#you can never go wrong with suntan

[runa-falls]

summer heat

summary: suntanning with miguel, what could go wrong?

pairing: miguel o'hara x reader

warnings: explicit 18+, smutty ass smut, unprotected sex, semi-public, creampie, multiple orgasms, barely bondage, so fucking self-indulgent

w/c: 1.5k

a/n: for REASONS, i am reposting this fic... im not here to argue bc this is my blog and i don't want that guy on here anymore 🤷‍♀️ enjoy the heat <3

----

An alarm chimes over the music, jolting you out of your drowsy catnap to remind you that your fifteen minutes are up. You feel like a broiled fish as you get up and flip onto your stomach, making sure to adjust your swimsuit to avoid any awkward tan lines. 

It’s a sweltering day at the height of the summer and you’ve somehow convinced Miguel to spend his day off at the pool.

You managed to fit in a few laps in the crystal water before deciding to spend the rest of your time tanning. Miguel decided to stay in the cool water, opting to enjoy his time watching you tan with a beer in hand. 

There’s something about openly soaking in the rays while listening to soft rock through your airpods that never fails to lull you into a relaxing trance. You nearly drift off with how comfortably you lay on the padded poolside lounger, head tucked easily against your arm.

You’ve lost track of time as you lay there, not even sure if you set the next timer. Not really caring either. 

Your body jolts as cold, wet hands suddenly wrap around your sun-kissed skin. You didn’t even notice the shadow that’s been standing over you, barely cooling your skin by just blocking the rays.  

Music continues to blare from your headphones but you can barely hear it because you're too focused on Miguel and his wandering hands. Familiar calloused fingers tickle your skin as they gently glide from your waist to your hips, softly caressing your warmed skin.

You sigh against his doting touch as he squeezes and gropes at your curves, reminding you how perfectly you fit against him. Your legs subtly rub together as you feel your center pulse with excitement, just the mere presence of him sets you on fire. 

You can feel the reclined chair dip slightly as he joins you on it, barely hovering an inch over your body.

Gentle kisses from cold lips are pressed against your heated neck and then down to your shoulder. You shiver as cool drops of water trail down your back before absorbing into the towel under you. He’s dripping over you, still soaking wet from the pool. 

Your swim bottoms are tugged down but only to your thighs, effectively locking your legs together. His finger slides experimentally against your glistening lips, spreading your slick over your center and rubbing against your eager clit until you’re shaking under him. Your body aches to be filled as he teases your center with touches that are far too gentle for your liking.

Miguel finally gives in, prodding a finger against your leaking hole until you start to arch against his touch in desperation. You can barely hear yourself whining over your music as he continues to tease you, pulling his hand away as you blindly chase him.

His other hand drifts over your lower back and pins your hips against the chair, sending you a silent message to keep still or he’ll stop. You listen, stilling your movements almost instantly. 

He pushes in, angling his finger at just the right position to make you grip the chair under you and start panting. He moves slowly, stroking against your sopping walls almost lovingly as you tremble against him, trying your best not to move. 

As you tilt your head against the lounger, your right airpod is knocked out and suddenly the music stops.

Finally you hear it: he’s been talking -- cooing soft and encouraging words above you in that deep, guttural voice of his as he works your body. 

A soft gasp spills from your lips as he works another finger into you.

“That’s right, baby, take it just like that…”

Your mind feels like it’s being rewired as his hand begins to speed up. Your eyes roll back before squeezing shut as expertly prods against a euphoric spot inside of you.

“You’re being so good for me, cariño. So fucking wet…and sweet for me.” The filthy sounds of his fingers thrusting into you pushes you toward the edge and you can’t help how your cunt flutters around his fingers, already overwhelmed by every little touch. 

Your orgasm flows through your body intensely, pouring into every nerve and muscle with full force.

“That’s it, sweet girl, let go for me.” You cry out against the chair as it hits you all at once. If Miguel wasn't holding you down, you’d be shaking uncontrollably under him. 

He resituates himself over you as you recover from your climax and easily positions your body so he’s nestled right against your ass. You can feel his covered erection through his trunks pressing eagerly against the material and against you. You wish you could turn over and look at him, but he’s still holding you exactly where he wants you.  

The suit is still damp and it feels wonderful as it’s pressed against your heated skin. 

“Out here?” It’s not the first time he’s taken you outside, but right in the open on a pool chair with nothing to hide behind? 

“Yeah, why not?”  Miguel shifts against you and slightly pushes your legs apart to feel your hot center flush against the front of his shorts.

"B-but what if somebody --" He holds your waist firmly as he grinds himself fluidly against you and you can't help but gasp at the feeling.

"What if somebody what?" He teases with a sly smile. You squirm as he brushes against your sensitive heat, but you can’t move away, he’s holding you too tightly. “Your pussy’s beggin for it.” 

You whimper at the feeling, “Put it in…”

“Hm? What was that?”

“Please, Mig.” He groans when you arch your back to push yourself harder against him. More insistent. You're basically whining at this point, “Fuck me.”

He pulls away for a second and you can hear him pull off his swim shorts before returning to you.

“As you wish, sweetheart.” You can hear that stupid grin in his voice. He’s quite proud of himself for making you so needy and pliant. 

You hear a soft sigh behind you as his hands smooth over your ass and spread you open before him. It’s not long until you feel the warm hardness of his cock slide against your quivering cunt, pushing and prodding at your needy entrance. 

A broken gasp lurches from your throat as he pushes in slowly, letting you feel each inch stretch you to your limit. The positioning of your closed legs, bound by your suit, makes him feel much thicker than usual.

He shushes your whimpers as he pushes all the way in, and then he stays there, prolonging the intense feeling of complete fullness. 

He slowly pulls out, but only half way, before pushing back in.

“Fuck, you’re tight like this.” The deep groan against your back causes you to clench around him involuntarily. He sounds so hot when he loses control. “Relax, baby. Lemme just use your body…”

He manages to continue his deep thrusts, pushing your lower back down to get the perfect angle into you. The pool chair, not made for the weight of two fucking adult, or abrupt movements, groans under you as he fucks you into it. 

All you can do is lay there and take it. 

You cry out as his cock drags deliciously against your tight walls and an electric sensation builds rapidly in your lower stomach. Your body moves with him, trying to chase that addictive feeling of ecstasy.

His thrusts are deep and rough, enticing another orgasm from you within minutes of being inside of you. You swear he knows your body better than you do inside and out from how expertly he can draw out mind bending pleasure. 

With just a few more movements your climax rams into you without warning. You feel hot tears spill down your cheeks with how intense it is as it spreads like a wildfire from your stomach to the tips of your toes. You writhe against the chair with overwhelming pleasure as he continues to plunge into you, holding you steady under him. 

Your mind is numb with bliss when Miguel reaches his end. He buries himself deep into you with a shudder, painting your walls with the soft warmth of him. 

You both lay on the chair together, limbs tucked against each other under the beating sun. Despite the heat, you’ve never felt so relaxed, so refreshed.

He pulls you closer to his side,  “15 minutes are up by the way. I think you forgot to set your timer.” His voice rumbles through his chest and onto you.

“Wait, that was my wake up call?” He has that adorable lopsided smile spread on his face and a faint blush over his nose from the sun.

“Yeah, got a little carried away.” 

“Tell me about it. Your ass is probably burnt now!”

[corruptedcaps]

The Plan

Ok, so let's go over the plan. We will use this machine that you made to steal one of Britney's attributes, something like her manicured nails. This will hopefully make her less mean. I mean, have you seen how she acts? It's like she's always looking down on everyone. And her nails are always so perfect, like she thinks she's better than everyone else. Well, not anymore! Once we take away her manicured nails, maybe she'll realize that she's not so special after all. Plus, it'll be a little payback for all the times she's made fun of us. Just imagine her reaction when she sees her nails disappear! It's going to be priceless.

Oh my gosh, can you believe it? Britney is still just as mean! She went back to the nail salon and got her nails done again. Ugh! It's like she never learned her lesson. But hey, on the bright side, I received her stolen nails, and I must say, I love how they look on me. They make me feel powerful, like I have a piece of her confidence. Anyway, we can't stop here. We need to take something more permanent from her. How about her 20/20 vision? Imagine how lost she'll be without it. Let's make her see the world in a whole new way, or rather, a blurry way. It's time for revenge!

Oh, come on! This is ridiculous! Now Britney has become even more stylish because she has to wear glasses. And what's worse is that everyone wants to wear glasses just to mimic her! It's like she can turn anything into a fashion statement. But hey, ironically, I don't have to wear glasses because I received Britney's good eyesight. Talk about a twist of fate. Well, enough is enough. It's time to hit her where it hurts the most—her beauty. Let's start by taking away her precious tan. Without her golden glow, she won't be able to rely on her looks anymore. Revenge is sweeter than a suntan!

Finally, we're starting to see some results. Britney seems to be less confident and less mean. It's like a small crack in her queen bee facade, but hey, it's a start. Maybe taking away her attributes is actually working. As for me, I can't help but admire my new tan, courtesy of Britney. It's absolutely flawless! I mean, look at how radiant and sun-kissed my skin is. I almost feel bad for taking pleasure in it, but hey, she had it coming. Now let's keep going. We need to strip her of more of her beauty and watch her crumble. Revenge never felt so satisfying.

Hey, quick question. How does my new blonde hair look? Wait, don't even answer. I already know it looks absolutely gorgeous! I can't help but feel amazing with this luscious, golden mane. And guess what? Britney now has dull brown hair as a result. Talk about a style downgrade for her. It's just another blow to her once-perfect image. I can't wait to see the look on her face when she realizes what she's lost. But hey, enough about her. Let's keep going. We have more of her beauty to take away, and I'm loving every minute of it.

I have to say, I absolutely love my new boobs. Thanks, Britney! They make me feel so sexy and superior. But you know what's interesting? Despite all the physical downgrades we've inflicted upon her, Britney is still mean and cruel. It's like her personality is untouched by our efforts. Maybe we've been focusing on the wrong things. Perhaps it's time to go straight to the source and take away her mean, haughty attitude. That's what we should have done from the start. Let's strip her of that toxic demeanor and finally bring her down a peg or two.

You know what? I've had a revelation. I've absorbed Britney's delicious toxic personality, and guess what? I've become the new queen bee. And let me tell you, it feels incredible. I revel in the power, the control, the superiority. Change back? Why would I ever want to change back? You, my oldest and ugliest friend, suggesting such a thing, clearly are jealous. You want all this for yourself. Well too bad because I’ve destroyed the machine because I'm here to stay. You can either bow down or step aside, because I'm the new alpha now. Now I’m off to steal something the machine never could, Britney’s boyfriend. It’s good being the queen.

[lunarheslwt]

28th appreciation fic recs: January edition

Hi! Welcome to the first fic rec list of 2024! I wanted to put together all the fics I've read and loved over January for this month's 28th appreciation, so here they are! Click on the links for full tags and summaries. If you read any of these make sure to show the authors some love by leaving kudos and comments, and sharing any fic posts!

🌸 Morning comes by @nooradeservedbetter

(5k / E / Sub Top L, Dom bottom H)

The stranger gestures at what they’re wearing, and oh, it’s not a shirt, it’s a white crop top, black lettering star against it. It says I ♡ SUBMISSIVE MEN in bold, capital letters.

Thoughts: we simply need more pwps that explore dynamics like this, this was delicious, and I looove how natural the chemistry between them felt. So good.

🌸 Dreaming of a green Christmas by @hellolovers13

(4k / E / Size queen L, xmas smut)

Harry opens the wrong package by mistake and finds the sex toy Louis ordered for himself. That's not an opportunity Harry can pass up on.

Thoughts: its never too late to indulge in some christmas smut, its got size queen L ffs what are you waiting for!! Its hot, its a snack to be devoured, it's a little gift, in short.

🌸 Sweet baby by @jishlerfics

(5k / E / kink discovery)

“Haz,” he said, “do you like being held down?” Taking a shaky breath, Harry finally looked Louis in the eyes. “I think so.”

Thoughts: this is part one of a series that I'm excited to read. This is perfect and sweet and hot in every way possible, i loved it so much.

🌸 Revelatory experience by @justanothershadeofblue

(3k / E / religion kink)

Harry's not sure if it's the sound of Louis' voice, the thrill of the forbidden, or just that he's really fucking horny, but he's about to find out how well the velvet cushion in this dark little wooden booth hides a stain.

Thoughts: this was so fucking hot. Like, they're in a confession booth. That should be enough of an appetizer for y'all to go read this!

🌸 Jaerie's Kinktober: Sounding by @jaerie

(3k / E / sounding)

Louis has been casually dating Harry for a while, but tonight he plans to stay in for a much needed stress relief night of self love. He unexpectedly shares that particular love with Harry. When they discover this, they go all in.

Thoughts: so hot. We need more sounding fics. Meanwhile, do yourself a favor and indulge in this. Also love the lil bit of imperfect sex at the end.

🌸 With a sea view by @greeneyesfriedrice

(5k / E / boat smut)

Stepping onto the main deck, Harry grabs a maroon towel, squeezing all the water he can out of his hair, though it’s similar to how a dog dries off after a bath. He doesn’t bother drying the rest of his body, that’s what suntanning is for. He places the towel into a small bin and looks around. Time to find Louis.

Thoughts: so goddamn hot. But also very sweet and they're so in love which is a god tier combination. Laur never has a miss.

🌸 Heaven in these sheets by @thepolourryexpress

(3k / E / bunny! hybrid Louis)

“Bunny wants attention, hm?” Harry murmurs, turning his head and brushing his cheek against Louis’. Louis lets out a pleased noise at the feeling, ear flopping over Harry’s head as the man moves. “Please,” Louis pouts lightly, scraping his nails gently over Harry’s chest. “C’mon.” Or, Bunny Hybrid Louis has it out for his boyfriend’s phone.

Thoughts: bunny Louis is so sweet and precious, harry is the ever doting bf, and it just makes for delicious smut that also just made me feel!!!!

🌸 Mr Tomlinson by @canonlarry

(4k / E / CEO omega L)

Louis is a billionaire CEO who makes grown men cry and rival companies crumble. He's also an omega. Harry is the quiet cupcake of a man he calls his alpha and the only one who gets to see Louis as anything less than fearsome

Thoughts: powerful ceo to all, gets taken care of by partner behind doors is such a fav trope of mine and this one is SO good. I loved this one so so much.

🌸 it's always me that ends up getting wet by @loveislarryislove

(2k / E / role play, dubcon fantasy)

As Louis takes a step towards the stairs to look for his husband, his eye lands on the small round table at the foot of the staircase. It's thin and spindly, so they don't usually use it for much besides decoration. But today, there are three objects sitting on top of it. A blue policeman's hat. A small, silver key, that Louis recognizes as belonging to a pair of handcuffs. And a note, written in Harry's distinctive handwriting: I'm waiting for you downstairs ;)

Thoughts: this was so insanely good, I love a good roleplay fic and I ate this up. Every single word in this was addictive.

This is a short list, bc I've been really busy and tired. But I hope I get to read more next month. Anyways If you check these out, give these works some love. Fic writers I love youuuu X

[waybeforeyourtime]

I caved! S3E1 Live Reactions

Well, they jumped right into it, didn't they?! 😯

I know the theory is that the Queen is terminally ill, but I'd really like to see her portrayed as having anxiety, depression, etc.

I'm dying at the settlement. Anyone reading 'And That's How We Make History, Baby' will see why soon!

They are so horny for each other. ❤️

Oh damn. I knew the drugs would come out but I'm still furious.

And I'm really hoping that August tells them to go fuck themselves too, not for Sara but for him. It's the only way he can go on a path to redemption.

Madison, I love you. I hope nothing ever changes that. You are the superior friend. 👑

I was betrayed by my BFF, and I know how much it hurts. I'm glad they're showing that sort of grief. Because Madison is right. That friend break-up more than my divorce.

I was right about the cup, and Linda finally realized that she's the parent! I'm so happy about this! Simon and Sara both need that in their lives.

I find the parallel that she's getting stronger as the Queen is getting weaker to be very well done.

And again I continued to be impressed by Omar's acting. I can't believe it's his first.

Great sound job with that kiss.

I hate to admit it, but there's a decent boy buried inside of August.

Poor Felice. Poor Sara. :(((((((

Fuck you, Marcus. I knew you were slime.

You are not wrong, Rosh. Oh baby, no. Nooooooooo!!! Replying to comments never has a happy ending.

The red lights are in the shape of a crown!!! 👑👑👑 Were they always like that? Did I miss that?

Ok this is sound advice for EVERYONE. Ignore the comments.

I'm dying. Going to NYC for a suntan. 🤣🤣🤣 How very Nordic.

ofc Blame Wille and not yourselves for your abusive traditions.

alright okay. Great first episode. Really setup conflicts for resolution this season that are all interconnected to previous ones.

[sumgirlthatwrites]

I can still remember the very first time I saw the most beautiful human being. It's messed up how my mind can bring back the memory of the date because usually, I rarely remember such things.

So there I was with my thoughts, which always told me that love at first sight doesn’t exist. My bizarre thoughts were wrong. Love at first sight exists. I cannot prove it, but I felt it. And I can still feel it.

Before we left the country, I thought about an ordinary summer. I wanted an ordinary summer. I wished for one. Even this thought of my overcrowded head was wrong.

8th August, 2017

As we left the airport and arrived outside, I finally had the feeling of breathing again. The fresh air that I inhaled, the blazing sun that shined on my already naturally tanned skin—I was back home.

After a long six-hour drive, we reached the house where we would sleep for the next two weeks. I stepped through the big, heavy white entrance door and my eyes automatically searched for my room. I pressed the doorknob down and entered the interior. I didn’t pay attention to the nicely furnished room. I left my luggage in the corner, threw myself onto the bed, fell asleep, and dreamed of fresh air and warm sunbeams.

9th August, 2017

Familiar voices in the background awakened me. I looked down at myself. Typical. I slept in my street clothes again. I forced myself to get up and take a hot shower. The hot water pattered on my hair and my naked body. My muscle tension dissolved minute by minute.

I guess I forgot to mention that this "holiday" was more of a wedding preparation. My mother told me I should hurry up because we were leaving to go to the shop where she had to try on her wedding dress. I risked a quick look in the mirror. With my eyes focused on my reflection, I applied a little powder on my face and kneaded my wet, long, black hair so that they would become curly when dry.

I hurried to my room to find something to wear. I chose a black bodysuit and a black short skirt. We left the nicely furnished house and sat in the overheated car again. After a while, I noticed a nice white car driving in front of us. To describe the car accurately, it was a Ford Fiesta.

This car caught my eye and I started to stare. I do that a lot. I stare at things that are beautiful or fascinating to my eyes. We parked the car in front of the bridal shop and I recognized the beautiful white car in the corner again. Is this a coincidence? The answer is no.

A tall, suntanned man with sunglasses got out of the car. His gait looked heavenly, as if he were weightless. I loved and love his way of moving his body. Love? Okay, damn. I don’t even know this guy. He was coming towards us and my mother whispered to me, “He is our best man.”

He stood in front of me and my breathing stopped. I wanted to introduce myself. Yes, I wanted it so badly, but I couldn’t. I was paralyzed. I just stood there and tried not to drool. Behind him, I discovered a likewise tall and slim figure with dark blonde, curly hair. She made a gesture to introduce herself to me. It felt like someone had just slapped me. Are they in a relationship?

A strange feeling spread in my chest and in my stomach. Jealousy. She is beautiful. No wonder he desires her. We entered the store and I made no effort to look at them.

Yes, that was the day I fell in love. Love at first sight. Love at first glance does not mean that you fall in love with their outer appearance. It means so much more. The way his mouth shapes the words, the way he moves, his heavenly fragrance. From that day on, he came into my memory and never disappeared.

[simmeons]

ggrrr...rnrnnnn..........gay priest vampire make me MAD!! no prof read☝️🤓

Despite the harsh sun, I always found myself drawn to wildlife. I always wanted to understand it, learn it. I never thought it was possible, but I never thought it was possible for a priest to love me either.

He stands beside me, a grip on an umbrella to protect me from the rays of the sun. He's not saying anything, but I can feel his eyes on me.

We've worked together to make a small garden, a variety of vegetables and other plants. The majority of the time Monty would hold an umbrella for me, since without the shade I would burn to a crisp.

The red of the tomatoes are bright in the daylight. They would normally be dull in the dark, and I am thankful Monty is willing to help me so I can appreciate the plants in another light.

"They're looking pretty ripe." Monty spoke softly, to himself or me, I'm unsure.

"Another day or two."

I feel the touch of his elbow against mine, a hand reaching out to grab the watering pail I'm using.

"Let me help."

His hand brushes mine, his soft warm pinky touching mine. I am quite tired, this being the time I rest. I can't deny his help even if I wanted to.

