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stardustshelb · 1 year

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"Strawberry" Part Five

TW: Language

Word count: 7,999

Chapter Thirteen

I finished applying my lipstick in the bathroom mirror when I heard my phone vibrate on the counter. My heart fluttered when I thought it’d be Josh telling me they were on their way, but instead it was Kenneth’s name on the screen. My heart sank.

Kenneth: “Are you alive? I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

Me: “All good here! How is everything with you?”

Kenneth: “Good. I’m ready for you to come home.” I hesitated on what to reply back to his message. I was so not ready to come home, but I knew my return was inevitable.

Me: “Only two more days.” I replied with a sad face emoji. Of course, I was sad because I only had two days left of freedom, fun, and Joshua. I wasn’t ready to return back to the same loneliness I feel in Oklahoma. Just then, I got a notification of a text from Plagiarism.

Plagiarism: “We are heading your way now.” I smiled and held the message down to “love” it before taking one final look in the mirror. I was so nervous to meet his friends, well–brothers–but I was even more nervous about how the girls were going to behave tonight. I turned the bathroom light off, stuck my phone in my jean backpocket, and made my way into the living room where the girls were all hanging out. Despite the fact that we were literally staying home for the evening, that didn’t stop Abby from wearing a multi-color sequin mini dress that was so tight I wondered how she was able to sit down, let alone breathe. I opted for a more comfortable approach in my ripped jeans and cropped t-shirt. Brooke was in a casual maxi dress; Maddie was in jean shorts and a Nashville t-shirt that she must have picked up on this trip. Riley was back in her “BRIDE” white velour tracksuit from her travel day. When she put it on, she exclaimed, “Even though we’re staying in, it’s still my bachelorette party. I have to dress the part!” We definitely didn’t look like we were all dressed for the same occasion.

“What time will the pizzas be here?” Madie asked.

“In about an hour,” Abby replied. Of course she volunteered to buy all of the pizzas and refused to accept Venmo from us. She had an unlimited budget and I wasn’t going to argue because it kept me from spending the last of my money. I guess she wanted to be Saint Domino’s for the night.

I did one last walk through the Airbnb to make sure everything was perfect for the boys’ arrival. There wasn’t going to be enough room at the dining room table for all of us, so we took the pillows and blankets from our bedrooms to make the living room floor more comfortable as a hangout spot. The deck of cards for our drinking games and coasters for our glasses were neatly displayed on top of the living room table. I still couldn’t fight the anxious feeling building inside of me. My mind was racing with hypothetical, worst case scenarios. I definitely was going to need to take a shot or something as soon as the boys got here with the booze. I just needed to relax.

“Welcome, come in!” I said nervously as I opened the door for our secretly famous guests. Once I saw Josh’s smile, a calmness washed over me. The effect he has on me can only be credited to magic. He walked past me and gently rubbed his hand on my shoulder as a subtle greeting. Even with just his light touch, electricity surged through my veins. I got a whiff of his cologne and almost floated through the air like you see in the cartoons. In his arms were brown paper sacks no doubt full of bottles of the poison he picked for tonight. Behind him followed the three best looking guys I have ever seen. Seriously, why was every member in this band so damn good looking? Were they even real? I tried not to appear star-struck as Jake, Danny, and Sam entered the Airbnb–each of them also held brown paper sacks. It looked like there was enough alcohol between them to host a big frat party.

Josh pulled my arm close to him and said, “Guys, this is Strawberry.” I immediately felt my face get hot. It just hit me that we’d been playing the no-name-game and now I was going to have to continue it with an audience of people who weren’t in on the joke.

“Who the hell is Strawberry?” I heard Abby’s voice ask. Shit.

“It’s a nickname,” I said, trying to think of what to say.

“Well, obviously because your name is—” Abby was saying.

“I call her Strawberry,” Josh interrupted.

“Nice to meet you, Strawberry. I’m Sam,” he said as he pulled me into a hug. I wrapped my arms around him and felt him squeeze me tight. I liked him.

“I’m Danny,” he said, giving a nervous wave to the group accompanied by a soft smile.

“Jake,” he said with no smile. I remembered his serious disposition when he was the assistant on the plane. I got the vibe that he didn’t want to be here, but maybe he was just hard to read.

I took a turn introducing all of the girls one-by-one to the guys. Oddly enough, even when I said each of their names, Josh never looked at anyone but me. I tried to act like I didn’t notice his stare, but I could feel my knees getting weaker by the second.

“I want to take a shot with the bride!” Sammy yelled as he made his way to the kitchen with his arms full of bags. I grabbed Riley’s hand and pulled her along behind him. The guys followed suit and started unpacking their purchases. Bottles of beer, wine, and liquor started to plague the countertop space.

“We brought a little of everything because we weren’t sure what you guys would like,” Danny said with an adorable smile.

“I like it all,” Abby said as she scooted closer to him. I watched Danny’s nervous eyes flash to the counter as he slowly shifted his body away from hers. Yep, I liked him too.

“And for a little taste of home,” Josh said as he started to pull out a bottle with a label that I knew all too well. My eyes got wide as I recognized the bottle of bourbon in his hands. Riley immediately turned her neck to look at me; her shocked expression matched mine.

“Uh, not big bourbon fans?” Josh asked nervously when he noticed our reactions.

“How did you find Oklahoma bourbon in Tennessee?” I asked.

“This is the reason why we were in Oklahoma,” Josh said, tilting the bottle in the air.

“I’m not following,” I said.

“The business meeting in OKC was with this brand. We are partnering with them,” Jake interrupted.

“What do you guys do?” Maddie asked. I couldn’t focus on the elaborate lies that the boys were now feeding the girls about their made-up professions because I could only focus on the bottle of bourbon in Josh’s hands. The same brand of bourbon that sits on my shelves back home. The same brand of bourbon that Kenneth drinks. The same brand of bourbon that pays my bills. The same brand of bourbon that shares what is supposed to be my future last name. The same brand of bourbon that Kenneth’s family business makes. What the actual fuck was going on?

“Can I see you for a minute?” I heard as I felt Riley squeeze on my arm which pulled me from my thoughts. I followed her out of the kitchen and into the empty dining room.

“Does he know that’s Kenneth’s bourbon?” Riley asked in a whisper.

“Of course not!” I said in almost a yell. I couldn’t whisper even if I had wanted to. I couldn’t believe what was happening.

“How? Why? What?” Riley asked, throwing her hands up frantically.

“I can’t tell him he’s about to do business with my–!” I hissed.

“Is everything ok?” I heard Josh’s voice suddenly ring through my ears.

“Yes,” I heard Riley say as she turned me around to face him. “We just weren’t sure how our local brand of bourbon would make its way to you,” she added.

“We wanted to partner with a US-based distillery and this is our favorite brand of bourbon. We tried it once on tour and it changed our lives. We are in the works of collaborating with the company to become ambassadors for their brand,” he said.

“So this means you’ll be in Oklahoma again?” I asked.

“Yes, it means we’ll make a couple more trips,” he said with a smirk. I felt Riley squeeze my arm again.

“Well, I don’t know about Strawberry here, but I am not a bourbon fan. I’m going to find Sam who owes me that shot,” Riley said as she made her way out of the room to leave us alone. She turned around to look at me over Josh’s shoulder to mouth “Oh my God” before exiting the room.

“When will you be back in Oklahoma?” I asked. Josh pulled out his phone to check his calendar. I studied his face as his eyes moved through the many dates on his app. No doubt that he was always busy.

“We are set to come back at the end of next month,” he said, double-checking his dates.

“Were you going to tell me?” I said.

“I wasn’t sure,” Josh admitted. My heart sank.

“You were going to fly back to Oklahoma City, be less than two hours from me, and keep that a secret?” I asked, trying to mask the hurt in my voice.

“I don’t want to mess up anything in your personal life. It’s different being here,” he said.

“So you planned to cut ties with me the second I flew home,” I said.

“That’s not fair,” Josh said. Before I could respond, I jumped at the sound of glass shattering from the kitchen.

“Shit, I’m so sorry!” Maddie yelled. I pushed my way past Josh and headed into the kitchen to find a busted bottle of what smelled like tequila all over the kitchen floor. Pieces of glass and liquid were everywhere.

“Nobody move!” I commanded as I made my way to the storage closet in the hallway to grab towels and a broom. The last thing I wanted was to make an ER trip because someone had cut their foot open. When I returned back to the scene of the accident, Josh was kneeling on the ground and had already started picking up the large pieces of glass.

“Good thing we brought another bottle of tequila,” Sam said, lightening the mood.

“I’m so sorry,” Maddie said again.

“It’s really ok,” Sam said as he stuck a lime wedge in his mouth to give her a fruit-filled smile. I liked how he was able to dust things off as no big deal. I wished I could be more like that.

“Fuck,” I heard Josh say. I looked down to see he had accidentally cut the palm of his hand while collecting the glass.

“Let me clean this up,” Riley said as she grabbed the towels and broom from me. “There’s a first aid kit under the sink in the guest bathroom. Go make sure Josh is ok,” she said.

“I’m a nurse!” Brooke chimed in. “I can doctor him up,” she said.

“Just rub some tequila on it. You’ll be fine,” Jake said with a laugh. It was the first time I had seen him smile. Like his brother, he had a radiant smile.

“I’m fine,” Josh added as he stood up and made his way to the sink. I watched him wash the blood from his palm and it made me feel nauseated. Even though I was a teacher who had witnessed many nosebleeds in my classroom, dealing with blood was not in my wheelhouse. I left the room to grab the first aid kit for Brooke to mend Josh’s hand. Or, maybe I left the room to get away from the sight of blood. Both were true in this case.

“Party foul!” Abby yelled from the living room. I rolled my eyes as I walked past her and made my way into the bathroom. I got on my knees and opened the cabinet under the sink to look for the kit that Riley claimed was there. I saw fresh linen towels, bathroom cleaning supplies, but no first aid kit. I kept looking when I jumped at the sound of his voice.

“I really am fine,” he said. I stopped my search and looked up to see him standing in the doorway. He had a wad of paper towels clenched in a tight fist.

“Riley said it was in here,” I said, turning my attention back to the cabinet. Josh stepped more into the bathroom and shut the door, closing the two of us inside. I tried to ignore his presence and focus on the task of finding the kit. Alas, I spotted a small white container with a red cross on the lid.

“Voila!” I said holding it up. I opened the plastic box to sift through gauze, bandages, and medical tape. “Let me get Brooke,” I said as I started to stand up.

“I don’t need a nurse to put on a bandaid,” he said laughing.

“Well, I don’t do blood, so she’s your only hope,” I said, shoving the box to him.

“I feel like you’re lying just because you don’t want to talk to me,” he said, blocking the doorway.

“Well, I don’t particularly feel like talking to you at the moment, but no, I will truly get sick if I see your blood,” I said. He kept the paper towel clenched in his fist and put his wounded hand behind his back away from my line of vision.

“I don’t understand why you’re mad at me,” he said. I honestly didn’t understand either but I couldn’t let him know that. He had made it clear to me already that this was nothing serious. I was the one floundering about in a dream world that was only going to end in heartbreak for me. I understood that; I just didn’t want to accept it.

“I’m not mad. I guess I was just hurt that you didn’t want to see me again,” I said, shifting my feet.

“Oh, believe me. I do want to see you, but I don’t want to cause a disturbance in your personal life. You have a fiancé, a job, a family, really just a whole other life in Oklahoma. I don’t fit in that puzzle,” he said. I wished he wanted to. I’d create a whole new puzzle to make his piece fit with mine.

“You’re right,” I said with a sigh.

“Let’s just enjoy the time we have left, ok?” He said as he closed the space between us. I couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eyes because I didn’t want my sadness to show.

“I better get back out there,” I said.

“What’s the rush?” He asked, moving closer to me so that our bodies were mere centimeters apart. His enticing scent consumed me.

“I’m not hooking up with you in the bathroom while your hand is bleeding,” I said with a laugh.

“Can you at least kiss me in the bathroom while my hand is bleeding?” He asked. I finally met his eyes. He was smiling and I wanted nothing more than to kiss him. But I wasn’t sure what I wanted from him now. I felt the need to protect my feelings.

“We’ll see,” I said as I moved around him, ignoring his advances. I put my hand on the doorknob when I felt his arm wrap around my waist.

“Come here,” he said, pulling me to him. I tried to stand firm but my subconscious craved his touch. As if I had no control over my body, I allowed him to hold me close. I took a deep breath and felt myself melt into him. This intimacy, this closeness, this connection… How could he not feel it too?

“I have to pee!” Abby’s voice rang from the other side of the bathroom door. I let go of Josh and looked up into his eyes. They appeared darker than normal. Like he felt conflicted by something but wouldn’t dare to admit.

“Coming!” I said, pulling myself away from his hold. At that moment, it was as if I pulled a part of him away with me. I watched his adam's apple move as he swallowed his unspoken sadness.

Chapter Fourteen

“Never have I ever been arrested,” Danny said with a smirk. We all looked around the circle to see Sam was the only one to put a finger down.

“Oh shit!” Riley yelled out. “Take a drink!” Sam flipped Danny off as he took a sip from his bottle of tequila. I was enjoying my second glass of wine while sitting between my best friend and my lover. We had polished off the pizza that Abby ordered and now we were playing our first round of drinking games. Life was good on the living room floor.

“Never have I ever had a sibling,” Riley voiced when it was her turn.

“Nice,” I said as we touched our glasses like we were making a toast. Being only children was something we had in common and was one of the reasons we got along so well. We were each other’s chosen sisters. Everyone else in the room put a finger down. I had the most fingers still up which was only an embarrassing indicator that everyone else had lived more fulfilling lives than me. It was now my turn and I was trying to think of something that would wipe people out.

“Never have I ever been pulled over,” I said. Fingers went down across the room except for Danny and Maddie. “Drink up!” I said as I raised my glass to everyone else.

“Never have I ever gone to college,” Josh said with a shrug. Every girl in the room put a finger down and the guys cheered as we all had to take a drink.

“Never have I ever been engaged,” Abby said with a tone that I could have slapped her for. It was obviously directed at Riley and me as everyone else in the room was obviously unmarried. Did she pick up on the vibes between Josh and me? What was she trying to prove? Riley and I both put a finger down and in that moment, I realized I wasn’t even wearing my ring.

“Ok, that was targeted,” Riley said. “Helloooo? It’s my fucking bachelorette weekend!” Everyone laughed but I noticed a rigid shift in Jake’s body language when I put my finger down. He was staring at Josh with a look I couldn’t quite place, but he looked pissed. Sam had one finger left and the look on Jake’s face showed he was done playing the game.

“Never have I ever eaten tofu,” Jake said with a raise of his glass in Sam’s direction.

“Ah, man, come on!” Sam said as he put his last finger down.

“Loserrrrrrr!” Abby drunkenly yelled out. “Chug! Chug! Chug!” She began to chant. While everyone in the room watched Sam take a shot straight from the bottle, I saw Jake get up from the circle and make his way into the kitchen. Josh gave me a wink before he jumped up to follow his brother. I wondered what discussion was about to take place; what I would have given to be a fly on the wall to have heard it.

When they made their way back into the room to join the party, I could sense something was off with Josh. They hadn’t been gone very long, and I’m sure nobody even noticed their absence because Sam was now shuffling the cards for a new game. Josh noticed my empty wine glass and grabbed it without saying a word. He returned back to the kitchen and I hesitated on whether I should have followed him or not. But the stern look on Jake’s face was almost like a warning to stay away from Josh, so I stayed put.

“Everyone needs six cards,” Sam stated as he started to deal out the deck of cards. Josh returned with a now full glass of wine for me and I accepted it. I tried to read his face but it was impossible. He took his seat next to me and I reached out to touch his hand, but he pulled it away before I had the opportunity. He reached out for his cards from Sam and then I did the same.

I couldn’t focus on the rules of the game that Sam was half-ass explaining. I was too fixated on the sudden change in Josh’s mood after his talk with Jake. Something was clearly off about him and I wanted to know what was going on.

“Did you get that?” Riley leaned over and asked me.

“Huh?” I said.

“Were you listening to the rules?” She asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. That wasn’t even close to being true. I had no idea what game we were playing because I wasn’t paying any attention.

“Ok… Then why are you still holding all six of your cards?” Riley asked with a puzzled expression. I looked around to see everyone had laid one of their cards face down in front of them. I had no idea what the point of the game was, so I just pulled one from my pile and placed it in front of me.

“Ok, one… two… flip!” Sam yelled. All at once, everyone turned their chosen card over. I followed suit even though I didn’t have a clue as to what game we were playing.

“Strawberry, why the hell did you play two of hearts?” Danny asked while laughing.

“I–I don’t know,” I said, visibly confused

“Ok, you obviously lost. Drink!” Abby yelled. I still had no idea what the fuck I was supposed to be doing, so I just drank my wine.

Josh leaned over to whisper in my ear, “You were supposed to play your highest card that round.” Wonderful. I probably looked dumb as hell.

All of a sudden, Sam jumped up and started singing, “Two of hearts, two hearts that beat as one. Two of hearts…” into his bottle of tequila now disguised as a makeshift microphone. And like two peas in a pod, Danny jumped up to dance with him singing background vocals: “I need you, I need you.” The two of them definitely stole everyone’s attention as they performed the 80’s hit in the living room. It was nice to see both Josh and Jake smiling again. I wished Danny and Sam knew how grateful I was for them at this moment. They brought a kind of energy that I wished I could bottle up and harvest as my own.

The boys’ performance distracted everyone from the card game that I never actually learned the rules to, so I could tell the night was winding down. I was actually feeling a little tired and I just wanted to be alone with Josh. I could tell he was still a little off compared to his normal self, but I decided to wait until we were alone to talk to him about it.

I finished my glass of wine and then started cleaning up the Airbnb while everyone was hanging out in the living room. Everybody seemed to have a good buzz; I was thankful nobody got absolutely shitfaced. Nothing ruins a party quicker than someone who needs a babysitter, bodyguard, or both. I made my way into the kitchen to start throwing away empty pizza boxes and putting dirty dishes in the dishwasher. We didn’t even touch half of the alcohol that the boys brought. The bottle of the Oklahoma bourbon sat half empty on the counter. I stared at it wondering if or how I could tell Josh that they were about to do business with my fiancé, or maybe soon-to-be ex-fiancé. I knew my third glass of wine had me feeling bold when the possibility of me leaving Kenneth crossed my mind.

“Need a hand?” I heard a somewhat unfamiliar voice ask. I turned to see Jake standing in the entryway of the kitchen.

“Sure, thank you,” I said, trying not to look too surprised to see him. I continued to load the dishwasher with dirty plates and glasses. He walked into the kitchen and stood next to me.

“Here,” he said as he handed me his empty glass. I recognized the smell of the bourbon immediately.

“Thanks,” I said as I grabbed it. I could tell he was wanting to talk to me because he wasn’t actually doing any cleaning. I held my breath until he finally had the courage to speak.

“I know you don’t know me, but I know my brother. He’s the most important person in my life. So what I’m about to say to you, I ask that you keep that in mind,” he started. I continued holding my breath because I didn’t like the sound of where this was going. “I think you two don’t need to spend the night together.”

I didn’t have any more dirty dishes left in the sink to place in the dishwasher, but I felt like I needed something to occupy myself while I tried to process Jake’s words. I started twisting all of the caps on the bottles of liquor and placing them back in the brown paper bags. He continued to speak, “It’s not a good idea for either of you, especially given your situation. I know Josh’s views on marriage, and while I don’t share those same views, I think he should respect other people’s commitments.”

“I’m not married,” I finally spoke.

“No, but you are engaged to be,” he added. “And I am not judging you at all. I don’t know you or your situation, but I do know my brother. I’m just afraid he’s going to get hurt.” I was shocked at this admission. Jake thought Josh was the one going to be hurt? He had no clue. Josh was the one keeping his guard up and setting clear boundaries with me. It was me who was practically sick over the idea of never seeing him again in a mere couple of days.

“I really appreciate you talking to me about this. I can see how much you care about him,” I began. “Your brother has taught me more about myself in these past few days than I would have ever learned on my own. And while I dread going back home and saying goodbye to him, I am thankful for the time that we have had together. I value your opinion, but I’m not ready to cut that time short.”

“And you don’t have to,” Josh’s voice interrupted. I quickly turned around to find that he had been eavesdropping on my conversation with Jake. I wondered how much he had heard.

“I was just relaying to Strawberry what I had already talked with you about,” Jake said while holding his arms up like he had been caught doing something illegal.

“We are both consenting adults capable of making our own decisions,” Josh said.

“I understand that. I just wanted you both to hear where I’m coming from,” Jake added. He started collecting the unopened beer bottles from the fridge and placing them back in the empty cardboard drink carriers. I dried my hands and left the two of them alone to finish their conversation, even though it seemed like Josh didn’t want to be there. I walked back into the living room to find Abby on her phone, Maddie and Danny were deep into a conversation about music, Riley was braiding Brooke’s hair, and Sam was picking up the playing cards off the floor.

“I think Jake packed up all of the booze, so I guess the party's over,” I said with a nervous laugh.

“Are y’all good to drive?” Riley asked.

“Y’all,” Sam imitated her southern accent with a laugh. “Sorry,” he shyly added when he realized what he had just done.

“Yes, I am good to drive,” Danny added, giving a somewhat stern look to Sam.

“Josh is staying here, right?” Sam asked.

“Why would Josh stay here?” Abby asked. I immediately looked at Sam to communicate that he had just fucked up.

“I joke, I joke,” Sam added with a wild laugh. I glanced at Riley who shot me a confused look. I could tell she was trying to think of a way to cover for Sam’s blunder but was drawing a blank.

“Do you need us to take the trash out?” Danny asked while standing up.

“No, I think we’re good. We appreciate it though,” Maddie said. I could see she was blushing. It was easy to see why. Danny was one of the most handsome men I had ever laid eyes on. He could have been a Greek God in a past life. I felt my phone vibrate in my back pocket. I grabbed it to read a text from Plagiarism: “I’m going to help load the car up and I’ll come back inside when everyone is gone.”

“You guys ready?” Jake said as he entered the living room. Josh was standing behind him carrying two sacks of alcohol. I subtly waved my phone at him to indicate that I had seen his text. Now we just had to play the waiting game until the girls went to bed which hopefully would be soon. I was sick of playing games–figuratively and literally.

Chapter Fifteen

After what felt like waiting for an eternity but was probably closer to 30 minutes, I texted Josh to let him know it was time for him to come back. I sent “The coast is clear” as I waited for him by the front door. I had to chuckle thinking of his “we are two consenting adults” comment from earlier because we’ve been acting like two teeangers sneaking around every night. It was fun and thrilling in the most ridiculous way possible. Even though we had spent all evening in each other’s presence, I didn’t feel like we had any alone time. I was looking forward to spending the night together with nobody around to interfere. I locked the front door and I reached for his hand.

“This one is wounded, remember?” Josh said while switching hands so I was now holding the unbandaged one. “I could have bled to death and you wouldn’t have lifted a finger,” he said dramatically as he held up his free hand.

“You literally refused help from a medical professional, so your blood is on your hands…Literally,” I said with a laugh. We quietly walked down the hallway until we got to my bedroom. I made sure to be the one to shut the door and lock it so we wouldn’t have any surprise guests again in the morning.

“Are you and Jake good?” I asked as we sat on the edge of my bed.

“Yes, of course,” he said as he turned his body to face mine.

“I can tell you mean a lot to him. I couldn’t imagine having a twin. Hell, I don’t even know what it’s like to have a sibling!” I said with a shrug. Growing up as an only child wasn’t the worst thing to happen to me, but not having a sibling definitely contributed to the loneliness in which I feel now.

“Jake knows me better than anyone, so I will always listen to his guidance. But I also needed him to realize that I am free to make my own choices,” he said as the corners of his mouth turned to smile. I got a flashback to my conversation with Riley from earlier today when we made up. I knew exactly what he meant.

“Did you guys have a good time tonight? It went better than I expected, honestly,” I said.

“Oh yeah, I think so. I mean, I was secretly wishing we would have called it a night hours ago,” he said with a smirk. “I would have rather been with you right here the whole night.” I bit my lip trying to hide my smile. I wanted nothing more than to kiss him, but our conversation from earlier still lingered in the back of my mind.

“So,” I paused. “This bourbon partnership…”

“Yes?” Josh asked, waiting for me to continue. I wanted to be honest with him but I also didn’t want to interfere with his life more than I already had. He planned never to see me again after I left, so would it even matter to him?

“I’m very familiar with that brand,” I said while nervously smoothing my hands across the bed.

“Oh? I thought you weren’t much of a bourbon fan?” He said laughing. “You really should give it a try. It’s the best, smoothest one I’ve ever had. It’s why we’re so passionate about collaborating with them.”

“Yeah, I actually–” I began when Josh’s phone started to ring.

“Who the hell is calling me at one a.m.?” He asked as he reached over to grab his phone off the nightstand. He checked the screen and then whispered, “Sorry, I need to take this.” He jumped up off the bed and made his way to the corner of the room. He was still in earshot, but I didn’t see who had called him.

“What are you talking about?” Josh asked the mystery caller. I panicked watching him pace back and forth across the front of the room. I could sense something was wrong.

“What TikTok?” He questioned. TikTok? I continued to watch him pace until he stopped and rubbed his hand over his face.

“I mean, we partied with some friends tonight but nobody did anything worth getting upset over,” he said into the phone. I wished I knew what was going on. I was trying to put pieces together but it was difficult with only hearing one part of the conversation. I had the idea to do some investigating myself. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and I opened TikTok. I searched for Greta Van Fleet and scrolled until I could find anything remotely getting upset about at one in the morning.

“It’s not a big deal,” Josh said with a sigh. “Maybe we can have her take it down.” I watched him as he rubbed the back of his neck. My heart started to race. What was he talking about? Who was he talking about?

“Yeah, it’s always all over Twitter,” Josh said with another deep sigh. I immediately closed out of my TikTok app and opened Twitter to see if I could find what he was talking about. I searched for Greta Van Fleet and my eyes couldn’t believe what they were seeing. There was a video of Sam and Danny singing “Two of Hearts” clearly taken in our Airbnb living room from earlier. To make matters worse, you could see me sitting between Riley and Josh in the background for a brief moment. Bewildered, I read several hundred tweets that posted the video or screenshots from it. No, no, no, no, this cannot be happening. I skimmed through tweets as I felt my blood getting cold. People had screenshotted the glimpse of Riley and me from the video and posted our picture with comments such as, “Who are these bitches?!” and “Anyone know who these girls are?” I started to feel ill as I realized my face was circulating around different forms of social media.

I racked my brain trying to figure out who posted it because I couldn’t remember anyone being on their phone. I studied the angle and background of the video until it hit me: Abby must have recorded this and posted it. I noticed a TikTok username in the video, so I went back to my TikTok app to search for her account directly. Once I found her profile, I could see this latest video had over 10,000 views yet it hadn’t even been up for two hours. The caption read “Wild night in Nashville with Danny and Sam” and the comments were full of Greta Van Fleet fans clearly losing their shit. There was no way Abby knew who they were, right?

I wanted to bust up into Abby’s room to kill her, but I figured that would just make things worse being charged with murder and all. I was going to demand that she delete the video, but I knew I would need Riley’s assistance because I doubted Abby would do anything I asked. I jumped up from the bed to go wake Riley up. When I started to make my way out of the room, Josh reached out and grabbed my arm.

“Hey, I gotta go,” he said into the phone. “Yeah, yeah, it will be alright,” he said again before hanging up. I stayed there in his grasp but as soon as he put his phone in his pocket, I started to move again.

“Slow down, where are you going?” Josh asked.

“I’m going to get Riley so she can kick Abby’s ass!” I practically yelled.

“Nobody needs their ass kicked,” Josh said, pulling me close to him.

“Actually, Abby could use a good one,” I said while my face was buried into his chest. “We literally talked about how nobody needed to post on social media before you guys got here.”

“Our management team is mad, but nobody in the band is. Not even Jake, surprisingly,” Josh said with a light laugh. I pulled away from him so I could study his face.

“What does your team say?” I asked.

“Well, besides the fact that we were clearly hanging out in a living room with random girls, they are most concerned about the bottle of tequila in Sam’s hand,” he said with a shrug.

“What? You guys aren’t allowed to drink on camera or something?” I asked as my eyebrows furrowed.

“No, I believe that ship has sailed,” he said with a laugh. “It’s just we are in the works to launch that bourbon collaboration so now my team is worried about Sam holding a bottle of another brand of alcohol. I think they’re reading too much into it,” Josh said as he rubbed my forearms. Shit, I didn’t even think about that. I wasn’t sure how much detective work their fans would do analyzing the video, but I’m sure the fiancée of the bourbon company’s owner being in the video would be the icing on the cake. If the company even sees the video, I just hope it doesn’t make its way up the chain of command because Kenneth will recognize Riley and me instantly.

“I need to go talk to Riley,” I said as I started to pull away.

“Wait,” Josh said, not letting me go.

“Josh, Riley and I are in the background of the video. We need it to be taken down before someone identifies us,” I said.

“I hate to tell you this, Strawberry, but I’m sure some of our fans already found out your family tree, place of employment, and blood type,” he said with a laugh. “Even if Abby deletes it, the video is online forever.” I wasn’t laughing. Instead, I felt like I was going to puke. With all of my might, I pulled away from Josh’s embrace and marched out the bedroom door to find Riley’s room.

“I’m gonna kill Abby!” I yelled as I entered her bedroom and turned on the lights.

“What the fuck?” Riley yelled as she pulled the covers over her eyes.

“Get the bail money ready because I’m going to jail tonight for kicking Abby’s ass!” I said as I made my way over to her bed with my phone in my hand. I pulled Riley’s covers off of her and shoved my phone in her face.

“Look at this shit!” I yelled again. I watched Riley’s expression go from confused to enraged as she watched the “Two of Hearts” performance on TikTok.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Abby said through gritted teeth.

“Josh’s management team called him about it. It’s all over TikTok, Twitter, probably more. I’ve already seen several tweets with screenshots of our faces wanting to know who these bitches are!” I exclaimed.

“Who are these bitches calling a bitch?” Riley asked as she started to get out of bed. I bit my tongue because I was too mad to laugh at her right now.

“I need you to take care of this with Abby because I will kill her,” I said.

“I can’t believe she would do this,” Riley said, making her way to leave the room.

“I can,” I said under my breath. I left Riley’s bedroom to return back to Josh who was waiting in mine. I left the bedroom door open so we could hopefully hear Riley confront Abby.

“I promise it’s not a big deal,” Josh said while sitting on the bed.

“It is to me,” I said as I got closer to the doorway to try to hear their conversation better. I was a little annoyed that Josh wasn’t as concerned about the video like I was, but I guess he’s used to his every move being watched and scrutinized by strangers. Surely he remembered what it was like before he was famous. Then again, from the limited research I did on the band, it seemed like this is the life he’s had ever since he was a teenager. I continued to eavesdrop even though it was hard to make out what the girls were saying. Suddenly, I heard the voices getting louder and before I knew it, Abby and Riley were in my doorway.

“What the hell is he still doing here?” Abby asked when she noticed Josh.

“Let’s start with why you posted that TikTok after we talked about not posting on social media tonight,” I responded. I would be damned if I became the one on trial.

