#this week has *not* been my week so far and it’s only wednesday morning | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

macfrog · 1 year ago

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the sweetest con cowboy like me chapter fifteen

well. this is it. we made it, kids. thank you so, so much for reading for all this time. for all your patience, and kindness, and loyalty. i will carry this pair, their story, and all of your love for them with me forever. love you guys. xx

pairing: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

summary: every cowboy deserves his ride off into the sunset.

warnings: age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), lotsa guilt from reader, dreamy love sequence & mention of unprotected piv/creampie, more greys anatomy spoilers, reader's dad is either Bald or has a Receding Hairline (you choose), more sex - this time reader and joel sixty-nine, face sitting, oral (f and m receiving), more (inferred) unprotected piv, making dirty, hot love ALLAT, cursing, a little smut n a lotta fluff n a droplet of angst at the end

word count: 10.8k

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“How the fuck did this take you three minutes? Three?”

“I’m telling you. I’m a genius.”

You snort. “Shut up. You only passed Math ‘cause you were fooling around with that nerd – Thomas? Was it Thomas?”

“Timothy. And you don’t need math to do a sudoku puzzle, loser. You just need brains. Logic.” Anna taps two fingers against her temple, tilting her head.

“Logic,” you murmur, shaking your head.

Sal’s is quiet today. He’s out of town for his father-in-law’s funeral and made the genius decision to leave the two of you in charge. Since opening at nine, you’ve had four customers. The to-do list left for you was completed by ten, and since then, you’ve been hunched over your phone at the cash register, messing around on some puzzle app Anna made you download.

It's a Wednesday. Nothing exciting ever happens on Wednesdays.

Anna’s behind you, tearing apart and flattening the cardboard boxes you spent all morning emptying. “That level,” she clicks her chewing gum wetly between her teeth, scent of mint over your shoulder, “that ain’t even the hardest one. Ooh, no, babe. Three goes –”

“Shh!” You bat her arm away, curving your hand over your phone screen. She snorts and wanders off through the back, wad of cardboard under her arm.

Anna wasn’t your closest friend in high school, and you sure didn’t stay much in touch past the odd Facebook post update when you left. But working with her, and her dad being your dad’s buddy – she’s sort of become one of those people you just can’t shake.

Like a stray puppy. Or…an annoying hangnail.

She’s nice enough – talks a lot of crap sometimes, but she cares for you. You’d go as far as saying you two have grown pretty close since you came home. Still, the acidic sting of resentment sits on your tongue, anytime you think of her involvement in the unravelling of your little lie. Think of your dad calling hers, Hank asking her where you were.

Think of the fact that, if she hadn’t been honest with him – I don’t know where she is, Dad – nothing would’ve gone wrong.

That’s not fair. If you’d never touched Joel in the first place, nothing would’ve gone wrong.

It’s just – she had a hand in pushing the first domino.

The bell above the door jingles and you lift your eyes from tiny numbers and blank squares to meet a familiar pair of hazel. An Alanis Morissette T-shirt under a denim jacket. She tucks her thick, soft hair behind her ears and smiles, then skips around the counter and links her hands at your tummy; her ear flat against the nape of your neck.

“Why so clingy?” you ask, and Sarah straightens up.

“Just excited to spend some time with my favorite person. That allowed?”

Your eyes scan her up and down as she leans against the counter, stealing a gummy from a jar beside the register. “Been staying with you for nearly three weeks now, you ain’t sick of me yet?”

She shakes her head, jaw chewing, cheeks swollen with a grin. “Are you done yet? I wanna make sure we get good seats.”

“We will,” you assure her. “It’s only, like, three p.m.”

“But it’s Barbie,” she says, “and I wanna get some snacks before we head in.” She holds the decapitated gummy worm up, eyebrows high, before pulling it between her teeth until it snaps. She drags the withered red tail over her tongue.

“That thing you just mauled,” you gesture to the masticated shape in her fingers, “candy. Snacks. Just take some of that.”

“You won’t even buy your date movie theater candy? Damn. Mom’s a cheapskate. Wish I could say my dad’s a lucky guy.”

You shove her off, disguising your laugh with a shake of your head. “You are on thin ice, I’m not even kidding.”

Sarah’s laughing, reaching for another worm. “You know what that sounds like?”

“Hm?”

“What you just said.”

“What’s it sound like, Sarah Miller?”

“Something a mom would say.”

“Alright,” you stand, “get out. Get outta my store.”

The door opens when you point to it, Texan heat sweeping in to swarm the one rickety fan you have in here. The brass bell trembles, and beneath it, a man in a tucked shirt and jeans, glum face and tired eyes.

You blink at him and he blinks back, and no words are spoken between you, but your dad understands to move, to keep walking – and you understand to let him.

“Shoot,” Sarah whispers, twisting her gummy around her finger. “That was awkward.”

Three weeks of staying with them – Sarah and Joel – also means three weeks of zero contact with your dad. The most you’ve heard from – or, rather, about him is that, last week, Joel bumped into Hank at the gas station, and the old man mentioned that he and your dad had grabbed a beer the night before.

What’d he say? you asked Joel, dragging a dish towel around the rim of a glass.

He shrugged, flicking his hands dry over the sink. Said the Rangers aren’t doin’ too good. I said, Yeah, that’s cause a’ –

No, Joel. What did he say about me ‘n my dad?

He waited a second to let the offense of your interruption soak in. Took the towel from your hand, replaced the glass on the draining board. Nothing, he said, I don’t think he knows.

It sat with you the entire night. The three of you watched a movie, occupying either side of Joel’s couch, though you’re sure you don’t remember a word of it. The image of him sat center-stage in your mind until you pulled yourself against Joel’s body in bed that night. Sat in his recliner, flicking through TV channels, the only sounds in the house that of Ice Road Truckers, the ticking of the kitchen clock, and his own fucking breathing.

Alone. Not even Hank to talk to about – well.

You’ve done your best not to think about him. And it works, most days, when you’re with Joel. Helps to go do stuff: ride shotgun while he picks up supplies for work or grabs groceries. Helps to play pretend like his house is yours, too. Tidying when he’s not home, lighting candles and sinking into a bubble bath for him to find you in when he finishes. Helps to be at Sal’s, with Anna. Sudoku and her fucking Tinder account to keep you both occupied.

Most days, you forget to consider the lonely shape of your dad at all – but that seems to hurt all the more. Like forgetting to tend to an open wound; instead, letting the infection blister and bubble so that, when you do bump it again, the pain feels sharper. Hissing at you, poison seeping from flesh.

His showing up, waltzing straight into the store – feels less like a bump, and more like a pair of hands diving straight into the gash, tearing it wide open again. Blood and poison gushing all over the checkered floor.

Anna materializes between two aisles, hands on her hips when she stands behind you. “Y’all still not really talkin’?” she asks.

You and Sarah shake your heads. The three of you watch the shape of your dad’s skull over the shelves, bobbing from bay to bay. Door hinges to fence paint. He painted the fence last summer. He doesn’t need fucking fence paint.

“Nope,” you reply. “’s been, what, two and a half weeks now?”

“Yeah,” Anna mutters, the slope of sympathy in her voice. “My dad’s been talkin’ to him about it. They’ve spoken, like, almost every night on the phone.”

“Oh, fuck,” you hiss, head falling into your hands. “Are you serious?”

“Not about you and Joel. Just about the fight.”

Your jaw slowly slackens, eyes thinning as your gaze slides over to your friend, a saddened expression on her face.

Sarah nods, like an accessory sat on the dash of a car. Bobbing bobbing bobbing, until her brows drop and she turns to you, finally realizing. “Wait, what?”

Anna blinks between the two of you. “What?” she asks, lips pressing together.

“You know?” Sarah asks, glaring at her.

Anna snorts. Neither of you break. She quickly quietens and clears her throat, bending to stuff more cardboard under her arm. “Well…” She sucks in a deep breath. “At rodeo night, when you left your phone on the table, me ‘n Kara wanted to leave a bunch of selfies for you to find later. But when I went to grab your phone, you had a text from him. Joel. Something about someone winning you over like he did, or something. I can’t remember. But that was the first thing.”

Sarah’s face sours at the mention of her dad’s flirty text, scoffing as she swipes another gummy from the jar. “Real fuckin’ subtle, Dad,” she murmurs.

You sharpen your gaze at Anna, blurring the brown curls and low brows from your peripheral. “Uhuh…?”

“Then, there was the lying to your dad about where you were. That Monday – you said you were at mine. You weren’t. Your dad called my dad to ask, ‘n my dad asked me why the hell you’d lie. I figured, What a weird coincidence, right?”

You slip off your stool, legs feeling more liquid than bone. “Oh, Jesus…”

“But then…then, I saw how you were when he called on the way to Frank’s. In the car. You were…fucking weird. And then Joel punched that dude – that basically confirmed it. I don’t think either of your dads would do that for me. It felt…it felt personal. He took your hand ‘n dragged you outta there, and it felt like…somethin’ else.”

You’re leaning against the counter, head in your hands. Struggling to even listen to her piece it all together. Were you this fucking obvious, the whole time?

Anna answers for you. “Yeah,” she says, nodding, “I didn’t catch two fucking boyfriends cheating on me, and not pick up some detective skills, babe.”

You stand straight, composure slowly building over shame. “And your dad doesn’t know? My –” you flick your head across the store, lowering your voice, “– my dad hasn’t told him?”

A laugh spurts from somewhere deep in her chest. “Hell, no. Are you tryna give him a second heart attack? No. He just thinks you were somewhere you didn’t want your dad to know – a boy’s or something. Which – well, I guess you were.”

You nod, half-appreciation, half-resignation. Alright. Now shut up about it, would you?

“But listen,” Anna says, apparently not as good at mindreading as she is at secret-revealing, “y’all gotta work on being sneaky. You’re, like, really bad at it.”

“Yeah,” you sniff, “thanks, Anna.”

You grip the edge of the counter and try to draw your eye away from your dad; a little angry that he’s here, and yet, a little more thankful that you’ve had at least a tiny glimpse of him. Desperate for him to come over, to acknowledge your mutual existence in the same room, and yet – petrified that he does.

He keeps his back to you, though you notice him turning every so often, looking at you from his peripheral. Nope – your black shirt and blue jeans are still behind the counter. He turns back to the shelf.

“Hi, sweetie.” A woman in a pink blouse approaches the counter. She lays down a couple pairs of plyers and you ring her up, asking if she found everything okay. Choking a little when you inhale the scent of her perfume.

“Beautiful day for you to be in here workin’, huh?” Her rosy cheeks fill as she hands you the cash.

Oh, yeah. It’s a beautiful day to be stuck selling plyers to pink women in pink blouses smelling of pink perfume, while my dad – still reeling from the revelation that I’ve been sleeping with his best friend, by the way – pretends to peruse the store.

“I’m almost done,” you reply, blunt enough to deflate her expression only a little, sliding the paper bag stamped Sal’s back across the counter.

She nods in thanks and slinks off, suffocating aroma following her. And like a magician, when she disappears off to the side, your dad stands in her wake. A few feet from you, keeping his distance, watching carefully before he dares to move. Waiting for your go-ahead.

When you lift your chin, beckoning him forward, Anna takes Sarah’s arm and yanks her away, shoving some shredded boxes into her arms. “You wanna help me?” she asks the nosy Miller, tossing something of an alarmed glance back at you and your dad.

There’s a funny feeling behind your eyes when he steps up, empty hand resting hesitantly on the counter. “She coverin’ up the smell of a dead body or som’?” he asks.

The air pushes from your lungs, a laugh barreling with it. Your hands clasp on the surface opposite his. A scorch of white heat at the nape of your neck. “Very vibrant, huh?”

“Very.” He clears his throat, shakes his head a little, and takes a deep breath. “I figured this might be as good a place as any to find you. I didn’t want you to think I was…cornering you, or anything, if I showed up at Joel’s.”

“I wouldn’t – I mean, maybe. But, y’know…this is fine.” Your arms cross defensively, the baggy material of Joel’s shirt wrapping snug around you.

Your dad seems to know. Evidence being that it’s you, in a shirt all too big – a shirt he’d likely see his best friend in, too. It forces your arms tighter, sucking in the scent of Joel to combat the dizzying feeling of nerves.

“I’m glad to see you’re alright,” he says eventually, fingers drumming awkwardly. “I just wanted to know you were fine.”

“I am fine. I promise. Just – working a lot.”

He nods, looking down to his feet. Twists the toe of his boot into the linoleum.

“I’m glad to see you’re alright, too,” you offer, the words fluid and spilling from one to the next – something forceful in their nature.

Your dad’s eyes lift at the same time that his cheeks do. Relief. “Thanks, kiddo. I actually – I was hopin’ that maybe we could talk. If you’re free. I don’t know what time you get off today.”

“I finish in ten minutes,” you say, and hope seems to paint across his face – washing away instantly when you add, “but I’m going to the movies with Sarah.”

He’s nodding again, eyes fixed back on his boots. “Right, right.”

“…But maybe once we’re done I can swing by?”

“Oh, well – I’m workin’ late again. I’ll be out by the time…Yeah. Sorry, hon.”

“That’s okay.”

“Late one again tonight.”

“This, uh – what’s his name again? Kel–?”

“Kelman, yeah. Yeah. How ‘bout I call you tomorrow ‘n we can work somethin’ out? You and Sarah, you enjoy your night.”

You lean back from the counter, slowly more confident in your ability to hold yourself upright. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Dad.”

His lips press together in a flat attempt at a smile. “I’ll leave you to it. You mind if I…give you a hug?”

And then you’re the one awkwardly, forcedly smiling. Your teeth gritting behind taut lips. “Not at all,” you whisper, and wander carefully around the counter to where he stands.

He opens his arms and pulls you against his chest, your head tilting to rest your ear on his shoulder. You hook your arms under his, feeling his wrists crossing at your spine. Like two statues, two figures of stone fixing their crumbling bodies in an embrace, suddenly disjointed and ill-fitting. Your heart hurts beneath layers of rock, swelling in attempt to reach for his, shrinking back crestfallen when he feels too far.

He kisses the side of your head, pulls away, and taps your cheek once. “You know,” he says, letting you withdraw from his grasp, “I really miss you.”

You nod. “Miss you, too.”

“Let’s talk soon, alright?”

“Yeah.”

And then he’s leaving, drifting back out into the summer sun, rock disintegrating as the light catches him again. More human, less monster-under-your-bed. He’s just your dad again, just that swaying, bumbling man who used to sprinkle rainbow flakes over your ice cream and double-knot your laces.

The shadows of Sarah and Anna appear at your elbows, the three of you watching your dad sink into his car. You still feel made of rock, splitting somewhere down the middle as you stare at his figure.

“Well?” Sarah asks.

He turns right out of the parking lot, disappears behind a hedgerow.

“Yeah,” you reply, turning in a daze. “We’re gonna…gonna talk.”

“That’s good, right? That sounds…promising.”

You shrug. “I guess.”

Sarah places a gentle hand on your arm, drawing your attention to her kind eyes and infectious smile. “We should probably get goin’,” she says, and you agree.

“What movie are you seeing?” Anna asks, filling your spot behind the counter as you turn, making for the back of the store.

“Barbie,” Sarah tells her.

“Nice. She paying?”

“Obviously. Mom duties.”

You kick the door closed on their giggles.

Two days pass without a word from your dad. No text, no call, no visit to Sal’s when you’re on shift the following day. By Monday, you’ve convinced yourself that the entire thing was a dream, a hallucination conjured up by your imagination in attempt to rid you of some of the guilt still chewing at your heart. Bat it out of your brain, like swatting the rear end of a wild animal let loose indoors.

Guilt which is only remedied, only soothed by Joel. By the feeling which overcomes your chest when you look at him – lungs faltering, heart leaping. The peace of falling asleep in his safe embrace, the heat from his body enough to keep you comfortable all night, and then waking up tangled in his sheets – the smell of bacon and eggs twirling through the house, the distant sound of his humming drawing you downstairs to his side.

Late nights on the porch, watching the sun bleed heavily into the sky. Your ankles in his lap, a guitar over his thigh. Thumb gentle on the strings, soft timbre of song lulling you to some place far from reality: the same rosy, dreamlike state you’ve mostly occupied since he dragged you through his front door, kicked your shoes and all of your worries to the side, and made you forget that anything bad had ever happened.

The most comfortable you’ve ever felt in your life, the most loved – a world where your every word is heard and weighed, rolling around Joel’s palms and slotting carefully into his back pocket. A world where his lips on your neck as you make dinner, where the crook of his arm catching you as you pass by, is all normal. Where I love you and I love you, too become the last words your sleepy ears hear at night, right before you sink into a shared sleep.

All of it becoming as natural as the pale moon switching for her golden sister at dawn. As instinctive as breathing.

“Have you ever made love to anyone?” you ask him one night, the aftershock of an orgasm still soaking into your skin.

Joel pauses, hips slowing between yours. “Yeah,” after a couple beats, “sure.”

“What’s it feel like?” you ask, honestly. Combing his dark hair through your fingers. “I’ve never…No one’s ever…”

“Baby,” he says. “We’ve done it. I’ve done it to you.”

Your body tenses and then melts around him. One blink and suddenly the world softens, seems to bow into the background – the only sharp object Joel, the twinkle in his eye piercing through the haze like blinking white stars in thick, dark clouds.

You whisper, “Can you do it again? So I can feel what it’s like?”

He pushes himself up, one elbow planted by your ear, the other hand lifting your thigh. Hooking it over his waist, lowering his arm again to cage you under his body. He nudges your chin with his nose, lifting it to line your lips with his, hold every part of your body as close to his as he can.

Deeper, in every sense of the word. Slow, hard. Eyes on you the entire time, watching the way your face contorts and your jaw slackens, holding the shape of your head in his hands, swallowing his own moans and grunts to make space between you for yours.

“Look at me, baby, eyes on me,” he says, and by instinct, your eyes roll forward, focusing or half-focusing on the slick hair at his forehead, the red flush climbing his neck, seeping into the skin under his beard. “You feel it? Feel where I’m goin’?”

And yeah, you whine, you do feel it. Feel him dragging you further away from this world and into the next – somewhere a plain away, somewhere new and different to anything you’ve ever known before. Where physicality is a language, a fluid conversation between the melding of his body and yours; where there are a million words swirling around his pupils, hypnotizing and entrancing and drawing you in until you’re tumbling headfirst into the inky pools.

Where I love you sounds like the groan Joel can’t hold back, feels like the pulsing flood as he snaps between your legs. Where making love is as simple as the squeeze of his hand around yours; the shove of his plate over the kitchen table, offering you the last bite of grilled cheese or simply admitting that it was yours before he’d even taken the first. That addictive laugh of his when you stall the fucking truck for the fifth time: You asked me to teach you, baby, I’m tryna teach you. Foot on the gas, c’mon. You got it. That’s it – now, slow. Slower. Try to feel it. No, really feel it.

Feel it. Really, try to feel it. Can you feel it? Do you know the difference yet? The difference between everyone who was before, and the one who is now? Do you finally get it?

“I feel it,” you cry out, and his frame holds yours together as you fall apart.

It feels like – you.

How did I ever know anything before I knew you?

“That one’s nice,” Joel says, his voice jumping the short distance between his lips and your ear.

You tilt your head, body moving with his when he lifts his hand to swipe through some more of the images. The spacious living room, newly refurbed kitchen, the view of downtown Los Angeles.

He adjusts the blanket draped over your legs. “Washer dryer, walk-in closet,” and then, leaning in closer, whispers, “a balcony. That’s cool.”

“Hm,” you turn to face him, your body shelled by his in the corner of his couch, “I bet you like the balcony, cowboy.”

He smiles plainly in response, squeezing your nose between two knuckles. Yeah. Lots you can do with a balcony.

A sharp gasp from across the room pierces the sweet moment. You and Joel turn in its direction, its owner wide-eyed and blinking at the TV.

“Wait a second,” Sarah yelps. “George is the John Doe?” She gasps again when Meredith announces the same news to her friends onscreen. “Shut – the fuck – up!”

“Language,” Joel clips, chest rumbling between your shoulder blades.

“Oh, like you didn’t have the exact same reaction. George is the…Oh, that sucks. Are you kidding me?” She fishes her phone from the waves of blanket surrounding her, thumbs rapidly typing, eyes shooting from screen to screen.