I let go of the pail, moving both my hands to the handle of the umbrella. He moves his hands, allowing me full control of the umbrella.

"Thank you."

He smiles at me, a soft and caring smile. I feel a twinge of uselessness as I watch him carefully water the plants, his ginger hair shimmering slightly in the sunlight. His hair reminds me of copper wire, the things I've watched being bent in those Internet videos Monty has watched before.

I watch as the priest finishes watering our plants, humming to himself softly. My eyelids are growing heavy, the need to sleep setting into my bones. I wish to say something, speak up, but even talking feels like a chore.

Monty sets the pail down and turns to me, pressing a hand to my cheek.

"Someone looks tired."

"Unfortunately."

"Nonsense. Let's get ye to bed." I nod, not able to refuse such a appealing idea.

He takes the umbrella from me, and walks me out of the small garden. I lean onto him as we walk, a small yawn slipping past my lips. I cover my mouth to be respectful, finding it rude to yawn so openly.

Monty must've found it cute as he presses a kiss to my cheek. I huff and speak up.

"If you're going to kiss me, at least do it properly."

He looks a little surprised before chucking a little. "Well, I must correct my mistake."

I sigh as we halt, the Scottish priest leaning in to press his lips against mine. It's a feeling I'll never get tired of. My eyes close, and I relax into the feeling of our kiss. Neither of us make a move to deepen the kiss, not only is it the wrong time, it's too dangerous with my fangs.

The kiss is enjoyable, until I feel a warm sensation on my face. I assume it's me blushing, but that's until the warm feeling becomes hotter, and hotter. I pull away from the kiss when I realize the error of the placement of the kiss.

"Give me that!" I bark and grab the umbrella from Monty, the priest was too caught up in the kiss and his hand had weakened, the umbrella tilting and leaving my face bare for the harsh sun to burn.

"Oh! Are ye okay? I'm sorry!" Monty grabs my warm face, a gente steam coming from my pale skin as my just burnt face cools off. He waves some of the soft gray air away to look more directly at me, where he puffs out a held back laugh.

"What?" I frown, Monty is just smiling.

"Ye got a suntan!" He laughs more openly, laughing at my predicament.

I feel my face heat up with embarrassment and a pinch of anger, frustrated at myself for falling for such a clumsy human.

Forcing myself to leave his grasp I leave the laughing priest outside to himself as I make my way back to the safety and shade of the house.

[sixpossumsinatrenchcoat]

Four More Years

wanted to post this very silly snippet from my Omori timeskip! suntan w/ a ton of platonic sunflower, a real soft cozy time had by all. CW for weed, truancy, & excessive tomfoolery 🌿🏀🔪

Basil sprinkles some balsamic on the veggies and looks at Sunny ruefully. “I’m not going to get any work done today, am I?”

Sunny swipes a cucumber and shakes his head. No. Probably not.

“Ah, well.” Basil doesn’t sound too bothered. He looks down at the platter and sighs. “I want to get high before I eat this, but I’m afraid of what I’ll see.”

“Totally,” Sunny agrees. “...I could text Kel?”

Kel is the ultimate mood hack. He’s so dense that he’s completely immune to other people’s panic. Everyone else just syncs up with him. And he's so grounded in his body that you can always trust him to know what's real. Sunny and Basil are a little more... suggestible.

Basil rolls his eyes. “You just want him to pet you like a little cat.”

Sunny shrugs. Is that so wrong?

Basil looks down at his veggies, and then up toward the windowsill where they keep the bong. Hornet, as she’s named, isn’t one of those towering, multi-chamber affairs. She’s small and unassuming, honey-colored glass with just the faintest swirl of gray. But she gets the job done.

Sunny can pinpoint the exact moment when Basil’s resolve crumbles.

“...Okay, okay. Go ahead and text Kel. I don’t have any classes today, anyway. And— And I won’t bug you about cutting class, but you have to let me dress you up.”

“Deal.”

Sunny will never understand why Basil takes so much pleasure in dressing him up. But he doesn’t really mind. It’s not un-fun to play dress-up for a day. Especially when your roommate dresses like an 18th-century gardener fell through a purikura booth.

Where Sunny favors clean lines and sharp angles and black, always black, Basil lives in shorteralls and culottes and loosely woven cardigans. The only jewelry Sunny owns is the kind you shove through a wound, but Basil has chunky rings and elbow chains and a hundred different hairpins, each one shaped like a specific, taxonomically accurate flower. (Sunny borrows some of the hairpins, sometimes. But only the poisonous ones.)

A half a bowl later, Sunny is dressed in powder blue shorteralls over a cropped yellow tee, and his hair is a tiny plasticine flower garden. Basil bought the rights to do his makeup in exchange for not telling Kel that Sunny's skipping school, so his eyelids are dusted in just the faintest shimmer of pearl.

When Basil reaches for the eyeliner, Sunny’s ready to get in on the action.

“Let me do you, too,” he demands.

Basil can barely hear over his own giggling. “Ehehehe! Ehe, hehehe… Ohhh, Sunny, look at you!! Oh, my gosh… You could look so cute if you wanted!!!”

“You just want everyone to dress like a My Little Pony,” Sunny grumbles. “Come on, it’s my turn.”

By the time Kel raps on the door, Sunny and Basil are elbow-deep in a full-on roleswap. Basil cuts an austere figure in black skinny jeans and Sunny’s favorite Docs, the monochrome florals with the red soles. (“How do you even walk?” Basil asks pitifully, stiff-legged as a colt. "It feels like my legs are in a straitjacket.”)

“Sunnyyy!” Kel shouts through the door. One of these days, Sunny is going to have to introduce himself to the neighbors, just to make sure they don’t call in a noise complaint. Maybe Basil can buy their forgiveness with vegetables. “I’m coming in!!!”

When the door swings open, Kel does a huge, cartoonish double-take. “W-Woah!! Sunny!”

“Yes?” Basil says, as dry as he can manage while still hiding a laugh behind his hands.

“...Basil??”

Sunny clears his throat, digs deep for all the anxious energy he can muster. “Y-Yes???”

“Woah!” Kel yelps. His eyes flick between them, uncertain with an undercurrent of something almost wistful. But it doesn’t take long before his nature wins out. “Hehe… Sunny, you got taller!!”

He scoops Basil up by the armpits, making him squeak, and plunks him down on the kitchen counter so they can see eye to eye. Sunny’s mouth tugs down. Kel used to do that with Sunny, before he started acting all weird.

“Hmph,” Basil huffs. Or at least, he tries to. He keeps breaking character to giggle.

Sunny turns to Kel, stonefaced. “Tee hee,” he says flatly.

Basil laughs so hard he falls off the counter.

For another few minutes, Kel is still carrying that weird, buzzy energy, like he’s playing musical chairs and they’re all out of chairs. Eventually, Sunny gets fed up and kicks Basil in the foot.

“Ow!! Oh—Kel, who do you want? Me or Sunny?”

“Huh???”

Basil, intimately acquainted with choice paralysis, chooses for him. “Here, you can be Sunny. I’d rather be you, anyway.”

Sunny gets it. It does seem more fun, being Kel. He’s so tall and long that he can grab the best snacks off the highest shelves, the ones that Sunny or Basil would have to climb on the counter to reach. His hair is fluffy and his eyes are warm, not black like Sunny’s but a soft sort of brown, sunlight through maple syrup. All the light in the room seems to curl around him, like even the sun loves Kel best.

“O-Oh! Right! Haha, yeah, of course! Yeah, I’ll be Sunny. Um.” He looks down at Sunny. “...I don’t think your pants will fit me, though.”

“Ugh, me neither,” Basil says, with feeling. “I really think we’re going to have to cut them off. S-Seriously, Sunny, this can’t be good for your circulation.”

Sunny huffs dismissively. His pants aren’t that tight. Basil is just spoiled from dressing like an Anthropologie catalog.

The bong circles the room a few more times, until Basil is swimming in a basketball jersey and shorts that go all the way to his ankles and Kel is standing in front of the mirror, breathless with laughter at the way Sunny’s biggest sweater vest cuts off above his belly button.

“Th–This,” he wheezes, gasping for breath. “Oh, guys, I don’t th-thihiheheheee, I don’t know, you guys!! I don’t think it’s supposed to fit like this!!!”

Sunny, splayed out across the couch, smirks at him. “No, no,” he drawls, upside-down and languid. “That’s exactly right.”

He watches with interest as Kel colors violently. Is Kel attracted to him, like Aubrey thinks? He still can’t tell. But he likes thinking about it.

“Come here,” he decides, nodding at Kel. “I’ll do your hair.”

Kel is so pliant in Sunny’s hands. Like a doll, except that Sunny can feel the thrum of his pulse in his throat. When Sunny nudges at his eyelids, Kel closes his eyes easily. Trusting. Like a sacrificial lamb. He stills and lets Sunny pin and brush and tuck his unruly curls into a state of artful disarray.

It makes Sunny feel—afraid. He feels afraid.

He doesn’t like it. Fear is Basil’s domain. Sunny is afraid when his back is to the wall and there are monsters at the gate. He doesn’t look at the people he loves and feel afraid. Mari was fearless and he should be, too. But Kel is so trusting, so loyal. It would be so easy to snap his heart in half.

Sunny has a violent flash of cutting into Mewo. Soft fur and the stretch of sinew. The way she trusted him, until she didn’t. But that wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It isn’t—

“Sunny?” Kel asks, almost shyly. “Can I open my eyes?”

Sunny thrusts the feeling away. He isn’t afraid. And he isn’t going to hurt Kel. He’ll die before he does.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You’re perfect.”

The bong goes around a few more times. Basil remembers about the platter of veggies and, at Kel’s prompting, leads them all on an impromptu food tour, instructing his avid audience on what to look for in the flavor profile, which dressings will complement it best.

Kel keeps darting glances at Sunny-dressed-as-Basil, ineffectively furtive but appealingly bashful. Sunny likes it. He likes Kel looking at him. He likes Kel, probably. Romantically. It’s a little more than he can think about right now, so he won’t, but. It’s. Sort of hard to deny, at this point.

There’s a shifting of beams, a creak in the wood. Someone is coming up the hall.

Basil’s eyes go wide. “S-Someone’s coming!!”

“It’s just Kel,” Sunny yawns.

“Kel is right next to you though??”

Sunny blinks. Right. So he is. There’s only one Kel. A shame, that.

“D-Did you lock the door??”

“Yes?” Sunny guesses, then checks himself. “No. I don’t know. Sorry.”

There’s a click of metal on metal. A key, slipping into the lock. Basil squeaks.

“Don’t worry,” Sunny says darkly, tightening his hold on the steak knife. “I’ll protect you.”

Kel’s eyes bulge. “Why do you have that???”

Ah. Right. He forgot he’s not supposed to do that. “...Habit.”

“That doesn’t—!!”

The doorknob turns, and the door swings inward. All three of them scream and, in the process, scare the living shit out of Hero.

“Jeesuschrist!!!” he squawks, fumbling a bag of something that clatters against the ground. “What the f—ffrick are you guys— Wait, Kel?”

“O-Oh! Haha! Hey, bro!”

“What are you wearing?” Hero asks, starting to snicker. He sniffs the air. “Are you high?”

“Are you a cop?” Sunny shoots back.

“Why do people keep asking me that??”

Sunny shrugs airily, like he wasn’t a half a second away from pissing in Basil’s favorite shorteralls. “Seems like something you should ask yourself.”

“Wh— No!! Why are you even here? Don’t you have class right now?”

Ah. Damn. Sunny bought Basil’s silence, but that sort of subterfuge is useless against Hero, who has Sunny’s entire academic schedule carefully penciled into his own calendar. “...I’m playing hooky.”

“Gasp!!!” Kel shouts.

Hero drops his head into his hands. “God. I’m not here to drag you to school, okay? Though you should really go to school. It’s… really expensive. No, I’m just here to drop off leftovers, you ingrates. I thought you could use a few easy meals.”

All three of them sit up straighter.

“Oh, so that’s the magic word, huh?” Hero shakes his head. “Honestly… Sunny, how often do you cut class?”

“I d-don’t have any classes today!” Basil squeaks.

“That’s good to hear, Basil.”

Sunny shoots him a dirty look.

“A-And Sunny really doesn’t do this very often at all!!” Basil adds hastily. “It’s just a l-lecture today, and they put those online after a few days, so…”

Hero holds up both hands. “Wait. I seriously didn’t come here to give you a hard time. I have to run, anyway. Glad you kids are—” He rolls his eyes. “—having fun. At two in the afternoon. On a school day.”

“Thanks, dad,” Kel mutters.

“You can sass me when you get off your shift at Hot Topic.”

Basil chokes on a laugh. “Y-You can’t say he doesn’t look good, though!!”

“Yeah, yeah. Look, I really do have to run, this was just supposed to be a drive-by. Can you get this stuff in the fridge? You’re not going to forget, and let it all spoil?”

“We’re not kids,” Sunny mutters. He’s still sulking about the truancy thing. He doesn’t like being told what to do, but, if he’s really honest, he also doesn’t like disappointing Hero.

“I know,” Hero tells him, giving him a friendly whack on the arm. “See you guys tomorrow.”

All three of their heads tilt.

“For Kel’s game,” Hero says, exasperated. “Kel, it’s your game.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s not like I was gonna forget!! I’m just—I have a lot on my mind!!”

“I’ll bet. See you, guys.”

The door falls shut behind him.

“Six bucks he’s getting in a van,” Sunny says automatically. Hero's been claiming for weeks that his van-dwelling not-a-girlfriend is on her way out of town, but Sunny's yet to see the proof.

“No one’s going to take that bet, Sunny!!” Basil huffs, at the exact same time as Kel says, “Done!”

Silent, Basil scurries to the window. He looks at Kel. He shakes his head.

“Dammit!!” Kel bursts out. “Why would I take that bet! We don’t even know anyone else with a car!”

Sunny looks smug. “You just want to give me six bucks.”

Everyone’s a little keyed up after getting caught in the act, so they retreat to the couch to watch a movie. The couch is very obviously big enough for everyone, but Kel looks like he’s thinking about dragging over a kitchen chair, or something similarly desolate. The thought is honestly too grim to bear.

Sunny takes the choice out of his hands by flopping down on the carpet in front of the couch, leaving a massive, inarguably more-than-sufficient amount of space for Kel and Basil.

(“Oh!” Kel says, surprised. “You, um… You don’t wanna sit?”

“I like the floor.”)

Basil isn’t very good at sitting still. He only makes it ten minutes into Bilbo’s eleventy-first birthday party before hopping up to flit around the room, wiping surfaces and organizing shelves and arranging his crochet hooks by color and then size.

Kel’s eyes are locked on the screen. The man loves hobbits and, really, who can blame him. But he’s fidgety, too. Sunny can see Kel’s hand drift toward him then away, toward him and away. It’s… annoying. Kel wants to touch him. Sunny wants to be touched. What’s the problem?

After a few minutes, he loses his patience and headbutts Kel in the knee. “What’s wrong with you? Pet me.”

“O-Oh. Right. Sorry.”

At last, there’s a tentative pressure at the nape of Sunny’s neck. Kel’s fingernails ghost over his scalp, uprooting a few plastic flowers. Sunny leans in with a contented hum.

It’s enough for a while, but Sunny can only spend so long on the floor. Especially when the couch is so big and soft, and his friends so nice and warm. He knows that Kel is being weird right now, but that doesn’t mean Sunny has to buy in. Kel is just wrong. And stupid. And he always runs about ten degrees warmer than Sunny, who starts shivering when the temperature drops below 70, so. Really, he’s just being selfish.

Sunny slithers up the couch and tucks himself under Kel’s arm.

It’s good. It’s so much better. Kel is like a huge, gangly hot water bottle, if the hot water bottle could also pet you and ruffle your hair and tell you that you’re doing a good job.

“You’re so warm,” Sunny mumbles, nestling into him.

“Y-Yeah.” Kel sounds a little strangled, but that’s not Sunny’s problem. Sunny’s not a mind reader. If Kel has a problem with Sunny acting the same way he’s been acting for the past twenty years, he’s going to have to use his words.

But to his relief, after a minute, Kel relaxes, too. The tension seeps out of him and his arm comes to rest where it belongs: on Sunny’s shoulders, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of Sunny's (Basil's) cropped shirt.

Basil has too much energy to watch movies. Sunny is the opposite. By the time Frodo and Sam set out from the Shire, he’s at least 60% asleep.

[casspurrjoybell-20]

FOOLS Fall - Chapter 35 - Part 2

BOOK TWO: The 'Fools Fall in Love' Trilogy

*Warning Adult Content*

Samuel Moretti

[six months later]

"Hmm," I moaned against Benjamin's mouth, as he hit that certain stop over and over, his tongue was the only sloppy part, everything else he did was gentle and planned out.

Like his hands that caressed my body or the way his hips moved rhythmically against mine as he fucked me from below.

I sat up, my hand sliding down his smooth, hairless chest that I wasn't used to and I ground myself against him.

Being on top and in control, I found, was the only way I'd orgasm.

Benjamin liked it when I was in control, so it worked out for the most part.

"Fuck, babe, you feel amazing," Benjamin groaned underneath me, his hands gripping my waist.

He used 'babe' too much and rarely called me by my actual name.

I smirked and leaned down to kiss him before whispering...

"Touch me," because if I didn't tell him what to do, he wouldn't know, so when I leaned back up, his hand took hold of me and stroked me while I continued my movements on him.

I felt myself growing closer to my release as a strong pressure build up inside of me.

My hand clutched my hair tightly, my head leaning back as I moan.

"Ahhh fuck, I'm gonna cum," right before I finished into Benjamin's hands and he rubbed me through my orgasm.

"Can you bounce on me, Babe? I'm so close," Benjamin had his eyes squeezed shut as I did what he asked.

'I hated that he asked... just demand it.'

Nonetheless, I moaned as I lifted myself up and fell back down on him in perfect pace until Benjamin was releasing his load inside me.

I collapsed down beside him, both of us out of breath and I looked over at Benjamin with a grin

"Welcome to Punta Cana."

He laughed then rolled on top of me to shower me with kisses.

Though Benjamin was different, he was good for me.

I was laying down on the beach chair and gave a soft...

"Hmm," as Benjamin rubbed suntan lotion all over my back like a mini massage.

Once finished, he took a seat next to me.

"We should just live here forever," I said feeling the most relaxed I have been in a while.

"We have too many responsibilities, unfortunately," I heard Benjamin's response, my eyes closed as I soaked in the hot summer sun.

"Fuck responsibilities," I claimed lazily.

Benjamin snorted.

"Yeah right."

There was a moment of peaceful silence before Ben spoke up again.

"So I was thinking about college..."

"Please, Ben, could we not? I'm already anxious enough," I said.

I had been waiting on my letter from University of Illinois in Chicago and Illinois State University which was where Benjamin got into.

The unknown of if I was accepted or not, was eating me away.

I hated to admit it and I would never admit it out loud but one university I wanted more than the other.

It wasn't the one my boyfriend was attending.

"I know but I was thinking, when you get into ISU what if we moved in together?"

I stilled, my heart squeezing in pain for Benjamin because I definitely didn't want that.

"Um..."

"You don't have to answer now," Benjamin said quickly.

"But promise me you'll think about it?"

My heart was beating out of my chest as I agreed.

"I'll think about it," and luckily it wasn't brought up again for the rest of the trip.

Benjamin wanting to live with me made me realize how strong his feelings were for me and I knew my feelings towards him weren't as intense.

Don't get me wrong, I liked Benjamin a lot but I knew he was moving faster than I was and that scared me.

I always jumped into relationships head first and every time I ended up crashing, I didn't want that to happen with Benjamin.

Which was why I wanted us to go to separate universities, give us some space and keep our relationship at a comfortable, safe pace but deep, deep down, I knew the real reason I wanted to go to UIC.

I had to see him.

I didn't even care if we talked or not, I just needed to see Noah Wright one last time and I'd be okay.

He blocked me on all social media, which was for the best or I'd be consumed with it.

I am, however, proud to say I didn't call him like he told me.

So when we got home from Punta Cana, my Mom picking us from the airport and dropped off Benjamin, I was anxious to my core when my mom told me I had mail.

I stood nervously in the kitchen as I held the letters in my hand.

I had two.. one from ISU and one from UIC.

Choosing to open Benjamin's college first, I picked up the mail from ISU.

I got in as I knew I would but what I said was...

"I didn't get in," and I shoved the acceptance letter back into the envelope before anyone could see.

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry," my mother said, coming up next to me to rub my back in comfort and I felt guilty for lying.

I shrugged and picked the next letter, my hands were trembling as I grabbed the envelope from UIC and tore it open.

I exhaled the breath I was holding.

I didn't even have to read beyond the first sentence before I looked up in awe at my Mom with a smile.

