing when to stop. though he has a big ego, he would let it crash and burn just to see you smile after beating him at smash bros. you laugh and taunt him, happy you beat him in one thing. he doesn’t mind, instead watching you with a soft smile on his lips and love in his eyes.

✩ zeke forces you to work out with him. and it’s not like in the afternoon to help you stretch out. it’s not light yoga or a couple minutes on the treadmill. no, this man wakes you up at ass crack in the morning to take you on a 5 mile hiking trip. you barely have any time to register what is happening around you before you’re already standing at the start of the trail with your gear. “come on! we can’t slack off!” he says, clapping his hands together. the sun is beating down on you and your feet hurt, but this man doesn’t let you stop for a break. “we’re almost there,” he says. your complaining goes out the window when he shows you the view at the top. its one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen. hiking up long ass trails to see beautiful views with your boyfriend was so worth it in the end.

✩ colt accidentally turns your dates into babysitting sessions. you show up at his house with the promise of a good time, only to be met with a guilty looking colt and his little brother falco behind him. “sorry,” he says sheepishly, “gabi got sick with the cold, so i couldn’t drop him off there. i hope you don’t mind him staying.” you hide your disappointment behind a wide smile, nodding enthusiastically as to not hurt either of their feelings. you just wanted to spend some alone time with your boyfriend, and it would have to wait. hanging out with falco wasn’t actually that bad. the three of you had an amazing time together, watching tv, playing games and even baking together. if you hate kids, you can’t bring yourself to hate falco; he’s just the sweetest boy you’ve ever met. you and falco are already asking colt when the three of you can hang out again when you have to go back home.

✩ hanji is always talking. you don’t discourage them from talking about their interests. they’re very passionate about the things they love, and can’t help talking about them. its like the scene where hanji kept eren up all night talking about titans. when you’re trying to focus on something or go to sleep, hanji is just yapping away. you’re honestly amazed at their ability to never run out of things to say about the most mundane things. hell, one time they talked for an hour and a half about a building color they saw when they were out one day. but hanji just looked so happy when talking. their face would break out into a huge grin, and their arms would fly around as they told their story. it was too cute for you to tell them to stop.

✩ mikasa hovers too much. every corner you turn, every place you go to, mikasa is following. she claims she’s not clingy, but in reality she is. it’s like a cat who hates affection, but needs to be in the same room as you at all times. you don’t mind her following you into the bedroom or living room or kitchen. you had to draw a line when she tried to follow you into the bathroom. even when you’re out, she’s always following you around. you tell her it’s okay to break off from you and spend some time by herself, but she always shakes her head and follows you to your next destination. you’re always grateful for her hovering when a group of drunk people try hitting on you, whistling and telling you they’ll give you a good time. but one look at your girlfriend who showed up from out of nowhere, and they’re running away with their tails between their legs.

✩ sasha eats your food. she can’t help it. she likes to snack. she’s always hungry. and you get that. to stop things like this from happening, you have separate places to keep your food. just so sasha and you have your favorite snacks and takeout separated. you respect the rule, but your girlfriend seems to lose her reading skills when hungry, one too many times you have walked in on her with her hand deep into a bag of your chips, something you’ve been waiting to eat all week when you were supposed to watch that new horror movie on netflix with her. you huff and puff and retreat to your bedroom. sasha comes back after a few hours, looking upset with tons and tons of snacks in her arms. “i’m sorry i ate your chips,” she frowns. she sets down all the food she got on your bed. “i got all these snacks you liked as an apology. and 3 bags of your favorite chips.” you could never stay mad at her cute face.

✩ annie complains about spending time with you. “i like my alone time,” she says, brushing you off when you asked why she didn’t want to watch a movie with you. some people were introverted, preferring to spend time by themselves rather than with someone else. you were like that too; you had your moments where you didn’t feel like being around your girlfriend. but it became an annoying problem when she constantly shot down your attempts to hang out with you. when she finally agrees, she’s always finding something to complain about. but during important dates or when you’re not in the best mood, she’s always the first to remind you or initiate a hang out/date. she shuts her mouth and enjoys her time with you, not one criticism or groan leaving her lips. she would never admit it, but being around you made her so happy.