You snort, turning back to your own phone in your hand, when a text appears at the top of the screen.

Dad: Hey kiddo. Sorry to keep you waiting, work been hectic. Off the rest of today if you’re free to come over.

Your thumb latches onto the message, holding it for Joel to read, too, before letting it disappear off into your notifications.

He tightens his hold on you, burying his nose into the cotton of his own hoodie over your shoulders. His breath pushes heavy and thoughtful across the material. “Still seems as calm as the other day.”

“Too calm,” you admit, “it’s freaking me out.”

“What can he do, you know? You’re here, he’s there. Your dad ain’t an idiot, baby. He knows stayin’ angry about it’s only gonna push you further away.”

“Sure made ‘im feel like an idiot…”

Joel catches the comment and pockets it before it gathers enough weight to bruise. “Well,” he clears his throat, “it’s up to you. I ain’t letting you do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“Mhm,” you reply, and wait for more words to fall to your tongue. An answer, a response. A decision that you know you don’t feel equipped or even rightful to make.

“Do you want to go talk to him?” Joel asks.

“I…I want to make things right. I wanna fix it.”

“Okay. And will talking to him do that?”

You turn to face him, frowning. “I don’t fucking know,” you mutter. “Will it?”

He smiles sympathetically. “Wish I knew, darlin’. Would it help if I came? Sat outside in the truck, waited for you? It gets too much, you decide you wanna leave – we leave.”

“You ain’t scared to be near him again?”

He gulps back a laugh, Adam’s apple bobbing awkwardly before he allows himself to answer. “Only thing scary about your dad is the sunlight reflectin’ off his damn head. No, I ain’t scared.”

You study him a minute longer, eyes roaming from the lips you could sketch every score of from memory, the beard you’re sure has forever altered your prints from the number of times you’ve run your fingers over the bristles. The eyes which know every secret, every whisper, every thought behind your own.

You sigh, smiling dumbly as he wraps his arms tighter around you. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Joel pulls up by the curb, parking politely at the end of your driveway rather than alongside your dad’s car, like he usually would. Like he used to.

You crane your head, looking past the shape of him to survey the unassuming house. Quiet, still. No sign of hurricane or earthquake, no tremors of rage or words like rocks raining down on the truck roof. Your thumb plunges into the buckle of your seatbelt, the webbing whipping over your shoulder.

“Sure you’re okay?” Joel asks, watching your fingers lift to the door handle.

“Mhm,” you reply, distant. “’s just my dad, right? What’s the worst that could happen?”

His eyebrows lift, agreeing. He takes your hand in his and holds it to his lips. “Whatever it is,” he mumbles into your fingers, “if it happens, you come straight back out here, you hear? I ain’t moving.”

The urge to stay exactly where you are and let him carry you off back to his place overwhelms you for a brief second. To stay in the safety of the truck cabin, stay within touching distance of Joel. And as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone. Overcome by the memory of that stony hug in Sal’s, the vacant, lonely eyes boring into late-night TV.

A sharp chap over your shoulder shocks you back to life. You twist in your seat, looking down at a face wrinkled by curiosity and wisdom, sheen of lipstick curved in a mischievous grin. You roll the window down, mirroring her smile.

“Joel Miller,” Rita calls, lowering her ring-adorned fist and pointing over to her car. “Help me with these groceries.”

“Afternoon to you, too, Rita,” he calls back, and she raises two thin, penciled eyebrows. His sigh trickles into a chuckle as he snaps the door open, leaning into you. “I ain’t moving,” he mutters, swinging out of the truck.

“Sure looks like you’re movin’,” you call back, letting Rita pull on your door to let you out.

“How are you, darlin’?” she asks. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

You hop down beside her, helping her tug the shawl around her arms back over her shoulders. “Yeah, I’ve, uh…I’ve been busy.”

She nods, and then her eyes drift to somewhere behind you. “They go in the kitchen, son.” She points to her house. “I’ll come help you unpack ‘em.”

Joel’s face twists, eyes wide, hands outstretched. You swallow back a laugh when he looks to you, an almost teenage expression which asks, You seein’ this? as he turns back to the Nissan.

“I better go,” Rita says then, giving your arms one last squeeze. “You take care, now. Tell your dad I’m askin’ after ‘im.”

“I will, Rita.” You turn on your heel and saunter around Joel’s truck, giving him one last twirl as he hoists two bags under his muscled arms, rolling his eyes as you spin.

You pull the weight of yourself up your drive, passing past versions of yourself as you near the front door. She’s stumbling towards her dad’s car, a bucket of soapy water sloshing around between her knees. She’s sat on the curb, waiting for Joel’s truck to roll up, praying she never hears another Marty Robbins song again.

She’s naïve, still. Knows no better, knows no worse. Chasing a high, chasing the thrill of being caught and the thrill of nobody ever knowing. A relationship built entirely on lies and deceit. A love woven with dark threads of shame and anger, a tattered mess in one corner where the edges fray and loosen.

And you think: you’ve never felt more jealous of anybody your whole life.

The front door clicks open easily, like the building welcomes you home with a relieved sigh. You follow sunlight into the hallway, feeling it easier to walk through than before – less dense, less suffocating. Less guilty. An honest thief, back to return the bleeding heart she dragged out the door with her.

Secrets like shards of broken glass on the floor, debris from that day. And as if he hears the crunch of your footsteps, your dad appears at the bottom of the hall.

“Hi, hon.”

Eyes wide with a misplaced shock, you say, “Hey.”

“You okay?”

“’m good.”

“Good. Come in, come through.” He beckons you forward, a smile only half-forced on his lips. “You want a drink or anything?”

You follow him into the kitchen, politely accepting a glass of water when he offers it.

He turns with two steady palms on the island, watching as you drag a chair free and sit at the table. “How’s Joel?” he asks, swallowing roughly.

The words come delayed, your open mouth lying in wait. Your body selfishly trying to hoard the information, protective the second the image of that six-foot, two-hundred-pound man crosses your mind. “He’s fine. He’s out front.”

It sounds like a warning, though you don’t mean for it to. Just conversation. He’s helping Rita with her groceries. She’s asking after you, by the way. But your dad seems to sense the natural amber tone of it – the sparking of a flame, daring to catch. He’s waiting for this to go south.

He nods, accepting the fact of it. His own failed attempt to separate the two of you only drove you closer together. Only made you want Joel more.

But then he’s nearing you again, pulling out the chair opposite yours. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, settling with a sigh. “Glad we’re…we’re talkin’ again, at least.”

Your head angles. “Are we?”

His body jerks, flinching from the sting of the question. “Well,” his head wobbles, jowls quivering, “I sure hope so. I was takin’ it as a good sign that you’re here.”

“I’m here,” you repeat, “but that doesn’t mean I’m staying.”

“No, I know. I know. Joel’s out front, ‘n all that.” He looks down at his hands, clasped in his lap. Holds his tongue behind his front teeth, waiting for the next turn of conversation.

You lean forward, elbows on the table, softening your voice. “Dad?” you say, and he looks up. “This whole entire thing – I think…I think we oughta try and understand each other, a little better. Hear each other out.”

“I am tryin’, hon. I’m really tryin’. You dealt me an awful lot to hear out ‘n understand.”

You rock back, sinking against the hard chair. Tracing the wood grains in the table, nails digging between. Shame coiling like a snake beneath your tongue, taking up too much space in your mouth. Its venom dripping between your teeth, acrid and sour; tendons in your neck jumping with the bitterness of your dad’s tone.

He sighs. “Be honest with me a second.”

“Huh?”

He waits a beat, watching you carefully. Opens his mouth, pauses, and then speaks. “Who instigated it?”

Your finger pushes harder into the surface. Digging new divots. “Um…kinda both of us. Was sort of a two-way thing from the get-go.”

His lips twist, almost imperceptible. He looks behind you to the patio outside. You can’t read what’s in his eyes. It makes you say more, say things you reckon you’ll regret later – but something to fill the silence between you. Something to let him sink his teeth into.

“There was flirting. Lotta flirting. And then it…it just sort of snowballed.”

“Snowballed.” He looks uncomfortable, lifting his hands to cup over his face. “I just didn’t take him as the type,” he says, muffled into his palms.

“As what type?”

He drops his hands, hitting his thighs with a slap, and looks you dead in the eye. Sad, almost. “Arthur Kennedy type.”

“He’s not.”

You say it instinctively. Your ears hear it at the same time your dad does. He looks at you blankly.

“He’s not,” you repeat, a little looser. Less hasty. “Look,” you sigh, “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but…everything that we ever did, I wanted to do. I already told you. There ain’t nothing we did that I didn’t ask him to. I swear to you.”

You think back to the cookout, how angry Joel was at the thought of Arthur Kennedy hanging over you. How pissed he’d be, hearing your dad line him up against that old leather boot of a man. Comparing, contrasting. Here’s how you measure up, son. How much of a phantom Arthur Kennedy has been, your whole life, and how much of a sanctuary Joel is in comparison.

Your stomach twists at the thought. A tight knot, wound by a desperation to clear the name of a man whose worst offense was doing exactly what your dad would’ve told him to: leave.

“This whole thing,” you go on, “it’s a mess, alright? It’s – totally fucked. And we shouldn’t’ve lied, shouldn’t’ve been keeping things from you, but then…what did you expect?”

Your dad cuts in like a bullet: “I expect the two of you not to do what you were doin’.”

“No, I know that. But we did it, right? It’s done now. I meant, did you really want us to sit you down in the living room ‘n say, Hey, Dad – guess what?”

He grimaces at the thought.

“Didn’t think so. We didn’t even know what it was. We had no idea what it’d turn into. But you gotta hear me out: it wasn’t just…some fling, or whatever you’re thinkin’. I swear, Dad, it wasn’t.”

He still doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t lift his stare from the table. You feel like a little kid, desperate to make him love you again. Desperate to make him listen. The space between you fills with the bored tick tick tick of the kitchen clock. Each second hurting a little more than the last.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry that I hurt you. I’m sorry I let you down, but…I’m not sorry that I did it. If I could go back, knowing everything I know – I’d do it all over again.”

The words roll across the table to him like billiards. You lean back again, watching them as they rattle from his side to yours – your sentence delivered back into your ears. You nod, a sure thought in your mind.

I’d do it all over again. All the covering, all the hiding. The aching, the wishing and wanting. Staring at Joel’s empty hand, dying to slot yours into it. Dying to put any part of yourself near him; your head under his chin, your arms linked around his waist. Knowing you two would feel, knowing everyone else would see, just how perfectly you fit together.

The chasing your own tails: Did you lie well enough? Do they suspect anything? Did we leave any evidence? Disturbed sheets, a collar still upturned. Can they hear us? Have they noticed we’re missing? We’re always fucking missing.

You’d do it all over again. You know what it cost, now, sat directly opposite the price. His polite smiles like veneers over rotten teeth. The tremble in his lip when he opens his mouth to speak.

And it was worth it. Joel. He was worth it all, in the end.

All over again.

“Do you know that every time I look at you, there are…probably four versions that I see?”

You frown. Did he hear what you just said? All ov–? “What?”

Your dad laughs to himself. “When you walk outta that door, I see a little pink backpack over your shoulders. Gym bag in your hand, maybe. I see missin’ front teeth, I see those little clip-on earrings you used to love so much.

“And – and when you’re mad at me, when we fight, I see you at fourteen. Growing pains, y’know? I still remember you slamming your bedroom door in my face, all ‘cause I wouldn’t let you go to that girl Molly’s birthday party.” He looks up, smiling at your perplexed expression.

“I don’t even…remember that, hardly.”

“Long time ago now. My point is,” he continues, “you’re twenty-three. You’re grown. And I just can’t figure out how to make those other versions…grow with you. You still feel like my kid. Still that little girl with the pink backpack.”

“But,” you clear your throat, trying to swipe her from your own memory, “I’m not. I’m not her anymore, Dad. And I think maybe you gotta give me the space to be someone different, now.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, nodding. “I know, I know. I just didn’t think this new version of you would…y’know. Be with Joel, ‘n all. That is something I did not see comin’.”

“You think I did?” You spit a laugh. “If you told me when I came home that this is what was waiting for me…that I was gonna fall…”

Your teeth close around the sentence, dropping your dad’s eye. But it’s too late.

He stares back at you like the sun. “…Fall in love with ‘im?”

And you cower. You wince, almost. The last secret. The last thing he doesn’t know. “I don’t…I don’t know, I –”

“You love him. You do, don’t you?”

Your thumbs run circles around one another, fingers locking until your knuckles hurt. “I don’t know,” you mumble, wishing for the tenth time since you sat down that Joel was beside you, in front of you, around you.

“’s what Anna seems to reckon.”

Your eyes flit up. “Anna?”

He hums. “She is her father’s daughter. A damn meddler. She called here, last night.”

“Oh, Jesus,” you groan, head falling into your hands. “Ignore her, please. Ignore all of it. She doesn’t –”

He holds a palm up. “Now, hold on. You don’t even know what it was she said.”

You huff a sigh, twisting your hand in the air. Go on.

“She reckons you do love him. Reckons he loves you back. More, if that’s even possible, she said. Told me all about the way he stepped in front a’ that boy at Frank’s. About your face when he picked you up from rodeo night, how ecstatic you were. The difference she sees in you.”

“Difference,” you scoff, glancing out to the backyard. “What difference?”

“Same difference I see, probably. Same difference Bill said he saw, too: you’re happier. Even I can’t deny it, hon. It’s damn hard – you never make nothin’ easy on your old man – but…but I am willing to try.”

The hurt begins to slowly fizzle away. Cooling, washing from your skin like foamy waves. Curiosity left to shine through.

“You may not understand this ‘til you have kids of your own – if you have kids of your own – but there ain’t a thing in this world that I love more than I love you. And when you love somethin’ that much, you’ll do anything to stop it from getting hurt. Anything. That’s all I want you to know.”

A silence falls between you, thoughtful and waiting. The clock’s ticking grows sharper again. It seems to consider the same as you: there should be more to this. More to be said, to be convinced. More yelling, even.

But you arrive at the same conclusion, at near enough the same time: there is nothing more. Cards flat on the table, eyes pouring all over them. To question it, to second-guess any of it, would be to tempt fate.

“Anyway,” your dad sits forward, clasping his hands on the table, “tell me what’s goin’ on. What’s been happening in your world?”

You shrug. A little, shy thing. “Work. Been hanging with Sarah a lot. And I, uh, I had a job interview last week.”

“Oh, yeah? Where?”

You shift awkwardly in your chair. “For, uh…that one in LA. They called to offer it a couple days ago.”

A smile pulls across his lips. Growing, growing, growing until he’s grinning back at you. Pride, little bit of surprise. Whole lot of amusement and joy. “You take it?” he asks, figuring he knows the answer already.

“Not yet,” you reply. “Think I’m going to, though. ‘s too good to say no.”

He lifts his eyebrows in agreement, looking down at his hands. Shoulders lurch some under the weight of your news. “There goes that little backpack,” he mutters to himself, and you smirk.

“Can’t hold her back forever.”

“I never had a hold on her in the first place. You were walkin’ on outta that door the minute you found your own two feet.”

You snort. “Good! Good for me. Let me go out into the big ol’ world; let me go fuck it all up ‘n come home for dinner once I’m done.”

“I intend to,” your dad says, nodding along to every passionate word you say. And then he asks, “How’s Joel feelin’ about it all? About LA?”

Your shoulder jerks in a half-shrug. “He’s fine, I guess. Says he’ll miss me, but then – we haven’t exactly had the most typical relationship up until now. Survived a lot I reckon would break any normal couple…”

It’s the first time you think you’ve ever said it. Couple. You’ve thought of it – flicked through the words you might use to describe him. Your boyfriend, your partner. None of them seem to fit exactly who he is to you. None of them strong enough to carry the weight of what’s shared between you. He’s Joel. He’s your Joel. Nothing will ever come close.

Your dad hears it, too. The newness of it. The crisp shape of the word, not yet thawed to this new world. Your tongue still learning how to pronounce it, how to pair it with the image of Joel.

“Guess he can fly out ‘n visit whenever, right?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, “and I’ll be back here, too. Christmas ‘n all.”

Your dad smiles. Relieved, assured. Light slowly returning to his eyes.

“We’ll be fine,” your chest swells, “so Joel says. I trust ‘im.”

You both quieten, sitting back in your chairs. What once felt like a room ablaze, flames tearing the skin from your body as you dragged your heels through it – now feels like a gentle warmth. Waves wrought with enough power and force to destroy you, now seeping off with the change of the tide. Bumps on the horizon.

“Speaking of,” you say, making to stand, “I should probably get goin’.”

“Yeah. Yeah, hon.” Your dad follows, arm on your shoulder as he walks you down the hall.

The sun intrudes, tosses herself into your arms as you pull the front door open. In her golden-rayed wake sits that dark truck, same as always. The same dark tee, the same dark-speckled-gray hair. Arms folded, stood against the body, waiting. Eyes on the house, on your figure as you step down onto the doormat. Joel straightens when your dad follows you out, chest sucking in a ragged breath.

They look at one another, and that’s about it. Something of a nod from Joel – not quite returned by your dad. You figure that might take some time to come back around. And that’s okay. You can make peace with it.

You turn back. Your dad’s looking down at you, hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun.

“You know,” you take a deep breath, “the only times he’s ever hurt me, are the times he’s left. The times I haven’t had him around.”

And then you step back, the magnet in your chest telling you it’s time to return to its partner.

In high school, your English teacher tasked the class with writing a short story. Any genre you wanted, any word count up to two thousand. The boys mostly dicked around, wrote action-packed, blood-and-guts garbage. One girl wrote something you’re sure you’d seen in a Hallmark movie before.

But you – you spent two weeks straight, writing. Awake until all hours of the night, hunched over your laptop, sunbathing in the blue hue of an open document. Fingers hammering rapidly into your keyboard.

A man and a woman meet in Central Park. She – hair the color of rust, spilling down her shoulders and lifting at the ends, twisting around the fingers of the blustery wind. A red glow around her third finger where gold once lived. Sat on a bench, alone. Hiding, perhaps. And he – sharp suit and tie, clean-shaven, a steel-blue gaze that might cut glass. Missing the city traffic by taking a walk through the park on his way home. Fleeing, perhaps.

He notices her trench coat first. Bright red, a poppy swaying in the breeze. A little hopeless, a solemn wilt to it. The quickly dampening fire of her hair in the rain, the opaque sheen of polish chipping from her nails. And he thinks he recognizes the constellation of freckles painted across her cheeks. Thinks he might’ve mapped them, once, in some kind of past-life.

She looks up and realizes she recognizes the cut of his gaze. Piercing through her, splitting her in two. Thinks she might’ve felt it before, the opening of her soul to someone who looked just like him – a little more baby-faced, a little more spirited. In some kind of past-life, too.

She stands, and he slows, and they meet somewhere in the middle. Words exchanged; body heat transferred through hugs. Is that really you? You look so different. It’s been years. He doesn’t ask about the lack of jewelry on her third finger. She doesn’t ask about the gray circles beneath his eyes. Just, You wanna grab a coffee? and, Yeah. Yeah, I do.

They sit at the window, watch the yellow taxis and the black umbrellas and the trembling traffic lights. They talk about life then, life now, and silently agree to forget about the part in the middle. They look at each other the same way they must have before they lost one another, before life and love and everything else got between them.

They agree to meet again in a week. They swear that they will not fall back in love.

They know as well as each other that they’re really promising to do just that.

Love – twisted and turned over and over, until it’s a different shape altogether. We started as one thing, and we watched it shift into something completely different. Clay in the potter’s hands. Didn’t you think it might fall apart? There was a moment I thought the heat of the kiln might break us. I’m glad it didn’t. I’m glad we’re made of tough stuff.

I’m glad I found you again, in that park. The pissing rain and the wind so strong I felt it lifting the sense from my mind. In that hardware store, in that bar filled with weed and bad intentions. I’m glad you split me open, glad you could see the good that was still inside. I thought I’d lost her for a minute. Thought she’d forgotten her way home.

Let’s go get a coffee. Let’s pretend it’s always been this way.