"I'm going to UIC."

[runa-falls]

miguel o'hara

(series)

scratches and bites*

cat and mouse

(one-shots)

self-care*

miguel comes home to his sleeping girlfriend. guess he'll have to take care of himself... (somnophilia adjacent)

step on me* | lovefool*

no matter how hard you try, you can never impress your boss. he won't listen to any of the notes you have or the projects you're working on. the only time he pays attention to you is when he's fucking you over a desk.

chafed thighs*

request: I saw that you think Miguel is a thigh man 😩 can I request him x reader who's thighs clap when they run or so some type of activities.

acts of appreciation*~

request: a reader who appreciates everything that Miguel does for the multiverse in more ways than one.

free use*

miguel cannot resist your advances, even when he's trying to get things done

something new*^

you propose a new activity to try with your boyfriend. he's very intrigued by the idea

"i know who you pretend I am"*^

hi runa happy 3k! can you write something based on the lyric "i know who you pretend I am" from washing machine heart with mig?

bubble baths*

short one-shot of giving miggy a bubble bath -- all of this is because of this post

after dark** [dark] - geneticist!miguel x intern!reader

he wants you. and he knows you need him.

obsessed*

mutual masturbation + degradation kink (barely)

what a mess~*

with great power comes great…stamina

summer heat*

suntanning with miguel, what could go wrong?

sunsetz*

worship*

(blurbs + thots + asks)

sub!mig headcannons

wake up call** [somno]

nano-suit [suggestive]

i'm convinced you would be able to see the entirety of miguel through his nano-suit, i mean, it's practically painted onto his body.

bj's with mig*

yandere!miguel*

tummy bulge*

miguel is a thigh man*^ | fucks your thighs??*

mig w/ a pierced girl*^

size kink*

squirting*

oral blurbs*: soft | rough

post-shower tease*

miguel under the tree* - christmas blurb

3k celebration:

"call me that again"*

"ten? i only need five"

blindfolding miguel

picnic + strawberries

[justsoohi]

suntan SUMMER

Colorful good job/Episode 7

<On the day of the appreciation party hosted by NewDi>

Kuro: Harukawa, I'm here to refill the syrup!

Sora: HaHa~! Thank you, Red onii-san~. It seems that strawberries are very popular~♪

Kuro: seems like it... Are we running out of fruit, too? I'll go to Shiina and get some refills.

Sora: HiHi~. Thank you very much! Sora think he'll just keep on making shaved ice~!

Welcome to Sora's shaved ice shop~♪

Ah, you're that guy who was there for sora's last photo shoot? You helped me a lot that time! Thank you so much!

Yes, one Sora's special shaved ice! Please wait a moment♪

Niki: Yes! Two omelet noodles and a yakitori set, thank you for waiting! There's an empty seat over there, so please take your time!

(Phew, it's more popular than I expected, but we're getting by)

(The kids who came to help me seemed to be able to move around without any worries because Kiryu-kun is following up on everything)

Oops, the next customer has arrived. ..Thank you for your hard work. Have you decided what to order yet?

Natsume: Looks like it's going great

Niki: Ah, if isn't that sakasaki-kun! I'm so glad you came!

Natsume: Well of course. This is an event that Sora worked very hard to come up with.

Niki: Nahaha. That's the obvious. As for Harukawa-kun, he'll be at the stall over there

Natsume: I'll definitely go see Sora later. But before that, I came to thank Shiina-senpai for his help.

Niki: I didn't do much. Harukawa-kun was the one who worked the hardest for today.

We should rather thank sakasaki-kun for sending us the manpower.

Natsume: Please don't mind that. ...I'm just annoyed that he left me behind and talked to Sora

Subaru: Shiina-senpai! We're out of drinks... Oh, Natsume! You're late~!

Natsume: I had some business to attend to. More than that, You seem to be having a lot of fun.

Subaru: Yeah ☆ I'm really starting to enjoy serving the staff!

Niki: Akehoshi-kun. Drinks are here, so bring them over please

Subaru: Thank you! See you later Natsume. Since it's an appreciation party for the yellow kid who worked so hard, he really healed a lot♪

Natsume: goodness, since you're having such a good time.... It's not worth taking it out on you.

Well, you're helping sora with his event, so you'd better enjoy it or I'll never forgive you♪

Niki: That's very unreasonable....

Natsume: Anyway, I'm so glad Sora seems to be enjoying himself.

Niki: If you were that worried about Harukawa-kun, you should've come to check on him.

Harukawa-kun said he didn't want to rely on Sakasaki-kun and the others, but couldn't you have helped him as long as it wasn't too much of a burden?

Natsume: No, because this time, he said he wanted to do it without depending on me or Senpai.

It is absolutely wrong for me to help sora without regard to his feelings.

So this time, I decided to keep an eye on him. Of course, I would have pulled him out if he really looked like he was in pain.

Niki: He~h. Sakasaki-kun really thought about a lot of things.

Natsume: ...You don't seem to be thinking about anything, do you?

Hah.. well, that's fine. Like I said before, it's thanks to you guys that I didn't have to lend a hand

I'll tolerate you today, including your curt response♪

Tsumugi: Fufu, you seem to be in a good mood. Natsume-kun

Natsume: So senpai also came. I thought you were too busy with work to show up.

Tsumugi: Of course I'm coming. I mean, I called via " hold hand" in the morning to tell him I was going too!

Natsume: I know that. But are you sure you're getting healed? This was planned by Sora with you in mind, you know?

You're going to have to recover your strength so that you can work like a cart horse in the afternoon.

Niki: So sakasaki-kun feels that way to Aoba-kun

Tsumugi: Don't worry, Natsume-kun. I have already received a lot of energy from sora-kun

Natsume: What are you grinning for?

? This power... Don't tell me that shaved ice in your hand–?

Tsumugi: Yes, I just got in line and had Sora-kun make it for me. The ice itself is sweet and very tasty, perhaps because of the condensed milk mixed in.

After all, when you are tired, you need something sweet. Eating it will make you feel relaxed

Natsume: Hu~h, Even though you're a senior, you're impertinent to run around shrewdly.

Tsumugi: Natsume-kun, hurry and get in line to try it. It's really delicious!

Natsume: I'm going to do that without being told

Sora: HuHu~. Sora is happy that Shisho~ and Senpai are still good friends even today♪

Tsumugi: Sora-kun?! Why are you here? The food stall is still....

Sora: sora asked the customers to wait a little bit! Everyone is so kind, so they let me~

Shisho~! Senpai! Thank you for coming to the party today.

This is shaved ice for Shisho~! Please accept it!

Natsume: This is the shaved ice that Sora came up with. I'll gratefully accept it

Hm..? Sora? My shaved ice doesn't seem to have any fruit on it?

Sora: HeHe~♪ Look, this is Sora's favorite smile magic!

Tsumugi: Wow! You've got a lot of fruit in no time, Natsume-kun!

Natsume: You're so noisy senpai, you don't have to say it, you can tell just by looking at it, so can you please be quiet?

Sora: Here you are, Sora's special fruit shaved ice! We used a variety of fruits. The shapes are cute and fun to look at isn't~?

If you eat this, your tiredness will fly away!

Shisho~ and Senpai, Thank you very much for all your hard work

But too much effort is also a bad thing. Sora hope you will take a break from time to time to rest your mind and heart

Sora is still an inexperienced magician, but he'd like to help Shisho~ and the others even if it's just a little...!

Tsumugi: Thank you very much, Sora-kun. I'll be careful not to worry too much from now on.

Natsume: You really did a great job this time. I am proud to be your shisho~♪

Sora: HoHo~ ! Shisho~ gave me a compliment. Sora is very happy!

Kuro: Amazing. That Harukawa guy made all of the people here laugh in no time.

Niki: That's right. I am relieved that Harukawa-kun seems to be enjoying himself♪

Kuro: You were doing a lot of support while I wasn't there, right? I'm sorry I left things to you.

Niki: Nah, I didn't do anything really. I just listened... Well, I'm glad I was able to help.

Niki: (Maybe Harukawa-kun thinks he still has a long way to go, but from my point of view, he's already a splendid magician ♪)

(Because had made everyone who looked tired smile In no time)

(Well, I hope that I, too, was able to help this little magician...♪)

End

Prev

[seasonsbloom]

bad habit (hangman)

read part ii, read part iii

pairing ; hangman x female!reader

synopsis ; the moment you meet hangman, you know you hate him. and then suddenly, you're not so sure anymore.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, “when you look like me, you don’t really need any lines.”

wc ; 15k

warnings ; angst, explicit language, mentions of previous character death (reader’s mother dies of cancer), mentions of sexual activity, (some) explicit sexual activity, horrible dirty talk, age gap, hangman is sort of an asshole but not really, inexperienced reader

note ; i cannot believe i am posting this, it is so LONG and i am so embarrassed... at first it was just supposed to be pwp and then it suddenly had a LOT of plot and backstory and then i was at 15k and hadn't even really gotten to the smut part yet and now... i'm thinking... part 2? maybe? let me know if you're interested lol. anyways... first fic... yay?

Fightertown is all sand, suntan lotion, and contrails crisscrossing like latticework across the endless stretch of baby blue that is the Californian sky.

At first, you don’t know how to handle it. You’re from Seattle, which means an average of 156 rainy days a year, and here it feels like the only water you’re ever gonna feel again is the Pacific Ocean and the layers of sweat drying sticky on your skin when you wake up every day. You’re too stingy on your electrical bills to leave the fan spinning circles that herd stale air through your room all night, and it gives you a stuffy nose anyways, so you just suffer through it. Then, in the morning, you spend ten minutes standing under ice-cold water until your teeth chatter with enough force to hurt your jaw, only to forget once more what it feels like not to be hot minutes later.

Penny says you’ll get used to it eventually. But, two months in, you’re wondering if maybe she’s wrong.

“‘Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,/ Men were deceivers ever,-’” you read from the book in front of you. “‘One foot in sea and one on shore,/ To one thing constant never.’ Now, what does Shakespeare mean by that?” 

Amelia is starting to look like she’d rather be anywhere else. You’ve been at it for about 55 minutes, meaning you’ve got approximately 5 more left for today’s session. Usually, you’d call it quits by now and let her enjoy the remainder of her afternoon because she looks tired enough to fall asleep right here at the dinner table, but you don’t want to leave yet. You’d like to think it’s because you’re a sensible teacher. Most likely, though, it’s because the Benjamin residence is airconditioned, and Penny keeps that shit racked up to a moderate 71 degrees all day, and apparently, you’re a selfish bitch who will put her own need for heat relief before her student’s need for a reprieve from Shakespeare.

Which, like. Semantics.

“I don’t know,” Amelia says, chin resting in the open palm of her hand. She probably would know if she’d listened at all, but you’re pretty sure her mind is as much on the popsicles in the fridge as her eyes are on the clock on the wall.

“It means men are moody assholes who can’t stay faithful,” Penny says as she steps into the living room, ignoring her daughter’s scandalized Mom! “Pretty self-aware for the 16th century, don’t you think?”

You hum. “Pretty true, too.”

Penny laughs. “Don’t you know it? Take it as a life lesson, Amelia.” Then she extends something wrapped in colorful plastic in your direction. “Fudgesicle?”

Maybe some part of you should feel bad about exploiting the Benjamins for their aircon and free ice cream, but you’re sort of past that point.

“Thanks.” You take the fudgesicle and start unwrapping it without any further ado.

“Mom,” Amelia, her phone in one hand and her own ice cream in the other, asks as she gets up, “can I go upstairs now?”

“Ask your tutor,” Penny responds with a thumb pointed in your direction.

You shrug, preoccupied mainly with the flavor of chocolate and fudge melting on your tongue. Your bank account doesn’t really allow for luxuries like popsicles anymore, but, God, this must be heaven.

“Yeah, we’re pretty much done with Shakespeare today. Go over those pentameters again before the test, okay?”

“Sure.” Amelia smiles at you, already halfway to the door. “Thanks. See you next week.”

You wave at her turned back, and wait until she’s disappeared before you say, “She’s a good kid.”

Penny snorts. “A little glued to her phone, maybe.”

“I think that’s sorta par for the course.”

“Not very good with Shakespeare, either.”

“Now that’s definitely par for the course with a fifteen-year-old. Be glad they aren’t reading Hamlet.”

Penny laughs. She sinks into one of the unoccupied chairs at the dining table and stretches her legs out with a sigh. She’s already switched her usual cotton shorts for jeans which tells you she’s about to head over to her bar for the rest of the night.

“I guess I should count my blessings,” she says. “At her age, I’d already hijacked two planes with two different pilots.”

Penny’s stories about her teenage transgressions are always enough to make you feel stuck somewhere between awe and profound jealousy. Your own life is downright dull in comparison.

Then again, your life - and especially the romantic aspects of it - are downright dull compared to most things.

“You must have given your parents gray hairs,” you say, packing up your pencil and notebook in your tote bag. It’s not easy with only one free hand, but somehow you manage without leaving a trail of chocolate across Penny’s tabletop.

“I sure hope so.” 

You’re down to the part of your Fudgsicle where the wooden stick pokes out of the ice cream, and try to avoid licking at it accidentally. You hate the feeling of the wood against your tongue, but the whole thing is a bit difficult, as you’re also trying to eat at a pace you know will give you a stomach ache later.

You have to get out of here before Penny sinks her talons into you and…

“You should come by the Hard Deck today,” she says, and you bite back a groan.

Too late.

“I can’t,” you say semi-automatically, “I’ve got work tomorrow.”

Roughly a month ago, you pinned a sheet of paper to the bulletin board at the gas station where you’ve been picking shifts up since you arrived in town, advertising Tutoring for English, Grades 1 to 12. Penny was the only person who answered. Since then, you’ve been coming to the house once a week to tutor Amelia and, unofficially, to be lectured by Penny on all the joys life has to offer.

Her words, not yours.

“No, you don’t. You never work Sundays,” Penny shoots back immediately. Then, at your frown, she just shrugs. “You can’t lie to me, sweetie. I used to do it professionally. It takes one to know one.”

You sigh. “I don’t know that I feel like going out tonight.”

“You’ll feel like it once you’re actually out.”

Having finished your fudgesicle, you place the stick carefully in the wrapper before getting up. You reach across the tabletop and heft up your complete edition of Shakespeare’s plays. The thing is thick enough that you like to keep it by your bedside, just in case you ever wake up to an intruder in your apartment. It definitely doubles as a defensive weapon.

Penny lets out the long-suffering sigh of someone over going through the interminable motions of this spiel the two of you have inadvertently established. “What are you going to do then, tonight?” she asks. “Eat Cup Noodles and read Shakespeare?”

You can feel your face heating up. That really had been the plan.

“Jane Austen, actually,” you mumble without looking at her, clutching the book to your chest like a shield.

“Just… come down tonight, yeah? It’ll do you good to see some people. You’re twenty-three, sweetie. You shouldn’t be sitting around all on your own,” she says gently. “Please?”

The thing about Penny is that beneath her cool-girl veneer, beneath the tough-as-steel attitude of a bar owner, beneath the badass single mom allures, she’s really, really kind. It lets her get away with stuff that would be unacceptable coming from anybody else, but it also means she’s coming from a place of love, most of the time. 

You know this. Which is why the next thing you ask is, “Does your bar have aircon?”

+

The dress was a mistake.

You know it the moment you step out of your Uber. It’s too short, so you just know you’ll be spending the rest of the night tugging at the hem every few minutes. It’s also low in the back where the tightly tied straps of the halter-neck slap against your shoulders, and that means everyone can probably see the patch of acne your dermatologist promised would subside after puberty. Turns out, all men really do is lie. So you’re also going to have to find a wall to perch against and maintain that position until it’s socially acceptable to leave without Penny being angry with you.

In short: you’re deeply uncomfortable.

You don’t even remember why you picked this out earlier, let alone why you bought it in the first place. A mixture of misplaced bravado and alcohol on a night of online shopping, probably. It’s just that there’s this thing you sometimes get, this peculiar tug in your stomach, this strange desire to be seen at the same time that you’re terrified. You want to be invisible, but sometimes you think you’ll die if you don’t get any attention.

Maybe you just want people to perceive you, but without any of the negative consequences that might come with it.

That’s not how the world works, though, a voice at the back of your head tells you that sounds so much like Penny it scares you.

You spend a good five minutes idling by the parked cars, turning your keys over and over and over in your hands. You have half a mind just to go back home.

The Hard Deck is spilling buttery yellow light into the darkness of the night, and people migrate to it like moths to a lamp. You can hear the music and the chattering of voices even from where you’re standing in the gravel parking lot. It’s the sort of thing that should probably make you excited, but instead, you feel the familiar swoop of anxiety in the pit of your stomach.

Ridiculous, you scold yourself. You can’t honestly be afraid of a night in a bar.

Even past ten o’clock, with the sun set beyond the horizon in a display of pinks and oranges and blues so ostentatious it bordered on smugness - like the sky was saying, hey, look what I can do! - it’s still too hot. You can feel pearls of sweat beading in the nape of your neck, the tops of your thighs, the peak of your hairline. If you don’t go in now, the make-up you spent an embarrassingly long time perfecting will melt down your face in a puddle of mascara and lipgloss.

I’ll just stay for a while, you think. I’ll let Penny make me a pink and fruity cocktail, and then I’m going home in an hour. It’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna be okay.

You’re really trying to hype yourself up as you climb the few steps to the front porch. A few people are milling about here, nursing beers, a couple making out towards the railing where the light doesn’t reach.

Inside, the air smells like sweat and beer and good times. There really is air conditioning, but it doesn’t do too much to dispel the heat of too many people pressing into too little space. People crowd towards the bar, a throng of them, as they nudge and poke to beat each other to the next drink order. It’s mostly people from the Army base, you realize, a little taken aback. A sea of short hair and tan uniforms, beers in hands, and smiles on faces. The jukebox is playing a Springsteen tune.

You’re distracted enough that when somebody bumps into you, you let out an actual yelp and almost lose your footing.

Large hands come up to steady you by the elbows. “Sorry, sweetheart,” someone says from behind you.

You turn on your heel quickly. The guy is beautiful, because of course he is. The sort of beautiful you can recognize even when you get only a glimpse of his jaw and shoulders. Tall, tan, fit.

Your heart skips a beat.

He’s also not looking at you at all, hands already gone from you, neck craned to presumably look for someone in the sea of people.

“Didn’t see you there,” he says, and then he’s strutting away from you just as quickly as he’d come.

And, okay… ouch.

Now you regret wanting to be invisible earlier. Turns out the actual thing does not feel good. Not one bit.

A pit opens up in your stomach, and you need to swallow down whatever emotion is rising in your throat. You have the sudden, embarrassing, debilitating urge to cry.

Then somebody calls your name across the room. It’s Penny, waving at you from behind the bar with a massive grin on her face, and you could fall to your knees with relief.

You push your way through the crowd, fighting elbows and knees until, finally, your palms hit the wooden counter. It’s sticky beneath your fingers. You cringe.

“You made it!” Penny cheers. She draws a perfect glass of beer from the tap even as she talks to you.

You’re reluctantly impressed.

“Yay!” you agree, miming sad little jazz hands.

Penny laughs, never one to let even the most pitiful excuse of a joke pass her by. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

“I did promise,” you say. You didn’t mean for it to come out as defensive as it does.

Penny shakes her head, still smiling. She deposits the beers in the waiting hands of a Navy pilot, then turns to you. “I don’t doubt your integrity, sweetie. Just your commitment to having fun.”

“Yeah,” you agree, slowly letting your gaze wander over the overstuffed bar. “Fun.”

This time, Penny actually snorts. “Just have a drink, yeah? Relax.”

People have been telling you to relax for years now. You’re too tense, you’re too uptight, you gotta loosen up a little. They did it in high school. They did it when you were studying for an English degree in college you haven’t used even once in the year since your graduation. Hell, you’re pretty sure somebody did it when you were still showing up to kindergarten Halloween costume contests dressed up as a Math teacher while everybody else was a Power Ranger or a Princess.

It’s just a little difficult to relax when all you’ve got is childhood trauma, an apartment you can’t afford, friends you don’t talk to anymore, and student loans to pay off until the end of your life.

“I haven’t been relaxed a day in my life,” you say drily.

You can’t be sure because she’s turning to fill a row of shot glasses lined up neatly on the countertop, but you’re almost positive Penny is rolling her eyes.

“I could help you relax.” You know it’s the guy from earlier before you even turn to confirm your suspicion. He’s sidled up behind you, leaning half over your shoulder. This time, he glances down at you and has the audacity to send you a wink. “I’ve been told I’m quite good at that.”

Now that you know he’s a total sleaze, you feel better about how he ignored you earlier.

“Seriously?” you say. “Has that line ever worked for you?”

