#spent hours agonising about it today (waste of time)

[b-blushes]

compromised 👍

[mypassionfortrash]

Biology Lessons (part three)

Your date with Roger leads to 72 hours of agonising over whether you want to see him again. Will you give in and call him?

Warnings: This one gets really rude; you have been warned. This series is strictly 18+. Notes: Thank you for the incredible responses to parts one and two – I really appreciate it!

🧪✨Read from the beginning✨🧪

Tags: @jennyggggrrr​ @wineandwanderings​ @scorpiogemini​ @cherries-n-rocknroll​ @crayforqueen​ @perriwiinkle​ @queenmylovely​ @trymymachines​ @80s-roger​

‘Had a lovely evening last night. Let me know what you decide ;)’

There was no disguising the sigh that came with reading that text. 

“Why does Rufus’ dad want to know if you’ll see him again?”

Jumping out of your skin, you looked up at the now silent gathering. And then you turned to Ashley, a fellow teacher. “What?” you asked in a daze.

“Rufus’ dad,” she pressed, nodding at your phone.

You tried to hide the way your mouth contorted when you felt embarrassed or the way you sank in on yourself, hoping that question would just go away. “Rufus is struggling with biology, and I’m giving his Mr. Taylor some of the course materials and a bit of tuition to help him out,” you explained.

“Not buying it,” Ashley said.

“Well, that’s what it is.”

“Wait, who’s Rufus’ dad? And why aren’t you buying it?” Katie, the rather gregarious friend in the group, asked. “Do you think they…”

“He is rather attractive,” Ashley said, sitting back in her chair and looking at you. “But you’ve got the good sense not to go shagging a parent, don’t you?”

“Of course I do!”

“She’s lying,” Katie said. “Look she’s doing that thing with her lip again. She can’t even look at you.”

Ashley’s face sank. “Really?”

“Can we move on from this now, please?” you huffed. Squeezing the bridge of your nose, you became defensive. “Nothing happened when I saw him.”

Katie didn’t waste a second. “When did you see him?”

“Last night.”

“You left work bang on last night,” Ashley interjected.

“Did you see him after that?” Katie asked.

“Extra tuition,” Ashley scoffed. “Good job you’re a biology teacher. I think Mr. Taylor’s very interested in that.”

“I take it he’s a bit of a flirt, then?” Katie asked.

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe it,” Ashley said, leaning in. Her eyes were wild, frantic with the information she was about to impart. “Every single teacher at parents night.”

“Even the men?”

“If they had tits, Mr. Taylor was all over them like a rash.”

“Sounds like a bit of a perv to me.” Katie narrowed her eyes and glanced over at you. “Are you sure you’re not involved with him?”

“And the best thing,” Ashley added, “is that he’s really bloody nice. So you can’t even be mad at him for it!”

“Sounds like he’s got a lot going for him.”

The scene in front of you was a bit like a ping-pong match, and you were only there to watch. Your head batted back and forth across the table with whiplash-inducing velocity. You needed to nip this in the bud. “Alright. Alright. Will you two shut up,” you snapped, praying for the ground to split and gobble you up. “I’ll tell you what happened if you promise not to judge or fly off the handle. Just don’t say anything.”

Katie was in the process of draining her large wine glass when her eyes doubled in size. “So there is something going on?”

Ashley just buried her head in her hands.

“He didn’t show up to his appointment at parents’ evening on time. We rearranged. And he asked if I wanted to go to dinner with him. There. Happy?”

“And did you?” Ashley asked. 

You sighed and nodded, resigned to the judgmental onslaught she was about to unleash.

“You do know that if people found out about this… well…” Ashley shrugged. “It’s not going to look good for you.”

“Chill out; I know that,” you said. “I’m not even sure if I want to see Roger again.”

“Did you at least have a good time?” Katie asked.

Your heart did cartwheels just thinking about the night before. “Yeah,” you admitted. “I did. He’s a proper gent. Brought me flowers and everything.”

Ashley rolled her eyes. “Oh god.”

“Do you think you’ll see him again?” Katie said, trying to see things from your perspective.

You shrugged and chewed at your lip. You would be lying if you said you didn’t want to see him again, but you couldn’t admit that to Ashley and Katie. Ashley, more so, didn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing she was right. 

“I don’t know,” you sighed, looking down at your phone. “I really don’t know.”

The situation weighed you down all weekend. The dread kept you awake. And on Monday morning, you wandered into work feeling like you had been on a 72-hour bender. 

The morning passed you by as you trundled on through the exhaustion. Sneaking sips of coffee between classes and occasionally giving yourself a quick smack to the face when you visited that fateful cupboard for supplies helped. 

And then, lunch came around. 

There was something about the women at the school that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. Something that just didn’t sit right with you. Something that made you grind your teeth every time you heard them speak. 

Maybe it was that giddy air of solidarity when someone decided to air details of their private lives in the staff room. Or the frenzied diet talk – paleo, keto, atkins and whatever else helped some poor woman lose a pound a day by only eating grapefruit or something like that. The topic of today, however, was Miss Collins from Maths’ impending wedding.

Every woman in the staff room sat huddled around her as she swiped through photos of her dress, the bridesmaid’s dresses, the cake… colour swatches for the flowers and decorations. 

You couldn’t tell the difference between periwinkle and cornflower blue if you tried. And your brain wasn’t even going to attempt to cooperate with you. So you kept your gaze trained forward, out the window, as the kettle boiled for another cup of coffee; listening in to the mindless chit chat about weddings and partners, trying for babies and the key to a happy marriage. Tracing the outline of your phone in your pocket, you found yourself searching for a temporary cure for your own loneliness.

The kettle clicked and you poured the water into your coffee cup, rattled the spoon around inside it and turned towards the door.

“Come and sit with us!” Miss Collins squawked.

The shrill sound of her voice made you wince hard enough that drops of coffee splattered on the floor. Your gaze shot between her and your colleagues; they had a delirious look in their eyes, like a group of rabid seagulls fighting for a shard of ‘Spring Bride’ magazine. “I’ve just remembered,” you began, gesturing towards the door, “I’ve got a pile of homework to mark before this afternoon.”

“Oh, come on! Come and have a look at my dress!”

Desperate to maintain some semblance of calm, you gave her a sweet smile and spoke softly. “Some other time.”

By the time you arrived back at your classroom, your coffee cup was half empty. Your cheeks felt hot and you had almost broken a sweat. You practically ran all the way there. Out of breath and cocooned inside the empty room, you dumped your lunch and mug on your desk and whipped out your phone. Your chest heaved with every tap at the screen until your thumb lingered just over his number. 

Panic simmered in your chest with every ring. Pacing across the room, you couldn’t help sinking your teeth into your knuckle while you waited for him to pick up. 

After what felt like an eternity, Roger finally answered. “You took your time,” he quipped.

“Sorry,” you sighed. “I just… needed to think things through.”

“That’s totally understandable. So, when am I getting another biology lesson?”

You bit back a giddy laugh. “When would you like one?”

“You free tonight?”

“Ooh, I don’t know. Not on a school night.”

“I could be quick.” Suddenly, Roger lowered his tone. “After all, it’s been a while.”

You gnawed at your knuckle again, deliberating whether to give in to him.

“Still there?”

“Still here.”

“Tell you what,” Roger said. “I’m picking Rufus up from his music lesson at five. I could perhaps swing by that little cupboard of yours a bit earlier.”

Your eyes snapped to the door at the back of the classroom and you couldn’t fight off a sly grin. Roger could hear it down the line.

“I’ll take that as a yes then?”

“Yes!” It came out with more enthusiasm than you had meant to. “I mean… sure.”

“Can I ask for something really cheeky?”

“Maybe. Since it’s you.”

He sounded sheepish with a naughty undertone. “Can you wear your lab coat?”

“I’ll see how generous I’m feeling come the end of the day.”

“I’ll take that also as a yes. I’ll be there at ten to four.”

“Good luck sneaking past Angela.”

Long after the halls cleared of moody teenagers, you found yourself alone in your classroom again. It was only ten minutes, but it felt like forever. And when you glanced at your lab coat hanging beside the door, something caught your eye in the corridor beyond. Angela’s red hair and cat-eye glasses were just visible through the window. And then Roger came into view wearing that bright, mischievous smile of his. You knew if he spent any longer with Angela, he’d have charmed the pants off of her, and you couldn’t have that. So you leapt to your feet and strode towards the door before she had time to knock. 

“There she is!” Roger grinned.

“Mr. Taylor’s here for Rufus’ homework,” Angela explained. “I can wait here and show you back out if you like.”

Roger furrowed his brow. “Actually, Angela, we need to talk through the homework. He’s been struggling with biology. It might take a while. Besides, I still need to pop down to Music. I don’t want to keep you.”

Angela’s eyes widened at that long-winded explanation. “Oh.”

“Don’t worry, I can show him out when he’s got everything he needs,” you reassured, choosing to ignore Roger shooting a wink at you.

When Angela was out of earshot, you reached out and pulled Roger into the room by his shirt collar. “You need to be careful,” you warned, snatching your lab coat off the hook.

“You know, in my day,” Roger began, struggling to keep up with you, “our teachers used to belt us if we misbehaved.”

“Don’t test me, just get in the cupboard.”

Roger paused at the threshold, rosy-cheeked and absolutely beaming. “Don’t mind if I do, m’lady.”

You slung your lab coat on and followed Roger inside. Squeezed against him, the pair of you were forced together in a feverish, series of kisses. 