“I didn’t think it would turn into what it did. Why didn’t anyone say these guys were–oh, I don’t know–famous?” Abby asked with a mocking tone.

“There are people online trying to figure out Riley’s and my identity right now because of this, Abby!” I exclaimed.

“I didn’t think it would get more than my usual 100 views. I didn’t know they were famous! How is that my fault?” Abby asked, still refusing to take a sliver of responsibility. I imagined myself punching her in the face. I could feel my nails digging into my palms, so I knew I needed to relax before I did something I would regret.

“It’s your fault because you posted after we asked you not to,” Riley interjected.

“Or is this really because you don’t want people to know about what’s going on here between you two?” Abby asked while waving her finger at Josh and me.

“Can I speak?” Josh voiced from behind me. I had almost forgotten he was there because I was consumed with my thoughts of strangling Abby.

“Of course,” Riley said.

“I think everyone needs to take a breath for a moment. Abby, I’m sorry we kept our band a secret. We just wanted to hangout and feel like normal people tonight. It’s not your fault that your video somehow was discovered by our fans and got shared all over the internet. Riley and Strawberry, I’m sorry your picture is now on public display. Our band will post something outrageous tomorrow and it will all be forgotten within 48 hours. You should see some of the shit Sam has saved in the drafts. I promise it will blow over in a day or two,” he said so quietly I could barely hear him. I wanted to kiss him right then and there.

“I did delete the video from TikTok,” Abby said.

“Thank you,” Josh said with a sigh of relief.

“So you’re not sorry for—” I began to say.

“Let’s all just go to bed and worry about this tomorrow,” Riley said.

“Yeah, I better get going,” Josh said as he stood up. I instantly felt my heart shatter into a million pieces.

“Are you good to walk him out and lock the front door?” Riley asked me. I was trying everything in my power not to burst into tears.

“Yes,” I said while swallowing the lump in my throat. I watched Abby and Riley leave my bedroom. I stayed turned around with my back to Josh because I didn’t want him to see me cry. Suddenly, I felt his arms wrap around my waist and his chest was against my back. He buried his face into my neck and I lost the battle of holding back my tears. I felt the warm drops of liquid make their way down my cheeks.

“Why are you leaving?” I asked while my bottom lip quivered. I still had my back to him but I knew that he knew I was crying.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to stay the night now. Tensions are high. We don’t need Abby getting the wrong idea, and–”

“Fuck Abby!” I said as I released a sob.Yep, he definitely knew I was crying now.

“I also need to make a couple phone calls to make sure this will all be smoothed over tomorrow–well, today, technically–it’s already after two,” Josh said while his forehead rested on my shoulder. I couldn’t believe our second to last night together was now ruined. I continued to cry as he held me. I felt his lips kiss my neck as he made his way up to my ear.

“Tomorrow night, I am all yours. I promise,” he said in a whisper. I lifted my hands to my face to wipe the tears away. I moved his arms from my waist and headed toward the exit of the bedroom.

“Come on, I’ll walk you out,” I said, never turning around to see his face.

I laid in bed scrolling through Twitter reading the hundreds of tweets talking about Abby’s video. Even though I felt immense amounts of sadness while I laid in bed alone, I did have to admit that some tweets made me smile. The ones about Sam and Danny especially made me laugh. Some of their fans have quite a sense of humor while some sounded like they needed to talk to a mental health professional. I kept scrolling hoping that my eyelids would get heavy and I could sleep, but I was too stressed out. I got up to get into my medicine bag to take some melatonin. It was nearly three in the morning and I wanted nothing more than to sleep this entire day off. From fighting with Riley, to fighting with Abby, and now Josh changing his mind about staying over, I was so mentally drained. I closed out all of the apps on my phone, put it on DND mode, and flipped it face down on the nightstand.

I held my pillow tight wishing it were Josh that I was holding right now. I was so tired of crying, but I felt the pillow getting soaked with my tears. I inhaled deep breaths trying to think of anything other than the fact that I would soon be losing him for good. I reminded myself that we still had one more night together, so I tried to cling to that glimmer of hope as I allowed myself to rest.

#josh kiszka #joshua michael kiszka #josh kiskza fanfic #greta van fic #greta van fleet

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wordynerdygurl · 1 year

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Someone to Watch Over Me

Part 3: “He’s the One Affair I Cannot Forget”

Author’s Note: Oh my lovelies! Truth time- I almost didn’t post this... I reworked it and reworked it and walked away from it before remembering that I had come too far to turn back now. So, with my humble thanks to @sweetsweetjellybean and @sammy-jo1977 you now have Part 3!

My taglist is open and reblogs are encouraged!!

It’s filled to the brim, so enjoy!

If you need to catch up: Part 1 - Love is Blind & Part 2 - Seek & You Will Find are here! Pairing: Eddie Munson x Plus Sized OC Amanda Patterson Summary: It’s love at first sound, pitch perfect and fated, everything in harmony. If only life were a love song. Eddie and Amanda make their union physical, back in 1987. What does 1990 have in store? Warnings: There is SMUT ahead (minors DNI), first time with a new partner, and mentions of birth control. Self depricating thoughts are discussed, some fat phobic ideas are expressed and there’s a passing mention of canon quality Chrissy’s passing. Also, smoking, drinking and swearing. Happy Reading!

1990

“Well, I think we’ve got everything we need. Thank you guys for your time.” Chuck grinned slickly, offering a tepid handshake to all the guys in the group, “The tech team will edit the package together and get it over to your manager for final approval, but yea, this should be on the air in a week or two. Exciting, right?”

The manufactured for the masses interviewer was looking directly at Eddie as he asked, clearly in need of approval or something less like open disdain from the front man and lead guitarist, “Uh, yea. Like, super exciting. So, thank you?” Gareth sniggered at his back. It was becoming way too obvious that Eddie couldn't keep the charade up much longer. Not when his head was like this- lost in the past but forced to work in the present. But then salvation arrived at his side. Maggie, savior, protector, liberator, bumped his shoulder and interrupted with a grave whisper, “Mr. Munson, I’m afraid it’s time.” Vague enough to sound serious, Eddie nodded his head solemnly, “Oh, yea, right. Well, thanks again Chuck, but, alas, duty calls.”

“No, thank you Eddie-” He didn’t answer the host, having already turned away, hip to hip with Maggie, heads bowed together like naughty kids. Waiting until they were out of earshot, she sighed deeply, “Ya know, that could've gone better, Emmy.” Eddie snorted at the nickname, his brown eyes rolling, “That guy sucked, Mags. Forget being a tool, Chuck was an entire tool box. A goddamned Harbor Freight of bullshit.” Sighing deeply, the sturdy woman fell in step beside him, “So fucking what? MTV’s gonna be running that shit for days, weeks even. The least you could do is be, I don’t know, polite?” He barreled through a swinging door back first, Maggie dogging his steps, as he sassed, “I was polite, Magdelena. I answered his questions. What else do you want from me?” Eddie nodded at one of the road guys as they passed, the lull in this particular conversation more than welcome. But of the many reasons he loved Maggie so much, this right here was the kicker; her determination. That it was also the worst thing about being her friend was one of those unsolved mysteries of life since this dominant personality trait meant that their little moving conversation wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. Turning down a narrow hall, they pushed into the green room together as she shrugged, “Maybe a little less attitude. Maybe a little more gratitude.” “Are you a greeting card now, Mags?” Eddie had flopped onto a sagging gray monstrosity of a couch, his legs kicked up over the arm, his back flat against the indeterminately stained cushion. Maggie wasn’t looking in his direction. Instead she was peeking around the corner, checking the exit and generally ensuring that no immediate risks to Eddie’s safety could be seen. When she was satisfied that a crazy fan was not about to jump out of his closet, she planted her feet and crossed her arms, staring down at Eddie with an affectionate scowl, “No, but I do like my paycheck, so I need you to stay employed.” “Ha! Honey, the lead singer of Corroded Coffin ain’t goin’ nowhere!” She pulled a plastic backed chair closer, eyeing him from the shadow of her ever present hat’s bill, “Well, that’s not entirely true, now is it?” His eyebrow raised again, curiosity clear on Eddie’s face, “You know something I don’t?” “Aren’t we going back to Indiana? That Battle of the Bands thing after New Year’s?” Settling back against the flimsy seat, her legs opened wide, Maggie ran her hands over her thighs, the rolled sleeve of her shirt showcasing her own inky designs. The caged bird on her forearm always drew Eddie’s attention and even now he caught himself staring at the intricate ink instead of answering his friend and protector’s question. “Fuck. I had almost forgotten.” “Bullshit.” Squinting at him, the same look she gave to overeager fans who lined up alongside the tour bus, the one that made them piss their pants in fright, the one he cherished, Maggie now used on Eddie to get at the truth. Feigning affront, he sat up on his elbows, hair long enough now to get caught underneath his shoulder and pulling, “Excuse me?” “Bullshit you forgot. You’re going to judge the Battle of the Bands in your home state and you fucking forgot? Nope. No way. And what’s with the song you brought up? Someone to Watch Over Me? A little, I don’t know, soft for you, ain’t it?” The blush of honesty scorched through him so fast, Eddie flopped back to the sofa with a soft whoosh sending a swirl of dust out of the ancient furniture. How many sweaty asses have sat here, he wondered quickly. A hundred? More? Gross. But then Mags cleared her throat, unimpressed by his delay tactics. It chafed her charge and since Eddie was already feeling some kind of way, more defensive than he meant to be, he huffed, “Yea? So? It’s- it’s a great song.” There were not a lot of secrets between Edward Munson and Magdelena Rios but Mandy? Yea, that was definitely, absolutely a secret he kept close. So, of course his bodyguard slash bulldog wouldn’t know about his affinity for Gershwin songs when they were sung into a perfect Indiana sunset. And she wouldn’t know about the ache in his chest whenever he looked up at the sky and found the silent, silver full moon staring back down him. Judging him. Reminding him of regrets that ran deep- goblin green and moss covered, growing mushrooms in the dark. Clever and always on alert, Maggie saw something cross his face because she nodded and then tipped her chair onto two legs, “Uh huh. Right.” “What are you trying to say, my darling Magdelena?” Swinging his big black boots forward, Eddie pushed up so he was sitting almost normally. He let his clasped hands hang between his knees as he lifted baleful brown eyes to Maggie’s steely ones. “I’m trying to say that you’re not using your head.” Her chair clanged as she lowered it too fast making Eddie flinch, “I am saying, flat out, that you got so pissy with Chuck the Tool Box because you were a little too honest today, even if I don’t get why. I guess-” she leaned forward now, encroaching on the rockstar’s space with a soul deep exhale, “-I’m saying I’m worried about you, my friend.” Twisting his lips into a devilish smirk, Eddie reached over and flicked at the brim of her hat, “Honey, sweetie, darling, Maggie… you got nothing to worry about. I’m fine.”

They both knew he was lying.

It was during their condensed pre-show warm up that Eddie realized he was in trouble. Naturally, his fingers felt along the frets of his acoustic Gibson, a melody in calloused pads playing without a lot of thought. Behind him the other members of Corroded Coffin fooled around, checking levels and making weird noises into the mics, generally acting like the assholes he knew and loved. Normally he’d be the one leading the rabble, causing trouble and wreaking havoc for the venue staff but there was a riff stuck in his brain.

“Earth to Eddie! Helllooooo? Anybody home?”

Without looking up, he rumbled, “Fuck off Jeff, I’m working here.” “Hear that fellas? Eddie’s working while we’re just lazing around.” Yea, this was definitely a song, he could feel it vibrating in his bones. Excited now, he flashed wide eyes at the boys in the band, “Pen! Paper!” The dumb fuckers looked at each other with varying degrees of confusion on their faces. Gareth, the bravest, ventured, “Uh, wh- what man?” “Something to write with- On! I gotta get it outta me, Gare!” There was a manic energy filling the spaces between microphone stands and amplifiers that made Eddie itchy under the skin. When the muse came she would not be denied and holy shit but she was coming hard right now. He knew the grateful smile he flashed at the poor roadie responsible for dropping off a mechanical pencil and three white paper plates must have been terrifying to see, but giving birth was a messy process no matter what form the new life took. Pencil clamped between his teeth like one of his cherished cigarettes, Eddie moved his hands down the neck of the guitar and back up, picking a string or two along the way. Using a cab for a table, he scribbled, paused to hum, then broadly grinned. It was over in a matter of minutes. “Here. New tune.” Breathing harder than a marathon runner, he shoved the scalloped edged plates covered in gray looping letters at his friends and bandmates. Jumping off a riser, Gareth looked over his oldest friend’s work and nodded slowly, “Uh, ok, Eddie. What do you want us to, uh, ya know, do with this?” “Play it? I mean, we are a band, right? And we make music, don’t we?” “It’s gibberish, man.” “Fuck you! It’s good. Great even. I know it.” Waving Eddie closer, Gareth handed off the hastily scribed song to Jeff, before wrapping an arm around their front man, “Eddie. My friend. My musical partner in crime. I ask with all due respect-” they had been walking towards the wings of the stage, Eddie following where he was led, “- But what the fuck is going on with you today?” Pulling back hard, Eddie’s hair swung at the force of his movement, “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you, man? I come to you with a- a new tune and you- you call me out like this?” Revved up and idling, Eddie was a race car in the red. Gareth recognized all the signs despite it being a long while since this particular engine had been torqued so high. With hands raised in surrender, the curly blond conceded, “Hey, no one is calling you out man. I’m telling you that it’s, I don’t know, weird?” “Weird? What the hell, man. Just say what you want to say and let me get back to the music for fuck’s sake.” “Ok. Ok.” Eddie had to watch as his buddy rolled his shoulders back before taking a big breath in, “You were an asshole to the MTV guy, which, I get it man. Guy’s a dick but this is a big deal, Eddie. I know you know that, deep down, but you’re not acting like you do.” Dropping his voice lower, Gareth added, “And you talked about- well, her.” The extra emphasis wasn’t needed. All it did was needle under the thin skin that Eddie was sporting today, a suit that didn’t fit quite right, and he didn’t know why. But here was friend number two mentioning erratic behavior and well, that sucked to hear. Deflating visibly, his security hair strand pulled over his face, Eddie countered weakly, “I didn’t say her name.” “You didn’t have to, pal" and having the decency to look embarrassed, he added, “You called your new hit ‘Watching the Moon’.” Huffing out a strained laugh, Eddie met his friend’s kind gaze with a grimace, “Not very subtle, huh?” “Naw, not really" was the half chuckled reply. Stretching his neck out, chin to the auditorium’s ceiling, an unhinged note in his voice, Eddie felt obligated to apologize, “I’m sorry, Gare. Don’t know why but I’m spinning out a bit.” Really ribbing him now, Gareth bumped into his buddy’s side, “You don’t know why? Gee, let’s see, you have huge rock show tonight, had an interview with MTV today, you’re writing music, touring, and being away from home, from Wayne, from people you lov-” the face Eddie flashed was all the warning he was going to give his oldest friend, and Gareth adjusted accordingly, “-care about sucks. It’s- it’s a lot, man and you’re allowed to be overwhelmed. But you’re not allowed to blow it all up because you’re missing your ex.” There it was. Too honest to be denied, Eddie was caught. Trapped like a bird in a cage and held hostage by the golden bars of memory. He had moved it past it, past her. Truly! There had been groupies in spandex skirts with hair teased higher than Mount Rushmore who took care of Eddie Munson with a reverence he did not deserve. An actress with a chest so big it frightened him, really. Plus a model who had the exact opposite problem- all skin and bones with no meat to feast on. Not his flavor by any stretch of the imagination. So, Eddie had skimmed the oil slicked surface of available tail and was happy for the opportunity. Appreciated every lovely lady and that one very handsome fella who made him feel worthy again. Each new conquest a fresh layer of sediment, burying the idea of Amanda further and further down in the rock formation of his heart.

It worked. Eddie had been every inch the wild child rock singer of his high school daydreams, until the Battle of the Bands was brought up.

The label had it all planned out- two shows in Indianapolis a Thursday night and then again on Saturday. In between, Corroded Coffin's lead singer would help choose the 1991 Battle Champion, awarding a cash prize and the chance to open the second date's concert. It was a huge opportunity for some local metal group, a chance Eddie would have loved to take advantage of only a few short years ago, and he was looking forward to it. Except-

Hidden in the haystack of going back to Indiana was the needle named Amanda Patterson. The odds of finding that needle at a Corroded Coffin show considering how things ended between them was minimal at best, but it wasn’t zero. It was that one in a million chance which buzzed boldly between Eddie’s ears, making him think about moonlit nights and vanilla milkshakes and promises whispered under overworn sheets. The tune he’d quickly crafted came back to him now, ‘Watching the Moon’, and of course it was about her. Them. All the things he didn’t say and all the things she wouldn’t allow him to. It was absolutely a hit, even though it hadn't been played once and wasn’t recorded yet. It was a hit because it came from that same well inside of Eddie where love and passion and music all swam together. A tall tower still ruled by Mandy, despite years and tears and stand-in people.

He was going to make this song a number one, getting it played on every single radio station from here to Toronto, knowing that if Gareth could see through the title that his Moon Goddess would too. Maybe, then, his needle would find him. Maybe going back to Indiana wasn’t the worst idea his management team had cobbled together. Maybe it was all going to be ok.

Eddie Munson had a plan. A campaign to make things right. A strategy that was coming together almost as quickly as his song for Amanda.

Feeling lighter than he had all day, he clapped Gareth on the back and, yea, there might have been a bit too much force in his playful shove but he didn’t regret it. Gare could take it, it was why they were so close. So he spouted at his best friend, “You’re just jealous because I have an ex. There’s no one missing you but the blow up doll you keep in your bunk.” “Jesus! Shut up, Eddie!”

Craziness crowded into the overly expressive eyes of Eddie Munson as he darted back towards the other guys in the band, “Hey, did Gareth ever tell you about his Lady Latex?” —

1987

They made it to the front door, finally, after agreeing to a truce. No more touching. No teasing. Not until they were inside someplace that wasn’t on four wheels. Now though, they were stopped in front of said door, nervous giggles bubbling free like champagne uncorked. Cheeks hot from kissing too closely in the heated shelter of Eddie’s van before braving the nighttime’s frosty temperatures, their breaths mixed, making wispy clouds with every panted exhale. Try as she might, Amanda couldn’t keep the excited tremble from her hands as she struggled to fit the key into her lock. It certainly didn’t help that the overly eager rocker couldn’t seem to keep his lips or his hands or even his hips to himself, “Truce schmuce” was all he said before enveloping her in his embrace. And he was everywhere- each time the notches of her house key caught the lock, he would nibble on the fleshiest part of her earlobe making her shudder, deadbolt be damned.

He was distracting in the best and most frustrating way. Because really, all she wanted to do was get inside where she could return his touch. Tease him back. Taste him. And go on to do all of the other tantalizing things they had been thinking about since their first blissful kiss over vanilla milkshakes. Another miss as the lock continued to do its job in spite of her efforts and she pouted, unable to keep the needy whine out of her voice, “Eddie! Come on!” “What? What’d I do?” Oh, he feigned innocence, but he knew. Eddie knew that every sloppy press of his lips to her delicate neck, every roll of his pelvis, every graze of his fingers over her own was making Amanda feverish. Flustered. It was also keeping the pair of them on the wrong side of the door. Dropping her frigid hands with a frustrated growl after another failed attempt, Amanda stomped her foot before reaching up to try again. Shifting away from the long legged leviathan behind her, prompting his dulcet demand, “Quit wiggling and open the door!” “I’m trying but-” “But what, huh?” Wrapping over her back, the sharp bone of his chin hooked over her shoulder to watch her progress as Eddie’s red, raw fingers dragged strands of unruly hair behind her ear. Breathing hotly against the golden hoop hanging there, he husked hoarsely, “Need some, ah, help, Mandy?” “Please?”

Caving into the warmth behind her, Amanda nodded, her head rolling back against the denim vest over his torso, hair catching on his WASP pin causing her to moan pitifully. That it gave Eddie the chance to litter her neck with wet, open mouthed kisses, his palms squishing against her jacket as he tried to touch more and more of her was just an added bonus. Arms, creaking leather encased arms, reached around her, crowding her snuggly between the unopened door and his chest as the keys were plucked free from her grip, “Lemme try.” With her mind and hands free, Amanda’s own fingers could wander and they did. Quickly finding the dangling chain of Eddie’s wallet, she used the steel links to pull him tighter, earning a stuttered “Fuck.” from the guy at her back. Now she got to listen as her house keys jangled noisily while he attempted to do what she could not. Work them into the lock and open the fucking door. “I thought you were- uh, I thought you were supposed to be helping, Ed.” God, but she sounded wrecked already, her round bottom rubbing him through layers of distancing denim, the hard and firm evidence of the effect she was having making itself known.

And maybe it wasn’t fair of her to grind the curve of her ass into the sharp angles of Eddie’s hip bones while he fumbled to open her front door. Maybe. But when Amanda felt the firm length of him straining and stuck in his jeans she didn’t feel bad. Not even a little bit because that was proof. Evidence of just how much Eddie wanted her. It made her bold. Kissing the underside of his stubbled jaw as her keychain jingled in his giant hands, her lips smacked rudely over the sensitive skin at his throat forcing a croak out of him, “Trying, honey, but you’re kinda, Jesus-” She sucked harshly at the divot below his chapped ear, “-you’re, uh, distracting- there it is!” Triumphantly turning the knob, Eddie shuffled in short steps behind Amanda, tucking her close as they crossed the threshold.

With a satisfying snap, the door was shut behind them to keep the world out. But who could worry about something like an open door when there was kissing to be done? The heated sort of kisses which didn’t stop when Amanda ripped down the zipper of her jacket, shrugging her arms free before flinging it away into the abyss of the living room. Kisses that went melty in the middle, stretching and stretching but never breaking even when she forced her way under the shoulders of his leather, pushing it to the floor with a satisfying thump. Her hands wasted no time. Palms flat over the planes of his chest, she marveled for a moment at the solid strength hidden in Eddie’s trim physique. The muscles that lugging amplifiers and tossing truck tires created, buried beneath bravado and cotton and tattoos, only seen in glimpses now tense and tight and touchable. Fisting into the soft t-shirt he wore, a secretive smile spreading across her face, “Hi.” “Hi yourself, Miss Mandy.” Eddie’s paws spanned her ample waist, forcing her closer, his fingers tapping out an unfamiliar rhythm on the small of her back. With his curls brushing over her scalding cheeks, she licked her lips in anticipation, ready for the next press of his mouth to her own. And following the flick of her tongue, a hungry, haunted look on his face, he gritted out, “Where- shit, where’s your bedroom, Mandy?” Wordlessly she linked their hands together. A shiver that started in the sacred space below her navel raced through her blood, her body. Had it ever been like this before? As if her physical self was running a race that her heart and mind would follow to the finish? No. Never. Not once. Tugging against a hand heavy with silver rings, insistent and eager, she led the way and he followed. It wasn’t far. A few short steps down a shaggy carpeted hallway then through a door, partially opened already.

The room, Amanda’s room, was made of comfort- a brown corduroy bean bag sagged next to a record player being held up by two plastic milk crates crammed full of way too many records. A double tape deck had carved out its place on her desk, a stack of cassette cases leaning precariously, a few already having tumbled to the floor nearby. Her tawny acoustic guitar leaned against the wall, sheet music and notebook paper scattered around as if it had all been abandoned mid-session, frozen in time but waiting for her return. Pegged to her cork board was a calendar marking out her work days, school schedule and band rehearsals. Textbooks for her classes were stuffed into an unzipped backpack, and while the main floor was clear, it was scattered with little things like pencils and hair ties and stuffed mice and take-out forks.

He spied a knitted afghan in garish colors folded lovingly over a quilted brocade comforter and a stack of pillows, each with their own unstained case, piled against the rattan headboard. Her closet door was hastily shut but the tell-tale bulge of a lot of clothes crammed into not enough space was obvious. Photos and posters decorated the walls. It surprised him to see so many band names that he recognized mixed with 70s folk artists and new wave performers. Eclectic. Varied. The space was mis-matched but all the better for it. Personality, Amanda’s personality, wafted from every corner. This was her little nest, snuggled safely between these four walls, burrowed in like a happy mouse. Surrounded with all the comforts a soft, cozy creature could ever need: books and music and light and sweet things. Fuck, Eddie loved it. Probably, deep down in the dusky depths of his grimy gargoyle brain, he figured he shouldn’t. Shouldn’t love the sheer ruffled curtains parted down the middle so that starlight was visible over the neighboring houses, soft and serene. Definitely shouldn’t stoke the soft fabric with tentative fingers, rubbing the pristine veil between inside and out with thoughtful touches, careful not to stain it. It was all too nice, everything around him. Too pretty. Too put together for a guy who ate cereal over the sink and considered ketchup a vegetable. “This is a real nice place.” God, he sounded so stupid. But, like, it really was a nice place. Comfortable and clean. And quiet. No noisy neighbors shouting out their frustrations into the cold night air or barking dogs or backfiring cars with tires bouncing over pebbled dirt roads. “Uh, thanks but you haven’t even seen it with the lights on.” With a click, Amanda turned on the small bedside lamp that filled her space with a golden glow all at once. She wasn’t surprised to find that Eddie had strayed to her make-shift music station, his eyes lighting up at the variety of singers and bands and artists with what she hoped was appreciation. Taking a tentative step in his direction, talking with her hands, she edged nearer to the record player. Keeping her voice small, as though she was afraid of ruining the simple silence between them, “Is it cool if I put something on?” “Yea, yes. Of course. It’s your room, right?” “Well, yea, I guess it is. Uh, just-” and she moved to duck in front of him, already knowing which album to spin. But he was almost definitely purposefully standing exactly where she needed to get. “-Maybe you could, uh, let me in here?” Devilish now, an impish grin made his dimples pop, “Oh, am I in the way, Mandy? Sorry ‘bout that.” Only he didn’t sound very sorry at all. And as she shifted nearer, he held his ground, settling his weight in his heels, his arms crossed over his narrow chest. If she wanted to put on a record, she was going to have to squeeze next to him to do it and boy, did that idea light him up. Eddie was absolutely pushing his luck. He knew it, but couldn’t help himself. Blocking her path, planting his feet, he took up as much room as possible. Call him curious, but he wanted to see what she would do. Push him aside? Press those luscious curves in tight? Go back to kissing him so hard he felt like he was coming unglued? God he fucking hoped so. Watching her closely, he saw that tattle-tale tilt of her head, the eyes he couldn’t forget reflecting his own mischief making energy as Amanda dropped to her knees. Her tongue darted out from between her pillowy lips, spreading sweet saliva, shiny and slick in its wake. Rounding now, he was locked in on the circle of her pout, his body kicking up a gear at the sinful suggestion of what was sitting so prettily in front of him. Amanda, she knew what she was doing. When she peered up at him from the floor, raking her gaze over his towering figure through the veil of her lashes, she had a good idea that he was going to take the bait. So she reached out, not for the trim waist at eye level or for the hands fisted against denim wrapped thighs, but for her worn copy of Led Zeppelin IV sticking out from the bottom bin.

On an exhale through clenched teeth, a curse caught in his bone dry throat, “Sweet Jesus-” “Here.” Shocked into silence, she handed over the faded cardboard, nodding towards the record player, “Side two, if you don’t mind.”

It was enough to knock him over. How Amanda looked so innocent while making demands on her knees in front of him, resting back on her heels demurely, was a seismic shock to his system. It made Eddie’s head go fuzzy, ears full of feedback like when his guitar was too close to his amp with the knobs turned all the way up. He felt as though he was turned all the way up, cranked as high as possible, crackling explosively, dangerously near the limits of his control. Tacky sweat made his t-shirt cling in the warmth of Amanda’s room. And if her magnetic eyes weren’t boring into him, waiting him out, then he probably would have shucked the offending layer without question. As it was, she was too damn cute and too damn close for him to do much beyond blink away this latest round of pulsing need, which was the real problem here. Somehow he obliged when she raised a hand, asking oh so politely, “Do you mind?” before he gently helped her up to her feet. Puffing out his held breath with a wry chuckle, he smoothly slipped her chosen record onto the turntable and lowered the needle’s arm. Raising a cocky eyebrow when “Misty Mountain Hop” began to tumble from the speakers at a reasonably low volume, his swagger returned, “Ya know-” he paused to clear his throat, his voice already sounding too blown out, too rough, even to his own ears, “-I’ve seen Fast Times like twenty times. Harrington loves that movie, so I, uh, know what you’re up to.” “Really?” Her sweet voice was angel light from over his shoulder, as she spied on him slowly dropping the clear plastic lid on her stereo, “And what is that, Mr. Munson? What, exactly, am I up to?” “I think you’re trying to get into my pants, Miss Patterson.”

Shrugging, she denied him an answer, her eye contact direct and unwavering. Color, dusty pink and warm, spread over Eddie’s sharp cheekbones and under the smattering of freckles across his nose. He made a choked sound, as though something had stolen his breath at the last second, when she finally replied, “And? So, uh, so what if I am?” She sounded so much braver than she actually felt. Flirting was the easy part. The words between them holding added weight, spoken as they were, in the protective yellow glow of her table lamp, a comforting heaviness that was familiar and made the teasing effortless. Easy.

Just another stop on the tour. Because there was a map for this journey and she knew where they were headed. The terrain was well traveled. She wasn’t naive. The road forward was as clearly marked as Main Street, Hawkins, USA.

And tonight Eddie was going to learn all about the sloping curves and high density areas that she wouldn’t be able to hide behind well draped skirts or shapeless sweaters. She silently hoped that this pretty man with his broad smile and cocoa colored eyes still wanted to take the drive because Amanda wasn’t sure she could turn back now, even if she might wish for it later.

Together they had started this engine, all he had to do now was push down on the pedal and off they’d go. When they ran out of gas, if they sputtered out on the side of the road, and all she gained was the last two wonderful weeks and one night of lusty loving, the emotional equivalent of a “I humped Eddie Munson and all I got was this lousy t-shirt” souvenir, well, then she would learn to live with that.

Was it ideal? No. But then, things seldom were. And even though those three magic words had been said, had been kissed into her lips so many times since making their mutual confessions in the underused alcove at Steve’s house, it was still freaking her out. Because hadn’t this all happened before? Hadn’t she given so much of herself, of her heart, time and again, thinking that her feelings were returned- that this time it would be different, only to wind up disappointed? Tonight though, that kind of thinking had to be pushed aside. There was no more room to be bashful. To worry about what came next. Not when the guy in question was trembling from the task of keeping himself civil, the tense set of his jaw giving him away as he kept a respectful distance. Even still, the base maleness of him thrummed, vibrating the way guitar strings do when a chord is struck, the energy shimmering into sound. And Amanda had a great ear for that sort of music, too. At her taunting words Eddie’s mouth pulled to the right, a half smile making itself known as he crossed his arms over chest, “Hey, I’m not complaining, Mandy.” “Oh? Good. Yea, that’s good.” And she danced away from him, hips swaying in time with the driving beat. She stopped, popping the button on her dungarees with intention before shimmying them down her thick thighs, delighted by the pinch of Eddie’s teeth as he bit into his bottom lip. He was going to draw blood. The sweater she wore barely covered the swell of her hips but if he squinted, he was certain he could see the elastic of her panties. White? No, heather gray and spun out cotton. Simple, straightforward and charming as hell.