A grin spreads over his features. You realize he has an incredibly punchable face.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, “when you look like me, you don’t really need any lines.”

You bristle. A remark you hope will be scathing builds up on the tip of your tongue, but you’re interrupted before you can let it loose.

“Hangman.” You’re seriously confused by the tone of genuine affection in Penny’s voice. What the hell is that about? “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have a round of beers.” He lets his eyes drift down to you again, and his grin grows impossibly wider. “Plus whatever the little lady’s having. You can put it on my tab.”

Little lady. You’re about to vomit on the countertop. You’re definitely not feeling a strange tightening sensation in your stomach. Nope, no way.

“No, thank you,” you say pointedly. “I can pay for my own drinks.”

Never mind you know for a fact you have about ten dollars left in your wallet.

“Come on,” the guy says, nudging you a little where he’s still hovering over you. He’s so goddamn close. You can feel the heat he radiates, can smell the scent of his aftershave, something spicy yet sweet. When he speaks, his chest rumbles with the sound inches behind you. “See it as an apology for knocking into you earlier.”

So he does remember. You’re not sure if that makes you feel better or worse.

Penny is watching the exchange with a raised eyebrow and a twinkle of something you can’t name in her eyes. It’s enough to inspire actual fear in you.

“Let me guess…” The guy pretends to think about it for a moment or two. “You want something pink and fruity, yeah?”

You can’t believe it’s that easy for him to read you, can’t believe the way it has instant, white-hot shame flashing through you. Now you really want to punch him.

Shoulders actually, genuinely shaking with all the anger piling up inside of you, you turn to face Penny. “Scotch,” you say. “Neat.”

Penny is staring at the two of you as if she’s watching a tennis match. Then, you become suddenly and uncomfortably aware of a bar full of people tailgating behind you, waiting their turn to order their drink.

While you’re starting to feel your skin itch with all the attention, the guy seems to have no qualms. His finger appears in your field of vision as he points at you. “You heard the little lady, Penny. One scotch. Neat.”

He over-pronounces the word, the t crisp and sharp, mocking you, and you grab the countertop hard enough your knuckles protrude white beneath the skin.

Penny shrugs and reaches beneath the bar to retrieve a glass and a bottle of scotch. Then, as if calling back to some inside joke, she says, “You got it, Hangman.”

That stuns you.

“Your name is Hangman?” you ask, and you can’t keep the genuine disbelief out of your voice. “What, did your parents hate you? What the fuck kinda name is that?”

He raises an eyebrow, but the smirk remains unrattled. “You got a pretty dirty mouth, huh, sweetheart?” 

“I can curse as much as I like, thank you very much.”

He hums, says, “We’ll see about that.” 

And when you look over your shoulder, you find him staring at your lips.

You whip back around, elbows squished between your body and the bar, heart beating a hundred miles a minute. Blindly, you stare straight ahead, through the open back doors, to where the moonlight reflects off ocean waves. Something is itching beneath your skin now. You have to calm down before you blow your fuse.

“Hangman,” he explains after a moment of silence, “is my callsign.”

That clarifies just about nothing to you. “Callsign?” you repeat. “What are you, a phone sex operator?”

It was supposed to be an insult, but he throws his head back, laughing like you made the funniest joke he’s ever heard. Then he leans forward, all the way into your personal space, chest pressing to your back, shoulders brushing yours, his breath hot against the shell of your ear as he says, “If you want me to talk dirty to you, sweetheart, all you need to do is ask.”

It sort of wipes your mind clean. No thoughts, only your body reacting - stomach tightening, hairs standing on end, a shiver down your spine. Penny sets the scotch down in front of you, then breezes off to serve some other customers. You barely even see her. Your breaths are coming a little faster, your heart is beating a little harder.

Then he straightens up again, all points of contact suddenly gone. If you weren’t sandwiched between him and the bar with nowhere to go, you think you might tip over backward. It’s all so sudden it leaves you dizzy.

He chuckles, and you hold your ground. Refuse to look at him. If he has picked up on just how rattled he’s got you, you’d rather at least not know about it.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not a phone sex operator,” Hangman says. “I’m a fighter pilot. More dangerous, just as sexy.”

You twist around to get a better look at him. Then, for the first time, you take note of the khaki uniform. Nobody, you think, absolutely nobody, should be able to make that color work for them. And yet somehow, it brings out the green in his eyes.

“Bigger environmental footprint.”

It’s pretty weak, admittedly, but this whole night has spiraled into a realm you didn’t plan for so quickly that you can’t come up with anything else. As a result, you’re uncharacteristically out of your depth.

“Bigger everything,” he shoots back, raising a single eyebrow in challenge.

You don’t know how to counter that, so you take a sip of your scotch and then have to concentrate way too hard not to spit it right back out. The first time you ever tasted alcohol, you snuck a gulp from your dad’s class of Whiskey on the rocks. This is almost as vile, if not worse. Years of consuming margaritas exclusively seem to have dialed your tolerance for straight, hard liquor down to a solid zero. 

“You still sure about that drink?” Hangman asks. The amusement is so evident in the upward turn of his mouth that it makes you want to kick his teeth in or hide behind the counter with Penny. One of the two, just as long as you don’t have to keep looking at him. “I’ll buy you something else. Maybe Penny serves juice boxes.”

Just to spite him, you down the whole thing in a single, long drink.

It burns a trail of fire down your esophagus, and you have to fight a coughing fit so violent you’re not sure you aren’t about to choke. Big mistake, definitely. Huge.

You try your best to keep your face neutral, but your muscles aren’t cooperating. At least if Hangman’s smirk is anything to go by, he’s definitely called your bluff.

“Well, you took that like a trooper,” he says drily. 

Anger lodges in your throat.

“You must be the most insufferable pilot in the whole Navy,” you tell him, hoping all the distaste you feel for Hangman translates into your voice.

Not that it matters. He seems to be one of those guys so infatuated with themselves that everything just rolls off their shoulders, like water off a duck’s back.

“I like to think so,” he says amicably. “I excel at most things I try. Always strive for excellence.”

You’ve never considered yourself a particularly violent person, but you’re pretty sure you would have broken his nose right then and there if it hadn’t been for Penny choosing that exact moment to swoop in.

“Here are your drinks, Hangman.” She places them on the countertop, then jabs a thumb towards the back of the bar. Her voice goes a little pointed as she says, “I think your friends miss you.”

He doesn’t look annoyed to be interrupted, and you can’t believe it, but it puts a little dent in your pride. 

Just how stupid am I? you ask yourself, making a point to face away from him again.

Hangman twists his upper body to reach around you, somehow balancing three bottles in each hand, clamped between his fingers like he’s the alcoholic version of Edward Scissorhands. For a moment, you’re completely enveloped by him, in his arms, and it’s too much, definitely too much, goes straight to your head. You can smell him again, the aftershave and the body spray and the sweat, and as his chest presses flush to your back, you swear you can feel the beat of his heart against all that bare skin exposed by the dress.

“You ever need some help relaxing,” he says into your ear, and for an instant, you feel the ghost of his lips tracing against your ear lobe, “you just ask, yeah, sweetheart?”

And then he’s gone, leaving you clutching at the bar desperately. Your legs feel like jello, ready to give out beneath the weight of your body.

What the fuck just happened? you ask yourself silently. Your mind is still completely, absolutely blank.

Penny pops up out of nowhere like a meerkat. Something on her face tells you you’d better run for cover right now unless you want to get wrapped up in one of her schemes, but you’re rooted to the spot.

“So…” she drawls, and the grin blooming on her face is downright devious. “Hangman, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mumble, rummaging through your purse just to have something to steady the tremors in your hands.

“He was so coming onto you.”

“He was not.”

“Oh, yeah, he totally was. That was aggressive even for Hangman standards, and, lord, that’s saying something.”

“Can I get, like… a glass of water?”

Penny ignores you. “You should totally go for it.”

She nods her head in the direction he disappeared, and you can’t help but follow with your eyes. A group of Navy pilots is shooting pool in the back towards the opened doors. Even among all the uniforms, Hangman sticks out to you - blond hair, tan skin, smirk you want to slap right off his face. He’s laughing at something the only woman in the group said - a real, full-bellied laugh - and then, out of the blue, as if he can feel your gaze, looks right up at you. 

Across the chaos of the bar, across the scattered tables, across the people swaying to the ABBA song playing from the jukebox, across the raised beer bottles and lowering shot glasses, he sends you a wink.

Feeling caught, you turn away instantly. Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

“No way,” you say. It doesn’t come out as firm as you want it to, your voice wavering, and you have half a mind to ask for a bucket of ice to thrust your head into. Maybe that could clear the cobwebs.

Penny laughs. “You sure, honey? You look like you’re about to spontaneously combust.”

“I’m sure I do,” you agree. “From anger. I’ve never met somebody that obnoxious.”

It’s pretty clear you’re grasping at straws here.

“I’ve known him since he was a student at Top Gun. He’s a good guy,” Penny says. “Deep down.”

“How deep are we talking? Like Mariana Trench? Center of the earth?”

Penny rolls her eyes. “Come on. Stop thinking so much. Go and have some fun.”

You point at the sign hanging above her bar, the one she’s so proud of she has mentioned it to you several times. “I thought you were supposed to help out when somebody disrespects a lady in here.”

It makes her laugh, a genuine laugh full of amusement and affection that bursts out from deep in her belly. She pets your hand gently.

“You can handle yourself. I know it for a fact.” The smile goes from genuine to mischievous. “Besides… you could stand to be disrespected a little. In the bedroom.”

You gape at her retreating back for a moment.

Then you drop your face into your hands and mutter to yourself, “Oh, God.”

Again… what the fuck just happened?

+

“Hangman asked me to give him your number.”

Penny doesn’t even wait until the end of the lesson this time.

You’re at the Benjamin dining table, watching over Amelia’s shoulder as she writes a short paragraph on misogynistic themes in Much Ado About Nothing. All the ice cubes in your water glass have melted, and the condensation leaves rings on the tabletop and damp against your palms.

When you glance up from Amelia’s work, her mother is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms folded in front of her chest. She’s grinning. You look back at the notebook and pretend your heart hasn’t just started racing.

Amelia, whose pen has stilled, asks, “What’s a hangman?”

“Who,” Penny corrects. “He’s a guy interested in your tutor.”

“There’s only one c in unnecessary,” you say. “A shirt has one collar, two sleeves.”

Amelia doesn’t seem to have heard you. “Oh my god,” she says. “Is he cute?”

“Very,” Penny answers at the same time that you grit out, “Not at all.”

“Is he a pilot, too?” Amelia asks, shooting her mother a look you don’t miss.

For all that she is just a teenager with all the eccentricities and dramatics that entails, Amelia has what some would call an old soul. She’s always looking out for her mother, always thinking things through to the bitter ends that Penny would rather look at through the lenses of her perpetual rose-colored glasses.

It reminds you of yourself, and sometimes you want to hug Amelia, hold her, tell her she doesn’t need to take on all these battles. That she deserves to be a child, should revel in it for as long as she can. You don’t want her to end up like you, all this baggage and no one to help you carry it.

“Of course.” Penny, unperturbed, pushes into the room and pulls out a chair for herself. “Nobody can resist those Military men.”

You hide your snort behind a coughing fit just so you don’t give Penny the satisfaction of thinking she’s actually funny. She doesn’t deserve that.

“When did you meet him?”

“Saturday, at your mom’s bar,” you explain, pulling her notebook towards you. “And we didn’t meet. He almost knocked me over and then proceeded to mock me for ten minutes. Not exactly romantic.”

Penny rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. He was flirting with her like crazy.”

You pretend to be busy scanning over Amelia’s writing, but you don’t register much past the words Hero and Claudio.

“Which one is Hangman again?” Amelia asks. She sounds much too invested in this for your liking.

“The blond one.”

“Oh, with the green eyes?”

“That’s the one.”

“Wait, he’s so cute.”

You groan and drop your head onto the tabletop.

So yeah, maybe there are people out there with real problems. People that are starving or people that have lost their homes. Compare your situation to them, and your toil will seem like nothing. All that is true. But right now, at this moment, you can’t imagine a fate worse than having both Benjamin women pouncing on you like this.

“Don’t be so dramatic, sweetie.” Penny pats the top of your head like you’re a small dog. A miniature poodle or something. “If anything, Hangman will be a good time.”

You turn your head so your cheek is pressed against the wood of the table and glare at her. “Maybe we shouldn’t discuss this in front of your teenage daughter.”

“This isn’t the worst conversation she’s had in front of me,” Amelia says. She’s doodling something in the top corner of her essay. At your skeptical look, she shrugs. “Mom gets chatty when she’s drunk.”

“What I’m saying,” Penny continues, voice rising just a little, “is that you won’t regret giving Hangman your number. You need to loosen up a little.”

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t notice that innuendo,” you mumble under your breath, then sit back up abruptly. “Absolutely no way. He’s not getting my number.”

“I think it would be cool if you had a boyfriend,” Amelia interjects.

“You and me both, baby,” Penny agrees, leaning across the table to take a sip of Amelia’s sugar-free Mountain Dew.

You are going to start screaming spontaneously any minute now.

“I’m perfectly fine being single.”

Amelia grimaces. “You literally know half of Much Ado About Nothing by heart.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” Penny reassures quickly and gives her daughter a placating look. “Just that you might have a bit too much time on your hands.”

“That’s not true. I work six days a week.”

“Exactly!” Penny smiles from ear to ear. It’s almost angelic, that smile. You can’t believe there’s an actual demon hiding behind it. “Which is why I should give Hangman your number. You have to have some fun at least one day a week.”

“I agree,” Amelia says.

“Am I still getting paid for this?” you ask, glancing at your phone to get the time. “Does this stay on the clock?”

Penny doesn’t answer your question. “I just think anybody in Fightertown needs to go on at least one date with a Navy pilot. It’s a rite of passage, really.”

“Aren’t there any other eligible pilots around then? Somebody nice? Literally anybody else?”

Penny’s smile turns soft. “You’re not seriously trying to convince me you’d be content with a nice guy, are you?”

That gives you pause. “What’s wrong with nice guys?”

“Absolutely nothing. Just… I don’t think nice is what you need at all, sweetie.”

You exhale loudly and then sit up, shaking away the strands of hair plastered to your cheek. “I don’t think I could stand being around Hangman either.”

“I’m not saying you should get married to the guy,” Penny acquiesces, “just… go on one date.”

You think about it for a moment. Think about dressing up in your prettiest dress, waiting outside your shitty apartment complex for Hangman to pick you up. Would he wear his uniform again or civilian clothes? You imagine him in jeans and a t-shirt, a hoodie for when it gets colder, the way the fabric would hug his broad shoulders. Would he take you to a restaurant or to the movies? No, Hangman seems like the type of guy to take you somewhere he can show off, you decide, to go bowling or surfing or something equally embarrassing for you, gratifying for him. You think about sharing a bottle of beer on the beach, the ocean spreading far and wide and blue in front of you, waves cresting, the moon gleaming, his warm hand on your back, his voice so close to your ear. Think of drawing him closer, his breath on your mouth, his touch on your hips…

You shake your head to banish the thoughts.

No way, you think, and something inside of you flutters with the sudden fear of it all, no way I can do this.

“I don’t think so, Penny,” you say. Your voice has gone quiet, dispassionate but firm, and you know Penny will know not to push further. “We should get finished with this lesson.”

Penny is quiet for so long that you know she’s swallowing down words. So you make it a point not to look at her. 

There’s a fear inside of you, a fear that stands in doorways and won’t let you pass. A fear that blocks the pathways of your life. You’ve been static for so long now that you don’t know how to shake it. Sometimes you don’t even know if you want to.

There’s something reassuring about not moving. It means you won’t get lost.

Finally, Penny sighs. “Alright,” she says, rapping her knuckles against the tabletop. “Be good, you two.”

You concentrate on the words blurring and sliding off the page in front of you and ignore the insistent, nagging voice at the back of your head chanting coward coward coward.

+

It’s Friday, but you’re not feeling at all inclined to thank God for it.

The gas station is deserted, which, in your humble opinion, is much worse than when it’s busy. Because no costumers mean nothing to do and nothing to do means nothing to occupy your mind with, and nothing to occupy your mind with means thinking, thinking, thinking.

You’re like a broken record - getting halfway through a thought before you circle back to the beginning, endless loops cartwheeling around and around.

It goes: Penny, Amelia, Hangman, Saturdays at the Hard Deck, Arizona Ice Tea spill in aisle four, Hangman, Hangman, Hangman… record scratch, pause, tape spooling, rewinding, replaying.

You’re so bored you’ve counted all the ceiling tiles four times. On the radio, they’re talking about the weather. The slushie machine is spinning cherry-colored ice with little, gurgling sounds.

The bell chimes, and you barely look up from your phone screen. A few lowered voices, the sound of laughter, and shuffling feet on linoleum floors as the group approaches the glass walls behind which row after row of drinks stands huddled can to can in the blessed cool. You blow a strand of hair out of your eyes.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

And you must have done something really horrible in a past life - there’s no other explanation for why the universe keeps doing this to you.

Hangman is leaning against the counter, one elbow braced on the top, the other arm lifting to flick his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose. He’s smirking, and the expression has become so familiar already that you think it might be melded with his face. You pretend not to notice the sleeve of his uniform straining against his bicep.

“Are you stalking me?” you ask.

“Definitely not.” Stepping away from the counter, he lifts a sixpack into the air. “I’m buying beer.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You got any ID?”

It punches a laugh out of him, and you don’t like it. You weren’t aiming to amuse him - you want to annoy him. You want to make his skin crawl the way he does to you. You want to slip inside his mind and burrow there, stay there, get lodged there. A splinter in his finger. A thorn in his side.

The intensity of it scares you, and when you reach for your water bottle, playing with the cap, your hands are shaking.

He reaches into his pocket and gets out his wallet. The picture on his driver’s license is old; He’s younger in it but no less handsome. His hair is just as blond, his eyes just as green. There's nothing ridiculous about it, unlike the botched photo you took at the DMV years ago.

You glance at his date of birth belatedly, almost like an afterthought, then do the mental math quickly. Not because you think he isn’t old enough to buy the beer. Just to find out how big the gap between him and you is.

Seven years. Seven years… you don’t know what that means. You don’t know why you care.

“Alright.” You move to ring up the sixpack, but he shakes his head.

“Waiting for my friends,” he explains with a thumb thrown over his shoulder.

“You have friends?”

He laughs again. “You’re funny.”

“I’m not trying to be,” you mutter and, resolved not to engage with him any further, pick your phone back up and settle in against the shelf of cigarettes behind you to ignore him.

He is having none of it, and you’re not even surprised.

“I liked the dress better, but those shorts aren’t half bad either.”

You look down at your work uniform of white denim shorts and a hideously orange vest with your name tag pinned to the chest. It is a downgrade from Saturday’s outfit, that’s for sure, but you haven’t settled on how you feel that he remembers it yet.

“I didn’t think you noticed my dress,” you say.

“Sweetheart, you’d have to be an idiot not to notice that dress.”

It has you lifting an eyebrow, seeing an in. “Oh, so you admit you’re an idiot then? Since you ran into me and all?”

His smirk goes just a fraction wider. “Maybe I did it on purpose.”

“You run into girls on purpose often?”

“Only the real pretty ones.”

It makes your head spin because… things like this just don’t happen to you. Not with guys like Hangman, at least. And it’s not even because you think you’re ugly or unappealing. Rationally you know you’re not. It’s just that he’s so… he’s so…

“What, am I so handsome you’re speechless?”

He’s so goddamn insufferable.

“You torturing this poor girl, Hang?” 

You recognize the woman from last Saturday, her sharp cheekbones, the glossy hair sleeked back into an army-mandated but nonetheless impressive coil at the back of her neck. She’s pushed her sunglasses up to the top of her head, which already makes her less of a show-off than Hangman by a mile. The smile she gives you is genuine and warm, and you feel yourself relax.

Anything’s better than being alone with Hangman.

“Oh, hardly.” Hangman shuffles to the side to let the woman heave another six-pack onto the counter. “If anything, she’s the one torturing me.”

There’s a literal ball of fire in your stomach, radiating heat all the way up to your cheeks. You must be looking like a deer caught in headlights right now.

The woman purses her lips. There’s so much derision in this one minuscule expression that it has actual jealousy jolting through you. Man, if only you could look at Hangman like that, you might actually make some sort of impact on him.

“Stop lying, man.” The woman rolls her eyes and then shares a look with you, something conspiratorial, something long-suffering only women can share in the presence of a man severely overestimating his own desirability. “She’ll punch you before she lets you take her out.”

Hangman shrugs. “Fine with me. It’s a fine line between love and hate.”

“What the fuck,” you mumble and busy yourself with the register.

“Is he bothering ladies again?” Two other men in Navy uniforms step up. One, tall, dark-skinned, mustachioed, dumps a whole armful of snacks on the counter, then grins at you a little sheepishly. 