✩ pieck is always sleeping. you have to wait a few hours to get a text or call back from pieck because she’s always dozing off somewhere. “sorry sweets,” she yawns into the mic, “was taking a nap. need something?” good luck trying to reach your girlfriend during an emergency. when you come home with takeout for dinner because neither of you wanted to cook, she’s sleeping at the dinner table. when you’re watching a movie she wanted to watch, she’s snoring away, curled up at the end of the couch. during lectures you share together, she has her head in her arms and has the audacity to ask you for your notes in the end. and it’s not like she’s not getting enough sleep, no. she gets her recommended 8 hours of sleep and then some. it’s nice to have a sleepy girlfriend, though, when you’re dead tired from living. you drag your feet into the bedroom to see her about to take her nth nap for the day. she notices your zombie-like state and opens up her arms for you. the two of you cuddle and nap together, sleeping the stress away.

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[goaskbarnes]

Grumpy Sergeant

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Peter x Reader (platonic)

Summary/Request: Ooo we can request???? Maybe reader being best friends with Peter and Bucky getting super jealous because he wants to date reader but thinks Peter is her boyfriend 🤷🏻‍♀️ via anonymous

Warnings: jealous!Bucky, language, fluffy ending

Words: 1399

Authors Notes: Thank you so much for this request! Really hope I did justice and you like it anon! ☺️ the dumb side of me didn’t know if you meant Peter Parker or Peter Quill 🙈

If only that phrase Sam used often ‘if looks could kill they would be dead by now’ was true, then Bucky wouldn’t be here worrying about Peter.

Bucky has been watching the two of you hang out almost everyday for the past couple of days. You’re one of his best friends and knew if something was going on you might have said something, but since you haven’t, Bucky can’t ignore the annoying nagging feeling in the back of his mind.

You look far too comfortable in each other’s presence for anything to be platonic. Peter was constantly touching your arm or you would laugh at his really ridiculous jokes that weren’t even close to funny. Bucky didn’t understand it, and as the days went on, he thought more about it. The more he thought about it, the more moody he became.

Bucky’s had a thing for you for some time now, you’re his ray of sunshine on a rainy day. And since Peter has been in the picture, you’ve kind of disappeared from his routine and he doesn’t like that, he doesn’t like that at all.

“Do you want a drink?” You ask Peter, standing up from the couch and stretching your arms above your head. Your shirt rises up, and Bucky notices Peter’s eyes on your exposed skin.

“Oh! Yes, can I have some ice water?” He licks his dry lips and focuses on something else. You nod and practically skip into the kitchen area.

“Hi Bucky!” You cheerfully say, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and kissing his cheek, something you do all too often. Bucky smirks when he sees Peter looking at your interaction.

“Hi Y/N. It feels like it’s been a long, long time since I saw you.” He says, tapping his metal fingers against the marble counter. His eyes follow you around the kitchen, and watches you prepare two glasses of ice water. You’re taken aback by him using your name, usually he would give you one of his infamous pet names - your favourite being ‘sugar’ or ‘sweetheart’.

“We should hang out soon.” You say, dunking some ice into the glasses.

Bucky grunts in response, knowing full well that’s not going to happen any time soon. You don’t think to question the grunt, it wasn’t unusual for Bucky to have off days.

A couple more days pass and Bucky’s moods just deteriorate even further to the point he’s snapping at Steve almost constantly. The recent snap was in the gym, Bucky was getting pissed off with Steve’s orders on what to do.

“I know what to fucking do! Do you think I’m some kind of idiot?” Bucky rages, throwing the dumbbell down on the ground that it echoed off an horrific hang against the four grey walls.