Swallowing over the hard knot of want that pushed against his Adam’s Apple, barely managing to keep his grunting in check, “Damn, Mandy.” “Hmm?” When she kicked her pants to the side he had to look away - at the ceiling, her wall, the mossy colored floor or risk cumming in his blue jeans. He slammed his eyes shut at the image in front of him. It didn’t help. Imprinted on the insides of his eyelids he could still see her. Bare legged, her supple skin nearly glowing, practically begging for his touch. Too sweet. Too fucking precious. Shit. Fuck. He wasn’t going to survive. So close to short circuiting, Eddie dragged a hand across the back of his neck, going so far as to squeeze the skin there, just to bring himself off the edge because, holy shit, there was no way that she knew what she was doing to him. The song shifted and Amanda sat herself down on the edge of her bed before leaning back on her hands. This new position thrust her chest forward, those smooth legs barely parted but making his gargoyle mind wander just the same. It wanted… to bite, to suck, to mark and mar. His goblin wanted to claim the fair maiden then lock her in the tallest tower, far away from anything or anyone harmful, except him, of course. His first step was cautious, feeling his way forward with only Amanda’s signals to light his path. The pull between them was undeniably strong, had been from the beginning, but he didn’t want to screw anything up now by being overeager. And he sure as fuck didn’t want to scare his girl away by coming on too strong or making a wrong move. Not when Robert Plant was singing and the room smelled like Avon lotion and lavender flowers and fabric softener, the expensive kind. Not when his pulse ticked wildly, darkening his eyes and steeling his resolve. Not when he could see a similar something simmering in Amanda’s expressive eyes. “You- you’re fucking gorgeous, Amanda.” “Eddie-” She let her head fall back, the tight tendons of her neck stretching, her rushed breathing making her chest rise and fall rapidly, the sound of argument loaded and ready. But he cut her off, moving a leg between both of hers, palms hovering over the width of her dimpled thighs, “-I wanna touch you. Wanna, wanna feel you. Can I?” “Can I?” she parrotted sweetly, upending his advancement, deflecting a little. And he must have nodded because then she was leaning towards him, gentle hands smoothing over his quads, her stare trained on his rapidly reddening face. Roving, she touched him lightly, delicately, over the clothes he was still wearing. Butterfly wings brushing over a flower's petals, never lingering before spreading goosebumps somewhere else, testing the waters of his tenacity. When her clever fingers found his handcuff belt buckle, he stopped her, gathering her hands in his own, “It, uh, it catches. Hang on.” He put a fraction of space between them, moving faster than she would have thought possible to catch up to her state of undress. He toed out of his sneakers, shunting them out of the way as he huffed out a laugh, wrestling with his belt, “Fucking thing, I don’t know why I even-” “I like it.” Popping his head up, Eddie caught sight of Amanda’s playful smirk, “You do, huh?” Raising her chin so that she could spy on him through the fringe of her lashes, she nodded with a chuckle, voice sounding like spun sugar, “Yea, of course I do. Goes with your whole bad boy image, ya know?” His fingers paused, the curtain of curls swinging while he asked, “Is that why you’re with me? Because I’m a bad boy?” “Nope.” She answered plainly, her focus never shifting, even though her hips did, thighs stopped from providing relieving friction by his knee, “I’m with you because of how you look at me, Eddie. Me. Like I’m something- someone worth looking at.” Pants forgotten, he traced a finger over the sweep of her cheek, “I love looking at you, you know that right? It’s like you’re the fucking moon, Mandy. Bright and, and beautiful and when you shine your light on me-” shaking his hair off his back, tone too earnest, voice too honest, “-it makes me forget about my darkness.” At the admission Eddie’s eyes drifted shut, his chin tipped skyward as he struggled to compose himself. There was uncertainty shadowing his words, in the shape his lips made while speaking, entirely unsure if his mouth should be trusted to relay all of the things his heart felt to be true. Because when he actually thought about it, three weeks ago he hadn’t known that there was a person named Amanda Patterson who even existed in this world. Now? Well, now she kind of was his world. And his world was reaching forward with tender, impatient hands, sliding his broken down leather belt free from the beloved buckle easily. Nimble fingers making quick work of the rivet fastening his pants closed but she stalled there, blinking up at him with confusion clear in her eyes, “Did you call me the moon?” A wide thumb hooked under her chin, lifting those thoughtful peepers to his own, “Yea, Mandy. The moon. Like when it’s full and round and close and you can’t believe that it’s real, looking down on you all lit up and so-” her touch was so so so close to his throbbing hardness he grunted, “-fucking hell. So ca-captivating. Can’t take my eyes off you.” It happened again. That thing where the world narrowed anytime she was with him, a hyper-focused momentary shift of time and place that made Amanda’s heart flutter wildly, blood roaring in her ears. A second when everything else around her faded into the background leaving no one else but her and Eddie. Together. Alone. So she didn’t laugh at his poetic confession or joke about his Shakespearean ideals. Instead, her pretty lips parted, mewling musically as his tongue licked into the honeyed cavern of her mouth. Sharing each inhale and exhale, pressing his advantage and Amanda higher up the bedspread until she was flat against the mattress, caged between strong tattooed forearms. Breathing heavily, sitting back with a sigh, he traced a hand over the fuzz of her sweater, “Can you- can I take this off you?” Something about being compared to the moon freed her from whatever worries she carried about herself, her body, to fade into the ether. When he asked to see her- all of her, her answer was a demanding, “God yes.” Eddie’s mouth fell hungrily to the newly exposed skin on her collarbone, hot and wet and needy. A tiny whimper tumbled out of her panting mouth when he slurped over the slope of her bra covered breasts, his hands politely cupping the cotton covered flesh. Desperately, her own hands clawed at his head, keeping his pursed lips tight to her body as he devoted himself to devouring her in bite-sized pieces. “Shit, h-hold on f’me.” Stuttering, sitting up on his knees, Eddie took a second to rip his own shirt off, tossing it behind him without a second look. His jeans were open, belt dangling loosely from the loops, the elastic waistband of his boxers low enough to display the cut of his hip bones. There were silvery scars in concentric circles that didn’t look as purposeful as the tattoos she’d been dying to see, and before she could be told not to, she was tracing over the slightly raised skin with her index finger. Eddie let her touch. Explore. The graze of her hands was intentional, not teasing and not pitying either. He would know because he’d been on the receiving end of both before. More than that, he appreciated that she asked no questions about what had created the mottled pattern on his abdominals, just accepted that they existed and were part of him. If he wasn’t already in love with her, that alone would have surely cemented his fate. Surging in his system like the first inhale of that kind bud Rick got from Canada, he relaxed into the feeling, letting it blossom while sampling the sensitive stretch of her neck, the ball of her shoulder, the space between her breasts. A starving man facing a Golden Corral buffet table wouldn’t have sounded happier than he did at that moment. “God, look at you, Mandy.” He hummed as he worked his way over her ribs, “Moon goddess. My moon goddess.” Writhing beneath him, she folded towards him at the praise, little huffing sounds pushing over her lips, “You look so good right now. So sweet. So goddamn sweet for me.” The words were honey hot, warm and sticky, and they chafed like his denim covered legs. rubbing deliciously against her naked ones. The friction too much and not nearly enough for the pleasure taking root in the warm, moist soil of her center. Even touch drunk on Eddie she bucked at the sentiment, practically pouting, “Hmm, I’m not-” she scrunched her eyes shut, tossing her head weakly against the blanket, “-I’m not that sweet.” Dropping down to his forearms, his nose nuzzled into hers as he chided tartly, “Maybe I should taste you again then and make sure? Gonna let me? Let me taste you and touch you and make you feel good?” Nodding from beneath him, keen eyes locked on his, “Hmm- Yes, yes, uh huh. I want that. So bad. Want you so bad.” Shutting her eyes at the sensation, his calloused fingertips slid up the satin of her outer thighs, leaving shivery bumps in his wake . He dug his fingertips into the pillowy softness there, loving the feel of her flesh under his touch, “I’m gonna give you everything you want, Mandy, don’t worry. Gonna make you mine. Keep you in bed until the sun don’t shine.” A sound then, half groan half giggle, floated between them, Amanda sighing through a playful smile, “Eddie Munson’s a- a poet. Who knew?” “Credit where credit’s due, babe. I’m a songwriter. A lyricist, ya know? Whoa!” His answer was smug but faded fast when she yanked down on his jeans before brushing the pads of her fingers over the newly exposed tattoo on Eddie’s right hip.

It was beautiful; a snake in black and gray, coiled around itself, the wide fanged mouth biting into the tail in an unending loop. This piece was big. Artistic and finely detailed. Her open palm barely covered half of it when she reverently pressed against the permanent artwork. “And, uh you just bring it out in me- Jesus Christ! Your hands are freezing!” “Are they?” with a tone turned thick with teasing, she widened her smirk before those frigid digits were skating over his pecs and poking into his ribs. Like a startled grasshopper, he jumped back far enough to catch her tickling fingers, the grip on her wrists keeping her from reaching his more sensitive areas despite her wiggling attempts to get free. Leaning in closer, loopy laughing aside, he tsked, “Oh, bad move, Mandy!” “Ah! No, Eddie, please! I’m really ticklish- Ah!” She started to scoot away, further up the bed, side to side, trying to shimmy out of his hold, laughing the whole time. Loudly. Happy to be caught. Using his teeth, feral and frolicking, Eddie bit into the roundness of Amanda’s shoulder, the small sharp pain widening her eyes, “Did you just bite me?” Flashing her his lady-killing grin, he clicked his tongue, “Told you I had to know how sweet you were, Mandy. And-” settling his hips between her parted thighs, “-I gotta say, you’re pretty damn tasty.” An answering hum of appreciation met her ears as Eddie continued lower. Without question or qualm, he nuzzled and nipped at her abundant flesh, his happy hands squeezing indulgently whenever she sighed out encouragement. And all Amanda could manage was a continuous begging cry of “Please, please Eddie, don’t, don’t stop, ok?”

Why would he? There was some addictive element, a chemical, an additive that laid across every inch of her body and he craved it. Couldn’t get enough. Landing somewhere between cinnamon sugar coating and honeyed dust, the flavor of her skin was exactly the thing he had been ravenous for his whole life long. There was no way in hell he’d stop searching it out, not when he found the source, “Not a chance, Mandy.” She felt his grip on the flimsy fabric of her panties, tense and twitchy. Hands slipped under the legband, cupping the expanse of her bottom in two palms before digging into the meat of her ass as Eddie’s nose pressed against the soaking gusset. His moan was the kind that shook mountains to their foundation. It created tidal waves that ravaged cities. For Amanda it twisted the knot of her need tight enough to snap, her thighs wanting desperately to slide shut, but falling further apart shamelessly, instead. There was no trepidation to the touches now. With a rough pull the cheap drug store underwear disintegrated, the scraps unneeded and unwanted any longer. Amanda didn’t have time to bother about it because Eddie’s hard working hands were parting her legs, holding her open and on display with the weight of his body. Chest heaving, he called to her, “Hey, look at me, baby. At me, Mandy.” “Yea?” She was a mess of lavender and lilac stains, streaked with spit and red wine colored bruises. But she was smiling, half-cocked, when her stare met his blown out pupils. “If you want me to uh, to stop, you gotta say it now.” Amanda did not. What she did was whine, low in her throat, as her cleft clenched around nothing, “Don’t stop.” “Just remember that I love you, yea?” Licking over her dry lips, rolling her hips under his strong hold, she nodded, “Love you too. Only you-”

The rest of her sentence remained unsaid as Eddie’s tongue licked right over her juicy center, circling the swollen firmness of her clit with expert precision. He wrapped his arms around her legs from beneath, keeping her parted for his pleasure as he lapped at the drooling opening between her lower lips. He wasn’t gentle as he moved Amanda’s thicker body closer, jerking her down and onto his waiting tongue over and over and over again. It was maddening to be pummeled by the slick wetness of his textured tongue, only deep enough to create more wanting, before he would flick the tip higher, aiming for the bull’s eye of her clitoris. Sloppy from excitement he swapped light licks for sucking. Drawing her pulsing pearl between his slick lips, eyes closed, enjoying the softer than silk sensation of her sweaty self, bow tight and at his mercy. He didn’t let up. Couldn’t. And when he felt the shaking in her muscles, Eddie took it as the invitation is it was, gliding two fingers into the pulsing tunnel of Amanda’s willing body.

She contracted around the invasion, her hands seeking a hold and finding it in the flowing strands of his mane. Wrenching him snuggly between her parted knees, she was dangerously close to losing control. Could already feel the tell-tale concentration of her energy drawing inward. The wetness that sluiced down the crack of her ass, the hummingbird fluttering of the muscles in her pelvis, the sticky press of Eddie’s cheek to her inner thigh. All of it webbing together, a thread winding tighter and tighter and tighter. And the rough texture of his fingers grazed her front wall exactly the right way. And he hummed out a laugh which puffed over her swollen lips exactly the right way. And the strings of her satisfaction snapped under the burden of his ceaseless passion. She must have made noise. Had to have, since her mouth moved at least. Falling open as the first flush of her orgasm gave way to a rolling tide of pleasure that broke through her in waves but she didn’t hear anything beyond the crashing pounding of her pulse. Fists full of Eddie’s hair fell away as all of Amanda’s bones turned to jelly, her tendons to jam, while she melted into the bed beneath. Pulling away from her, panting hotly into her dampness, through slick shiny cheeks he grinned cockily, “Sweeter than candy, Mandy. I knew you would be, fuck, and you-” he stopped talking to watch the way she accepted his intruding digits as deep as possible, bucking into the touch he offered wantonly despite just cumming, “-you just want more, don’t ya?” “Hmm, yea. Want wha-whatever you’ll give me.” Leaning up on her elbows she caught him licking her spend from his fingers before dipping right back into her, a devilish glint in his eyes. “Whatever I’ll give you, huh?” Eddie curled his fingers inside of her quivering core, stretching apart, taking up space, as his smoky voice purred, “You asked for it.” There was a flurry of sudden movement; he stood up fast, wiggling his hips until the heavy denim of his jeans hit the floor with a satisfying thump. His boxers dropped free in a flash. The bed dipped under his weight and before she could react, Eddie clasped a firm hand around each ankle and forced her knees back, nearly bending her in half. For him, the view was spectacular. The cro-magnon part of his brain flipped on, wanting only to take. Conquer. Consume. Who could blame him when he had his dream woman, his Moon Goddess, his Mandy, slick and spread out for him to feast on? The now painful stiffness of his hard on trembled at the sight. A patch of dark curls matted with pre-cum dotted his navel as the prolonged anticipation became too much to bear. Gripping himself, squeezing really, Eddie stroked over his cock, trembling as he asked, “Do you have a- a rubber?” Tossing her head, hair in tangles around her face, Amanda reached for him, “I’m on the pill.” For a second the heat abated and Eddie met her eyes, “Yea? That’s great fucking news.” “Have to be- Oh my GOD!” Rubbing the head of his dick between her folds, he slapped it into her overstimulated clit, cackling at her startled reaction, “Aw sweetheart, you don’t have to call me God. I’ll always answer to Ed-” But he bit off his sentence when he felt her hand glide over his shaft. If he was going to tease, so was she, “Fine, Ed- don’t keep me waiting, alright?” “Wouldn’t dream of it, baby. Wouldn’t dream of it.” Amanda’s back arched violently as her tender flesh parted around the thickness of Eddie’s erection. He notched into her slowly, rasping through held breaths, “You- you doing ok, Mandy?” Nodding was the only response she could give considering the ripples of pleasure already bubbling through her, but he pinched at the fat of her hip, “Need you to say it, Amanda. Tell me. Yea?”

And the last note was pleading, tender, which brought her back into herself long enough to whimper, “I’m doing ok, Eddie. Are- are you?”

He was struggling to be a gentleman, that was certainly true, and his gargoyle brain wanted to run amok but, “Yea, I’m fucking fantastic.” Laying her head back, exposing her neck, she managed to smile before sighing, “Good. That’s so good.” He groaned then, deep and rumbling, before rocking his hips forward. Seating himself down to the root, Amanda took everything he had inside her quaking core and damn, it was exquisite. To be surrounded by the yielding silver softness of her body, cool and clean, when his own was made of hard angles and rigid lines made Eddie want to howl. Wasn’t that what a wolf would do under the light of the full moon? And what of the moon? Did she reply to the lovesick creature, crying to the heavens?

Digging her heels into the beloved bed clothes for more traction, driving herself along his length so that he could know just how incredible it felt to be joined with him in this way, Amanda met him thrust for thrust. Ratcheting her own hips eagerly, moaning brokenly through every inhale, “More. I can take it. Please? Please.”

Her wolfman didn’t need to be asked twice. A hand palmed her thick ass, grinding her bones against his without withdrawing, seeking the untouched places deep inside with wet and warm and wild abandon. Dropping over her, he used his tongue to find her nipple, sucking harshly as if there was a way to taste her heart, her veins, her muscle and fascia. Lewdly. Rudely.

And she didn’t hold back. Her nails, sharper and painted a rosy color, scratched along his forearms, his shoulders, his back. Anywhere that could be reached, touched, marked as ruined by her hands as she struggled to hold fast through the pummeling, punishing pushes. Bejeweled rings snagged her hair as his hand curled around the nape of her neck, dragging his mouth to hers. Their tongues mimicked the movement of their lower halves; pushing, pulling, tangling together. And when the kiss became too much, the threatening rasp of teeth nipped at the bulge of his Adam’s Apple, his exposed throat too great a temptation to ignore.

For her effort, his moon was serenaded by a ceaseless chant of words such as “want” and “love” and “forever”. That his every uttered syllable was met with the sounds of her surrender; of her body, her mind, her soul, was not lost in translation. Eddie recognized what each utterance meant, a natural interpreter of the noises she emitted, and thought that a recording of her sexy sounds had the potential to climb the charts. Top 100 for sure- if he was even remotely willing to let anyone else hear the concert of their lovemaking. He wasn’t though. Not just because of the intimate nature of this particular show but because he was a selfish, selfish man. No one else should be allowed to hear the symphony that was their ode to an evening. She was beaming, could feel the radiant heat off of her own skin in the swell of her cheeks and burning through in patches where a bite mark or bruise might show in tomorrow’s light. Biting into her lip with a hum, she grinned, giddy and glowing under all the tender affection of being loved so well by Eddie. He was thorough, kissing and clinging in random places at random moments and her sex drunk brain couldn’t be bothered to keep up. Already pliant, no longer entirely in control of her movements, when the muscles of her right thigh let go, she didn’t fight it. Catching on the jutting crest of his hip like it belonged there, curled naturally around his waist, it trapped him tightly to her. The change in position was ruinous. Overwrought and overworked, she was going to cum again, and harder than the first time. When she spoke the words, punctuated by his quickening thrusts, his smile grew wolfishly wide. Gleeful at her stuttered announcement, praising her, “You feel so good, M-Mandy. S’ perfect.”

Amanda’s eyes rolled back in her skull, the powerful release pulling her under as her muscles stiffened, fighting against the rising tide before dropping into the pocket, waves of pleasure lapping against each other. Gasping, his name the only sound filling the still of the night, an incantation recited over and over again until her lungs burned from want of oxygen. Her’s wasn’t the scream of a porno actress from a secretly rented video, over dramatic and purposefully false. And maybe that’s why it hit Eddie right in the darkest depth of his heart. She wasn’t acting out her ecstasy. She couldn’t be faking the erratic pulsing rhythm of her orgasm as it spurred on his own. Slippery. Constricting. Lake bottom deep, he sunk himself further into her silk and let go with a moan, “Amanda-” Her arms wrapped around him. Legs too. And as he shuddered, a ragged breath blowing the sweat stuck strands of hair off his forehead, he felt the smallest nudge along his jaw. Tiny presses of her mouth, little mini kisses to his bicep, over his collar bone, and down the proud slope of his nose. “Hey you.” Giggling at the gangly guy situated between her knees, she bit her bottom lip, tilting her head in her signature sassy way, “Hey yourself.” Wiggling his hips slowly, still incredibly hard, he flashed Amanda a sheepish grin, “I’m almost afraid to, ya know, pull out. I think I- I made a mess.” Now she was outright laughing, “Oh really? You think so, huh?” “Shit, you have to stop that!” His jaw was clenched tight despite the lighthearted way he spoke. Every nerve ending was raw, receiving too much stimuli, but he wasn’t ready for it to end. Didn’t really want to separate and go back to being two people, two bodies, two hearts.

Innocently asked, Amanda’s eyebrows crinkled in confusion, “What?” “Laughing! You’re still- ah! You’re still squeezing me!” But that only made her laugh harder, “I’m so sorry! But, you’re pretty fucking funny after sex!” “Is that so, little missy?” And that’s when Eddie leaned up, making to kiss her, but licking a thick stripe up her cheek at the last second that made her squirm and squeal in mock disgust. Easing himself free, a trickle of wetness following, Eddie pressed his forehead to hers, “If I’m pretty fucking funny then you’re just fucking pretty.” If it hadn’t struck her before, it hit her with the force of a baseball bat now; her lover was beautiful. Even with limited light illuminating his sweaty skin, he was glowing and her heart thumped at the image before her. Eddie, her Eddie, with his bangs sticking to his forehead, tacky with sweat from the exertion of fucking her so hard, happy and melty at the edges like a really good grilled cheese sandwich. “I love you.” Laying his head on her chest, sighing like a young girl with a crush, he answered, “I love you.” He didn’t say “I love you, too.” There was no “too” about it. He knew how he felt, in his heart, in his body, in his mind. And even with the cloudiness of a great orgasm hazing his thoughts, Eddie felt the truth in it. Groaning in protest, she made to move to get up, to leave the bed, but he stopped her, “Tell me where I can get a towel, alright?” “I can get up, Eddie.”

He shook his head sending his sweat soaked waves into the air, “Yea, you can, but I don’t want you to, ok? So, bathroom? Where can I find it?” She extended her hand lazily, pointing, “First door on the right. It has a toilet and a tub, so you know, can’t miss it.” Pushing up on his hands and knees, Eddie thudded to the floor on heavy feet. Turning to bow, naked as the day he was born, using a put on cockney accent, “Yes m’lady! Right away! Your faithful servant won’t let you down!” Her sparkling laugh chased him down the hallway.

Not much later, when water had been shared from a jelly glass with Tom & Jerry running around the rim and the damp, once warm towel used for cleaning up had been chucked into the hamper, Eddie thumped his head back against the headboard. His body lax as he drew Amanda closer, “I gotta say, Mandy. Thought you said you were new to all this, had me thinking I was going to need to show you how it’s done, but you just, ya know, rocked my world.” His kiss was affectionate, playful even, without the fevered heat of desire burning it to ash. Shifting up to her elbow, head in her hand, eyes heavy but watchful, “I’m not a virgin. I’ve, ya know, had sex before.” That was news to him. Not that he would stake his life on it, but there had been a conversation about experience over patty melts and paper napkins. About newness. About being without skill or practice. “But-” Flopping forward, her head laid on his sweat cooled chest, cheek squished against his zombie tattoo, “I wasn’t lying to you, if that’s what you think. I just- I haven’t dated much but, this-” she waved a hand taking in the bed, the room, the nakedness, “-I’ve done this a few times before.” He rolled onto his side, scooching lower so he could see her better, his warm hand finding a home along the expanse of Amanda’s ribs and rubbing continuously, “I know my head is still a little fuzzy after all the great lovin’ and all but, uh, I’m not sure I’m following.” Blowing out a breath that sounded something like frustration, she shrugged, “Guys take me to bed but not to dinner. I’m not, ya know, girlfriend material, I suppose. It’s like, I’m good enough to make out with, especially if it makes some other, prettier, thinner girl jealous.” Her mouth twisted up, not really a frown but a far cry from the sweet smile Eddie had come to appreciate. She was staring through him, seeing images made of memory, “Good enough to- to fool around with in the dark. Places where no one would see, like under the bleachers or behind a dumpster. But take me to a restaurant? A movie? Out with friends or family? No way. “And I’m always so-” she rolled her eyes, trying to find the right word, “-I don’t know, needy? Desperate maybe? That a guy pretending to be interested could offer me kisses in corners or bathroom stalls where no one would ever think to look and I do it. Gladly. Because even their half assed affection is better than nothing, right?” But Amanda didn’t wait for Eddie to answer, carrying on with an edge in her voice, “If I touch them, let them touch me, then they’ll give me what I want. Flowers and romance and, and-” he heard the way her throat caught, a strangled sound shaking through her as she finished, “-love.” Tossing her head, she banished a wayward tear, smiling thinly at her man’s silhouette in the muted light, “Now though, I’m here, with you. A guy who sees me, all of me. You see me and you don’t make me feel bad about who I am. How I look. You see me, and, and you like me even in broad daylight. And no one’s ever done that before. I mean, you already brought me around your friends. Your family.” Her emphasis on the last word not lost on him and neither was the twinge of pride in her voice at how she said it. “Amanda-” He wanted to reach out, reassure her, but she shook him off. There was more to say, more to tell and for the first time in a long time, she wanted to share her thoughts with someone. Not someone. Eddie.

Swallowing, she looked up at him, comfortable and relaxed under her threadbare bedsheet, “You wanted to know what happened tonight? When I was at practice?” Maybe there was something in her voice that gave her away. He could tell that this was uncharted territory for his Moon woman, taking her out of her depth, a thing difficult to share. Maybe he also realized that something was shifting, something important, so he bobbed his head, locking her fingers with his, “Yea, but only if you wanna tell me. There’s no pressure, you know that, right?” Nodding, Amanda sat up now, pinning the sheet under her arms so that it covered most of her breasts. Her hair was a knotted mess, wild and untamed, but she was lit from within. Eddie felt as though she was worthy of sculpture, ready to be captured for all time in alabaster stone or graying quartz. Some Italian master should be committing the image before him into marble. The combination of fragility and strength on display was overwhelming even if the underlying hurt etched in her face made Eddie’s chest ache. “I know and that’s kind of why I want to tell you.” It was an admission of trust, of respect, and another stunning example of how strong her feelings truly were. With a small gesture encouraging her to go on, Amanda inhaled sharply, “Right. So, tonight, at rehearsal? Mark, you know my drummer- uh, the drummer? He was being the biggest asshole. To everyone, not just me. Really picking on us all, which was weird. ‘Cause normally he’s kinda, well-” Stepping on her sentence, Eddie finished with a shit eating grin, “Steady?” “Oh, that was bad, even for you.” She groaned at the ill timed, but sort of hilarious drumming joke. Lifting his hands, signaling his apology, she tilted her head thoughtfully, “Anway, he said some stuff and-” That made Eddie sit up too, his legs folding and taking the blankets with them, “Wait, he said something about you or about me?” “Um-” her fingers fiddled with the fabric, eyes avoiding his baleful brown orbs for the first time all night. Not a great sign. “If it’s about me, no problem. I can handle that, Mandy. Hell, I’ve been handling that shit my whole life. But you? Baby-” Eddie cupped her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him, “-You don’t deserve that shit.” “About us both, I guess.” Her shoulders lifted in a shrug, “Mark was, well, he was angry. At me. Said that I sounded ‘desperate’ when I was singing the other night, that I was ‘begging for a man’ like- like some kind of tramp or something when I was singing to you.” Holy shit, was he struggling right now. With every other word Amanda uttered, Eddie’s blood ran like frigid November rain, in icy sheets that burned or in magma hot lava-like flows that scorched his heart from rage. Luckily he was hiding it well.

Going for cool, casual even, he cast about asking, “So, uh, what else did Mark have to say?” With a guilty gulp, she went on, “A lot. And he kept running his mouth so much, too much, really. It’s just- I thought he was my friend, you know?” And honest to god, her chin shook as she held back the tears her emotional meridian begged to release, her voice going warbly with the effort, “But in the end, he was just like the guys at school, the boys back home. Wanted the- the thrill of being with a girl like me, a big girl, and thought I should be-” in a barely heard whisper she trailed off, “-grateful for his attention.” Now, young Mr. Munson had spent time as an angry juvenile. The world and the way it worked had done its level best to beat him down over and over again. Before the interdimensional trauma that left him scarred and scared, he had trained himself to live and let live, a philosophy that he was pretty certain had saved his life on more than one occasion. But hearing the way she spoke about Mark, a dude she knew and trusted, filled him with a furious anger so white hot that he almost could not believe that smoke wasn’t spilling out of his ears like in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. It didn’t seem like the darling at his side noticed when his unoccupied hand closed in a tight fist that he was currently imagining ramming right through the skin of a bass drum directly into the sternum of Mark, as if he might bend the laws of physics and somehow be able to beat the shit out of this asshole from the safety of Amanda’s bed.

Because, like, who the fuck did this guy think he was? She wasn’t crying, not outright, but was sad about the circumstances all the same. And from the pure desire to make his woman feel better, he snorted hotly, “Fucking dipshit. He’s the one that should be grateful.” “What?” “I said, this Mark person, he’s the one that should be grateful to even, ya know, know you” he added, tugging that self protective strand of hair down and over his mouth. Starting at a mumble that grew stronger the longer he talked, Eddie’s stare locked on Amanda’s, “Look, I already told you how I feel. And, even if we weren’t, ya know, together, I’d still be thankful that you’re in my life. You are something special, Amanda Patterson. Something-” and then he couldn’t resist any longer, dragging a finger down her cheek until he could tip her chin up, those bright eyes searching his own, “-out of this world. A treasure.” Rewarded with a wry shake of head and rolled wet eyes, Eddie carried on, “Honestly, thank fuck.” She sniffled a bit, asking through a thick throat, “What’s that supposed to mean?” His pink lips screwed up in a crooked smirk that scrunched his nose cutely, “It means, sweetheart, that those-” rings glinting the gloom, his hand flailed dramatically, “-dumbasses didn’t know they had struck gold when they met you. Lucky for you, I know the good shit when I see it.” Deflating visibly, she huffed, “Gold plated is probably more accurate.” It was meant to be lighthearted. A little self deprecating, sure, but wasn’t it easier to make the joke then become one? “Hey, don’t do that.” He caught her cheeks in a grip which was firm while his voice cotton soft, “I’m not joking around. Not about this. Not about you.” She didn’t move, frozen in place by the sincerity he was forcing her to accept. Whispering into the quiet night, a hardly spoken rush of words, but he heard them all the same, “I’m nothing special, Eddie.” A fever of frustration climbed through him at that midnight confession. The worst part was how truly she believed what she said, that there was nothing special about her, no reason for Mark’s misplaced interest or his own adoration. That somehow she didn’t deserve Eddie’s praise, his attention, even his love, was all layered into that one sentence. “Mandy, don’t you ever talk that way about the person I love. Never again.” It was his gently uttered warning. “But, Eddie-” she wanted to argue the point, make a case for being less than. Shifting quickly, he caught her around the bare expanse of her shoulders, “If I have to say it everyday, for the rest of your life, I will Mandy. You’re amazing.” A kiss, hungry and scalding, melded their mouths together, “You are so fucking sexy.” Lips traced the line of her jaw, moving upward, “And I haven’t felt, well, whatever this is, ever before.” Even if her mind wasn’t quite convinced, Eddie’s nearness coupled with the sultry kisses and his heartfelt words had made her body a believer. She smoothed a hand along his straight spine, her forehead tapping his own, “I imagine you say that to all the ladies you take to bed.” A warm, happy laugh rumbled through Eddie at her smart ass comment. Pulling back, needing to see her eyes, “I’m going to be real honest with you, alright? Put it all on the line, k?” When she agreed with a short nod, he continued, “You may think that I do this sorta thing all the time- pick up chicks and service them until the sun comes up, until they uh, scream my name into the night- but I don’t.” Tilting her head, really looking him over, she shook her own, her teasing edged with something harder, “You’re telling me that you don’t seduce the housewives who bring their cars in for oil changes? Or, or, um, bang groupies after a good show at The Hideout?” “Me? No way. Not a chance. Reputation ruiner, remember? So I can tell you with 100 percent certainty that you are in my, my top 3, all time. Easy.” Mindlessly, Eddie started tracing stars into the skin of her thighs, consciously avoiding her piercing stare. But now she was curious, a small smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, her eyebrows lifted, “Out of how many?” Yanking his hair forward, Eddie snickered, still bashful, “Um, out of three. But, uh, out of those three, you’re my number one. No question about it.” The grin he flashed her was so deep, his cheeks aching from smiling so widely, that Amanda had no choice but to giggle too, “Number one, you said?” Reaching for her hand, linking their fingers together before nudging her closer, he corrected her gently, “Uh huh, you’re my number one. Best I ever had.”