But Roger broke away and shoved you back towards the door. “I thought I asked for nothing but the lab coat,” he mumbled against your neck as his hands clawed your skirt up around your waist. 

“Let’s see how this goes first.” Unbuckling his belt, you allowed your hands to stray over the outline of his cock. You giggled with delight, realising he was already hard. “For an older gent, you don’t have much trouble.”

“Been thinking about this all day,” he said. He didn’t waste any time, pawing at your underwear. Leaning in close to your neck, he sighed. “You filthy girl.”

“Shut up and fuck me,” you instructed, yanking down Roger’s zipper.

He allowed you a split second of stroking his cock. Leaning his head back with his lips slightly parted, you could hear him sigh, starting to enjoy himself. And then his gaze returned to you. With the full force of his body, he pressed himself up against you, sending you colliding into a cabinet full of beakers. You swore you heard some smash as he hauled you on top of it. “You want my cock?” he teased, dragging his hand down your neck. You nodded as keenly as you could manage, looking him dead in the eye. “Hm? Tell me how much you want it,” he goaded. 

You shot Roger your best doe eyes as you unbuttoned his shirt. “I’ll ask you nicely then. Please fuck me.”

Roger curled his finger underneath the gusset of your underwear and snapped it back against your clothed slit. “You’re gonna need to lose these first.” He practically tore them from your thighs and threw them to the ground. And then he paused.

“What’s the matter?” you purred rubbing at the heat between your legs. 

“I need to see those tits, too,” he said, drawing his teeth along your neck. His fingers nimbly undid the buttons on your blouse and clawed your bra straps and lab coat from your shoulders. His mouth travelled from your neck lower and lower down your chest. He nipped and nibbled, lapping at your nipples and pinched them between his lips, forcing quiet moans from you. “Fucking beautiful,” he groaned.

You couldn’t contain the utter desperation just to have him. The only thing you could do was wrap your hand around his cock and stroke it for just a split second longer than Roger would allow. 

He was already so strung out that he needed a distraction. Your thighs would suffice. He squeezed at the nylon-clad flesh with a satisfied purr, peppering kisses higher and higher on one thigh and stopping right where you wanted his mouth most. He never once broke eye contact with you batting his eyelashes beneath his gold-rimmed glasses. That cheeky glint amplified your need even more. So, just as those wet, lazy kisses reached the top of your other thigh, you grabbed a tuft of soft, greying hair. Pulling him inches away from the dripping heat between your legs.

Roger knew when to be good. Following your lead, he grinned as you guided him all the way. He gingerly licked a flat, slow strip over your core. Eyes closed and relishing every drop of arousal on his tongue. But that restraint was short-lived. With his nails clawing at your hips, he buried his face squarely between your thighs and picked up the pace. Exploring every inch, sucking at every fold. You were sure this was the only time he was able to keep quiet. And even at that, he made sure to let you know just how good you tasted with soft purrs of approval that sent delicious tremors coursing through your body. He kept a toe-curling rhythm. Purposeful, forceful. But he made sure to steer clear of your clit. 

Roger was good at this. So good that he managed to have you dangling on the edge of release in minutes. He somehow coaxed out every roll of your hips with ease. And the way he gazed up at you, eyes narrowed by the smile on his lips, savouring every second of pleasure he could bring you. Being quiet about this was out of the question for you.

Especially when his fingers, slick with arousal, lingered right at your entrance. Dancing around, trying to pinpoint the opportune moment to force another lightning bolt of bliss through your body. Every second he held off drew your muscles tighter in anticipation.

At the same moment, his fingers slipped inside you, his tongue feathered over your clit and the euphoric explosion that resulted made you arch your back against him. Eager for more. You could feel it building again—faster this time. You gripped Roger’s hair and gritted your teeth as his fingers fucked you and his tongue kept time flicking over that sensitive little nub. Being quiet became impossible. You knew that if anyone walked past the lab, they’d hear all of the sighs and curses that escaped your mouth. In a moment of shame and horror, you brought your free hand up to your mouth and bit down hard on your knuckle. You knew you were close. 

Roger did too. Your muscles trembled under the iron grip his free hand had on you and the dark, knowing streak in his eyes was too much. Rather than chew your own hand off, or rip out chunks of poor Roger’s hair, you resorted to clawing tracks along the surface of the wooden cabinet. Blissful waves forced strangled whines out of you as Roger’s efforts shook you to your core.

But it wasn’t over. 

Your legs still felt like jelly when Roger pulled you off the cabinet and into his arms. You could still taste yourself when he kissed you. Pressing himself against you with one hand raking through your hair. His other arm held you firmly in place tight against his body. You could feel every feverish breath pulsing through his chest. And every moan that rattled from his body to yours. And his cock, still hard and begging for attention.

You broke away, lingering shy of Roger’s lips. “I think you should put that cock of yours to good use.”

Roger grinned and grazed his nose against yours. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t need telling twice. He turned you around to face the wall, leaning over the cabinet.

You could feel the back of your lab coat being hiked up and cool wisps of air caressing your skin. That was quickly replaced by the warmth of Roger’s body. The tip of his cock teased you; gliding up and down your slit. Excitement and anticipation got the better of you, though, as you tried to move back into him. 

“Steady on, darling, I want to enjoy this,” Roger taunted, giving your arse a swift swat that made you jump. 

You hadn’t registered what had happened until Roger sank his length inside you. Filling you so deliciously that your brain fogged over with need again that a delighted sigh slipped out.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groaned, hunching over you with an arm around your waist. “And you’re absolutely dripping for me. Fuck.”

You weren’t going anywhere, even as Roger’s thrusts gained ferocity he made sure of that. The slick, sticky slap of flesh on flesh pierced the room and the worry of being caught in the act crept into your consciousness again, but you were enjoying this far too much to give a damn. The sheer girth of him and the way he stretched you had your eyes rolling into the back of your head. And you could have got lost in the feeling of his breath on your neck as he clawed off your lab coat and your blouse so that he could sink his teeth into your skin as he fucked you like an animal. You couldn’t help but tighten around him.

“I’m not going to last much longer if you do that,” he warned.

Another worry struck you.

“God, I’m so close. Where do you want it, darling?”

At least he was considerate. “Fuck, let me taste you.”

Roger’s hand found its way into your hair again, pulling you upright. “On your knees,” he instructed, backing himself up against the other wall of the cramped cupboard. “Come here.”

You did exactly as Roger told you and kneeled on the cold concrete floor in front of him.

One hand tugged at your hair, while the other directed his thick, veined cock towards your mouth. But you didn’t need any more encouragement.

Wrapping your hand around the base, Roger watched in bliss as you tongued the tip and eventually sank as much of it in your mouth as you could. Not only was his girth impressive, but it didn’t take much effort for his cock to prod the back of your throat in just the right way to send tears streaking down your cheeks. You knew your jaw would ache in a matter of minutes. You prayed he was as close as he said he was, and set about a mind-melting effort with your lips and your tongue and your hand. Which Roger clearly enjoyed as his hands fell to his sides as he admired you. Wet and slick and eager, you didn’t care about mess. Threads of saliva dripped down your chin and on to your chest.

“Fuck,” Roger cursed. “Such a messy girl, aren’t you?”

All you could manage was a strangled ‘mmmrf,’ and a stupid nod in response. At least it earned a wicked laugh from Roger.

“Show me how messy you can get for me,” he cooed almost soothingly. And then his slender fingers were back, tugging your hair as his hips thrust towards your mouth. All you could do was brace yourself on his thighs and keep your mouth open. Tongue out, drooling over his throbbing member. “Fuck. I always knew that mouth of yours would feel incredible,” he sighed, pulling you off him, leaving a thick rope of spit suspended between him and your mouth. Roger wiped it up, spreading it over your chin while his other hand pumped away at his shaft. His voice wavered when he spoke. “Be a good girl and open up.”

You were disgusted with yourself. On your knees in a science lab cupboard. Being spoken to like this. Watching in awe as Roger worked himself to orgasm and unloaded rope after rope of thick, sticky cum over your face, your glasses and in your hair. 

Roger hadn’t even given you the chance to clean yourself up before his watch caught his eye. “Shit!” he hissed. “It’s ten past five! God knows what Rufus is up to! Sorry, I need to go.” He made quick work of zipping up his jeans and buttoning his shirt. He had his hand on the door handle before he turned to you, trying to thumb globs on cum into your mouth. Roger smirked, “I’ll be seeing you again, then?”

You hadn’t thought about seeing Roger again during your romp in the cupboard. You managed to croak out an uneasy, “yeah,” just before he left.

There was only so much cleanup you could do in a cupboard. So, with your hair up in a ponytail, and the last remnants of makeup still desperately clinging to your face, you darted out to your car. Head down. Feet moving fast. Ignoring every distraction. Until a familiar voice hijacked your attention. 

“I’ll maybe see you at Easter school?”

It was Roger. You looked up, searching around the car park. You saw him waving at you six or seven cars over. Rufus was already belted up in the passenger seat, engrossed in his phone screen.

You kept quiet and looked around to check if anyone was watching. And then your eyes snapped back to Roger. “I’ll look forward to it, Mr. Taylor.”

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THANKS FOR READING! 💖 Please please please, if you enjoyed this, leave some feedback and reblog. It’s very helpful and tremendously encouraging!

[oforamuse]

and then there were none

it takes until 12:34pm for mickey to realise what day it is.

may 9th.

or, the one where it's ian's birthday and mickey is in mexico. alone.

read and comment on ao3

It takes until 12:34pm for Mickey to realise what day it is.

May 9th.

It hits him like a pile of bricks and he throws his phone across the room.