Let’s fall in love. The rest will take care of itself.

It takes three weeks in total to properly pack up your things. Two days after you accepted the job, you bought boxes and tape, and began to dismantle the identity you’d spent twenty-three years creating for yourself, a little bit at a time. Taking apart the pink-walled museum of your life, artefact by artefact.

Joel has helped as much as you’ve let him. Laid back on your bed when you’ve dismissed him one too many times, raised his eyebrows and laughed with you whenever you come across some old, forgotten piece of memorabilia. Something ceremonial to it, something innocent and fun. Like a little graduation for all the parts of yourself.

Soon, as the last of the summer sun dampens outside, your room lies vacant. Empty of any real evidence of your being here. Bedsheets and pillows folded, packed away; framed photos and posters unpinned from the wall and wrapped up safely. Drawers and closets barren, left with a selection of your less-loved, less-worn clothes. A wardrobe built from stuff you’ll only ever wear when you come back home to visit, if even then.

Joel’s sat on the bare mattress, looking around your room. You’re stood opposite, leaning against your half-empty dresser. The sun filters feebly through your turned shades, averting her eyes.

You look over at him. Golden, like the sunlight outside. Warm, like the breeze through the trees. Yours. Yours yours yours.

“What?” Joel asks, his eyes having finally found their way back to you. He smiles at your focused expression.

“Nothing. I don’t know. Just…”

“Talk to me. Tell me.”

“You are – this is…” You sigh. “This is good. I think it’s good. Not just all the stuff we did. But you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you tell him. “You’re good for me.” You grip the wooden lip tighter, swaying nervously when you add, “But I think it was always gonna go this way, wasn’t it?”

He sniffs. Shoulders jerk in a weak shrug. “Yeah, I think so, baby.”

Your eyelashes flutter, soothing the prickling feeling of tears forming. “I don’t – I don’t know if I want it to.”

“Yeah,” Joel says through a groan, pushing himself up, “you do.”

You shake your head as he approaches, and his hands cup your cheeks.

“Hey,” he whispers, pulling your body tight against his. Your face buries in his chest; your tears wet on his shirt. He shushes you, rocks you gently back and forth with a hand on the back of your head. “Listen to me.”

“Joel –”

“Listen to me.” He pulls you back, swipes the tears from your cheeks as quickly as they fall. “We’re fine. We are going to be fine.”

“I don’t want to leave you –”

“I know, I know. But you want to go do this. And that’s okay. Both of ‘em, at once.”

Your head shakes again. Like an instinctive reaction to the thought of being separated from him.

Joel smiles softly. “I am going to miss you like hell. You got no idea. But,” he pulls your head back to face his, tucks your hair behind your ear, “I want you to go. You gotta go after this. Right?”

“I know,” you whisper, lungs lurching for breath. “I just – wish it didn’t mean leavin’ you.”

“Darlin’…” Joel coos, pulling you in again. “You know how much I love you? What do I keep tellin’ you? We’ll be alright. It’s you ‘n me, right?”

You nod, salty tears slipping between your lips onto your tongue. When you look up, you notice the same expression on Joel’s face. He blinks his own away before they fall.

“’s you ‘n me,” you repeat, and he pulls your lips together.

You roll your tongue onto his, letting him taste you – all of you. Your mouth, and your thoughts, and your tears, and your pain. You let him take it all, let him hold it for this moment as you breathe him in, let his body fill yours in every way.

Your hands are in his hair, your chest pressed against his; he’s every thought on your mind and every beat in your heart. He’s the blood thrumming through your veins, he’s the oxygen filling your lungs; he’s the words between your teeth and the flesh around your bones.

And he pulls you, and you follow, his shirt in your fist, over to the bed where he lays you gently and falls on top.

“When’s he get back?” he asks, taking your bottom lip between his teeth.

“Later,” you mumble, your fingers picking at the hem of his shirt.

He pushes back, letting you tug it up up up over his shoulders at the same rate he peels your tee from yours, both tossing each other’s clothes to somewhere else in the room. Jeans undone, shorts dragged from your hips, underwear discarded until you’re naked under him, and he’s naked over you, and there’s nothing and no one between.

Joel cradles you, holds you close as he presses a palm roughly against the underside of your thigh, opening your body to him in a way only he’s mastered. In a way you only would, for him.

His hand cups your sex, fingers nudging between your folds, pushing in when your jaw slackens and a wanton moan echoes from your throat across Joel’s tongue.

“Yeah,” he coos, wrist jacking between your legs, “’s my girl. Gotta get you warmed up, huh? Get you nice ‘n wet.”

Your back arches, arms linking around his neck to pull him closer, pull him deeper. Hold him tight enough to you that your bodies feel one, feel connected at the meeting of Joel’s hand and the most intimate part of you; the meeting of your tongues between teeth.

And you gasp, the nudging of his fingers against the deepest part of your body, the messy circles of his thumb on your clit. The shape of him, solid and warm against the seam of your thigh.

You reach down for him, wrapping your fingers around his cock, and his breath hitches. Teeth bump into yours. You’re fucking irresistible to him.

“Darlin’,” his voice is low, daring you to keep going, “you wanna cut this short ‘fore we’re even started?”

You breathe a laugh into his jaw, hot and needy. “You get to play with me,” you whine, “I wanna play with you, too.”

Joel growls, seizing his movements, leaning back in what you take as him granting full access to his body. But then he says, “Turn around,” in a strict voice you’ve come to know as meaning one thing, and you pause.

You peel your eyes from his dick to blink up at him. “Turn –?”

“– around, now.” He takes your waist, hoisting you up until you’re straddling him, holding you inches above his body. “Turn.”

“What the fuck are you –?”

“Many times do I gotta tell you? You said you wanted to play.” He twists your waist until you follow his movements, swinging one leg over the other. He grabs your hips, tugging you back towards his face. “So, play,” he mutters, lowering your cunt down to his lips.

You gasp, falling forward and hitting the mattress between his legs. “J– fuck me. Are you s-serious?” You moan, hips rocking against the feeling of his bearded chin at your clit. “You’re like – a fucking – horny teenager. Oh, fuck.”

Your head falls forward, hands splaying out over his thighs, before your eyes refocus and you notice the hardened shape of him, tip oozing precome all over the hair-spattered plain of his groin. Your hand lifts, shakily taking hold of him again, and you lean down.

Elbows hooked over his thighs, you bring his tip to your lips, letting a thick bead of saliva fall and drip down the length of him, meeting your closed fist to be dragged up and down.

Joel’s hips almost buck. He holds it, manages to catch it, but you spot it. You’ve done this too many fucking times not to notice the reaction you draw from him.

“’s good,” you whisper, circling your hips on his face, tongue slipping across his cherry-red tip. “Feels so good.”

He responds in the form of a deep groan, rattling from his chest through your clit, shocking like lightning up your spine until the very same noise is thrown from your lips. You push down, tongue molding around every vein and the slow curve of his cock until your lips meet the thick brush of hair at his base, his tip kissing the very back of your throat.

Your throat which jumps, jolts at the feeling of something intruding – before you’re retreating again, pulling him from your body, warm, wet spit linking the two of you when you come up for air. And then you sink back down, head moving up down up down up down as his stomach tenses beneath your chest.

Joel’s palms keep a heavy hold on your ass, his tongue lapping between your folds like they’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted – like he might die if he doesn’t get his fix of you. And you think, they are, and he might, as your cheeks hollow and you bow down over him again.

You establish a rhythm, two waves swirling between one another: your hips rocking, Joel’s lifting ever so slightly as you suckle on one another. Your hand fisting the parts of him you can’t quite reach, not without choking; Joel holding you fixed to his jaw, letting the tip of his tongue hook around your swollen clit, then dragging it down until he’s letting you ride the wet muscle.

The approach of your first orgasm, a tiny spark catching to life in the pit of your belly, incites you with a need to open up further for him. Your throat taking more of him, your thighs slackening as you drive your cunt harder against his mouth.

“’m so close,” you whimper, lips curving around his cock. “So – fucking – ah, keep doin’ that. Right th-there.”

His hands hook around your thighs, tongue darting across your clit. His nose nudges somewhere between your folds, quickly becoming coated in the slick you’re leaking all over him.

“Joel,” you say, fists pumping his cock. Your voice a warning: it’s coming. You’re gonna – Fuck, you’re gonna come.

His voice is looser, more of a shrug of the shoulders when he pulls away from you. He inserts two fingers, curls them like before, like he knows drives you fucking insane. “Let go, babygirl,” he murmurs, lips immediately returning to position. And then, muffled and rough: “Come all over me.”

“Fuckfuckfuck,” you pant, hands squeezing around his cock, feeling that same spark ignite into flame, your entire body bursting with heat.

Your high rips through you, battering through each vein in your system, each nerve electrified. You collapse between his legs, his rough pubic hair sticking to the sweat on your chest, hips rutting wildly against the sharp cut of his jaw.

The mattress absorbs most of the desperate moan which streaks across your tongue, nails digging hard into the flesh of Joel’s thighs. And you hear the deep sound of his voice, the thud thud thud of a chuckle against your clit: the cocky fucker laughing to himself as he unravels you for what feels like the thousandth time.

“Alright,” Joel says, more to himself than to the fucked-out shape of you between his legs. He sits up and shifts you carefully down the bed, settling you face-down on the mattress and lifting your ass to meet his hips. “Okay?” he asks, kneeling behind you.

You feel his tip between your legs, slotting happily somewhere in your opening. Waiting for your response. A response you don’t feel able to give, as much as you’d like to; your lips puffy and confused, words jumbling behind them in a tangle of bliss and love.

“Baby,” Joel says, hand slinking down your back, pressing gentle circles into the nape of your neck. “You okay?”

Your head lifts, glancing over your shoulder to see his hairy torso, his thick arms caging over you. He lifts your chin with two fingers, cranes your neck up until you’re looking into his eyes, heavy lids blinking dumbly.

“Just fuck me,” you whisper, and Joel slips his tongue into your mouth.

You used to dream of coming back home. A few years away, doing whatever you wanted, wherever you wanted. Dreaming things up and then chasing them until they happened. Tiring yourself out, lungs gasping for breath and eyes always searching, always looking for a new target to pin up. But always coming back.

Austin, Texas. Its jagged skyline, the streets lined with a vibrant glow and star-spangled bunting. The river like a silver-bellied snake slithering through. Home.

You dreamt of living out your days here, once your blood had slowed and your mind settled. A quiet life in the country, a big wooden house with a wraparound porch. Two little rocking chairs, so you and whoever your husband turned out to be could sit and watch the sky fade from red into orange into white and then dull gray into deep blue.

Breeze kissing your cheek, his lips kissing your knuckles.

Joel.

Home.

You tell him, and he smirks. “That so?” he asks, wrapping his arms a little tighter around your naked body.

You nuzzle your cheek into the palm of his hand, breathing in the sweet scent of sweat and sex sitting in the air. “Mhm. You could play guitar until the stars come out.”

He hums in agreement. “Sounds like a pretty good dream. Tell you what: you go to LA, do what you gotta do. By the time you come back, there’ll be a big ol’ farmhouse, wraparound porch, rollin’ fields for the dogs. Coffee ‘n sunsets. How’s that sound?”

“And you’ll be there?”

He smiles. Scoops you in one arm and rolls you onto your front, chest to chest with him. His fingers ghost down the curve of your shoulder. “Baby,” he whispers, “I built the damn thing.”

It forces a laugh from your chest, something you’ve gotten used to by now. Joel and his ability to steal a giggle from you, the dumbest moments seeming the funniest. “You’re gonna build me a damn house?” you ask, chin resting between his pecs.

“That what you want?”

Your head rocks left to right, considering. “I just want you. That’s all.”

“Then you got me. I’m all yours.”

In his hazel eyes lives every moment you’ve ever shared. Every conversation, every kiss, every fight. Every minute he’s spent looking for you or at you, every minute you’ve spent looking back at him. It’s all in there. You see it like a movie reel, frame by frame.

It lands like a slot machine on that first night. Cleaning up after pizza. Shoulder to shoulder by your kitchen sink. You wish you’d just kissed him. Even with your dad right there. Wish you’d lifted your heels and put your lips on his, just for the fucking hell of it. Just to condense all of it, every second of longing and hurt and pain into one fleeting moment.

Wish you’d pulled him into you, against you, the weight of his body like an old friend. Welcomed it with open arms, like you’d spent your entire life missing it, waiting for it to come back to you. Let yourself feel your own heart, peeling between the cage of your ribs, reaching out for his. Always reaching for him.

Wish you’d looked him in the eye, tears softening the tufts of graying hair, vignetting the smirk only you can tell is there. Looked at him in that knowing way, that language only you two know; the glint in your eyes translating a thousand messy words into three. Just three – the simplest, lightest words you’ve ever known.

I love you. Let’s skip to the good part.

#welp i didn't cry when i hit post. me? no. no way #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic #dbf!joel miller #dbf!joel #joel miller smut #fic: cowboy like me

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supernovafics · 1 year ago

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 2.7k words

summary: in which a moment at a party that led to a drunken kiss and a heartfelt admission pushes you and your best friend away from each other. after nearly a week of silence, it’s still hard to find the right words to say to steve and to find the right way to mend what feels as if it has been permanently broken. until you’re drunk at a bar and he is the one to come and get you.

warnings: bestfriend!steve, explicit language, underage alcohol consumption, angst with a happy ending<33

author’s note: this was sitting in the drafts for a veryvery long time and i’ve finally decided to let it see the light of day🫶🏾 (full “folklore” album series masterlist here)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“i didn't know if you'd care if i came back, i have a lot of regrets about that.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The bar was comforting in a weird kind of way.

It was pretty dark and empty for the most part, which partly made sense since it was ten o’clock on a random Wednesday night. You didn’t mind the music softly playing and the stool you were sitting on actually felt comfortable, or maybe it was the alcohol making you believe that.

Somehow even with the number of drinks you’d had in the past hour, it still didn’t manage to effectively push your thoughts far away from Steve and what happened at Robin’s birthday party.

You couldn’t not think about the kiss with him, which you had abruptly and drunkenly initiated; it was a kiss that felt simultaneously wrong and right. And his words that followed the kiss played on what felt like an endless loop in your mind too.

“I’ve wanted this, I’ve wanted us, for practically forever. Ever since that moment our mom’s forced us to meet at that county fair thing when we were ten, I think I knew it was you.”

It was hard to think about what you did in response to that, but still the quick, “I’m sorry, I can’t,” you managed to stutter out before basically running away from him played on equal loop in your head.

The two of you hadn’t spoken since that Saturday night, with you returning back to your college that was two hours away from Hawkins early the next morning. And you were unsure if it was you leading this dance or if both of you were equally avoiding each other because the phone calls that would happen practically daily were reduced to nothing. It had barely been a week, but it was long enough for everything in your life to feel shifted; to feel a little emptier.

“You look like you need to talk to someone,” The bartender, a woman who you were certain couldn’t be older than thirty, said as she slid you the latest drink you’d ordered.

“No, I’m fine. It’s just…” You trailed off with a small sigh before taking a sip from the cold glass. “I did something stupid this past weekend and I regret it, but I also think it might have been the right thing to do.” You were unsure if you were referring to the kissing Steve part or the running away from him part. “I don’t know, I just wish that entire night hadn’t happened, actually.”

You knew that it wasn’t solely your inebriation that made your words seem as if they didn’t make any sense, because everything going through your head was so damn confusing even when you were completely sober. None of it, the emotions you were feeling or the situation itself, fully made sense to you and you forced yourself to not think about any of it by solely consuming yourself with your schoolwork for the last few days. And when doing that was no longer enough to silence your thoughts, you decided to come to this bar.

It was dumb and probably only making things worse, you knew that, but it also felt so much easier.

“Okay,” The woman said. “Can I have a lot more context?”

You were unsure why you had the immediate urge to tell her everything. Maybe it was the alcohol, or perhaps because it was just always so easy for anyone to pour their heart out to a stranger.

“My friend— my best friend, we’ve known each other since we were ten— me and him were at a party. It was actually our other friend’s birthday and she just turned eighteen, so of course, we had to make it a huge thing for her, and we did it at Steve’s house; my best friend, that’s his name. Anyway, it’s about two hours into the party and we’re all pretty drunk. Me and Steve are in his backyard sitting on one of his old patio chairs, and then I don’t know why, I blame it on my drunkenness and how close we were in that moment, but I kissed him. I pulled away almost immediately, but then he said that he has wanted this, wanted us, to happen for so long, and I didn’t know what to say to any of that. So, I just mumbled out a stupid “I’m sorry,” and then left.”

You had barely taken a breath as you spoke, spitting out what happened that night in one rushed go. Finally saying all of it out loud— recounting the story in pretty much its entirety— made you feel a little better. Everything was still a complete mess, but you felt like you could breathe the tiniest bit easier.

“Why did you leave?”

A part of you expected her to ask that question, and at this point, you should’ve had an answer to it that felt certain, but you didn’t.

“It just… It felt like the right thing to do, I think.”

The thought of anything more happening with Steve hadn’t ever crossed your mind, at least not consciously, and even now you still refused to think more about it. Because it wasn't just about Steve. You didn’t want anything more with anyone; you didn’t want feelings, a relationship, any of it.

It wasn’t that you hated love or the thought of it, it was more so that you had been burned because of it so many times that you refused to fall into it so easily again. Falling for boys that you thought actually liked you only to be proven wrong and left heartbroken.

“I get it,” The bartender ultimately said, her voice soft. “You guys have been friends for practically forever and if you started dating and then broke up it would probably change everything between you two.”

We would never break up.

The thought hit you so abruptly that it actually managed to surprise you.

The woman looked at you, confused. “Okay… So, then what’s the problem?”

“What?”

“You said that you and him would never break up, so what’s the problem?”

You hadn’t realized you said the thought out loud, and you couldn’t even feel embarrassed about accidentally saying it because all you could think about was how completely true it was. You and Steve would work so well together, you pretty much already did. You knew the ins and outs of each other; everything little that was annoying but also so endearing. It was what you loved about him— as a friend and as more.

But still, it was so fucking hard to admit that out loud, and you wanted to forget about the entire realization.

“I– I don’t know,” You finally answered before folding your arms against the countertop and then putting your head down. You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping that that action would be enough to will away the tears that you could now feel threatening to spill out.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“and i ended up here. pouring out my heart to a stranger.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“Hey, you okay?”

The voice was soft and immediately comforting and oh so familiar. It was enough to put a smile on your face, but your head was starting to pound so you couldn’t bear to do anything but groan.

You lifted your head and mumbled out a soft, “Steve?”

You only vaguely remembered the bartender, whose name you eventually learned was Chelsea, asking for a phone number of someone that could pick you up. And although you should’ve given her your roommate’s number, you instead gave her Steve’s.

“I never thought I’d be the one picking you up from a bar,” Steve said as he sat down next to you. “I always thought it would be the other way around.”

“Y’know what they say about college, it changes people,” You told him with a nonchalant shrug. The two of you hadn’t talked in days, but it still felt like second nature to fall back into the joking cadence you had with him. “I’m a total badass now.”

Steve laughed a bit and looked at you amusingly. “Mhm, yeah, sure you are.”

You weren’t as drunk anymore but you were entering the early stages of a hangover that would be a bitch, and you already knew that there was no way you’d be going to your eleven o’clock Statistics class.

“I can’t believe you drove two hours to pick me up,” You said as you settled yourself in the passenger seat of Steve’s car after you paid your pricey tab and goodbyes were said to Chelsea.

Steve offered you a small smile. “What else are best friends for?”

You couldn’t help but look away from him as you mumbled out a soft, “I didn’t know we were still that.”

“We’ll always be that.”

There was so much certainty in his voice that it actually managed to soothe something inside of you. Only for a second, though, because then you were back in your head again.

The drive back to your dorm was quiet with only the soft sounds of the radio to fill the silence. It was a short ride, only about ten minutes, and the entire time you could only focus on your dull headache and what you wanted to say to Steve because you knew that you had to say something. Although you didn’t want to, that night needed to finally be talked about.