“What are you doing to me, Eddie Munson?” It was rhetorical, obviously, but it had to be asked even if she was unable to keep the tendril of truth out of her voice. Because this conversation was powerful enough to capsize her, she realized too late to stop it from happening. If he was going to sink her ship, she was going to have to grow gills or drown trying. Otherwise she was never going to survive being cared for by the romantic rockstar in training who was taking up half her bedspread. Scrunching his eyes as he bit into his bottom lip, Eddie hemmed, “I’m uh, watching out for you. Tryin’ to be a knight or a, a paladin.” Rubbing his thumb in patient circles against the back of her hand, a little lost in his thoughts, “Want to be who and what you need, Mandy, because, yea, you deserve that.” “And what do you deserve?” That drew him up short as she freed her hands so she could skate them over his exposed chest, “‘Cause I think you deserve things too. Like someone to love you back. Someone who hears you-” rising to her knees, she scooted a leg over his waist, bracketing his body between her dimpled thighs, “-and your terrible jokes but still laughs anyway. Someone who appreciates you for all the wonderful and wild things that make you, well, you.” She punctuated her sentence with a bop on the tip of his broad nose. His mouth was dry but his betraying eyes were damp as he cleared his throat roughly, hands already resting on the full rise of her hips, “Is uh, is that so, Miss Mandy?” “Totally.” She pulled one of his hands away, the lined and creased side facing her before pressing her lips to its very center. Covering it with her own she held it against the smooth expanse of her sternum, directly on top of her beating heart. Swallowing thickly, unable to look away, he asked, “Maybe I’ve found her?” Bare and unashamed, leaning into his space, her sleek slit skimming his slowly solidifying length made his cheeks burn hotly as she rocked her hips back. Nodding, she looked down at him, purring, “Maybe you have.” Grinding down, her full weight holding him to the mattress, to the earth, he thanked whatever deity was closest for this brilliant, beautiful creature with the enchanting voice and bewitching eyes full of shining devotion. Whatever she was before didn’t matter to him or the gargoyle who guarded his own thumping mess of a heart in its crumbling tower. Amanda Patterson was his now, and he’d be damned before letting her go.

—

1990 - Fall

“Let’s hear it once again for Mandy and the Maniacs!” All around her the crowd went ballistic. Shouting, screaming, stomping, clapping noise filled the bar where the band, her band had taken the stage with the hope of making it through one more round. One step closer to fortune and fame and everything that goes with it. Based on the deafening roar of this particular crowd, Amanda had high hopes. Fuck, but she wanted to win 1991’s Battle of the Bands. Prove that she was good enough to make it on the strength of her own abilities, on the unflagging determination of her dream to sing for a living, and do it on her own. So she was smiling through the tears of happiness that filled her eyes, blinking rapidly as she committed the raucous riotous scene below her into her memory banks as the emcee was thrusting a plastic trophy complete with a fake gold guitar glued to the top into her sweaty hand, “Congratulations to our winners! And don’t forget that you can see Mandy and the band here at Stingers every Friday night. Doors open at 10pm!”

— “Good show tonight, Mandy. You know, you guys are really going places.” Amanda toweled off the grimy sweat from being under too hot stage lights and the melted mascara that always found a way to slip down her face after a show, grinning broadly, “Thanks Davey. We all appreciate your hosting and, of course, having us back week after week.” “Can’t have a rock bar with no music, that’d be like having a peanut butter sandwich without jelly. Just doesn’t taste right, ya know?” Laughing politely, she nodded, “I think I get what you mean.” And before he could ask again, Carly slid up to her side, “Ready to load in the gear?” A thankful expression crossed her face as she looked at her friend, still sweaty and streaked herself, “Yes ma’am. Hey-” leaning in to shake Davey’s hand, Amanda’s black mesh fingerless glove pressing designs into his palm as she added, “-again, thank you for tonight.” “It’s always a pleasure, Mandy. Uh, is there any chance you might wanna grab a dri-” Swinging a microphone case onto her shoulder, her back to the bar’s owner, Amanda answered swiftly, “Have a good night, Davey.” When they were in the chilly night air, sans jackets or even clothes that were close to appropriate for the weather in Indiana during an early cold snap, Carly lit up a cigarette, smirking, “He asked you again, huh?” Taking the flaming stick of death from her friend, Amanda took one, tiny puff, the smallest possible because her voice was still her best instrument, and lifted her heavily made-up eyes, “Was trying to, I think.” “Could it hurt?” Carly ashed the butt quickly, staring at the bumper of the broken-in mini-van that they used to lug amps and instruments in, purposefully avoiding Amanda’s bewildered look. Toeing at the slushy puddle that gathered around the back tire, her big black boots with neon laces keeping her away from the muck, she considered it. Would it hurt to let Davey buy her a drink? No, probably not. As a general rule, a single drink was not enough to hurt someone, but it was what came after that stalled her in her tracks. From under a jagged line of self cut bangs, Amanda tilted her head at her friend, one eye squeezed shut while the other stared dead on, “Eventually, yea. Yes it could. And not for nothing but I’m too toxic for anyone right now.” “That’s horseshit and you know it.” Carly flicked the used filter of her cigarette with a flourish, her shirt sleeves swinging at the effort. Laying back against the frozen metal of the van, Amanda shivered, “Come on, don’t fuck with me, ok? It’s been a good night. Great even. Let’s not fight about Davey and drinks that I’m not going to let him buy.” Kicking at the rims now, Carly grumbled, “You need to get laid.” “Fuck you, I do not!” This time her friend’s pretty pouting face found hers under the parking lot’s hazy yellow lights, “You do and so goddamn badly. It’s been what, like two years since Ed-” “Don’t say it.” Exhaling wickedly, anger heating up her sigh, Carly jumped right into her diatribe, “I can’t even say his name, Amanda. What is that about? Are you ever gonna, I don’t know, get over him? Go out with someone else? Let another person stick their fucking tongue down your fucking throat?” And when she didn’t reply, Carly pressed on, ranting into the empty night air, “Or are you going to die on this hill? Because ‘I once loved Ed-” she shifted her focus to Amanda before softening up, “-a, a future rockstar who broke my heart when he left this town and me behind’ is not going to fit on your tombstone, sis.” Toying with the van keys, their metal ring going cold in her hands, Amanda shrugged. She was tired all the way down to her soul. Tired of being tired. Tired of grinding so hard for the things she wanted. Tired of Carly being mostly, sort of, almost totally right. Tired of being alone. Tired of missing a man with a name she couldn’t bear to hear. And yea, ok, she would absolutely own that her sad sack routine was going stale. She bored herself most days, honestly. But what was the point in letting Davey or any other person buy her a drink and think they stood any kind of chance when Amanda Patterson no longer had a heart to give? Nope. Like the Tin-Man, she was kept alive by electrical impulses managed by some other organ because she’d lost her heart in 1988. The year Corroded Coffin was discovered through Carly’s college radio station connections. The same year a mid-western county fair tour was planned. The year that took him away for the big life he was always supposed to lead. The year that took her heart and never looked back. “Hell. Give me a smoke, would ya?”

“‘Manda. You don’t like cigarettes.” Carly taunted in a sing-song voice. Shrugging, sad and cold, she waved her friend on with a uselessly gloved hand, “Maybe I do now.” And when she took her first full inhalation a thought moved through the neural pathways of her brain. It might kill her, in the end, smoking, drinking or whatever, but she then, had been dead inside for a lot longer. Besides, there was no one watching out for her now. No one to disappoint. No one to worry.

Her lungs burned and the back of her throat protested, but Amanda smiled warmly in the cold night, “Thanks Carly.” Blowing out a held breath, the shorter girl rolled her eyes, “Fuck, you’re dramatic. Just like him. You know that right?” Her chuckle was hollow, raspy because of the smoking, “Uh huh. I do.” Dropping the burnt paper to the ground she stomped on it with the toe of her boot, unlocking the car, “Wanna get the fuck outta here?” “Yea. Let’s go home.”

—

1987

Morning light cast the entire room in a golden glow that was entirely too ethereal to be real. Only it was. It had to be, because Amanda was laying on her side, the plush padding of her bum tucked against Eddie’s bare pelvis, as she slept peacefully in his arms.

Now that his eyes were open there were things he needed to do: take a piss, take a shower, get some food in his body that did not come out of a cardboard box and get to work. Except he’d be leaving this downy nest of a bed and the warmth of a very willing body to do any of it. So, yea, Eddie didn’t want to do that, not even a little bit.

The alarm clock said seven thirty six, and if his bedtime math was accurate, he could stay until 8 o’clock. Any later and he’d be in deep shit with, well, virtually everyone. Why did it have to be Friday morning? How come he had bedded his dream woman on a Thursday night, mid-week, knowing there were still responsibilities on the horizon?

As if she could sense that he was awake, she shifted her figure flush with his, and there was no way to hide his morning wood. There was also no way she could not feel it pressing insistently at the small of her back. He swallowed his spit, curling Amanda closer, and shut his eyes. Eddie could manage the morning after. He absolutely could.

“Mmm, morning.”

Sleep stained and supple, Amanda started to roll his way but he stopped her with a kiss to her shoulder blade, “Uh, maybe don’t.” “Wha? Oh. Oh.” And saucy minx that she was, she stretched her body so that his erection rubbed over the silken skin of her bottom. Groaning from way down deep in his chest, Eddie chided, “You’re a tease.” “You’re too easy.” She was on her back now, head turned his way, outlined in the pale yellow rays of morning light. His heartbeat sped up at the coy look she flashed from under her lashes. Amanda wanted Eddie and in spite of the hard work he’d put in last night, he wanted her again too. Dipping a hand under the filmy sheet, his fingernails scraped the swell of her hip, when the alarm clock clicked to 7:45 and began buzzing obnoxiously. “Shit!” Scrambling up, Amanda hit the digital display’s off button, silencing the sound. Slumping into herself, she looked his way with a frowny face, “I have class at 9.” “I’ve got work, myself.” It was a guilty admission, no matter how true. Nodding, Amanda bit into her bottom lip, “Then I guess-” “We both have to go?” They spoke over each other. Whatever easy energy they had shared was taut now, stressed and strained but neither one moved. Neither one really wanted to. Except a new day was started, one with expectations for Amanda and Eddie alone. Still, she had to ask, hand twisting in the stray strands of her hair, “Will I, uh- um, maybe you can-” So Eddie took pity on his girl, lifting her hand to his lips chastely, “Are you trying to say that you wanna see me again? Like, tonight?” “Do- uh, do you want that?” She was barely suppressing her hope, struggling to keep her expectations of Eddie in check, regardless of all his pretty words when the lights were low. Thrusting out his little finger, Eddie wiggled it quickly, “Well, yea, of course I do. Promise.” Linking them together, a chuffed out giggle escaped her pouty lips when he swung their hands like that, childlike and silly. He used his leverage to drag her to his chest, a kiss landing on her nose, on each cheek, and finally her parted mouth. They let go reluctantly when her alarm rang again, this time marking the hour as 8. “Shit. I really, really, have to go.” Eddie swung his leg over the side of the bed giving Amanda a phenomenal view of his bare ass as he crisscrossed the room searching out his clothes. Too easily the boy stepped into his jeans, forgoing his underwear, she noticed, and shrugging back into his tee. Hugging her knees, she could only watch, conflicting thoughts filling her head. Her body was sore in the best possible way because of all that they had gotten up to last night. She knew she’d be thinking of him all day, anytime she shifted in her seat or caught sight of the purple markings that littered her neck and chest. And she definitely wanted to do this- do him, again. Without question, Eddie Munson was phenomenal in the sack. But now he was leaving, and she understood it, alright? She had shit to do herself. Because it was a weekday and she paid so much for school and the music shop was letting her pick up a shift… Only, she wanted to linger in bed with her very cute and very sexy lover at her side. Maybe get to lick his hardest parts, or, his softest. Maybe get him to lick her again and again and again. “Don’t?” Amanda hadn’t planned to say it out loud, but there it was, echoing around her quiet room. A pleading question spoken from the depths of her heart, pushing pause on the guy in the middle of pulling up his socks, seated primly on the corner of her bed. Shocked by her own actions, her eyes rounded as she backpedaled, “I mean, I know you have to and, and I have to, but that doesn’t mean I want you to- to go. Ya know? Last night was like-” she breathed out, willing herself not to get emotional even if she could feel the cold prickle of tears in the back of her throat, “-really special, for me at least. And-” letting her eyes find Eddie’s coffee colored eyes, finished, “-I don’t want to say goodbye.” Blinking a couple of times, taking a beat, he wanted to get his answer right. “Who says we have to say goodbye?” “You’re leaving.” Reaching for his boots, smile wide and shining under his mass of waves, “Uh huh. But-” yanking the laces hard, he grinned her way, “-I’m coming back.” “Are you though?”

He cut off any other protests, standing quickly and walking around to her side of the bed. Amanda had her feet planted on the floor, her sheet barely covering her most private of places, as she lifted her fretful face in his direction. Voice tighter than he wanted, shoulders tenser than they should be, Eddie looked down at this woman who had come to mean so much to him so quickly. One ring clad finger tripped down the hill of her nose, “Shit, Mandy, I’m probably losing all my cool guy street credit when I say this, but, uh, this thing-” using his thumb under her chin, the skin there yielding to his even pressure, “-You and me? This. It fucking scares me-” She had the audacity to look surprised, those beguiling eyes going wide from the raw honesty he was showing, that tilt to her head more pronounced as she nervously whispered, “I- I scare you?” “No! Shit, that’s not- I meant-” recovering quickly but feeling much shyer now, he tried to explain, “How I feel about you, I mean. How much I care- it’s a lot. For me, it’s everything.” With the sound of knees cracking, he dropped into a squat so that he was looking up at Amanda’s face, not the other way around.

“Oh.” her gaze softened shifting her focus until it landed on something far away, her mind working fast. Loving her was already a burden. Already too much to ask of a guy like Eddie, so wild and carefree. And the realizations stung. Maybe she didn't have a night to remember after all. Maybe her knight in shining armor didn’t see her the way she imagined. Maybe he wasn’t who she thought he was, after all. And her brain would have kept on running in ragged circles of self doubt if Eddie hadn’t nudged against her parted thighs, “Hey, Mandy? Come back to me, yea?” “Sorry, I- uh-” steeling herself, her back stiffened, her smile slipping, “-Look. We don’t have to do this. I get it, Eddie. And, ya know-” those eyes were back on him, sadder now, holding him still, “-we don’t have to do whatever this is. Not now. Not, ya know, ever. I understand how this works, ok?” Despite his nearness she started to push off the mattress. It was too difficult to sit there thinking he was afraid of her, of having feelings for her, of being with her. Convinced that he probably wasn’t going to touch her again, that she couldn’t have him or his love for more than one night, no matter what he said or what promises were left unfulfilled was a punch in the gut- leveling.

Shame burned through her because she should have known better. It was all too good to be true like any other fairytale. A story. A fantasy. And she had to go, right now, because she wasn’t going to allow him to see so down and out. Straightening her arms, rocking forward, she was ready to get away, to bolt. But she didn’t get far. Fingers dug into her leg, holding her fast, delaying her escape, “Damn it. That isn’t- that isn’t what I said, Amanda.” Eddie’s voice was pitched low- dark and rumbling like the growing thunder of a terrible storm. It locked her in place even if she couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, terrified that she’d find pity or some other weakening emotion on his stupid, loving, handsome face. A violent vermillion flash of fury surged through her, spewing caustic, cutting sarcasm from her pursed lips, “No? Because that’s what I heard, Eddie. I heard you say that you’re scared to- to, to be with me.”

“Wrong.” “Excuse me?” “I said that you’re wrong. Even though you are so smart, right now? Sweetheart, you are 100 percent, entirely and utterly wrong here. What frightens me, Mandy-” his hands slipped around her waist as, falling to his knees in front of her, he carried on, “isn’t that I’m afraid to be with you. I’m afraid to be without you. I’m terrified that you won’t want to be with me.” Holding onto to her steely edge, glaring now, she swung another verbal dagger, “Why wouldn’t I want to be with you?” “Fuck, Mandy. Take your pick-” Counting on his fingers, the list started, “-former mega-nerd with a talent for collecting little lost souls and ensuring their survival through high school.” A second finger went up, “Uh, lead singer of a regionally successful rock band full of said misfits that hasn’t had its big break yet.” A third, “The best damn Dungeon Master in the state of Indiana, if I say so myself.” Little finger, number four bent slightly, “Oh, not to mention I’m crisscrossed with scars from North to South no matter how great the tattys look and-” his thumb jumped, spreading his palm open wide, “-not that many years ago I watched a person I cared about get murdered which, ya know, messes a guy up pretty damn good. “On the plus side? Let’s see, I’ve got great friends, my totally bitchin’ guitar, a halfway decent van, and I’ve finally met a girl that I fucking love. But, shit, maybe she doesn’t feel like I do?” And now he let his cinnamon eyes burn into hers, really revved up and showing no signs of stopping, “Maybe she just says pretty things when I’m making her cum and afterwards, well, she wants to be with some other dude. Someone like Mark who’s gonna make something of himself? Steady as fuck and boring to boot. Someone who doesn’t love her like I do, because they don’t get it, they can’t love her like me. How could they when they don’t get how my world spun off its axis when she jumped into my arms at the goddamned music shop. Or how-” Her cheeks flushed at the memory, the moment when this love affair began, and she felt herself smiling wide, the momentary rage ebbing almost as quickly as it started. Cutting him off, she cupped his jaw with firm fingers, “I do! I promise you, I-I understand. And, and I feel the same way. Haven’t been able to get you out of my head since you seduced me into a dance in the sheet music aisle.”

“You’re the one who fell into me, Mandy.” Airy like a summer’s breeze, Amanda countered, “You tripped me.” Scoffing, he settled his weight on the balls of his feet, “So you do remember then?” “Of course I do. And that’s why I didn’t want you to go. If- if you leave today and never come back, what’ll I do, Eddie?” She had nuzzled into the unshaven haven of his neck, just below his ear, and was keening like a fitful kitten, “Now that I have you, I don’t want anybody else. I only want to be with you. Only you.” Exhaling harshly, pulling her forehead to his, he husked, “Sad to say, darling, but you may be stuck with me.” Only he didn’t sound sad at all. Neither did she when she moved a hand to either cheek, a dreamy smile on her face, “Yea? You mean it?” “Of fucking course I do. And to prove it, come to my show tonight?” “Like, seriously? Because I would really love to see you play.” The alarm toned again, 8:15am. But fuck it, he could be late to the garage if meant seeing Amanda grin at him like this- all excited and eager, “Hell yea! You can meet the guys and see what all the fuss is about when Corroded Coffin hits the stage.” Nerves jangled, she bit into her lip, worry creeping into her tone, “And you wouldn’t mind me being there? Like, that wouldn’t be, I don’t know, embarrassing for you?”

His head fell back far enough for the tendons of his neck to stretch, the bulge of his Adam’s apple tantalizingly close, while his stare locked on hers, “Embarrassing? No. Hell no. I’d be honored to have you there, cheering me on.”

“You’re not messing with me, are you?” She raised her eyebrows playfully, giving him the out if he wanted to take it. And that same anger at Mark, at all the idiot guys who had hurt her flared up briefly, but he tramped it down like a lid on a grease fire, reassuring her again, “No way. I want you there. Need you there, Mandy. Besides-” that impish grin was back, “-it’s only fair. I saw you perform, now I get to return the favor.” Her mind was working, spinning his words around in her head faster than an unbalanced washing machine, as she processed what Eddie was saying. When she finally came to a conclusion, Amanda nodded decisively, “Yea, ok. I’ll come. I-I’ll be there.” Pressing up to his feet, Eddie beamed down at her, “Sweet. But, now I really gotta split, ok?” She raised her chin, the permission for a kiss implicit in the action and he took advantage. It was so easy to get lost in the flavor and feeling of her lips under his or the slide of his tongue over her own. In the end, she had to push him away, breathless and begging, “Yea, go on. Get lost, Munson.”

Groaning, he stomped towards her door, “Fine. Fine. I’m going.” Pleased and purring, Amanda stretched out along her bed, her head already thinking of the night to come when Eddie’s face appeared in her doorway again, “Oh, hey. Don’t forget that you’re banging the lead guitarist and front man of the band, k? You gotta look the part so uh-” he took in the room at a glance, “-no pretty flower prints or whatever.” “You came back just to tell me that?” His hands rested against the pale wooden door frame as he stepped back through it, “Yes. And this-” it took three running steps before he launched himself onto the mattress and landed as gently as he could with her pinned underneath him. Her hands caught on the tangles still knotting his hair, dragging his mouth to hers, whimpering into the wet cave of his mouth. So Eddie was an hour late to work and Amanda missed her first class. Worse things had happened in the name of new love.

—

1990 - Winter

“Well, it was a great night! To Mandy and the Maniacs-” The ladies clinked their bottles together in celebration, stilted happiness filling the air around them. The founding members of their female fronted metal band had come home exhilarated and exhausted, ready to unwind, share post-show snacks and celebrate their advancement to the Battle of the Bands finals. It had been another grueling show but they had done what they meant to: melt the faces off the audience and get another step closer to that Big Win in the new year.

MTV was on in the background, as it always was when they weren’t practicing or writing or recording, and the videos on Headbangers Ball were always welcome at the end of a long Saturday filled with rocking. Rick Rachtman was talking about some up and coming band as Amanda crunched on a cheese ball, barely listening.

If Carly was tired, Amanda was wired, her mind still on tonight’s crowd and what it was going to take to win it all in a few weeks. Already she was in her head, planning what their set was going to be, which songs were the most likely to sway the ever growing swell of music lovers standing shoulder to shoulder when they played.

That's when she heard a ghost, a breathing memory of the apparition who haunted her still. His familiar cadence filtering through her television speakers jerked her from her thoughts, a voice she knew better than her own- “Holy shit. Is that- Is that Eddie? Your Eddie?” Carly sat forward, the electric blue glow of the set outlining the surprise on her face. The banishment of a certain man’s name forgotten in the excitement of said man’s picture on the television. Her beer bottle thunked to the table clumsily, “What? Eddie?” Amanda hadn’t said his name in over two years. Around the time when the walls around her head and heart had gone up, and thankfully all of her friends knew better than to bring up that sensitive subject. Or at least were willing to honor her wishes that the rocker in question never be spoken of in her presence. But fucking hell if Carly wasn’t right. There on the illuminated idiot box that was her twenty inch screen was Eddie Fucking Munson himself and the rest of Corroded Coffin, talking to Chuck Stillman about their tour. Answering questions for the fans to get to know them better and helping sell their metal image. “Did you know about this?” It was shock which filled Carly’s tone and Amanda felt a little bit guilty because of course she did. She still talked to Steve, saw Robin from time to time, and even taught Mike Wheeler some guitar basics a year or so ago.

When she didn’t answer, her very best good friend Carly leveled her with a sideways glance, “You did, didn’t you?” Shrugging, her go-to move these days, she grabbed the cable box’s remote and goosed up the volume. It really fucking sucked to see how good Eddie looked, all in black leather and mesh lace, with his guitar pick necklace centered on his bare chest, tattoos barely visible but she knew they were there. Could draw them from memory, if she really wanted to. And his curls! They were styled expertly, shiny and bouncy, making Amanda’s hands itch at the memory of them clutched between her fingers. Through the tinny speakers they heard Chuck’s question, “So, the people want to know, what is Eddie Munson’s favorite song?” There was a pause and if she didn’t know Eddie so well, she wouldn’t have seen it, but his eyes lost their twinkle for a second and his smile dropped the teensiest bit as he replied, “My favorite song? That’s a great question, man. And, uh, ya know, I wanna say something hard rocking and fast. But honestly? Someone to Watch Over Me by the Gershwin brothers.”

“SHUT UP!” Carly smacked a hand into her arm, “He’s talking about you! That night, in the park! Holy shit, Eddie Munson, rock star rising, is talking about you, 'Manda! On MTV!” And wouldn’t that be something, she thought, sinking back into her second hand sofa. Him sparing the time to think about her at all these days seemed like such a shot in the dark, such a foreign concept, that she reckoned it wasn’t even a possibility. There was no way he gave as much of his day to thoughts of her, to their time together as she did, right?

No. Not possible. That he answered the basic question with the title of her favorite song, the song that meant so much to them both, didn’t mean a goddamned thing. Not anymore. “I don’t think so, Carl. I think you’re reading too much into things.” Sitting back, her own beer held tight, Carly rolled her eyes at friend, prickly at having her fun ruined, “What if he was?” “Huh?” “What if Eddie was thinking about you? After these last couple of years, what if he- what if he misses you too? It is possible.” Huffing out a derisive laugh, she tapped a finger against the nearly empty bottle of Budweiser, using the sassiest tone of voice she could wrangle when she answered, “Right. He misses me when he’s out at nightclubs surrounded by strippers and groupies and backup dancers. I’m sure all Eddie wonders about is little old me, back in Hawkins, when he’s walking red carpets and taking movie stars out to dinner in New York City and LA.” “You’re doing it again.” Carly was focused on the screen but talking to Amanda, frustration thick in her tone. Equally riled up, Amanda chirped, “Yea? What’s that?” Unblinking, Carly stared at her best friend, band mate, and roommate, “Selling yourself short. You should really watch out for that.” Her friend meant well, she knew that, had proof of it all around her, but because her brain was fickle and memories were monsters, she found herself whispering, “Eddie said he would. He promised me. Said he was always gonna look out for me.” Staring down at her pinky finger, she would swear she felt his littlest digit wrapped around her own, the supposedly iron-clad arrangement made in a post-sex haze of brightly burning new love too long ago to hurt so freshly but so recently it still might bleed. He had promised to watch over her, to change her mind and love her through it all. But when the man you loved had the chance to make his dreams a reality, you couldn’t stand in his way, right? At least that was what she told herself late at night when sleep wouldn’t come and the moon was high above, laughing at her. So, she watched, unflinching, as Eddie talked about burning grilled cheese sandwiches in a shitty hotel and the possibility of coming back to Indiana with the tour. She watched every shake of his head and every movement of his hands, taking them in like physical blows, wounds that would need cream and bandages and pain medication to heal up properly. And she drank another beer, going silent since her mind refused to do the same, replaying the sentences from the tv interview on an endless looping track, trying to work out any hidden meaning that proved Carly right and her own sense of self wrong. When the programming shifted, some early morning sketch show or something, Carly said goodnight and moved off to her room but still Amanda sat there. Was it fair to be so mad at Eddie? Did she really have a right to the hurt and anger she was holding onto with an iron grip? As the sun climbed through the window above her record player, Armando the Wonder Cat jumped into her lap for pets. Between scratching behind his pointy ears and patting down his back, she realized she was crying. Sure, she was disappointed in Eddie. In the promises he had never seen to fruition, but that wasn’t the only reason to be so upset. Because hadn’t she made promises too? And hadn’t she broken them all?

---

Thank you for reading! Part 4 is on the way!

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ratsoh-writes · 3 months

Note

After that whole ordeal, the family got wind on the gruesome dead of their relative at the hands of one of Empress minions.

Nobody mourned him. He had made a grave mistake. And now the only thing left was to catch the bastard that had handed him the information.

And almost everyone's first suspect was Oscar. Since him missing right before this whole mess seemed very suspicious.

"How dare you!? He has been nothing but loyal to the coven since the beginning"

"Lilith, be reasonable. That spawn of yours was always a wild card. It was just a matter of time before he got bored of us and did something on his own-"

"NO! No, he couldn't, he-"

"Do you at least have proof of that, brother? Because if you turn out to be wrong..."

"Yeah! Yes! Sea is right. DO YOU HAVE PROOF!?"

"Well- I..."

It was clear what he was trying to do. And why nobody was stopping him. Many people in the house had access to that information at different times. And even if none of them gave it to that uncle, the fact that the intel had passed through so many hands meant that all of them were suspects, including her and Oscar. That was why it was easier for everyone to just make him the escape goat.

Not a week later, there was another problem. A rumor had started, it said that some mage families only dated monsters to give birth to other mages, and that if the baby was a halfbreed, then it was discarded.

This quickly reached Sea's family. Making some of the monster alliances they had previously made squint their eyes at them. After all, her family only consisted in mages, sometimes witches, but not one monster or halfbreed. They had eyes on them now.

This was harder to shut down than the previous crisis. It took them days to placate every single accusatory comment towards them. Instead, they redirected that towards some Factory and former slave owners families. A group of ex-slaves even made a riot in front of one of their houses.

That was the second warning shot.

"I tell you. All good and bad things come in trios. What if the next thing-"

"Calm down Lisa"

"I'M CALM!"

Eyes were starting to turn, as well as fingers started to begin pointing out to each other. The members of her family began to worry now, because this was clearly no coincidence.

"Oscar is not that smart to start a rumor like that..."

"I'VE BEEN TELLING YOU THAT MY SON IS INNOCENT"

"Yeah yeah, we heard you the first time"

The third and last warning shot came three days after the rumors had calmed down.

It was a quiet autumn afternoon, the fallen leaves made a beautiful red and orange carpet in the family's backyard. The chill of the air forced many to stay indoors with a hot cup of tea.

It was an otherwise perfect day.

Until three royal guards appeared in front of the main gate, demanding to be let inside.The house went into panic mode again. Did someone get in trouble? Maybe it was just an official check up. Did... did someone forget to pay their taxes?

It was Sea's father that let the guards in after making them wait just three minutes.

He played the role of a good host, offering them something to drink and the best chairs.

"-about the video that was uploaded yesterday."

"Why- what video?"

"You haven't seen it?"