He presses his palms into his eyes because of course it falls on his day off. Of course, today of all days, he has absolutely fuck all to do so he doesn’t even get the opportunity to be distracted by the ins and outs of the Mexican drug business.

His eyes sting.

It’s not even 1pm and Mickey wants to get fucking drunk.

Before he knows it, he’s on his way to his favourite bar with his heart halfway up his throat. The midday sun is high and hot and he can feel it burning into the back of his neck as he walks. He doesn’t care.

May fucking 9th.

It’s a small place, conveniently tucked away between a row of apartments - it’s the kind of place you can only access through a back alley, if you know then you know and if you don’t… well, then you can easily walk past it without even remotely catching on.

It’s the kind of place you go if you don’t want to be disturbed (though also in Mickey’s case, avoid being noticed by the wrong person or organisation.).

He shoves open the door with a bent elbow and he’s flooded with the familiar scent of stale cigarettes and last night’s booze. It’s as comforting as those smells can be. The bell above the door alerts his presence - everyone who patrons here all tend to be on the same side of cautious, you can never be too careful - so you need to make yourself known.

It reluctantly reminds him a bit of The Alibi, as much as he tries to avoid making the connection. There always seems to be someone around no matter the time of day, the same faces, same voices, same drink orders. The community sense of it all. The sticky floors.

Same bar, different lifetime.

Thousands of miles and one broken heart between the two.

‘Hey, Mickey- fuck’s up with you?’ The guy behind the bar asks with a frown, his tone changing at the twisted expression on Mickey’s face.

His muscles ache with it. His whole body aches.

The bartender, Jason, looks at him suspiciously. Jason’s a relatively plain looking white guy from Australia, though a few weeks prior he drunkenly told Mickey that he hasn’t been back in years. Mexico was his home now. Something about needing to disappear, needing to run and get as far away from home as possible.

Mickey didn’t question it. He knows that feeling well.

There’s a slight camaraderie between the two of them, two foreigners in an unfamiliar village both saddled with years worth of baggage to unpack, history left on the road behind them. There's mutual trust. A tip of a head across the bar in solidarity.

Jason speaks a lot better Spanish than he does though, Mickey doesn’t bother to fight him on that one.

‘Don’t fuckin’ matter.’ He grunts, sliding onto a stool at the bar. ‘S’all good.’

Jason laughs cautiously and Mickey can tell he’s unconvinced. He looks up from where he’s halfway bent down towards the fridge under the bar where Mickey knows where they keep the imported beer, ‘You want some of your American shit?’

‘No.’ Mickey runs a hand down his face, then flips off Jason deftly, ‘And fuck you, your Aussie shit isn’t any better. Tastes like fuckin’ piss.’

He makes a sound at the back of his throat in disagreement, and the bell rings behind him signalling someone else’s entry. Jason sighs, ‘Whatever, man- just let me know when you’re ready.’

He turns away.

Mickey rolls his eyes and lets his forehead fall down onto the sticky bar top. It stinks of spilt tequila and stubbed out ash, but all he can think about is today’s date and it makes him want to scream.

He breathes, alone for a moment, and counts to ten in an ill attempt to find peace. It’s all in vain though because everything is screaming at him and it gnaws down to his bones.

May fucking 9th.

A firm hand claps down on his shoulder.

‘Bit early for you, isn’t it?’ A familiar voice says.

‘Fuck off.’ He snaps, shooting upwards and shaking his shoulders out. He turns and glares at the culprit - it’s just who he suspects. He looks at him expectantly.

‘How you doin’, man?’ Emiliano says, cracking a wide grin. He's a local boy, born and raised in the suburbs outside of town but went to college in Boston so there’s an amusing twang to his English as he speaks. Emiliano loves to mention how much he likes to have an American around - Mickey reminds him of the good days, he says.

Mickey doesn’t tend to hang around in the same place too long - his area of business requires constant moving to save face and keep cover. He can’t make friends, he can’t build relationships. This bar is the closest he’s come, really, and even then he tries to keep it all at arm's length. It’s safer that way, easier…

Things get dangerous when they’re made personal. When he cares. He learnt that the hard way.

Everything Mickey has ever cared about has ruined him, everything he’s ever held close and dear, has shelled him out and left him hollow.

His mother. His father. Chicago. Ian…

So when he crossed that border?

He decided that he was done.

Done with caring, done with friends, done with vulnerability that comes with opening yourself up and letting someone in .

But...if he could make friends? If he let himself cross that line?

Emiliano and Jason would probably be the closest he’s come.

‘What’s up with you?’ Emiliano prods, nudging an elbow into his ribs, ‘Someone shit in your coffee?’

‘Nothin- don’t give me that look, it's nothing.’ Mickey says, waving his hand dismissively. He forces himself to keep his face neutral, ‘You keep lookin’ at me with those raised eyebrows I’m gonna knock your teeth out.’

Emiliano whistles, sliding in next to him. ‘Fuck man, someone did shit in your coffee.’

He leans over the bar and fires off something in quickly spoken Spanish to Jason.  

‘You gotta chill, dude.’ He says, and Jason places three shots of what Mickey assumes is tequila - it’s always tequila here - in front of him.

Emiliano shoves his shoulder, ‘Come on, man.’

Mickey sighs deeply, but feels himself give in. ‘Fuckin’ assholes.’ He says with an irritated grumble, there’s no bite behind it. He knows they mean well, even if he feels like he’s going to throw up.

They raise their glasses in unison and clink them together. He knocks it back.

The liquor stings as it goes down, burning all the way into his stomach. It’s a relief, at least for now, from the painful ache in his chest but it doesn’t stop the one thought that’s been playing on his mind since he discovered the date from flooding through him. The feeling of a lost limb.

Ian should be here. Ian should be here. Ian should be here.

Ian should be here, next to him and raising a glass-

No.

‘Another.’ Mickey mumbles, slamming the empty glass down. Jason raises his eyebrows but obliges, pouring him out another. Mickey shoots it down immediately.

-

The beach spins, nothing in his head is slotting in place properly and he tries to piece things together but he feels like a puzzle made up of only corner pieces. He breathes deeply.

The warm air from the sea washes over him, his bare feet warm in the sand.

It’s the first time he’s felt balance in hours.

This is it. The beach, the sun. The thrum of tequila running through his blood stream, the fiery burn in his throat.

This is what he wanted.

It was the only thing that kept him waking up each morning and going to bed every night in the joint. The last thing he thought of before he closed his eyes and the first thing he thought of before he opened them. It filled him with hope, so much fucking foolish hope.

Except he’s empty. It’s empty.

It’s empty because the key component of his carefully crafted and agonised over Mexico fantasy is missing and for the first time today, Mickey let’s himself think of him, properly visualise and think of him.

Mickey kneels down onto the sand and the barrier breaks.

He thinks about his smile and the way the corners of his mouth curl up fondly when he pretends Mickey exasperates him. His arms, the muscles he built over years worth of ROTC training and the physical need to be better, to fight harder. His red hair and the many ways he’s worn it in the past, long and hanging in his eyes, short back and sides, closely buzzed to the scalp - his scramble to identify and present himself in a community that came with so many labels you’re saddled with from birth. Southsider, Gallagher, Milkovich. The feeling of his calloused and begging hands on his, the sweaty skin on skin, low, guttural breaths. The pressure on his hips, ass, back.

That hot summer, passing cigarettes at the dugouts, the chill against naked skin in the Kash N Grab cooler.

The minutes, the hours, the days spent together.

The minutes, the hours, the days Mickey wasted being scared. A pussy. A coward.

His voice.

I love you.

This isn’t me anymore.

The look in his eyes when they last kissed, faces cradled by gently cupped hands, eyes wet.

Mickey doesn’t think about that day often. He can’t think about it.

If he thinks about it too much, it’ll fill his lungs and he’ll drown.

Mickey knows if he wanted to, if he really, really wanted to, he could walk down to the payphone just off the boardwalk and call him up - the temptation to hear his voice itches. He thinks about it late at night sometimes, the possibility of making that connection beckoning him in the moonlight.

It’s there. It’s in his reach.

But he can’t. Any connection between the two of them could implicate Ian in so many ways and Mickey can’t risk that. He can’t risk cops turning up at Ian’s door in the middle of the night, public call records flattened out a table, tossed accusations of aiding and abetting a fugitive.

No matter how much he wants to.

He can’t.

He knows that their goodbye at the border has to be The Goodbye.

He looks over at the wide ocean, it shimmers as the sun begins to set.

He thinks about the sun and how it’s a consistent factor no matter his place in the world. Unlike many things in life, the sun remains the same.

His love for Ian, like the sun, will always remain the same.

It’s a comfort to know, that thousands of miles away, Ian’s celebrating a new year of life under the same sun.

365 days without him.

In another universe, Ian would be standing next to him looking out onto the same ocean. Maybe they would’ve fucked on the sand, drunk off their asses in celebration. Sand between their toes, the smell of sunscreen sweating off them, sun in their eyes. Perhaps they wouldn’t have even left their apartment, the day spent in a warm bedroom with hot skin and a cold Mexican beer for afters.

In another universe, Ian would’ve taken his hand at the border and said, let’s ride.  

But this isn’t that universe.

He swallows harshly, the remnants of alcohol lingering on his tongue.

He lets himself have one more minute of wallowing, one more minute of missing him, missing them.

One more minute of what ifs and could’ve beens.

He sighs, and looks back out towards the ocean. The waves pull in and out, periodically returning home to the shore. He can’t return back to his home.

He falls back, the sand softening his fall.