Steve shakes his head, he’s used to his friend’s outbursts by now. But this was something else.

“What is wrong with you? Are you having nightmares again?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and is about to give it to Steve when the sound of your laughter fills his ear as you step into the gym with… surprise… Peter on your tail.

“And that’s what I said!” Peter finishes his story with a laugh. Your hand is on your chest from laughing too much.

Steve quickly connects the door and pats his friend on the shoulder.

“You know, it’s not what it looks like, right?” Steve asks in a hushed voice.

“And how would you know that?” Bucky frowns, his body language suggesting he’s about to implode with rage.

“I just do.” Steve shrugs and Bucky wants to punch the smug grin off his face. You catch his eye as you skip past the super soldiers. The tension is thick in the air that it’s almost suffocating you.

“Everything okay?” You ask, wrapping your earphones around your neck and shifting your focus from one soldier to the other. Steve shrugs while Bucky seems uninterested in your presence. Since that day in the kitchen, he’s been more and more distant with you.

“What’s it to you?” Bucky asks with a grunt. Again, you’re taken aback by his tone, making you step away and downcast your eyes to the floor. “And besides, your boyfriend over there is waiting for you.” He adds with a huff, your eyes widen in surprise but he’s already out of the door before you can correct him. You look back to Steve who offers an apologetic smile for Bucky’s mood, one you don’t accept because he couldn’t have gotten the information more wrong if he had tried.

Peter was your best friend and he was like a brother to you. It was strictly platonic, and you weren't about to lose Bucky because of some misinformation he may have heard.

You look back at Peter who is waiting for you by the treadmills, you smile and throw him your unopened bottle of water. “I’ll be back soon, I’ve got to go and talk to him.” You smile sadly and Steve offers words of encouragement.

Turning on your heels, you sprint after Bucky, unaware of where he could have gone, you grab the attention of Friday.

“Friday, where is Sergeant Barnes?” You head is turning in every direction, peeping through the glass windows of the doors on your way through the hallway.

“Sergeant Barnes is in his room.” Of course he would be. He spends most of his time there hiding away from other people, especially during one of Tony’s extravagant events.

You head straight to his room, not bothering to talk and find him with his head in his hands, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I need to talk to you.” You say breathlessly from the running you just did to get here. Bucky looks up slowly and clasps his hands together before scoffing.

“I’m not the one you need relationship advice from. How come you never told me about him anyway?” You don’t appreciate the tone he’s using, treating you almost like a teenager who kept a relationship secret from their parents.

“Bucky… I’m not sure where you heard or who told you but it’s not what you think. Peter and I are just friends, that’s all we’ve ever been and that’s all we'll ever be. Peter is like my brother, and you’re- you-”

“I’m what?” Bucky asks standing from the bed and in front of you. His blue eyes seeping into yours and for a moment you forget where you are.

“You’re- you’re-.” It suddenly all clicked into place: his moods, his distancing, accusations that you were dating without asking you first. “You’re jealous.” A smile tugs at your lips and Bucky averts his gaze, something he regularly does when he’s been caught or is nervous.

“No I wasn’t.” He argues

“Yess you were. That’s why you were acting like a grumpy old man.” You tease, jabbing his chest and giggling. Your fingers squeeze his cheeks and laugh.

“Stop! Leave my cheeks alone. Anyway, why does it matter if I was jealous which by the way - I wasn’t.” He shifts on the balls of his feet and folds his arm.

“The real question is James, why were you jealous to begin with? Why did it matter to you if I was dating Peter which by the way - I’m not.” You mimic his words and grin.

He sighs in defeat and shakes his head. “Fine, I was jealous okay? But only because I’ve had a crush on you for a real long time and the thought of you in a relationship with someone else made me crazy because he wasn’t me. And it’s really selfish of me to act like that but-”

You cut his rambling off by pressing your lips to his and wrapping your arms around his neck, his folded arms digging into your chest and you smile against his lips when you pull away.