"The bunny guard pulled out her phone to show him a video. It was about a basement, it looked unkempt and dirty, but the worst part was that inside it were jail cells and clearly showing a skeleton, a Carashield, a vox, a chained flayer, and a flame elemental. Even if the video looked a tad low in the resolution, it was evident what was happening.

"We took it from the Internet after three hours of being uploaded. We have royal permission to inspect every house that is suspected of having a basement big enough for this."

Obviously, the guards found nothing. It was good that they had sealed the basement permanently after the Empress scare.

It was clear that someone was onto them. But whom? Their enemies didn't know about the monsters, their new allies neither.

Who?

Who was doing this to them?

"Is something wrong, dad?"

"Ugh. Did you know about the video?"

"The one that showed our basement?"

"You saw it? When? The guards said they took it down-"

"Yeah. I know. I honestly thought they would take even less time with that but..."

Oh...

It was her...

Oooooo the jig is up!!! Getem sea!!!!

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queen--kenobi · 1 year

Note

POV, for the ask game

Send me "POV" and I'll write a scene from one of my fics/wips in another character's POV.

Have some Dear Elayna!

It's the day before Elayna's 18 birthday.

Tyland only knows this because Tymon has been obsessively going over the plan for tonight and tomorrow. Truth be told, if Tyland hears Elayna's name or sees it written in Tymon's handwriting one more time, he...

Well. He doesn't know what he'll do, but he knows it will be something to make Tymon furious. He could get away with it too.

Despite being blood, Tymon still sees Tyland as boring and bland, not the type of man to seize what he wants and take it for himself. If only Tymon knew. If only anyone knew. The list of people who know Tyland's true nature is small. He prefers to keep it that way.

It's much easier for him to get what he wants.

If he were brash or openly cunning, he would be met with opposition every time he did anything. He doesn't necessarily want people to underestimate him either. His pride can only take so much. Besides. If he purposefully made people underestimate him, they would watch him closely when he began to get what he wanted. No. Safe to play boring and average intelligence, the sort of man who can get lucky through persistence and hard work.

"You've got the reservations, right?" Tymon lounges on one of the chairs in Tyland's study. The only sign of his impatience is his insistent tapping of his fingers on his thighs. The two agreed Tymon would hide in Tyland's house until it was dark. No use spooking Elayna. If she saw Tymon during the day, no doubt she would run again in the night.

Tymon initially wanted to go see Elayna during the day. He didn't seem to understand why Elayna would bolt. Tyland thought about it but decided against it. If Aemond Targaryen weren't involved, Tyland would have. Where would have Elayna gone but to him? She would have had nowhere to run.

Now, she had Aemond to run to when things turned with Tymon. Why would she come to Tyland?

Aemond complicated things. Nevertheless, Tyland could work with things. He was flexible.

"I have the reservations." Tyland dips his head. "One o'clock."

He neglects to mention they're for the wrong restaurant. It would be easy enough to cover his tracks. The place was always full. Besides, he can play the card Elayna would be more comfortable and receptive in a different place. Worst comes to worst, he can always play the bumbling idiot who got things confused.

Tymon sighs. He gets up and begins pacing.

"I need everything to go perfectly." He begins on his tirade that's almost a mantra. "I need it to be the proposal every girl has dreamed of. I need her to see the kind of life she can have! She can't say no, not if it's picture perfect. Not that she will. She knows only I can protect her. Only I can take care of her. Only I can satisfy every little thing she needs. Only I love her."

Tyland bites the inside of his cheek. He wants to vomit. Instead, he lets Tymon rant and rave. His quill scratches against the paper. Otto wants Tyland to calculate assets and money. No doubt he's testing him, seeing if Tyland would be a better fit to manage finances. Things were beginning to come together on multiple fronts.

"Have I shown you the engagement gift I had made?" Tymon suddenly stops.

"I don't think you have."

"It's perfect." Tymon reaches into his pocket to produce a velvet box. Tyland holds out his hand to take it. Tymon stares at him. Tyland raises an eyebrow.

"I don't want you to touch it. I don't want anything on it."

Tyland levels his brother with a look.

"I won't touch it."

Tymon carefully opens the box. A hair comb rests inside of it. The gold glimmers. The rubies and pearls shine. It's beautiful, a masterpiece. It's almost a shame Elayna will hate it.

"It's nice. It must have cost a pretty penny."

"I have to show her what I can give her. She's going to be my wife. She has to look the part." Tymon closes the box and places it in his pocket once more. "I have her dress already planned out. Silk and pearls with gold. She'll look perfect. She has to."

"I'm sure it will be beautiful."

Silk and pearls and gold? It sounds almost gaudy to Tyland.

Tymon seems content with that answer. He looks towards the clock. It's still early in the afternoon. He fidgets.

"Myrtle should have made lunch by now. Would you like to check on her progress?"

Tymon nods.

"Yeah. I'll go check."

Tyland nearly sighs and sags with relief once Tymon has left. He shakes his head. A dull throbbing begins in his temples. As quietly as he can, Tyland opens a side drawer. A nearly identical box to Tymon's lays inside. Carefully, Tyland opens it. The gold haircomb rests in the box. Rubies decorate it as well but more sparingly. The designs in the gold are more the centerpiece, a lion on each side. Elegant and beautiful without drawing too much attention to itself. Tyland hums and shuts the box.

Patience. Tymon will fuck everything up in due time, and Tyland can swoop in for the kill, playing the part of apologetic older brother trying to make up for his younger brother's mistakes. An ordinary way to start a friendship and from there, a relationship. Nothing to question and no reason for Elayna to run.

Lunch goes about as badly as Tyland predicted. He almost couldn't have hoped for a better outcome. From the moment Elayna came outside, she nearly clung to him. Tymon's irritation rolled off him in massive waves, which only served to press Elayna closer to Tyland.

He scares her.

Tyland knows that will be a problem. Tymon no doubt won't give up, even if Elayna marries another. Tyland will need to find a way to placate his younger brother. He also knows it will work in his favor. He can see the results even now. Elayna will run to him for comfort and protection only he can provide, and he will do so willingly.

Things spiral quickly once they're seated. Even before the appetizers reach them, Tymon pulls out the box and pushes it on Elayna. Initially, Elayna resists graciously, but her irritation becomes clear.

"Tymon." Tyland clears his throat. "Perhaps now isn't the best time for gifts."

Tymon looks as if he wants to murder him right then and there. Thankfully, Aemond's arrival and invitation to family dinner distracts Tymon enough he doesn't try to make too much of a scene. At least, not on that front.

When they leave, Tyland quietly places a reassuring hand on Elayna’s back. It's a fleeting touch but long enough to get Elayna to look at him. Tymon, surprisingly, doesn't notice. He's too busy trying to light his pipe, standing back by a pole. His hands shake with barely contained rage.

Tyland dips his head. Elayna smiles.

"Thank you." She whispers. "For trying to stop him."

"I wish I could have done more." Regret colors his tone. "He was a bit of an embarassment. I hope he didn't ruin your birthday."

"A little."

"Let me make it up to you. A proper lunch."

"I'd like that."

"You'd like what?" Tymon's tone is clipped, anger lurking underneath it.

"Tyland offered to pay for a train ticket home if I wanted to see my dad." The lie falls easily from Elayna's lips. Tymon blinks. Tyland keeps his face passive, but something inside him stirs.

He knew. He knew she was like him.

Yes, she'd make a fine wife.

#oc: elayna reyne #oc: tymon lannister #tyland lannister x ofc #tyland lannister x oc #I *almost* did Fox's PoV for the first time he and Kau'ra slept together #but this needed to get out of my head first

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leam1983 · 1 year

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On Generative AI as a Process

ChatGPT: You're basically slotting coins into one of those old Mechanical Seers you'd sometimes see at county fairs or on boardwalks, back in the fifties. The difference is the Seer claims to know exactly what you're statistically determined to want to hear, but is otherwise a beautiful fount of ignorance hidden behind self-effacing verbiage. The worst part is all of this somehow was enough to blow the Turing test out of the water, even if you're made very much aware that there's nothing going on in there if no prompt is being processed.

DALL-E 2: There's rumors of a DALL-E 3 incoming at OpenAI and even more niche whispering of an insider version of the project that is wholly and completely uncensored - and it's likely to put Midjourney to task, apparently. As of now, however, using DALL-E 2 feels like its name is an indication of where its strengths lie. Are you looking for a Cubist rendering of Michael Fassbender riding a motorcycle out of the Milky Way? It's got you covered. If, on the other hand, you're trying to push for photorealism or for the stylistic trappings typical of Optane renders, you're likely to be a little disappointed by the results. It's a painter, no ifs, ands or buts - and its understanding of other visual art forms still leaves much to be desired.

Midjourney: you're handing off commissions to a genius painter and illustrator that can emulate almost any style, but that still has a relatably frustrating time comprehending the physics of the human body. Seeing it try and fail to produce believable human hands is so true-to-life you're starting to wonder why nobody's tried to come up with a picture-based alternate of the Turing test. Unlike a painter and more like an idiot savant, however, it conflates concepts together that shouldn't be agglomerated and makes weird assumptions based on your prompt.

It almost feels Taoist, in a sense. Is there a difference between someone yawning openly and someone screaming, honestly? If not, then what's the real frontier between belting out a yawn and thrusting out your chest to push a sustained note as an opera singer? A human knows there's degrees to it all - but a machine?

Stable Diffusion: unlike the other two, SD feels like a community shop where you're free to pick up tools to do whatever you want, whenever you want. The model itself exists in demo-grade and constricted forms online, and it's also the basis for all the Anime face generators that now pollute app stores - but its real power shows when you take it home and spend at least one full afternoon wrestling with Git, Python and Hugging Face credentials to turn your humble gaming rig of choice into your own personal digital Pygmalion.

There's a catch, though: earlier Stable Diffusion models used to solicit your GPU to the maximum of its abilities, which I've seen toast graphics cards within weeks. The latest revision takes a wiser approach, but it dramatically changes the way you can approach generative art.

As of SDXL 1.0, slotting in a prompt feels like setting a cake to bake. It used to be you'd be guaranteed a ho-hum result within five minutes, after hearing your GPU's fans scream for their life. Now, if you do what I did for my first run and give it the max amount of passes at 1028x1028 pixels, you're looking at a nice and cozy experience that actually lets you use your PC for other things while it's working - at the expense of time.

I asked for four simple images at the best generation parameters possible, and it took my home-based Stable Diffusion webUI eight hours to render anything - with xformers appended, too!

As of now, then, using Stable Diffusion is like baking a long recipie. It stands neck-and-neck with Midjourney, is fully uncensored and entirely under my control - but getting anywhere costs an entire evening. If you're a fan of pushing for variation after variation on Midjourney until you get something perfect, you'll be here for a long fucking while.

All the other ones: BlueWillow, Pepper AI, all the modded Stable Diffusion WebUI installs with a bespoke URL, an account and credit system, all those vaunted open platforms for NSFW generative content - they're all a waste of time, honestly. Text-based systems don't factually need to be able to crank out verbal smut, not considering the type of use they're getting. Image-based ones are running off of deprecated Stable Diffusion imageweights and typically heavily bias towards an expected use. If your need falls within their purview, then you're in luck. If all you want is big-breasted Anime waifus, you don't even need to bother with running Stable Diffusion natively. If, like me, you're using generative art to mock up WebUI elements or generate partial elements for promotional campaigns, running natively is invaluable.

On the whole, both Midjourney and Stable Diffusion have been invaluable to me for pursuits both personal and professional, seeing as both of them clearly state their product cannot be covered under copyright, which leaves their intended use as purely illustrative. Coming up with complete mockups within minutes was instrumental for our Web design team, seeing as I could quickly communicate the sort of design presence the company was shooting for and just as quickly receive revisions or refinements to said mockups until we'd be in agreement. At that point, generative art left the premises entirely and the Web Design team got to work from scratch.

Privately, running stat sheets for NPCs for a D&D campaign and being able to quickly gin up a portrait made it easier to reach my desired tone, in the understanding that if I ever want to give my characters or concepts their just desserts, I can turn these images' basic prompts into someting verbally elegant, and just send that off to my favourite commissions-friendly artist to get that still-elusive human touch. Similarly, getting unique desktop wallpapers out of what's essentially Art Class shitposting is always fun, but I can always commission them for something I could take to a scanner and use as a desktop wallpaper.

Closing Thoughts

Knowing that all that I've had these systems output can't be used to make a single buck, legally, is a sobering and comforting thought - and it makes the now-storied excesses of the early days of visual generative AI all the more disturbing. Nobody should win art gallery prizes with a piece designed by a GAN, and artists shouldn't have to fear that their likenesses and voice are at risk of being exploited. I shouldn't have to fear using both of these for exploratory projects - but I also have the responsibility to not identify as an artist and to not claim ownership of the resulting text blocks or images. Considering, it makes the hucksters on Amazon selling booklets on prompt-work for ChatGPT to shit out entire novels in a few weeks feel a little tactless - as if their entire industry wasn't at risk of collapsing the exact minute a few savvy lawmakers get their act together.

Plus, if you metaphorically consider commission work to be a sort of human-to-human prompt engineering, eight hours for SDXL to produce four images doesn't seem like such a bad deal - at the expense of the process. I haven't asked for commissions often in the past, but there's something fun to knowing that you're at the top of an artist's pile for the next several days, and could even receive emails containing said artist's interrogations, their need for added refinement, their suggestions - all in service of something that'll a) put some food on their table and b) that matters to you.

Considering, I'm not entirely afraid for the wider aspect of human-led creative purposes.

#Generative AI #Midjourney #Stable Diffusion #SDXL 1.0 #DALL-E 2 #thoughts #creation #visual art #ChatGPT #writing #creative writing

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snackhobi · 4 years

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this is my part of the rockin’ around the christmas tropes collab with @yeojaa, @underthejoon @ladyartemesia, @ppersonna, @untaemedqueen, @xjoonchildx ✨ MERRY (early) CHRISTMAS Y’ALL

summary: yoongi is your favourite regular. he’s patient, polite, and predictable, a-large-black-coffee-to-go-please, no cream, no sugar, thank you. rinse and repeat. the seasons might change, but yoongi’s order stays the same.

and then one fateful day in winter, yoongi asks about the weekly specials, orders a cup of christmas and sugary sweetness, and everything starts changing.

pairing: yoongi x barista f!reader / word count: 14.8k / genre: coffeeshop!au, fluff, dash of smut (NSFW)

warnings: slow burn, terrible drink concoctions, pining, miscommunication (kind of/reader comes to incorrect conclusions based on literally nothing), the tiniest bit of swearing, heated makeouts, oral (m receiving), I think that’s it

a/n: I have a lot of people to thank: thank you to my loveliest most beautiful wife @yeojaa for the beautiful banner 🥺💖 thank you to @morndas for helping me name this fic and suggesting some of the awful weekly specials featured within 🥰 thank you to @yeoldontknow for letting me have multiple meltdowns at her and for letting me pick her brain about working in the music industry, and for helping me with plot points I wasn’t sure about!! 💕

also thank you to @hobi-gif for helping me brainstorm the original fic idea with her; she hasn’t beta’ed this fic because I am TERRIBLE and literally finished this like an hour before posting. that’s on me and not her. I am a shambles without her indomitable proof reading skills; any mistakes are down to me, and I apologise for that. I’ve only read this through like once, sorry in advance, I’m literally formatting this while I should be getting ready for work

Being a barista isn’t all bad.

Like, okay, you’re on your feet for hours at a time, the pay isn’t exactly the highest in the world, and coffee beans have a tendency to end up in the weirdest places (how did you get the light roast in your bra?)—but it’s not entirely terrible.

Here’s a (totally not comprehensive) list of good things about working at the Paradise coffee shop:

The free drinks (y’know, for taste testing purposes)

The free food (you probably eat more than you’re actually allowed, but who’s telling?)

Your coworkers (like Taehyung, who is—yep—currently shoving a whole mini panettone in his mouth)

Most of the customers are pretty nice, too (you have some lovely regulars)

(If you had to be more specific, there’s one regular in particular that you really, really like—)

(Yoongi appears like clockwork every week. Just after the Tuesday lunch rush, the bell above the door will sing out its greeting as he steps inside, ordering the same drink each and every time he’s here—a large Americano, to go, plain and simple and unadorned, no room for cream or milk, no added sugar or sweetener.)

(Yoongi really is the perfect customer. He has been from the very beginning, a point of quiet in a churning sea of hot, sweaty people all begging for frappés and milkshakes, the hottest point at the very peak of summer. The queue had been growing longer and longer, out of the doors as the blenders whirred their way through a neverending cascade of sugary, iced blends; the counters were a mess and all the baristas were running around and everything was chaos and in had walked this guy, all dark hair and dark eyes and dark clothes, even in the height of summer—you were ready for death at this point, hands sticky with syrup and apron streaked with flecks from almost every drink from the summer menu, and you’d braced yourself for some terse words, impatience and passive aggressive comments on the long wait—)

(—and this intimidating man had just patiently asked for an iced Americano, calm and quiet and polite.)

(You’d fallen a little in love, then and there. Fallen in love with that simple order, quick and easy to make, and fallen a little in love with the dichotomy of the man who looked like nothing but sharp edges being the softest customer you’d had all day. There was nothing rushed about his motions, no desperate need to get his drink and get away, no anger at having waited for so long.)

(He’d been ready to pay, too, no fumbling with his wallet or money; he’d tapped his card, easy and breezy and all lemon squeezy, but he’d left a tip in change, dropped almost thoughtlessly into the jar. He’d collected his cup with the smallest upturn to his lips, a tilt of his head, and then he’d left, other customers parting before him like the Red Sea.)

(The only thing that’s changed over the months is that the iced coffees of summer have changed into hot Americanos for the cooler months, autumn and now almost-winter, warding off the chill in the air. Everything else is the same; his dark eyes and low voice and patient smile, small but ever present, pressed lightly into the surprisingly soft line of his mouth.)

(So, yeah. Yoongi is your favourite customer. Even if you’ve barely spoken, really, the two of you dancing through the same short script each time he comes in—the longest conversation you’ve had so far is the one where you’d tentatively asked if he’d like a rewards card, and after a moment of contemplation, he’d quietly agreed.)

(You like to think that you’re Yoongi’s favourite server, too. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but—)

(Taehyung had been stunned into speechlessness, because, to quote his words exactly: “I tried getting him to sign up for a card last time and I swear he just pretended he couldn’t hear me? He just straight up didn’t respond? What?”)

(—you know Yoongi likes you at least a little bit.)

Anyway. You’re getting off the point. Paradise is a decent place to work, the people are nice, and the building is pretty and airy and welcoming and warm, toasty and cosy in the upcoming cold of winter. It’s one of the things that keeps people coming back, that lovely atmosphere.

Another thing that people apparently love about Paradise is the constantly changing menu. It’s not enough to have seasonal menus, no—you need to have weekly specials, apparently, to keep people interested. It’s like a gachapon, but instead of cute little capsule toys, it’s a random mix of concoctions that are hit or miss.

“Well, I liked the Peachy Keen Jelly Bean,” Taehyung says, around a mouthful of sweet bread, still chewing his way through the panettone.

“You’d be the only one,” you reply, swiping a cloth over the counters and crinkling your nose at the pile of coffee grounds you gather. “Iced peach tea with blackberry and vanilla and cherry and watermelon syrup has got to be one of the worst things we’ve ever served.”

That had definitely been one of the misses. This week’s special, though, is far more palatable, if incredibly sweet—Crystal Snow, a white chocolate mocha with whipped cream, dusted with powdered sugar, and a crystallised sugar stick to stir in. Sugar on sugar on sugar, basically. (Your teeth ache just thinking about it.)

But there’s always something so fun about making the winter specials, no matter how sugary they are; the smell of the sticky syrups, the swirl of cream to top off the cup, the dusting of cocoa or cinnamon, everything mulled in the sweet warmth of winter. Even if the drink you’re making is questionable, you get so excited about it, genuinely enthusiastic when you recommend them to customers, carrying everyone into the spirit of the upcoming holidays. You’d hardly describe making coffee a billion times a day fun—it’s pretty exhausting, actually—but you’ve always had a weird affection for the winter menu and the weekly specials alongside it.

You don’t upsell the drinks because you have to. You do it because you want to.

(You’re pretty good at it too. Not a flex: just a fact. Your customer service is on point.)

The only person you’ve never tried to persuade into trying something new is Yoongi. He might not be rude or short tempered, but he clearly knows what he wants, and you hate the idea of ruining the easy flow of his visits. You’re not about to embarrass yourself by asking Mr No-Cream-Or-Sugar if he’d like a drink that's nothing but cream and sugar. Asking about the rewards card had been nerve-wracking enough, even if it had been worth it for the genuinely-unintentional-but-definitely-not-unpleasant brushing of your fingers when you’d handed the card over to him.

(Okay. Look. Yoongi is patient and pleasant and polite and cute. You never thought that you’d crush on a customer, but here you are. He just… oozes masculinity in an understated, self-assured way that has you internally swooning. He looks intimidating and serious but when he smiles his eyes go soft-soft-soft, his voice a low rumble as he gives you his gentle thank you, and everything about him is just so… attractive. Even the way he holds his coffee is hot, fingers loose around the lid as he makes his way out of the café, your eyes tracing every motion as he goes. Like. Come on. Of course you’re crushing on him.)

(Just a little bit, though. Just a little bit. It’s just an itty bitty crush. A teeny weeny crush.)

The bell above the door chimes. Your kneejerk reaction is to snap your head over to see who it is—but you hold it together, instead letting your head turn at a normal, natural pace. It’s just an unfamiliar woman, rearranging the tassels of her long scarf with one hand and holding her phone with the other as the door swings shut, and you deflate.

(... It’s a small crush, you swear. It’s not like this is around the normal time Yoongi appears and you’d thought it was going to be him. Nope. Definitely not that.)

As the woman lingers near the counter, eyes flicking between her phone and the chalkboard menu on the wall above your head, Taehyung finishes licking the panettone crumbs off his fingers.

“It’s Tuesday,” he states solemnly.

“I know?”

“It’s just past two o’clock,” he continues.

“I know,” you repeat, glancing at him quizzically. “You told me what the time was less than five minutes ago.”

“I did.”

The bell chimes again. This time, a gaggle of giggling girls come bubbling into the café, cutting you off before you can ask what Taehyung is trying to say. You go to flick your cloth at him before thinking better of it, not wanting to rain dark roast everywhere.

“Go wash your hands,” you say, just as the scarfed woman approaches the counter, ready to order. A bright smile splits your face, voice rising into its usual peppy Customer Service tone. “Hi, welcome to Paradise! How can I help you today?”

She barely glances up from her phone as she orders, asking for a latte macchiato and croissant, a distracted ‘no thanks’ when you ask if she’s interested in this week’s special. Oh well. The girls behind her, though, all seem incredibly excited when they catch wind of it; they all eagerly listen as you describe what a Crystal Snow is, your eyes lighting up as you mime piping the cream and dusting the sugar on top, laughing when they ask if they can buy extra sugar sticks to take home, because of course they can, you’d be happy to do that for them, would they like those in to-go bags? Yes, the bags are cute, aren’t they, the snowflakes are lovely, you agree.

Taehyung’s just finished wiping the steam wand when you give him the next order. You see the way his face crumples before his brows lift and his lips purse, pleading as he looks at you with big eyes, and you just roll your own eyes affectionately.

“Yes, yes, I’ll make them even though you’re meant to be on the bar, it’s fine,” you say, and Taehyung’s whole face lights up.

You’ve worked with Taehyung long enough by now to know that it takes him until at least Wednesday to memorise how to make whatever that week’s special is. And there’s not a queue, so you don’t mind taking over, pulling espresso shots and steaming milk and pouring everything together, puffing air in Taehyung’s face when he peers at your cream swirling technique. (No matter how many times you’ve tried to teach him, he’s never been able to get it right, usually just farting a mess of cream out of the nozzle and hoping for the best. Results are… mixed.) Maybe the flourish you put into dusting the sugar on top is unnecessary, but, hey. It’s fun. You smile to yourself as you give a small flick of the wrist over each drink, powdered sugar floating down like snow, and, done.

You don’t like to toot your own horn but the drinks come out Instagram perfect, each latte glass set on a tiny napkin on a saucer, sugar stick on one side, and you take a moment to admire your work.

“They’re so pretty,” Taehyung says, and your smile grows wider.

The girls all agree, cooing over the drinks in a way that only makes your smile grow even more, wide on your face. You watch as they squirrel themselves away in a corner, talking and laughing and nibbling their food and sipping at their drinks, pleased at the way their eyes widen at the first taste.

Yeah, it’s the small things that makes your time here good. Being a barista is a thankless job most of the time, as relaxed as Paradise usually is, so you try to appreciate the small things. Like having fun when you make a drink, for example. Making nice customers happy. (Having cute regulars that you can quietly ogle.)

Actually, on the note of cute regulars—

“Your 2:15 appointment is here.”

You tear your attention away from the table of girls at the sound of Taehyung’s voice. “My what—?”

There’s someone in front of the glass display, hunched as they slowly and quietly peruse the selection of pastries and food inside—and you realise with a jolt that it’s Yoongi. You have no idea how long he’s been there, so distracted with patting yourself on the back for making a few nice drinks; oh, God, what if Yoongi had seen your pleased expression? Do you look smug? You probably look smug. Great, now he probably thinks that you’re a self-obsessed clown, honking your nose like some sort of narcissist.

“You’re spiralling,” Taehyung points out mildly, voice low enough that Yoongi doesn't hear.

His surprisingly perceptive comment snaps you out of aforementioned spiralling, and after shaking yourself off, you glance over at him. “Why didn’t you serve him?”

He shrugs. “He didn’t seem like he wanted to be served so I just left him to it.”

To be fair to Taehyung, he’s not wrong. Yoongi is staring intently at a slice of carrot cake—even if he’s never ordered any before—and it’s not until you move to your usual spot behind the till that his attention finally rises, meeting your gaze with his deep, dark eyes.

Your inner schoolgirl feels like she needs to sit down. Your entire stomach and chest is a looping mess of frantic butterflies after making eye contact with the cute boy who you’re crushing on, but you’ve got a great poker face; you’ve worked as a barista long enough that you’re good at shoving your real feelings down, none of your internal turmoil playing across your face as you smile. Customer service mode activate.

“Hi, and welcome back to Paradise. What can I get for you today? The usual? Large Americano, to go, for Yoongi?”

You’re a little softer than you would be with other customers, a little more subdued, dialing down how upbeat you normally are to match Yoongi’s level. His lips lift almost imperceptibly, the faintest smile playing across his mouth, and it takes all your strength for your knees to not immediately buckle.

“Hi,” he says. His voice is soft and low, faintest drawl at the end of his words, and yep, just your weekly reminder that you’re enamoured with him. Cool. “Yes, please, that would be great.”

He already has his card ready, you know he does. He always does; card to pay, loyalty card to swipe, tip to drop in the jar, quick and smooth and easy. This is normally where you’d rattle off the price—as if he doesn’t already know what it is—but you pause, thinking about how intent he’d been on the pastry display, as uncharacteristic as that is.

“Did you… want something to eat, too? I couldn’t, um, help noticing that you were eyeing up the carrot cake?”

Yoongi blinks, wispy lashes fluttering. You can see the muted surprise that flashes across his face, and you wonder if you’ve misstepped, thrown off the usual rhythm of his visit. It’s an unusual step away from your regular script, an ad-lib that he wasn’t expecting.

“Uh, no, thank you,” he says. “Maybe… next time.”

He’s polite as ever, thankfully. You’re not surprised at his answer but you do have to wonder why he was looking at the cake so closely if he hadn’t planned on getting anything; you know he likes getting served by you the most, if the evidence over the months means anything at all, but you don’t think he’d stare at cake just so he would avoid Taehyung. You’re making assumptions based on the fact he just drinks black coffee and literally nothing else, but you’ve guessed he doesn’t have a sweet tooth. (The only time he’s ever ordered food had been two months prior when he’d asked for a single croissant, and nothing since. Taehyung still talks about the croissant sometimes.)

Well, it doesn't really matter. If he doesn't want cake, you're not going to force it on him, and the rest of the transaction goes as normal. Yoongi hands over his rewards card, fingers long and knuckles knobbly and altogether lovely, pays for his Americano—made by Taehyung, cup wrapped in the sleeve that you’ve written Yoongi’s name on, black sharpie bleeding into the cardboard—and smiles at you both when Taehyung hands it to him across the smooth wood of the counter.

“Thanks.” He gives you that slight tilt of his head that he always does, and you smile helplessly back.

He’s a gentleman, through and through, even if he looks as distant as ever; dressed in all black, his ripped jeans the only splash of lightness in his dark outfit. Maybe you’re biased, but no matter what he wears, he looks stylish, somehow. It’s something in his aura. All cool understated elegance and power.

And here you are, in your cream jumper under the dark mulberry apron of your uniform, a flower blooming next to the name on your badge. All chirpy customer service, smiling broad and wide as you go through the same motions over and over with each new person that comes in. Sometimes you wonder what Yoongi thinks of you, as different as you are to him, but at the end of the day it doesn’t really matter—because he keeps coming back, doesn’t he?

“Have a nice day,” you say as he turns to go, and when he glances over his shoulder and says you too, smile soft and eyes softer, you know he really means it.

(And if your eyes always trail after him once his back has turned, who’s telling?)

“You’re staring.” Taehyung’s telling, apparently.

You tear your eyes away from Yoongi, bell tinkling as the door swings shut behind him. “He’s my favourite customer,” you say. As if that explains why you were staring.

“You’ve barely spoken to him.”

“He’s my favourite customer,” you say again, emphatically. “He comes in, he gets the world’s simplest drink to make, is always polite, always leaves a tip, and he goes. Literally the perfect customer.”

“Alright, true,” he says, as if he hadn’t considered that before now. “Cute, too.”

You sigh. A little wistful. “Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, he is.”

Taehyung opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else when someone spills their drink on their floor with an unholy clattering sound, even if nothing breaks; without saying anything, both you and Taehyung raise your hands, eyes narrowing at each other.

"Rock, paper, scissors," you chant. Taehyung promptly loses, and the pout that forms on his lips doesn't disappear until he's finished mopping everything up.

(“Why do I always end up having to clean spillages?”

“Because you never win rock-paper-scissors. You always choose scissors, Taehyung. You literally always choose scissors.”)

The tradition of the weekly specials at Paradise is a weird one, truth be told. Each Monday whoever’s on the opening shift will enter the coffee shop and find that the board on the wall has been updated, the recipe typed up and laminated, waiting on the counter for the baristas. You all assume it’s the mysterious owner, who no one has ever seen, and no one even knows the name of, apparently.

“Someone has to know their name,” you’d said, once, back when you’d first started, only to receive a shrugs from everyone.

“I heard one of the old baristas say the owner’s name was Jackson,” Taehyung had said, and you’d just blinked at him.

“Huh?” you’d said, but Jimin had rolled his eyes and told you to ignore him, so you had.

This week’s drink is the Marshmallow World. As always, when you and Taehyung start your shift together, you read the recipe and follow it step by step to learn how to make it. Warmed milk, vanilla syrup, topped off with marshmallow fluff instead of whipped cream—not bad in theory, if you like sweet things, although it does pose one significant problem.

“It’s clogged my hole,” Taehyung says sadly.