When he was parked in front of your building, you still didn’t know exactly what to say, but you decided to start with something. “Listen, about Robin’s party–”

“It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it. Let’s just pretend it never happened,” Steve interrupted you. He pushed a hand through his hair and then met your gaze. “It was really dumb of me to say all of that stuff, and I partially blame it on all the drinks we had— definitely way too many. We’re just friends, I know that. And your life is here now, for the most part, and mine is back in Hawkins, so yeah…” He trailed off with a small shrug.

You suddenly felt nauseous and you knew it had nothing to do with the alcohol. He was saying everything that you fully thought you wanted to hear— what happened at the party should’ve never happened, you two were just friends— so why did it feel so wrong?

Things became quiet and Steve was looking at you expectantly, and you were unsure how long you’d been silent for.

“Um, yeah, exactly,” You finally said as you unbuckled your seatbelt. Before you opened the passenger door to leave his car, you reached over and pulled Steve in for a hug. “Drive safe.”

“Thanks,” He said as his arms circled around you.

For some reason, there was a huge part of you that wanted to say “I’m sorry” in that moment, but you didn’t entirely know why, so instead you said nothing and simply got out of his car.

You headed to the entrance of your dorm building and then turned around, giving Steve a final wave before he drove away.

It was then— as he headed down the street and after a few moments his car became completely out of your view— that you wished you’d been honest; with yourself and with him.

Because it was in that moment of you yearning for him to turn around mixed with you sincerely wanting to go after him that essentially sealed it for you.

Steve was different and he always would be.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“and maybe i don't quite know what to say, but i'm here in your doorway.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You felt slightly lucky that you only had two classes on Thursdays because when you woke up after sleeping through your Statistics class, you knew that you wouldn’t be going to your Psychology class that started at three. And the reasoning actually had nothing to do with your hangover.

Aside from the slight headache, you woke up with your mind feeling completely clear for the first time in a long time. You knew exactly what you wanted and what you wanted to do, and before that feeling could go away, or you could convince yourself to push it away, you were in your car an hour before your class was supposed to start and driving to Hawkins. You were pretty much running off of impulse and hope.

The weather was terrible and you hated driving in the rain, but it didn’t matter to you right then because you needed to see Steve.

You had two long hours of driving in terrible rain to figure out what exactly you wanted to say to him, yet you still couldn’t form a coherent set of sentences in your head. But, similar to the rain, that didn’t stop you from ringing his doorbell.

In hindsight, it probably would’ve been smart to bring an umbrella because it was still pouring and from the short walk from your car to his front door, your clothes managed to become effectively soaked, but it didn’t bother you.

“Hey,” He said when he opened the door, it was easy to tell that he was surprised to see you. “Did you drive all the way here?”

You quickly nodded at his question. “Yes.”

“You hate driving in rain.”

“Yeah, but I… I just really wanted to talk to you, and didn’t wanna do it over the phone.”

“Come inside,” Steve said, pushing the door open wider so that you could step in.

You almost followed him but then stopped. “No, wait… I kinda just wanna say this here.”

Steve looked at you confused, but ultimately nodded. “Okay.” He then stepped out of his house and closed the door behind him; his clothes immediately got wet. “It feels wrong that you’re the only one getting hit by the rain.”

You laughed a bit. “Thank you. That’s very considerate.”

Things got quiet for a second and you suddenly felt nervous, but you pushed that feeling to the side.

“I know you said that we don’t need to talk about the party and we should pretend that it never happened. And although that’s exactly what I’d been doing for the past few days, I don’t wanna do that anymore.” It actually didn’t feel too hard to let all of this out; verbalizing exactly what had been going on in your head. In a way, it felt like a relief. “I think I kissed you that night because deep down I know that it’s you too. And that it’s always been you… Which is actually so scary to think about because we’ve known each other for so long and you’re the one person in my life that has been the biggest constant. You’ve seen every part of my very horrific love life and I don’t want us to end up like any of the stupid relationships I had before, and I think that’s why I ran away that night, which I do really regret.” You pulled your eyes away from his for a second. “But, what we have is different, and I want to try. I want us to try.”

You let out a long breath. “Okay, that’s it.”

Steve didn’t say anything for a few moments, and it was then that you realized how loud the rain was, and somehow it was actually a bit calming to hear the sounds of the heavy drops hitting the ground.

You searched his eyes to see if you could decipher what he was thinking, but before you could get a clear read on anything, he was closing the small bit of distance between you both and reaching up to cup your face in his hands before leaning in to kiss you.

The abruptness of the action slightly startled you, but you were completely okay with this nonverbal response to you pouring your heart out. You were kissing him back almost immediately and suddenly the sound of the rain was gone and instead all you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

The kiss felt perfectly new but also so insanely familiar; even though this was the first time this was happening sober. And so many things were running through your mind, but it was also effectively blank and you knew you wouldn’t be able to form a coherent sentence even if you tried.

Most of all, though, everything happening right then— the way your hands fisted themselves in his rain soaked t-shirt to pull him impossibly closer to you, and how his thumb stroked your cheek so tenderly— it all felt so certain and sure and right; there wasn’t an ounce of doubt lingering in the air around you both or lacing its way within the kiss.

When you pulled away to catch your breath and smiled up at him, a smile that Steve immediately matched with an elated grin of his own, it slightly killed you that all of this hadn't happened sooner.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“i just wanted you to know that this is me trying.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

let me know ur thoughts<333

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x fem!reader #stranger things fluff #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington imagines #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington

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kenziebluex · 2 months ago

Text

The Broken Heart That Makes Us

Story Description:

Your arranged marriage is on its last legs. After making an agreement with your step son, Megumi, you are puzzled when you are faced with finally making a decision.

Your whole life so far has been planned for you, leading you to struggle with the idea of moving on and finding something stable…someone stable.

Will you finally be able to let go of the life that was made for you? Will there be others out there willing to pick up the pieces?

(18+) Pairings: Toji, Gojo, Geto, Nanami, & Choso.

Chapter 1:

“Mom” Megumi said, knocking me out of my own thoughts.

“Are you okay?”

That question was a hard one to answer. Leave it to Megumi to read me like the back of a book. We are currently on the way home after you picked him up from Jujutsu High. His last class ended at 4 and unfortunately you didn’t make it to pick him up until 4:30. You got stuck in traffic after having a long argument with his father. If you were counting you would say that it’s the 10th argument you have had with him this week and it’s only Wednesday

Releasing a quiet sigh you put on the same mask you always wear for Megumi.

“Yea I’m okay, how was class today?” you quickly reply, giving him your biggest smile while nudging his arm from the driver's seat. Since he recently turned 14 years old you have allowed him to sit in the passenger seat from time to time. Mostly when you pick him up from school so the other students don’t find some reason to pick on him. Megumi isn’t the most social so you do everything in your power to not be that embarrassing mom that refuses to let their kid grow up. If it was up to you he would be 14 years old forever.

“Good..” he answered hesitantly like he had more to say. You can see him chewing on the string of his hoodie, something you know he does when he's nervous.

“Anything else?” you question hoping he will give you a hint as to what he's thinking about. You never push but right now you are worried it’s something serious.

“I have a tournament on Friday at 6pm.” Megumi muttered quietly.

You let out a sigh in relief that it isn’t bad news. He had you worried there for a second. Megumi has been in martial arts since he was 12 years old. You were hesitant to let him join at first but realized that you did feel better with the thought of him being able to defend himself. He fell in love with the sport and since then you have been his number one supporter attending all his events and taking him to all his practices.

“You remember what we talked about right mom,,..I just need to know if you are serious because I am?” suddenly you begin to feel uneasy. You hadn't forgotten but maybe you just pushed it down so you wouldn’t have to think about it. You and him had an agreement, both of you frustrated with the treatment they were receiving from his father.

It wasn’t an easy decision and you have been putting it off for over 4 years now. That was until it started affecting Megumi's mental health a few years ago. Megumi was diagnosed with acute depression and was placed on small doses of medication to help with his anxiety. While he got the help he needed from a psychologist you still haven’t done your part and you knew what needed to be done.

“If he doesn’t come we have to move on.” Megumi whispered and you could feel him looking at you from the passenger seat.

Flashback

You can remember the day clearly. The day you were set to be wed to Toji Fushiguro. When you got the call from your parents it was October 20th and you were walking into work. That morning you recall the leaves were falling from the trees at an extreme pace as the wind picked up rapidly around you.

Entering the office you were met by numerous stares and hushed whispers. You couldn’t make out many of the words but you remember hearing “married” and “Fushiguro”. You remember thinking to yourself that Fushiguro was the last name of the mafia leaders that your dad just represented in court. Your firm had managed to secure this case and it was an important one to a lot of important people. This was a case that went on for a year and lucky your firm was able to win. You didn’t think your parents would be alive right now if they failed. Even so you had no idea why everyone was looking at you.

Your questions were answered as soon as you walked into your fathers office. You were met with not only your parents but 2 middle aged men in suits along with a small boy that couldn’t be older than 12.

You recognized the men as Toji Fushiguro and his father who you could recall having the last name Zenin. You only recognise them because they were a part of the many mafia leaders on trial that got off. You were aware of Toji having a son, who you assumed was the small boy standing next to him.

Toji was nice to look, 6'2 but his height wasn't what you were focused on at the moment. It was his almost perfect face.

“Excuse me dad, you called me into your office, did you need something?.” you cut to the chase feeling uncomfortable standing in the room. You felt as though you were interrupting an important conversation and didn’t understand why your dad would call you into his office early in the morning.

“Yes, gentlemen this is my lovely daughter I was telling you about” my dads voice boomed in the room as he guided me to sit in an open chair facing Toji. You could already tell by your fathers voice he was coming up with some terrible idea. You were used to him trying to be flashy and show off to his colleagues and clients so you figured this time was no different.

“Does she know about the agreement?” Toji said with a look not fazed by my fathers antics.

“What agreement?” I said slightly, raising my voice looking to my father for an answer. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Toji shaking his head and his father looking unamused.

“Watch your mouth.” my father started his explanation. “You are to be wed to Toji, we have entered an arrangement with the Fushiguro/Zenin mafia. In exchange for winning the case his son would give us the honor of marrying my only daughter. We also will be greatly compensated for entering the family.”

If you had a bottle of water you would drink it just to spit it out.

“Like hell I am” you said laughing while sitting in the chair holding your stomach from laughing so hard. What did he think this was some fucked up mafia romance novel. You knew your father was crazy but not this crazy.

It took you a minute to recover from that mini laugh session. Tears of laughter were falling from your face. You felt a tap when you recovered that caused you to look up. You were met by the small boy in front of you holding out a water bottle.

“My mom used to give me water when I would cry” he said in a quiet tone.

“Thank you… what’s your name?” you said, taking the water from his hands gently. He looked very timed and you felt as though you didn't want to frighten him.

“Megumi” he whispered while moving to stand back beside his dad.

“Daughter, I'm serious. You are 20 years old and never had a boyfriend. You had your choice to marry wealthy. Our family could benefit substantially from this ordeal, plus you will also be greatly compensated.” my dad said with a stern voice. I used to be scared when he would use that tone of voice. You went to interject and curse him out but his next words stopped you in your tracks.

“I’m not giving you a choice here, the papers have already been signed”

What does he mean the papers have already been signed. The last time you remember signing anything was several days ago when he asked you to sign an agreement paper for him….

“You said that paperwork was so I can take lead on the next case” you said feeling deceived and knew you shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up of your father seeing your true potential.

“Technically you will still be lead on the next case” your father said chuckling to himself.

At this point you were left speechless. You didn’t know what to do.

You thought of crying, thought of yelling, hell you even thought of throwing something in the room. You looked around at your surroundings but stopped when you landed on Megumi's face.

He looked terrified. Why did he look terrified?

It hit you as soon as the question popped in your brain. He was terrified of you. Megumi was scared of how you would react and for some reason you didn’t want him to be scared of you.

Taking a deep breath you addressed the room at once. Your tone of voice cold and stern.

“When?”

Flashback Over

Since that day you and Megumi have been joint at the hip. You got married to Toji 6 years ago and the marriage has been one of the hardest things you have gone through in your 26 years of life.

You were wed by the end of the week after having that meeting in your fathers office. The wedding was a large wedding with over 300 guests that you didn’t know. At the time you didn’t know just how wealthy the Fushiguro/Zenin mafia was but you found out that day. The venue was decorated beautifully and the itinerary was laid out nicely even though you had no say in any of the schedule or the decorations. You were practically treated as a guest at your own wedding.

The Zenin’s provided you with a money compensation that you have kept saved away and have only spent on Megumi’s education. You enrolled him in the finest institution to make up for the fact that he had to deal with this fucked up situation.

Now that you think back on everything it happened so fast and life has passed you by quickly. You were still married to Toji and living in his two bedroom apartment with Megumi. Toji managed to blow through his money gambling resulting in you guys downsizing in the last few years. You offered to pay for a better living arrangement but he declined your offer. He said he preferred smaller living.

Not that it mattered because he doesn’t return home most of the time and if he does it’s late at night. Even though Toji’s family has money and you were both compensated for the arrangement he continuously blames you and Megumi for him not being able to ‘work’. You know what he means when he says ‘work’ and you suspect that he is already taking up odd jobs which has resulted in more arguments this week.

Focusing back to the present you realize that you have arrived home. The lights are on so you assume Toji is still inside and you just hope he has calmed down from the argument earlier.

You and Megumi get out of the car to head inside. Picking up trash in the front of the entrance as you make your way up to the 4th floor.

You just hope for peace for the rest of the night.

✿❀○❀✿

You don’t know why you stay.

Entering the apartment you aren’t shocked anymore by the scene in front of you. The living room table and the kitchen island you just cleaned the morning before was dirty. You only left out a few hours ago so it only took less than 4 hours for Toji to create the mess. Magazines and beer bottles on the table and carry out food containers left on the kitchen island. In the corner of the living room table was a gun along with a knife and several cigarette packs. At least he had the nerve to use an ashtray for the cigarettes. Sighing loudly you tell Megumi to head to his room noticing that the boy is already moving to head that way. Just like you, he is used to a routine whenever Toji is home.

Your body moved like it was on autopilot. You quickly looked under the cabinet for trash bags to dispose of the empty items that he left along with the magazines. Toji reads them when he's here but you notice he never takes them when he leaves. They always end up staying on the table unless you throw them out.

The gun and the knife were another story. You accidently threw out a small knife one time by accident when you were cleaning and Toji made it his mission to remind you of it constantly that night. He was mad and in the end it resulted in you and Megumi having to get a hotel for the night to get away from the constant yelling.

“What is wrong with me?” you question yourself outloud. You should have left a long time ago and when you found out the contract expired a few weeks ago you promised Megumi that you would take him with you. You hadn’t known that the marriage contract you ‘signed’ was only good for 5 years. So while you were still married to Toji the mafia argument that binds you guys together was no longer valid. You could get a divorce finally but when it comes to the custody of Megumi that's a different story.

Toji knew you were planning to divorce him. He actually pre-signed the papers last week stating that he would be gone before everything was even finalized. You were nervous to even bring up the conversation of taking custody of Megumi. Would he even care?

Focusing back to the living room you stare at the clean space. Everything was clean and clear except for the gun and knife. You didn’t know what to do as you didn’t want to touch the items. You were out of gloves since the last time you had to clean blood off of a towel Toji left on the couch.

Not wanting to leave it there, you realized you had no choice but to wake up Toji.

Walking to the master bedroom you turned on the hall light before peaking into the bedroom. “Toji” you said weakly hoping he wouldn’t hear you.

“I’m not sleep”

“And if I was that weak ass whisper of my name wouldn’t have woke me up.”

You roll your eyes pushing open the door to enter. Your eyes adjust to the dim light and you are met with Toji laying on his back scrolling on his phone. The thick black cover is only pulled over his mid sections and his shirt is thrown on the floor next to the bed along with his slippers he occasionally wears indoors. His abs are on full display and his black hair has grown out, making his bed hair look messier. Even though you and him don’t get along, you have eyes, he looks like a finely made roman statue.

“Can you please get the gun and knife off the table so I can go lay down peacefully?” you said trying your hardest to be nice for the sake of Megumi in the other room.

“Why can’t you just move it?” he replied, smirking while leaning up on his elbows causing the blanket to slip off his lap.

“My eyes are up here ma.” he continued smirking at your obvious display of checking him out. He knows he looks good which doesn’t help.

“Cut the shit, I don’t know what you have used those for. Just move them so Megumi doesn’t see them.” you gave up on being nice. Toji makes it so difficult for you to remain calm.

“Megumi this Megumi that, a little gun isn’t gonna scare him he grew up around it.” stated Toji laying back down on the bed.

“Please Toji.” you sighed out walking further in the room. He looked over from his phone getting a better look of you. You could see his eyes taking in your black and red sundress you rushed to throw on earlier while you were rushing out. He must have thought of something because next thing you know he’s sitting back up.

“Where were you going to lay down?” he asked, looking me over.

“The other room.” you answered. Even though he already knew the answer. Anytime Toji was present you choose to sleep in Megumi's rooms on an air mattress you guys kept for times like this. It was easier so that you could actually get some rest.

“I’ll make you a deal. Come lay with me and I'll move the gun.”

“Fine” you gave in too quickly like you always end up doing. That's how you find yourself laid out on the bed with a half naked Toji above you.

Toji started leaving kisses down your neck moving slowly. He loves to tease. It's been so long since you have hooked up with each other. You were sure Toji finds company in other people but you on the other hand don’t have the time or energy to venture out. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

“Get out of your head ma,.. think later” Toji muttered while taking your left breast into his mouth. He moved further down your body leaving several marks, he always leaves marks. By now you are whining and tugging on his head trying to move him further down to where you need him.

“Toji stop teasing.” you beg resulting in him biting hard on your right thigh. Drawing a sharp hiss out of your throat.

“Was that an order babe?” Toji said, looking up from in between my thighs. He’s in that kind of mood today. You could tell it was going to be a long night.

“No.” you say, turning your head into the pillow next to you while he adjusts your legs over his broad shoulders. A stutter left you at the movement.

“Look at me” he said. Turning back and looking down you were met with a sight that always makes you weak. Toji had such an intense look on his face his eyes shined with a look of hunger. His once brown eyes looked to be black. He turned back to the task at hand knowing that your eyes wouldn’t leave him.

He left a couple more kisses and marks on your thighs and legs before burying his face into the middle of your legs. Your legs shook as he swiped his tongue over your clit before moving to fuck you with his tongue. His nose is now grazing your clit as he tongue fucks you.

“F-fuck, please” you practically scream. You would be fucking into his face if it wasn’t for the fact that your legs were over his shoulders.

Toji always ate you out as if he was starving. His mouth and tongue never missed anywhere grazing over all the sensitive parts of your pussy.You felt like you were floating every single time. It was always messy because he loved to take his time. He loved to make a mess of you.

“Please, please–” you were holding his hair at point, being careful not to tug. You know if you did he would stop and you didn’t want that. You were practically crying which you knew was one of Toji’s favorite things.

“Please what doll?” he said looking into your eyes, mouth wet and you can see his tongue licking at his bottom lip getting more of a taste of you.

“Can I cum please Toji?” you asked as you could feel a couple of tears fall onto your check. By now he has been eating you out for over 30 minutes and you have given up on acting like you didn’t need him inside you.

“Hmm,,.not yet only after you have been good to me” Toji said, moving up from the position he was in. He was now sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Get on your knees doll.” he ordered. You could barely feel your legs as you got off the bed and kneeled between his legs. You hadn’t moved quick enough for Toji because you felt his hand firmly gripping your hair tugging you closer to him.

“Suck me” Toji said, looking down at you. He hadn’t removed his sweatpants yet but you know what he wanted.

You placed your lips on the outline of his dick. Sucking and licking at the cotton as if it wasn’t in the way. He groaned several times lightly pulling at your hair while grinding into your face. While he was patient with you when it came to his pleasure, that was a different story.

Toji stood up pulling his sweatpants down while still keeping a firm grip on your hair.

“Ahh, wait-” you were cut off by him practically shoving himself down your throat. You were extremely wet now and knew you had to be leaking onto the floor. He was choking you on his cock which caused more tears to stream down your face.

His hips moved pushing him deeper in your throat while his hands worked to control your head. You could feel the tip of his dick in the back of your throat.