“Always,” the woman answers without missing a beat.

Hangman says, “I’m not bothering her if she enjoys it.”

You’re almost entirely positive that he winked at you again, but you make it a point not to look up and start scanning items instead. 

“You guys need any bags?”

“That’s alright,” the woman answers.

They chat among themselves as you ring them up, but you can feel Hangman’s eyes on you the whole time. It’s enough to make you feeble, clumsy, and try your best not to drop anything.

You don’t know what compels you to say something. By all means, you should stay quiet. Let him leave. Never think about it again.

Instead, you pick up a bag of flaming hot Cheetos and say, as casually as you can manage, “Are you having a party?”

“Bonfire,” Hangman corrects. His elbow is still balanced on the counter, all that tanned skin, and you let your eyes follow the trail of his arm, up to his chest where his name tag spells SERESIN, all in capital letters. You pause there, staring at the name. “On the beach.”

You think that’s going to be it, that you’re going to ring him up and send him home. You’ll bite your tongue bloody before you say another word.

But then he continues, “You should come.”

He hasn’t been exactly subtle in his flirting, so this shouldn’t come as a surprise, and yet somehow it does, enough to stun you. Maybe it’s just your lack of self-confidence, but such a blatant invitation to spend an evening not just with him but with all his friends, makes your brain short-circuit.

“I have to work,” you answer almost automatically, brain operating completely on auto-pilot.

He lifts his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “After work, then.”

You open your mouth but can’t come up with another excuse, so you just settle on, “Your total is 42,98.”

You think he will fight you on it like he’s been fighting you on everything since the first time you met. But he just smirks, only one side of his mouth lifting, and gets his card from his pocket.

“I’ll pay,” he says.

When you accept his card, you take painfully meticulous care not to let your fingers brush against his.

The woman watches the whole exchange, and as you glance at her, something unreadable, some tiny flicker of emotion crosses her face before a genuine, slight smile replaces it.

Hangman stores his wallet in his pocket and starts collecting snacks in both arms, as do the other two men. You watch it all with a strange feeling fluttering in your chest, something that grows in your throat, threatening to choke you.

You wonder what it would be like to live in the moment, to stop thinking of consequences, stop weighting every decision with scales, overthinking every issue until you’ve looked at it from every angle and still haven’t found a single solution. You wonder what it would be like to throw your hands up in the air, say fuck it, who cares, wait for the end of your shift and drive down to that beach, get drunk on the beer you sold to the most obnoxious pilot in the history of the Navy, to take him home later and then have him inevitably never call you or text you or even speak to you again.

You wonder what it would be like not to feel the weight of the world drag you down, down, down.

“See you around, sweetheart,” Hangman says, smirking, pushing his aviators back up the bridge of his nose until the green eyes disappear behind the dark shades, until he’s obstructed from view. Until he becomes once more just a guy you pass on shopping streets, too beautiful to be real, too beautiful to ever talk to you. He turns towards the door, the other two in tow.

If he looks back, you think, torn between wishing and dreading, if he looks back, I’ll go.

He doesn’t look back.

Only the woman hangs back, looking at you with the same expression you can’t make light of. Curiosity, maybe. Interest.

“He’s not giving you too much trouble, is he?” she asks after a moment.

Her voice is different now, less harsh somehow. Softer.

You can’t even imagine what it must be like to try and make it as a woman in a world that’s still as obviously run by men as the army. You suppose there’s some amount of adjustment involved, some posturing. A shell as thick as armor.

“It’s… it’s fine. He’s harmless.” You’re surprised at your own words but not as surprised as you are to find that you actually mean them.

No part of you feels threatened by Hangman; no part of you feels unsafe or intimidated. You’ve been hit on by enough sleazy men in bars to know that that’s a rarity.

“He can be a lot, sometimes.”

You snort. “I can tell. If anyone’s in danger here, though, it’s him.”

She raises an eyebrow, and her sunglasses, still pushed into her hair, climb with the movement. “How so?”

“If he keeps going as he has been, I’ll punch him in the face.”

She grins and says, “I don’t doubt it.”

It’s nice. Pleasant. Easy.

You can’t remember the last time you spoke to somebody close to your own age like this, almost like you’re friends. At the realization, your heart gives a painful pang.

“I’m Phoenix, by the way,” she says, offering you a hand across the counter.

You take it without hesitation and smile at her as you tell her your name.

She nods. “We usually hang around the Hard Deck on Saturdays if you ever want to come by.”

“Oh,” you say, “Thank you.”

It’s a genuine offer, you can tell. She doesn’t strike you as somebody who says things she doesn’t mean, and that’s why it’s special to you.

She nods again, says goodbye, and pushes off the counter.

By the door, she pauses suddenly. Then, with one hand already on the handle, she glances back at you.

“He’s not a bad guy,” Phoenix says, face gentle, and you don’t need to ask who she’s talking about. “He’s just… he’s just Hangman. He acts like an asshole, but he’s a softie on the inside.”

You sink your teeth into your lower lip, unsure how to answer.

Phoenix shrugs. “I just thought you should know,” she says.

The bell above the door rings as she steps outside. A gust of warm wind blows in. The aircon groans once and pumps more stale, cool air into the room. The radio is stuck on a Katy Perry song. You tap your fingers against the countertop in a rhythmless pattern, squeeze your eyes shut, and think of the long, long stretch of nothingness that extends before you.

+

Three months ago, you packed your life into a car.

It had never been part of the plan. Because that was a thing you used to have, once upon a time - a plan. You knew exactly what you wanted, from the job to the dog breed to the car. There was a house down the road from your parents, a house with a blue door and a white fence, and a tire swing dangling from the branches of an old, twisting willow tree, and you had known you’d buy it one day since you were five.

When you were eight, you used to run past that house every day to catch the school bus, thinking what it would be like to be up on that swing, kicking your legs and soaring higher, higher, higher, up into the blue of the sky. When you were fifteen, you wondered what it would be like to live in a house with two stories, a house where things wouldn’t be cramped, where you didn’t have to spend fifteen minutes waiting for the only bathroom to be free, where you didn’t hit your elbows and knees and shins and toes on all the nooks and crannies and rusting nails protruding from wood. Finally, when you were twenty, you wondered what it would be like to come home from work to a husband who loved you and kids who smiled at you.

So you used to have a plan. Go to college, get a job, grow up, get married, buy that house. You used to have things figured out.

And then your mother died.

You remember watching her as she began to fade, as she went translucent like the paper she used to wrap your sandwiches in. As cancer dissected her, flayed her open, ate away her edges, a little more each day. As she went from vibrant colors to shades of gray, film history reversing itself. You remember when it got so bad, you left college to go back home, to sit by her bedside every day, to feed her by the spoon as she had once fed you, to read to her from the books you had once studied in 8 am classes, from Bronte and Joyce and Fitzgerald.

One morning you walked into her room, expecting to see her awake, and found that she’d gone cold in the night instead. To this day, you’ll never forget how that felt - the grief of it, instant and cleaving you in two, the panic of practicality, of not knowing what to do or who to call. And then the relief, that horrible, warped thing that welled up inside of you, that you still can’t forgive yourself for, because at least it was finally over, all that suffering and all that waiting around for the inevitable.

It was a small funeral. Your parents divorced years ago, back in the cartoon and apple juice days of your life, and your father was clumsy as always, a stranger in the face of the familiarity you’d shared with your mother. Just a touch of his fingertips to your shoulder at an open grave, a downward twist to his mouth, whispering sorry, kiddo, before he disappeared back into the lovely townhouse with his new family and the younger, more agreeable versions of you, the children he’d actually wanted. Back to sending you a birthday card a week late or a month late or not at all and never calling and never visiting and scheduling Facetime calls he forgot about in favor of dance recitals or school plays.

So then you were alone. Resoundingly. Irrevocably.

You finished college in a daze, graduated just because you had gotten halfway there, and dropping out seemed like a bigger hassle than finishing. Found yourself with a degree you no longer remembered what you had wanted to do with in the first place and all those crippling student loans. 

That house with the blue door and the white fence and the tire swing on the willow tree had lost its meaning. Your plan had turned to dust and slipped through your fingers, had been buried right alongside your mother.

So you sold your mother’s place (because who wants a house full of ghosts anyway, a house where each room reminds you of something that will spend the rest of your life missing from you) and got in your car, and you drove. You drove along the coast, through the thick trees of Washington, past the streams of Oregon, through the deserts of California, and when your car finally broke down in Fightertown, you said, fuck it, whatever, might as well, other places suck too. And you stayed.

It has remained the only time in your life you have ever acted on impulse, ever let your heart decide instead of your head, and you’re still not sure if it was the right decision.

You spend your days now trying to scrape together enough money to pay for your electricity bills and your rent and your gas. Just enough to get a frozen yogurt every once in a while. Just enough money so you don’t have to think about money all the time, counting it, saving it, missing it.

It’s sad, you think, when you’re alone at night, spread-eagle on your bed, limbs dangling off the sides of the mattress, staring up at the water stain spreading like a plume of smoke across your ceiling. A sad, little life with no direction.

You’re wallowing, and you know you are. Your penchant for dramatics is getting the best of you.

Most days, it’s not so bad. You like Penny, and you like Amelia, and the other day you went to see a movie at the theater, and that was nice. You like your books and your music and the Reese’s peanut butter cups you buy with your employee discount at the gas station. You like the beach, the taste of salt on your lips, and how the sun feels on the tip of your nose.

So most days, it’s not so bad. And then sometimes, it is.

Then it settles around like a dark cloud, like a fear you just can’t shake. That nagging anxiety in the pit of your stomach that seems to have no cause and no solution gnaws at you, yaps around your ankles, sinks its fangs into you, and won’t let go.

That’s when you curl into bed (but not under the covers because it’s still California and still too hot and still too expensive to keep the fan spinning) and blink into the nothingness and don’t move. And that’s when you dream, or else the dread of it all will swallow you whole and never spit you out again.

So you tell yourself that’s why you’re here again, at the Hard Deck, for the second week in a row, choosing to spend your Saturday with a bunch of sweaty drunk people instead of a family-size pizza. It’s just because you want to avoid the maelstrom of your mind.

It’s definitely not because you couldn’t stand the echoing loneliness of your shitty apartment anymore. It’s definitely not because Phoenix invited you and just seemed so goddamn nice. And it’s most definitely, a 100 percent certainly, cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die, not because of Hangman. 

You’ll go to your grave swearing that.

When you shuffle into the bar, Penny stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. It’s early enough that there’s still space to move.

“What the hell?” she says, abandoning her task completely in favor of turning to gawk at you. “What are you doing here?”

You shrug your shoulders, trying for nonchalance even as you feel like there are tiny bugs wriggling beneath your skin. Too many eyes on you. “I was craving a drink.”

Penny raises an eyebrow in what you recognize as the international sign of not convincing enough.

“Who the hell are you,” she asks, “and what have you done with my daughter’s tutor?”

Ducking your head, you clumsily climb onto one of the barstools and fold your arms on the counter. Then you try to look around the bar as inconspicuously as possible.

“He’s not here yet,” Penny says.

“Huh?” Feeling caught, you busy yourself with adjusting the hem of your skirt, so it covers as much thigh space as possible. “What?”

Penny doesn’t even pretend to buy it for your benefit. “Hangman,” she says. “That’s why you’re here, right?”

You stiffen, alarm bells going off in your head. If she can read you this easily…

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Oh, come on, sweetie.” She pats your hand in a gesture you can’t describe as anything but pacifying. “It’s alright.”

Your face feels hot. “It’s not like that,” you say, but even you can tell it’s a feeble attempt at an argument.

Penny chuckles. It’s not a mean sound, quite the opposite, actually, but it still makes your heart sink an inch or two.

“There’s nothing wrong with being attracted to someone, you know?”

That has you bristling. “I’m not attracted to him,” you protest. “I hate him.”

Utterly unbothered by the note of distress that has snuck its way into your voice, Penny shakes her head, an affectionate smile playing about her mouth. “There’s nothing wrong with a little bit of hate-fucking either.”

The gasp her words elicit from you is downright scandalized. You throw a furtive look at the patrons around you to make sure nobody heard, but that just makes Penny’s smile grow.

At least one of you is having fun.

“I’m not going to hate fuck anybody,” you say and then immediately wish your voice had sounded more firm. Less squeaky.

Penny shrugs. “Alright. It’s a fine line between love and hate anyway.”

“Why does everybody keep telling me that?” you whisper.

Either Penny doesn’t think that worthy of an answer, or she didn’t hear you. Which is fine either way. It was more of a rhetorical question anyway.

“So what do you want to drink, then?” Penny asks, finally seeming to decide to indulge you just a little.

Finally you perk up. “Can you make me a Mojito?”

You spend the better part of an hour sitting at the bar, telling yourself you’re definitely not waiting around for him. You’re only here to get drunk.

But the longer you sit alone, watching people around you enjoying themselves, watching as the chatter goes from quiet to deafening, as the place fills up with a steady stream of patrons, the worse of an idea the whole thing seems like. You can’t remember what provoked you to come in the first place for the life of you.

Suddenly, your bed, a gaping, looming lion’s mouth earlier, seems like the most inviting place in the world.

“Penny,” you call, leaning across the counter and waving your hand to get her attention. “Can I just pay, please?”

“You’re going home?”

“I… yeah. I think so.”

With the way Penny is frowning at you, you can tell she isn’t too pleased, but she doesn’t fight you on it.

“I’ll let you go home, but you’re not paying,” she says.

“Penny, you already pay me. You don’t need to let me drink here for free, too.”

She chuckles. “Oh, I’m not. Hangman said to put anything you drink on his tab if you ever show up again.”

That gives you pause, your stomach tightening. “I can’t accept that,” you say, and your voice comes out strangely choked.

“Oh, but you can.”

It’s Hangman, because of course it is. He seems to have an uncanny ability to show up whenever you do so much as think of him. Like he can sense any mention of his name even from miles away. His ego is certainly big enough.

Grinning, he claims the empty space at the bar next to you, leaning his back against it with both elbows braced on the wood. “I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I let a girl as pretty as you pay for her own drinks, now would I?”

“Gentleman,” you repeat under your breath. “We’re just saying whatever now, huh?”

He ignores that, twisting around instead to chirp, “Penny, darling, light of my life, will you get her another… what is that, a virgin Mojito?”

You wish you could come up with something witty, but you’re distracted by the long, long stretch of his legs, and all that comes out is, “I drink them with alcohol, actually.”

“Really? Is it only scotch you have trouble with then?”

Now this reminds you just why you hate this guy. Who cares if he’s handsome? Who cares if your heart starts cartwheeling every time he smirks at you? He’s a certified, purebred bastard, and you’re seriously considering if the satisfaction of breaking his nose would be worth the inevitable lawsuit.

“I don’t need you to pay for my drink,” you say, voice firm this time.

“I know,” he counters, still smiling, “but I’m pretty sure the Navy pays me better than whatever you’re making at that gas station, so I don’t mind. Just stop being difficult and let me pay for whatever you order.” 

The anger settles in your throat, already familiar. It’s difficult to keep it down, to keep your head from exploding.

“Fine,” you grit out from between clenched teeth. Then you turn away. “Penny? One round for everybody. It’s on him.”

The smile slides off Hangman’s face, his expression morphing into something stunned. For a moment, he actually looks impressed.

Then he laughs and shakes his head. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say there was something like begrudging admiration flickering across the planes of his face.

“Alright,” he says, “I’ll hand it to you, sweetheart. That was well played.”

He gives Penny the okay, smirk once more firmly in place. And you, triumph so short-lived that it dies inside you like a pathetic little candle snuffed out by a typhoon, consider letting loose a long, echoing screech. 

Is there anything that will break that steely resolve of arrogance he carries everywhere he goes?

Penny rings the bell, and the answering cheer almost pops your eardrums. You turn away from Hangman before you do resort to violence and drain the last of your cocktail in a single sip.

“I’m going home,” you say and hop off the barstool. It brings you inevitably closer to Hangman, your thighs brushing his, and you pretend not to notice.

“So soon?” he asks, and you don’t need to turn to know he has raised one eyebrow. “I only just got here.”

“Hence my leaving,” you counter drily.

“And here I was thinking you wore this dress for me.”

He doesn’t touch you, but for a moment his fingers hook into the soft pink fabric of your dress, where it flares out around your hips. It’s enough to send a shiver down your back.

The worst part of it all, you think, is that he isn’t wrong. You upended the contents of your wardrobe earlier tonight until every available surface in your room - from the bed to the chair to the floor - was covered in clothes you deemed just not right. This number - flimsy, tight, low in the chest but a little more modest where the hem hits almost halfway down your thighs - was buried at the back of your closet, practically forgotten and with the price tag still on. Even as you laughed at how ridiculous you were being, part of you hoped he might notice.

And now that he has, you’re wishing you could rewind time and exchange the infernal thing for sweatpants and an old flannel.

“You’re way too full of yourself,” you tell him.

“So I’ve been told.” He gives you another once over, and suddenly you feel as if you’re standing naked in the middle of this bar. “This one’s spectacular, too, sweetheart, but I still maintain that first dress was my favorite.”

Somewhere between flattered and fed-up, you shoulder your purse. “Goodbye, Hangman.”

“Oh, come on.” He steps to block your path but makes no further move to touch you. “Have another drink with me.”

You’re about to protest when a gentle hand lands on your shoulder.

“You really need to learn how to take no for an answer, Bagman,” Phoenix says. “The lady’s not interested.”

You can feel the smile spreading on your face. Just in time, you think.

Ignoring Hangman completely, she turns to you. “You wanna shoot some pool with my friends and me?”

You glance at Hangman from the corner of your eye, unsure whether you hope she counts him among those friends or not. Then you nod because Phoenix is still nice, and you don’t actually want to go home to your empty apartment, and playing pool sounds fun just about now.

“Sure. Why not?”

As Phoenix leads you toward the tables in the back, you feel Hangman’s eyes on you like hot irons.

+

You’re five drinks in by the time you give up on pool.

“God,” you whine, lowering your cue. “I suck at this.”

“I’d disagree,” Payback says, staring down at the green felt of the table like he might be about to cry, “but I think you’re right.”

“Hey, we’re supposed to be on the same team!”

He grins. “Sorry, but my mother didn’t raise me to be a liar.”

There’s a warmth flooding your chest, something liquid and light. It might be the alcohol or the unfamiliar levity of it all. You’re more used to intense fits of worrying and anxiety than laughter with people you met only about an hour ago but still almost feel like friends.

“Want me to teach you, sweetheart?” 

Hangman’s sitting on a barstool not far away, nursing his beer. He’s been staring at you since you started the game, and maybe it's part of the reason your cue stick kept going in directions you didn’t mean for it to. Now you can just hear the smirk in his voice.

If you were less drunk, you’d come up with a witty response. But, as it stands, you just say, “No.”

Hangman ignores you. You can feel him behind you even before he steps up, your fingers tensing around your cue, your whole body locking up as if in anticipation, as if in dread. And then he’s there, solid and warm behind you, fingers curling around your arm and moving it backward.

The place he touches you seems to tingle.

“Like this,” he says, voice low and chest rumbling with the sound. He’s speaking right into your ear again, and suddenly it’s impossible to talk, to think, to breathe.

He brings you into position with one hand on your waist, and you can’t believe it, but he’s practically bending you over that pool table in the middle of that bar, and you’re just letting him. His hips press into your own, an insistent weight that makes your head spin, makes you feel like you’re about to slide right off the face of the earth. The table's edge cuts into your abdomen, but you barely even feel it. You can’t register anything past the feeling of his skin gliding against your own as he lets his free hand wander slowly, slowly, down the expanse of your arm.

“Now, just gently…” He guides your arm backward as he speaks, his voice right in your ear, right in your head, his breath against your cheek, the side of your mouth, and you’re dizzy, can’t even see the ball that’s right in front of you, have no idea what he wants you to shoot at. “... thrust.”

The ball lands in the pocket with a resounding thunk.

For a moment, you just blink at where it disappeared.

“Good girl,” Hangman says, so quietly that only you can hear, fingers squeezing just once where he still holds you by the hip, and then he steps away.

It sends a jolt of molten heat through you. Your knees, which felt wobbly before, threaten to buckle. You just stay there for a moment, frozen, bent over that table, feeling like the earth beneath your feet is rolling in waves. A sound escapes you, something from low in your throat that gets swallowed up in the bar's noise - all the chatter and the music and the sounds of the engines running in the parking lot.

And then it’s an ice-cold panic that has you scrambling, standing upright, stepping away from the table, turning towards the group of people around you, and pretending you’re not trembling all over, that your panties aren’t soaked through.