“Then you should have asked me out on a date instead of being so grumpy.”

“I’m not grum-” and each time an excuse flew from his lips, you would cut him off by kissing him until he finally sighed and rested his forehead against yours.

“Fine, will you go on a date with me then?” He rolls his eyes playfully, prompting you to do the same.

“Fine,” you mock with a smile. “Okay yes. If you stop being so jealous.”

“I wasn’t jealous.”

“Yes you were.”

Taglist: @writerssblockk @belovedadam

[dumbmusclehypnojockboy]

Jersey Bros by writer-ofstuff

"So, how did these two do?"

"What do you think? Failures. Just like the others have been."

"I don't know. I wouldn't say they were total failures." The lead scientist mused.

"Sir? What do you mean? The super soldier serum didn't work." His assistant said.

"Yes, while that is true, it does tells us we are on the right track to perfecting it." The scientist said. He types on the computer and brings up their two subject's readings to show his assistants what he means.

"Look at their readings. Their DNA is already changing due to the serum. Which means we are closer to our breakthrough. We just need to do some more adjustments to the formula to get it exactly what we want it to do." He explains.

His assistants nod their heads in understanding and then busy themselves with work that the lead scientist instructs them to begin.

"Sir, what should we do with these two?" One of the asked, gesturing towards the two men who lay asleep on the metal table in the next room.

"Toss them out on the beach. They are no longer of any use to me now." He says dismissively.

The assistant nods his head and calls up a few soldiers who stood guard outside to help take Dean Winchester and Derek Hale's sleeping forms out of the lab and into a truck. Driving them down to an isolated part of the beach just as the morning sign rises and leaves the two sleeping men on the sandy beach.

------

Derek awakes with start, sitting up and looking out at the ocean while the gentle waves wash up and down the sand shore. He rubs his hand through his hair, not caring he is getting small pieces of sand in it.

He feels like he is forgetting something, like the last few hours there is just a hole in his memory. Derek turns his attention to the man sleeping close by him. The werewolf rolls his eyes when he hears Dean starting to snore rather loudly. He has a hard to believing this guy his a feared and bad ass hunter when he is passed out with his ass up in the air and a little drool coming out of his mouth.

Derek doesn't quite remember why he and this hunter teamed up, that being part of the missing pieces in Derek's memories. Yet he still for some reason remembers meeting Dean.

Derek gets to his feet and walks the short distance between himself and the sleeping hunter and lightly kicks him with his foot. The action jars Dean away who quickly rolls over and hits up, sand falling off his face from where he had laid asleep.

"Wake up."

"Wha? I am up." Dean says in a sleepy voice. Rubbing his face clean of the drool and the sand that was still on his face.

"Derek? Why are we on a beach?" Dean asked.

The hunter had sounded just as confused as Derek felt. So Derek doubts asking Dean if he knew what was going on here would be of any help.

"Come on, let's get out of here." Derek says.

He offers his hand out for Dean to take to help the other man up. As soon as their hands make contact a strange feeling jolts through both men's hands. The two men are so startled they let go of their hands and Dean falls on his ass.

"Oops, sorry bro." Derek says.

He frowns when he thinks about why he just referred to Dean as bro. That wasn't a word that Derek would use yet it just slipped out when he spoke. Derek thought nothing of it, besides Stiles said bro all the time so it must have just slipped into his speech.

Thinking about Stiles, Derek started to wonder where the younger man was. He had an odd feeling that he had been looking for him and grew tense at the thought.

'Was Stiles endanger and he didn't remember it?' He thought for a moment. But then his mind felt a little dizzy and then he thought about how the younger man is just at home relaxing.

Derek glances at Dean who looks lost in thought as well. Derek wants to ask him what he is thinking about, but he refrains from it. Dean was a hunter so Derek didn't want to bother to get to know the other man.