Toji was well endowed and if it wasn’t for you being with him sexually for the last 6 years you knew there was no way you would be able to take him this deep. He knew this and reminded you from time to time that he has ‘trained your throat’ for him.

The sounds in the room were deep groans from Toji and moans from you that could be heard only when he slipped out of your throat. You could tell by his movement that Toji was close. Groaning his hips jerked and he slipped back, tapping his wet cock against your tongue.

“Fu- Swallow it” he stuttered in between his higher pitched groans. He was moaning at this point. Surely enough he emptied in your mouth without giving you a chance to take a breath until he was done.

As you went to swallow you were yanked to stand on your legs by your throat. He had a firm grasp on your throat that almost caused me to choke. He pulled me in front of him so you only had to glance up some to see his face.

“Now swallow” he said, his hand not leaving your throat wanting to feel you swallow his load. You swallowed looking him straight in the eyes as you did. Your eyes were still teary and your legs were weak as you stood in front of him. That seemed to not be enough for him.

“Open” he said in almost a whisper tone. Grazing his hand against your lips he looked as if he was holding himself back to not lose control. His eyes remained black and his expression didn’t give away what he was going to do.

Toji gently grabbed your face with his other hand while you opened your mouth, remembering to keep eye contact. He leaned down and spit directly in your mouth. Hand still around your throat as you swallowed his spit. His spit tasted like cigarettes and you can smell the beer strong from his mouth.

‘Smack’ his hand lightly smacked your face while he spit in your mouth again. The slap wasn’t hard but it still made a sound that echoed in the room.

“I told you to stop thinking doll, it’s okay i’ll help you relax” Toji said walking you backwards until you fell on the bed with him on top of you.

“Do you want me to make you cum?” he said, teasing his fingers at my entrance.

“Please, y-you promised.” you sobbed at this point needing him inside you. You felt wet and empty and knew that the only way you would get relief is if he was inside you.

“Promised?” he chuckled, slipping two fingers inside of you. He never starts with one knowing you will open right up for him.

“Hmm.” he hums.

“I don’t remember making that promise.” Toji moved on to tease your clit while his two fingers continued pumping into you at a slow rate. You were moaning into your hand while you were almost riding his fingers at this point. If he stops you, you might die.

“I’m tired, maybe we should stop for the night doll.” he said, not looking tired at all. You knew he was testing you to see what kind of reaction he could get out of you. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction but you needed to cum.

You moved from under him pushing him on his back so you were now on top of him. Your legs were still shaking but you moved on and you were on your knees hovered over him.

Reaching behind, you grip his cock lining him up with your entrance. You let out a gasp as his throbbing member entered you. You forgot that Toji doesn’t need much of a recovery after cumming, his second rounds always last longer. You might have taken on more than you can handle.

“I found the papers you had in the bedside drawer” he said, giving you one of his flashy smiles while he leaned back with his hands behind his head.

What papers? The only thing you had in the drawer was…. Oh shit

You freeze up, not moving scared of his reaction.

“Don’t stop now doll” Toji grabbed my waist moving my body up and down slowly on his cock.

“If you do a good job i’ll sign them for you” he casually said watching your boobs move up and down because of his actions.

“You promise?” you choked out feeling tears threatening to escape your eyes. He gave you a look like he was searching for what to say. His black eyes looked like their regular brown color as he sat up so you two were face to face.

“I promise.” Toji whispered into your lips kissing you for the first time tonight. You can’t recall the last time you guys kissed. This kiss was passionate and you were right about his breath smelling like beer but now you were fully tasting it. You weren’t used to this kind of emotion from Toji. You didn’t even compete for dominance just wanting to feel him close to you.

The room was filled with moans and cries as you rode him into oblivion. Motivated by him signing the papers but you were also feeling an urgent need to make this memorable. Something was telling you that this was the last time that you would be able to feel him.

You couldn’t tell who came first but you felt it as Toji filled you up. You thanked yourself for starting birth control recently.

When you caught your breath you moved to clean yourself up leaving Toji in the room. You took a shower in the bathroom using hot water to relax your muscles. After washing you glanced at yourself in the mirror.

“Jesus.” you knew Toji left plenty of marks but you looked like you had been mauled.

Leaving the bathroom after changing into one of your night gowns you were stopped in your tracks. Toji was now lying under the covers curled up on the right side of the bed. The lamp was on by the desk and while you walked over to turn it off you noticed papers and a pen sitting on the table.

Picking it up you realized he had actually signed it. Toji signed the custody papers giving you full custody of Megumi.

You couldn’t help but let out a soft sob. At this point you didn’t know if you were crying tears of joy or sadness. While you were losing a marriage you were gaining something more important. You couldn’t help but to have feelings for Toji after all these years and the thought of leaving scared you as he was the only thing you have known for the last few years. Starting over was scary but you knew you needed to.

Turning to leave the room you were stopped by a hand on your arm.

“Don’t go. Lay with me, one last time.” looking down you were met by the face of the man you married 6 years ago.

tag: @beetusbritt❤ divider by @cafekitsune art credit 1: ig: arekushisu (commission do not use) art credit 2: twitter: ayushnz_ ❀follow for more ❀ ao3: kenzieblue❀

-kenzie & des

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen fic #toji smut #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #jjk x reader #jjk megumi #megumi fushiguro #jjk toji #art commisions #jjk smut

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xiaq · 2 years ago

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Is it time for a Steddie time travel fix-it AU? (yes)

A03

There’s something wrong with Steve Harrington.

It’s not that Eddie’s watching him. Not that he pays any special attention to him. But the guy is noticeable. He’s the closest thing Hawkins has to royalty: Rich. Star athlete. Attractive. He’s the cliche golden boy of every teen movie with his polos and letterman jacket and vacant, pretty smile as he walks down hallways with his arm around the girl-of-the-week. He’s a predictable staple; a static figure in the horror script that is Eddie’s high school existence.

So when Steve Harrington shows up to school on an otherwise ordinary Wednesday looking and acting really fucking different, Eddie notices.

Well, he doesn’t actually look all that different. The clothes are normal. But his hair is far from its typical careful coiffure, and there’s a frantic energy to him as he shoves his way through the double doors and jogs into the empty hallway.

He doesn’t see Eddie, tucked in the bathroom alcove.

The only people at the school this early are the marching band kids, wrapping up their hellishly early practice, and Eddie, waiting to sell to a tuba player with no concept of how much weed should actually cost. Eddie has no intention of informing him.

Steve Harrington, pacing in front of a segment of lockers, checking his watch, shoving his fingers through his hair, is wildly out-of-place in the bright-lit early-morning hallway.

And then, things get weirder.

Because Robin Buckley exits the band room and they both freeze.

“Fuck,” she says, “are you––”

“Rob,” Steve says, and it's the most gut-wrenching sound Eddie has maybe ever heard in his life.

She throws herself at him and they hug like—Eddie doesn’t even know. Like the people you see on the news from war zones who thought their family had been killed before a miraculous reunion.

“Are you ok?” she asks, voice cracked and carrying in the empty hallway. “I woke up this morning and my mom was just acting like everything was normal and I had to get to practice and I thought maybe it had all been some fucked up dream but even I’m not that creative.” She pushes away from him, tugging up the bottom of his shirt, “what about––are you––?”

He grabs her wrist, shaking his head. “No, I’m fine. I’m completely fine. I’m just…1983 me.”

What the fuck, Eddie thinks.

Well, he’s already been thinking that, but. What does that even mean? What else would he be?

“Are the kids ok?”

What kids?

“I don’t know. I don’t have a walkie or anything anymore it’s all––” Steve gestures, “reset. And if this is ‘83 then they’re all actual children again, El might not even be––and what if they don’t––”

“They have to. I mean, if we do, they have to, right?”

Are they on drugs? Is he on drugs? The blunt he smoked last night shouldn’t cause hallucinations. He pinches himself. Ow.

The band hall doors open again and Eddie shifts further into the alcove as several horn players walk past.

“We can figure things out after school,” Steve murmurs. “We just have to hold it together until then. I don’t know if we’re stuck here or not but if we are––”

“Right. Act normal. Just normal, 16-year-old Robin things. No problem.”

They grab each other again, a tight, desperate, embrace that is not at all normal, Eddie feels it’s important to point out. He didn’t even think that Harrington knew Buckley existed. It’s almost as strange as if Harrington decided to hug Eddie. Inexplicable.

They separate, Robin rubbing at her eyes and Harrington muttering something about not remembering his locker combination. Eddie’s customer arrives before he can decide if he wants to investigate things further.

Focusing in his first period is even more impossible than usual. Focusing on math is tedious enough normally, but when Robin Buckley and Steve Harrington are having some sort of shared nervous breakdown it’s even harder to care about logarithmic functions.

He sees Steve again in the hallway after first period and Eddie will admit he’s actively looking for him now. Steve is talking in hushed tones to Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Beyers of all people. His hair is an absolute wreck, and his posture is…Eddie doesn’t know how to describe it. 'Aggressive' isn’t quite right but it’s close.

And then, like Harrington has some sort of intuition he’s being watched, he glances up and meets Eddie’s eyes.

Eddie doesn’t know why he runs. His fight or flight instincts have been well-honed his 4 years at Hawkins High and there’s something about the feral-ness in Steve’s stance, the completely unfathomable emotion in his eyes, that has Eddie shoving his way around the corner and into the bathroom. He drops his lunchbox into the sink and pushes both hands into his hair with a quietly muttered: “fuck.” He feels like he might be going crazy.

The door opens.

“Eddie,” Steve says.

It sounds strangely similar to the way he’d said “Rob” that morning–full of something Eddie doesn’t understand.

“Harrington,” he says warily.

Steve takes two steps forward and Eddie automatically scrambles backward, running into the wall and bashing his elbow against the paper towel dispenser. Steve has never actually hurt him before, but some of the guys he hangs out with have and—

Steve freezes: both hands out, reaching for nothing.

“You don’t—?”

There’s a question, there, but Eddie has no idea what it is.

“Eddie?” he says again. This time, it’s desperate and Eddie has no idea why.

The only time he’s ever seen someone’s eyes look like this is when he was looking at his own reflection in the church’s bathroom mirror, clinging to the sink at his mother’s funeral.

“Yeah?” Eddie asks.

Steve’s jaw works. “You don’t remember,” he says blankly.

“Remember what? You’re kinda freaking me out, dude, which is impressive, considering,” he gestures expansively to himself, gives a little shake of his hips so the chains rattle.

Steve doesn’t laugh.

“You don’t remember,” he repeats, more to himself than Eddie. “But you’re ok?”

He’s looking at Eddie’s chest.

“Yes? A-okay. Tip top. Hagan barely touched me yesterday, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

“Tommy hurt you?” Steve says.

Well, shit. The crazy eyes are back.

“Man, why do you care?”

“Sorry,” Steve says. “I’m sorry, I know this doesn’t make any sense to you, but can I just–”

Eddie lets him approach, this time. Lets him reach out to touch. It’s just one hand, at first, tentative, like Steve is expecting to be rebuffed, palm cupped to the ball of his shoulder over his jacket. “Sorry,” he says again, letting go only to reach for the hem of Eddie’s shirt, “Sorry, I know I probably sound crazy, I just––” he pulls it up, stares at Eddie’s side, and then lets out a hysterical little noise that sounds like a cross between a laugh and a sob.

“You’re ok,” he says.

His fingers are hot on Eddie’s skin, pressed light and shockingly reverent to the space between his hip and rib cage.

“You’re ok,” he repeats. It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

“Hey,” Eddie says, it comes out more breathless than he’d prefer but Steve fucking Harrington has him backed against a wall in a bathroom with his hands up Eddie’s shirt so he thinks a little lack of air is warranted. “Are you ok?”

The fingers on his abdomen flex.

“No,” Steve says. His eyes are wide and fathomless and the look on his face is terrible. “No, I’m not even remotely ok.”

It sounds like a confession.

Steve lets go of Eddie’s shirt.

He takes a studied step back but then stops, palm still splayed on Eddie’s side, free hand reaching for Eddie’s arm, for his elbow, to cling, like he can’t quite force himself to stop touching; not yet. He’s looking at Eddie like Eddie has broken his heart which doesn’t make any sense because they don’t know each other. They’ve never spoken directly to each other in their lives. So there’s no reason that Steve should be looking at him, like, like––

Like he is.

They’re breathing each other’s second-hand air and Eddie can smell him and there have only been a few times in his life when a boy has looked at Eddie with even half the want that Steve Harrington is looking at him with now. And never, never has a man who looks like Steve Harrington looked at Eddie with anything approaching whatever the hell is on Steve’s face.

“Eddie,” Steve says, and he sounds so lost.

Eddie’s not proud of it.

He runs away.

He shoves Steve to the side, wrenches open the door, and runs without stopping through the hall, outside, down the sidewalk, and onto the main road. He runs until he has to stop because he can’t breathe and only then does he bend over, hands braced on knees, and look behind him. He almost expects to see Steve has followed him.

He hasn’t.

Eddie can't decide if he's relieved by that or not. And then he realizes he’s left his entire stash in the lunchbox in the bathroom.

“Fuck,” he hisses, straightening, hands on his head, lungs aching.

“Fuck,” he says again, just for the hell of it.

He has no idea what’s happening.

But what he does know is that something is seriously wrong with Steve Harrington.

Pt2 here.

#steddie #steddie fic #time travel #myfic #mywriting #steve harrington/eddie munson #eddie x steve #steve x eddie #robin & steve

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cherrycola27 · 7 months ago

Text

A Favor Among Friends

Series Warnings: Language, alcohol consumption, historical inaccuracies. Regency era men and ideals. Eventual Smut. RegencyEra!AU Banner Credit @thedroneranger

Masterlist Previous Part Next Part

...........................................

Chapter 2: The Offer

Your heart leaped in your chest when Bradley walked into the room. He brought your daisies, your favorite flower. He brought some lilacs for your mother and a bottle of wine from his travels for your father.

Sitting with him in the drawing room, talking felt so easy, so natural. You knew that he was the one for you. If you had it your way, by the end of the season, you'd be his Viscountess. You were giddy at the thought.

Bradley was just about to leave when your brother and his wife walked in. Eddie immediately asked to speak to Bradley in the study to catch up, you presumed. So, you excused yourself and took your sister-in-law by the hand and led her to the sewing room so you could show her the latest embroidery piece you'd been working on. Once you were married, you'd be able to join her sewing circle.

"Edmund! It's so good to see you!" Bradley exclaimed as he walked into the study. "What are you doing here, Bradshaw?" Your brother asked him harshly. Bradley looked at him puzzled.

"I'm calling on your sister. I intend to court her and take her as my wife." Bradley said as if it was the most obvious thing.

"No." Eddie deadpanned. "No? What do you mean, no?" Bradley asked him. "No, you cannot court, my sister, and you most certainly cannot take her as your wife. I will not allow it!" Edmund state.

"I don't believe that is your choice, Mister Beaumont. I believe the say is your father's, Lord Beaumont. Bradley narrowed his eyes.

"She is my sister! My baby sister! And I am your best friend. You have known her all of her life, and she was like a sister to you! Which is why I don't understand why you would want to court her. And as far as having her marry someone I know, I'd much rather her marry a stranger than my best friend whom I know all about. I know every triste and affair you have had Bradshaw. And my sister deserves an honorable man. Someone who will be faithful to her." Your brother exasperated.

"I have my father's ear. He will listen to me." Eddie bit back. "Why can I not court Ducky? She is a wonderful woman who is well accomplished in many talents and has been a friend to me my whole life! Surely you would rather her marry someone you know than someone you don't?" Bradley asked your brother.

"You think I am not honorable? I am a gentleman, and unlike many men of the Ton, I have no bastard children. And I would be faithful to Ducky." Bradley argues back.

"Bradley," your brother sighs, "you are a rake. You have been since we were six-and-ten, when your mother passed. I am not saying that you are a bad person. But I know that it is not a lifestyle you will be able to give up. I know I am being harsh, but you are not good enough for my sister, and you will only break her heart. So please. As your friend, I am asking you not to call on her again." Eddie finished.

Bradley clenched his jaw. "Fine." He walked to the door and paused. "I'll be taking my leave now. Bid your family a good day for me." He said before storming out.

..............

You were saddened that you didn't get to give Bradley a proper goodbye, but hopefully, you would see him again.

Rainy weather kept everyone inside for a week, but on a fine Wednesday morning, the sun broke through the clouds and brought new life back to the Ton.

That afternoon, your mother insisted that you go to Market Square and promenade with her and your brother and hopefully find a suitor.

You looked and saw that Eddie and your mother had stopped for a refreshment, so you quickly walked over and looped your arm with Bradley's.

You wore a golden yellow dress with fine beadwork, some white lace gloves, and your hair swept up away from your face. You were walking slightly ahead of your brother and mother when you spotted Lord Harrington coming down the path towards you. You curled your nose at the thought of promonading with him and quickly looked around for a way out. Just across the path, you spotted a familiar frame.

He was startled to see you. "Ducky? What are you doing?" He asked you.

"Lord Harrington was about to come ask me to promenade with him, and I would rather jump in the pond. Which is quite the risk because I cannot swim." You giggle.

Bradley laughed at you before escorting you to your family.

"Lady Beaumont, Mister Beaumont," Bradley nodded to them. "I was hoping I could escort Miss Beaumont through Market Square this afternoon. Would that be alright?" He asked.

"Of course!" Your mother cheered and smiled at him. Eddie smiled too, but you couldn't help but notice how pained he looked.

"Thank you." You whisper to Bradley. "Lord Harrington is determined to have me has his third wife and refuse to be it." You say. "You are not someone's third wife. You are someone's first and only wife." Bradley said to you. You smiled and turned away from him, fearing the blush in your cheeks would give away the crush you had on him.

"You know, we have to stop meeting like this, Lord Bradshaw." You chuckle as you curl your arm tighter around his.

"What ever do you mean, Ducky?" He asks you, still using that nickname he gave you all those years ago. You turn slightly to see your mother and brother walking a few feet behind you.

"I mean," you drop your voice to a whisper, "I swept you into to promenading with me through Market Square to avoid a suitor, just like you swept me onto the dance floor at the first ball of the season."

"I didn't hear any complaining from you when I did. However, if you'd like, I could always find someone else." Bradley chuckled and lifted his hand as if he was going to pull away. "No!" You said hastily, clapping your hand down over his. He let out a chuckle and shook his head. He enjoyed spending time with you, truly.

He turned back for a moment to see your brother shooting daggers at him. Bradley shook his head. You were the one who pursued him this time, but your brother didn't know that.

...........

Three months. It had been three months since the first ball of the season, and you had yet to secure a proposal from Bradley. He hadn't called on on you since the first ball, but he'd danced with you and each one since then. Always two dances. One quatrain, one waltz.

Each time was always magical, yet he'd neglected to call in you again. Unfortunately, Lord Harrington had called on you three other times. Each one worse than the prior visit.

However, as you sat at your vanity, you hoped that Bradley's mind had changed. He promised you that he would be at your home this week and your parents had told you to wear something "elegant" because they had news for you this afternoon.

You donned a beautiful emerald green dress with pearl adornments your mother loaned to you. As you descended the stairs, you heard voices and in the drawing room. They seemed to be in high spirits.

You took a deep breath and plastered a huge smile on your face as you walked in the room, only for it to drop at who you saw sitting with your parents.

"Lord Harrington." You grimaced. "Miss Beaumont, wonderful to see you again. Forgive me for not being able to stay longer, but I must leave." He said the moment you walked in.

"It's quite alright." You half smiled as he took his hat and kissed your hand to bid you goodbye.

"Darling, come sit." Your mother said. "We have some news, Y/N." Your father said as you sat down. "Lord Harrington has ask for your hand. He has made quite the offer."

"What? Have you accepted it? You told me I had until the end of the season, and we are only halfway through!" You shouted, smacking your hand on the table.

"Darling," your mother began, "we have not accepted his offer, but it is the only offer we have had all season. And, there is no telling how long it will be available. So, your father and I have decided that if you do not secure a match in two weeks, your betrothal to Lord Harrington will be official."

"No, no! He is old enough to be my father. How could you allow that. He has a lesser statis than we do!" You protested.

"He has a sizable estate and is willing to talk a dowry significantly smaller than your sister's was. The decision is final." Your father said before dismissing you from the room.