“I’m done, I think.” You raise your cue above your head like a sports trophy. Your voice is remarkably firm for how frail you feel. “Who wants to take over for me?”

There’s a shuffle as a few of the guys whose names you can’t remember start fighting each other for your spot on Payback’s team. You give up after a while and just drop the cue. Somebody catches it before it can clatter to the ground, and you turn your back on them.

Tugging at the folds of your skirt, you try desperately to regain control. The evening is slipping through your fingers like wet rope. You feel unmoored.

Phoenix, grinning from her perch against the jukebox, offers you a swig from her beer bottle. “I think you weren’t too bad.”

“Well, I did keep forgetting if I was supposed to hit the stripes or the solids, so, like….” you admit, accepting the bottle and taking a tentative sip. Maybe this will help calm you. The taste hits your tongue, and you grimace. “Ew. I don’t get how you guys drink this.”

Phoenix laughs at you. “It takes practice.”

“I don’t wanna practice that,” you say. “I’ll just get another Mojito, I think.”

You’re not going to survive this night unless you have another drink. Hell, you might not survive this night even if you have another drink.

You don’t think you’ve ever been this confused. Your mind is a thicket of thorns that bite your skin at any move.

Hangman leans forward in his seat until he’s in your field of vision. His eyebrows are furrowed in a way you haven’t seen before, but beneath them, his eyes glint. It hits you suddenly that he knows exactly what he’s done, that he is perfectly aware of the effect he has on you.

You consider getting that cue stick back and whacking him over the head with it.

“You sure you want another one, sweetheart?”

You frown and say, more forcefully than necessary, “Why? You don’t wanna pay for it?”

“Oh, I’ll pay for it,” he says. “I’m just thinking somebody will have to carry you home if you have another one.”

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t love to carry her home,” Coyote chimes in, grinning and wiggling his eyebrows. At least you think that’s Coyote. Things are starting to go a little blurry.

As you approach the bar, you say, a bite to your words, “I’ll make your dreams come true, then.” 

Penny is busy at the opposite end, so you order from a girl who seems a lot less interested in serving you than the group of aviators currently trying to get her attention. Which you can’t really blame her for.

From behind you, maybe-Coyote keeps going, “You should make some of his other dreams come true, too.”

Phoenix lands a well-placed elbow between his ribs. “Shut up, man. You’re being creepy.”

“I don’t sleep with drunk women,” Hangman says as the bartender deposits a dispassionately assembled Mojito in front of you. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman.”

Your snort is decidedly unladylike, but you couldn’t care less. You’re so far gone. 

“You keep saying that, but I haven’t seen you act like one even once.” Then, as an afterthought, you add, “Also, I’m not drunk.”

You pull your drink towards you, the glass cold with the ice cubes swimming in it, and promptly spill a healthy stream across your own arm and the bartop.

“Sure you’re not,” Hangman agrees smoothly. He procures a stack of paper napkins from somewhere and starts dabbing at your elbow, soaking up the worst of it. You stare at his movement with your head spinning. Why is he being nice? “I’m not a gentleman in the bedroom, though, I’ll have you know.”

He winks at you, and that’s more like the nefarious Hangman you know. It lets you relax a little.

“Christ.” Phoenix looks like she might hurl. “You want to lay it on any thicker, Hang?”

He just shrugs, so casual about it all. You wonder if he’s ever been rattled by anything. If he’s ever felt as out of his depth as you do every time he enters a room. 

“Who doesn’t like it a little rough in the bedroom, Phoenix?”

You can’t believe he said that to her. Part of you expects Phoenix to roll her eyes and give him a piece of her mind, but she just grins, shaking her head.

“Me, actually,” she says. “Just leaves you sore. I prefer it slow.”

“Slow?” Hangman repeats. “You and Rooster would be a match made in heaven. Masters of the geriatric pace.”

“Who’s Rooster?” you ask, wondering if Hangman is trying to set Phoenix up with someone running a poultry farm.

Nobody answers your question.

“It’s been my experience,” Phoenix says, “that most guys only like it rough cause they have no idea how else to do it.”

Coyote laughs at that. It’s obviously meant to taunt Hangman, but he doesn’t react much beyond a tiny upward twitch of his mouth.

You’re left wondering if these are normal conversations people have with their friends. Are you just a prude? You feel like you’re going insane.

And then Bob, who has been quietly snacking on peanuts for most of the night, pipes up, “I think it just depends on your partner. You gotta listen to them.”

Hangman stares at him like he’s just revealed he likes to take his clothes off and perform an Irish jig on top of an aircraft every Sunday. “Am I just supposed to believe you’ve had sex with multiple partners?”

Before you can stop yourself, you slap Hangman’s chest. Admittedly, both the alcohol and the way your head is still reeling have the move lacking any real vigor, but it still leaves you a little stunned at yourself.

“Don’t be mean,” you say. His chest feels very firm beneath your palm, muscles hard and heartbeat steady. Then you realize you’re still touching him and withdraw your hand as if you’ve burned yourself.

Hangman is grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, don’t act like you don’t like it when I’m mean.”

That almost makes you choke on your Mojito. 

“Right,” Coyote says. His teeth gleam white when he smirks at you. “So, how do you like it?”

You freeze. Your mind stumbles, then short-circuits.

“Oh, god, boys. Just leave her alone,” Phoenix sighs. She gets up to sling an arm over your shoulder. It’s a reassuring presence by your side, one that makes you feel a little less like you’re about to levitate off the face of the earth. “You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

Hangman is staring right at you. He’s still smiling, but something in his eyes has shifted.

You can’t look away from him. Your heart stutters in your chest.

“I… I don’t…” you falter.

Across the distance between you, Hangman raises an eyebrow. “What are you, like a virgin?”

It hits you square in the chest.

You know you need to laugh it off, know you need to counter with another quip, another insult, another jab, but your mind is blank. Time seems to freeze for a moment. You can’t breathe.

Your eyes burn, and you realize with a sudden, horrible lurch that you’re going to cry, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Several emotions pass over Hangman’s face in quick succession. The glint is gone from his eyes now, replaced by something like genuine guilt. That’s how you know he was just joking around, but it doesn’t soften the blow at all.

Anger, humiliation, and, worst of all, the remnants of your earlier desire pump through your veins. You feel weak and tired and helpless. A snowglobe shattered on the floor. All of it hits you at once.

You’re painfully aware of all the eyes on you. You’re painfully aware you haven’t said a single thing in way too long.

Hangman says your name, his tone caught somewhere between concern and apology.

I can’t, you think. I just… can’t.

So you turn on your heel and all but sprint for the open doors.

Out back, the air has cooled down to a more bearable temperature, but it does nothing to calm you. Your skin feels several sizes too small, the world is tilting a little bit to the left, as if everything’s written in cursive. In your ears, your blood rushes like a roar.

You’ve never been so embarrassed in your life.

A few tiki torches light a path from the Hard Deck’s back entrance towards the sand of the beach. You follow almost blindly, stumbling down the two steps. The ocean stretches endless and dark blue in front of you. Your sandals fill with sand that scrapes against the soles of your feet.

You walk a few steps until you reach a weathered tool shed with the blue paint eroded by years of wind and salt spray. Only when you’ve found shelter behind it, when you know you’re hidden from view, do you allow yourself to cry.

They’re bitter tears. You’re embarrassed about your display earlier, about letting Hangman get to you, embarrassed because everybody saw. Embarrassed that you didn’t deny it when it isn’t even really true, not technically. Embarrassed that you’re twenty-three and practically a virgin, embarrassed that it matters to you. It shouldn’t matter.

Virginity is a social construct, you remind yourself, and then you just cry harder.

Most of all, you’re embarrassed because you want Hangman. 

It’s the first time you admit it, even to yourself, and the truth of it settles heavy in your stomach. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted someone as much as you want him, and you don’t even like the man. 

It’s ridiculous, humiliating, mortifying, and suddenly you wish you had stayed home tonight, had never come here in the first place.

And then he says your name.

The moonlight paints his hair a blueish shade of silver. He looks impossibly handsome, standing just a step or two away from you with his hands in his pockets, backlit by the flickering of the torches.

Immediately you straighten up and rub your cheeks to get rid of the tears. Your fingers come away stained black with the remnants of your mascara.

For a moment, you and Hangman just stare at each other. The distance between you gapes like an open wound, like a canyon, like an ocean.

Finally, he asks, “You okay?”

You don’t trust your voice, so you just nod.

He looks torn. His jaw moves as he grinds his teeth.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You don’t have to ask him to clarify. You know exactly what he means.

“I don’t know you,” you say quietly.

He makes a strange, strangled sound at the back of his throat, then buries his face in his hands for a second. When he re-emerges, he looks honestly distressed.

“If I had known,” he says softly, “I would have stopped being so aggressive.”

You don’t know how to tell him that that’s the opposite of what you want. You don’t know how to tell him that you don’t know what you want.

You don’t know how to tell him that you know exactly what you want.

Everything’s a mess.

Shrugging, you say, “It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” he repeats, disbelief in his voice. “Of course it matters. I never meant to make you uncomfortable.”

That makes you frown.

“I didn’t say you make me uncomfortable.”

Aggravated, sure. Annoyed, wound-up, frustrated. All of that. But uncomfortable? Never.

That gives him pause, but only for a moment. He goes on, “I shouldn’t have… it was too much. I’m sorry.”

You can’t explain any of this, but you want to. You wish you could just make him understand, but you can’t even make sense of yourself.

Your insides are all tangled.

“It’s not like… it’s not like I’ve never done anything,” you rush to explain. “I did sleep with someone when I was sixteen, but I just… and then there was always so much other stuff that I didn’t have time to date, and then other stuff happened, and I didn’t even want to date, so I just….”

At the look he gives you, you trail off.

“So you’re not a virgin, then?”

“Not… technically,” you confirm, then cringe at how ridiculous it all sounds.

He just stares at you.

“It… what does it even matter?” Suddenly, you’re angry. “Even if I was a virgin, there wouldn’t be anything wrong with it. And it’s none of your business. Why do you even care?”

One of Hangman’s eyebrows raises. “I don’t care if you’re a virgin,” he says, voice perfectly calm. “I care that you’re comfortable.”

That staggers you. “I… why?”

He shoves his hands back into his pockets. “Because I happen to like you.”

Now you’re the one staring. 

That can’t be right. Hangman’s not supposed to like you, not when you’ve just established that you can’t stand him. Not when you’ve spent every night since you’ve met him listing all the reasons why you need to stay as far away from him as possible.

When you don’t answer, he starts talking again. “Why didn’t you just say you’re not a virgin in there?” he asks, jerking his head back in the general direction of the Hard Deck.

You shrug and look away. “I’m not… experienced.”

He waits for you to continue.

“It was just once, with my first boyfriend, and it wasn’t… I didn’t… well, after it was over, I never wanted to do it again.”

Hangman’s expression is unreadable. The breeze picks up, and you shiver, crossing your arms over your abdomen. 

“I’m not…” You swallow. “I’m not confident. I can’t talk about it the way you guys do. So easily.”

He looks at you for a long moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is gentler than you’ve ever heard. “I’ll stop, then. This was too much. I’m sorry.”

But there’s something there, in the words. A challenge. He’s giving you a way out at the same time as he’s giving you an in.

The way he’s looking at you seems to say, Ball’s in your court now, sweetheart.

In your life, you’ve always taken the familiar path. You thought things through thoroughly, made decisions with your head and not your heart. You liked to be safe, too scared to step out of your comfort zone. And so the house with the blue door stayed a dream, one that eventually moved so far out of reach it lost any appeal it ever had.

But then you think of your life stuffed into a car. Arriving in an unfamiliar city and deciding to stay. Diving headfirst into the unknown.

If you have done it once, you tell yourself, there’s no reason you can’t do it again.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you say, voice quiet, hands shaking. “I like it.”

It might be the hardest thing you’ve ever done. Being honest. Here in this moment, with him, bathed in moonlight that dips the worlds in shades of mercury.

It’s almost impossible to get the words out, and then they dangle awkwardly in the air between you. You feel exposed, stripped, flayed open in front of this man who is practically a stranger to you.

Over the beat of your heart hammering away in your chest, you can barely even hear the roar of the ocean.

And then Hangman steps closer to you, bridging that distance. His features are dipped in half-shadows, but you see his eyes flickering down to your lips.

You swallow around the lump in your throat.

“When I saw you for the first time,” he says, and his voice is husky, low, “in that little dress… I wanted to bend you over the bar and fuck you right there. With everyone watching.”

It knocks the air out of you. You let out a choked sound that might be the beginning of a gasp. A jolt goes through the core of you.

He comes even closer, and, instinctively, you stumble backward. He crowds you against the wall of the shed. The wood is rough and cold where it presses against your back.

The stupid nametag is right in front of you then, and it occurs to you suddenly that you don’t even know his first name.

“Look at me,” he says.

In spite of yourself, you listen immediately. There’s something in his voice, not just demanding but commandeering. You don’t think you could disobey him even if you wanted to.

And Hangman’s so close now. Close enough that you can see the specks of gold swimming in his eyes, close enough that you could probably see yourself reflected in them if it wasn’t so dark.

One of his hands is braced against the wood by your head, palm down, and the other goes to cup your cheek. Fingertips trace across the jut of your cheekbone, down, down, down over the planes of your face, avoiding your mouth to ghost toward your chin and then the line of your throat.

You don’t dare breathe.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says softly.

It’s such a stark contrast to his earlier words, so crude, that it leaves you light-headed.

You can smell him; over the lingering ashes of burnt-down bonfires, over the salt of the ocean, there’s the scent of his aftershave. Cinnamon and spice. You think you could get drunk on that smell.

“Hangman…” you whisper because you can’t think of something else to say for the life of you.

He shakes his head, tuts gently. “My name’s Jake.”

“Jake,” you repeat. It’s like you’re in a daze, dumb with the intensity of it all. If this night is giving you anything, it’s a severe case of whiplash.

He hums in response, eyelids going heavy. Lets his fingers trail from your throat, where your pulse is beating like a sledgehammer, down your chest, between your breasts, over the flimsy fabric of your dress. He pauses on your stomach, lets his fingers spread out like a starfish, and just watches for a moment as his hand moves with each breath you take.

When he speaks, his voice sounds almost pensive. “Has anybody ever made you come?”

The sound you make is much too close to a whimper for your own comfort. Involuntarily, your thighs clench together, and you realize faintly just how wet you really are, the skin just below the lines of your panties sticking together.

You don’t need to look at Hangman to know that he’s noticed your reaction.

“It… no,” you admit hesitantly. You’re going to spontaneously combust, you just know it. “Just… myself.”

He grins at that, but it’s not a mean expression. “So you touch yourself?”

It’s so hard to swallow. Even harder to talk, to find words, even to form a coherent thought.

Jake leans closer still, so close his breath traces across your face. “Answer me.”

“Sometimes.” Your voice has gone so quiet you’re sure he wouldn’t have heard you if he wasn’t standing so close to you. Like he wants to climb into your skin.

You’re becoming painfully aware of all the points where he isn’t touching you. A minuscule but safe distance between your hips, your faces, your chests. That arm curving around you, braced against the wall. No point of contact except for the large hand on your abdomen.

You shudder.

“What do you think about? When you touch yourself, what do you think about?”

The muscles in his arm flex, straining against the fabric of his uniform, veins protruding blue through the skin, and it shouldn’t be this hot, but it is. You’re on fire and he isn’t even touching you, not really, but you’ve never been so turned on in your life, wound so tightly, a kite dancing higher and higher into the sky.

You shake your head quickly, unsure if it’s supposed to be an answer or just a way to get rid of the fog that’s descended on you.

Jake’s hand wanders a little lower, almost imperceptibly, just about half an inch, but you think your heart almost fails you.

“I…” you swallow again. Your mouth is dry, and your palms are sweating. Your core pulses with the sort of desire that’s impossible to ignore. “I don’t know. I don’t…”

God, if only you could be casual about this sort of thing. You wish you could say something sexy, something teasing, something that would make Jake feel even a fraction of what he’s making you feel. But you’re just you. Inexperienced, unsure even of what you want.

You choke up, and, to your mortification, tears pool in your eyes again.

“Shh,” Jake immediately shushes you, and his face is almost tender. “That’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll give you something to think about.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly, blinking up at him.

And then it’s back, that signature Hangman smirk, the same one you’ve wanted to slap off his face so many times, only it’s making you weak in the knees now, makes your lips part, makes you wish he would just touch you already.

“I’m not going to kiss you tonight.”

It’s almost shameful how quickly you try to protest, really. If it hadn’t been for those five and a half Mojitos, you would have stuck your head into the sand right here.

Hangman laughs at you, the sound just a little mean. “You’re much too drunk, sweetheart.”

You suppose it doesn’t make much sense to argue. Now that you think about it, you really are drunk. The fuzzy, warm sort of drunk. Just on the right side of intoxicated, where everything feels packed in cotton, and nothing feels impossible.

Even that someone like Hangman might want to dirty talk to you behind the Hard Deck’s tool shed.

“Can you do something for me?” Jake asks.

You can just bite down on the anything that threatens to spill from your mouth the moment he’s uttered the question, and, god, what’s wrong with you? This is getting out of hand.

Dumbfounded, you nod silently.

He leans impossibly closer, his nose trailing along your jawline, and whispers, “The next time you touch yourself… When you’re alone, I want you to lie down on your bed. I want you to spread your legs, and I want you to touch your pretty little pussy for me.”

You clench your eyes shut, breath stuck somewhere in your throat, as Jake’s hand lifts from your stomach. He takes a fistful of your skirt and pulls it up, using his other hand to hold it away from your body. The cool breeze caresses your legs, but that’s not why you shiver.

His fingers slide along the inside of your thigh, from kneecap up to the very tops of them. You can’t breathe, can’t blink, can’t do anything but stand there and hope you won’t dissolve into a puddle.

“And when you fuck yourself,” he whispers, “I want you to think of me.” 

And then he touches his fingers to your core, over the lace of your panties.

If you weren’t so far gone, you think you’d never forgive yourself for your reaction. 

You all but squeak, back arching off the wall, pushing yourself into his palm, mouth dropping open as pure heat spreads through you, like an ache, like a tightening at your very center.

“Jesus,” Jake says, and his voice sounds breathless. “You’ve soaked these through, sweetheart.”

It’s the first indication that he’s affected by this, too, that you’re not the only one impacted, and somehow that’s enough to make you want him even more.

You wonder what it would be like to get him off. What he would look like, sound like. Taste like.

Your exhale is a tiny, shuddering thing. 

“Can you do that for me?” he wants to know. “Touch yourself for me like I asked?”

“I…” You think you would have agreed if he had asked you to lasso him down the moon.

Anything you say, Hangman. Anything you want. Just keep touching me. Please.

“Yes,” you agree. “Yeah, I… okay.”

“Good girl,” he says. His lips press to the side of your throat just once, right where your pulse is pumping at a rapid pace.

And then he steps away, fingers gone from your panties, mouth gone from your neck.

The loss of him leaves you reeling, dizzy, plastered to the wall like roadkill.

Even Hangman looks a little disheveled, but it's minimal comfort.

Again, you feel on the verge of tears.

Hangman clears his throat and asks, “Do you have a ride home?”

It takes an uncomfortable amount of time for the question to even register. You just stare at him at first, blinking owlishly. 

You barely even remember your own name. How are you supposed to answer this?

“I… Uber,” you say.

It’s not even a complete sentence, no verb at all, but it seems enough for Hangman. 

He nods once. Then he takes a moment just to watch you.

Finally, he says, “I changed my mind about the dress.” 

He takes a step back to admire you head to toe. As he looks at you, the torches reflect in his eyes until it looks like they’re gleaming. You’ve never felt so exposed in your life, and it makes you squirm.

You’re still so wet, wetter than you’ve ever been, and you’d do anything for him to touch you. Slide his fingers into you and fuck you right here, behind Penny’s bar, out on the beach where anyone might see. Think you might just die if he doesn’t.

Jake reaches once more for the skirt of your dress, but this time he doesn’t pull it up. Instead, he just lets his fingers dance through the folds once, the touch featherlight. Just a whisper of his digits across your thigh. You barely feel it.

You’re going to shake apart right here and now.

“I think this is my favorite after all,” he says, grins that Hangman grin, and then he’s gone.

You’re left leaning against the shed, breathless, panting, head and heart a mess. Alone, as you stare out at the white foam cresting on the waves, wondering what the fuck just happened.

read part ii

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[taminoarticles]

— Tamino for Holiday Magazine, No. 384, Autumn/Winter 2019-2020 (x) (x)

Tamino-Amir Moharam Fouad

Photographs by Karim Sadli Styling by Max Pearmain and Interview by Marc Beaugé

Tamino was born in Belgium to an Egyptian father and a Belgian mother, but his roots, dreams and memories are elsewhere. Here are his answers to the Holiday questionnaire

Do you enjoy traveling alone? Of course. I believe in the virtues of solitude and alone time. When I’m on tour, I often travel by myself. I arrive in a country I don’t know and get my bearings. You get a better understanding of a country when you go there on your own.