He’s not thinking about Ian, he’s not thinking about Chicago, or i love yous at border crossings, or anything else. He’s not thinking about the drug deals he has lined up, or his boss, or those who’ve somehow come to work underneath him. He’s floating, he’s floating away and he really could just disappear.

He wishes he could.

Would anyone even notice if he did?

Mickey lies on the hot sand, closes his eyes, and breathes.

-

2 years or so later, Mickey wakes.

He doesn't need to check the date. He knows.

He thinks back on his time in Mexico and that drunken evening on the beach. He can’t really remember the exact passage of time, being out of prison means he doesn’t feel the need to tirelessly keep track of the days that go by. He simply gets to exist now. There’s no clock hanging above his head.

There is however, a wedding band on his finger and love in his heart.

Mexico and it’s encapsulating loneliness is a memory.

It’s May 9th.

Ian wakes up next to him, tiredly blinking as his eyes adjust to the morning light. Their bed is warm and comforting. Familiar. Ian looks over to him and smiles, a year older.

Mickey smiles back.

He’s not alone anymore.

[johnny-and-dora]

lover, please stay with me

38. “i like love your laugh.” requested by the always angelic adele @b99peraltiago (congratulations on finishing your thesis, my love!)

in which five drink jake will tell anyone who'll listen how much he loves amy santiago. (post 4x09)

read on ao3 -

The bar is a little too loud and a little too bright for her while she’s this appallingly sober - but Amy steps forward and shrugs off her coat anyway, the pleasant warmth of Shaw’s a welcome respite from the harsh December night outside. She frowns at her phone when it tells her a much later time than she wants it to be – while the rest of the squad have been here celebrating their first week back to normality for hours, she’s been stuck at the precinct closing the last of her night shift cases.

And while she’s exceedingly glad that nightmare is behind them, she’s been getting increasingly anxious to spend what’s left of her evening getting wasted with her favourite people in the world instead of yelling at the ever-uncooperative copy machine and nursing a pretty serious hand cramp.

Of course, there’s one particular person that she’s been desperate to see ever since she insisted that he go have a good time with the rest of the squad instead of waiting around with her; her ears soon hone in on a well-known laugh like it’s what they were made to do.

“Amy!” Jake shouts, waving excitedly from the squad’s usual table - his entire face lights up as her eyes meet his and as he eagerly scrambles to make his way over to her, her heart does an all too familiar flutter. It’s seemingly inevitable at this point that by the time he’s stumbled through the Friday evening crowd to reach her his smile is enough to light up the entire room and her heart is practically doing somersaults. They’re so joyously predictable.

“Hey, babe.” She grins, completely and utterly endeared by the uninhibited affection practically visibly radiating from him – he’s clearly drunk, more so than usual as he displays the comic unbalance of a new-born giraffe, eyes slightly glassy yet so happy to see her.

His scale of drunkenness has always been more fluid than hers but he’s definitely somewhere between four drinks and five, bordering dangerously on Hot Mess territory. She protectively holds out an arm to steady him and his grin is almost blinding.

“Guys! I’m on babe terms with Amy Santiago! How cool is that?” He yells back towards the booth, beaming with a pride that makes Amy’s cheeks burn. Charles gives them both a dreamy look, enthusiastically giving Jake a double thumbs up; Gina refuses to look up from her phone.

She can’t help but laugh at how far gone he is – and can’t help blushing deeply when he stares at her in complete awe.

“I love your laugh. Almost as much as your face. You’re so pretty and smart, sometimes you say smart things or you use fancy words or solve impossible cases and I’m just like…” He trails off before goofily miming an explosion with his hands.

“I love you so much. Sometimes so much it feels like I’m going to explode. Is that scientifically possible? You need a drink. I should get you one because I’m the best boyfriend in the entire world.”

Amy watches him, bemused, as he stumbles over to the bar before she can stop him. Next thing she knows Rosa is standing beside her, giving her a standard stoic nod which Amy thinks means she’s happy to see her. She raises an eyebrow in question and as Rosa follows her eyeline to Jake talking animatedly with complete strangers at the bar she barks out a short laugh.

“He’s such a lightweight, can’t handle a couple of shots.” Rosa smirks as she takes a sip of her beer, alcohol appearing to have no impact on her besides a slightly looser smile. “It was pretty funny at first when he was doing karaoke but now he won’t stop talking about you, which is lame but also kind of adorable I guess.”

Amy makes a mental note to ask about the karaoke later – trusting that Gina will have ample video evidence, she contents herself with watching her boyfriend make his way back to her, familiar endearment surging through her whole being.

“Hey, wanna go home?” She asks, taking the beers in his hand from him and gifting them to Rosa, who disappears as quickly as she’d suddenly materialised. He nods so enthusiastically Amy’s certain that he’d let her take him anywhere - she gently squeezes his shoulder, motioning for them to leave. “C’mon. I’m driving.”

“S’fair. You’re so smart. Don’t know if you can tell but…” He leans in closer like he’s spilling a dark secret and the scent of tequila and Old Spice and (inexplicably) her grapefruit shampoo is almost overpowering. “I’m pretty drunk.”

Her ribs ache from laughing and he looks pleased with himself and it’s a snapshot of their whole relationship if she’s ever seen one and she’s so, so incandescently happy.

By the time Amy actually gets him out of the bar it’s almost midnight; she firmly leads him by the hand to the precinct parking lot while he alternates between humming what she thinks might be Smash Mouth and telling her she’s beautiful in an almost reverent tone. It feels like a monumental victory when they finally make it to her car – so much so apparently that Jake feels the need to celebrate by wrapping her up in a warm bear hug that she feels no need to object to.

“Missed you.” He mumbles, pressing a clumsy yet loving kiss to the top of her head. The few hours that they’ve spent apart today seem trivial, almost laughable when the agonising cruelty of their six month separation still feels so raw – but somehow his whisper is burdened with the same weighty sentiment that it was that first day they were reunited.

She wants to remind him that it’s only been a few hours. She wants to tell him that that’s stupid albeit sweet in that fond voice she reserves for him; that they woke up together, had lunch together, spent the entire day together yesterday; she wants to maintain some semblance of logic. And yet as they’re painted golden by the streetlights, half overtired from a long work week and half intoxicated beyond common sense, logic seems completely pointless.

So instead she gently cups his face, leaning in and kissing him; instead she whispers back “I missed you too” and instead finds - logic be damned - she means it.

“Wanna live with you.” He says, almost childlike in sincerity. “Make you breakfast every morning ‘n’ make you another when I burn it. Wanna share a shoe rack and a spice rack and…other kinds of rack.” He huffs like an impatient toddler and it’s unfairly adorable. “I want you to stay.”

“I want that too.” She says softly, biting her lip and cursing (not for the first time) their shared stubbornness preventing them from choosing a place to live together.

“Really?” He says, eyes shining with hope – and it kills her that she can’t just wrap him up in bubble wrap and hide him somewhere safe and secret, can’t ensure that they’ll never be forced apart again by powers beyond their control. Especially because here, now, she’d easily promise him the world, wholeheartedly certain that he deserves it.

“Of course I do.” She loads the words with as much sincerity as possible, stroking his arm and firmly holding his gaze until he appears convinced.

He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, smiling to himself and mumbling something almost completely incomprehensible about a “double tuck” – and it’s ridiculous because they’ve been dating for a year and a half but her stomach still dips like their first kiss was yesterday.

It’s ridiculous, because it would be so easy to say there is absolutely nothing logical about her love for Jake Peralta if it wasn’t for the fact that sometimes it’s the only thing in her world that makes any sense.

When he looks at her like that, nothing else in the world needs to make any sense at all.

The drive home is largely uneventful apart from a beautiful interpretative dance to Taylor Swift that she can’t wait to tease him about tomorrow; they slip into bed with as much grace as to be expected, Amy making sure to leave two aspirin and a glass of water easily within his reach and cancel all of her morning plans, deciding they need some well-deserved slug time.

“Will you stay?” He asks softly, gaze far away as they lie together, Amy gently carding her fingers through his hair; she’s not sure if he means just for tonight or something much grander, but either way her answer remains the same.

“Of course I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” She echoes, and as he sighs with content and starts to drift peacefully to sleep she falls in love with him all over again. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She stays.

[briyourmotherdown]

Put On A Show, Darling - Chapter 2

Pairing: Brian May/Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3196

Warnings: Language, mentions of anxiety, alcohol, little bit of angst

Description: You and Brian have been best friends for over five years now, and you’ve loved him during most of that time. While you’ve been agonising over your hidden feelings, Brian’s gone and got himself a girlfriend. A serious one.

A/N: Hey all :) These first couple of chapters feel a little shitty due to the fact I wrote them quite a few months ago. This fic is based off of an idea I thought of awhile back, and I'm only just going back to it now. Future chapters should be a bit better written and have more structure. Thank you for understanding! 

   A few days pass of the same routine. Wake up, make breakfast with Brian, act as if nothing ever happened, go to class, go to work, and hide away your deep affection for someone you cannot, and never will have.  

  How fun.

  But now it’s shrove Tuesday, AKA pancake day, and Brian and you have a tradition of making pancakes together for dinner. You know you can’t avoid him. Traditions are very important to both you and him, but god, you wish you could. You really wish you could. The last thing you wanted to do was be domestic with him. To feel like a couple making dinner for each other when you knew nothing could ever happen.

   You both stand in front of the bathroom mirror, silence between you except for The Hollies playing softly in the room over.  He starts to hum the tune as he brushes his teeth, watching you apply your makeup in the mirror’s reflection. He spits out the toothpaste into the sink, wiping his mouth with a towel before turning to you,

  “Hey, so about today.”