Tears stung your eyes as you stormed up the stairs. You couldn't believe this. Your parents were so desperate to get rid of you that they were willing to marry you off to someone twice your age that looked like he was one day away from going in the crypt.

You were so angry. You refused to be sold off like some prized heifer. You'd seen the girls who were placed into marriages like this by their parents. You had to find a way out.

You paced around your room, searching for something, anything to help. Your eyes landed on your globe.

"America, I could go to America." You whispered. There was just one problem. You needed money. Your family had money, but you'd never be able to take the amount you needed to start a new life in America without getting caught. You needed help.

"Marisol!" You called for your lady's maid. "Yes?" She asked you. "Have the stable prepare my horse. I'm going for a ride." You said. She nodded and took off.

An hour later, you had your cloak pulled up around your face as you road your mare through the pastures to your brother's estate. You were disheveled by the time you made it.

"I need your help." You demanded we the two of you were alone in his study. "With what, my dear sister?" He asked you.

"Mother and Father intend to marry me off to Lord Harrington if I do not find another suitor in two weeks. I cannot be his wife, Eddie. I will not." You say.

"So, I'm going to America. Aunt Johanna lives in North Carolina. I can reside with her until I find a more permanent place to live. But I need money to do that. Can you help me?" You beg your brother.

"Y/N, this is a crazy idea." He tells you. "Eddie, I do not care if you think I am making a rash decision. I will not be trapped in a loveless marriage to a man forty years my senior. Will you help me or not?!" You shout at him.

He sighs. "How much do you need?"

"Three thousand pounds. Enough to start over and support myself until I can find work." You say. "I know you must speak to your wife about this, but Eddie, just know, I will find a way there with or without your help."

"Give me a couple of days to get the funds together. And to arrange for me to travel with you. I will not let you make the journey alone. It's far too dangerous." Your brother tells you.

"Thank you, Edmund. Truly." You say as you hug him. "I must leave now, Mother and Father do not know I am here. I will have my things packed and find out how quickly we can leave." You say before bolting out of the room.

"You're not actually going to let her go to America, are you?" Your sister-in-law, Clarissa, spoke as she emerged from behind a bookcase.

"Of course not, I just needed to pacify her for a few days." Eddie spoke as he settled into a chair and rubbed his face. Clarissa settled onto his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"She said that she had two weeks to find another match. Do you think it's possible. Has anyone else tried to court her?" Clarissa asked him.

"Sir, Mister Edmund Beaumont is here to see you." A valet said to Bradley as he sat in his study looking over his ledgers. "Send him in." He half mumbled.

Your brother sighed before jolting up. "My god, Rissa, you're a genius!" I need the carriage at once. I have an idea!" Your brother exclaimed before running out of the room

................

"Bradley!" Eddie practically shouted as he strode in the room. "What, Eddie?" Bradley rolled his eyes, still annoyed at the conversation from a few months ago.

"I need you to do something for me as a favor among friends." Eddie said seriously. Bradley sat up straighter, noticing his friends tone, and his flushed his face was.

"What do you need, Eddie?" Bradley asked him. "I need you to marry my sister." Edmund stated.

The laugh that Bradley let out was boisterous and echoed off the walls of his study. He subsided after a few minutes and noticed that your brother was still standing there.

"Oh. You were serious, " Bradley said. "Yes, I am!" Eddie shouted. "Didn't you tell me a few months ago that I had to stop courting your sister?" Bradley said as he leaned back in his chair.

"Yes, but things have changed. My parents are going to betroth her to Lord Harrington in two weeks if she doesn't have another suitor by then, and Ducky said she refuses to marry him. So, she's planning on running away to America so she doesn't have to marry him. She came and asked me for money so she could! Do you realize how crazy that is and how dangerous it is?! Bradley! She said she would go with or without my help!" Edmund shouts.

"Eddie, if I go to your parents and ask for her hand, they are going to think I'm crazy. I called on her once!" Bradley shouted.

"Yes, but you promonaded with her at Market Square, and you've danced with her at every ball. It will not seem out of the realm of possibility." Eddie counters.

"Fine. But she already has an offer. Why would they accept mine?" Bradley asks him.

There is a long pause between the two men. Your brother can see that Bradley is weighing his options. After what seems like an eternity, he breaks his silence.

"You are a Viscount. You have a higher rank and a larger estate than Lord Harrington, and if you agree to take a smaller dowry, they will surely accept your offer. But, fear not. I will make up for the lack of dowry from my own purse. I will give you three times that of what my father does. Please, Bradley. We both know how head strong Ducky is. She will run away, and if she does, we will never see her again. I cannot lose my sister. I am sorry for the things I said before. I will never doubt your honor again if you do this for me." Edmund begs him.

"Thank you!" Eddie almost weeps as he moves to hug his friend. "You're welcome, Edmund. I know how much she means to you." Bradley says.

"Alright. I will marry her. I will go in the morning to your parents. But I do not wish for a dowry from you. Knowing that Ducky is safe is more than enough." Bradley finally says.

"She means the world to me." Edmund smiles. "I have one request, though. You must promise me that you will be faithful to her. No affairs, no mistresses." Edmund tells him. "I promise." Bradley assures your brother as he shakes his hand, and escorts him out.

Once he's gone, Bradley walks over to a painting on the wall and removes it, revealing a small safe hidden behind it.

Bradley pulled the key from his pocket and turned the lock. He opened the small door and pulled out a small blue box. Inside what his mother's betrothal ring. A stunning arrangement of sapphires and diamonds set in silver. He placed it on his desk, and tomorrow, he would place it on your hand when he asked you to be his Viscountess.

Bradley wished the situation was different. He'd wished that you were accepting his proposal out of love, not out of need. But he would be a good husband to you. He would take care of you.

..........

Convincing your parents to accept his offer was much easier than Bradley thought. He guessed that the idea of them not having to give a dowry out weighed any other reservations they had.

Your smile almost seemed genuine when he asked you for your hand. You played the part of a dutiful fiancée so well as you gushed over your ring, which was a perfect fit. It was almost as if you actually loved him, but Bradley knew that it wasn't true. And no matter how big the smile on his face was, his heart was broken.

Tagging those who might be interested: @shanimallina87 @teacupsandtopgun @desert-fern @roosterforme @daggerspare-standingby @dakotakazansky @startrekfangirl2233 @na-ta-sh-aa @katieshook02 @beyondthesefourwalls @je-suis-prest-rachel @soulmates8 @horseshoegirl @djs8891 @roosters-girl @rosiahills22 @dempy @callsign-magnolia @gretagerwigsmuse @mshistorylover @seitmai @kmc1989 @bcarolinablr @waywardhunter95 @whatislovevavy @inkandarsenic @dingochef @princess76179 @schoollover @cheyrenee @angelbabyyy99 @bobfloydsbabe @sunlightmurdock @sebsxphia @atarmychick007 @queenlmno @sweetwhispersofchaos @mamaskillerqueen @withahappyrefrain @pwficrecs @blackwidownat2814 @carolineesnell @inky-sun @hrlzy @berrypockets

#cherrycola27 #top gun maverick #top gun #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #rooster top gun #tgm #tgm fic #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster smut #a favor among friends

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avastrasposts · 1 year ago

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A Baker's Dozen - Seven

Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stand alone short stories, all set in the same bakery.

Hello!

Javi P got a lot of attention last week, both his visit to the bakery and for the many Pickled Peña fics he starred in. Thank you so much for all the lovely comments! It really means more than you probably reaslise! It's been a rough week and I feel lucky to have found a great community here and to have found so much fun and enjoyment in writing to keep my mind off things.

This week's Pedro boy is dedicated to my lovely friend @secretelephanttattoo who is not only an amazing writer, but also one of the best people I've meet on Tumblr. Love you ❤

Series Master List

Working in a bakery almost every day means you pick up on people’s habits, whether they come into the shop or not. You know the bookshop owner across the streets always arrives ten minutes late on Tuesdays. The bodega owner next to your bakery always picks up his dry cleaning on Fridays and the dry cleaning lady always throws out her trash on Thursday evening. And you know that the cute guy with a dimpled smile always walks past your shop at about eight forty-five every weekday morning.

He hasn’t always walked past, it started just a few weeks ago, but now it’s routine. You’d first noticed him when he stumbled over something on the sidewalk, smacking his hand against your window to keep his balance, and making you jump. He’d given you an apologetic smile, that’s how you know he’s got a deep dimple on his left cheek. And a really, really, great smile.

The next morning you noticed him again as he glanced in through the window and smiled, a quick wave as he hurried down the street. And the same thing the next morning and then it was a routine. Around eight forty-five, between customers, you’d keep glancing over at the window until you see him walk past in his well fitted business suit, always a tie flapping in the breeze. He has a routine with those too you notice; a blue tartan pattern on Mondays, slate gray on Tuesdays, navy blue with white dots on Wednesday and the then tartan one again on Thursdays before he ditches the ties on Fridays. You wouldn’t go as far as saying that seeing him is the highlight of your day, but when one day he doesn’t pass by, you notice. And when the rest of the week passes and he doesn’t show up at all, you feel a little bit sad, even though you never even spoke with him.

Monday morning, eight thirty, and you’re working your way through the morning rush, serving coffee and selling croissants and cinnamon rolls, he suddenly appears again. But this time he’s in front of your counter, holding on to a credit card as he smiles down at you.

“Hi,” he says, the dimple deep in his cheek, “I thought it was about time I stopped by and said hello properly.”

“Hi,” you say, a little breathless, he’s even cuter, and handsome, up close, and you’re suddenly very aware of your shiny face, straggly hair and stained apron.

“I’m Marcus, Marcus Pike,” he says, holding out his hand, “I’m the creepy guy who slams into your window and never comes inside.”

“Hi Marcus,” you reply, taking his hand, hoping yours isn’t too sweaty and clammy, “I’m the creepy baker who stares at you every morning.”

He laughs at that, a warm sound that makes your spine tingle as his eyes crinkle at the corners, a wide smile making another dimple pop on his cheek.

“I guess we need to be less creepy then,” he chuckles, “maybe I can start by buying a coffee like a normal customer?”

“That sounds like a good start,” you smile back at him, “what would you like?”

“A cappuccino, please,” he glances up at the coffee menu behind you.

“Coming right up, anything else?” You motion at the fresh croissants and pain au chocolat piled up on the counter and he looks at them with longing.

“I would love too, really…but my job, we’ve got this fitness test thing in a few weeks and I’ve got to be in shape for that. That’s why I started walking to work, instead of taking the metro.”

“Come back when the test is done then, if you pass, it’ll be on the house,” you wink at him over your shoulder as you start preparing his cappuccino.

“Now there’s the motivation I need,” Marcus laughs, stepping back and glancing over the selection inside the display cases, “But you don’t have my favorite I think.”

“No? What’s your favorite then?” you ask, “No, wait, don’t tell me, let me guess.”

“Ok,” Marucs smiles as you hand him the cappuccino in a takeaway cup,” what’s my favorite?”

You look him up and down, and he grins and takes a step back so that you can see all of him, holding out his arms and giving you a little spin.

“Hmm…business suit, always a tie, well polished shoes and a job that requires fitness tests…” you hum, enjoying the chance he’s given you at properly taking him in. His suit stretches almost tight over his broad shoulders, hugging his biceps, and when he holds out his arms, the shirt underneath hangs on for dear life. The suit jacket lifts up over his butt as he turns and you’re given the privilege of eyeing it for the first time. It’s just as cute as the rest of him and you have to mentally chastise yourself for ogling.

“What’s your guess?” he smiles, coming to a stop in front of you again.

“Carrot cake, but you wipe off the frosting to stay healthy,” you say and he manages to look both cute, amused and offended at the same time.

“No way, I would never sacrifice the frosting!” he says, pretending to be insulted as he grins, “but nice try, I really like carrot cake, but it’s not my favorite.”

“Hmm…maybe-”

“No,” he interrupts you with a wave of his hand, “you get only one guess per day, you can guess again tomorrow.” He gives you a warm smile and as he taps his credit card to pay for the coffee.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, keep guessing,” he says, stepping aside to let the man who’s just stepped into the shop approach the counter. With a final wave he disappears out through the door.

The next morning he turns up again, as the morning rush dies down, and orders another cappuccino.

“Canéles,” you say, pointing at him. “Fancy, French, just the thing a guy in a smart, well tailored suit would like.”

Marcus grins and shakes his head, “I don’t even know what they are, but keep guessing!”

“Give me more clues then!” you protest as he takes a sip of the coffee you just handed him.

“Hmm…I used to play bass in a band in college,” he says and you raise your eyebrows. He does not look like a bass player, or any kind of band member for that matter.

“Special brownies?” you ask with a wink and Marcus almost spits out his coffee.

“Definitely not,” he splutters, chuckling as he wipes his chin, “and you only get one guess per day.”

“Says who?” you ask, but you already know the answer, Marcus’s grin tells you.

“I do, my game, my rules,” he gives you a wink and heads for the door, “see you tomorrow!”

Wednesday he comes in a little bit earlier and hands you a travel mug.

“This looks brand new,” you say and he nods.

“Decided I should save on the environment, and your takeaway mugs,” he smiles, leaning on the counter while you start preparing his coffee, “What’s your guess today then?”

“Cinnabons,” you say, glancing over your shoulder, feeling butterflies erupt in your belly when his face splits into a wide grin. But he shakes his head and you give him a mock scowl.

“You’re impossible to guess!”

“Keep trying, gives me a reason to come in every morning,” he replies, “Not that I need a reason though,” he adds, a pink flush suddenly creeping up from beneath his shirt collar as he gives you an uncharacteristically shy smile.

“I’ll keep trying if you promise to keep coming in,” you smile back at him, you can feel heat creeping up your own cheeks as you hand him his travel mug. And of course his fingers touch yours, just a light brush, but enough for both of you to glance down at your hands. You jump a little as his breath catches and when you look up at him again, his lips are parted and you see the tip of his tongue peak out, just for a split second, before he composes himself.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he smiles, “thanks for the coffee again.”

Thursday he’s a little bit late, and he hurries through the door with his tie hanging around his neck, untied.

“Sorry, I worked late last night and slept through my alarm this morning,” he huffs as he reaches the counter.

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” you smile, “I only sell you your coffee,” you hand him the cappuccino you’ve already made him and he gives you a grateful look, “and let me fix your tie while you caffeinate yourself.”

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver,” he sighs and takes a long sip of the coffee as you walk around the counter and stand in front of him. You look up at him, taking hold of each end of his tie, and you suddenly realize you’ve never been this close to him before. There’s always been a counter between the two of you. Now he’s standing barely a foot away and you can smell his aftershave, warm and woody, as you adjust the tie.

“Over…under…over again…” you mumble to yourself, trying to remember what your dad taught you, “up through the neck and down…there, got it,” you say, gently tightening the tie up against the collar as Marcus lifts his chin up, “but you might want to adjust it.”

“No, it feels perfect,” he says, giving you a warm smile, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you smile back at him, tilting your head up a little to be able to meet his eyes now that he’s standing so close. You should really move back but he smells good and his eyes are so soft looking, the way he just smiles at you.

“What’s your guess?” he asks, smoothing his hand down over his tie as you drop yours to the side.

“What?” you mumble, slightly distracted by how his throat bobs just over the knot in the tie where your hands just where.

“What’s your guess for my favorite baked thing?” Marcus says again and you blink, catching on.

“Oh, of course! Uhmm…brownies? But real brownies, gooey in the middle and crunchy corners?”

“Oh….that is definitely high up on my list, but not my absolute favorite, you’re getting close though,” he grins at you, putting down his coffee mug on the counter.

“I’ve got to run, but….are you free tomorrow, after work?” he asks, his eyebrows knotting together as he waits for your answer.

“Yeah, I’m free,” you say, you can’t stop the smile breaking out on your face at the question and he smiles back at you.

“If you want, I’d really like to have dinner with you, maybe we can both drink something this time?”

“That sounds nice, I’d like that, Marcus,” you reply, butterflies multiplying in your belly as he gently puts his hand on your arm, “and I’ll definitely figure out what your favorite is by then.”

“It’s a date then,” he grins, “you supply my favorite and I’ll sort the rest, I’ll come by at closing, ok?”

You nod and before you know it, he’s leaned in and pressed a soft kiss on your cheek, “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

Friday morning Marcus stops by and buys his, by now, regular coffee, “So what’s my favorite?” he asks with a cheeky grin and you stick your tongue out at him.

“Not telling you,” you smirk at him, “I’ll serve it tonight, I’m pretty sure I’ve got it figured out now.”

“I can’t wait,” he chuckles, winking at you before he grabs his travel mug and hurries off to work.

Your day drags on and your nerves tingle every time you glance up at the clock at the wall. When the shop quietens down after lunch you prepare what you hope is Marcus’s favorite dessert, putting it in the fridge for baking later.

Just a few minutes before the clock hits closing time you hear the jingle of the doorbell and look up to see Marcus step through it. He’s changed out of his usual business suit and is wearing a leather jacket over a gray t-shirt and jeans, a bright smile as he gives you a wave. You ring up your final customer, bidding them a nice weekend as Marcus lingers to the side, and then you get a chance to say hello to him as you go to lock the door and flip the sign.

“Hi Marcus,” you smile at him as he steps forward.

“Hi,” he says, leaning down and brushing his lips against your cheek, leaving the spot tingling and your skin warm. When he straightens up he smiles at you, his eyes soft and crinkling at the corners, “I hope you don’t mind, but I have a slightly unusual plan,” he says, pointing to the duffel bag he’s got hanging from his shoulder, “Dinner’s on me, but in your kitchen.”

“You’re cooking for me?” you ask and he nods.

“Seems only fair, you’re making dessert, so I do the rest….well…” he gives a little embarrassed shrug, “with a little bit of help from my favorite restaurant.”

“Sounds like a nice plan,” you say, putting your hand on his arm and his smile brightens again, “come, let me show you the kitchen then.”

You lead him past the counter and into the back room, the kitchen clean and ready for tomorrow, except the dessert for Marcus. “What do you need?” you ask, “Help yourself to anything.”

“First of all, I need you to sit down,” he says with a smile, looking around the kitchen for a chair and spotting only the stool with wheels on, “Not many places to sit in here, huh?”

“When would I have time to just sit around?,” you laugh, taking your apron off and throwing it in the dirty laundry basket in the back room, “I usually just sit on the counter.” You heave yourself up onto the large workbench as Marcus starts unpacking his duffel bag. He’s hung his jacket on the hook by the door and now he’s crouched down, digging through the content at his feet. The gray t-shirt hugs his shoulders, stretching tight over his back and riding up, exposing a strip of bare skin just above his jeans. It’s so far from the man in the well fitted business suits you’ve been seeing every morning for the past few weeks, a much more relaxed Marcus.

“Do you wear the suits every day because your job requires you too?” you ask, taking the opportunity to stretch your tired back as you get settled on the counter, baking all day takes a toll on your body.

“Yeah, I don’t mind them but I prefer the days when I don’t have to wear them,” he answers, standing up and placing a stack of boxes next to you on the counter. “No peeking,” he says in a stern voice, smirking at you and you hold up your hands.

“I’m not touching anything,” you reply, “But I never asked what you work with?”

“I work at the FBI, with art theft,” he says and you widen your eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re an FBI agent?”

“Yeah,” he furrows his brow as he looks over at you, “do you..is- is that a problem?”

“No, no, not at all, I’ve just never met an FBI agent. It makes being a baker seem very tame is all.”

“Maybe tame is good sometimes,” he chuckles and looks around the kitchen and his brow furrows again, “Hhmm…hang on, I’ll be right back,” he says, grabbing the bag and going out into the shop again, “No peeking!”.

“What are you doing?” you call out to him as you hear tables and chairs being moved around.

“Nothing, just setting things up, just wait there,” he calls back and a few minutes later he comes back to the kitchen.

“Now, let’s get dinner ready,” he smiles, “Plates and a small saucepan?”

You direct him to them and soon he’s arranging food on two smaller plates.

“Miss,” he says, winking at you and holding out his arm, “Let me show you to your table.”