What do you do when you’re alone? I make music, and I read. This summer I devoured the first volume of My Struggle by Karl Ove Knausgård.

What’s your travel style: tour guide or head off on your own? Neither one. The best thing is to follow a local—not a guide, just someone who’s really familiar with the city and can show you the best places.

Is it possible to go somewhere and miss the unmissable? Depends. The things we think we can’t miss are never really unmissable. I visited the Eiffel Tower when I was in eighth grade. It was great, but I’m not sure I’d go back now. But I visit the pyramids whenever I go to Cairo. Why? Because they’re breathtaking. I don’t think there’s any other place on Earth that’s so monumental, so mysterious, so incredible.

Would you rather travel by car, plane, or train? I hate the journey because I’m always touring, which means I’m always traveling. I don’t have a license, so I don’t drive. Planes? I used to love them, but I’ve ended up hating them. I’m too big to be comfortable on a plane, and I’m not rich enough to fly business class.

Do you look out of the window of the plane or do you disdain the sky? I’m capable of getting into a fight to bag the window seat.

What movie only works on a plane? Bad Times at the El Royale, with Jeff Bridges. I’ve watched it on land and on a plane. And it was much better on the plane.

What languages do you speak? German, English and a bit of French. Right now I’m learning Arabic on Duolingo. I’m starting to understand a few words and sentences, but I can’t say anything. I can’t even order a meal in a restaurant. I haven’t gotten to the “food and drink” section yet. But I know all the names for domestic animals.

What’s your weakness when it comes to food? Lebanese. Mezze, hummus, etc. I like all of it.

Which place has the best street food in the world? Lebanon, obviously. Whatever Italians may think.

What’s one thing you absolutely cannot eat? Pineapple. I’m allergic to it. My tongue swells up when I eat it. The worst thing is that I love pineapples.

Do you post your holiday photos on Instagram? No, I avoid it. Actually, it doesn’t occur to me. When I’m on holiday, I take photos of the scenery. I keep them on my phone, and no one ever sees them, including me. I’m not really into selfies—or Instagram.

An item of clothing you’d never wear on holiday? A pink T-shirt, maybe. No, wait—Borat’s green swimsuit. I think that’d be quite hard to carry off. But maybe I’m too conservative.

Do you go to supermarkets when you’re abroad? Same as Instagram. I avoid them whenever possible.

Do you think the mountains are most beautiful in summer? Yes. I’m not obsessed with the seaside, in any case. I prefer lakes. For instance, I love swimming in Lake Geneva.

How do you visit museums? I have a very special technique. I focus on one or two artworks and spend a lot of time looking at them. I ignore everything else. It’s a form of snobbery, and I'm totally okay with that.

What would you consider the ideal number of guests for a dinner party? I enjoy one-on-one conversation, but it’s always a bit of a risk. If you get it wrong, it can be a disaster. I speak from experience.

Is there a smell you will always associate with vacations? The smell of the sea, I guess. No, the smell of suntan lotion, actually. It’s not the best smell there is, but it definitely smells like vacation.

Do you enjoy sunbathing? No, not really. I’m half Egyptian, so I tan very quickly, even if I don't want to.

How long can you stay at the beach? It depends entirely on the book I happen to be reading that day.

Is there a place you never tire of visiting? I really like the town of Dahab in Egypt. I’ve been there several times and never get tired of it. But so far I don’t think I’ve found a place I love so much that I’ll return throughout my life.

Where would you build the house of your dreams? That question is way too tough to answer. I don’t have a favorite city; I still haven’t come across it, but the house would have to be near a river or a lake. Most importantly, the view from the window would have to look like a painting. That would be the deciding factor.

THE END

[gatorprompts]

𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐘  𝐆𝐈𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄  𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒  .

from  the  1996  film  by  adam  sandler  .   swearing  present  . 

“  i’m  stupid  ,   you’re  smart  . ”

“  i  was  wrong  ,  you  were  right  . ”

“  you’re  the  best  ,  i’m  the  worst  . ”

“  you’re  very  good  looking  ,  i’m  not  attractive  . ”

“  it’s  all  in  the  hips  . ”

“  just  tap  it  in  . ”

“  give  it  a  little  tappy .  tap  tap  taparoo . ”

“  what  ?  friends  listen  to  ‘endless  love’  in  the  dark  .  ”

“  now  you’ve  had  enough ,  bitch  . ”

“  why  don’t  you  just  go  home  ? ”

“  answer  me  !  ”

“  mister  !  mister  !  get  me  outta  here  !  ”

“  you  suck  ,  ya  jackass  !  ”

“  now  you  will  go  to  sleep  or  i  will  put  you  to  sleep . ” 

“  if  i  saw  myself  in  clothes  like  that  i’d  have  to  kick  my  own  ass  . ”

“  i  eat  pieces  of  shit  like  you  for  breakfast  . ”

“  you  eat  pieces  of  shit  for  breakfast  ? ”

“  oh  well  ,  now  your  back’s  gonna  hurt  ,  ‘cause  you  just  pulled  landscaping  duty  . ”

“  you  could  trouble  me  for  a  warm  glass  of  shut  the  hell  up . ”

“  you’re  gonna  die  now  ,  clown  !  ”

“  the  price  is  wrong  ,  bitch  . ”

“  you’re  gonna  need  a  blanket  and  suntan  lotion  ,  ‘cause  you’re  never  gonna  get  off  that  beach  . ”

“  what  ?  i  didn’t  break  it  .  i  was  just  testing  its   durability  .”

“  you  little  son  of  a  bitch  ball  ! ”

“  but  she’s  an  old  lady .  i  mean  ,  look  at  her .   she’s  old  .   you  can’t  just  take  her  stuff  ,   she’s  too  old  .  ”

“  damned  alligator  just  popped  up  ,   cut  me  down  on  my  prime  . ”

“  lots  of  pressure  .   you’ve  gotta  rise  above  it  .   you’ve  got  to  hardness  in  the  good  energy  ,   block  out  the  bad  !  ”

“  some  might  call  it  luck  .   i  like  to  call  it  ,  well  ,   luck  i  guess .   so  what  ? ”

“  did  that  go  in  ?   i  wasn’t  watching  ,  did  it  go  in  ?  i  didn’t   see  it  .   could  you  tell  me  if  it  went  in  ?  ”

“  i’d  love  to  punch  that  guy  in  the  face  right  now  .   but  i  can’t  ,  you  know  ,  because  i’d  get  in  trouble . ”

“  you’re  a  lousy  kindergarten  teacher  .   i’ve  seen  those  finger-paintings  you  bring  home  and  they  suck . ”

“  you  were  great  out  there  today  ,   but  not  that  great  .   a  lot  of  that  was  luck  . ” 

“  i  got  into  this  tournament  for  one  reason  :  money .   and  now  i  have  a  new  reason  :  kicking  your  ass  !  ”

“  nah  ,  it  looks  that  way  ‘cause  you’ve  only  got  one  shoe  on  . ”

“  that’s  my  puck ,   baby  .   don’t  ever  touch  my  puck  !  ”

“  damn  alligator  bit  my  hand  off  !  ”

“  i  think  i  just  killed  that  mister  .  ”

“  you  know  who  else  could  draw  a  crowd ?   a  golfer  with  an  arm  growing  out  of  his  ass  .  ”

“  oh  you  can  count  .   good  for  you .  ”

“  holy  shit  .   talk  about  your  all  time  backfires  . ”

“  you’re  acting  like  a  damn  fool  ! ”

“  you  know  what’s  driving  me  crazy ?  you’re  not  getting  the  ball  in  the  hole  !  ”

“  just  easing  the  tension  ,   baby  .  ”

“  what’s  this  i  hear  about  you  breaking  a  rake  and  throwing  it  in  the  woods  ?  ”

“  just  stay  out  of  my  way  or  you’ll  pay .  ”

“  i  thought  we  were  going  to  be  just  friends  ?  ”

“  here  !   eat  that  and  leave  us  alone  . ”

“  i  was  just  looking  for  the  other  half  of  this  bottle  .  ”

“  i  don’t  want  a  piece  of  you .    i  want  the  whole  thing  !  ”

“  somebody’s  closer  . ”

“  take  one  more  step  ,  i  burn  the  house  and  piss  on  the  ashes  . ”

“  spoken  like  a  true  asshole  . ”

“  he  shouldn’t  have  been  standing  there  .  ”

“  don’t  push  me  !  now’s  not  the  time  .  ”

“  piece  of  monkey  shit  !  ”

“  do  you  know  what  the  pathetic  thing  is  ?   you  have  been  doing  this  your  whole  life  . ”

“  fine  .   do  whatever  you  like  .  what  would  i  know ?  i’m  just  a  doctor  .  ”

[husbandohunter]

I AM ADDICTED TO STARDEW IMPACT!!! Ngl tho I could use Xiao’s stamina in the mines. Especially in the Wilderness farm.

What kind of farms did the boys and their s/o landed on tho??

Stardew Valley [Genshin Impact AU]

Synopsis: Which farm suits their personality (Continuation of Stardew Impact <.<)

Characters: Diluc, Kaeya, Xiao, Zhongli, Childe, Albedo

Thank you! I’m happy that you like it hehe. Honestly both Xiao and Zhongli. I still can’t get through Skull Cavern floor 100, Xiao would be super good at handling monsters while Zhongli can do some fast mining cuz I’m out of bombs lol.

-----------------------

Diluc: Forest farm

Trees and secluded areas? Perfectly goes with that lone sojourner persona of his (you can’t convince me otherwise after this vid)

But consider his status as a wine owner, the forest farm is very appealing to him (most likely why the Dawn Winery was located near Wolvendom anyways), quality wood is extremely crucial for making kegs and barrels to store ingredients so they won’t go bad. Diluc finds this map very profitable for his business.

This is why most of the buildings on your land is made of wood. Thank god he doesn’t have his pyro vision.

But Diluc genuinely likes the fragrance of trees. After a long day of work, he likes to go out and just inhale the scent of damp moss combined with the woody smell attached to it, his mind feels alleviated from all the stress that was piling up

Bonus: Fruit bats. Foraging is a must to make good wine and mushrooms are out of the question (for now)

Kaeya: Beach farm

It’s the best place to get your suntans amirite? Honestly if this was a modern AU (which technically is), he’s totally the type of uni student to spend most of his weekends outside near the beach like the typical chad he is.

Plus he likes the variety, not just trees all the time because they’re boring. He enjoys the vast space and the ability to just look at the horizon whenever he needs to. It’s a habit of his. The sky holds many signs, it tells you the weather, shows you the time of day, it holds the stars in which determines the fate of humanity. Though...he doesn’t need to worry about those things anymore hmm?

Looks forwards to crates washing up onshore. Kaeya is very lucky actually (pirate’s luck?) Rather than mixed seeds (cuz fuck those), expect him to bring back some triple shot expressos, omnigeodes, artifact troves etc...

He was so lucky he once tried his luck at the casino. But stopped shortly after you found out and got mad at him.

Bonus: Mushroom cave. He heard you can make some very useful potions with them, or he can try mixing it with his wine.

Xiao: Riverland farm (what I chose uwu)

There’s something so serene about this environment. The type of guy just likes to chill by a river stream while sitting on top of a tree branch. Xiao uses the noise almost like a meditative practice, something he most likely did back in Liyue too. He can close his eyes and listen to it for hours.

Since this map is mainly good for fishing, it works generously in his favour. He can refill the water can whenever he needs to since watering crops is the only farm-related activity he can actually handle. He’s rather quite good at catching fish (although in a peculiar way) plus feeding them to your pet cat.

But Xiao dislikes how easily materials fall into the water. While he was chopping the trees down to clear out some space, it toppled down the wrong side and he lost most of the materials. Forever. Ugh, what a pain.

At least it’s less likely to be a mess. Through seasons, rocks and fallen trees tend to pile up. Thanks to the river taking up most of the space, he wouldn’t have to worry about clearing up land so much.

Bonus: Mushroom cave. Not because he likes mushrooms but he dislikes bats. Their constant squeaking is annoying.

Zhongli: Standard farm

Vanilla guy through and through. His taste in things tend to be very plain in general but as long as they meet the necessary requirements of what makes a perfect farm then there’s no need to complain. He takes farm work very seriously so it makes sense that he gets picky of what there is to offer.

The amount of land gets him very enthusiastic about how he wants to decorate it (he literally formed the land of Liyue so surely he must have some architect related knowledge). Has barns, coops, vineyards, seasonal crops grouped in an organized fashion.

Though that also means a lot of maintenance is required. Clean up, clearing the fern, fixing up broken fences. Many broken fences because he puts fences all over the place.

But because he’s so good at what he does, you guys make so much money. Perfectly balances his super-spending habit of his.

Bonus: Fruit bats. Mushrooms don’t have a very pleasant smell.

Childe: Wilderness farm

Are you surprised? Because I’m not. He can have combating activities for days. Childe is very adventurous at heart (hence why he joined the adventures guild) with bloodthirst that needs to be quenched.

This is why his combat level high (though it’s already high). He normally takes on treasure hoarders or mitachurls to test his abilities, the variety of monsters proved to be very entertaining to him. Vincent became his number 1 fan after listening to all the cool tales about him.

It’s very inconvenient for farm work though, you can never be too sure when a slime is about to jump on your back as you’re planting your seeds. The only plus side is that Childe helps you get some cool drops (including prismatic shards!) which can save you time with the community center.

Not ideal for fishing. Often you guys end up catching trash. You complain a lot and he begins to get annoyed with how many interruptions they bring. Well, it was fun while it lasted at least.

Bonus: Mushroom cave. He’ll need healing potions, lots of them.

Albedo: Hill-top farm

Not too much land, rivers aren’t too much either, everything was just right. The right amount of environment for cultivating his materials for his research. Albedo thinks the elevating platforms are pretty neat, very easy to locate the different areas when you can spot them easily.

A fan of studying the rocks of this world hence why this farmland is good for mining. Though the downfall was that not much farm work could be done, Albedo could care less unless crops were raised for formulas.

You will always find him outside, most likely by the southwest hilltop trying to gather precious ores and any signs of omnigeodes. After that, he goes to Rasmodius’ tower and conducts his experiments there. Albedo is restless ever since.

But the gifts you receive will always be interesting. You also like go mining in the caves, Albedo always crafts the necessary tools for you beforehand. You will never have to worry about missing anything.

Bonus: both. Mushroom and bats. Demetrius told him it was impossible, not like it was an issue anymore.

[thetravelerwrites]

Birch (Centaur)

Rating: Mature Relationship: Female Human/Male Centaur Additional Tags: Exophilia, Monster Boyfriend, Centaur, Reader Insert Content Warnings: Communication Disorder, Social Communication Disorder, Anxiety, Autism, Autistic Reader, Semi-Verbal Autism, Semi-Verbal Reader, Overbearing Mother, Verbal Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Ableism Series: Shelter Forest Words: 4758

Commissioned by an anonymous party, Birch finally gets his own story! The reader, who has a communication disorder, meets and somehow befriends a beautiful centaur named Birch, who lives in the woods with his family and is known throughout the town as being a bit of a playboy and a flirt. When he realizes how poorly the reader is treated by her mother, he immediately tries to rescue her. Please reblog and leave feedback!

The Traveler's Masterlist

You first saw him when you were thirteen year old. You and your mother came to Coleville to beg for work after your father had kicked you both out of the house for another woman. You and your mother worked in the laundry and kitchen of the town’s most popular tavern, washing bed sheets and tableware, so you hadn’t really had the chance to meet him when he came into town to trade. You were only ever able to watch him from a distance

He was massive, friendly, and beautiful. His horse body was the size and color of a buckskin Andalusian, with a pale tan body fur and black socks. His skin was suntanned from working in the fields of his home farm and he always wore a simply-made tunic. His hair was short and black, and his tail was long and black, but his eyes were a bright, clear blue. He smiled easily and seemed to get along with everyone. You fell in love with him as soon as you laid eyes on him.

Well, no, you knew even then that it wasn’t love, it was just fascination and infatuation, but you couldn’t help yourself. You were overjoyed every time you saw him. Not that he’d ever notice you. You were just a plain, poor, chubby laundress with red, chapped hands and a future of working in a tavern for the rest of your life. Why would he even glance at you?

You wouldn’t be able to speak to him, even if he did. You were terribly shy and timid. You’d always been that way and couldn’t help it. Talking to people, looking them in the eye, facing confrontation, it all made you terrified and shaky. You barely spoke to anyone who wasn’t your parents, although you really didn’t speak to them that much, either. You were sure the most used word in your vocabulary was sorry.

When you were younger, your parents had hoped you’d grow out of it, but you never did. Once you hit puberty and was still unable to speak, your mother began to despair of you, pushing you to talk and berating you when you couldn’t, which only made you withdraw more. You couldn’t blame her for being exasperated with you; you were just as frustrated with yourself as she was. She never said it, but you knew she blamed you for your father rejecting you both.

Even though Birch usually came alone, you were sure he must already be married or have a lover, though he was openly flirtatious. You knew he’d had a few girls in town on occasion, having overheard them bragging about their nights with him, though they all seemed to be one-night trysts or affairs that didn’t last long. Perhaps he wasn’t even interested in settling down with anyone and was the playboy type. He was gorgeous enough for it.

Once or twice, he came to town with his family members or to visit family members who had settled here, like his brother Cetzu, the lizardfolk man running the orphanage with his wife. They were all a strange lot: some were human, most were not. You only ever saw one other centaur, and he looked nothing like Birch; he was a younger, smaller piebald named Yew with black skin, white hair, and pale eyes. You’d heard rumors that there was a mixed family in the woods, living on a farm, and that they were all sorts, but it didn’t really seem real to you until you saw them all together.

He’d come to town one day to buy seeds and supplies and came into the tavern for a drink. For centaurs, alcohol was basically food to them, so they drank heavily and often. A lot of centaurs you’d known got pretty rowdy, but Birch was always mindful. He held his ale well and knew when to stop before getting fully inebriated, careful not to make an ass of himself. He was considerate. You liked that about him.

You were working in the kitchens at the time when he arrived, and he sat at one of the tables designed for four-legged folk. It was a long table with no chairs or benches, but flat cushions instead. He folded his legs under him and flagged the waitress, smiling his dazzling smile, and ordered ale and some roasted vegetables. You were neglecting your work, but even if it was just a few seconds, you wanted to commit his image to memory as often as you could.

“Oi!” The waitress, Cathy, hissed as she came toward the door of the kitchen to put in Birch’s order. “What are you doing?!”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” You said, barely audibly.

“Go take him his ale,” She said. “We’re understaffed. If you’re going to be in the way, the least you can do is be useful.”

“I…!" You protested, but she pushed past you into the kitchen to yell at the cook. With you heart in your throat, you rushed to fill a clean tankard and skittered it over, setting it down on the table in front of him without looking at him.

“Ah, that was fast,” Birch said, his voice deep, rich, and wonderful to the ear. “You’re a lovely little thing. Are you new, sweet pea? I haven’t seen you in the tavern before.”

You looked down at the ground and didn’t answer. You weren’t sure what to do, whether to stay and try to be friendly, or retreat back to the kitchen, so you were frozen there with indecision, looking at the floor.

“Hey now, don’t be shy, love. I don’t bite,” He said, you assumed in an attempt to be flirty, reaching for your hand. You snatched your hand away impulsively and ran back to the kitchen.

Your heart was racing and your mind reeling. Why did I do that? You thought, covering your face with your hands. He probably thinks I’m crazy or a complete shrew! I should never leave the back rooms again and just stick to washing dishes.

After a few moments, though, your mother pulled you away from washing by the arm.

“What did you do?” She asked angrily. “One of the customers is asking for you!”

You panicked. “I… I just… I brought him his drink…” You whispered in terror.

“Come on,” She gripped your arm and pulled you back out into the tavern common room, where Birch was still sitting. He looked at you with a frown. Oh god, he looks annoyed, you thought nervously.

“Miss,” He said, and you stared at your feet, unable to look up. “I think I may have frightened or upset you. I’m sorry, I sometimes forget that not everyone is receptive to my personality or sense of humor.”

You were completely unable to speak and kept your head down, your shoulders hunched.

“Say something!” Your mother hissed at you, and you could only shrink into yourself further. “I’m sorry, sir,” Your mother said in exasperation. “My daughter is as timid as a field mouse. She can’t speak to other people and she never looks people in the eye. She can barely even speak to me. She’s always been like this.”

“Oh,” He said, sounding concerned. “Is she unwell?”