Now that he thinks about it, why was he even with Dean? He asks the human and sees Dean's confused frown deepened as he pauses walking.

"Huh, I don't know either." Dean said.

This honestly should alarm both men, yet Derek felt himself feeling relaxed instead. He assumes Dean feels the same way since the other man doesn't make a move to get away from Derek by walking in the other direction.

As they continue to walk side by side down the sandy empty beach Derek's mind wonders. Thinking about how the pair ended up on the beach anyway. Surely there was a reason wasn't there? At the moment he couldn't think what the reason was. When he asked Dean the other man shrugged his shoulders and didn't say a word.

When Derek stole a glance at him he frowned when he noticed that Dean's hair looked lighter than before.

'Wasn't his hair brown?' He thought to himself while he looked at Dean's now bleach blond hair. The hair style even looked different. Looking a little longer and styled differently with hair products to give Dean a fluffy faux hawk style hair do.

The hairstyle even made Dean look younger to Derek. The older man now looks like he is around Derek's age instead of a man pushing into his late thirties.

This was really starting to confuse Derek, but the more he pondered what was going on here the more those thoughts left his mind and he got distracted by something else.

"Did you change your hair?"

Dean hears Derek ask and he turns his attention to the werewolf.

"Sorry, what?" Dean asked. He wasn't really paying attention to what Derek said. Busy in his thoughts about why he was on a beach with a werewolf.

"Your hair. It looks different." Derek said.

Dean touched his hair, feeling how it was a little stiff from the hair product he put in this morning after his shower. It felt like his usual style, telling Derek as such.

When Dean looks over at Derek it's his turn to be confused since Derek's facial hair looked different. He could have sworn Derek had a thick amount of stubble along his jaw and around his mouth. Yet now Derek's face was all clean shaven except for some scruff that covered his chin.

Dean had intended to ask Derek about it, but he then thinks against it. After all it would sound rather odd to ask Derek that. Since obviously Derek just had the chin scruff prior, Dean must have just been mistaken is all.

He started to second guess himself, wondering what if something was going on here with himself and Derek. Especially since he couldn't quite explain why the two were even together in the first place.

The two men reach the boardwalk and continue to walk side by side in silence. The pair were both lost in their own minds trying to make sense of what they were doing when Dean noticed a gym to their right.

He pauses and stands outside it, looking inside through the glass windows. When Derek notices he isn't by his side the werewolf pauses and turns around.

"You alright bro?" Derek asked.

His voice sounded off to him and he clears his throat and asks again.

Dean didn't answer him so Derek walked up to stand beside him. He peers through the window of the gym like Dean is doing.. For a moment nothing happened but then Derek starts to get flashes of memories in his head. He sees himself inside the gym, working out with Dean. The two chat like they are best friends while they spot one other while they work out.

The memories he recalls aren't really, he knows this, but at the same time they feel like they are real to Derek and he hates that.

"Come on bro, let's get goin yeah?" Derek asks. Again his voice sounds off to him, but he can't quite place why.

"In a bit dude, I need to see somethin." Dean replies.

Derek opens his mouth to say something, but before he could Dean confused walking into the gym without another word.

"Fuckin hell." Derek grunted.

He paced a little outside, debating on what he should do. Running his hand through his hair, as soon as his hand falls back to his side his hair shifts. The sides shaving down to a buzz style while the mid section of his hair style back as it lengthens.

He thinks about just leaving Dean. Clearly something strange is going on here and that is the reason they feel holes in their memories while also having these fragments of new memories.

"Fuck it." Derek grunts and follows Dean into the gym.

------

Dean can't explain the urge he felt to go into the gym. Like Derek he gained those similar memories of himself and the other man coming here. In those false memories it seemed like they were close friends despite the two men hardly knowing one another.