You sputter on your own drink, desperately hacking your lungs out as you try to stop milk from going down your windpipe. “I’m-sorry-it’s-what,” you wheeze all at once, struggling for air.

Taehyung tilts his takeaway cup at you, gesturing at the lid. (All the mugs are still out back or on a rinse cycle so laziness had forced you to make do.) “My drink hole. It’s blocked,” he explains. “The fluff is getting in the way.”

So, yeah. It clogs people’s holes, apparently. But other than that, you have to admit it’s pretty nice, and if you drink it in the café (and thus out of a mug) then you’re fine. You just get into the habit of warning the customers if they order it to go and laugh about it with them and it’s all fine and dandy and everyone is happy.

It’s starting to get busier, now. The nights are getting longer and the days are getting colder and everyone’s starting to think about Christmas, which feels both close and far away, all at once. Close, because you still have presents to buy and there’s never enough time for it; and far, because the lights have yet to go up and Christmas songs aren’t dominating the radio yet and you have yet to experience the real winter rush. Students home for the holidays and families out to see Father Christmas and workers grabbing Secret Santa gifts, everyone desperate for something warm and soothing, hot and comforting in the face of the snow which has yet to fall.

But there’s something in the air, that cool hush that lets you know it’s nearly here—the changing of the seasons, the burnt sunset colours of autumn melting into the iced blues and greys of winter. No matter if you prefer hot or cold weather, there’s something about the beauty of wintertime that’s undeniable.

And it’s a lot easier to sell something like the Marshmallow World on a day like this, the nip in the air almost solid, biting cold into the apples of your cheeks, nibbling at fingers that are so cold they feel frost-bitten. Once again, your genuine enthusiasm shines through, persuading people to give the drink a go, happy to add a shot of espresso for whoever needs it, desperate for caffeine to buoy them up through the day.

You’ve just finished laughing with a lovely old couple, wearing matching scarves and hats—awwww—waving them goodbye as they go to sit down, when you come face to face with Yoongi, blindsided by his sudden appearance. You’d been so caught up, once again, too busy giggling your way through the conversation with your other customers, able to persuade them to try one special to share alongside everything else they’ve ordered.

“Oh. Uh. Hi,” you say. Your hand is still by your face after you’d given the couple a cute wave, and when you realise, you freeze. Flustered. Behind you, Taehyung is struggling to spoon the marshmallow fluff neatly on the vanilla steamer, making small noises of distress, but you’re too caught up in your own distress to really notice.

Once again, you have no idea how long Yoongi’s been there. You’re slipping. You’re normally aware of him as soon as he steps into the coffee shop. (You know, because you’re always aware of when a new customer steps in. Like any good barista would be.) Had he witnessed you enthusiastically waving your hands and talking about marshmallows and s'mores? Seen the way you'd grinned and laughed as you'd gotten excited over the weekly special, yet again?

Well, if he had, he doesn't seem perturbed at all. His usual smile is on his face, though you would swear it seems a little softer around the edges, almost fond.

“Hi,” he says, and… that’s it.

There’s no addition of his usual that would be great, and that’s when you realise you haven’t asked about his coffee. In fact, your fingers are still curled near your chin, almost like a claw. You clear your throat and let your arm fall to your side, fiddling with the tie of your apron.

“Hi,” you repeat. Flounder for a second. Try to remember your usual line. “Large Americano?”

“Y/n.” Taehyung whines your name from the bar, loud enough that it catches your attention. “The marshmallow isn’t staying. Why do you keep recommending Marshmallow World? Why must I suffer through this torture? Every day I wake up and I make coffee—”

“Sorry, sir, one second,” you say, face scrunching in apology at Yoongi.

“It's just Yoongi,” he replies, gentle, and your heart thuds in your chest. "You don't have to call me sir."

Your face feels warm. "Um, okay, Yoongi." You've said his name before, of course, said it dozens of times to confirm his order, but never like this—by invitation from the man himself, an acknowledgement of familiarity.

Taehyung makes another noise. Yoongi's expression turns into one of faint amusement, eyes drifting over your shoulder to your friend; when you turn around, you can see why.

The other barista’s managed to get marshmallow fluff all over the edge of the glass, on the handle of the cup, all the way up the spoon, on his fingers—everywhere except on the drink itself. It’s funny, in a sad sort of way.

“Wow.” You have no idea how he managed it, but you’re here to help. “Alright, go wash your hands, Tae. I’ve got this.”

The cup is a goner. There’s no way you’ll be able to wipe off the sticky marshmallow. You’re acutely aware of Yoongi at the counter, able to watch your every move, but then you get distracted as you salvage Taehyung's attempt at a Marshmallow World. You just feel grateful that it’s a steamer so you can pour it into a new glass, not having to worry about layers of coffee and milk and foam; it’s a pretty easy fix. Good. (You don’t want to keep Yoongi waiting, as patient as he may be.)

It doesn’t take long to spoon the marshmallow on, whipped peaks in the sticky white, and by the time Taehyung returns you’re ready to present him with the picture perfect drink, not a single lick of fluff anywhere it shouldn’t be. You've got your hands on your hips as you survey your work proudly, and Taehyung sticks his tongue out at you.

“Witchcraft,” he says, and you laugh.

“You’re welcome,” you say. “Alright, shoo, go take this over to the table before they start wondering where it is.”

When you turn back, Yoongi’s watching you. Contemplative. You tamp down the flush that threatens to spill onto your cheeks, face burning, but before you can say anything, he speaks.

“Was that the weekly special?”

You blink. Blindsided. Yoongi’s never asked about the special before, never commented on the A-frame outside, the sign on the wall that sits next to the regular menu. No surprise there—why would someone who only drinks Americanos want to drink ninety-nine percent of the weekly specials you offer? “Um, yeah,” you say. “We’ve got the Marshmallow World this week.”

“Would you recommend it?”

You can’t help it. You light up. You love when customers ask for recommendations, and the fact that it’s Yoongi—whose blood must be made of coffee at this point—who’s asking about it? Americano Yoongi, asking about something without caffeine? Black coffee Yoongi, asking about a weekly special that’s nothing but sugar and sweetness? Something inside you switches on, a Christmas tree, all flashing lights and shimmering tinsel and excitement.

“Oh, if you like sweeter drinks, absolutely! It’s great for a cold day like today,” you gush. Maybe you should reel it in, far more exuberant than you usually are with Yoongi, but. You can’t stop. “It’s warm milk and vanilla, so it’s a lovely comfort drink, and we can add a shot of espresso too if you were wanting a little pick-me-up. And then you’ve got marshmallow fluff on top for some extra self-indulgence. We were meant to, uh, toast the top, actually, but we don’t have the necessary health and safety clearance for blowtorches. I guess you could do that at home if you really wanted to. Everyone likes toasted marshmallows, right?”

Yoongi hums, and you wonder if you’ve maybe gotten ahead of yourself. Oversold it. Maybe he was asking out of curiosity. Just because he’s asking about it doesn’t mean that he wants one—

“Can I get a Marshmallow World, please? Large, to go?”

—or maybe Yoongi is an official convert to the world of sweet drinks, changing after a lifetime of drinking unadorned, unadulterated black coffee. Holy shit. Holy shit? Holy—

“And a large Americano to go, too, please.”

(Record scratch. Freeze frame.

Yoongi of-the-black-coffee is ordering his usual drink, and another. Both large. Too much for one person to reasonably drink before one of them got cold. He’s not ordering for one person; he’s ordering for two people. Of course Yoongi wouldn’t order something as heart-stopping as the Marshmallow World—not for himself, anyway.

Mental maths. Two plus two is four, four plus four is eight; one large Americano and one Marshmallow World is two people. Yoongi and one other person is two people, a couple of people, a couple—

Oh, God.

A couple.

You’ve been crushing on a taken man.

You know how they say your life flashes before your eyes before you die? It’s sort of like that, but rather than remembering your life, you immediately recall every moment over the months where you’ve looked at him or thought about him with even the smallest iota of longing and you want to crawl under the counter and never come out.

You feel weirdly guilty. Like… like you’re some sort of unintentional homewrecker. Even though, you know, you thought Yoongi was single and you haven’t made a single move on him and nor had you had any plans to. The guilt bubbles up inside you anyway.

All at once, you feel immensely, incredibly embarrassed. Of course he’s taken. There’s no way he wouldn’t be, as attractive and nice as he is, and you’ve just been sat here crushing on him like a big dumb idiot.

You are the worst.)

You manage to squeeze this internal breakdown into the span of a few seconds. You’re grateful that you have your customer service face locked on, giving nothing away—from the outside the smile looks just like that, a smile, rather than the rictus of deathly mortification it actually is, burning through you like a wildfire.

Yoongi seems none the wiser, just patiently waiting for some sort of acknowledgement of his order. Most of your brain power is still taken up with the mish-mash of humiliation and guilt that’s roiling through you. Luckily, though, the part of your brain that’s still in the moment (trying to drag you back to the real world, shame-faced as you are) forces you to move before things get weird.

“One large Americano, one large Marshmallow World, both to go.” You tap the drinks into the till on auto-pilot, dimly noting that Taehyung’s been pulled into conversation with the old couple at their table, having delivered their drinks and food to them. It’s just you behind the counter, no one else to man the coffee machines. “Let me get those started for you.”

Luckily, making the drinks means you can turn your back to Yoongi, oscillating through the five stages of grief as you fiddle with hot milk and coffee grounds and paper cups. You always take pride in your work—especially when it comes to Yoongi—and you take even more pride now, determined to make these drinks as lovely as they can be. His Americano is fairly simple, but the Marshmallow World requires a bit more finesse, and you lavish attention on the fluff, swirling it beautifully, even though you know it’ll stick to the lid anyway.

(Okay, listen. Whoever this person Yoongi is seeing must be as nice as he is. They both deserve nice drinks.)

There’s something sweet about it, actually. Before the lids go on, you spent a second staring down at the drinks and the juxtaposition between them; black coffee and white marshmallow, bitter and sweet, night and day. It’s lovely, really, these two opposing things coming together. You wonder what Yoongi’s partner is like. Exuberant and bright, rather than his subdued warmth? A balance, yin and yang, opposite but complementary.

(Isn’t that a nice thing to think about? Finding someone who’s different to you but matches you so well?)

You firmly press the lids into place, making sure they’re secure. The protective cardboard sleeve of Yoongi’s Americano has his name—the name you’ve memorised, written out countless times—while the Marshmallow World has a scrawled happy face, and an enjoy! on it, for this mysterious person who likes sweet drinks. You do sincerely hope they enjoy it. You really do.

“The fluff blocks the hole,” you warn, sliding the cardboard tray for both drinks carefully across the counter. “It’s probably a better idea to just take the lid off.”

Something flickers across Yoongi’s face, too fast for you to identify. But then he nods, lifting the tray up with equally careful hands. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says.

He’s always polite to everyone, Taehyung and the other baristas, but he seems to smile at you the most. He’s smiling at you now, curling at the corners of his lips, and you smile back, fighting through ten layers of embarrassment and self-inflicted shame to do so. Just because he smiles at you the most doesn’t mean anything. You can smile at people and not have it be weird; it doesn’t mean you return their ill-fated attraction.

Why, oh why, oh why.

By the time Taehyung returns to the counter, having escaped the chatty, kind clutches of the elderly couple, Yoongi is long gone. Your fellow barista finds you crouched down in front one of the cupboards with your head in your hands.

“Y/n?” He sounds incredibly concerned. “Are you okay? Do you have a headache? Are you sick?”

You let out a quiet noise, a mix between a whale dying and a hippo trying to swallow porridge, muffled into your palms. “I’m such a doughnut,” you say. “Just an absolute doughnut.”

Taehyung crouches beside you. “A glazed doughnut or a jam doughnut?”

Your hands drop away from your face as you think. “Plain,” you say, eventually. “Unglazed. No toppings or fillings.” A little sad and disappointing. It seems fitting.

Taehyung puts a hand on your shoulder, warm and comforting. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You feel embarrassed all over again, thinking about admitting your (now-squashed) crush to your friend. It was stupid in the first place, crushing on a customer, especially as you’d barely spoken to him; Yoongi might be cute, and nice, but your crush was silly and dumb and you’d been silly and dumb not to think that he was already in a relationship.

“I’m fine,” you say. “Just going through it. And by ‘it’ I mean life generally, you know?”

Taehyung makes a noise of understanding, patting your shoulder. “Big mood,” he says sombrely. He always knows what to say, empathetic to a fault.

“Uh,” a customer says, craning over the counter to see the two of you. “Sorry to interrupt, but can I get a refill on my coffee, please?”

That effectively kills the conversation, which is good. Keep yourself busy and distracted. By the time you see Yoongi next week, this crush will be dead and gone and you’ll be fine. Just fine. Absolutely fine.

He’s dyed his hair.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon, the café is full of people, and Yoongi has dyed his hair.

You’d spent all of last Tuesday alternating between all-consuming guilt and embarrassment, Taehyung catching you with your head in your hands in one moment and furiously cleaning the steam wand the next, channeling your tumult of emotions into anything that will distract you.

It had worked. Mostly. You’ve had a week’s worth of time since, to get over this month’s long crush, your brain consistently reminding you that Yoongi is in a relationship, with someone who’s probably lovely and attractive and all around just wonderful (just like him). You remind yourself about this every time you find coffee grounds under your nails, or notice milk flecked on your apron, soured and off-white after a day of work; your life isn’t a meet-cute, and you’re not the cute barista who falls in love with the cute regular. You’re the tired barista who makes more cups of coffee in a day than most people probably drink in a year, and Yoongi is the cute regular who’s already in a long term relationship and comes to Paradise just because he likes the dark roast you use. That’s as far as it will go, because this is real life, and not a romance film or novel. (Even if you wished that it was.)

You’ve come to terms with it. Really, you have. But then he has to step into the coffee shop looking like that, his hair bleached so blond it almost looks white, silver hoops in his ears, and he’s still dressed in dark clothes but he’s wearing glasses, no, this isn’t a drill, Yoongi’s dyed his hair, he’s all light and dark, soft and sharp, and you want to crouch behind the counter again. Because he looks so good and of course he’s in a relationship because he’s hot, and you feel dumb for not having realised it sooner.

You can’t hide behind the counter, though. There’s a queue of people, all waiting for your attention and your time, and it’s still just you and Taehyung; none of your usual Christmas temps are back yet, still away at uni, hence the we’re hiring! posters that are up for all the customers to see (and mostly ignore). The seasons are changing and the weeks are passing and the really eager people are starting to think about Christmas shopping; you swear you don’t even need a calendar, able to trace how close you are to Christmas just based on the amount of foot traffic the coffee shop gets. You’re definitely hitting peak.

But it’s fine. You have this down to a fine art. You and Taehyung are both good on the till and scarily efficient at making drinks and plating food, dancing past each other with an ease that only comes with time spent working together and friendship alongside.

People aren’t ordering the weekly special as much, either, not today. You can’t blame them. Candy Cane Dreams is a white hot chocolate, flavoured with mint and coloured green, topped with whipped cream and sprinkles of candy cane bark and red and green drizzle too; it’s… pretty overwhelming. So it means you don’t have to take over for Taehyung from the bar, focusing on smiling at customers and soothing them after their wait, taking their orders and shuffling them along as quickly as you can. You keep a smile plastered on your face as Taehyung pulls espresso shots and grabs tea bags and heats milk, routine and familiar.

When Yoongi steps up to the counter, you’ve barely had time to mentally prepare yourself, so focused on serving everyone else in the queue; it feels like a slap to the face, a kick to the knees, but then you take one deep breath and exhale. Long, deep, slow, forcing air out of your lungs and thoughts out of your mind, and you smile.

You’ve been so careful up until this point, wanting to keep Yoongi happy, wary of misstepping—but he’s just a regular customer. You feel more confident, now, less worried about breaking this tenuous thing you thought you’d had; less worried about what you’re doing being construed as some weird, roundabout way of flirting, because. You know. He’s in a relationship, so it doesn’t matter either way. He’s definitely not interested. You can talk to him like you would anyone else.

So you say: “You dyed your hair.”

And, just like you suspected, Yoongi doesn’t seem bothered that you’ve broken your usual script. “Oh, yeah.” He reaches up, touches his head, as if he’d forgotten. “I did.”

“It looks nice,” you continue, because it does.

He’s smiling back at you. He looks pleased; maybe a little bashful, even, as surprising as that is. “Thanks,” he says, warm and genuine. (The tiny gremlin of a crush that’s still lurking in your soul lets out a wistful sigh.) “Can I get a large Americano and a—” he squints at the board— “large Candy Cane Dream, please?”

(One plus one is two, Yoongi and his other half, the sugar to his coffee.)

“Sure!” Your voice is bright. “I’m guessing the Marshmallow World went over well?”

There’s a brief beat of silence, but you don’t notice, too focused on typing Yoongi’s order into the till.

“Yeah, it was great,” he says after that moment of quiet, and you smile. Good. You’re glad they enjoyed it.

“I’m really happy to hear that,” you say, genuine and bright.

“What’s actually in the, ah, Candy Cane Dreams?” Yoongi asks, and you laugh, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“It’s horrendous,” you say in a low voice, as if you’re sharing a secret. “Have you ever seen green hot chocolate before?”

You’ve never spoken to Yoongi like this, easy and light, and it’s… nice. He gives no indication of surprise at your sudden friendliness after months of barely talking. If anything he looks pleased, and at one point he even gives you a smile you’ve never seen before, wide and wonderful, flashing his teeth and gums. (The crush gremlin rattles at your ribcage like prison bars, trying desperately to escape, but you don’t give it a chance.)

“Alright, let me just swap with the other barista, he’s still not gotten the Candy Cane Dreams recipe down.”

You hear a suspicious crunch as you make your way over to Taehyung. He turns to you with a guilty smile, edged with sugar, munching on shards of candy cane while his back is to the customers.

“You’re terrible,” you say affectionately. “Go take over on the till, I have a special to make.”

Taehyung glances over, sees Yoongi making his way down to the collection point. “Huh. Alright.”

The Candy Cane Dreams recipe might be a questionable one, but it’s definitely fun to make (watching the white hot chocolate turn green makes you feel like a kid all over again, mixing shampoos together in your bathroom and calling them potions), and maybe you’re overly generous with the candy cane bark, giving Yoongi’s beau more to nibble on and enjoy. It’s not Christmas yet but you’re already in a giving mood, so sue you.

“Here you go.” You slide the drinks towards him, the man busy reading one of the vacancy fliers, eyes flicking away from the poster when you appear. Your lips quirk up. “Looking for a job?”

You’re expecting a huff of a laugh, a small shake of the head, but he answers you seriously. “Not me, but I have a friend who is,” he says, reaching to take the tray.

You realise your hands are still curled around the cardboard; you quickly pull away so that there’s no chance your hands will brush. (You might have shoved your crush down as far as it will go, but you have to be careful with your weak, gooey heart.)

“We could do with any help, honestly. Your friend is more than welcome to apply.” You glance over at the queue, which is small but ever present, and you know it’ll only get worse as time goes on. “And, hey, if you ever decide for a change of pace from whatever it is you do, we’d be glad to have you, too.”

This gets a laugh from him, a warm burst of sound. (The gremlin points out that this is the first time you’ve heard him laugh, really laugh, a little raspy and a little quiet and altogether lovely; you beat the gremlin back with a stick.) “I’m better at drinking coffee than I am at making it,” Yoongi says, eyes soft with lingering amusement. “I’ll leave that to the experts.”

You might have gone off script, but the nod he gives you is his usual one, that familiar tilt of the head. “See you next week?” His eyes are dark, dark and deep, and it’s so hard not to fall into them, to fall all over again.

“See you next week,” you echo, hoping the smile you plaster on your face doesn’t look as forced as it feels, as you struggle once more. Yoongi is just nice, okay? He's just being nice, but still. He needs to let a girl breathe.

(He needs to let the gremlin of her crush wither away, instead of making it threaten to come back as strong as before, fuelled by his smile and his eyes and his everything.)

(... maybe you’re not as over this crush as you thought you were.)

It seems like the we’re hiring! posters actually worked.

“I’m Jungkook,” says the new starter, all crooked smiles and warm eyes and thighs so thick they threaten to split the trousers of the café’s uniform, ties of his apron emphasising his small waist.

(“Good lord,” Taehyung says faintly.)

It’s the last week of November and even though Jungkook is still learning the ropes, he’s a massive help, and you know he’ll be a lifesaver over Christmas. He’s eager, learns quickly, and gets stuck right in, material of his shirt straining across his shoulder blades when he rips a bag of coffee beans open with his bare hands, rather than having to use scissors like you or Taehyung.

Taehyung watches with stars in his eyes as Jungkook pours the beans into the grinder. You cover your smile by sipping at one of the espresso shots Jungkook has pulled—full-bodied and dark, rich in your mouth.

“This is really good, Jungkook,” you say. He looks over, eyes squeezing into a smile.

“Thought it would be,” he says, and you can’t help but huff a laugh into the tiny espresso cup. He’s cocky and competitive, telling you that he’d never made coffee before but he was going to do a better job than any of the other baristas here. He’s too endearing to come across as arrogant, though, and you have to admit that the coffee is good. (Not as good as yours or Taehyung’s, of course, but still. Pretty good.)

Taehyung coos at him and reaches out to shamelessly squeeze his bicep. “Jungkookie is a natural barista.”

Jungkook’s cocky smile turns equal parts pleased and flustered. You continue to sip at the espresso as Taehyung moons over him, then the bell above the door rings, and the mooning temporarily is put on hold. (Temporarily, because Taehyung continues to moon over him for the rest of the shift, insisting on doing the bulk of his training, which is fine by you.)

It’s the 1st of December tomorrow, so not only do you have to clean after the café is locked up, you have to put out all the Christmas decorations, too. But it’s more fun that it is work, the three of you dragging the tree out of the storage room and decorating it with a menagerie of tinsel and baubles; Jungkook lifts Taehyung so he can get the star on the tree, wrapping his arms around Taehyung’s waist and hoisting him up effortlessly, leaving your friend with a pleased smile on his face.

Jungkook is new, only on his second shift, but he’s slotted in so easily. He laughs at Taehyung when he wiggles his butt along to the Christmas songs you've put on to play, and he helps steady the stepladder as you string garlands of snowflakes on the ceiling, even if he doesn’t really need to.

He absently readjusts the reindeer headband Taehyung had unearthed from the storage room and proudly placed on his head. “Yoongi-hyung talks a lot about this place,” Jungkook comments, offhand.

If you’d heard this a few weeks ago, you probably would have fallen off the stepladder, inner gremlin grabbing your heart with both hands and squeezing tight-tight-tight. As it is you only pause for a moment, one of the larger snowflakes cradled in your palm, before you go back to your job of hanging them up.

“So you’re the friend he mentioned that needed a job,” you say.

“That’s me.” Jungkook grins, boyish and bright, and you laugh. “He really, really likes this café. Wouldn’t shut up about it, even before he told me that you were hiring.”

You can’t imagine Yoongi gushing about a café to his friends, but then again, he clearly is passionate about his coffee. Jungkook will know him better than you, having a real friendship rather than this patron-and-customer back-and-forth that you’ve had, so who are you to imagine what’s normal for Yoongi and what isn’t? You didn’t even know he was in a relationship, after all. You don’t know anything about the guy, really.

“Well, we appreciate his custom,” you say. “I know Yoongi is the one who actually comes in, but you can thank his other half, too, and I hope they enjoy their drinks as well.”

You’re too busy hanging the garland to see the way Jungkook’s face twists.

“Huh?”

“You know. Yoongi always comes in for his Americano and the weekly special for his partner,” you say.

You’re focused on stepping down the ladder without falling to see the expression on Jungkook’s face, nose scrunched and lips pursed, like there’s something he’s smelled that he really doesn’t like.

“Did he say that to you? That it was for someone else?”

“Hm?” You pause in grabbing another string of snowflakes, glancing up. “Oh, no, I just worked it out, you know? Yoongi is a religious coffee drinker, why else would he order something that’s basically hot sugar water? I think it’s cute,” you add, belatedly. “That he always comes in to grab something for them, too.”

(You wish you had someone to do that for you.)

There’s a beat of silence. Jungkook’s holding the stepladder, ready to move it, staring at you in a way that’s weirdly intense. “I see,” he says, like that isn’t weird or mysterious at all.

Then he drags the stepladder’s rubber feet across the floor with such a loud noise that Taehyung startles, bauble falling out of his hand and shattering. Jungkook, of course, profusely apologises and insists on cleaning it up—but not before making sure Taehyung is okay, of course, grabbing his hands and looking over them, as if the bauble had broken in his palms and not the floor.

Taehyung looks immensely pleased. You just smile quietly to yourself, roll your eyes lightly, and go back to hanging snowflakes as Jungkook speaks to Taehyung, soft and low.

You think your favourite thing about training a new starter is witnessing their reaction to the weekly special.

“So,” Jungkook says, slowly. “You put in the whole gingerbread man—gumdrops and icing and all—and just blend it?

“Yep.” Taehyung’s reply is cheery. “Straight in and whizz it all up.”

This week, it’s You Can’t Catch Me, I’m the Gingerbread Frappé which is a) probably the longest name known to mankind and b) probably the most questionable name known to mankind and c) who orders a frappé in December?

These thoughts are clearly playing across Jungkook’s face as Taehyung coaxes him to drop the gingerbread man into the blender, and you’re too busy enjoying the consternation on Jungkook’s face to notice someone stepping up to the counter—until they clear their throat, that is, and you all turn.

“Hi,” Yoongi says.

“Oh! Hi,” Taehyung says.

“Hyung! Look!” Jungkook says.

“Jungkook, wait—” you say.

“Whirr,” the lidless blender says.

It’s chaos. Frappé ends up everywhere, splattered over the counter and the floor, splashed across the wine-red aprons of both of your fellow baristas, as close to the blender as they were—saving you from any of the sugary fallout, unwitting human shields.

There’s a beat of silence, where you all stare at each other—

And then Yoongi laughs.

You’ve never seen Yoongi laugh this loudly, eyes squeezed so hard you wonder if he can even see, almost cackling as he laughs at Jungkook’s expression, joyful and loud and free. It’s another dimension to him, another new part you witness as Jungkook wipes gingerbread and ice off his face and Taehyung stares at the mess spattered across his hands and arms.

It makes you think of a paper crane. Yoongi is this unfinished thing in your mind, each new thing you learn about him another fold that you add, a flat sheet of paper turned into something entirely and wholly new. You wish that it weren’t so alluring, watching it come together, finding out more and more about this man you’ve technically known for months, but only recently started to get to know.

(You wish that it wasn’t so easy to keep falling for him.)

Once the counter is cleaned, both Jungkook and Taehyung retreat to replace their aprons, leaving you—once again—alone with Yoongi. He’d stopped laughing to tease Jungkook, to gently rib him, but you can see the smile that’s etched on his face, the echoes of mirth written across all his features.

“We usually train the baristas to keep the lid on, I swear,” you say, and Yoongi’s face splits into another smile.

“I was going to say that it’s an unorthodox blending technique,” and you can’t help but smile back at this, even if you’ve been trying not to laugh. Professionalism barely wins out, your lips trembling as you try to hold your giggling back, but Yoongi spots it anyway, looking pleased, like he’s accomplished something by getting you to (nearly) laugh.

You’re not laughing when you have to make one of the special frappés, though. You stare at the gingerbread man as you hold him above the blender, at his cheery iced face and his cute little buttons (not the gumdrop buttons), and brace yourself to drop him.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, and let him go, before quickly slamming the lid on top and turning the blender on so you don’t have to look at the betrayal you’ve just committed.

When you turn, Yoongi has an expression of sympathy on his face; for you or the gingerbread man, you can’t tell, but his face smooths the second he notices you looking at him, blinking innocently, as if there’s nothing unusual going on. It’s disarming, seeing that expression on his face, when you’d gotten used to seeing him act more reserved, but it’s cute.

(It is cute, whether you’re crushing on him or not. It’s just a statement of fact, okay? It’s nothing more than that. Even if that tiny gremlin of a crush still lives in your chest, scuffing its feet against your heart, reminding you of its presence when you least need it.)

(It digs its heels in when you put the frappé and Americano side by side, nestled snug in their cardboard tray. You slide it towards Yoongi and you’re a little too slow, fingers brushing his when he reaches for them; you’re surprised by how quickly he moves, how eager he seems to be reaching for his order, fingertips dragging across the back of your knuckles, and the gremlin kicks your heart, pulse rising just at that glancing touch. Even if you know it’s fruitless, useless, you can’t help but like Yoongi anyway.)

(“See you next week,” he says, and you can’t do anything but smile helplessly back.)

You normally love snow. You love waking up to the sight of it, pure and pristine white, adding another dimension to your familiar world—you love snowball fights and snowmen and snow angels, even if it all leaves you feeling cold, chilled right to the bone, nose running and hands freezing. The best part about winter is getting warm again, the season of throw blankets and hot water bottles, knitwear and scarves, tea and hot cocoa, all cosy and lovely and wonderful.

It’s a bit different when you have to work all day, though. You watch as the snow on the streets outside is threatened by the spray of salt and a thousand spinning car wheels and busy feet, ice turned to slush water; for now the snow is winning, though, and judging from the weather forecast, you think that’ll be the case for the rest of the day. You hope it lasts through to tomorrow, too; by the time you get home you’ll be too tired and it’ll be too dark to play in the snow, and it leaves you feeling disappointed and sad.

(Winter is lovely but it can be a hollow season, too, something about the leafless trees and fogged windows making everything feel like an empty dream.)

At least Paradise is warm, even if you’re cooped up inside, safe from the still-falling snow that keeps trying to turn the world into an untouched, frozen wonderland. It’s quiet in the coffee shop today. Only the bravest of people have ventured out into the not-a-blizzard-but-basically-a-blizzard, plastered against radiators and putting drinks to their faces, letting hot steam heat their cold cheeks.

It’s why you’re both surprised and unsurprised when Yoongi appears, bell chiming above his head as the door swings shut and he stamps his feet on the front mat, knocking snow off his boots. He somehow looks disgruntled and soft all at the same time, a royal blue beanie on his head forcing his fringe down to sit messily over his eyes, bundled up warm even if his face is scrunched up and his cheeks are red from the cold.

“I hate cold weather,” he tells you once he reaches the counter, gloves peeled off his fingers so he can reach for his wallet, his nose tinged pink as he sniffs.

You proffer him a box of tissues. “You look like you need it,” you say gently, and he smiles at you, a warm hearth in the cold winter.

“Thank you.” His voice is equally as gentle as yours, and something aches in your chest.

It’s just you behind the counter right now, so you take Yoongi’s order and make the drinks too—one large Americano and one large Latteggnog (a basic latte made with eggnog instead of milk, rich and thick and creamy), this week’s special: everyone’s favourite Christmas drink, but with a twist of coffee.

The quiet gives you time to think. Jungkook and Taehyung are out back, the older barista coming up with the most ridiculous excuses to take them away from the counter; you don’t mind that they’re taking the time ‘counting the coffee beans’, as deserted as the café is.

The café is practically empty and Yoongi hates the cold but here he is, venturing into the ice and snow to get this person he cares about the drink they want, because they’re that special to him. (You hope they realise how lucky they are.)