  “Yeah, are you gonna go buy the ingredients or am I? Because we’re out of flour.” You swipe mascara over your lashes, lips slightly parted in concentration.

  He scratches the back of his neck, “Uh, actually Dani wants me to go over to hers today and make pancakes with her...can you believe she’s never celebrated pancake day?”

  You pause, hand stilling, “Oh.”

  “I’m really sorry, I know we have a tradition but she-“

  “It’s fine, don’t worry.” You don't dare to look at him, not even in the reflection of the mirror. You fear that if you did, you’d either start crying, or you’d throw a punch.

   It may sound silly, but today really means a lot to you. For the past five and a half years you’ve known each other, you’ve always spent pancake day throwing flour at each other and creating a humongous mess that you’d both inevitably have to clean up afterwards.

   “Are you..are you sure?”

  “Of course.” You push out, finally glancing into the mirror to see his face. You regret doing so instantly. The look of concern on his face could haunt you. He had killer puppy dog eyes.

  “Okay, good. Thanks love, I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” Before you can respond, he bolts out of the bathroom, getting dressed to leave.

  When you hear the front door slam finally, you let out a breath, the hurt and irritation finally sinking in.

  I guess I’m just going to have to make myself the most damn delicious pancakes ever.

   The fluorescent lights of your local grocery store don’t do much to help your growing migraine, and the bottles of hard liquor in your basket definitely won’t do anything to aid either. You’ve paid for all the ingredients you need for some mind-blowing pancakes (including the bottle of tequila), and you’re fully prepared to wallow in your sorrows the moment you step back through the door of your apartment. You had class earlier in the morning, so now you were home free and very much alone for the rest of the night.  You have time to waste, and you plan to spend that time getting mind-numbingly drunk.

  The top of the tequila is quickly popped off as you plop onto the sofa, not bothering with a glass as you gulp some of it down, wincing. “Holy shit.”

  The tiny TV that Brian brought home one day is flicked on, reruns of cheesy sitcoms flashing across the screen.

  “It’s just you and me it seems.” You lift up your bottle of tequila, taking another swig and grimacing once again, “And you never get easier to get down.”

  Ah, the perfect way to pass time.

   And you’re right, because two hours pass rather quickly when you’re laughing and getting drunk. But now you’re starving. Absolutely ravenous, and a stack of warm pancakes sounds fucking mouth-watering right now. The only bad part is that you’re alone, and you actually have to make the pancakes yourself.

  You groan into your hands but nevertheless stand up, stumbling slightly and giggling as you make your way to the kitchen. The bottle of tequila is empty, and you crack open the next bottle, vodka. This time you actually mix the fiery liquid with some tonic water, sipping at the glass as you lay out your ingredients.

  “Okay. Flour, eggs...” You hiccup, beginning to mix the ingredients together haphazardly. You’re definitely not following any recipe and you’re definitely just hoping that you’re lucky and they’ll come out the way Brian makes them. Brian is unusually good at making pancakes, so good that he’s always the one cooking on pancake day as you set up all the toppings.

  But he’s not here, and you’re left with a batter that seems far too runny and a mess that you’ll have to clean up alone. You really aren’t a bad cook, actually whipping up some delicious dishes quite often, but pancakes, for some reason were just not one of your strong suits.  Flour was all across the island, smeared across your cheek, and dusted in your hair.

  “Ow!” You yelp, nursing your now burnt finger in your hand. Why you thought it was a good idea to test to see if the pan was hot enough by using your finger beats you, but you did. The batter is poured into the pan, and you leave it to cook for a minute as you take a few more sips of your drink. You’re steadily drunk now, but refuse to admit it to yourself.

   With all your effort, your burnt finger, and the large mess in the kitchen, you prayed that the pancakes would be good, simply so that you could rub it in Brian and Dani’s face. But despite all of that, you turned the heat up too high, the pancake quickly blackening and smoking, the odour hitting your nose as you hurry to turn the heat off and lift the pan off the heat quickly. Burning yourself again in the process, you shriek and drop the pan onto the tile. The food is so burnt that when it hits the ground, it practically shatters, sending black dust everywhere.  

   The apartment falls silent, and you stare at the scene around you before the tears hit you like a tidal wave. A Tsunami of drunken emotion over a burnt pancake, the probably chipped tile, your now stinging fingers, and the fact that Brian is with Dani possibly eating his goddamn delicious pancakes. Despite the tears streaming down your face and the mascara burning your eyes, you drunkenly laugh at the scene around you.

  You know that feeling when life just seems so unbelievably fucked, so surreal, that you can’t help but laugh? You could quite possibly be going mad, but you push that thought to the side as you go into hysterics.

  Apparently some higher power has it in for you tonight though when the front door screeches open, the voice of the one and only Brian May ringing through the apartment, “I’m just back to pick up-, is something burning?”

  He rushes to find you, jaw dropping as he takes in the war zone of what used to be a kitchen. His eyes scan over the flour-covered island, to the empty bottle of tequila, to the pan on the floor, and then to where you are sunken onto the floor in a puddle of drunken despair.

  “Bloody hell, what happened here?”

  “Someone up above really isn’t on my team.”

   He notices the slur in your words, sighing and kneeling down next to you, “Are you drunk?”

   “No?”

  He purses his lips and shakes his head, “Alright, up you get.” Gently grabbing  you by your forearms, he lifts you onto your feet. You stumble into him and he lets out a sound of surprise, pulling you to his torso to balance you. Your entire front is pressed against his, and you giggle.

  “Someone’s feeling a bit frisky today.” You grin drunkenly at him, eyes glazed over, reaching up to tap his nose with your pointer finger.

  “Christ, how much did you drink?” He can’t help but let out a chuckle at how shitfaced you are, but he’s concerned. He’s only ever seen you this drunk twice in the time he’s known you. Once when you failed your finals, and once when an ex tried to come back into your life and inevitably screwed you over. So it’s no surprise that he’s worried. The only times you’ve been this wasted, something was really affecting you.

  “Only like...a bottle? Or so?”  You cling onto the material of his shirt as he attempts to walk you both to the bathroom, struggling as he trips over your feet a few times.

 “Christ.” He sighs.

 How he gets you both to the bathroom, he’s not quite sure, but he sits you on the lid of the toilet as he runs a bath.

  “I’m going to go call Dani and tell her that I won’t be able to make it. Stay here and don’t move, alright? Don’t want you somehow drowning yourself.”

  “Aye aye captain!” You salute him, and he rolls his eyes before exiting the bathroom.

  You stay seated on the toilet seat, swaying side to side ever so slightly as you attempt to eavesdrop on Brian. You can just barely hear him over the splash of running water.

  “I’m really sorry, she’s drunk- yeah, I know. I’ll make it up...something is wrong…” You can’t really make out what he’s saying, it just sounds like a bunch of jumbled words. With a huff, you give up and wait for him to return.

 He walks back in holding a couple of towels, setting them on the sink before kneeling next to the bathtub. He grabs a purple bottle and pours some of the liquid under the running water, a floral scent filling the room. When he stands back up, you notice how he looks even taller in the confined space of your bathroom. He could easily touch both sides of the room if he spread his arms. You stifle a giggle.

   “What’s so funny, huh?” He leans against the sink as he narrows his eyes in your direction.

  “You’re tall.” You laugh, swaying side to side. Somehow in your drunken state, what you said was absolutely hilarious to you.

  “I’m quite aware of this.” He sighs.

  “Like a tree.”

  “Hey, rude.” He pouts, but can’t help the small smile on his lips as he looks down at you.

  Your laughing slows to a giggle and you close your eyes with a hum. He doesn’t notice the bath filling too high as he scans over your features. Hair failing in front of your eyes, a bit of flour still smeared over your cheek, lips pouting ever so slightly. You look beautifully natural, and he furrows his brows at you.

  What’s going on in that head of yours?

  When he finally glances back over to the bath, he swears and quickly shuts the nearly-overflowing tap off before running to fetch you a glass of water. He has to dodge a burnt pancake on the way to the sink, shaking his head at your foolishness.

  When he returns, you open your eyes, “Is that vodka?”

  He swats away your grabby hands, “No, it’s water. Drink up.”

  You pout, but take the water from his hands, gulping it down quickly and spilling some down your front. Once the glass is drained, you look back up to see him staring disapprovingly down at you.

  “Is the bath for you? Stinky.” You ask him with yet another giggle.

 “You’re a child.” He tuts with amusement, “Get in, you smell like death and burnt pancake.”

  Sticking your tongue out in defiance, you stand up. “I wouldn’t have burned the pancake if you weren’t out with Dani.”

  His eyebrows furrow at your inflection, “What’s that supposed to mean?” You don’t answer.

 “Woah, Y/N, what are you doing?”

  You begin undressing, lifting your t-shirt over your head and leaving you in your bra. “What? Do you bathe fully clothed? I always knew you were an alien.”

  His words don’t come out clearly as his mouth is dry, his eyes shamelessly scanning over your exposed skin, though you don’t realise.

  “I-fuck, hold on.” He turns away to face the wall, hiding his red cheeks and also giving you privacy. “Tell me when you’re under the bubbles..”  

  He really didn’t think this through. Of course you’d have to get naked to have a bath, why didn’t he think of that before he ran you one? Thankfully he went overboard with the bubble bath, dumping in enough of the liquid to last a year.