“Probably,” Your mother replied in annoyance, and you pulled away even further. “Though the doctors can’t tell us what’s wrong with her. She usually stays in the kitchen and laundry away from the customers. I don’t know what possessed her to come out here and bother you.”

“C… Ca…” You stuttered, struggling to speak in your defense, looking back toward the kitchen, where Cathy was hovering by the door.

“Oh, did Cathy ask you to bring me my drink?” He asked kindly.

You nodded fervently.

“I understand. I’m sorry that she put you in an uncomfortable situation, and I apologize for making it worse.”

Your mother sighed wearily. “Sir, don’t apologize to her. It’s not your fault that she can’t function like a normal adult.”

That hurt. You were on the verge of tears and hugged your arms around yourself, desperately wanting to escape back to the kitchen.

“Even so,” He said, his voice cold, but softened when he addressed you. “I’m very sorry, miss.”

You nodded once and shuffled quickly back to the kitchen, unable to keep the tears from falling. Your mother rejoined you a few minutes later.

“You could have at least apologized to him,” He said, taking the plates as you washed them to rinse them off and put them in the rack. “Why do you have to embarrass me like that? How hard is it to say ‘thank you’ or ‘I’m sorry’?” She sighed sharply and wiped her hands. “Don’t you dare get us fired.” And she walked off, leaving you weeping into the dishwater.

Cathy heard the entire thing and came over sheepishly.

“Hey… I’m sorry I got you in trouble with your ma,” She said. “I forgot about the speaking thing. I was just in a rush and I didn’t think.”

You shook your head. Cathy was the one person who you might call a friend. She was a little brusque and had a short fuse, but she was one of the few who didn’t make fun of your stuttering and silence or look down their nose at you.

“Listen, Birch is a really nice guy. He plays around and has his fun with the girls, but he’s never hurt anyone on purpose. He wasn’t trying to make fun of you or make you feel bad.”

You nodded shortly. You knew that. He was being friendly; that’s just how he talked to people. But being humiliated in front of him was a torture unlike anything you’d felt before, and it hurt.

The next day, you were feeding the chickens in the coop outside of the tavern when you looked up and saw him exiting the tavern. He noticed you right away, and you turned immediately and tried to flee.

“Hey, wait!” He called. “Wait, please!”

You stood with your back to him but you stayed put. You heard him trotting up to you, his hoof-beats heavy.

“Hey, listen, I wanted to apologize again,” He said. “To just you this time. I don’t know what your mother’s problem is, but what she said… that was uncalled for. You didn’t deserve that.”

You turned to face him but you didn’t look up, focusing instead on his large hooves. You shook your head. No, he was wrong. You did deserve it.

“You can’t help how you are,” He said. “It’s not your fault. I have a little brother who has trouble talking to people, too. It’s the exact opposite of your problem; he says exactly what’s on his mind with no filter. He can’t control it and it embarrasses him sometimes. It’s not the same, I know, but I understand that it can be hard.”

He was so nice. You were able to lift your head a little, but you still couldn’t look him in the face.

“My name is Birch,” He said. “What’s yours?”

You opened your mouth but nothing came out, so you shut it again.

“Hmm,” He hummed. “Can you write?”

You shook your head.

“Um… sign language?”

You answered no again.

“I see,” He said, sighing. “I… I’ll be honest… I don’t want to leave you here with that mother of yours. I’m not sure what kind of relationship you have with her, but the way she talks to you…” He pawed the ground in annoyance. “It bothers me. Does she do that a lot? Make fun of you in front of other people?”

You shrugged, embarrassed.

He sidestepped in an anxious way and swished his tail. “I have to go back home later today,” He said. “Are… are you going to be okay?”

You nodded.

“Are you sure?”

Another nod.

“Well… alright,” He said. “Look, um… if you ever need to… you know… leave this place, talk to Cathy. She knows where my family’s farm is. She can help you get there. If you need to.”

You nodded again, and he turned to leave, but an unfamiliar impulse compelled you to rush forward and take hold of the hem of his tunic. He stopped and looked at you, though he could only see the top of your head.

“Th…” You gulped, your throat dry, your heart beating in your throat. “Tha… ank…you…” You managed to choke out. “H… Haz…zel…”

“You’re name is Hazel?” He asked, a smile in his voice.

You nodded emphatically.

You felt him put a hand on top of your head and and sort of rubbed his fingers against your scalp. It felt nice, even though you weren’t used to physical touch. Your mother wasn’t exactly the affectionate sort.

“You take care, okay?” He said, taking his hand back. “I’ll be back in a few days. I look forward to seeing you again.”

That evening, you were in the room you shared with your mother as she brushed her hair for bed when she mentioned nonchalantly, “I saw you with that centaur man today. What did he say to you?”

“...he… nothing…” You said vaguely.

“Then why did he touch you? And why were you touching him?” She asked, her voice flat.

“I…” You gulped. “I… don’t know…” You said truthfully.

“Oh, really? You don’t know? You don’t know why a man like him would touch you? You know his reputation in this town. He’s trying to take advantage of you because you're simple.”

“He was… just… being nice…” You said softly.

Your mother snorted. “Men aren’t nice without a reason. I thought you’d know that by now.” She threw down her hairbrush onto the night table and lay down in your shared bed. “You’re not going to have anything to do with him from now on, do you understand? It shouldn’t be difficult for you to manage that, should it?”

You didn’t say anything, just sat at the table and stared into the fire.

“It’s for your own good,” She said, facing away from you. “I know I’m strict with you, but… I don’t want you to get hurt.”

You have no problem with me getting hurt when you’re the one doing it, you thought to yourself, but you couldn’t say it. You knew she was right, though. He was a flirt and a bit of a libertine, and you thought that perhaps he was only being nice to you because he saw you as low hanging fruit. It hurt to think of him that way, but it was the only thing that made sense.

He did return in a few days, an older woman riding on his back. She was lovely, even at her age, and was wearing trousers and a practical shirt, but no bodice or ladies coat. Her brown hair was caught back in a tight braid, a few strands of grey weaved in and out.

You saw them arrive from the window of your room as you were getting ready for the day. He was as handsome as always, and you watched him wistfully. As if he could sense you, he looked up and saw you at the window. He smiled at you and waved. Remembering what your mother said, you were unable to smile back and walked away from the window without acknowledging him. You hoped he wouldn’t be too angry at you.

Before you could start work in the laundry, Cathy called you out.

“Birch and his mother are here,” She said, keeping her voice down so that your mother wouldn’t hear. “They want to see you.”

“I cant…” You said in your normal whisper. “Mama will be angry…”

“Don’t worry about your ma right now,” Cathy said dismissively. “You don’t deserve the shit she gives you, you’re just too shy to tell her off. Just go see what they want. Maybe it’s a chance to get out from under her thumb.”

You had to admit, you did wish for that. You loved your mother, and she loved you in her own way, but you knew she resented you and it was just… exhausting, dealing with her reproachfulness and cutting words every day. You were just too scared to leave on your own.

You thought long and hard about it, looking around to see if your mother was anywhere near. When you didn’t see her, you looked up at Cathy, looking just past her behind her ear instead of at her face, and nodded. She took you by the hand and led you out to the dining area. Birch and his mother were sitting at the four-legged table, with his mother having dragged over a chair to sit with him comfortably.

“Oh, good, there you are,” Birch said. “When you didn’t react this morning, I was worried something had happened. Mama, this is the young woman I was telling you about.”

He told his mother about you? Why?

“I see, I see,” The older woman said. “My name is Ryel, I’m Birch’s mother. Your name is Hazel, right?”

You nodded, unable to look up.

“Goodness, you are rather shy, aren’t you, dear?” She said sympathetically. You chewed your lip, unable to respond. “My son tells me you’re illiterate, is that correct?”

You nodded.

“I imagine that makes communicating with other people very difficult,” She said.

You nodded again.

“So, how about this?” She said, leaning forward. “Why don’t you come to the farm with me for the summer? I’ll teach you how to read and write, and in exchange, you help me out around the farm. How does that sound?”

For the first time in your life, you were surprised into looking someone in the face. She was smiling warmly at you

“I’m getting older and I could use an assistant. My children all have their own work and families to look after and I’d feel as if I were taking advantage of them if I expected them to follow me around and help me all day.”

“Mama, you know we’d do it happily,” Birch said.

“I know that,” She said, hushing him. “Even still, I’d prefer to hire someone for the task, and if I can help them at the same time, why shouldn’t I?” She leaned forward. “What do you say, dear?”

This is exactly what you wanted. A job that was away from your mom. This was your chance. You opened your mouth, as if to answer, when you heard a sharp voice behind you.

“Hazel!” Your mother said, irate, and stalked out of the kitchen toward you, grabbing you by the arm. “Stop bothering these people! Get back to the laundry.”

Birch’s back leg kicked slightly in irritation, thumping the wood of the floor, but Ryel kept her composure.

“She’s not bothering us in the least, madam,” She said calmly. “I’ve actually come here to offer her a job.”

Your mother scoffed. “A job? Doing what?”

“As my assistant,” Ryel said. “I’m a jack of all trades type, you might say, and I’m willing to take her on in exchange for room and board, plus an education.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Your mother said, her grip rather strong on your arm. “My daughter is not capable of making her own decisions.”

“How old is your daughter?” Ryel asked.

“She’s nineteen,” Your mother replied. “But I’m afraid she’s a bit slow. Trying to teach her wouldn’t benefit either of you.”

You frowned, upset. That wasn’t true, you weren’t slow. In fact, you thought you learned rather quickly, you’d just hadn’t had the chance to learn very many new things.

“Be that as it may,” Ryel replied, her voice still even. “Your daughter is an adult and has the right to choose what she wants.”

“Nonsense,” Your mother said. “Besides, even if I allowed this, I don’t want her anywhere near him.” She jerked her chin toward Birch.

Birch bristled. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I know what kind of man you are,” She hissed. “How many lovers you’ve had in just this town alone? How many broken hearts have you left in your wake? I know you have ulterior motives for wanting to take her from here, and I won’t stand for it. She’s simpleminded and vulnerable, and I won’t let you dishonor her and return her to me used and broken.”

“Stop talking like she can’t hear every vile thing you say about her!” Birch shouted, slamming his fist into the table, making you jump. “I would never do something so shameful! You don’t know anything about me! ”

“Son, calm down,” Ryel said, putting her hand on his. “My son is a grown man of twenty-eight and has desires, true, but I’ve been to this town quite often and I haven’t found any such string of broken hearts, as you call it. Many sighing and wistful girls who long for his company, sure, but not one of them has come to me with tears in her eyes claiming he lied or misled her. He’s open and forthright about his intentions, and I respect his decisions. You should do the same for your child.”

“Don’t talk to me about my child if you can’t even control your own,” Your mother said venomously. “Hazel, let’s go.”

She tried to lead you away, but you refused to move. There were hurt and anxious tears in your eyes and you couldn’t look at anyone, but you refused to let her pull you away.

“Hazel!” She gripped your arm and yanked you painfully, and you wrenched your arm from her grasp, shaking your head.

“It seems like she’s made her choice,” Ryel said. “The least you can do as her mother is respect her wishes.”

“Be quiet!” Your mother said. “Leave us alone!” She grabbed your hands and started to pull you back to the kitchen. Birch got to his feet.

“Let her go,” He said, his voice a low growl, knocking her hands away from you. He stood between you and your mother. You dared to reach out and place a hand on the fur of his back to steady yourself.

“What’s going on here?” The bartender, Brian, asked. He also owned the tavern and knew about your condition. He didn’t speak to you much, but he also didn’t tease you either. You could handle understanding silence a lot better than persistent expectation to interact. “Are you alright, Hazel?”

You were shaking and crying, so you could only shake your head.

“These people won’t leave us alone,” You mother said. “I’d like them to leave.”

“Now, Rita, these people are good customers and friends of mine. I’m going to need more of a reason than ‘they’re bothering me’ to kick them out.”

“We simply offered young Hazel here a job on the farm,” Ryel said patiently. “I’m afraid her mother is interfering with her decision.”

“Is that true, Hazel?” Brian asked. “Would you like to take up this job?”

Trembling, you nodded.

“Well, then, that settles it, doesn’t it?” Brian said. “These are good folks, Hazel, they’ll take care of you.”

“Like hell they will,” You mother retorted. “She can’t make decisions like this. She doesn't understand.”

Brian sighed. “Rita, your girl’s not stupid, and it’s high time you stopped treating her like she is.”

Your mother looked like she’d been slapped in the face. You looked up at Brian in shock. He smiled kindly at you.

“Why don’t you go up and pack your things while your mother and I have a little chat, eh, dear?” He said.

You attempted to smile at him, though you worried it looked a little like you had indigestion, and went to pack. You took a few minutes to sit on the bed and breathe, clutching your chest, feeling a panic attack poking at your brain. You couldn’t believe it. You were really leaving.

There was a knock on your door and Ryel poked her head in.

“Are you alright, dear? That was quite the fuss,” She said.

You dried your face and nodded, getting up to start putting clothes in a bag.

“I sent Birch outside. He was getting rather angry, and I didn’t want him smashing any of Brian’s furniture.”

You looked out the window. Birch was standing in the courtyard with his arms crossed, stamping the ground and stepping constantly, as if he couldn’t stand still. His brow was furrowed, his jaw was working, and his tail was swishing back and forth without stopping.

“He’s worried for you, dear,” She said, following your gaze. “One thing our entire family has in common is that we don’t like seeing people mistreated. You’re mother may have her reasons for acting as she does, and perhaps it is out of some misplaced notion of love, but there’s no doubt in my mind at all that she mistreats you. You can’t help the way you are, and no amount of her cruel words are going to fix that. In fact, I’m more than certain it makes it worse.”

You sighed sadly in agreement. As you stood there, Birch looked up at your window. He smiled, a little sadder than before, and waved up at you. This time, you raised a hand and waved back.

The door opened and your mother walked in, glaring at Ryel.

“I’d like to speak to my daughter alone, if you please,” She said, her voice low and hostile.

Ryel looked at you questioningly, and you nodded. “I’ll be right outside if you need me,” She said, and walked out, closing the door behind her.

Your mother just stared at you with her arms crossed, shaking her head slightly. You looked down and away.

“I guess I should just be glad you won’t be around to humiliate me anymore,” She said, and you shrunk in on yourself. “I don’t like this at all, but it seems I have no say in the matter. You made sure of that, didn’t you?”

You knew she was hurt and was lashing out. She wasn’t exactly sweet and caring on her best days, but she could really cut a person to the quick when she was upset.

“Don’t you have anything to say?” She asked you, and you could hear tears in her voice. “Nothing at all? You can’t muster the courage to apologize to me for that display downstairs? For leaving me without a thought to my feelings? I’ve spent the last seven years protecting you and providing for you after your useless father threw us out, and you do this to me? And you have nothing to say?”

You didn’t say anything. Instead, you walked up to her and put your arms around her waist and lay your head on her shoulder.

“I’ll miss you, Mama,” You said softly.

She started to sob and put her arms around your shoulders. It had been years since she’d last hugged you.

“You’d better start sending me letters as soon as you learn how to,” She said, her voice breaking. “If I don’t hear something from you in a few months, I’m going out there to drag you back, you understand me?”

“Yes, Mama,” You whispered, and took a step back. Picking up your bag, you opened the door and walked out. Ryel was waiting and smiled when she saw you.

“Ready?” She asked.

You nodded.

Back outside, Birch was waiting. He stopped shifting around anxiously when he saw you and his mother exit the tavern.

“Everything okay?” He asked.

“Everything’s just fine,” Ryel said. “We’re ready to go.”

“Would you like to ride on my back?” Birch asked, turning.

You shook your head fervently, mortified.

“Are you sure?” He said. “It’s a long walk back to the farm, over four hours. I can get us there in half the time.”

“She’s feeling shy,” Ryel said. “For centaurs, letting people ride on their back is a special privilege afforded to few. I’ll ride with you.” She grinned at him. “He always makes an exception for his mother.”

He grinned at her in return. “You just assume I do.” But he took out a quilted riding blanket that was rolled up and tied to the bottom of his pack and handed it to her, and she set it on his back. Climbing the steps to the tavern, she vaulted onto his back. She instructed you to do the same. Blushing furiously, with both Ryel and Birch’s help, you were able to scramble on in front of her.

“Let’s go,” He said, and he took off at a trot out of town.

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If you’re still taking prompts, how does our favorite gossip king NHS find out about QS!WWX?

Nie Huaisang has been having a very strange week.

First, he was summoned to the Cloud Recesses and ordered to leave Nie Zonghui in the Unclean Realm, even though his brother was already in Gusu to spend a week with his husband and children. And secondly, when he actually arrived, there was no one waiting for him at the gates: no smiling brother-in-law, no placid, unsmiling Lan Wangji, and certainly no Da-ge, who was apparently busy elsewhere.

And thirdly, when he did see his brother, Nie Mingjue stuffed his two youngest children into Nie Huaisang’s arms and told him to keep them out of trouble.

“Excuse me?” Nie Huaisang gasps, trying to hold the twins still. “Did you make me come here all by myself to babysit?”

“Yes,” his Da-ge says dryly. “No one else can watch them just now. A-Hua, A-Hai, be good for your shushu, all right?”

“Why?” Nie Yunhua wonders. “I don’t want to.”

Nie Huaisang knows he shouldn’t be sympathizing with her, but his niece has a good point. “Why can’t their jiujiu watch them?” he protests. “Or Lan-xiansheng?”

His brother’s mouth twists into a grimace. “Wangji is...occupied,” he says, through gritted teeth. “Lan-xiansheng is handling Xichen’s work, and Xichen--A-Huan is unwell. I am looking after him.”

“Xichen-gege’s ill?” Nie Huaisang gapes. “Why? What’s wrong with him?”

“He keeps crying all the time,” Yunhai pipes up. “And he didn’t make sweet buns yesterday! And jiujiu’s always--”

Nie Mingjue covers his son’s mouth. “Will you do it, A-Sang?” he says, a trifle desperately. “Something’s happened. Please.”

Thoroughly bewildered, Nie Huaisang nods and leads A-Hua and A-Hai away from the hanshi, puzzling over what could possibly have troubled Lan Xichen enough to drive him to tears. His brother-in-law has nerves of iron, both as a consequence of having survived the Sunshot Campaign and becoming father to five children who were single-handedly responsible for another seven hundred and fifty-two rules being carved onto the wall of sect precepts, and the idea of something making Lan Xichen sick is absolutely terrifying, even if Nie Huaisang doesn’t know what it could be.

“Where’s your jiujiu?” he asks, knowing that his older three nieces and nephew will be attending lectures at this hour. “Is he at home? Let’s go find him.”

“He’s in the jingshi,” Nie Yunhua informs him. “And A-Die said we can’t go there!”

“Well, he didn’t tell me that,” Nie Huaisang mutters. “He’d better have a good reason why he can’t take care of you two sprouts, since your baba called me all the way from Qinghe. Now, which one of you wants to ride on my back?”

The answer turns out to be both of them, so Nie Huaisang sets off for Lan Wangji’s cottage with A-Hua and A-Hai perched on his shoulders and frowns when he finds jingshi empty. Lan Wangji usually prefers to work in solitude rather than frequenting the library pavilions when the disciples are there studying, so he should be here during the day, unless--

“Of course!” he realizes. “He must be in the rabbit field. Let’s go check there.”

The twins chatter his ears off all the way to the rabbit field, and Nie Huaisang nearly cries out in relief when he spots a pale-robed cultivator kneeling in the grass with countless white fluffballs piled up around him; but then Yunhua squeals, and Nie Yunhai slaps his hands over his eyes, and Nie Huaisang freezes on the spot as he takes in the bizarre picture in front of him.

The white-robed cultivator is Lan Wangji, as Nie Huaisang thought at first glance; but there’s someone else sitting in the flowery field beside him, someone with warm, soft curves draped over with a pretty blue ruqun, and Lan Wangji’s hands are tangled in the person’s hair, and--

He’s also kissing the woman in his arms for dear life, but Nie Huaisang’s heart will probably give out if he thinks about that for very long.

“Jiujiu!” A-Hai calls, stamping his tiny feet until the young woman breaks away from Lan Wangji with a gasp. “Stop kissing Aunt Su! It’s gross!”

Nie Huaisang stares.

The woman is Qin Su. Slimmer than he remembers, certainly, and more muscled and suntanned, but Nie Huaisang never forgets a face; especially not when it belongs to San-ge’s wife, whom he hasn’t gone more than a month without seeing since before she married Jin Guangyao...

...until about ten weeks ago, when Jin Guangyao said Qin Su would be taking an extended holiday with her father.

So what is Su-jie doing here, kissing Lan Wangji!?

“Adultery is forbidden in the Cloud Recesses,” he pants at last, having nothing better to say. “Lan-xiong, you--Jin-furen--”

And then he passes out.