You’re normally okay being single. Don’t really think about it. But there’s something about today, this moment, that has you reflecting; Taehyung has this budding thing with Jungkook, Yoongi has this steady thing with his love, and here you are, by yourself, alone. It’s hard to summon up your usual energy, going through the motions as you make the drinks. You tilt your head forward, dusting nutmeg on the eggnog latte, watching the way the sprinkle of spice settles delicately and softly in the foam. No flourish, no flick of the wrist, not today.

(There’s two cups in front of you now, but later, when you’re home, there’s just going to be one. Yours. Yours, and no one else’s.)

(When you get home, you’re going to do what any self-respecting single person would do: order too much takeaway, rewatch The Good Place, get emotional over Eleanor and Chidi’s relationship—they’re so different but they’re so perfect for each other, why can’t you have that?—mope for a bit, rewatch The Princess Bride, get emotional over Westley and Buttercup—where’s your cute farmboy who saves you from an evil prince?—mope a bit more, before finally climbing into bed and hugging a pillow to your chest in the space of having someone else there. You know. Perfectly normal single person things.)

When you turn to Yoongi, drinks ready and raring to go, you’ve forced a Customer Service Smile onto your face. They say that just the act of smiling makes you happier, right? Maybe if you smile hard enough, you’ll cheer up, chasing away this sudden sadness that lingers in the back of your throat, scratching at your lungs like black ice.

“Here you go!” Your voice seems too loud for the quiet hush of the café, but you roll with it anyway. “Enjoy your drinks!”

Yoongi takes them from you, hands carefully cupped around the tray, but his eyes don’t leave your face. He doesn’t return your smile, as convincing as it should be (even Taehyung struggles to tell between your real smile and your work smile, sometimes); he stands for a moment, looking at you.

You think he’s about to say something when he clearly thinks better of it. He tilts his head, like he always does, but you’d swear his expression is tinged with concern. “Thanks,” he says. Pauses. “The roads are really icy. Get home safe, okay Y/n?”

Blink, blink. Your eyelashes flutter. You suddenly realise that he’s never said your name out loud, never had a need to, even if he must have known it all along from the badge on your chest. It sounds so good in his mouth, soft and safe.

“Oh,” you say, slow with surprise. “Thank you. I will. You, too.”

Yoongi nods again, as if to himself, before he turns to go.

He stops one more time before he goes. He stands at the open door, glances over his shoulder before he steps out, dark eyes meeting yours, as if checking that you’re still there, still tethered to the ground. Seems satisfied when he finds that you are. He gives you one last smile, all soft around the edges—that’s something you know intimately about Yoongi, that he’s soft through and through, even if he can look sharp, as cold as the ice outside—and then he goes, back into the falling snow to deliver a steaming sip of warmth into the hands of the person he loves.

(Your heart aches.)

It’s the week before Christmas. The whole world has that feeling it always does at this time of year—excited and bright, if a little frantic, the hanging lights in the city a backdrop to people’s last minute shopping, their breaths pluming out into the air as they rush around in the cold. The whole world feels full of life, that final push towards the end of the year; the hearth fire of Christmas before that weird in between before the new year, that held breath of potential, before the clock ticks over and the world is thrown into the next year.

Paradise has been busy. It’s like summer, only instead of sundresses and shorts, everyone is in knitwear and scarves, shivering as they wait to be served, desperate for a drink to warm them up, something to eat to fill their bellies. You spend more time in the coffee shop than you do at home, pulling overtime shifts to help your fellow baristas out—everyone thinks Christmas is a time of relaxation and coming together, but it doesn’t feel like that when you work in a customer facing job, oh no. It’s just non-stop busyness and being rushed off your feet.

(You’d barely had a chance to speak to Yoongi, café full when he’d stepped in, your pace frenetic as you’d danced around behind the counter with Taehyung and Jungkook; you’d slid his drinks towards him, his Americano and the special, and maybe your smile had looked more harrowed than you thought because he’d caught your hand and squeezed it.

“I hope you get a chance to rest over Christmas,” he’d said, concerned and sincere, as you’d stood in stunned silence, not expecting that almost-intimate touch, gentle against your skin.

“I will,” you’d said eventually. Yoongi had seemed to suddenly realise he was still touching you, fingers clasped around yours, and he’d withdrawn quickly, giving you a smile that felt like a whispered secret, before leaving you to deal with the ever-growing queue.)

Suffice to say, it’s been a long week, and you’re tired, and your feet hurt after all the running around you’ve been doing, and you just want to go home. You just need to finish the close, need to finish setting everything up for the open tomorrow, need to finish cleaning everything, and then you can get some sleep.

At least, that’s what you thought. Instead, you’re standing across from Jungkook and staring at him incredulously. You can feel a headache coming on.

“Wait.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “What do you mean, we need to deliver some coffee?”

You don’t know if Jungkook is being deliberately obtuse, but he just stares at you as if you’re the one talking nonsense right now, and not him. “We have a customer order to deliver,” he says.

“Yes, I gathered that,” you say. “I just mean, why did no one tell me sooner?”

Paradise doesn’t do deliveries, as such. You cater for events, and you technically do deliveries then, but it’s less ‘one coffee to go’ and more ‘enough sandwiches and pastries and bagels and coffee to feed an entire office’. It’s not that you can’t bring someone their order directly, it’s more that you just… don’t.

“Taehyung took the order,” Jungkook says, as if that explains everything.

You pinch the bridge of your nose again. You can’t ask Tae about it, the other man having had to leave just as you’d been about to flip the sign to closed (‘Jimin says Tannie peed in his shoes again! I have to go clean it up! I’m so sorry, I swear I’ll cover a close for each of you next time!’), so it’s just you, and Jungkook, and the slip of paper on the counter between you. You’ve worked with Taehyung long enough to trust his judgement and his decisions, as inexplicable as they might seem sometimes, but you do think it’s weird that he’s taken this delivery on board.

“It’s not too far from here,” Jungkook adds, peering at the address on the paper. “It won’t take long.”

“We have to finish closing, Jungkook,” you say.

He shrugs casually, carelessly. “I’ll do it, I don’t mind. You can just do the delivery and then go home straight after, it’s whatever.”

“It’s not whatever,” you mumble. “Why can’t you deliver it?”

“You’re the senior barista, you’re a better representative of the brand,” he says, and you have no idea where he pulled that from. (You blame Jimin. You know they’ve had shifts together, and Jimin is too smooth-talking for his own good.)

As much as you want to argue, you can’t help but cave, because the prospect of getting home early is one that you’re not about to sniff at. (You’d worry that Jungkook would get home late, what with the amount of prep he still needs to do for tomorrow, but you half suspect that Taehyung will reappear at some point, anyway.) You’re too tired to want to argue. “I just want to say this is a one off, and normally we cater for events, we’re not really a delivery service, okay?”

“Duly noted.”

It’s a simple enough order, anyway—it’s just two drinks. The first is a large quad shot latte with caramel and toffee syrup, extra whipped cream and cinnamon on top (something you’d definitely order, you think, indulgent and milky and with enough caffeine to kick you up the ass). Jungkook dutifully cleans as you start the second drink. The special this week is far, far less sweet than normal; a Rudolph the Red-eyed Reindeer: a simple red eye with a pinch of holiday spice, coffee with an extra espresso shot and topped with cinnamon and nutmeg. You take in a deep breath, swallowing down the warm smell and letting it flow through you before you double check the details on the note.

It takes you a second as you squint at the address, wondering why it looks familiar—and then you pause. This is Yoongi’s office, you think to yourself, and it feels a little like there’s an apricot pit sitting heavy in your stomach, heavy and hard. Paradise had catered a breakfast for them last week, and it hadn’t been on your shift and so you hadn’t gone, but—you’d heard enough about it from Jimin, the type who gets to know everyone and everything the second he walks in the door. You’d heard about the team that Yoongi manages, found out that Yoongi works in music, in artist and repertoire, and when you’d had the chance to Google exactly what that meant, you’d been bowled over. He has such a complex, high skilled job, and here you are, struggling to get a job with your degree, hence the barista thing. (Thanks, economy.)

You hastily shuffle past the address, trying to ward off your sudden sense of inadequacy, focusing on the name instead. What sort of name is Suga? you think to yourself, and then shrug. Probably one of the workers had enjoyed the breakfast the other week and was still hanging around before going on holiday for Christmas, or something.

“Alright, I’m off.” You’re ready to advance into the cold outside: coat on, scarf looped around your neck and hat secure on your head, cardboard tray of drinks clutched in your hands. “If you need help closing, just call me and I’ll come back, okay?”

“I won’t, but, thanks,” Jungkook says, equal parts self-assured and reassuring. “Don’t fall on your ass!”

It is icy outside, the entire world a winter wonderland, beautiful but cold and daylight long gone; snow drifts slowly from the sky above, dusting your shoulders and the top of your hat, flakes caught so softly by the weave of your clothes. It’s the kind of day that’s perfect spent indoors, curled up with the people you love, warmed through and through—and here you are, picking your way across the pavement slush to deliver a coffee to someone. (You’re not even getting paid for this.)

At least it’s not too far, really, just a few blocks away. The building is small, which is a plus, because it means you won’t have multitudes of rooms and offices to trawl past to get to your destination. The receptionist is more than helpful, too, when you say that you have a delivery for Suga; she gives you exactly directions and then she smiles at you, pleasant and pretty and lovely, and that gremlin that’s still clinging desperately onto your feelings for Yoongi whispers: what if this is Yoongi’s girlfriend? She’s beautiful.

Shut up, you think, before smiling back and thanking her, and heading on your way.

This close to Christmas you’d think that the building would be almost empty, but you’d be wrong. It’s not a buzzing hive of activity but there are still people walking around, speaking behind closed doors or laughing through open ones, decorations and tinsel hanging from the ceiling. Up ahead you see a someone come out of a room, shutting the door behind them before they walk in your direction. It’s a man who looks like he’s just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine and as you pass in the corridor he pauses, raising his eyebrows at you. Not suspicious, just surprised.

“Uh, I have a coffee for Suga,” you say without prompting, as if he was about to accuse you of some sort of nefarious scheme and your coffee delivery is the only thing saving you from that.

“Oh,” mister-model-handsome says, suddenly smiling widely, like this is all perfectly normal and not weird at all. He’s got some of the poutiest lips you’ve ever seen. “You’re nearly there, he’s just down the corridor and on the right. Have fun!”

“Uh, you too?” you reply. (Is he Yoongi’s boyfriend? He’s tall and broad shouldered and incredibly attractive, with the type of smile that makes people’s hearts race, and Yoongi definitely deserves someone like that.)

Your destination seems to be the office the (probably) model just came out of. You look around the corridor, which seems to be deserted now, the hubbub of people elsewhere in the building. You knock quietly, not wanting to disturb the hush that’s filled the air around you.

A beat. Then: “Come in,” someone says, voice muffled through the door.

It swings open easily at your touch. You stand on the threshold, mouth open around the announcement of your delivery when the words die on your lips.

Yoongi’s there, sitting behind a desk and his head bowed as he scribbles something in a notebook. He doesn’t look up. “Shut the door,” he says. Dumbstruck, you do just that, and it’s not until the door’s quietly clicked shut that he starts to raise his head. “Hyung, I already said that I don’t need to eat—”

And then he spots you standing there.

He stops mid-sentence, mouth open, eyes widening. He looks as shocked as you feel, utterly taken aback and agog, and even now you can’t help but notice how good he looks. He’s in a black button up, sleeves rolled to the elbow and top button undone, revealing the pale skin of his collarbones. It’s another juxtaposition, the Yoongi that you’re familiar with (an aura of effortless authority and attractiveness) in a place you don’t know at all, completely professional, his desk neat and the entire space put together. There’s a tastefully decorated tree in the corner but it doesn’t throw off the balance of the room at all.

“Uh.” You cough lightly. “I have… a delivery… for Suga?”

Yoongi stares at you.

“Is this… not the right room? I can go,” you mumble, gesturing over your shoulder with a thumb.

This seems to snap Yoongi out of whatever thoughts he was having as he shakes his head. “No, this is… Suga’s office,” he says. “I just didn’t order any coffee.”

You open your mouth. Shut your mouth. You don’t have an Americano on the tray, but he’d probably like the red eye, coffee with extra coffee, no sugar or cream. Just a little pinch of spice.

“Maybe it was a surprise, or something? Couples get each other gifts all the time.”

Yoongi’s lips quirk up. “I’m not really the type that gets surprised with gifts.”

Something about this strikes a discordant note in you. He’s always delivering gifts of coffee—he deserves those expressions of love returned to him. You can’t help but say as such.

“You’re always giving gifts, though,” you say. “Those weekly specials. I wouldn’t be surprised if your other half is returning the favour.”

Blink, blink. He looks perplexed. “I don’t have an other half?”

Your mouth opens again. “Uh,” you say eloquently. “What?”

“I… don’t have an other half? I’m… single?”

“You’re…” Your face scrunches up, wrinkled in confusion. What? He’s… what? “But you always buy two drinks?”

Silence. Then: “I… the Americano is for me,” he says. “I usually just pour the special away. I only started ordering them because you got so excited talking about them and making them. I never planned on drinking them.”

Your mouth falls open, soft around a quiet breath, a soft oh. “You—wait. You ordered them because I got excited about them?”

Yoongi’s eyes are so dark, so gentle; melted chocolate, warm. “You started to talk to me more, after the first time I did,” he says, and you know you had. Because you thought it was safer to talk to him, though you were secure in the knowledge he wasn’t single—but he is single. “So I kept doing it, because I wanted to talk more to you. I thought you knew? And that’s why you started having real conversations with me.”

You’re frozen in place, eyes as big as dinner plates. Min Yoongi, your futile crush, who looks as sharp as a knife but is as sweet as spun candyfloss, has been coming back week after week—for you. He’s not in a relationship, and he’s been flirting with you.

Or at least he thought he had been. You, however, hadn’t even realised.

“I was going to ask you on a date after Christmas,” he continues, calm and steady, as if your brain isn’t melting. He’s still sitting behind his desk, and there’s something about his tousled hair and bared lower arms—watch on one wrist and a few bracelets on the other—that has your heart pounding, that casual air somehow not at odds at the weight of the surroundings. Because the world is a backdrop to Yoongi, and he makes it work.

“What the fuck,” you say. You realise you’ve never sworn in front of him when something flickers in his eyes; not a bad flicker, no. Definitely not. “I thought you were taken.”

“I’m very single,” he says lightly, belying the weight behind the words. And then his eyes drop to your hands. “You said you have a coffee for me?”

Which leads to this: Yoongi, in his chair, you, leaning against his desk. He’s taken the red eye (of course) while you sip at the latte, relishing the punch of espresso, the flavour of the syrups.

You’re both staring at each other as you drink, air in the room growing thicker by the moment, when Yoongi breaks the silence. “This is probably the only weekly special I’d actually want to drink.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Black coffee with more espresso? That’s you all over,” you say. “The other specials aren’t so bad, though. I think you just need to give sweet drinks a chance.”

You’re speaking without thinking, but the second those words leave your mouth, the air turns electric. Yoongi’s still staring at you, unwavering and intent, and everything inside you is melting, leaving you flushed and hot. The smile hasn’t left his face, which had been warm but it’s changed, evolved, edged with something sharper.

“If you say so,” he says. His eyes are on your lips. “Let me try?”

His fingers are so gentle on your face, hands cupping your jaw as he tilts your head down. All your thoughts leave you. There’s nothing in your mind but Yoongi, his warm hands and dark eyes, the heat of his body so close to yours, his mouth; you can’t help but look down, tracing the shape of his lips with your gaze, a small soft pout that’s so at odds with the weight of his intensity.

When he kisses you, it’s featherlight. Barely the softest of pressures, the potential of something more—and then he pulls you in deeper, and there it is, that heat flickering in your stomach jumping into a full fire. The kiss turns hot and wet as he licks the flavour of caramel and toffee syrup out of your mouth, and he tastes like coffee, dark and bitter; you make a noise against his lips and he swallows it down, pulls you closer.

You’re straddling his knees, a little awkward and cramped in his office chair, but you don’t care. You’ve been wanting to kiss Yoongi for so long, even when you felt like you shouldn’t, thought about his dark eyes and pink mouth, the curve of his lips, the paleness of his hands; a steadying presence around your waist, holding you in place.

When you pull apart, Yoongi’s lips are flushed, kiss swollen. It looks good on him. Really good on him.

“I’ve thought about that more than I’d like to admit,” he says, and you can’t help but feel warmed by it, the realisation that you’ve wanted to kiss him but he’s wanted to kiss you, too.

“This really isn’t comfortable,” you say, wriggling a little—your ass is starting to go numb, sat on Yoongi’s knees—and Yoongi sucks in a quick breath at the way you’re all but squirming in his lap, even if he doesn’t say anything.

Oh, you think.

When you move away, he lets you go without protest, hands sliding off your waist. It’s not until you fall to your knees that Yoongi realises what you’re doing, his eyes widening.

“Y/n,” he breathes. “You don’t have to—”

“Please, Yoongi, I’ve wanted to do this for months,” you say. Maybe it was a little crass to start with, wanting to get on your knees for a man you barely knew just because he was hot and polite to you, but now you know he wants you back. You’re not about to let this opportunity pass you by, staring up at him between his knees, hands braced on his thighs. “But if you want me to stop, I’ll stop.”

He looks torn, just for a second, eyes darting away from your face and to the door. It’s shut, but it’s not locked, and though the building is quiet there’s nothing to say that someone couldn’t walk in at any second.

Without thinking, you lick your lips. Yoongi’s eyes flicker back at the motion, watching how your tongue moves, and you can see how he crumbles.

“I don��t want you to stop,” he says, and you dig your nails into his trousers, electricity shooting through you.

“You’ll have to keep your voice down,” you warn, and reach for his zipper.

It’s a struggle for him, you can tell. He’s already biting his lip by the time you’ve tugged his trousers and boxers down, hardening under your grasp, and you knew his dick would be as pretty as the rest of him. You don’t have the luxury of worshipping him the way you want to, acutely aware of the fact you’re in his office, but it doesn’t mean you’re not going to make Yoongi feel good. It’s dirty and messy, the way you suck his cock into your mouth lewd and wet, lavishing attention on the most sensitive parts; his hips jump as you circle the head with your tongue and jerk the rest of his length with a hand.

Everything’s sloppy with spit and precum and Yoongi’s biting off curses, hand tightening in your hair as you take in as much of him as you can, relaxing your throat and swallowing him down, down, down. When you look up at him through your lashes he looks wrecked, the paleness of his skin flushed pink, and you can’t wait to see that all over. Can’t wait to see Yoongi entirely bare in front of you, when you have the luxury of time and pleasure.

But there’s something about this, too, that has your heart racing, cunt throbbing. You’re running your spit slick lips down the side of his shaft, tonguing the throb of the vein there, when you hear footsteps nearby, muffled through the door. It doesn’t sound like they’re coming in this direction and Yoongi seems almost entirely lost to the feeling of your mouth on him, but you flick your tongue across the spot where the head of his cock meets the shaft and he bows forward, swallowing down the noise that threatened to spill from his lips. He’s so fucking hot like this, falling apart under your hands and mouth, and you know he’ll give as good as he gets.

“Gonna cum,” he rasps. You smile up at him before taking his cock back into your mouth, jerking him off hard and fast as you lick and suck—and when he cums it’s with a noisy exhale of breath, a muffled groan, and even as you’re swallowing down his cum and mouthing at him until he winces with oversensitivity, you’re imagining what he sounds like when he doesn’t have to be quiet.

He’s not shy, either. You’ve barely tucked him back in when he’s reaching for you, kissing you. There’s no taste of coffee any more and you shiver, molten and boneless at the way his tongue presses into your mouth.

“Still want to take me on a date?”

You’re being cheeky, voice light as you joke, but Yoongi’s responding look is equal parts serious and affectionate. He sweeps a thumb over your cheekbone and you relax into his hands, feeling like a cat that got the cream. Here you are, on your knees in his office, the glittering lights of his Christmas tree thrown across your hair and skin, warmed by the touch of a man you’ve wanted for months but never thought you would get.

“Of course,” he murmurs, gentle-gentle-gentle, as if you hadn’t just sucked his soul through his dick—and you love that about him, love his inherent soft core, his big heart. You might not know him as well as you’d like—not yet—but you already know that much about him. “I owe you a present, too.”

Your face scrunches. “What, because I gave you a blowjob?”

At this he laughs, mouth split wide and gums on show as his whole body shakes with the intensity of it. “No, because you brought me a coffee,” he says. He still has your cheek cupped in his hand, palm warm against your skin. “But if you want to say it’s because of the blowjob as well, then sure.”

“There’s plenty more where that came from.” You smile at him, gentle expression at odds with the meaning behind the words and your position—still on your knees.

You don’t know if they ache when you stand, because Yoongi is kissing you again, distracting you. And it’s easy, this back and forth you have, comfortable as you finish the (now lukewarm) coffees and get ready to go, because Yoongi insists on walking you home. Because he’s a gentleman, your gentleman, and he even holds the door open for you.

You’re not sure if you can reach for his hand, if that would be too forward in his place of work, if he doesn’t want to when this thing between you is so tentative and new. But you’re barely halfway down the corridor when he stops you with a gentle hand on your arm; when you look over, he’s smiling at you, and then tilts his chin up.

“Oh!” You stare at the huge bundle of mistletoe above you, tied with red ribbon and messily taped to the ceiling. It brings a smile to your face. “Oh, how cute.”

The hand on your arm shifts down. Yoongi weaves his fingers with yours.

“You know about the tradition, right?” There’s a twinkle in his eyes, and it’s not just from the lights from the ceiling above, turning his dark eyes into warm chocolate, deep brown. “Kissing under the mistletoe?”

You can’t help but blink, surprised at his sweetness, his forwardness. There’s nothing to say that someone couldn’t walk by right now, to see the two of you hand in hand under the mistletoe, but Yoongi doesn’t care at all. He’s staring at you like you’re the only other person in the world, and you feel like a fountain of champagne is bubbling inside you, heady and sparkling and light.

“I think I’ve heard of it,” you say, and he’s still smiling, a small thing, just for you. “Do you think you can show me?”

And he does, with his hand in yours, your lips against his, and up above, the mistletoe sparkles.

(Your phone rings. Caller ID says it’s Taehyung, but when you pick up, he’s not the one who speaks.

“So.” Jungkook sounds knowing, his voice bordering on smug. “How did the delivery go?”

In the background you can hear someone crowding close, put it on speaker, Kookie, I want to hear too, and you can’t help but smile at Taehyung’s eagerness.

“Good,” you say. Yoongi’s palm is warm against yours and you swing your joint hands together, looking at him, entranced by the way the snowflakes dust his eyelashes. The sky above is dark and the wind around you is cold, but the man beside is so bright and warm. You feel wrapped up in it. “Yoongi says he’s going to kill you, by the way.”

“He won’t,” Jungkook says cheerfully, loud enough that Yoongi can hear. He looks fond.

“Well, tell Taehyung I’m going to kick his ass for lying about Tannie peeing on Jimin’s shoes,” you say.

“You won’t,” Taehyung says, equally as cheerful, and you can’t help but smile.

“No, I won’t,” you say.

You think about the seasons. You think about the man walking beside you; the man who says he hates cold weather, but has kept his gloves off so he can feel your hand against his. The man who came out in the snow to order a drink, just to make you smile. The man who looks like winter but feels like spring, something cold bursting into potential, new life.

In the depth of winter, under the snow and twinkling Christmas lights above, Yoongi squeezes your hand.)

taglist: @beyoncesdragon @vensulove

#btswritingcafe #btswriterscollective #magicshopnet #houseofddaeng #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #bts #yoongi au #bts au #yoongi #yoongi scenario #yoongi imagine #yoongi fanfic #bts fanfic #joy.masterlist #PLEASE feel free to message me with any typos or whatever and I'll get on those when I have a chance

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criminalmindzjunkie · 4 years

Text

Avoidance

masterlist

part two

Summary: Reader doesn’t know what she did to make Spencer hate her so much.

A/N: This fic is just a reminder that sub!Spencer lives rent free in my head at all times. Also, if anyone would like to be on a taglist for one shots like these, let me know! I’m going to work on getting one started.

Pairing: sub!Spencer/femdom! reader

Content Warnings: honestly way too much swearing, sexual harassment, slapping, hands free orgasm, oral sex (male and female receiving), hand job, orgasm denial, edging, unprotected sex, vaginal penetration, degradation, femdom

Word Count: 8.2k

I have absolutely no idea what I’ve done to make Spencer Reid hate me.

Usually, when someone despises a person to the point of complete and total avoidance, there’s a reason. No one just wakes up and decides to resent another person for the hell of it – right? Wrong.

Because Spencer Reid positively loathes me – and I have no idea why.

It all started on my first day at the BAU. I had somehow landed the highly coveted job of media liaison after the previous one had decided to complete the training to be a profiler. For reasons unbeknownst to me, they thought a twenty-four-year-old fresh out of college with no prior job experience was the best fit for the position. I didn’t understand it, but I also wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

To say that I had been terrified the first time I set foot into the bullpen would be the understatement of the century. After a very formal and very intimidating orientation with the unit chief, my predecessor, a beautiful blonde named Jennifer, offered herself up to be my personal tour guide. Jennifer introduced me to the other members of the team, and with every smiling face I came in contact with, my fears of being the odd man out were assuaged. I could tell that Penelope Garcia, tech analyst extraordinaire, would most likely be my biggest ally – and it was abundantly clear that Derek Morgan and I would probably get into a fair amount of mischief together. Elle Greenaway seemed like the obvious choice for a future drinking buddy, and Jason Gideon – well, he merely grunted at me in acknowledgment before retreating back to his office. I figured three out of four wasn’t so bad.

I didn’t meet Doctor Spencer Reid until after lunch. Jennifer mentioned something about him guest lecturing at a local university, which surprised me considering she mentioned him being a year younger than me. Apparently, the kid was an actual genius, which was more than a little bit intimidating, but Jennifer assured me that Spencer was a sweetheart.

“He’s a little quirky, but I’m sure you’ll love him. Just don’t be surprised if he tries to talk your ear off,” Jennifer laughs. “Last week I asked him about the weather and he went off on a tangent about climate change that lasted nearly an hour.”

By the time Spencer strolled into the bullpen at exactly one in the evening, I was sitting perched atop Jennifer’s desk, thoroughly engrossed as she told me about their latest case. When she stops talking midsentence in favor of smiling at someone behind me, I half expect that Morgan is attempting to sneak up on me, when:

“Hey, look who’s back,” Jennifer greets, prompting me to turn around excitedly. I was eager to put a face to the man I’d heard so much about.

And when I turn, my eyes land on the prettiest man I’ve ever seen.

Sharp cheekbones and a chiseled jawline are framed by shaggy brown hair, complete with beautiful brown eyes and soft, pillowy lips. As if his good looks weren’t enough, he’s dressed in the most adorably nerdy sweater vest and a pair of thin framed glasses. He’s absolutely precious – a fact that Jennifer had conveniently left out.

“How was the lecture?” Jennifer asks him as he places his satchel on the desk adjacent to hers. Spencer perks up at this, smiling excitedly from across the divider.

“I think it went really good, actually. I incorporated this really cool joke that I heard about quantum physics. Do you want to-”

He stops abruptly when he realizes Jennifer isn’t his only spectator, and those lovely brown eyes go almost comically wide when they settle on me.

“Spencer, this is Y/N Y/L/N. She’s the new media liaison. Y/N, this is Doctor Spencer Reid.”

I give him my best smile, tacking on a small wave for good measure.

“It’s nice to meet you, Doctor Reid. Jennifer’s told me a lot about you.”

“Uh, y-yeah. It’s n-nice to meet you, too,” Spencer stutters. He looks positively stricken and I’m fairly sure he hasn’t blinked in over a minute. I cast a glance at Jennifer, who seems just as confused as I am.

Well, she had mentioned that he was a tad strange.

“I’d like to hear the joke,” I offer, only to immediately regret it when I see him tense up.

“N-No, that’s o-okay,” he chokes out as he struggles to gather the files on his desk. “It’s n-not that good, anyways.”

And just as quickly as he came, Spencer leaves in a flurry of crumpled papers, leaving Jennifer and I wondering what the fuck just happened.

Things didn’t get better with time. In fact, they got much worse.

In the six months that I had been working for the BAU, I could count my interactions with Spencer Reid on one hand. It wasn’t for lack of trying on my part – in my desperation to figure out what I’d done to make him avoid me, I sought out the young genius every chance I got. But every time I got within ten feet of him, it’s like an alarm would sound in his head and he’d make up some excuse to leave the room.

The others had noticed his strange behavior, too. It seemed they all had made a sort of game out of it – calling Spencer into rooms that I was in just to see him panic, or asking me to personally deliver files to his desk. At first, I played into it, hoping that their teasing would help to diffuse some of the tension.

After a month of being on the receiving end of Spencer’s cold shoulder, I started avoiding him, too.

I tried to act indifferent – like it didn’t hurt me as badly as it did. I no longer sought him out, and by month two, we had a sort of understanding. I didn’t go near him, and he didn’t go near me, and that’s how it went on for four miserable months.

Until today.

“Reid, Y/L/N, you’re in 202.”

I damn near drop my bag on the floor. This was bound to happen at some point or another, but I hadn’t planned on that day being today, and I was not prepared. After nine hours of running around the local police department, my body was weighed down from fatigue and I was downright grumpy. Not to mention I had picked the worst possible day to try and break in a new pair of heels, and my feet were throbbing.

Needless to say, I was in no mood to deal with Spencer Reid’s bullshit.

“Uh, Hotch? Could I maybe room with Elle?” I ask, sending a glare in Morgan’s direction when he snorts out a laugh. Hotch raises an eyebrow at me.

“Why? Is there a problem?”

Yes, sir, there certainly is. And your guess is as good as mine as to what that problem is.

“No, but I just think that-”

“Good. Then you should be fine to share a room with him.”

Right.

I spare a brief glance at Spencer, who, in the last thirty seconds, has turned the color of a tomato. I pray that he’ll speak up and voice his discomfort, but just like always, he stays silent.

Hotch doles out the room keys and I begin the trek down the hallway, my poor aching feet groaning in protest with every step. I’m vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps behind me, and it’s not until I swipe the key into the key card that Spencer speaks.

But not to me – no, never to me.

“Derek, please, I’m begging you. Just switch with me this one time, and – and I’ll do your reports for a month!”

After six months of dealing with Spencer’s aversion to me, his words should come as no surprise. And really, I’d expected as much - but that didn’t mean it hurt any less.

“Not happening, kid. This is the perfect opportunity for you to get over whatever problem you have with Y/N. I bet you’ll even end up liking her. She’s not going to be rude to you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“… T-That’s not what I’m worried abo-”

I don’t wait around to hear the rest of his sentence. I push open the door to the room, not bothering to wait for Spencer before closing it. I kick off my heels as soon as the door clicks shut, letting out a half relieved, half frustrated groan.

After claiming the bed nearest the air conditioner as my own, I pluck my pajamas and toiletry bag out from my suitcase and shuffle over to the bathroom. The way I see it, the quicker I get a shower and can go to sleep, the faster the night will pass. Before I know it, this unfortunate situation will be a thing of the past.