  You’re too drunk to even register what you’re doing as you strip down to nothing and step into the hot water. You would never dream of being this bold sober, but you slide down into the bubbles with a contented sigh, calling out to him, “I’m covered,” you scoop up a handful of suds, “Wow, this is a lot of bubbles.”

  He turns around and scans over the bath, making sure that you are indeed covered, and smiling endearingly down at you. You’re entirely engulfed in bubbles, all the way up to your chin. You’ve placed a blob of suds on top of your head, grinning like a child back up at him.

 But he needs to know what you meant by what you said, something in his gut is making him uneasy. Why have you been acting this way?

  “What did you mean by what you said, Y/N?” He asks, the tone becoming serious as he sits down on the lid of the toilet seat. The suds fall off of your head and you frown.

 “By what?” You feign innocence, swishing your feet around the hot water and sinking down lower to wet your hair.

 “You know exactly what.”

You turn to him, scooping up some bubbles and flinging them at him. He makes a sound of disgruntlement as it lands directly on the front of his shirt.

 “Y/N!” He scolds, swiping it off of his clothes and attempting to throw it back at you, but it sticks to his hands before landing on his lap.

  “What did you mean earlier, about Dani.” His shoulders slump in defeat, rubbing the now deflated pile of bubbles into his trousers.

  The sound of the water sloshing in the tub along with the gentle drips of the leaking tap that you most definitely should get fixed is all to be heard as you think over your answer in silence.  

  “Just meant that my best friend missed out on pancake day is all.”

 The answer is short and simple, and Brian knows deep down that you are holding something back, but in the moment he decides not to push.

So with a long sigh, he drops his head so that his curls shadow his eyes, “I’m sorry about that. I just- I thought-.” He pauses for thought, your stomach churning with what can either be the alcohol or the heavy feeling of rejection you always get when you’re around Brian. Right now, you can’t decipher which is making you feel the most dizzy.

  He rubs at his eyes with his knuckles, tilting his head back up to meet your gaze. “You said it was fine this morning.”

  It’s your turn to sigh, a long drawn out sigh, as you lean your head back to rest on the uncomfortable porcelain coated steel. What could you possibly say to that?

  I said that because I’m desperately trying to hide how much I care for you as more than a friend, but you’re too blind to see that I die a little bit every time you look at me and at this point it’s getting ridiculous.

  “It’s just tradition, that’s why I was upset. It’s no big deal, it sounds stupid now.”

  Brian sits in silence, his lips pursed as he silently begs you to just be honest. He isn’t even sure what he wants you to say. He just knows that you’re not being truthful.

  “Are you sure?”

 You close your eyes in attempt to stop the spinning of the small room. The heaviness of his gaze lingers on your face, you can practically feel it.

  “Yes.”

  He sighs, nodding his head and pursing his lips. He looks as though he’s trying to reassure himself that you’re telling the truth. The room is so hot, you notice, and you are starting to sweat. Suddenly there are too many bubbles around you and the smell of soap is too strong. Your stomach churns, your head spins, you’re panicking.

  Brian notices your face go pale, “Are you alright-”

  “Get out.” it comes out harsh as you panic, breath coming out in hurried pants..

  “What-”

  “Brian, get out!”:

  He stands up, scurrying out of the small bathroom and you are finally able to lift yourself out of the tub. The cool air hits your naked form and offers slight relief, but the room still spins, you feel sick. You grip the edge of the sink, knuckles turning white as you stare at yourself in the mirror. Water drips from your skin onto the floor, but you don’t care. You recognise this feeling, you’ve had it before.

  You’re having a panic attack.

 The spinning subsides enough for you to grab a towel, and you dry yourself off before dressing into the pyjamas Brian left out for you. You try to clean up your mess and unplug the bath plug, before sitting on the toilet seat and watching it drain.

  You feel the effects of the panic attack fade slightly as you only focus on the spinning water, the after effects of an attack taking its place. Sadness, defeat. You’re not drunk anymore.

  You just want your bed. That’s all. You don’t want to face Brian, you don’t want to think about him, you don’t want to imagine him and Dani. You just want to sleep. You’re never lonely in your dreams. You’re never sad.

  When you sneak out of the bathroom, Brian is already in his room, allowing you to slip into your bedroom unnoticed. Your bed is beyond inviting, and you plop yourself down with a sigh. The cold sheets sooth your burning skin, lulling you into the state between sleep and consciousness.

     “You alright?” Brian asks from the doorway and you flinch. You hadn’t even heard him knock.

  He ignores the elephant in the room, and you’re thankful. You don’t feel like explaining to him what pushed you to the point of a panic attack.

  “Mmph.” You grumble.

  “I put some ibuprofen and water next to your bed, you’ll need it.”

  “Thanks.” You mumble simply, your eyelids fluttering closed.

  “I won’t be here in the morning. Dani wants to meet for breakfast.”

  He waits for your reply, but you fake sleep, forcing out a few light snores to convince him.

   But he’s not convinced, letting out a sigh.

  “Goodnight, Y/N.”

  You never snore.

[fatbottombucky]

The Librarian *Bucky Barnes x Reader* NSFW

Summary: A University AU. You have been studying in the library all weekend, although the sexy librarian has been distracting you. Turns out you’ve been a bit of distraction for him also. Warnings: Explicit (+18) smut, public sex, no condom & oral. Also swearing

Quick thank you to my close friend @full-of-sins-not-tragedies for reading this over for me. - Rosalie

University was hard and stressful but you loved every second of it. You had made friends with all the History majors, your dorm roommate was hilarious and the campus coffee pop-up stand was a lifesaver, literally. University was everything you expected to be and more, you did think it would be more partying at 4 am but you did go to the occasional one or two at the weekend.

Except for this weekend. This weekend is spent in the library on campus, researching medicine in the 18th century. You had been arriving as soon as the doors opened and staying to just before closing time.

Also, you couldn't lie the man running the library this weekend was hot. When you walked in on Saturday morning, he was perched behind the oak desk with a book, glasses perched on his nose and long hair tied back into a bun. White button up shirt tucked into blue denim jeans. He was intimidatingly handsome, rugged with the unshaven face but adorable in the sense his mouth moved as he read; muttering the words to himself.

You had, admittedly, been slightly creepy with the staring when reading about history became boring. He was just so intriguing to you. You hadn't seen him work here through the week, you hadn't seen him around campus either, he was an enigma to you. You wanted to know more but yet, you didn't want to go up and just talk to him. So, you kept to sneakily peeking over the mountain of books at him.

When you walked in on Sunday morning it was dead. Everyone had gone out partying Saturday night, leaving the library to be empty on Sunday as they all nursed their hangovers. He was there, sat silently behind the desk, till he glanced up at the door opening and smiled at you. Pride and Prejudice perched in his right hand.

“Morning,” you didn't expect his voice to sound like that. It was smooth but rough, and mesmerising. “I left all your books stacked from yesterday,” he nods to the table you have been sitting at, you shyly smiled. His smile and eyes, close up, had you weak at the knees.

“Thank you.” You walk over and place your bag down, taking off your jacket and sitting down. You glanced at the librarian, his gaze fixed on the book in his hand, his grey eyes zoning in on the words before him. God, he is handsome! The blue button up shirt clings to him desperately, whenever he moves his hand to flip a page the shirt seams strain, he really needs a bigger size; although, you appreciate the smaller size.

You quickly open one of the books just so you look as though you're doing something. Instead of studying the book you begin to think what his name could be, what name suits him to you. He suited the name Joe, it's not like you were ever gonna find out his name; you'd never talk to him unless necessary to find a book.

Two hours passed and no one else had even walked past the library, let alone enter it. You sighed bored, glancing to where the librarian worked on putting books on shelves. He had a trolley beside him, stacked full of books that he was organising, putting in the correct places. His muscular back directed at you, his long hair pulled into a low bun at the nape of his neck. Your eyes trailed down to his ass, it was a fantastic one, shapely and perky; he was just overall perfect. An Adonis, sculpted by the gods, made to torture introverted history majors.

Before you knew it, you were staring at the silver zipper of his black skinny jeans. He had turned around. You were staring at his crotch. You hurriedly looked away, way to be subtle! You glanced to see him chuckling to himself, he had caught you creepily checking him out, how humiliating. You'd have to move to another library after this, the one off campus, it was an hour or two away but, at least, they didn't have an Abercrombie model walking around. You watched him from your peripheral vision, stacking and arranging the shelves, occasionally glancing at you; probably, to make sure you weren't sexually assaulting him with your eyes.

After an another agonising hour, you decided to call it quits. You weren't taking in any new information nor could you focus with the librarian walking around in those tight jeans. You stacked the five, heavy, history books and walked down the many aisles and shelves till you reached your section. You put the books back, hopefully, in the correct spaces.

“Those books don't go there,” a soft voice chides through the silent library. You gulp and look over your shoulder, he's leaning against the shelves opposite you, arms crossed and looking you over. “Those three go up there.” He points to the shelves above, two up. “I’d get you a ladder but it's broken.” He shrugs, a smirk fighting to come on his face.

You looked at the shelves again, seeing the empty spaces. You didn't remember getting these books from here but paying no mind to that, you got on your tippy toes, and reached to put each book in the empty places. You could feel the skirt you decided to wear rise up the back of your thighs. Before you could let that thought set, a warm body pressed against the back of you, it was hard and firm. A hand slipped up your arm and grabbed the last book from yours and place it back for you.

“I know you've been watching me.” His warm breath fanning against the back of your neck, blowing your hair forward. “I wasn't sure at first but today? Today it was perfectly clear you've been thinking what I have been too.” That confession had you keening, your eyes fluttered closed as his hands gripped your hips pulling you flush against his hard chest. His nose nuzzled the hair from your neck, his lips ghosting over the flesh as he spoke, “you've been driving me crazy since you walked in here. Short skirt, denim jacket and biting that pen of yours.”