“How nice, please lead the way,” you smile at him and slip off the counter, taking his arm. He brings you out into the café part of the bakery and leads you to one of the small round tables by the window. He’s put a white table cloth on it and set two candles in the middle, another few candles arranged around the shop. The sun is setting outside and in the dim light of the shop the candles spread a golden glow, giving it an atmosphere you’ve never seen before.

“Marcus…this is lovely, I’ve never had my shop look so nice before,” you say, sitting down as he pulls out the chair for you, “It’s so…romantic,” you let it slip out without thinking but Marcus puffs up a little and beams down at you.

“I’m glad you like it, I really like your shop,” he smiles, “and I really like the shop owner, I wanted to make it special for you.”

“You might be my very favorite customer, Marcus,” you smile back up at him, your cheeks heating up and he grins.

“First course is coming right up,” he says with a smile and disappears into the kitchen.

“You should give food walking tours of the city,” you joke as Marcus smiles at you from across the table. “I’m so full but I still want to go and eat at all your favorite places right now.”

“I’d take them here first,” he says, “and make sure everyone knows where the best bakery in town is, but…” he leans forwards and grins at you, “Speaking of baking, I want to know if you’ve guessed my favorite dessert yet.”

You give him a soft laugh and mimic his movement, leaning forward to meet him across the table, “I think I might have, I just need to go and turn on the oven and then they’ll be ready in a few minutes. But I just realized, you never said what my reward would be for guessing correctly.”

Marcus hums, tapping his long fingers on his chin as he looks at you, a mischievous smile making the corner of his mouth curl up.

“I don’t think we agreed on anything, but if you go turn on the oven and I’ll come up with something good,” he says, his smile widening, making your skin heat up as his eyes seem to suggest something enticing.

Thank god for your industrial oven, it turns on and heats up to the right temperature in no time. While you pull out the dessert plates and take the ice cream out to soften, it hums to life and pings. The dessert goes in and you set a timer and go back out to Marcus, sitting down at the table again.

“It just needs a few minutes,” you tell him, “did you come up with a reward?”

“Yeah, I did, but what if you guess wrong?” he asks, “I need a reward too.”

“If I’m wrong…” you say, thinking out loud, “you tell me your favorite, and no matter what it is, I’ll make it for you.”

“That’s a nice idea,” Marcus smiles, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, the t-shirt stretching tight over his biceps, you swear you can hear a seam ripping behind him, “but I like my idea better.”

“What’s your idea then?” you ask, giving him a suspicious look, he’s got a very happy grin as he looks at you.

“If you guess wrong, I can take you on a second date,” he says and you laugh, that’s probably the easiest reward he could’ve asked for and you see the corners of his eyes crinkle as he sees your laughter.

“Hardly a difficult reward, Marcus,” you smile at him and he gives you a warm smile back, “But what if I guess right, what’s my reward then?”

“If you guess right, you get to take me on a second date,” he grins and you feel little happy bubbles in your chest as his soft eyes stay locked with yours, you can’t help but smile widely back at him.

“Deal, Marcus,” you say, holding out your hand to him. He leans forward and takes it, his large hand enveloping yours, thick fingers gently closing around yours as you both shake on it.

“I can smell chocolate,” he grins, glancing at the kitchen, “I think you’re on the right track.”

“I know you, Marcus,” you laugh, “all serious business suits on the outside, but a wild child on the inside, bass player and all.”

“Hardly the definition of a ‘wild child’,” Marcus chuckles, “now, if I’d been lead singer or lead guitar, then maybe.”

“Well, the dessert is only a little bit of a wild child, the defining factor is that at its heart, it’s very romantic, just like you.”

Marcus gives you a slightly embarrassed smile, “It’s that obvious, huh?”

“That you’re a romantic? Of course, but I like it,” you smile softly back at him, turning off the timer that’s just gone off, “Moment of truth. Did I guess right or not?”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m getting a second date either way,” he says, winking at you as you stand up and head to the kitchen.

Pulling them out of the oven you quickly plate the dessert and scoop up the vanilla ice cream, finishing with a light dusting of cocoa. Your hip bumps open the door to the shop and Marcus watches you eagerly as you bring the plates over and set them down on the table.

“If this is what I think it is, you’ve got yourself a second date,” he jokes and grins up at you.

“That’s not helpful, Marcus,” you laugh, “either way, you’ve got yourself a second date.”

“I know, that’s the beauty of this deal,” he chuckles, picking up his dessert spoon and looking at you expectantly, “Can I guess?”

“Sure, go ahead,” you smile and he pokes the dessert lightly.

“Chocolate fondant?” he asks, looking up at you, raising his eyebrows, before he digs the spoon in and cuts it open. The soft chocolate cake exterior gives way to a thick river of chocolate that pours out of the interior of the little cake. Marcus giggles and scoops up a bite of both cake and sauce and puts the spoon in his mouth, humming at the flavor and closing his eyes. You watch with pride as he tips his head back and moans, the spoon still in his mouth as he sucks it clean.

“How did you know?” he asks, a bright smile on his face when he’s finally done with his first bite.

You shrug and smile back at him, “You’re not a health freak, you didn’t recognise the more complicated French pastry, you like gooey brownies and you’re a romantic. Chocolate fondant seemed like the obvious choice. Decadent, sweet and just the right amount of fancy,” you grin at him.

You take a spoonful from your own fondant and put it in your mouth, watching the chocolate flow out from the inside, just the right amount of undercooked to keep the inside flowing and warm. The chocolate flavor spreads across your tongue, paired with a hint of vanilla and salt, rich and warm and you let an involuntary moan escape. When you glance up you don’t miss the dark look Marcus gives you, his eyes fixed on your mouth as he takes another spoonful.

“You really guessed right, I love chocolate fondant, but I’ve never had one this good before,” he says, humming around the big piece in his mouth. “How come you don’t have them in the shop? Actually, don’t have them in the shop, I’d buy them all every week.”

You giggle at his blissed out face as he takes another big bite, dropping his head into the palm of his hand as he sucks the spoon clean, “It’s like hot chocolate, brownie and chocolate sauce all in one fluffy soft shell of cake.”

“I’m glad I guessed right, seeing your happy face makes me happy,” you smile at him and the tips of his ears go a pink in the dim light as he clears his throat and chuckles.

“Coming to your bakery makes me happy,” he smiles, scraping the last bit of fondant from the plate while he looks up at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners and it’s your time to feel the heat rise in your face, his grin widens as he sees you shift awkwardly in your chair and glance at him with a smile.

“Really, getting my morning coffee has become the highlight of my day,” Marcus says, “How sad isn’t that?”

“Not sad, you coming into the bakery every morning has been the highlight of my day,” you say, finishing off the fondant and putting the spoon down while Marcus watches you with a smile. He suddenly pushes his chair back and stands up, holding his hand out to you.

“Dance with me,” he says, the warmth of his hand spreading across your palm and down your arm as he pulls you to your feet.

“There’s no music, Marcus,” you laugh but he just grins and spins you around before catching you in his arms, one around your waist, the other still holding on to your hand as you put your own hand on his shoulder.

“Who cares about the music,” he says, gently swaying you back and forth while he gives you a soft smile, “it was just a clever ruse to get to hold you.” His hand on the small of your back is lightly stroking the fabric of your shirt and you’re very close to him, pressed up against his chest as he holds you near, moving slowly in a circle. You can smell his aftershave, mixed in with the dark chocolate of the dessert and without thinking, your hand slips into the soft looking curls at the back of his neck. Marcus tilts his head as your fingers play with the silky strands, letting go of your hand and moving it slowly to cup your face, his thumb stroking the soft skin on your cheek as he seems to inhale slightly and dip his head to yours.

His lips are just as soft as you’ve imagined them, warm, gentle, as he parts them and tastes you. His steady hand holds you close, the curve of his strong nose brushing up against your cheek as he angles his head to better kiss you. You feel your fingers gripping his hair, willing him to press you even closer to him. All of his warm, solid body is pressed up against yours, his hand at the small of your back sliding up to hold you closer to him, your own hand gripping his shoulder, steadying yourself as you feel like melting into his touch.

He’s still swaying the two of you gently, your lips moving slowly together, tasting the chocolate on each other's tongues. Heat is creeping through your body, wrapping around you, as you feel him tighten his hold on you, his breath skating over your lips as he exhales, a quiet groan leaving his throat.

“You taste so sweet, even sweeter than the dessert,” he mumbles, his mouth close to yours, “I never want to stop kissing you.”

You stand on your tiptoes to reach more of him, your hand around his neck, and part your lips for him, letting his tongue lick into your mouth with more fervor. He also tastes sweet and the way he pulls you closer as you steady yourself against his chest makes you moan under his increasingly heated kisses. He’s not swaying you anymore, instead he lets you melt into his body, his arm holding you up, as he bends his head, another groan slipping from him as he feels your tongue slip around his own.

Marcus’s kisses make you forget the time, where you are, and not until he pulls away with a sigh, do you open your eyes and look up at him. His eyes are dark, filled with lust, and it’s mirrored in the way his body feels against yours, his arousal a clear presence between you. And you can feel your own fill your core with heat, a slow shiver as you touch upon the thought of having him even closer.

Marcus keeps his eyes locked on you, his warm hand gently stroking your cheek as he seems to take a deep breath, composing himself. Your fingers are still toying with the impossibly soft curls at the back of his neck, letting them slip through your fingers, and you feel like you might drown in his dark brown eyes if he doesn’t release you soon.

“Is it too soon to ask for a second date tomorrow?” he whispers, his eyes dropping down to your lips again, and then back to your eyes as you shake your head.

“No, tomorrow sounds like a very good idea,” you mumble, slightly hazy from the way his hands never stop touching you, warming your body and sending shivers to your core.

“Ok,” he mumbles back, “can I kiss you again?”

“If you do, we might not get out of here tonight, Marcus,” you smile at him and he chuckles, nodding and pulling back a little.

“You’re very right, maybe it’s best to save more kisses for tomorrow.”

“I look forward to them though,” you say, letting your fingers slip from his hair and down over his shoulder, caressing his arm, his wrist, and finally his hand. He takes your hand then, enveloping it in his larger one, and brings it to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to it.

“Tomorrow then,” he smiles.

Part Eight

@harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3 @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @oberynslady @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @thewiigers

#pedro pascal character fanfiction #marcus pike fluff #marcus pike #marcus pike x female reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x ofc #marcus pike x reader #a baker’s dozen

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lukeywritesstuff · 1 year ago

Note

Reader has a pregnancy scare over the summer at the lake house and dosent tell Jack at first so he gets mad. He doesn’t really want a child rn but ends up accepting that they will have a baby. But it’s just a scare so their are not going to actually be parents

baby? no baby.

jack hughes x reader

warning: angst, yelling, pregnancy scare, mentions of abortion, punching (m on m), vomit, swearing and suggestive sexual content (no actual smut)

note: i’m not from the states so all timing for drives and flights and stuff are made up because i’ve been trying to research how far detroit airport is from bloomington AND NO BLOOMINGTON IS COMING UP ON MAPS. i actually went a bit crazy writing this because of that. ALSO this is the first fic i’ve written in a couple years that isn’t a joke so please bear with me because it’s not perfect at all.

lowercase intended

this past week has been a nightmare, from waking up at 6:30 in the morning to throw up, to dealing with motion sickness on an airplane and dealing with my boyfriends absolute bullshit.

let’s start from the beginning: wednesday july 12th, the day i started feeling ill. it was around 5:30 in the morning the first time i threw up. that day i thought it was a bug so i didn’t think much of it. but it kept happening all week, and this freaked me out because i knew i was leaving for michigan on monday to visit my boyfriend jack and his family.

monday couldn’t have come any slower, knowing i needed to talk to ellen before anyone else, i was hoping for the day to come faster. she’d be the only one i can ask about what’s going on with me as i haven’t seen my own family since august of last year since i moved to jersey for college.

the flight was terrible but short, it didn’t help my nausea at all, specially with the turbulence, jack was late to pick me up because he left his phone at the house when he went boating with his brothers so i had to sit around the airport for a few hours. i’m not even gonna think about uber either cuz i’d rather get crushed by a plane than sit for hours in an uber with a complete stranger.

ok getting off topic here, we’ll we got to the lake house after a very uneventful and quiet drive from the airport. ellen was finishing up dinner and luke, quinn and jim were playing basketball in the driveway, which quickly came to a stop as jack pulled up smashing the horn causing quinn to (jokingly) throw the ball at the car. (it did not break at all.)

i settled in to jacks room and we ate dinner, we talked about the boys hockey and training and my school and what i’m doing after i graduate next year. jokes were cracked and it was fun, i actually forgot about jack being a bit of a dick for a good hour and a half. after i stayed in the kitchen with ellen to help clean up, jack and luke ran to the x-box in the other room probably to play fortnite.

‘el, this past week i’ve been feeling quite nauseous this past week and i was wondering if i should worry about it. knowing you’ve been pregnant a few times, i felt it was best to ask you for advice on the situation.’ i said to my boyfriends mother.

‘well if it goes on for a few more days i’d consider going to a doctor, but for now you can go to the pharmacy just down the street and try a rest or 2 if you wanna have an idea quicker.’ she said and i nodded.

‘wait you’re pregnant?’ i hear from by the counter. quinn. he heard.

‘i’m not sure. i was just about to go to the pharmacy to get a test’ i told him.

‘i’ll drive i want some gato and fuckass jack frank the last one.’ he said and i nodded.

we went to the pharmacy and got 2 tests (and a shit ton of blue gato for quinn) and we went back to the house. i went to the bathroom in ellen’s room to take them since she wants to be there for me and honestly i’m glad i did. she’s been so supportive even if it might just be a scare.

the tests came out positive. i broke down in tears and went out to ellen.

‘positive, i’m pregnant. and i’m only 21’ i said.

‘oh sweetie. it’s all gonna be okay. you’re gonna be a great mom and jacks gonna be a great dad.’ ellen said embracing me.

‘so she’s pregnant?’ quinn asked from the door. i just nod my head at him.

suddenly i hear from the hallway ‘who’s pregnant?’ and ‘is it mom? i think i’m a bit too old to be an older brother’ and then a little ‘ow’ after.

then quinn had to open his big ass mouth and say ‘no. it’s y/n. she’s pregnant.’

‘what?!’ jack yelled. ‘and you fucker knew before me? you fucking asshole!’ i heard before i see jack coke into the room angrily to punch his older brother in the face.

‘jack get off!’ i yelled pulling him.

‘i cant believe you told quinn before me! have him father your fucking kid. i don’t want it. i don’t want kids at all. specially right now. i’m at my prime right now! i don’t need a fucking baby ruining it all for me! get out of my house that’s not my kid! and if it is fucking abort it!’ he yelled while crying making me cry even more.

right after luke dragged him to his room and i can hear yelling between them as quinn and ellen comforted me in the master bedroom. todays been a lot for me so i eventually pass out in my boyfriend(?)’s parents room with his mother stroking my hair.

on wednesday, exactly a week after i started having my nausea i decided to visit a doctor to get the baby and i checked out. i haven’t talked to jack since he yelled at me so i go with ellen.

‘okay so it seems like you’re not actually pregnant and the test you took was wrong.‘ the doctor said to me.

honestly i have no idea if i’m relieved or sad. i was honestly quite happy to potentially be having a baby, even if jack was being a huge JACKass about it.

we got home and i saw jack sitting on the porch with a bouquet of flowers.

‘baby, i’ve thought everything over these past few days, and i’m actually excited to have a baby! with you! i apologize for everything i said, but it just hurt knowing quinn found out before me, because i am the dad. but now i am excited for this baby and this new chapter of our lives!’ he said smiling at the end.

‘jack, it was a scare. there’s no pregnancy. i’ve just been having a stomach bug the doctor told me. the tests were wrong too. i’m sorry.’ i said frowning.

‘oh. well i guess that means we just go upstairs and start actually making a baby, because i kinda want one now!’ jack said before pulling me in the house.

once we got up to the bedroom i hear ellen ushering everyone out, probably to spare themselves from having to hear whatever we’re getting up to upstairs.

#jack hughes #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes angst #jack hughes fanfiction #jack hughes imagine #luke hughes #quinn hughes

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 10 days ago

Text

Playing for Keeps | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Chapter 3

← Previous Chapter Next Chapter →

Words: ~4,600

Tags: Modern AU, Reader Insert, Seventh Year, Female MC, No Y/N, Slytherin MC, Enemies to Lovers, Trope-y, Slow Burn, Humor, Angst, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance, Coming of Age, Body Image, High School Drama

The dim light of the Undercroft flickered against the cracked stone walls, the faint hum of bass vibrating in Sebastian’s earbuds. He lounged in his usual spot in the corner, legs stretched out, his wand twirling lazily in his hand. His phone sat face down next to him, mercifully silent. One of the things he loved most about the Undercroft was the lack of reception. No texts, no calls—just uninterrupted solitude.

Well, almost quiet.

A flick of his wand sent another crate hurtling into the far wall, shattering into a satisfying spray of splinters. The rhythmic destruction synced perfectly with the music pounding in his ears. It should’ve been enough to drown out his thoughts, but it wasn’t working.

Instead, his mind kept drifting back to you.

The duel on Monday had been humiliating. He could still hear the collective intake of breath from the crowd when his wand shot from his hand, spinning uselessly though the air and into your outstretched palm. Your expression had been cool, composed—barely a flicker of triumph as you delivered the finishing blow. The fact that you hadn’t gloated afterward made it worse somehow. It wasn’t the sting of defeat that lingered—it was the way you’d stared him down, steady and unapologetic, like beating him had been nothing more than a formality.

He’d been stewing about for days, but the duel wasn’t the only thing that had gotten under his skin.

All damn week you'd been sparring with him—not physically, though he half-wished you had been, just so he’d have an excuse to throw hexes at the smug look on your stupid pretty face. No, it had been verbal sparring, your sharp wit matching his with unnerving precision.

Tuesday, in Potions, he’d made some quip about "ridiculous Beauxbatons standards" when you corrected his stirring technique. Without missing a beat, you’d shot back with a cutting remark about Hogwarts’ apparent leniency in admitting mediocre students.

Wednesday, in Charms, he’d tried needling you again, deliberately taking the spot next to you during a group exercise. His comments had been just loud enough for you to hear, pointed barbs about your "sloppy wandwork". You’d turned to him, your wand poised mid-spell and said, “Coming from the boy whose technique has all the grace of a troll with a toothache? That’s rich.”

And then there was yesterday. Defense Against the Dark Arts. You walked into class wearing that perfectly polished uniform of yours, your crisp white shirt tucked just so, and your tie knotted with what looked like effortless precision. And when Sebastian had muttered something under his breath about Beauxbatons students being “all style and no substance,” you immediately shot back with “Better to have style than to make mediocrity my trademark.” The corner of your mouth had twitched upward, barely perceptible, but it was enough to set his teeth on edge.

And Merlin help him, the attention you were getting from other guys wasn’t helping. He’d watched Everett Clopton linger a little too long at your table in the library on Wednesday, leaning over your shoulder to point at something in your notes. And then there was Arthur Plummly, with his dopey grin and penchant for rambling, who had somehow managed to get you to laugh—really laugh—at one of his terrible jokes in the Great Hall on Thursday.

But the worst of them, by far, was Leander, who had a knack for showing up just when Sebastian didn’t want him to. Like this morning in the courtyard, when Leander had sidled up to you with his usual infuriating confidence, leaning just a little too close as he spoke. Sebastian hadn’t caught the conversation, but he’d seen the faint smile on your lips, the slight tilt of your head as you listened. And when Leander had reached out, brushing a stray thread from your shoulder, Sebastian’s jaw had clenched so tightly he thought his teeth might crack.

A fresh wave of irritation surged through him at the memory, and he flicked his wrist again, sending a stack of books tumbling off the table with a dull thud.

The sound of footsteps approaching cut through the music in his ears, faint but unmistakable against the stone floor. Sebastian sighed, tugging out one of his earbuds. Only one person walked like that, with those annoyingly measured, deliberate steps.

“Not now, Ominis," Sebastian muttered.

“I wasn’t aware I needed an appointment,” Ominis said dryly, his voice cutting through the music. He stopped a few feet away, leaning against the wall as he tilted his head toward Sebastian. “Though judging by the state of this place, I’d say you need more than just an appointment. You need an intervention.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes, slumping further into his chair. “What do you want?”