He told himself this was to get to the bottom of things. Instead though Dean just wanders through the main area of the gym. He only sees men in the gym, some guys alone working out while others are grouped up and chatting while jogging on the treadmill.

What makes it strange is how some of them address him by his name, as if they know Dean. Rather than question how they know him Dean just rolls with it, greeting them back. While he does and continues deeper into the gym. His body alters, muscles becoming more toned and defined. Gained from years of working put and maintaining this kind of physique rather than Dean having earned it through training.

The tattoo on his left pec that wards of possession starts to break apart. The ink traverses along Dean's chest under his shirt. Wisps of ink branch off to spread along Dean's arms while the rest form into different styles of tattoos.

More false memories bombard Dean's mind and the hunter clenches his head as he attempts to push those new thoughts out of his mind. He looks ahead of him Dean sees he is standing a few steps away from a large wall mirror. He can see his green eyes darken and for a brief moment he fears he is being possessed by a demon.

"Demon? Demon's don't exist," he then thinks.

His green eyes turn brown, his lips get a little fuller, nose wider and the bridge of it becomes slimmer. Dean grunts, watching his face change before his eyes and unable to do anything but throw his arms up and start to pose. Smirking at his biceps and admiring how large they are. Giving into the admiration of his own appearance finally pushes Dean over. His mind purging his own self from it finally as his new dimwitted and vain self takes over.

He lifts his shirt up to admire his hard earned abs and pecs next once he has had enough flexing. Only stopping to look around and wonder where his best bro is at.

📷

----------

Navigating through the gym was making Derek feel uneasy. What connection he had left to his werewolf abilities was telling him something wasn't right about this place. The men he walked by all seemed like the same type. Self absorbed meat heads who cared only about themselves and showing off.

Derek despised shallow men like this. So whenever any of them tried to stop and talk to him he would give them a glare and ignore them to continue his search for Dean.

The further Derek ventured into the gym the harder it was to recall past memories of his. Thoughts he would have would shift to random things.

'I'm totally bigger than that dude.'

'Jason's here? May need to see if he wants to fuck in the locker room again.'

'Mike's here too. Should talk to him about getting another tat.'

'Where the hell is Dean at? My bro needs to spot me.'

Derek tried to shove those thoughts away but it felt like the more he tried to, the more adamant they were to linger in his head.

He needed to find Dean and get out of here. When he reaches the back area of the gym he finds a tattooed dude posing in front of the mirror.

Derek thought of what a self absorbed guido the guy was. The type of guy you would hate on a trash reality show. He releases only to realize a moment later that this man was somehow Dean.

Astonished, Derek quickly approaches Dean, opening his mouth to ask what happened to him.

"Looking good bro." He says instead. Taken aback by his own words.

Dean turns to look at him and grins.

"You see yourself bro? You hitting the iron hard ya?" Dean replies.

Derek wants to deny it, but he can feel his body surging with muscle. He tries to repel the ongoing changes, but it proves to be useless. His pecs inflate to large and firm pectorals. While his biceps gained quite a bit of bulk to them. The rest of him gained a significant amount of solid muscle while Derek also felt himself growing a little taller.

His pale skin darkened with a tan gained from walking around shirtless and hitting the tanning bed when he could.

Derek tries even harder to repel these alterations happening to him. Not wanting to end up like some self absorbed dick like Dean had become. He assumes being a werewolf has given him an edge that made whatever caused this work slower on him.

He can feel himself being overweight by whatever this is, wincing when two diamond studs appear in his earlobes and his mind shatters a few moments later. Derek stood there in a daze while his old thoughts were overrun by a new persona.

Derek then blinks himself awake, a slow grin spreading on his face as he flexes for Dean.

"Fuck yeah bro. You know I gotta keep this bod in shape for the studs." Derek said with a heavy Jersey accent.

He stands beside Dean and the best bros make faces and pose for a picture. Uploading it to social media before the pair get back to their workout routine. Neither of them remembering anything of their past selves.

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