Your breath hitched at his words, the fact he's been watching you too. The fact he was trying to restrain himself like you have been doing. Thank god it was a Sunday and you were the only two people not hungover.

One of his hands slipped down your stomach, trailing along the black skater skirt material till his fingertips made contact with the soft flesh of your upper thigh. You licked your lips to stop them from drying out- due to the fact you were harshly breathing, you really need to control yourself- as his fingers toyed with the lace panties you wear underneath. One, long, slim finger ran along your lace covered cunt, feeling your wetness through the material, you flushed with embarrassment; two days of sexual frustration, of just watching him and you were this wet for him.

He didn't comment, only groaned as he rubbed you through the panties. Lips trailing along your neck, his other hand holding your stomach and keeping you up and pressed to him. Your knees shook at his ministrations. His fingers moved your panties to the side and instantly he pressed two into you.

You groaned loudly, the sound echoing off of the shelves and around the usually silent library. “Shhhh! You gotta be silent in the library.” You whimpered softly; your own hands gripping the shelves in front of you tightly. His fingers pumped into you hard and fast, he sucked marks harshly onto your neck, occasionally nibbling the skin.

You bite your bottom lip to stop from crying out. He was good, too good, with just his fingers. You couldn't begin to imagine what damage he could possibly do with his mouth and cock. It's like he could read your mind because he pulled his fingers out of you, lifting his hand up towards you but instead of having you taste yourself (like some guys love watching you do.), he slipped the fingers into his own mouth. You watched from over your shoulder, the sight alone making you grow wetter. He groaned at the taste of you.

He pulled away a bit, spinning you around to face him. His glasses were slipping down the bridge of his nose, his dark hair was messy but still looking perfect. He gripped each side of your panties and pulled them down your legs, slipping to his knees before you, and helping you step out of a scrap of material. His large warm hands skimmed up the back of your legs, helping pull one leg over his shoulder and have full access to your most intimate parts. Not wasting any time he dove right into you.

You gasped loudly as he sucked on your clit harshly, nibbling on the sensitive bud. His stubble rubbing against your inner thighs creating a heavenly friction that you've never felt before now. From the painful book shelves digging into your back, the lapping and licking of his mouth and tongue, plus the thrill of doing this out in the open had you on the premise of an orgasm. You looked down meeting his stormy grey eyes that are framed by his glasses, his hands holding your hips and keeping your skirt up.

You felt yourself reaching your blissful end but before you could tip over the edge he pulled away. His mouth, chin and stubble glistening with your juices. You whined at the loss of contact, he slipped your leg off his shoulder and stands towering over you. His stare is intense as he looks at you, brushing the hair from your face and moulding his lips over yours in a passionate kiss.

You helped undo his belt and jeans, sliding your hand inside of his boxers and feeling how hard, hot and ready he is for you. You had to remember to take a thank you card to your history lecturer tomorrow, if it wasn't for him assigning hard essays, you wouldn't be in this position right now.

“You ready-”

“God, just fuck me already.” Your voice is breathless and pitchy, he chuckled and hoisted you up, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He lines himself up to your entrance, “it's Bucky, by the way.” You frowned and looked at him, “my name.” He grins before you could tell him your own he's pushing inside of you, stretching you to accommodate himself. He groans resting his head in the crook of your neck, you feel him shake a little at allowing you to get used to his size.

“Bucky,” you breathed, carding your fingers through his hair. “Move, please, move.” You gasped.

Holding your quivering thighs, he lifted his head and began a punishing pace into you. The air was knocked out of your lungs as you clung to his back, letting him pound into you. The ache of the shelves being pushed into your back was becoming numb to the pleasure you were feeling. His grunts and groans being muttered into your ear, you cried a little loudly when he hit the right spot. His lips quickly silencing you.

His hips snap to yours in a fast, brutal pace, the sound echoing off the shelves. One of his hands slink down your bodies and start rubbing quick circles on your clit, forcing you quickly to the edge. You gasp and whimper feeling your walls flutter around him, nails digging into his shirt covered shoulders. You faintly hear the sounds of loud thuds on the floor but ignore it in your orgasm bliss haze. His hips continue to snap and stutter till he reaches his end.

He grunts into your ear, a small sound as he releases into you. You hold onto each other, his head in the crook of your neck and still locked to each other pressed to the shelves.

He lifts his head, pieces of hair has fallen from his bun frame his face, his glasses are steamed up and crooked on his face and he wears a blissful smile. You chuckle and grin back at him, he pulls himself out of you and helps you clean up and pull your panties up as he tucks himself back in. You look at the floor and see various books littering around, you raise your eyebrows and chuckle with him.

“Uh- I'm Y/N, by the way.” You shyly smile, blushing a little at the fact he didn't know your name and you only knew his and the fact he was a librarian here.

He chuckled and looked nervous. “Yeah, I know. You're friends with Natasha,” you nod a little. “I'm friend with Steve, you were at his birthday party.”

“Wow. Small world,” you mutter. “Sorry for creepily staring at you.” He raised his eyebrows.

“We just fucked in the library I volunteer at and you're saying sorry for the very reason we did that.” He laughed and you rolled your eyes. “I get off work in ten minutes… want to get some coffee?”

(Honestly, I am slut for university AU’s which is why I have a three part fic of one, based upon my own time at university because my friend Ben reminded me of all the shit we got into together and honestly if it ain’t Bucky at university, then I don’t know. - Rosalie) 

[just-french-me-up]

Okay but did Eponine and Cosette set Jehan and Montparnasse up on a blind date

2.5k and a link on AO3 later

Montparnasse was prettysure that Eponine and Cosette finally getting together was the lastseal required to spark off Armageddon. It had to be. Otherwise whyelse would Eponine act so weird? His roommate had beenreplaced by some permanently and frankly creepy smiling being whospent her time on the phone giggling like a middle schooler who’ddrunk half a glass of apple cider. Montparnasse had heard her singthis morning, for fuck’s sake! Something had fallen apart in thefabric of the universe, and Montparnasse was trapped in the uncannyvalley.

And honestly, he couldhave dealt with their syrupy lovey-dovey bullshit if they didn’tactively try to drag him into their cult. Now that they knew thebliss of young love, Cosette and Eponine had convinced each otherthat Montparnasse needed to be infected with the same ailment. Theycouldn’t have been more wrong.

Montparnasse didn’t date.It was a principle of his. So when Eponine ambushed him in astereotypical Parisian café on a fine Saturday afternoon,Montparnasse’s first reflex was to flee towards the nearest exit.

“You haven’t even metthem yet! They would be perfect for you!” Eponine protested,hooking her arm around his to stop him in his flight.

“I’m pretty sure thisviolate the Geneva convention,” Montparnasse grunted, fightingagainst her grip.

How dare she set him uplike this! It was too early for him to deal with that kind ofbullshit and she knew it! He should have known something was up whenshe texted him to meet at a café. Eponine was a bar person, not acafé person. Jesus, why did every person in a relationship thoughtthey had to “fix” single people into an item?

“Come on, what do youhave to lose?”

“My time,”Montparnasse answered flatly.

Having a good enough holdon him, Eponine started dragging Montparnasse away from the exit backtowards the main room. A reluctant cat on a leash would have beenmore cooperative. Oh, he could have escaped, if he had really put aneffort into it. But what would have been the point? If he fled now,Eponine would find other sneaky ways to trick him into going on adate, sooner or later. Might as well get it over with now, once andfor all. But he wouldn’t give in to her without putting up a fightfirst.

“Look at it this way:worst case scenario, you waste twenty little minutes. Best casescenario, you get laid. It’s honestly not that big of a deal.”

“I don’t need you to getlaid,” Montparnasse groaned between his teeth.

The café was a realtourist trap. There was even a surprising lack of accordion player onthe terrace. The main room was filled with tourists taking picturesof everything and anything. You could always spot them. They were theonly ones ordering croissants. Cosette, with her bright pink hair,stood out of the crowd like a beacon. She made a sign to Eponine andMontparnasse, and Eponine’s grip on his arm tightened. Montparnasse’seyes fell on the second beacon present in the room, a cascade of redhair falling in soft waves on naked freckled shoulders. Montparnasseblinked, taking in the freckled face and shy smile, the big doe eyesand bright yellow sundress. It was too much to process at once. Fuck,they were beautiful.

Eponine let go of his arm,but Montparnasse failed to notice. She went to kiss her girlfriend, aspring in her steps. Fuck, they were beautiful. Irritatinglybeautiful. Montparnasse’s gaze went from their designated date toEponine, daggers in his eyes. He couldn’t let her win. He couldn’tlet her sappy rhetoric win!

“Jehan, this isMontparnasse,” Cosette said enthusiastically, giving Eponinemeaningful looks. “Montparnasse this is Jehan! We thought you’dlike to meet.”

“Hi,” said his date,waving their hand.

Montparnasse merelynodded. Cosette and Eponine looked at them both, positively elated.

“Well, we’ll leave youto it,” Eponine declared, quickly leading Cosette out of the café.“Have fun!”

They were already too faraway for Montparnasse to protest. He found himself face to face witha stranger, a beautiful stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. Hisdate, Jehan, gave him an embarrassed smile and sat at the nearesttable. For a second, Montparnasse weighed his options. He couldleave. He could walk out the door, just like that. He didn’t knowthem, why should he care? He glanced outside. Eponine and Cosettewere sitting at the terrace. Fine. Reluctantly, as though someone waspushing on his shoulders and hitting him behind his knees,Montparnasse sat at the other end of the small table.