“To talk about your behavior,” Ominis snapped, his pale eyes narrowing. “Specifically, toward her.”

Sebastian tensed but kept his expression neutral. “I’ve been fine.”

Ominis let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Fine? Really? Do we need to go over all the shit you pulled this week or can we stop pretending you’ve been fine?”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, his fingers drumming against his thigh. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Ominis snapped. “The only time you’ve been remotely civil was when you invited her to Crossed Wands, and since she hasn’t shown up, you’ve been absolutely unbearable.”

“It's not like she’s completely innocent,” Sebastian said defensively. "She gives as good as she gets."

Ominis tilted his head, his pale eyes narrowing in a way that made Sebastian shift uncomfortably in his seat. “She’s only defending herself because you’re going out of your way to provoke her. And everyone’s noticed.”

Sebastian’s scowl deepened. “Everyone?”

“Don't play dumb,” Ominis said coldly. “The entire castle is whispering about how the 'great Sebastian Sallow' can’t seem to keep her name out of his mouth. People are starting to think all your jabs and sneers are just your way of hiding the fact that you fancy her."

Sebastian’s head snapped up. “Fancy her?” He let out a sharp laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous? Why?” Ominis pressed, leaning forward slightly. "Because she’s not one of those vapid cheerleaders you usually chase after?”

Sebastian’s grip on his wand tightened, his knuckles white. “Don’t be thick, Ominis,” he snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. “I’m not into… bigger girls.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he wanted to take them back. They tasted bitter, like bile rising in his throat, and they felt wrong—so wrong. But it was out there now, hanging in the air between them, and he couldn’t unsay it.

But Ominis didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. He simply tilted his head, his expression carefully neutral in a way that made Sebastian’s skin crawl. “Liar,” Ominis said softly.

Sebastian bristled, his jaw tightening as he stared down at the floor in front of him. “I’m not lying,” he shot back, though the words came out hollow and weak.

Ominis snorted, the sound filled with disbelief. “You are. And for what? Because you’re embarrassed?

Sebastian flinched, his jaw clenching as Ominis’s words struck a nerve. “Drop it, Ominis,” he muttered, his voice low and warning.

Ominis raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable but clearly unimpressed. “You've been staring at her all week. Don't think I haven't noticed.”

Sebastian scoffed, leaning back in his chair as though he could physically distance himself from the conversation. “I wasn’t staring.”

Ominis’s lips twitched into the faintest semblance of a smirk. “You were.”

Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Even if I was staring, which I’m not, it doesn’t mean anything. She’s infuriating and entirely too full of herself, and she’s just… she’s annoying.”

Ominis tilted his head slightly, his pale eyes narrowing with an almost predatory sharpness, as though he was dissecting every syllable. “You mean she’s strong, talented, and doesn’t put up with your nonsense? Yes, I can see how that would bother you.”

Sebastian shot him a withering look. “Don’t twist my words.”

“I don’t need to twist them,” Ominis replied smoothly. “You’re doing a fine job of tying yourself into knots all on your own.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, pushing himself up from his chair in one fluid motion. He began pacing the length of the Undercroft, his wand twirling absently between his fingers. “She doesn’t act like anyone else here. She doesn’t belong.”

“Doesn’t act like anyone else?” Ominis repeated, arching an eyebrow. "Ahhh. I understand now."

Sebastian froze mid-step, turning to glare at him. “Understand what?”

Ominis’s smirk was faint but unmistakable. “Why she’s gotten so deeply under your skin.”

Sebastian scoffed, his frustration bubbling over. “That’s not what I said.”

“No, but it’s what you meant,” Ominis said, his tone maddeningly calm. “You can’t stand that she’s not fawning over you, not bending to your charm or playing your games—it bothers you.”

Sebastian groaned, raking both hands through his hair as he resumed pacing. “That’s not it. She’s just... She’s so bloody arrogant! Every time she opens her mouth, it’s like she’s trying to one-up me.” He stopped pacing, gripping his wand so tightly his knuckles turned white. “And what does it matter if I looked at her once or twice? She was probably doing something stupid.”

Ominis folded his arms across his chest as though settling in for a particularly amusing show. “Once or twice? Please, Sebastian. You’ve been watching her like a hawk. It’s a wonder you don’t walk into walls.”

Sebastian’s cheeks flushed, a rare heat rising to the surface that he couldn’t quite suppress. “I have not—”

“You have,” Ominis interrupted, his tone clipped but unrelentingly calm. “And you act like a complete idiot every time she’s around. It doesn’t take a genius to see what’s happening."

Sebastian hated this. Hated how easily Ominis could dismantle him with a few well-placed words. Hated how his friend’s sharp intuition made him feel exposed, vulnerable in a way he didn’t know how to handle. But most of all, he hated how much truth there was in what Ominis was saying.

“Are you done psychoanalyzing me?” Sebastian snapped, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ominis chuckled softly, his head tilting. “Not quite. I find this whole thing fascinating. In all the years I’ve known you, I can’t recall a single time a girl’s managed to live rent-free in your head like this.”

“She’s not living rent-free in my head,” Sebastian shot back, his voice a little too loud to be convincing.

Ominis straightened slightly, his expression shifting from teasing to mock-serious. “What happened to all that practiced charm, Sebastian? The smooth lines, the effortless charisma? It's like you’ve reverted to the emotional maturity of a thirteen-year-old. Being mean to the girl you like? Really? How utterly... unevolved.”

“For fuck's sake, Ominis, I don’t like her,” Sebastian ground out, his voice tight.

Ominis arched an eyebrow. “You’re right. You don’t like her—you’re obsessed with her.”

Sebastian froze, his jaw tightening as he tried to come up with a retort. But nothing came.

Ominis chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Well, as entertaining as this little therapy session has been, I didn’t come down here just to help you sort out your love life.”

Sebastian shot him a glare, his expression hardening. “Good, because I don’t need your help.”

“Clearly,” Ominis replied dryly, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “But no, I’m here because the rest of us are heading to The Three Broomsticks for dinner. I came to collect you.”

Sebastian paused mid-step, his brow furrowing as he mulled over the invitation. His first instinct was to refuse—he wasn’t exactly in the mood to deal with Imelda’s endless teasing or Garreth’s over-the-top antics. But something stopped him, a faint flicker of curiosity gnawing at the back of his mind.

“Is… she going?” he asked, his voice almost hesitant.

Ominis’s smirk deepened, and though his pale eyes couldn’t see the way Sebastian stiffened, his tone was sharp with amusement. “Chouette? Yes, of course she’s coming. Imelda invited her, naturally.”

Sebastian groaned internally, running a hand through his hair as he weighed his options. It wasn’t as if he could avoid you forever. Still, the thought of sitting across from you, your sharp tongue ready to cut him down if he stepped out of line, made him hesitate.

“Well?” Ominis prompted, tilting his head. “Are you coming, or should I tell them you’re busy sulking?”

Sebastian scowled. “I’m not sulking.”

“Of course not,” Ominis said, his smirk widening. “You’re just… reflecting.”

With a long, reluctant sigh, Sebastian flicked his wand toward the scattered debris in the room, muttering a spell to tidy up the splinters and books he’d strewn about. “Fine,” he said, his tone sharp. “But if you so much as breathe a word about this conversation to anyone, I’ll hex you into oblivion.”

Ominis held up his hands in mock surrender, his expression impossibly smug. “Not a problem. Now come on."

Sebastian followed Ominis out of the Undercroft. The conversation they’d just had lingered like an annoying itch in the back of Sebastian’s mind, but he pushed it aside, focusing instead on the growing din of chatter and footsteps as students made their way out of the castle toward Hogsmeade.

Ominis walked ahead with his usual effortless grace, his posture straight and composed. Sebastian’s gaze drifted to his friend’s outfit, a navy button-down tucked neatly into dark slacks. There was always an effortless elegance to Ominis—an innate sense of poise and precision that Sebastian had long since given up trying to emulate.

He frowned, glancing down at his own attire—grey sweatpants that were just a bit too loose around the waist, paired with a faded Joy Division T-shirt. His sneakers, scuffed from countless treks across the grounds, completed the look—or rather, the lack of one.

He grimaced.

“Something wrong?” Ominis asked, his voice light with amusement.

Sebastian straightened, forcing an air of nonchalance. “No,” he said flatly. "Just wondering why you’re trying to make the rest of us look bad.”

Ominis turned his head slightly, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s called making an effort, Sebastian. You might want to try it sometime.”

Sebastian grunted in response, shoving his hands into his pockets as they descended the steps leading to the main entrance. A few groups of students passed by, their laughter filling the air. His mind wandered back to you, as it frustratingly had a habit of doing lately. He remembered your sharp eyes flicking over his Smiths tee that first night, your smirk as cutting as your remark about him trying to look “deep and brooding.” He was sure you'd have another comment lined up when you saw him this time.

Soon enough, the Three Broomsticks loomed ahead, its windows glowing invitingly. The muffled sounds of lively conversation spilled out each time the door opened, and Sebastian could already make out Imelda’s laugh among the crowd.

Ominis slowed his pace, turning his head slightly toward Sebastian. “Try not to make a scene,” he said, his voice low but firm. “You’ve already given everyone enough to talk about this week.”

Sebastian bristled but nodded, biting back a sarcastic comment.

As they stepped inside, the familiar scent of butterbeer and roasted food filled the air. Sebastian’s gaze swept the room, quickly landing on the group’s usual corner table. Imelda, Garreth, and the others were already there, and—

You.

You were leaning forward on your elbows, laughing softly with Garreth, your voice cutting through the warm hum of the pub. Gone was the Beauxbatons poise he was used to seeing—your usual immaculate look now replaced by something entirely different.

You were wearing an oversized band tee—The Cure, he realized with a jolt—and black jeans that hugged your figure in all the right ways, making it impossible for him to look away, even though he damn well tried. Scuffed sneakers tapped in time with the music that thumped through the pub.

And then you pushed up the sleeves of your shirt, casually exposing the tattoos inked along your forearms. Sharp, intricate lines traced the length of your skin, telling stories he couldn’t quite piece together but wanted to know. The sight sent a jolt through him, his stomach flipping in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely. Of course. Of course, you’d have tattoos. Of course, your style would mirror his own, as if you’d stepped straight out of a reflection of everything he liked.

“You’re blocking the doorway," Ominis’s voice broke through his thoughts, dry and pointed.

Sebastian blinked, realizing he’d stopped dead just inside the entrance. He cleared his throat and stepped aside, running a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to compose himself.

“You're acting like she's sprouted a second head,” Ominis chuckled as they made their way toward the table.

Sebastian shot him a glare but didn’t respond.

As they neared the group, Imelda glanced up first, her grin wicked. “Well, look who decided to show up. What took you so long, Sallow? Still licking your wounds from that duel on Monday?”

“Good to see you too, Reyes,” Sebastian quipped, finding a place at the far end of the table—conveniently as far away from you as possible. He busied himself by grabbing a menu, using it as a shield to block out the sight of you.

“Hello, Sallow,” came a voice from across the table. Sebastian glanced around the menu to find Leander smirking at him, pint of beer already in hand. “Fancy a drink?”

The tension was immediately palpable, a charged undercurrent that neither bothered to mask.

Their rivalry wasn’t new.

Sebastian and Leander were opposites in style but equals in presence, two sides of the same coin. Fire and Ice. Sebastian, Slytherin's star Quidditch Beater and school dueling champion, with his rumpled style and sharp edges. Leander, polished and preppy, the Summoner’s Court star, always impeccably dressed and composed. And to each other's chagrin, both knew how to charm their way into hearts and, more often, beds. It was an unspoken game between them, a constant measuring of egos and victories.

Sebastian hesitated for a moment before nodding, dropping the menu and leaning over as Leander slid an extra pint his way. “Why not?” he muttered, taking the glass and letting the cold condensation cool his fingers.

Leander took a swig of his beer, his smirk widening as he leaned in conspiratorially. “So,” he started, his tone already suggesting trouble. “What’s the deal with you two?”

Sebastian tensed, immediately knowing who Leander was referring to but feigning ignorance. “Who?”

Leander gestured subtly with his head toward your end of the table, where you were chatting with Garreth and Imelda, your laughter carrying lightly over the ambient noise of the pub. “Chouette.”

“There’s no deal,” Sebastian replied flatly, taking a sip from his pint. “Why?”

Leander raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "You’ve been staring at her all week like she’s a bomb you’re trying to defuse.”

Sebastian’s grip on his glass tightened slightly, but he forced a casual smirk. “You’re imagining things.”

“Right,” Leander drawled, dragging out the word. “Well, if there’s nothing going on, I might just try my luck.”

Sebastian’s jaw twitched and Leander’s grin turned sly, his pint dangling lazily from his fingertips. “Doesn’t seem like your usual type, anyway, does she? You’ve always gone for the willowy ones.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “But Merlin’s beard, Sallow. That figure? The tattoos? The piercings? Sexy as hell.” He tilted his head, the grin widening. “And sharp as a whip, too. She doesn’t take your shit for a second, does she?”

Sebastian’s grip on his drink tightened, his knuckles whitening slightly. He took a deliberately long sip, the bitterness of the beer doing little to mask the irritation curling in his chest.

Leander seemed to pick up on the subtle shift in Sebastian’s demeanor and leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Tell you what,” he said, his grin turning sharper. “How about a little wager? Fifty Galleons. First one to bed her wins. No harm done—it’s her choice anyway, isn’t it?”

Sebastian stiffened, though he shouldn’t have been surprised by Leander’s proposition—after all, their reputations certainly didn’t put them far above such things.

But even for Sebastian, there were lines he didn't cross. And something about the way Leander framed it—reducing you to nothing more than a prize to be won—felt wrong. Low. But that sting of pride, that unwelcome prick to his ego at the thought of letting Leander bloody Prewett swoop in unchallenged, was hard to ignore. So instead of declining, he leaned back, smirking faintly, falling back into the role everyone expected him to play.

“Fifty Galleons, huh?” he said, his tone light, almost amused. “You’re on.”

Leander grinned, thrusting out a hand. “Shake on it?”

Sebastian hesitated for half a heartbeat before extending his own hand, gripping Leander’s firmly. “Deal.”

The shake lasted only a moment, but as Sebastian pulled back, a flicker of regret twisted in his chest. If you ever found out about this, you’d probably hex them both where they stood.

But his pride wouldn’t let him back down. And besides, it wasn’t like anything would come of it. Right?

Sebastian barely had a moment to process the knot of unease in his chest before Imelda’s voice rang out, sharp and teasing.

“Oi, Sallow,” Imelda called from down the table, her tone carrying that trademark teasing lilt. “Let me guess—another edgy thrift store find?”

Sebastian blinked, momentarily thrown off. He glanced at her, then followed her gaze to his shirt, the faded logo emblazoned across the chest. His smirk flickered back into place. “Jealous, Reyes?”

Imelda rolled her eyes, turning toward you. “Chouette, what do you think? Does our dear Sebastian look like he’s auditioning for a muggle garage band, or is this more ‘serious artist’ territory?”

All eyes turned to you, and for a fleeting moment, Sebastian braced himself. You could easily take Imelda’s bait, throw a scathing remark his way, and earn another round of laughter at his expense. But instead, your expression softened slightly, and you gave a casual shrug.

“I mean,” you said with a casual shrug, gesturing to your own outfit, “we’re basically wearing the same thing, aren’t we? Not like I’ve got room to judge.”

The group stilled briefly, the surprise palpable. Even Sebastian blinked, caught completely off guard by your measured response.

You continued, your tone edged with self-awareness. “I shouldn’t have sunk to his level with those comments I made before—that was petty. It’s not like I’m the authority what people can or can’t wear… even if my read on Sebastian’s absolutely dazzling personality was spot on.”

The table erupted in laughter and Sebastian’s lips twitched, caught between a scowl and a reluctant smile. You hadn’t gone for the easy dig, but you’d still managed to keep your edge intact. It was infuriating. And impressive. Like you’d gotten the better of him again without even trying.

Garreth leaned forward, gesturing toward Sebastian with his pint. “In his defense,” he said, “he does actually listen to the bands on his shirts. Big muggle music fan. It’s honestly kind of annoying—he zones out completely with his earbuds in and taps his quill like mad when we’re trying to study in the library.”

The group chuckled, and Sebastian smirked, clearly unbothered. He raised his pint in a toast to Garreth. “Always nice to have a character witness, Weasley.”

You tilted your head slightly, your eyes sharpening with curiosity as you turned toward Sebastian. “What’s your favorite song right now?”

He blinked, the earnest question catching him off guard. He set his pint down as he considered you for a moment. “Uh... maybe 505 by the Arctic Monkeys.”

Your eyebrows lifted, and then you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’re like a 2014 Tumblr girl.”

Sebastian frowned, his confusion evident. “A what?”

Realizing your slip, you hesitated, your cheeks flushing slightly. “Never mind,” you said quickly, waving a hand as if to brush it off. “I grew up with a muggle mum, so I guess it’s… it’s one of those references that doesn’t really translate.”

Poppy perked up, leaning forward with interest. “What’s Tumblr?”

You sighed, clearly debating how much to explain. “It’s… kind of like a chaotic... online scrapbook,” you said, your tone sheepish. “Back in 2014, it was all about indie bands, angsty quotes, and aesthetics. The Arctic Monkeys were a big deal on there. So were flower crowns, oddly enough.”

Sebastian leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table, a smirk tugging at his lips. “So maybe my taste isn’t so questionable after all.”

Before you could answer, proprietress of the Three Broomsticks, Sirona Ryan, swept over to the table. "Evening, folks. Same as usual for most of you, or are we branching out tonight?"

The group quickly ordered, everyone going for their favorite pub classics from shepherd’s pie and beef stew to fish and chips. All the while, Sirona nodded along, her quill scratching against the notepad. Then her gaze shifted to you, her smile softening. “Ah. There's a face I haven't seen before. What can I get you?”

Sebastian glanced up at you instinctively, watching as you smiled politely at Sirona, your tone light. “Just a house salad, please."

A salad? While everyone else was diving headfirst into comfort food? Sebastian didn’t say anything, but the choice stuck with him, a faint itch at the back of his mind.

Garreth leaned across the table, his grin sharp. “Fancy a game of darts, Sallow? Or are you scared to lose?”

Sebastian smirked, grateful for the distraction. “To you? Not a chance.” He stood and followed Garreth to the dartboard, grabbing a set of darts as the rest of the group’s chatter faded into the background.

He lined up his first shot, locking onto the bullseye. Darts was his game—Garreth was usually no competition. Tonight should’ve been no different.

But as he drew back his arm, his eyes flicked to the table.

You were laughing at something Imelda said, your shoulders shaking, fingers tracing the rim of your glass. The warm light highlighted the numerous silver rings and studs lining your ears, the strands of hair framing your face. You looked... disarmingly perfect.

His rhythm faltered and the dart veered wide, hitting the board with a weak thunk far from its target.

Garreth burst into laughter, nearly doubling over. “Merlin’s beard! Did you forget how to aim?”

“Shut it, Weasley,” Sebastian muttered, grabbing another dart.

He refocused, narrowing his gaze on the bullseye. Focus. Just throw.

Then you stretched casually, arms over your head, the hem of your band tee lifting just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. His hand twitched, and the dart flew early, landing on the edge of the board.

Garreth howled, slapping the wall. “What is going on with you? Are you trying to throw the game?”

“I’m just warming up,” Sebastian snapped, his ears burning. He grabbed his final dart, determined to salvage what was left of his pride.

Garreth stepped back, smirking. “Sure, mate.”

Sebastian lined up, blocking out the noise. Just throw the damn dart. But as he prepared to release, you glanced his way, your curious expression sending his nerves spiraling.

The dart hit the board—barely—scoring a handful of points.

Garreth clapped him on the back, grinning. “Losing your edge, Sallow.”

Sebastian leaned against the wall, arms crossed, scowling. “Just finish your turn.”

Garreth, unbothered, hit near-perfect throws, finishing with a triumphant smirk. “Better luck next time, mate.”

Sebastian waved him off, muttering about distractions, but the truth gnawed at him. It wasn’t Garreth, the noise, or even the game.

It was you.

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