After drawing out the shower for as long as I possibly could, I exit the bathroom clad in a tank top and a pair of shorts, hair dripping wet and skin freshly scrubbed clean. Spencer’s sitting on his bed, book in hand and tie loosened. He doesn’t look up at me when I walk by - not that I’d expected him to. A thick silence hangs in the air as I pull a bottle of lotion out from my suitcase, and I debate turning on the TV just to make things slightly less awkward. In the end I decide against it, because I doubt even that could make this situation better.

I prop a leg up on the bed and begin to lather my legs in cherry scented lotion, paying special care to my aching feet before moving on. It’s not until both of my legs have been thoroughly massaged and coated in lotion that I look up.

Spencer’s eyes are locked on me, mouth hanging open and chest heaving up and down. His knuckles are white from how hard they’re clutching the book in his hands, but despite that I can still see the way they’re trembling. When he realizes I've caught him staring, he closes his mouth and gulps hard.

I straighten up and raise an eyebrow in a silent question, and that’s enough for Spencer to snap his book shut and scramble off of the bed. He’s clumsy as he moves to his suitcase, dropping his bottle of travel shampoo twice before he reaches the bathroom. If I wasn’t so off put by whatever the hell had just happened, I might have thought it cute.

As if the universe thought my current predicament wasn’t enough to deal with, the next morning I was dealt another shitty hand. This time, my distress came in the form of a young cop who couldn’t pick up on social cues to save his life. After an entire morning of dodging sleazy advances, I finally managed to shake him when his superior sent him out to go and actually do his fucking job.

Or so I thought.

I’m standing in the breakroom, pouring my fourth (or is it my fifth?) cup of coffee when I hear the sound of footsteps in the hall. I don’t know if I’ve developed a sixth sense about these things, or if I’m just particularly on edge today, but I know it’s the young officer before he can even cross the threshold.

And when he does, and he sees that he has me cornered, a saccharine smile stretches across his lips.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he drawls in an accent that could probably be attractive if he wasn’t so damn skeevy.

“Might wanna get your eyes checked,” I mutter, refusing to look in his direction as I stir my coffee.

“Pretty and feisty. Just how I like my women.”

“I am not your anything,” I seethe, and instead of backing off like any respectful human being would, he just chuckles and begins to saunter towards me.

“C’mon baby, you don’t have to be that way. You don’t have to act all professional with me.”

“Don’t call me that.” I look at him now, and the smug, self-righteous smile on his face makes my blood boil.

“You don’t like baby? That’s fine – I’m sure I can think of lots of other things to call you,” he murmurs. He’s closer now, so close that I can practically feel his breath against my neck.

“I’m going to tell you to stop one more time, and it would be in your best interest to listen,” I growl.

“Or what?” he taunts. “I’d like to see you try to stop me.”

I jolt forward when a hand comes down hard on my ass, squeezing me harshly through the material of my skirt.

Oh, fuck no.

I’m whirling around faster than I ever thought possible, and then a harsh crack sounds throughout the room as my hand comes in contact with his face.

My hand stings from the contact, but the pain is welcome because he flies backwards, stumbling and grasping as his already reddening cheek.

“What the fuck?” he roars, eyes flashing with unbridled fury. I take several steps towards him, and to my utmost delight he nearly trips over himself in his hurry to put distance between us. I stop when his back hits the wall and I lean in until our faces are only inches apart.

“Listen here, you limp dick fuck,” I snarl. “I’m getting real sick and fucking tired of pathetic pieces of shit like you thinking they can put their hands on women. What’s your problem? Are you so fucking tactless that you can’t get anyone to fuck you?” I punctuate my question by jabbing my pointer finger into his chest and cocking my head to the side. “Are you so unappealing that the only way you can get your hands on a woman is to wait until she’s alone and try to corner her?

Or is it a power thing? You’ve got the gun and the badge so you think you’re entitled to just take what you want, don’t you? You think no one can stop you because you’re in a position of power. Well, I have some news for you – I outrank you, and you just assaulted a federal agent. I will not stop until I ruin your fucking career, and if you even think of trying to lie your way out of this, I’ll do a helluva lot fucking worse. After the week I’m having, I am just looking for an excuse to kick your fucking dick into the dirt. Do you understand?”

By the time I finish speaking, my chest is heaving up and down and my eyes are narrowed into slits. The officer is so angry that he’s shaking, hands balled up to fists at his sides. For a moment, I think he’ll try to hit me, but then his hard-exterior cracks and the anger gives way to fear.

“You – You can’t tell anyone about this,” he says, trying his best to sound menacing. But his voice wavers, and I can tell he’s losing his grip. “It’ll r-ruin my career.”

I raise my hand up to his cheek, placing my palm over the red imprint I had left on his skin. And then I flash him the sweetest goddamn smile that ever there was.

“I’d like to see you try to stop me.”

I give him a pat on the cheek before turning around and heading for the door, only to stop halfway when I see that I have an audience of one.

Spencer stands in the doorway, a coffee mug gripped tightly in one hand, mouth agape and eyes wide. He’s standing stock still, eyes darting in between the police officer and me. I let out an exasperated sigh because of-fucking-course it would be Spencer that would happen to walk in on whatever that just was.

“Close your mouth, Reid. That’s how you catch flies,” I deadpan, prompting Spencer to snap his mouth shut.

Without another word, I brush past him and leave the break room.

I suppose the universe had decided to finally give me a break, because that afternoon we were able to apprehend the unsub. But my good fortune only went so far, because Hotch announced that we would be leaving first thing in the morning – which meant another night alone with Spencer Reid.

He didn’t mention what he walked in on when the two of us arrived back at our room, and I didn’t expect him to. The two of us went about the motions of unwinding from the day in complete and utter silence, and by the time I emerge from the shower I decide that I’ve had enough.

“I’m gonna go stay with Elle and Derek,” I murmur as I zip up my suitcase and slip on my shoes.

“Oh. O-Okay.”

And that was that.

It’s about an hour later when my phone is on four percent that I realize I hadn’t remembered to bring my charger with me. I contemplate just letting it die, but the idea of sitting through a seven-hour jet ride tomorrow without it sounds excruciating. Then again, so does the idea of having to suffer through an interaction with Spencer.

The phone wins out in the end, and with Derek and Elle still snoring softly in their respective beds, I slip out of the room and into the hallway. With any luck, Spencer will be in a similar state and I’ll be able to sneak in and out without him waking up.

I think thank my lucky stars when I slowly crack open the door to Spencer’s room and see that the lights are off. I take special care to close the door as quietly as possible before tiptoeing across the carpeted floors, feeling my way around in the dark so that I don’t trip over anything.

I make it halfway across the room when I hear it – it’s quiet, and if the air conditioner had been on, I wouldn’t have even heard it at all. It’s faint, so faint that I wonder if I’d imagined it, but then that same sound breaks through the silence and I know it’s not a product of my imagination.

I hear the covers rustle, and then a low moan followed by the distinct sound of skin on skin. My blood runs cold as the moans grow louder and more frequent, rolling off Spencer’s lips in rapid succession. There’s heavy breathing and whimpering and holy fuck I just walked in on Spencer Reid masturbating.

Spencer cries out a particularly load moan, one that sounds so pornographic that it shoots straight to my core. It’s sexy and dirty and he sounds absolutely wrecked, and the part of my brain that is still capable of logical thinking is screaming get out! Get out, now!

I begin to slowly backtrack, moving at one tenth of the speed that I had coming in because the possibility of being caught is absolutely not an option. If Spencer hates me now, he’d really hate me if he found out I snuck into his room at night and heard… that.

I’m about five feet away from the door when:

“O-Oh my God, yes! Y/N, please - fuck!”

I think then that I certainly have to be dreaming, because there’s no way I’d just heard him correctly. There’s no way that Spencer – the same Spencer that scurried out of the room when I walked in – was moaning my name while he touched himself. Absolutely not.

But then it happens again and again and again – my name falling from his lips incessantly like some kind of debauched chant.

It feels like my skin is on fire – my mind a befuddled mess – and before my brain can tell me what a terrible idea it is, my feet are carrying me back into the room and I’m coming to a stop at the foot of Spencer’s bed.

Bathed in the glow of the moonlight shining through the window, Spencer looks ethereal. There’s a thin line of sweat beading on his forehead, and his usually meticulously slicked back hair is fanned out on the pillow like some sort of halo. His teeth are nestled into his bottom lip now, and all that can be heard are tiny whimpers as his hand slides up and down underneath the bed sheets. Spencer’s always beautiful, almost painfully so. But the way he looks now, shadows dancing across his face as he works himself to orgasm, is infinitely more breathtaking than words can express.

It doesn’t take long for Spencer to release his lip from beneath his teeth, and when he does my name is flying out of his mouth once more.

I take that as my invitation to speak.

“I don’t think I’ve heard you say my name before.”

Spencer’s entire body stills and his eyes fly open to reveal two dark pools full of sheer panic.

“I-I can explain,” he stammers, moving to clutch the comforter to his chest in an attempt to cover himself.

I let out a hum and sit down on the edge of the bed.

“Please do. I’m very interested in hearing about just what you were picturing me doing.”

Spencer sucks in a harsh breath. I can practically see the wheels in his brain turning -desperately trying to concoct some kind of reasonable explanation.

“I-I… I don’t… I’m s-sorry,” he stutters, and it’s so adorable how he’s squirming underneath my gaze that I decide to help him out.

“Was I sucking you off? Or were you fucking me?” I wonder aloud. He tries to hide it, thinking the covers will mask the way that his hips buck up, but I definitely see it.

“I-I…”

“Which was it, Spencer? Was I taking you down my throat or were you fucking my pussy? Or maybe I was coming undone on your face – was that it?”

Spencer lets out a low groan, and if my patience hadn’t been running so fucking thin, I probably would’ve left it at that. But after the hell he’d put me through for the last six months, I feel like he deserved to squirm a little.

“Fucking answer me.”

“Y-You were, um… r-riding me. And you s-slapped m-me.”

Oh.

This just got a lot more interesting.

I raise an eyebrow at him and I can see the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he gulps.

“So, you liked what you saw today, did you?”

Spencer nods so fervently that I have to bite down on my tongue to suppress a laugh.

“Words, baby. Use them.”

“I-I liked it. A lot.”

“Apparently so, seeing as you were moaning for it like a desperate little slut,” I breeze, my tone cool and indifferent. “Have you done this before, Doctor? Touched yourself to the thought of me, that is.”

“… Y-Yes. I’m s-sorry. I didn’t m-mean to. It just kind of happened one night, and once I started, I couldn’t s-stop.”

I reach out a hand and brush away the hair that had fallen into his face, tucking it back behind his ear before continuing.

“Why the cold shoulder, then? And here I thought you hated me,” I muse, before pausing and cocking my head to the side. “Do you hate me, Doctor?” I ask, and just when I thought he couldn’t look more guilty, he proves me wrong.

“No! I just… couldn’t be around you. I felt so b-bad. You were so nice, and I was using you to g-get off,” Spencer explains. “I couldn’t look you in the eye. Not after picturing you… like that.”

I let out a sigh. Knowing that Spencer didn’t actually hate me for the last six months was a relief. Knowing that Spencer was secretly rubbing one out to me was something else entirely. Whatever was I to do with this information?

“So, you want to fuck me, then?” I reiterate. “Why not tell me this sooner?”

“The probability of you responding positively to me telling you that I, uh, m-masturbate to you was very l-low. And after what I saw today, I think I was wise for keeping that from you,” Spencer says, the last part coming out in a rush. I can’t help but let out a low laugh.

“Yes, but the guy that was coming on to me today wasn’t someone I find attractive. He was pompous and crass and pushy - and you, Doctor Reid, are none of those things.”

“R-Really? You think I’m attractive?”

I hum.

“Very much so, Doctor. But I’m afraid you may have waited too long, and now I don’t feel as inclined to be nice,” I murmur, allowing my hand to trail down from his shoulder to his collar bones before lightly grazing his nipple with my thumb.

“O-Oh my… God,” Spencer whimpers, eyes fluttering shut as my fingers continue to dance across his skin.

“But then again, I don’t think you really want me to be nice to you. I think you want me to treat you like my little play thing.” I stop my hand just below his navel and I thumb across the light layer of hair that makes up his happy trail. “You want to be my dirty boy - don’t you, Doctor Reid?”

“P-Please,” Spencer chokes out, hips jerking up when I allow my thumb to graze a little lower.

“Please what?”

Spencer lets out a frustrated groan.

“Please, I-I want you to u-use me. However you want, just as l-long as you just do-don’t stop touching me,” he rambles. He’s shuddering underneath me, his breaths coming out in harsh pants as my hand wanders lower and lower until I abruptly pull away. “W-Why did you stop?”

“Because I don’t think you deserve to be touched just yet. You’ve got six months to make up to me, after all. I think I want you on your knees for me first,” I say, and from the way his eyes seem to dilate even further, I don’t think he has any objections. “Are you familiar with the color system?”

Spencer nods.

“Green for good, yellow means slow down, and red means stop now.”

“Do you have a safe word?”

“I… I’ve never really, uh. Done t-this.”

Oh. Oh.

I withdraw my hand from its place on his leg and Spencer lets out a distressed whine. “No, please! Don’t go. I’m not a complete virgin, I promise. I got a h-hand job once,” he argues. “And I think I’ve done enough, uh, research, and I really want to try to make you cum. I want to be good for you. Please let me try.”

Spencer looks like he’s about two seconds away from crying, and I can feel my argument dying before it even leaves my mouth.

“Oh, baby, I know you’d be so good,” I coo, and just like that Spencer’s leaning towards me, desperate to have the contact. I indulge him, placing my hand on his cheek, and he relaxes into the touch. “Are you sure you want to do this with me? I’m not what anyone would call vanilla, and I don’t think you know what you’re getting into.”

“I trust you. I wouldn’t want it to be anyone else,” Spencer whispers, and he sounds so damn sincere that I feel my resolve crumbling.

“You’ll let me know if at any point you want to stop?”

“Yes. Absolutely!”

Enthusiastic little shit.

“Safe word?”

“Um… Tolstoy?”

I let out a snort.

“Alright, smarty pants. We’re going to start now, okay?”

“Yes, Miss,” Spencer pants out.

Fuck me running. He clearly has been doing his research.

“Get on your knees for me, baby. I wanna see just how eager to please you are,” I instruct as I stand up and shimmy out of my shorts. I discard my shirt, too, absentmindedly throwing it somewhere across the room. Spencer lets out a startled squeak when he sees that I’m now completely naked, aside from my underwear.

“Y-You’re so pretty,” Spencer breathes out. “Even better than I imagined.”

The sentiment tugs at my heart, really, it does, but I specifically requested that he get on his knees and he seems a lot more content to just sit and stare.

“On your knees,” I command, and Spencer jumps up almost comically fast.

“S-Sorry, Miss,” he apologizes as he lowers himself down. I seat myself on the edge of the bed and spread my legs for him.

“Don’t apologize, just do as I ask of you, okay baby?”

Spencer nods.

“C-Can I kiss you? Like on the lips first?” Spencer asks as he looks up at me with big doe eyes. It’s a beautiful thing, the image of Spencer Reid sitting in between my legs, cheeks flushed and chest rapidly rising and falling. I give Spencer a sweet smile and lean forward, and the excitement radiating off of him is practically palpable. He leans forward, too eager to wait for me to close the gap, and the action makes my chest swell in adoration.

Just as our lips are about to meet, I pause, and Spencer barely has the time to look confused before my palm connects with the side of his face. The moan it draws out of him is obscene and his hips jolt forward, desperate for some kind of friction. His dick rests painfully hard between his legs, flushed red with precum beading at the tip.

I waste no time in taking his chin in my hand and tilting his head upwards.

“Did I say you could kiss me?” I ask him, voice sugary sweet, contrasting starkly with my actions.

“N-No, Miss. I’m sorry,” Spencer pants out. His hand twitches at his side and I can see how desperately he wants to touch himself, but his desire to please keeps him still.

“Then the answer is no. Maybe if you can prove to me that you aren’t completely incompetent at eating pussy, I’ll consider it,” I allow a moment for my words to sink in. “Color?”

“Green. So fucking green,” Spencer whines.

“Good boy,” I praise him, and the effects of my words are instantaneous. Spencer rests his cheek against the skin of my thigh and then he’s nuzzling his face against me in a silent plea for permission. After a moment, his pleas become a lot less silent.

“Wanna be your good boy - please let me,” Spencer begs as his nose brushes against my skin. “I want to make you feel good. S’all I ever think about, since the first time I saw you.”

His words send a jolt of pleasure to my core and I reward his brazen honesty with a tender smile and a nod.

“Go ahead, baby. Let me see what that pretty mouth of yours can do.”

The words barely have time to leave my mouth before Spencer is reaching out and hooking a finger underneath the waistband of my panties. I raise up off the bed just enough for him to slide them down my legs, and before I even manage to settle back down onto the bed, Spencer literally dives in. He starts with one long lick, and by the time he reaches my clit he’s crying out lewd moans against me. The feel of the vibrations mixed with the feel of his mouth on me is maddening in the best possible way, and my eyelids threaten to flutter closed under the weight of my pleasure.

“Fuck, baby – you’re doing so good,” I sigh as I lift my hand up and card my fingers through his hair. “You look so pretty on your knees for me.”

Spencer’s movements stutter when he feels my hand tangle itself into his hair, and I let out a light chuckle. I grab hold of the roots and give an experimental tug. My actions cause his hips to jolt forward violently.

“O-Oh my…” Spencer keens, raising his glossy, lust filled eyes to mine. “H-Harder, please.”

I oblige, and Spencer lets out a particularly filthy groan before lapping at my pussy like a man possessed. His hands come to wrap around my thighs and he pulls me closer to him, causing me to let out a gasp when his nose nudges against my clit. The sound only spurs him on further – Spencer begins assaulting my clit, alternating between short, kitten licks and light sucking. The control I had so adamantly been asserting over him began to slip from my fingertips the longer he worked his mouth against me, and quiet, breathy moans started falling from my lips.

“Such a good boy, Spence,” I moan as I scratch my fingernails against his scalp. “You’re making me feel so good, baby. Love that dirty little mouth of yours.”

Spencer thrives on the praise – that much is made obvious by the way he whimpers and tightens his grip on my thighs. He’s completely submitted himself to the act of getting me off, only stopping long enough to cry out when my hands give a particularly harsh tug on his hair.

“Add a finger, baby,” I tell him, allowing my hand to drift down the side of his face, caressing the sharp angles of his cheekbones.

Spencer releases my thigh from his hold and tentatively raises a hand to my entrance, eyes raising to meet mine.

“You’ll tell me if I do something wrong?” he asks, and his concern is so endearing that I tilt his chin upwards and lean forward until my lips meet his.

Spencer gasps into the kiss, shocked, but it doesn’t take him long before his lips are moving against mine fervently. His lips are slick with my arousal, and I dart my tongue out just long enough to swipe it across his bottom lip.

“D’you like how I taste, baby?” I murmur against his lips, pulling back slightly when Spencer tries to bring his lips down against mine.

“S-So much,” he whispers, before letting out a frustrated groan when I tease him with the slightest brush of my lips before pulling away again. “P-Please, kiss me again.”

I bump my nose against his before I reach down and grab his hand in mine.

“Don’t be a greedy boy, Spencer. Greedy boys don’t get to cum,” I chastise him as I raise his hand up to my mouth. I trace my bottom lip with his pointer finger as Spencer watches on in rapt fascination, before taking the digit into my mouth and sucking. Spencer chokes out a pathetic cry and his hips hopelessly buck into the air as I swirl my tongue around the pad of his finger, taking special care to coat it with spit before releasing it from my mouth.

I guide his hand back down to my pussy, gasping when the tip of his finger brushes across my entrance.

“Just take it slow, baby. Start with one and move up to two once you get the hang of it.”

Spencer nods, eyes alternating between my face and my entrance as he slowly slides his finger in me.

“You’re so warm, oh my God,” Spencer breathes out, tentatively pulling out his finger before inserting it back in. I hum appreciatively as he begins to move faster, eyelids fluttering shut when he lowers his head and begins languidly licking my clit.

“Feels so nice, Spence. I fucking love your fingers. Knew that they’d feel like this. I can only imagine how good your cock will feel,” I ramble, one hand fisted in the sheets and the other tugging on his honey brown hair.

I groan as he inserts a second finger, reveling in the way he’s stretching me out.

“Curl your fingers when you – fuck! Just like that, baby. Gonna make me cum if you keep doing t-that.”

Spencer speeds up both the onslaught of his fingers and his mouth at my admission, tongue working figure eights on my clit while his fingers brush up against my g-spot. A familiar warmth starts to spread in my lower belly, and with every swipe of Spencer’s tongue against my clit, the coil in my stomach winds tighter and tighter until, finally:

“O-Oh, fuck, Spence!”

The coil snaps, sending jolts of pleasure straight through my core. I can feel the way my walls tighten around Spencer’s fingers as my orgasm rips through me, never stopping their ministrations in an attempt to help me ride out my high. Vibrations ripple across my clit when Spencer lets out a cry of his own before his movements halt completely as shudders wrack his body.

I know he didn’t just…

I allow myself a moment to recover before I lean forward and drag my eyes down Spencer’s slender frame – and sure enough, his tummy is covered in white ropes of cum and his now softening cock is hanging limply between his legs.

Spencer’s eyes reluctantly open when his shudders cease, and one look at my pissy expression is enough to send him into a fit.

“I-I didn’t mean to cum! I’m so sorry, Miss. It’s j-just that you looked so pretty when you came, and you taste so good! And you were pulling my hair, and you called me a good boy and I just couldn’t do it anymo-”

“Shut up,” I seethe, voice cold and laced with annoyance. Spencer’s mouth snaps shut and he gulps. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t remember saying that you were allowed to come. Am I mistaken?” “N-No, Miss.”

“Mm, that’s what I thought,” I hum. “Stand up.”

“B-But I want to make you cum again! Can I plea-”

“Shut the fuck up and stand up, Spencer.”

Spencer rushes to his feet, stumbling a bit when his legs begin to shake. He corrects himself, standing perfectly still in front of me with a shameful look on his face. I scoot back on the bed and fix him with a stony look.

“I want you to lay on your stomach across my lap. Can you do that, Doctor Reid, or are you too stupid to follow simple directions?”

Spencer adamantly shakes his head, scrambling to splay out across my bare thighs. Once he’s comfortable, I raise a palm to his bare ass cheek and smooth my hand across the skin.

“Color?”

“G-Green,” Spencer stutters out.

“Wonderful. Since you’ve decided to be a greedy little slut and cum before I gave you permission, I’m going to punish you. Do you remember your safe word, baby?”

“Tolstoy.”

“Good boy. I’m going to give you ten, and I want you to count them out for me. One for every month you held out on me, and four because you’re an insolent little whore who can’t do as he’s told. Does that sound fair to you?”

“Y-Yes, Miss. P-Please.”

A harsh smack sounds throughout the room, and Spencer lets out a whorish moan that’s bound to wake the people in the neighboring rooms. The pale skin of his ass transforms to red, and I rub my palm across it soothingly.

“O-One,” Spencer says through gritted teeth as he rocks his hips against my legs.

“You okay, baby?”

“Y-Yes, Miss. Please don’t stop. I deserve it. P-Punish me, please.”

My palm comes down across his ass four more times, and with each strike I watch Spencer fall apart right before my eyes. Tears are gliding down his flushed cheeks, and his cock is now painfully hard against my legs.

“Five more to go, baby. Keep counting for me, my pretty boy.”

By the time my hand comes down against his flesh for the final time, Spencer has devolved into a mess of pathetic whimpers. His cock is smearing precum across my thighs as he rocks against me, and his ass is covered in a litany of bright red marks. Incomprehensible pleas are falling from his lips, and his hands are tightly fisted in the sheets.

I lean forward and place a gentle kiss to each of his battered cheeks.

“T-Thank you, Miss. Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

“You’re welcome, baby. Can you go lay in the center of the bed for me?”

Spencer gives a feeble nod and crawls to the center of the bed, carefully laying himself down and letting out a low hiss when his ass came in contact with the mattress.

I let him rest against the sheets before I roll over and settle in between his legs.

Spencer’s cock, painfully hard and leaking precum, sits against his belly. Spencer watches as I trace lithe fingers up his thigh, his chest rising and falling quickly as I get closer to where he demands my attention.

A garbled groan rips from his throat when my hand grasps his cock, and I have to place my other hand on his hip and force him back down onto the bed when he tries to buck up.

“Stay still, baby,” I tut as I drag my fist up and down at an agonizingly slow pace.

“S-Sorry, M-Miss,” Spencer stutters. His brows are drawn together and his eyes are heavy lidded. “Need m-more, please.”

“Mm, I don’t think you need more. You just want more. Dumb little greedy baby,” I tease as my thumb swipes across his head.

“Oh… G-God, please!” Spencer mewls.

“Is what I’m giving you not good enough?”

“N-No, it’s just-”

I raise an eyebrow at him and halt my movements.

“No, it isn’t good enough?”

Spencer lets out a frustrated groan and his fists clench the sheets.

“P-Please, Miss! I’ll be your good boy, I promise. Just let me cum, please, I want it so bad!”

Thoroughly pleased by his shameless begging, I start moving my hand again.

“Let me know when you’re about to cum, baby.”

That moment comes when, not thirty seconds later, the muscles in Spencer’s abdomen start to spasm – telltale signs of an impending orgasm. Spencer is so lost in the way my hand is moving against his cock that he makes no move to warn me, and just as I see his eyes start to flutter shut, I withdraw my hand.

“W-Why did yo-”

“You didn’t tell me you were about to cum. I thought you said you were going to be a good boy, Spencer? You sure aren’t acting like someone who wants to cum.”

“S-Sorry, please, just… fuck!”

Spencer’s whole-body folds in on itself when my mouth wraps around the head of his cock. I swirl my tongue around the tip, lapping up the precum that had gathered before I pull away.

“You’ve got such a pretty cock, baby. Can’t believe nobody’s had you in their mouth yet,” I murmur, pausing to drag my tongue along the veiny underside of his erection. “Let me hear you, baby. Wanna know how much you like when I use my mouth on you.”

“Love it so much, oh God… Feels so warm and wet. Thank you so much, Miss. God, it feels perfect,” Spencer keens as I take him into my mouth again. Mumbled praises fall from his lips as I take him deeper, and the second my nose hits the soft skin of his belly, Spencer’s hand comes up and begins to tap incessantly on my shoulder.

“S-Stop! I-I’m close – Jesus Christ, I’m so fucking close and I really want to cum inside you, i-if that’s okay with you,” Spencer babbles, eyes wide and pleading. I smile up at him.

“Do you think you deserve to cum in my pussy?”

“H-Honestly, no, but I’m hoping you’ll let me anyways,” Spencer says, shooting me an adorably shy smile that has my heart doing somersaults in my chest. I let out a light laugh and shake my head, moving to straddle his lap.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Spence?” I murmur as I caress the side of his face with my hands. “This can stop right here, if you want it to.”

“Please, Miss. I want this. I want you,” Spencer reiterates, eyes shining and filled to the brim with adoration.

“Want you, too, baby. You can call me my name now, if you want,” I say as I place a gentle kiss on his lips. I move to pull away, but Spencer’s hand is quick to grasp the back of my neck and pull me back in.

While our lips move together, frenzied and desperate, I sneak a hand in between our bodies and grab Spencer’s cock. He gasps into my mouth as I drag his head in between my folds.

“I-I won’t last long,” Spencer chokes out, eyes trained on where I’m rubbing him against me. “I’ll try my b-best, but I’m sorry if I c-cum too fast.”

I sink down just enough that his head is the only thing inside me, watching as his face contorts beautifully as a result.

“Don’t worry about me, baby. Tonight’s all about you.”

With one last, chaste kiss to his lips, I slowly begin to lower myself down onto his length. The sound of our moans fill the room as Spencer clings desperately to me, hands finally finding purchase on my hips.

“Y/N, fuck, you feel so good,” Spencer whimpers as I begin to slowly rock against him. “I-I knew it would feel good, but oh my God. I-I can’t… I’m gonna cum, soon. M’so sorry.”

His admission prompts me to move faster, raising my hips until he’s almost completely out of me before I’m slamming back down.

“Spence, you feel so good. Such a good boy – my good boy.”

“Yes, yes, I’m all yours! Only yours, please!” Spencer whines. I lean forward, and the change of angle is enough for both of us to cry out.

“Are you gonna be a good boy and cum for me, Spence?” I murmur into his ear, biting lightly against his earlobe. “I want you to cum in me, baby. Don’t you want to be my good boy?” I punctuate my words by lightly wrapping my hand around this throat and squeezing, and that’s all it takes for Spencer to completely fall apart underneath me.

“Y/N - fuck!”

Spencer’s grip on my hips tightens as he bucks up into me, painting the inside of my pussy with his cum as he yells out strangled exclamations of my name. He presses his face into my shoulder as I ride him through his orgasm, whispering quiet thank yous and pressing open mouthed kisses to my skin as the euphoria floods through his body.

I place a kiss to his forehead before I crawl off of him, having every intention of getting up and procuring a wet washrag. But Spencer reaches out to grip my arm, and his eyes look so sad that I stop in my tracks.

“C-Can you stay? Please?”

The insecurity in his voice tugs at my heart.

“Of course, I’m staying. Was just gonna get a wet washrag for us. M’not gonna leave you, Spence,” I murmur. Spencer visibly untenses, but his grip on my arm doesn’t lessen.

“Could you just stay here a little bit longer?”

“Sure thing, baby,” I say, prompting Spencer’s lips to pull up into a pleased smile. I crawl back into the bed and lay on my back, and Spencer instantly plasters himself to my side. He hums contentedly as he wraps his arms around me, and I let out a light laugh when I catch him stealing glances at me.

“What is it, baby?”

A rosy blush spreads across his cheeks.

“Can I kiss you?”

After everything we just did, he still feels the need to ask permission to kiss me. What a sweet boy.

My answer comes in the form of me pressing my lips to his, and that’s how we stay until he pulls away.

“I have another question,” he says shyly.

“Lay it on me, baby.”

The blush on his cheeks gets significantly more pronounced.

“It’s just that, uh, you didn’t get to cum again. And I really want you to, because you took such good care of me,” Spencer pauses, and his fingertips lightly graze the inside of my thigh. “C-Could I please eat you out again?” Another pause, and he retracts his hand. “I-It’s okay if not. I understand if you just wanted this to be… a one-time thing. I guess I was just kind of hoping that it w-wouldn’t be. But that’s silly – you were just doing me a favor. I’m sorry I asked.”

Spencer cringes as he finishes speaking, not even giving me a chance to reply before he’s trying to pull away. I tighten my grip on his arm, and Spencer gives me a weary look.

“First of all, I don’t think I would ever say no to being eaten out – especially if you’re the one offering. Second, this is definitely not a one off. I have lots of plans for you, pretty boy,” I explain, and the relief that radiates off of Spencer is almost palpable.

“Thank God,” he sighs, and then he’s scooting down the bed and settling in between my legs.

And if the rest of the team notices the way Spencer starts following me around like a lost puppy - well, they’re all kind enough not to point it out.

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