“Is Jehan your realname?” he found himself asking.

“It’s Jean, actually,”his date explained, tucking a lock of red hair behind their ear. “Butmost people call me Jehan. Is Montparnasse your real name?”

Montparnasse shrugged.

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not. Youdon’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

An awkward moment ofsilence fell between them. Montparnasse was suddenly very aware ofhis body. What should he do with his arms? With his hands? He hadants crawling under the sole of his feet, all of a sudden. Jesus, henever had to think about this, usually!

“Listen,” Jehan said,leaning forward slightly, as though they didn’t want to be heard byother people. “we both know what’s going on here. I know you’drather be elsewhere, and I could frankly do with less scrutiny overmy sentimental life. We’re in the same boat here. So how about wechat for ten or twenty minutes, tell them we tried and call it aday?”

Montparnasse could nothave said why, but he felt slightly offended that Jehan had alreadydecided things would not work out. Before he remembered that hehad already decided things would not work out. He crossed his armsagainst his chest and leaned against the table.

“Glad we’re on the samepage,” he said, keeping a neutral tone.

The cheerful voice of thewaitress rose above them:

“Good afternoon! Whatcan I get you today?”

“Black coffee, please,”Montparnasse said.

Actually, he longed for adeliciously frozen and decadent frappuccino topped with caramel syrupand whipped cream. He’d skipped breakfast. And lunch. Probablybecause he’d been sleeping until 1PM, until the infamous Eponine textwoke him up. And there he was. Coffee for breakfast, then. At least,in a café, those came with a biscuit.

“I’ll take a pot ofChai, if you don’t mind, er,” Jehan squinted to read the waitress’sbadge, “Elodie. That’d be lovely.”

“Great. I’m bringing youall of that!”

The waitress scribbled onher notepad and dashed to another table. Left alone for a secondtime, the silence felt all the heavier.

“How do you knowEponine, then?” Jehan eventually asked, before the awkwardnesscould reach the point of no return.

“She’s my roommate.Childhood friend. You?”

“I’m part of les Amis del'ABC, you know, the activist group.”

Montparnasse nodded. Ahyes. The Wednesday meetings Eponine went to. He’d always thought shewent there because Cosette hung out with these people, and whatevercould get her closer to Cosette was good to take. He’d never reallythought she was actually interested in all that social justice stuffuntil he’d see her making protest signs that one time. There wasstill glitter on the carpet. A damn shame.

“That’s where I metCosette, too,” Jehan continued, their nails playing with the cracksof the wooden table. “It’s really great that they’re finallytogether. They danced around the question for too long, everybodycould see it. It was agonising.”

Montparnasse let out achuckle, in spite of his best efforts to stay stoic.

“Tell me about it. Youdidn’t actually live with one of them. It was hell.”

“I can imagine,” Jehansaid with a little smile. Jesus, did they always look at peoplethrough their lashes like that?

The cup of black coffeeand the pot of Chai arrived quickly on the table. They thanked thewaitress and she put a little saucer on the table, for the bill.While Jehan was pouring sugar into their pot, Montparnasse put a teneuro note into the saucer.

“Oh, I don’t want you topay for me!” Jehan said, embarrassed.

Montparnasse quirked aneyebrow.

“I’m not paying for you.I’m leaving her a tip.”

Jehan’s eyes went fromMontparnasse to the saucer and the ten euro note.

“That's―That’sone hell of a tip,” they pointed out.

“Shehas a god-awful thankless job,” Montparnasse shrugged. “The ordercame quickly and she was nice. I would have killed for a tip likethat.”

“Didyou use to work as a waiter?”

“Worst.A barrista. The worst three months of my life.”

Alright,considering, perhaps not the worst three months of his life. Butthose three months were pretty much up there in the pantheon of hisshitty life experiences.

“Didyou quit?” Jehan asked. They sounded curious. Suddenly, theconversation didn’t feel as awkward.

“Iwas fired,” Montparnasse answered with a little teasing smile. Hetook a sip out of his cup to build suspense. “I hated this job andwanted to leave, anyway. But one day some guy came to the coffee shopand stayed there for about three hours. He was a creeper, you knowthe type. He started bothering a couple of girls, so I thought I’dbuy him coffee on the house. Unfortunately that coffee ended up onhim rather than on his table, what a shame. My hands are usually sosteady.”

Agrin grew on Jehan’s face, and they made an approving sound.

“Thatguy could have sued you, though,” they remarked.

“Ipersuaded him not to,” Montparnasse said airly. “The coffee shophad security cameras. It’d have been a shame for the tapes to bereleased. I know people who are very good at sharing files.”

Jehandrank a bit of their tea. If Montparnasse was to believe the smile ontheir face, they were very amused.

“Sowhat you’re saying is that you’re chaotic good?”

“Oh,fuck no,” Montparnasse snorted. “Chaotic neutral maybe. Or trueneutral. You just don’t creep on people in my coffee shop. Creeper,creeper, crotch on fire.”

Fuck,this was going well. This was going toowell. They werelaughing together for fuck’s sake!

“Iworked in retail once,” Jehan said, holding their tea cup with bothhands. “It didn’t go well either. There was a lot of misgendering,but I was prepared for that. One day the manager told me I madepeople uncomfortable, because they didn’t know or didn’t understandmy gender. It weirded them out, so they had to let me go.”

Well,so much for the light-hearted atmosphere. Jehan’s story was a gutpuncher. Montparnasse pursed his lips and fidgeted with this coffeecup. That was the sort of bullshit Claquesous had to deal with, too.

“I’msorry,” he said. “That was really shitty of them. Isn’t thatdiscrimination? Couldn’t they get in trouble for that?”

“Itwas a while ago,” Jehan shrugged. “It got to me when it happened,but I don’t really care anymore.”

“Whatshop was it?”

“Why,are you going to go and persuadethem to right their wrong?” Jehan teased.

“Maybe.”

Jehanraked a hair through their hair and smiled at him. They liked him. Ormaybe he was reading too much into it. They appreciated him, atleast. He didn’t care about being appreciated, most of the time. Butjust this once, it felt nice. Warm.

“You’resweet, but I don’t think it’s necessary. They’re just―”

Alittle jingle rose from their bag, startling them both.

“Shit,sorry,” Jehan muttered as they reached for something in their bag.“I thought I’d turned it off.”

Thewords “it’s okay” got stuck in Montparnasse throat. Out of habit,he had looked into their bag and recognised a familiar rainbowpattern on a package.

“Yousmoke Sobranies?” he blurted out before he could think better ofit.

Caughtoff guard, Jehan looked at Montparnasse, then down at their bag, thenat Montparnasse again.

“Oh―er―yes,well, I don’t smoke that often, actually. That packet must be twoyears old. It’s more of a―er―aesthetic thing.”

Montparnassereached into the pocket of his jacket and retrieved the slick blackpacket of Sobranies he kept there. Jehan let out a surprised gasp,before their expression turned into utter joy.

“BlackRussians! God, no one knows what they are around here! They’re sofancy, I love them!”

“They’resuch a bitch to get in France,” Montparnasse said, encouraged bythe enthusiasm in Jehan’s voice.

“Iorder mine online. Well, once every two years, you know.”

Theylooked at each other, all smiles. Fuck,they really werebeautiful. And they really wereinteresting. And they really made him want to stay and keep talking.He glanced outside again, his gaze covering the terrace in search forEponine and Cosette. They were nowhere to be seen.

“Look,”he said, his lips moving of their own volition, “I know a place inMontmartre. Great view. Maybe we could go there, if you want?Exchange a Black Russian against a Sobranie Cocktail?”

Jehanseemed to take his words in, wondering whether or not they shouldleave with an almost total stranger. Montparnasse was hanging at theedge of their lips, and he couldn’t believe the fact that he wantedthem to say yes. Damn Eponine and her schemes.

“I’dlove that.”

Eponineflicked through the channels, Azelma leaning against her. The morechannels you get, the least watchable things there are. They watchedbits and pieces of shows. Half of them were about cooking, because ofcourse they were. They were halfway through a very tensemayonnaise-making session when the front door opened. Eponinestraightened her back, disturbing Azelma who had dozed off fiveminutes ago.

“So?”she asked expectantly, looking at Montparnasse take off his leatherjacket.

“Sowhat?” Montparnasse rolled his eyes.

“Sohow was the date! Isn’t Jehan amazing? Did you like them?”

“Theywere alright,” Montparnasse answered flatly, quickly walkingtowards the kitchen to avoid any more questions.

“Parnasse,what’s that on your neck?” Azelma asked, a little sleepy.

Eponinelet out a loud gasp at the sight of the red bruise glowing onMontparnasse’s neck. Immediately, Montparnasse slapped his handagainst the mark and walked faster.

“Ohmy god! You made out! That’s a hickey! Montparnasse, come back here!Oh my god, I knew it!”

“Oh,shut up!”

[cultural tidbit: There’s actually no tipping in French culture, we just don’t tip waiters. Why, you might ask? Isn’t that unfair? Well, here, the tip is included in the bill, you don’t actually have to tip because they have a steady income. You pay a bit more than in other countries, but that’s because your order + the tip is one and only thing. That being said, I’ve seen tip jars in France, and I’ve seen people tip before. Maybe they do it in Paris, I don’t know, I’m not Parisian, so I included it anyway! That’s how it was explained to me growing up, maybe now tipping is a thing? I’m as clueless as you are.]